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“A papal chamberlain is a title bestowed by the Pope. It usually goes to high-ranking clergy—bishops and archbishops—but sometimes to others. Members of the Italian nobility . . . Is that the case with you, Monsignor?”

The monsignor didn’t reply at first, but then said, “I am a member of the Rosetti family.”

“Thank you,” Serov said.

“The Pope sometimes awards them to laymen,” Serov went on. “Franz von Papen was so honored.”

“The German diplomat?” Cronley asked, surprised.

“The German diplomat,” Serov confirmed. “The story going around at the time was that when His Holiness was papal nuncio in Berlin, von Papen was very useful to the Vatican. What about that, Monsignor?”

“Who are you people?” the monsignor blurted. “What is going on here?”

“I told you who we are,” Serov said. “And what we’re doing right now is waiting. May I offer you a cup of coffee and a pastry?”

That the monsignor had recovered his composure now became apparent.

“Do you have any idea who it is that you have kidnapped? Are you aware that I’m in Berlin at the invitation of the Honorable John Jay McCloy?”

“We know you’re in Berlin to pass a million-plus dollars of Odessa’s money to Odessa,” Cohen said.

That put the monsignor back in his indignation mode.

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

“Shocking!” Cronley offered. “I never thought I would see a monsignor and a papal chamberlain lying through his teeth!”

“I’ll tell you this, young man!” the monsignor said, clearly losing his temper. “In this life, and the next, you are going to regret ever having laid eyes on me!”

The telephone rang. They heard one of Serov’s men answer it, then announce, “General, the archbishop is ten minutes out.”

“I guess Cardinal von Hassburger wasn’t available,” Serov said, to no one in particular. “Not a problem.”

“While we’re waiting,” Cronley said, “why don’t we count the money and see exactly how much of a withdrawal Odessa was making from the Vatican Bank?”

Cronley turned the briefcase over on the bar, dumping the contents onto it. He began stacking the Swiss francs with other Swiss francs, the English pounds with other English pounds. He held up a thick stack of American five-hundred-dollar bills to Serov.

“Ivan, since the NKGB knows everything, how much are pounds and francs worth in real money?”

“Call somebody and find out,” Serov ordered.

One of his men hurried to pick up the telephone.

[FOUR]

Fifteen minutes later, just after they determined the currency in the briefcase was worth $2,010,458 in U.S. dollars, the bound, gagged, and bagged archbishop was led into the room.

Cronley was surprised and a little disappointed even before Rodinski pulled the black bag from his head. The archbishop was smaller than, though not as pudgy as, the monsignor. And when the bag was removed from his head, his face was that of a pale, visibly frightened sixty-odd-year-old.

The archbishop’s eyes darted from man to man, then grew wider when he saw Monsignor Rosetti.

Serov waited until Rodinski had removed the cloth from his mouth and untied his hands before addressing him.

“Relax, Your Grace. We’re not going to burn you at the stake. All we want you to do is carry a message to Cardinal von Hassburg

er.”

The archbishop ignored him, instead demanding of the monsignor, “What’s going on here, Rosetti?”