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“That’s the point, Herr SS-Standartenführer. We—”

“I’ve already told you that my rank is generalmajor.”

“Not any longer,” Cronley lied. “That’s one of the things we thought might depress you. The Tribunal has decided once an SS officer, always an SS officer. In other words, the Tribunal does not recognize those late-in-the-war commissionings of SS officers in the Wehrmacht. You will be tried, and almost certainly hanged, as SS-Standartenführer Müller.”

Müller didn’t reply.

“We also thought that learning you’re not as important to Odessa as you thought you were might depress you somewhat. Has it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let me paint the picture for you. You’re still here while your friends General der Infanterie Wilhelm Burgdorf and SS-Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg are off somewhere enjoying the hospitality of the Organisation der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen. Didn’t that suggest to you that Burgdorf and von Dietelburg are considered by Odessa to be more important than you are?”

“As I keep telling you, Feibleman, I have no idea what or who you’re talking about.”

They locked eyes, and then Cronley said, “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, Herr Standartenführer, but now I must have a chat with SS-Brigadeführer Heimstadter to see how his morale is holding up.”

He turned and left the cell. He heard Müller mutter something bitterly but couldn’t understand what it was.

Well, I managed to upset the bastard.

And when—tomorrow—he gets together with Heimstadter and asks him what we talked about and Heimstadter tells him he never talked with anybody named Feibleman, that will upset both of them.

So, what I do now is go to the Mansion and tell my guys to tell Heimstadter that Müller is singing like a canary.

And then I’ll go out to the Farber Palast and have a well-deserved drink.

And then I’ll go find Ginger and maybe get lucky.

[TWO]

Farber Palast

Stein, near Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1645 18 April 1946

Colonel Ivan Serov was sitting in one of the armchairs in the lobby when Cronley walked in. He stood up, holding a bottle of Haig & Haig scotch by the neck, when he saw Cronley.

“Thank you, Ivan, but no thanks. I have plans.”

“There are developments you really have to hear.”

“If I go in there with you,” Cronley said, nodding toward the entrance of the bar, “you will have as long as it takes for me to down one drink.”

“We can’t discuss what I’ve come up with in the bar.”

Cronley looked at him.

Jesus, Cronley thought, he’s serious!

Duty, damn it, calls.

Cronley pointed toward the elevator bank.

“This better be good, Ivan. You’re interfering with my love life.”

* * *