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“We’re clutching at straws.”

“Her name was Olga Reithoffer, and von Dietelburg had her set up at 71 Cobenzlgasse,” Niedermeyer said.

“I would call that a straw,” Wangermann said.

He raised his hand above his head and snapped his fingers.

The bodyguard at the table jumped to his feet and hurried to Wangermann.

Pointing at the telephone, Wangermann ordered, “Plug this in somewhere else. Then get on it and tell them, one, I want everything we have on 71 Cobenzlgasse and a woman who may still live there named Olga Reithoffer. Two, get Bruno Holzknecht up here ten minutes ago.”

The bodyguard nodded acceptance of his orders and reached for the telephone plug.

“Holzknecht is my surveillance man,” Wangermann said. “Good man. We were in Flossenbürg together. Lucky for him the SS didn’t find out he’s a Jew. So am I going to have to do this myself, or are you going to help?”

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Wasserman said.

“What pops into my mind is that we pair one of your men—with his radio—with one of mine.”

“Done.”

“Did you notice if one of those closed-for-the-winter Heurigen is anywhere near 71 Cobenzlgasse?”

“There’s one right across the street,” Cronley said.

“Very nice,” Wangermann said. “And now, while we’re waiting for Holzknecht, I think I’ll have the lunch Wasserman offered to pay for.”

—

Bruno Holzknecht, a very ordinary-looking man in his late forties, came into the restaurant thirty minutes later.

“Should we find someplace private, Herr Chief Inspector? Or are your companions privy to what’s going on?”

“Wie geht’s, Bruno?” Wasserman said.

“This one I know is particularly untrustworthy,” Holzknecht said, nodding toward Wasserman.

“You can speak freely, Bruno. You ever hear of the DCI?”

“The replacement for the OSS?”

“Say hello to Otto Niedermeyer, Cezar Zielinski, and James Cronley of the DCI.”

The men shook hands.

“This one I remember from the bad old days,” Holzknecht said. “He was a major about to be an Oberstleutnant.”

“Your memory is better than mine. I don’t remember you.”

“You ran around with an SS sonofabitch named von Dietelburg. You had a good-looking Hungarian girl. He had a ballerina.”

“I married the Hungarian girl,” Niedermeyer said.

“And went on to be an Oberst in Abwehr Ost,” Wasserman said. “Which, in case you haven’t heard, is alive and well as the . . . what’s it called, Otto?”

“The Süd-Deutsche Industrielle Entwicklungsorganisation.”

“I always wondered how Gehlen managed to keep out of the cells at Nuremberg,” Holzknecht said. “So he’s working for the Americans? That explains it.”