“Major Pietr Rodinski at your orders, Colonel Cohen. If you would be so kind, gentlemen, please follow me.”
He spoke in accentless American English.
They followed him up the stairs and into the hotel. It took Cronley about five seconds to decide they were in the Berlin version of Vienna’s Hotel Viktoria, a combination gambling palace and brothel catering to the most successful black marketeers.
Confirmation came quickly as they passed through a corridor off the lobby. Doors, fully or partially open, revealed a bar, a card room, a room with vingt-et-un and roulette tables, and a living room. In the latter were ten scantily clad hookers, all obviously sleepy.
At the end of the corridor, there was a steel door. Major Rodinski unlocked it, opened it, waved them toward a flight of stairs, and then locked the door behind them. At the foot of the stairs was a tunnel, and, at the end of the tunnel, another staircase leading upward. Then they came to a final door, which Rodinski waved them through with a bow.
They found themselves in what Cronley thought could be the sitting room of one of the better suites in a five-star hotel.
“There’s coffee and pastry,” Major Rodinski said, pointing toward a bar attended by a white-jacketed waiter. “And, of course, spirits. If there is anything else that would give you pleasure while you’re waiting, just ask.”
Cronley thought, Is he talking about the hookers?
“What or who are waiting for?” Cronley asked.
There was a flicker of hesitation on Rodinski’s face, before he replied, “Why, the general, of course. I thought you understood.”
Gotcha!
“You mean General Alekseevich?”
“No, General Serov.”
“I thought Polkóvnik Serov was General Alekseevich’s deputy.”
As if speaking to a backward child, Rodinski said, slowly, “No, Captain Cronley, it’s General Serov and Polkóvnik Alekseevich. Polkóvnik Alekseevich is General Serov’s deputy.”
“I guess I’ve been misinformed. That often happens, I’ve noticed, whenever I deal with the NKGB.”
Rodinski’s face tensed, but he didn’t reply.
A buzzer sounded somewhere behind the bar. It stopped buzzing, started again, and then buzzed a third time.
That’s more than just buzzing, Cronley decided. That’s
a signal, a message of some kind.
Proof of this came immediately. The bartender reached under his counter and came out with a German Schmeisser submachine gun. He quickly worked the action, chambering a cartridge, and then put the weapon back where it had been.
Rodinski went quickly to the door, put his back to the wall beside it, and took a Tokarev TT-33 pistol from a shoulder holster under his jacket.
Without thinking about it, Cronley hoisted his Ike jacket out of the way, drew his .45 from its holster, and thumbed the safety off.
The door opened, and two burly men, in somewhat ragged-looking civilian clothing, led a third man into the room. He had a bag on his head, and his hands were tied in front.
Rodinski put his pistol back in his holster as a third man in ragged clothing entered the room carrying a tan leather briefcase. Cronley thumbed the safety back on and holstered his .45 as he walked over to the man.
Without asking, Cronley snatched the briefcase and carried it to the bar and opened it.
Rodinski, his face showing his anger, walked quickly to him. Cronley shoved the opened case over to him. It was stuffed with currency—English pounds, Swiss francs, and American dollar bills.
“Bingo, Pietr!” Cronley said. “Your guys have hit the mother lode.”
“I will take the suitcase, please, Captain Cronley,” Rodinski said, icily.
“Help yourself, Pietr, as long as you don’t try to take it out of this room.”