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“What was the Mossad doing in Russia?” Cronley asked.
“Zion’s business,” Mannberg said. “Somehow that had gone right over my head—and if I may say so, the general’s.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Cronley said.
“What they were interested in was this homeland they want in Palestine. It didn’t really matter to them whether the Soviets won the war, or we did,” Mannberg said, and then clarified, “The Germans did. What they wanted to do was get as many Zionist leaders out of Russia as they could. The Soviets, who didn’t trust them, had jailed many of them, sent them to Siberia, or had them locked up in concentration camps.”
“When Germany moved into Russia,” Gehlen picked up Mannberg’s narrative, “and took over the NKGB prison camps, the SS either killed all the Jews they found in them on the spot, or marched them off to become laborers. And among the people the SS marched off were many of the Zionist leaders Mossad wanted to get out of Russia and to Palestine.
“So, more than a little belatedly, I realized there was common cause between Abwehr Ost and Mossad. They had penetrated the highest levels of the Kremlin, far more successfully than we had. On the other hand, my people, especially those who were in the SS, could get into the SS prison and slave labor systems. And get people out of them with the same ease—actually far more ease—than the SS could take prisoners from the death camps.
“So I arranged to meet with the lady who was to become Seven-K.”
“How did you know with whom to meet?”
“We knew who she was. Her given name is Rahil, by the way.”
“What?”
“Rahil—Russian for Rachel,” Gehlen said.
“Jesus!”
“I thought you would find that interesting,” Gehlen said.
“Interesting?” Dunwiddie asked. “Fascinating! Two spies named Rachel.”
“Fuck you, Tiny!” Cronley flared.
“Temper, temper, Captain, sir,” Dunwiddie said.
“You’re never going to forget that, are you?”
“Probably not, and I’m not going to let you forget Rachel, either.”
“Now I don’t know what anybody’s talking about,” Hessinger said. “Who the hell is Rachel? You’re not talking about Colonel Schumann’s wife . . . Or are—”
“Private joke, Freddy,” Dunwiddie said. “Sorry.”
“As I was saying,” Gehlen said, “I arranged, with some difficulty, to meet with Seven-K in Vienna. In the Hotel Sacher. Before she met me, I had to turn Ludwig over to some of her people, to guarantee her safe return. But finally we met, and over Sachertorte and coffee—”
“Over what?” Cronley asked.
“A chocolate layer cake for which the Hotel Sacher is famous,” Hessinger furnished. “I had my first when I was eight or nine, and still remember how delicious it was.”
“Ours, unfortunately, was not,” Gehlen said. “It was made with powdered eggs and ersatz sugar, and the coffee was made from acorns, but nevertheless, we struck our first deal.
“If she would get me certain information, I would try to get two people, two Zionists, out of the hands of the SS. She gave me the names, and Ludwig got them out of an SS-run factory in Hungary. I don’t think they were Zionists, but she got me the information I asked for.”
“How could you know it was the right information?”
“The general knew the answers before he posed the question,” Mannberg said.
“You may have noticed, Ludwig, my tendency to ask stupid questions,” Cronley said.
“Now that you mention it, Captain, sir . . .” Dunwiddie said.
Mannberg chuckled.
