The Enemy of My Enemy

by W. E. B Griffin

  “—to enlist him in our noble cause.”

  “Think about it, Ivan,” Cronley said. “What do you think are numbers three and four, after the Soviet Union and the United States, on the Vatican’s worry list?”

  Serov considered that for a minute. “You tell me.”

  “We think it’s Himmler’s heretic religion, then getting their bank exposed as the depository for the Nazis’ money.”

  “You and Super Spook came up with this all by yourselves, did you, Colonel Cohen?”

  “Actually, it was Ginger’s idea,” Cronley said.

  “Well, they say that when one is faced with a problem, one should seek the counsel of the most experienced person one knows.”

  “Fuck you, Ivan,” Cronley said.

  “That’s what we’re doing, Ivan,” Cohen said. “We hoped the most experienced person we know in this area of expertise would counsel us vis-à-vis the kidnapping of a Vatican prelate.”

  Serov shook his head in disgust. “In one word: Don’t.”

  Cohen placed his cup on the table and stood up.

  “Oh, have I hurt your feelings?” Serov said, taking a casual sip of tea, before adding, “I am so sorry.”

  “That’s good to know. See you around, Ivan.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Serov said.

  “How am I going to kidnap an archbishop if I sit here watching you drinking tea?”

  Cohen turned away. “Ready, Captain Cronley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll keep you posted, Serov . . . But, on reflection, I don’t see why we should.”

  Serov shook his head as he watched them walk out of the coffee shop.

  * * *

  —

  Cronley and Cohen were just about to enter the vestibule of the church when Serov caught up with them. He was a bit short of breath, suggesting that he had been running to catch up to them.

  “Let’s talk,” Serov said. “I’ve had second thoughts.”

  “Such as?” Cohen asked.

  “If you two persist, as I am very afraid you will, our joint plan of operation will be Foo . . . What is that vulgar phrase of yours, James?”

  “FUBAR?”

  “Precisely. ‘Fouled Up Beyond All Repair.’”

  “That’s Fucked Up, Ivan,” Cronley said.

  “Vulgarity is something a young officer such as yourself should really try to avoid.”

  “So, what are you thinking, Serov?” Cohen asked.

  “That I have no choice but to lend my expertise to your crazy plan.”

  “And how do you plan to do that? Kidnap an archbishop yourself?” Cronley said.

  “No offense, but I frankly don’t think you two could carry it off without attracting a lot of attention.”

  “I’m crushed,” Cronley said. “The last time you kidnapped somebody—one Colonel Mattingly—I seem to recall his bullet-ridden car attracted a lot of attention.”

  “I really don’t expect an archbishop to pull a pistol from under his priestly robes.”

  “Do I gather you don’t want Super Spook’s and my assistance in your snatch?” Cohen asked.

  Serov took a notebook from his pocket. As he scrawled in it, he said, “What I want you to do is go inside the church and tell your men to stand down from snatching anyone’s briefcase. Then get in a taxi and go here. You’ll be expected.”

  He tore out a page from his notebook, handed it to Cohen, who read it and then handed it to Cronley. On it Serov had written “Hotel Majestic, Zillenstrasse 104, Charlottenburg.”

  “May I ask a question, Ivan?” Cronley said.

  “Of course.”

  “Where’s von Dietelburg and Burgdorf?”

  After a time, Serov said, “In the next hours, and days, we’re going to have to trust each other. As proof of my intentions, I’m going to tell you the truth about that. The bastards got away from us. My men found the truck with the driver dead—slit throat—right off the Autobahn. I have no idea where they are.”

  “Shit,” Cohen and Cronley said, on top of each other.

  “We are, of course, looking for them,” Serov said. “I’m going inside now. Wait sixty seconds before you go in.”

  They watched Serov enter the church.

  “I’ll go in,” Cohen said. “You stay here and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Cohen was inside for five minutes before he came out. Max Ostrowski was with him.

  “What did you tell your guys?” Cronley asked.

  “They’re going to stay and keep their eyes on Serov’s people,” Ostrowski said.

  “They know who they are?”

  Ostrowski snorted. “Jim, we have been keeping eyes on NKGB agents since we were in knickers. We’re pretty good at it.”

  “Let’s get a cab,” Cohen said. “You come with us, Ostrowski.”

  [THREE]

  Hotel Majestic

  Zillenstrasse 104

  Charlottenburg, Berlin, Russian Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1010 21 April 1946

  The hotel doorman wore a once elegant, now tattered greatcoat with a gold aiguillette draped from his left shoulder. Behind him stood a bellboy in an equally elegant, equally battered uniform.

  “Oh, good,” Ostrowski quipped, “a Russian whorehouse.”

  As the bellboy rushed to open the door, a well-dressed man came down the shallow flight of stairs and walked quickly to the taxi. He popped to attention and bobbed his head.

  “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.”

  Cronley turned to Ostrowski. “Max, see who’s under the hood.”

  “I will remind you, Captain Cronley, that I’m in charge here,” Rodinski said.

  “No you’re not, Pietr. Until General Serov shows up, he is.” Cronley pointed at Colonel Cohen. “Colonels rank the hell out of majors.”

  The door opened, and Serov entered the room.

  “Problem solved. Here’s the good general now. How they hanging, Ivan?”

  Serov gave him a cold look, then walked up to the hooded man.

  “Who the hell is he?” Serov demanded. “Goddamn it, James, I thought we understood each other.”

  “We don’t know who he is, Ivan,” Cronley said. “Ask your guys. They brought him in. And look what he had with him.”

  He held the briefcase open for Serov’s inspection.

  Serov’s eyes widened, and he turned to the men who had grabbed the hooded man. They bolted to attention.

  “I don’t know if I should put you in for a decoration or have you shot for disobeying orders.”

  Then Serov turned and jerked the hood off the man. He was nearly bald, short, and pudgy. He wore a black business suit, with a clerical collar at his neck. Rope bound his hands in front of him, and there was a cloth stuffed in his mouth.

  The man glared at Serov.

  “Take that gag off,” Serov ordered. “Untie his hands.”

  His men quickly complied.

  “I am General Serov of the NKGB,” he said, his tone cold. “And that is Colonel Cohen of the American Counterintelligence Corps. Who are you, Father?”

  The man didn’t reply.

  “Search him,” Serov ordered.

  One of his men said, “We have already done that, sir.”

  He handed Serov what looked like a wallet and a rosary. Serov went through the wallet.

  “Well, Monsignor Rosetti,” Serov then said. “While I regret the circumstances, it is a genuine pleasure to meet a papal chamberlain. Have you ever met a papal chamberlain, Colonel Cohen?”

  “Can’t say that I have. As a matter of fact, I don’t know what a papal chamberlain is. And now that I think about it, I don’t know what a monsignor is either.”

  “The level of your ignorance vis-à-vis the Holy Mother Church is utterly shocking,” Serov said, with mock contempt. “I suggest you take notes, Colonel, as there will be an examination.”

  The monsignor looked in disbelief and/or confusion between the two.

  “I shall start with basics,” Serov went on. “A monsignor is a priest who has been honored with that title for his services above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Okay,” Cohen said.

  “Do I have that right, Monsignor?” Serov asked.

  “That is correct,” the monsignor said, with some hesitation.

  That’s the first time he’s said anything, Cronley thought.

  “And a chamberlain?” Cohen asked.

  “A papal chamberlain is a title bestowed by the Pope. It usually goes to high-ranking clergy—bishops and archbishops—but sometimes to others. Members of the Italian nobility . . . Is that the case with you, Monsignor?”

  The monsignor didn’t reply at first, but then said, “I am a member of the Rosetti family.”

  “Thank you,” Serov said.

  “The Pope sometimes awards them to laymen,” Serov went on. “Franz von Papen was so honored.”

  “The German diplomat?” Cronley asked, surprised.

  “The German diplomat,” Serov confirmed. “The story going around at the time was that when His Holiness was papal nuncio in Berlin, von Papen was very useful to the Vatican. What about that, Monsignor?”

  “Who are you people?” the monsignor blurted. “What is going on here?”

  “I told you who we are,” Serov said. “And what we’re doing right now is waiting. May I offer you a cup of coffee and a pastry?”

  That the monsignor had recovered his composure now became apparent.

  “Do you have any idea who it is that you have kidnapped? Are you aware that I’m in Berlin at the invitation of the Honorable John Jay McCloy?”

  “We know you’re in Berlin to pass a million-plus dollars of Odessa’s money to Odessa,” Cohen said.

  That put the monsignor back in his indignation mode.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Shocking!” Cronley offered. “I never thought I would see a monsignor and a papal chamberlain lying through his teeth!”

  “I’ll tell you this, young man!” the monsignor said, clearly losing his temper. “In this life, and the next, you are going to regret ever having laid eyes on me!”

  The telephone rang. They heard one of Serov’s men answer it, then announce, “General, the archbishop is ten minutes out.”

  “I guess Cardinal von Hassburger wasn’t available,” Serov said, to no one in particular. “Not a problem.”

  “While we’re waiting,” Cronley said, “why don’t we count the money and see exactly how much of a withdrawal Odessa was making from the Vatican Bank?”

  Cronley turned the briefcase over on the bar, dumping the contents onto it. He began stacking the Swiss francs with other Swiss francs, the English pounds with other English pounds. He held up a thick stack of American five-hundred-dollar bills to Serov.

  “Ivan, since the NKGB knows everything, how much are pounds and francs worth in real money?”

  “Call somebody and find out,” Serov ordered.

  One of his men hurried to pick up the telephone.

  [FOUR]

  Fifteen minutes later, just after they determined the currency in the briefcase was worth $2,010,458 in U.S. dollars, the bound, gagged, and bagged archbishop was led into the room.

  Cronley was surprised and a little disappointed even before Rodinski pulled the black bag from his head. The archbishop was smaller than, though not as pudgy as, the monsignor. And when the bag was removed from his head, his face was that of a pale, visibly frightened sixty-odd-year-old.

  The archbishop’s eyes darted from man to man, then grew wider when he saw Monsignor Rosetti.

  Serov waited until Rodinski had removed the cloth from his mouth and untied his hands before addressing him.

  “Relax, Your Grace. We’re not going to burn you at the stake. All we want you to do is carry a message to Cardinal von Hassburg
er.”

  The archbishop ignored him, instead demanding of the monsignor, “What’s going on here, Rosetti?”

  “Your Grace, I was . . . kidnapped . . . by these people off the street. And they have the briefcase.”

  The archbishop looked around the room and spotted the open case and the stacks of currency beside it.

  “That briefcase and its contents,” the archbishop declared, indignant, “are the property of the Papal Delegation to the United States Military Government of Germany. I demand its immediate return and our immediate release.”

  “Duly noted, Your Grace,” Serov said. “Do you have any further demands before we get to the reason why I asked that you join us here?”

  “Just who are you, sir?”

  “I am General Ivan Serov of the Soviet Union’s NKGB, Your Grace. Please forgive me for not introducing myself upon your arrival. And these gentlemen are Captain James D. Cronley, of the American Central Intelligence Directorate, and Colonel Mortimer Cohen, of the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Corps.”

  The archbishop’s eyes darted toward Cohen and Cronley, then stared at them as if he wanted to memorize their faces. The look of fear was no longer on his face.

  “Now,” Serov said, “as for the message we want you to deliver to His Eminence Cardinal von Hassburger. The . . . How much was it, Super Spook?”

  “A little over two million U.S., General.”

  “Ah, yes. The two-million-dollar-plus withdrawal of illicit funds from the Vatican Bank that Monsignor Rosetti was in the process of delivering to representatives of Odessa has been seized by the United States DCI working in conjunction with the Soviet NKGB.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “I’m disappointed. I was led to believe you enjoy His Eminence’s confidence. But no matter. When you relay our message to him, His Eminence will understand. Please assure him that neither the NKGB nor the DCI has any intention of trying to embarrass the Holy See in this matter—for example, to have it spread all over the world by the press. Quite the contrary. We are hoping that he—the Holy See—will work with us to eliminate a truly unholy mutual threat.”