Curtain of Death

by W. E. B Griffin

  —

  The headwaiter Hussar pushed open a door to a small private dining room.

  “Oberst Serov, your guests are here,” he announced in German, and then waved Cronley and Mannberg into the room.

  Two men in Russian uniforms rose from a table.

  One was about fifty, heavyset, and wore the shoulder boards of a polkóvnik—colonel—and the other, a blond-haired, pleasant-looking man who looked to be in his mid-twenties, wore those of a lieutenant colonel.

  “Thank you for coming,” the young man said in German, putting out his hand to Cronley. “It is always a pleasure to break bread with our American allies.”

  His smile was warm and his handshake firm.

  “This is Colonel Dragomirov,” the young man announced. “My superior, who suggested we meet.”

  Dragomirov’s hand was callused and his handshake turned into a crushing contest, which Cronley almost lost.

  “Hauptmann Cronley,” Dragomirov said, using the German translation of “captain.”

  “Polkóvnik,” Cronley replied.

  That used up one-tenth of my entire Russian vocabulary.

  “Which must make you Comrade Serov,” Mannberg said to the younger man.

  “At last we meet, Oberst Mannberg,” Colonel Ivan Serov said, extending his hand to him.

  “All things come to he who waits,” Mannberg said.

  “A drink is obviously called for,” Serov said. “And thanks to international cooperation, I believe I am prepared.”

  “Excuse me?” Mannberg asked.

  “As a gesture of courtesy between friends, senior officers affiliated with the Quadripartite Commission are honorary members of the senior officers’ clubs of all parties,” Serov explained. “Colonel Wassermann, for example, is welcome at the Red Army Senior Officers’ Club, and I am welcome at the American Club, the French Club, and so on. At the American Club, James, knowing we were going to meet, I visited the spirits store.”

  “James”? We’re now buddies?

  Serov snapped his fingers and a waiter, in Hussar uniform, came to the table and put a bottle of George Dickel sour mash bourbon on the table.

  What about the waiter?

  Is he a bona fide Viennese in an operetta uniform—or an NKGB agent?

  “Actually, I’m a scotch drinker,” Cronley said.

  Why did my automatic mouth come up with that?

  “Not a problem,” Serov said. “With Ludwig in mind, I also stopped by the spirits store at His Britannic Majesty’s Officers’ Club . . .”

  With Ludwig in mind?

  Serov gestured, and another waiter rolled in a table on which was an array of bottles.

  “And found Dewar’s in case he had acquired a taste for it during his time in London.”

  Clever! What this sonofabitch is doing is letting us know he knows a hell of a lot about Mannberg.

  “But in case he didn’t, and not without effort,” Serov said, picking up a bottle, “I came up with this.”

  He showed the bottle first to Mannberg and then to Cronley, who read the label: Berentzen Icemint Schnapps.

  “How kind of you,” Mannberg said. “That’s hard to find these days.”

  “And not to leave out our French allies,” Serov said, pointing to two towel-wrapped bottles in a wine cooler, “Veuve Clicquot champagne.”

  Serov smiled, and then went on, “And last but certainly not least, from the Motherland, Beluga vodka.” He pointed at the table. “And to go with the Beluga vodka, Beluga caviar.”

  Fish eggs. Oh boy!

  All this while they no doubt have Mattingly sitting in some cold, damp stone cell.

  “Your hospitality, gentlemen, is overwhelming,” Mannberg said.

  “Not at all. I wanted this to be a night of friendship and mutual understanding that we will all remember,” Serov said, and then turned to Cronley. “Do you like caviar, Jim?”

  “Some of it. I don’t think I’ve had any . . . What did you say? ‘Beluga’?”

  “Beluga,” Serov confirmed. “From the Caspian Sea. Try some. This is the very best.”

  He reached to the rolling cart, picked up the large silver bowl that held ice and a smaller silver bowl brimming with caviar. He laid it before Cronley.

  Christ, there has to be a pound of it in there, maybe more!

  With a flourish, the waiter placed a plate containing toast tips and a small ceramic spoon before Cronley, and then hurriedly opened one of the bottles of champagne.

  “Unless you would prefer vodka?” Serov asked.

  “I’m still pretty new to vodka,” Cronley said. “Champagne will do fine.”

  Cronley picked up the spoon, dipped it in the bowl of caviar, and then waited for his champagne to be poured.

  Then he used the spoon to deposit a thumbnail-sized amount of caviar onto the first joint of his index finger before moving it to his mouth. He chewed gently for a moment, then pursed his lips appreciatively. He then took a small swallow of champagne.

  “Magnificent,” Cronley announced. “Frankly, I didn’t believe this could be as good as people say.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Serov said. “Where did you say you’re from in America?”

  As if you don’t already know!

  “I don’t think I did. I’m from Texas. A ranch outside a little town called Midland in West Texas.”

  “Forgive me if this sounds rude, but I’m a little surprised that caviar—how do I say this?—that caviar has penetrated America as far as West Texas.”

  “Oh, we Texans aren’t as—how do I say this?—bar aller Kultur as many people believe. We have indoor plumbing and everything. So far as caviar is concerned, the last caviar I had before this was Uruguayan. My grandfather said as far as he was concerned, it was superior to Beluga. I wouldn’t go quite that far, but it was really good.”

  He then took another ceramic spoonful from the silver bowl.

  Serov smiled, and so did Mannberg, but Colonel Dragomirov’s face remained icily impassive.

  “Well, why don’t we order?” Serov suggested.

  “We’d better,” Cronley said, “before I really get into this Beluga. It’s like peanuts for me—if caviar’s available, I can’t stop. And if I don’t stop, I get what they call in West Texas ‘the runs.’”

  Serov raised his eyebrows, and nodded.

  “They do a very nice Paprikás Csirke here,” Serov said.

  “We were talking about that before,” Mannberg said. “That’s fine with me.”

  “And if I may make a suggestion,” Serov went on, “a bottle of Weissburgunder to go with it. It’s a Pinot Blanc.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Mannberg said.

  —

  The Paprikás Csirke and the Weissburgunder were both delicious, but Cronley put his hand over his glass when Serov, smiling, tried to top it off.

  “I’ve had enough, thank you,” Cronley said.

  “‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake,’” Serov quoted. “That comes from Saint Timothy, I think.”

  Cronley chuckled.

  “Are you a Christian, James?” Serov asked.

  Now what is this sonofabitch up to?

  “I’m an Episcopalian.”

  “I’m of course Russian Orthodox,” Serov said. “And before we get to the subject of our meeting, there is a situation I’m hoping we can discuss as fellow Christians.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Christian burial.”

  Christian burial?

  “Of who? Whom?”

  Serov took a red leatherette folder from his jacket pocket and extended it to Cronley.

  “Have you ever seen one of these, James?”

  It was obviously an identity document. There was a photo of Serov and a thumbprint. But it
was printed in Russian, and Cronley had no idea what the Cyrillic characters meant.

  It was the first one he had seen, but he lied by nodding and then handed it to Mannberg.

  Mannberg took a quick look, and then, smiling, said, “So that’s who you are, Senior Major of State Security Ivan Serov. I never would have guessed.”

  Thank you for the translation, Ludwig!

  “At your service, Ludwig,” Serov said.

  That much I know.

  A senior major of the NKGB is the equivalent of a Red Army podpolkóvnik, or lieutenant colonel.

  But Comrade Ivan, since I know you’re Commissar of State Security Nikolayevich Merkulov’s Number Two, I don’t think you’re really a lowly podpolkóvnik, even if you look a lot younger than I think you are.

  I don’t know what, but the equivalent of at least a brigadier general, whatever that’s called in the NKGB.

  Serov reached below the table, picked up a battered briefcase, and put it on his lap.

  “I have four more of these to show you,” Serov said, and handed Cronley four red leatherette identity documents.

  Cronley looked at each one. The last one had a photograph of Lazarus riveted to it.

  Jesus, I hope my face didn’t give away that I recognized him!

  What the hell is Serov up to?

  Cronley handed the folders to Mannberg, who translated them one at a time.

  “Sergeant of State Security Fyodor Yenotov.

  “Senior Lieutenant of State Security Iakov Mravinsky.

  “Another senior lieutenant, this one named Mikhail Jidkova.

  “And, finally, Major of State Security Venedikt Ulyanov,” Mannberg concluded, and laid the identity documents on the table. Serov returned them to his briefcase.

  I can’t positively put a name to the faces, either the photos of the corpses I saw, or these identity cards, but obviously one of them, probably Major Ulyanov, is Lazarus.

  “These associates of mine—three of them, anyway—recently died in the line of duty. I’m sure there’s no need for us to get into the circumstances. The fourth, I suspect, is still alive.”

  “How did they die?” Cronley asked.

  Serov smiled sadly.

  “As I’m sure you know, James, one should never underestimate one’s adversary. Or take for granted that women are unarmed.”

  “That’s always dangerous,” Cronley said.

  “We’re in a dangerous profession. These things happen,” Serov said. “We should all be prepared to meet our maker at any time. Which brings me to what I’m going to ask you to do for me. We know the bodies of the three men who died in the 98th General Hospital in Munich were turned over to the German authorities, who probably—we don’t know this for sure—interred them in the Giesinger Friedhof cemetery.”

  “Ivan,” Cronley said, “I really don’t know what happened to the bodies of these men.”

  “But you can find out,” Serov said.

  “Probably. You want to know where, is that it?”

  “I want my associates to have a Christian burial, in ground sanctified by a priest, in a grave that will be undisturbed for all eternity.”

  “I don’t think I understand, Ivan,” Mannberg said. “‘Undisturbed for all eternity’?”

  “I’m referring to the German custom of reusing grave sites after twenty-five, or sometimes fifty, years,” Serov said.

  What?

  “Someone who has given his life in the service of his country deserves—”

  “I agree,” Mannberg said. “What is it that you wish us to do?”

  Serov dug in his battered briefcase again and came up with a stack of photographs. He handed them to Mannberg, who glanced at them and then slid them across the table to Cronley.

  “These are photographs of the identity documents I just showed you. What I’m asking you to do is use them to identify the men now lying in ‘unknown’ graves in the Giesinger Friedhof—or wherever they are—and then to arrange for their Christian burial. By that I mean a Russian Orthodox priest will consecrate the ground in which they lie, and then conduct a proper burial service, which will include the blessing of their tombstones, which will have their names and the dates of their birth and death on them, and be topped by a Suppedaneum—Russian Orthodox—cross.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged,” Mannberg said.

  “I thank you,” Serov said. “It’s important to me that they be laid properly to their eternal rest.”

  Cronley’s mouth went on automatic: “But what will happen when the Germans want to reuse the grave site in twenty-five years?”

  “A great deal can happen in a quarter century,” Serov said. “We are talking about eternity here, James.”

  Cronley worked his way through the photographs and came to the last one.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Your blasphemy tells me you have come to the last photograph,” Serov said. “May I suggest that we finish the Christian burial service business before turning our attention to that?”

  Cronley shoved the photographs to Mannberg. He glared at Serov, but he was able to shut off his automatic mouth.

  Mannberg looked through the images, then reached the last one.

  It showed Colonel Robert Mattingly. He was standing with his hands handcuffed in front of him. His right upper arm held a bloody bandage. His shirt was torn and bloody. His right eye was swollen shut, and there were bruises on his face.

  Mannberg met Serov’s eyes.

  “I thought you heard me say that what you’re asking of us will be done,” he said.

  “I wanted to be sure,” Serov said. “For several reasons. Not only is it important to me that my fallen comrades receive the rites of the Church, but that we establish a relationship built on mutual trust. I’m sure that you will agree that as time passes, we will find ourselves dealing with one another again.”

  Mannberg nodded.

  “What is it you want, Ivan?” he then said.

  “Comrade Merkulov, the commissar of State Security, feels that the defection of Polkóvnik Sergei Likharev is something we simply can’t live with. It sets a very bad, wholly intolerable example for others.”

  Neither Cronley nor Mannberg replied.

  “Especially—and I must say I admire your being able to do this, James—since you managed for his wife and children to join him. I would love to know how you made that happen.”

  Again Mannberg and Cronley said nothing.

  “Just before we came here, Comrade Dragomirov received word that Colonel Mattingly has safely arrived in Berlin. As I am aware of your personal affection for him, let me assure you that he has received, and will continue to receive, medical attention for his wound, and the prognosis is that he will fully recover.”

  “Is he getting this medical treatment before or after you’re beating him?” Cronley asked.

  “Colonel Mattingly showed a great—and frankly admirable—reluctance to accept our hospitality. We are not beating him. At this time, we have no reason to mistreat him in any way.”

  Once more neither Cronley nor Mannberg replied.

  “There is a difference between Berlin and Vienna in that there is no ‘Four Party Zone’ in Berlin as there is here, no ‘Four Men in a Jeep,’ so to speak. Each of the Allies has its own area. For this reason, Comrade Merkulov has directed that the exchange take place on the border between the Soviet and American zones.

  “One of the border markers between our zone and yours is the Havel River, which runs between the Wannsee district of Berlin and the German state of Brandenburg. A bridge, the Glienicker Brücke, crosses over the Havel near the Sanssouci Palace. In the center of that bridge is where we will see Colonel Mattingly and Colonel Likharev and his family returned to their respective homelands.”

  Neither Mannberg nor Cronley replied.<
br />
  “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?”