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Serov’s car pulled behind the first Mercedes, and then Alekseevich’s car, with Cronley and Ostrowski, did the same. A fourth vehicle pulled in behind them.

Cronley thought, That first car is painted a sort of flat black, including its chrome.

Serov’s car is shiny black, and its chrome gleams. This car is the same, but smaller than Serov’s, yet larger than the lead and tail cars.

And they’re all Mercedeses, “liberated” from the defeated enemy. The war’s been over almost a year, and they’re still riding around in German cars? An NKGB general officer in a small Benz?

Why? Because that’s all they have.

The Soviet Union is broke.

People and governments that are broke are desperate, and desperate means dangerous.

I’ll have to keep that in mind.

[FIVE]

44-46 Beerenstrasse

Zehlendorf, Berlin, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1135 21 April 1946

When the four-vehicle convoy tried to turn onto Beerenstrasse, a German policeman was standing in the middle of the street, blocking their way.

“Now what?” Cronley wondered aloud.

“Looks like a fire or something down the street,” Ostrowski called from the rear seat.

Beyond the policeman, three-quarters of the way down the next block, there was a gaggle of police and fire vehicles in the street. All were German except for a single American MP jeep.

Cronley made the quick judgment that if the activity wasn’t concentrated in front of 44-46, it damn sure was close enough to be of concern.

“Let’s go, Max,” Cronley ordered, opening the car door.

Cronley started running down the middle of the street. He heard a siren, an American one, screaming behind him, and glanced over his shoulder. Beyond Ostrowski, who was running right behind him, Cronley saw that it belonged to a Buick staff car that was turning onto Beerenstrasse, its red lights flashing and tires squealing.

As they moved to run on the sidewalk, Cronley heard another MP jeep, also with lights flashing and siren roaring, flying up behind the Buick.

A moment later, Cronley muttered, “Oh, shit!”

They were now close enough to be able to see that 44-46 was the center of attention. Water filled the street from fire hoses that were snaked inside the house. Then he saw smoke, a wispy strand of white, escaping into the air above the open front door.

The Buick roared past and stopped at the house, its nose against the fence. Three men bolted from the car and ran toward the building.

That’s Homer Greene in front!

Cronley wondered what the chief of Army Security Agency, Europe, CIC-USFET, was doing here, then remembered that Oscar Schultz had talked Brigadier General Greene into providing the safe house cover of being living quarters for South American Airlines personnel.

Cronley, panting from his run, finally reached the door of 44-46 Beerenstrasse a minute later.

He was intercepted by the two men who had arrived with Greene. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they acted as a wall, preventing Cronley from entering the house. Greene, his face weary, came to the doorway.

“What the hell happened here, General?” Cronley said.

“We are working at figuring that out, Jim.”

Max Ostrowski came up, breathing heavy from his exertion, took a quick look past them, and muttered something in Polish.