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Finally, he said, “Well, I’m going to be on Makamson’s shit list if I loan you so much as a lined pad and a pencil. So, I might as well go whole hog. What do you need, Mort?”

“We need people to sit on this place while our guys are out stealing briefcases. Can I have four of your agents? Preferably with radio-equipped cars.”

“Frank?”

“Done,” Williams said.

“Thank you,” Cohen said. “This one may not be so easy, so feel free to say ‘Hell, no.’ If I had one of your radio-equipped cars, one with sirens and flashing lights, Cronley and I could hang around the K’damm without drawing too much attention.”

Switzer nodded. “It would be useful, wouldn’t it, Morty, if my agent knew what was going on? Then if you jumped in the back with a briefcase, he could turn on the lights and siren and get you the hell out of there. I don’t mind sticking my neck out, but I don’t like to put my guys at risk.”

“I’ll drive the car,” Williams said.

“Why would you want to do that?” Switzer asked.

“Boss, I know you’re skeptical, but I think Colonel Cohen is onto something, and I don’t want to remember in a couple of years—or maybe even next Friday—that I turned down a chance to be in on it.”

“Understood,” Switzer said, nodding.

“What I’d like to do, then,” Cohen said, “is send at least two guys over to the Am Zoo.”

“I think we have to wait until we hear from Serov,” Cronley said.

Cohen met his eyes and, after a pause, said, “I think you’re right.”

“And while we’re waiting, I’ll summon the reinforcements,” Williams said. “Where’s the secure phone?”

* * *

—

They didn’t have to wait long. At 1215, there came a knock at the front door of the safe house. A scrawny, middle-aged German on a bicycle handed the plainclothes DCI agent who answered the door an envelope. It bore no return address. There was only block lettering handwritten in black ink, the penmanship impeccable: HERR J. CRONLEY.

The agent delivered it to Cronley, and, when he opened it, he found it contained a plain sheet of paper with more block lettering: KEMPINSKI BRISTOL HOTEL BAR, KURFÜRSTENDAMM 25 1300-1430.

It was unsigned. But there was no question in Cronley’s mind that it came from Ivan Serov.

[FOUR]

Kempinski Bristol Hotel

Kurfürstendamm 25

Berlin, International Zone of Occupation, Germany

1350 20 April 1946

Serov, wearing the uniform of an NKGB general officer, was sitting at a booth in the bar with another man, who was wearing the uniform of an NKGB colonel. Cronley recognized him as Sergei Alekseevich. He had met him while negotiating with Serov to get the kidnapped Colonel Mattingly back from the NKGB. Alekseevich then had been wearing the uniform of an NKGB major.

“What a pleasant surprise!” Cronley said, in German, as he walked up to the booth.

He sat down—without being invited and without shaking Serov’s outstretched hand—and switched to English. “How they hanging, Sergei?”

After a bit, Alekseevich grunted, “Herr Cronley.”

“You came alone,” Serov said.

“Not exactly, Ivan. Everybody but Colonel Cohen is in the lobby, waiting to hear what’s going on with you.”