Cohen looked thoughtfully at him, nodded, then said, “Okay. Go on with your scenario.”
“In the American Zone of Berlin,” Serov said, “on the Kurfürstendamm, are the ruins of the Protestant church, the Kaiser Wilhelm. The lord mayor of Berlin, Oberbürgermeister Arthur Werner, who enjoys the respect of U.S. High Commissioner John Jay McCloy, has recently announced he thinks that rather than spending all the money it would take to rebuild the church, it should be left as it is as a monument to all the Berliners who died in the war.
“As a general rule of thumb,” Serov went on, “whatever the lord mayor wants, McCloy gives him. So there sits the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche on the K’damm. The Vatican hears of this and is not overjoyed. Far better for them to have a usable, functioning Catholic church than a monument for the masses.
“What to do? They decide to make an offer that Werner and McCloy might find hard to refuse. They will pay for the restoration of the Kaiser Wilhelm if they can turn it into a Roman Catholic place of worship.”
“Why the hell would Werner or McCloy go along with that?” Cronley asked.
“Agreed. And they al
most certainly, politely, would decline the cardinal’s kind offer. One is always polite to a prince of the Church. Especially one with credentials as a diplomatic representative of the Vatican.”
“And,” Cronley added, “one who travels as a member of the Vatican royalty is expected to travel: on a private railroad car.”
“A private railroad car bearing the insignia of the Vatican,” Serov said, “with the Vatican flags flapping on the front of the locomotive.”
“And the cardinal’s entourage,” Cronley went on, “at least one archbishop, several bishops, and a platoon of monsignors and priests. All of whom are carrying briefcases to assist them in carrying out their priestly duties. And in one of those briefcases is the million-dollar withdrawal.”
“Mrs. Moriarty,” Serov said. “I’ve heard it said that your fiancé is known in the intelligence community as Super Spook because he figures things out before his superiors.”
“So,” Cronley said, ignoring that, “all we have to do is keep an eye on the entire entourage to see which one is going to hand the briefcase with the money in it to somebody from Odessa. Which is going to be damned difficult for us.”
“Ivan,” Cohen said. “Why do I suspect that you already know that a cardinal is going to Berlin?”
“Because I’m NKGB. We know everything.”
Cronley grunted.
Serov said, “His Eminence Cardinal Heinrich von Hassburger—”
“He’s German?” Cronley asked.
“You see what I mean, Mrs. Moriarty?” Serov said. “Super Spook figured that out before Colonel Cohen did.”
“Will you please stop calling me Mrs. Moriarty?” Ginger blurted, bitter anger evident in her voice.
Cronley wondered, Now, what the hell is that suddenly all about?
Ginger, her voice rising, went on. “I know—Jimmy told me—that he believes you had my husband killed, thinking he was Jimmy. And here we sit, acting like we’re all best friends.”
There followed a long, awkward silence.
“Strange bedfellows,” Father McGrath then mused aloud.
“And I’m more than a little uncomfortable, frankly, hearing you talk as if the Pope himself is involved with Nazis,” Ginger said.
“That must be because you’re a Catholic,” McGrath said. “His Holiness can do no wrong.”
“I’m not Catholic, Father Jack. I’m, like you, an Episcopalian.”
McGrath said, “The Jesuits have a saying: ‘Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you a man.’”
Dear God, Cronley prayed. I don’t know where this is going, but please don’t let it go back to Serov whacking Bonehead, thinking it was me.
God either answered Cronley’s prayer or Bruce Moriarty Jr. independently decided that the world should know that it was time for him to eat or time for his diaper to be changed, or both.
Ginger rushed to deal with the howling infant.