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“That I have no choice but to lend my expertise to your crazy plan.”

“And how do you plan to do that? Kidnap an archbishop yourself?” Cronley said.

“No offense, but I frankly don’t think you two could carry it off without attracting a lot of attention.”

“I’m crushed,” Cronley said. “The last time you kidnapped somebody—one Colonel Mattingly—I seem to recall his bullet-ridden car attracted a lot of attention.”

“I really don’t expect an archbishop to pull a pistol from under his priestly robes.”

“Do I gather you don’t want Super Spook’s and my assistance in your snatch?” Cohen asked.

Serov took a notebook from his pocket. As he scrawled in it, he said, “What I want you to do is go inside the church and tell your men to stand down from snatching anyone’s briefcase. Then get in a taxi and go here. You’ll be expected.”

He tore out a page from his notebook, handed it to Cohen, who read it and then handed it to Cronley. On it Serov had written “Hotel Majestic, Zillenstrasse 104, Charlottenburg.”

“May I ask a question, Ivan?” Cronley said.

“Of course.”

“Where’s von Dietelburg and Burgdorf?”

After a time, Serov said, “In the next hours, and days, we’re going to have to trust each other. As proof of my intentions, I’m going to tell you the truth about that. The bastards got away from us. My men found the truck with the driver dead—slit throat—right off the Autobahn. I have no idea where they are.”

“Shit,” Cohen and Cronley said, on top of each other.

“We are, of course, looking for them,” Serov said. “I’m going inside now. Wait sixty seconds before you go in.”

They watched Serov enter the church.

“I’ll go in,” Cohen said. “You stay here and keep your eyes and ears open.”

Cohen was inside for five minutes before he came out. Max Ostrowski was with him.

“What did you tell your guys?” Cronley asked.

“They’re going to stay and keep their eyes on Serov’s people,” Ostrowski said.

“They know who they are?”

Ostrowski snorted. “Jim, we have been keeping eyes on NKGB agents since we were in knickers. We’re pretty good at it.”

“Let’s get a cab,” Cohen said. “You come with us, Ostrowski.”

[THREE]

Hotel Majestic

Zillenstrasse 104

Charlottenburg, Berlin, Russian Zone of Occupation, Germany

1010 21 April 1946

The hotel doorman wore a once elegant, now tattered greatcoat with a gold aiguillette draped from his left shoulder. Behind him stood a bellboy in an equally elegant, equally battered uniform.

“Oh, good,” Ostrowski quipped, “a Russian whorehouse.”

As the bellboy rushed to open the door, a well-dressed man came down the shallow flight of stairs and walked quickly to the taxi. He popped to attention and bobbed his head.