A clanking of heavy metal as the tanks ground into place before the stand. Zhukov raised his arm, puffed up and solemn. Below him, Shaeffer stood rigid, eyes still looking across, as if he could see through the steel plates as well as the gaps in between. When half the unit had passed, the tanks slowed to a halt, motors still throbbing as they began revolving their gun turrets in a display salute. For an instant, as the row of guns turned in place, Shaeffer disappeared behind the long barrels. Now.
Jake started moving left, toward the front of the unit, but the guns kept swinging around and Shaeffer spotted them through the suddenly empty space. His head jerked up, alarmed, and he left the curb, darting across between two rows of tanks. How long would it take? Seconds. Jake glanced behind. Still no Gunther. No one, in fact. An exposed back. The gun turrets had almost finished circling, the tanks ready to start up again, an impenetrable moving wall soon, with Shaeffer on their side of the parade.
Jake grabbed Emil’s arm and dragged him in front of the nearest row of tanks, his protest drowned out by the deafening motors. Run. Could anyone in the high turrets see them, ignore the command to start moving? A crunch as the gears shifted. Jake yanked at Emil’s arm, sprinting as the creaking tread belts began to roll forward. Jog to the left, ahead of the row. One slip to fall underneath. They were almost at the last tank when he saw it was coming too fast to outrun. He stopped short, steadying himself as Emil bumped into his suddenly still body, and stood wedged sideways between two tanks, waiting for the column to pass. Just enough space after this one if he timed it right. He stared at the treads, almost counting them, then lurched forward the moment the tank passed. “Go!” he shouted, tugging at Emil’s sleeve and pulling him toward the amazed spectator line, barely missing the next set of treads, but there, finally across.
“Where’s the fire?” a soldier said to him, but he kept going, pushing through bodies until they were surrounded, just part of the crowd. They were behind the press stand before he stopped, taking in a gulp of air.
“Are you crazy?” Emil said, panting, his face white.
“Go up there and stay with Brian-the man from the Adlon. He knows you. Try to keep out of sight. And don’t go anywhere, with anyone. Got it?”
“Where are you going?”
“To make a diversion.”
“It’s still not safe?” Emil said, worried.
Wasn’t it? Who would snatch them in front of the press corps, safer in the end than the army itself? But who knew what Shaeffer would do? His last chance.
“He’s still out there. He may not be alone.” A man who could get Russian uniforms for a raiding party. Jake turned.
“You’re leaving me here?” Emil said, glancing around for an opening, ready to bolt.
“Don’t even think about it. Believe it or not, I’m the best chance you’ve got. So we’re stuck with each other. Now go on up. I’ll be back.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Then all your problems will be over, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Emil said, looking at him. “They will.”
“But you’ll be on a train to Moscow. Plenty of time to think things over then. Right now, just do what I say if you want to get out of here. Come on. Now.”
Emil hesitated for an instant, then placed his hand on the wooden rail of the stairs and began to climb. Jake squeezed his way back to the front of the spectators. Get Shaeffer’s attention before he looked toward the stand. But the eyes were already there, frantically searching through the crowd on Jake’s side, then stopping, a surprised glowering, when they caught his face. Another Russian unit was passing in tight formation. Head away from the stand. Jake started to move left, just behind the front row, still visible but surrounding himself with other heads, so that Emil’s might be one of them. Across the street, Shaeffer followed, his tall frame stretching up over the crowd to keep Jake in sight. Jake pushed toward the thicker crowds at the gate, brushing past clumps of indifferent GIs. Away from the stand. He glanced over the columns of marchers. Still there, head turned toward Jake as he moved, the same determined eyes, exasperated, waiting for a break in the line. He must have seen by now that only Jake’s head was moving down the street, Emil left somewhere behind. Why keep coming? Not a diversion anymore, a running to ground. First Jake, then go back for Emil. Who would believe him, relieved to see the friendly debriefer, and close his own trap.
