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Neither Mannberg nor Cronley replied.
“Exactly in the center of the Glienicker Brücke is a white line,” Serov went on, “marking the border. Starting the day after tomorrow, every day at nine in the morning a Soviet vehicle will back onto the bridge, stopping perhaps five meters from that line. The doors will open and you will be able to see that Colonel Mattingly is in good health, and improving.
“Fifteen days from now—to be precise, at nine in the morning of February thirteenth—the Soviet truck will again back onto the bridge, this time stopping twenty meters from the white line. Colonel Mattingly will be taken out of the truck and escorted close to the white line.
“Simultaneously, Colonel Likharev and his family will get out of the vehicle in which they have been transported to the bridge. You will escort them to the white line as our people escort Colonel Mattingly to it. Once the Likharevs cross the line, Colonel Mattingly will be permitted to cross it, and the transaction will be completed.
“Any questions?”
Neither Cronley nor Mannberg had any questions, and Cronley managed to disengage his automatic mouth a split second before it was about to ask, Transaction will be completed? We’re talking about human beings, you sonofabitch, not the swap of two jerry cans of gasoline for two cartons of Lucky Strikes!
Serov stood up and put his hand out to Cronley.
“You’ll have to excuse us now, unfortunately, as Colonel Dragomirov and I have another engagement for which we’re already late. I hope our dinner pleased you, and I look forward to seeing you again soon.” He paused, and then added, “On the Glienicke Bridge, at nine in the morning of February thirteenth.”
Cronley took the hand. The grip was strong and warm, as if between friends.
Why am I surprised?
What did I expect, that it would be cold and slimy like shaking hands with a lizard or grabbing a rattlesnake?
Colonel Dragomirov rose and offered his hand, and again tried to crush Cronley’s hand. This time Cronley was prepared for it, and the contest was a draw.
Serov and Dragomirov walked quickly away from the table.
Mannberg waited until they were out of sight, then shrugged and exhaled audibly.
“Why don’t we go back to the bar in the Bristol and have the beer and peanuts we talked about?”
[ THREE ]
Suite 304
The Hotel Bristol
Kaerntner Ring 1
Vienna, Austria
2210 29 January 1946
On the walk back to the Hotel Bristol, which again took them past the ruins of the Stephansdom and the Opera, they were solicited by three ladies of the evening—two of them quite beautiful—but Cronley could see nothing in the other pedestrians that suggested they were agents of either the NKGB or the CIC.
When they walked into the lobby of the hotel, however, there was a familiar face.
Sitting at one of the small tables near the door to the bar was a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with a fox fur cape over her shoulders. One hand raised a small coffee cup to her lips as the other stroked the head of a small—almost a puppy—dachshund in her lap.
Mannberg apparently saw and recognized the woman at the same instant Cronley did. He quickly touched Cronley’s shoulder, and when Cronley turned to look at him, nodded his head—just perceptibly—toward the elevator bank.
On the elevator, with only the operator on it, they confined their conversation to raising eyebrows at one another.
When the door opened on the third floor, a man sitting in a chair in the corridor got quickly to his feet.
Cronley thought, You, sir, might as well have CIC agent tattooed on your forehead.
As he and Mannberg walked to their suite, he saw two more CIC agents in the corridor.
