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Mannberg took a quick look, and then, smiling, said, “So that’s who you are, Senior Major of State Security Ivan Serov. I never would have guessed.”

Thank you for the translation, Ludwig!

“At your service, Ludwig,” Serov said.

That much I know.

A senior major of the NKGB is the equivalent of a Red Army podpolkóvnik, or lieutenant colonel.

But Comrade Ivan, since I know you’re Commissar of State Security Nikolayevich Merkulov’s Number Two, I don’t think you’re really a lowly podpolkóvnik, even if you look a lot younger than I think you are.

I don’t know what, but the equivalent of at least a brigadier general, whatever that’s called in the NKGB.

Serov reached below the table, picked up a battered briefcase, and put it on his lap.

“I have four more of these to show you,” Serov said, and handed Cronley four red leatherette identity documents.

Cronley looked at each one. The last one had a photograph of Lazarus riveted to it.

Jesus, I hope my face didn’t give away that I recognized him!

What the hell is Serov up to?

Cronley handed the folders to Mannberg, who translated them one at a time.

“Sergeant of State Security Fyodor Yenotov.

“Senior Lieutenant of State Security Iakov Mravinsky.

“Another senior lieutenant, this one named Mikhail Jidkova.

“And, finally, Major of State Security Venedikt Ulyanov,” Mannberg concluded, and laid the identity documents on the table. Serov returned them to his briefcase.

I can’t positively put a name to the faces, either the photos of the corpses I saw, or these identity cards, but obviously one of them, probably Major Ulyanov, is Lazarus.

“These associates of mine—three of them, anyway—recently died in the line of duty. I’m sure there’s no need for us to get into the circumstances. The fourth, I suspect, is still alive.”

“How did they die?” Cronley asked.

Serov smiled sadly.

“As I’m sure you know, James, one should never underestimate one’s adversary. Or take for granted that women are unarmed.”

“That’s always dangerous,” Cronley said.

“We’re in a dangerous profession. These things happen,” Serov said. “We should all be prepared to meet our maker at any time. Which brings me to what I’m going to ask you to do for me. We know the bodies of the three men who died in the 98th General Hospital in Munich were turned over to the German authorities, who probably—we don’t know this for sure—interred them in the Giesinger Friedhof cemetery.”

“Ivan,” Cronley said, “I really don’t know what happened to the bodies of these men.”

“But you can find out,” Serov said.

“Probably. You want to know where, is that it?”

“I want my associates to have a Christian burial, in ground sanctified by a priest, in a grave that will be undisturbed for all eternity.”

“I don’t think I understand, Ivan,” Mannberg said. “‘Undisturbed for all eternity’?”

“I’m referring to the German custom of reusing grave sites after twenty-five, or sometimes fifty, years,” Serov said.