VIII
[ONE]
Kaiser Wilhelm Church
Berlin, International Zone of Occupation, Germany
0845 21 April 1946
Cronley had driven or walked past the ruined church often but never been inside. When he, Cohen, Ostrowski, and Williams walked inside now, he was first impressed by the enormous size of the building, and then the damage to it.
It was just an empty hulk.
The altar was a fire-scarred mar
ble oblong. A cross—with what was left of Christ nailed to it, the head and legs were missing—hung behind the altar. The windows were gone except for a few remnants of stained glass. The only thing that seemed intact was the inlaid marble floor, which had been swept clean.
There were perhaps forty people in the church. Neither General Serov nor his deputy, Sergei Alekseevich, were among them, and Cronley couldn’t pick out among the other people in the church who might be NKGB agents.
“Let’s wait for Serov outside,” Cronley said.
As they passed through what had been the vestibule, three Polish DCI agents in battered civilian clothing passed them. They showed no sign of recognition.
A minute or so later, a battered Opel Kapitän with Berlin civilian license plates pulled into the parking area. Alekseevich was behind the wheel.
Cohen trotted to the parked car, arriving at it as Serov, with some difficulty, opened the passenger-side door.
“We have to talk,” Cohen said.
“No time. The cardinal is about to arrive.”
“Now. It’s important.”
Serov considered that, then said, “Why don’t we walk over to the Kempinski while Sergei keeps an eye on the church?”
[TWO]
Coffee Shop
Kempinski Bristol Hotel
Kurfürstendamm 25
Berlin, International Zone of Occupation, Germany
0905 21 April 1946
Serov, with a cup of tea, and Cohen and Cronley, with cups of coffee, took their seats at a small, round table.
“What’s so important, Mort?”
“We have an idea that will probably solve a lot of our problems.”
Serov gestured anxiously. “In as few words as possible?”
Cohen locked eyes. “Instead of snatching a briefcase that may or may not have a million dollars in it, we snatch an archbishop—”
Serov, sipping his tea, pulled the cup from his lips. “And I suppose you suggest we hold him for ransom?” he said, sarcastically.