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American Zone of Occupation, Germany

0955 30 January 1946

When Cronley went into his bedroom to change out of the fur-lined flying boots he had been wearing since he put them on at Schwechat Airfield in Vienna, he found three large cardboard boxes sitting on his bed.

He took a closer look and saw that an envelope addressed to him sat atop one of the boxes. The printed return address was that of his mother.

He sat on the bed, pulled the boots off, then removed the letter from the envelope and read it:

Wilhelmina Stauffer Cronley

January 20, 1946

My Dearest Jimmy:

This is a very difficult letter for me to write because, knowing if your father knew about it he would be hurt or angry or both, I am writing it behind his back. I can only hope that you will understand.

I received a letter from my nephew, your cousin Luther Stauffer, thanking me from the bottom of his heart for the food packages I sent via you to him and his family. It touched me more deeply than I imagined possible. When I thought about this, I came to decide it was because it meant that for the first time since I left Strasbourg to marry your father so long ago, I was again in touch with my family, and more important was able—with your help, of course, my darling—able to help them in a time of their need.

I have to tell you that your father went to the trouble of getting our congressman, Dick Lacey, to send him the actual regulations—which he showed to me—which prohibit you from getting packages through the Army Postal System that contain “prohibited items” and then passing them on to what the regulations call “indigenous persons.”

The last thing I want, my darling boy, is to get you in any trouble with your superiors or the Army, or anybody. But if the three packages I mailed yesterday somehow reach you—your father said I would be wasting my time, effort, and money if I tried to send my family anything else via you as the packages would almost certainly be inspected and the coffee and canned ham and other prohibited things seized—if there is any way you can get them to your cousin Luther and his family, I think God woul

d consider it an act of Christian charity, no matter what your father and the Army think.

I will also leave up to you whether you tell your father about the packages or this letter.

With all my love, my darling boy,

Mom

“Oh, shit!” Cronley said.

He felt around under the bed until he found his Western boots. He started to pull them on, then changed his mind. The fur-lined boots had not only kept his feet warm but had made them sweat. He pulled off his socks, sniffed them, and grunted as he tossed them. He found clean socks in the chest of drawers and put them on, followed by the Western boots.

As he walked into the main room, his feet feeling refreshed, he found a large number of people—but not General Gehlen, whom he expected. Staff Sergeant Albert Finney was there, and his presence disappointed him. Cronley had hoped that the very large, very black twenty-four-year-old, after being corrupted by Cousin Luther, would be somewhere around Salzburg learning who Cousin Luther’s partners in crimes were.

“Welcome home,” Major Harold Wallace greeted him. “How did things go in Vienna?”

“Swimmingly,” Cronley said. He put his briefcase on the table, took from it the photographs Serov had given him, and put them on the table.

“Have a look,” he said. “Everybody have a look.”

“Well, at least Bob Mattingly is still alive,” Wallace said after a moment.

“So Lazarus is an NKGB major,” Tiny Dunwiddie said.

“Let’s start with Mattingly,” Cronley began. “They want to exchange Colonel Likharev and family for him . . .”

—

He had just about finished when General Gehlen, Colonel Mannberg, and Major Konrad Bischoff came into the room.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gehlen said.

“I was just telling everybody what I presume Oberst Mannberg has told you,” Cronley said.

“I found the presence of Seven-K in the Hotel Bristol very interesting,” Gehlen said. “Did she have something for us, or did Serov send her there?”