Beerenstrasse was half jammed with American vehicles, many of them olive drab with military markings, others were Fords and Chevrolets bearing Army of Occupation civilian license plates.
“Ivan, why do I suspect the presence of the Counterintelligence Corps?” Cronley quipped.
They entered the building and found Colonel Mortimer Cohen, Colonel Louis Switzer, and Lieutenant Colonel Frank Williams sitting side by side on a couch that had obviously been moved to the foyer from elsewhere in the damaged house.
Switzer stood and looked from Serov to Janice Johansen to Waldron. He stopped on Cronley and immediately moved into CIC mode.
“Captain, we’re in the middle of an investigation here, and while I’m unsure if you’re authorized to be in here—”
“That’s bullshit, Colonel, sir.”
“—I know unequivocally that it’s off-limits to the press and the NKGB and probably to this officer. Who are you, Colonel?”
“Is that working?” Waldron asked, pointing to a telephone on a small table to one side of the sofa. “May I use it?”
“I asked who you are, Colonel.”
“And I asked to use the phone. You grant my request and I will grant yours.”
> Cronley sighed. “Give him the goddamn phone.”
Switzer locked eyes, then impatiently gestured toward the phone. Waldron picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Waldron then said, “but your CIC chief doesn’t want me in the safe house.”
There was a reply, and then Waldron extended the phone to Switzer.
“He wishes to speak with you, Colonel.”
“Who is that?” Switzer demanded.
Waldron didn’t answer.
Switzer took the extended phone and snarled into it, “This is Colonel Switzer. Who am I talking to?”
The man on the phone told him, and the rest of the conversation consisted of Colonel Switzer saying “Yes, sir” at least ten times.
Cohen laughed after the fifth one, and when Switzer had hung up, Cohen said, “In law school, Lou, they teach you never to ask a question unless you’re sure of what the answer is going to be.”
Switzer glared at Waldron, and said, “You sandbagged me, Colonel.”
“Regretfully, Colonel, you left me no choice.”
“The general and Janice stay, too,” Cronley said, then turned to Cohen. “Colonel, have we heard from the cardinal?”
“Somebody called and left a number,” Cohen said. “I called the hospital and was told you were on your way here. I’ve been waiting for you and General Serov, especially since you have the briefcase.”
Cohen consulted his notebook and dialed a number. Cronley went to him and put his head close to the handset.
After the second ring, a male voice recited the number in German.
“My name is Cohen,” Cohen announced.
The voice, changing to accentless English, then said, “You, the Russian, and one other—no more than one other—may find it interesting to be at Platform 12 of the Am Zoo Bahnhof at twenty-thirty hours. Be in civilian clothing and unarmed.”
Cohen replied, “Platform 12—”
“I say again,” the voice interrupted, then repeated his original message verbatim.