by Ross Thomas
“I just want to make it plain that you can’t change your mind at the last minute because you think you’re coming down with a bad case of the nasties. And if something happens, something sticky, just remember that you volunteered. I still don’t know why you want in. Did Mac sell you?”
“Nobody sold me,” Cooky said. “I thought you were in trouble and might need some help.”
“I’ve known lots of guys in trouble,” Padillo said, “but damn few that I’d run the chance of getting shot at for. I’m not in your best-buddy classification, Cook. And if Mac is, that’s brand new, too.”
I waved a hand. “Tell him what you have in mind, Mike. Maybe he won’t want any part of it.”
Padillo took a sip of his vodka and studied Cooky over the rim of the glass. “After I tell him, he’s in,” he said. “What about it, Cook?”
“I told you,” he said, and tried his half-joke smile, “I’m a volunteer.” The smile didn’t come off too well.
“O.K.,” Padillo said. “You’re in.”
“One thing more,” I said to Padillo. “I ran into our fat friend Maas again. He said the main purpose of his trip to Bonn was to sell you the information about the trade,”
“He give you any details?”
Quite a few. He also has a way out: a tunnel under the wall, which he’ll sell for five thousand. That’s how Cooky got involved. He brought me the five thousand from Bonn.”
“You know how to get in touch with him?”
“He gave me his phone number,” I said. “But if he knows about this swap, how many others know—and how did you tumble to it?”
Padillo lighted another cigarette. “They were a little too casual, a little too pleasant when they told me about it. It was their offhand attitude. Sort of ‘Why don’t you drop over and pick up these two because the Russians are tired of them?’ It wasn’t my kind of a job, and so I started checking with Weatherby’s outfit. They found out that the opposition was expecting a new prize for its zoo: the kind of agent that the States keeps denying exists. It all added up to a swap: me for the NSA pair.”
“Maas says you’re an amortized agent. They can write you off as a tax loss.”
Padillo nodded. “The Soviets haven’t had anyone big since Powers. They could use a full-scale public trial if they plan to resurrect Stalin. Our side wants the two NSA guys back without any fanfare, and I was offered up—a little long in the tooth and creaky in the joints perhaps, but serviceable.”
Padillo told us that he had crossed over into East Berlin with a spare passport after flying from Frankfurt to Hamburg to Tempelhof. I told him about Lieutenant Wentzel and Maas and the visit from Burmser and Hatcher at the saloon. I went through my chats with Bill-Wilhelm, Maas, and Weatherby, and finally the story seemed to dribble away and my mouth was dry and leathery. “I’m hungry,” I said.
Marta rose from her chair. “I’ll prepare something. It will have to be from a tin.” She walked over to the hot plate and began to open a couple of cans.
“She doesn’t talk much,” I said.
“I suppose she doesn’t feel like it,” said Padillo. “She was Weatherby’s girl.” He got up and walked over to her. They talked briefly in tones so low that I couldn’t hear. As Padillo talked the girl shook her head vigorously. Padillo patted her on the shoulder and came back. “She wants to stick with it,” he said. “And we can use her. With you two and Max, we may be able to bring it off.”
“Bring what off?” Cooky asked.
“A daylight snatch. The two NSA defectors.” He looked at each of us carefully. His eyebrows were arched in a quizzical fashion; a wide grin was on his face.
I sighed. “Why not?”
Cooky licked his lips.
“How about it, Cook?” Padillo demanded.
“It sounds like an interesting proposition.”
“What happens after we kidnap the two from NSA?” I said.
“We get them over the wall. They buy up my contract for me. And I’m out—finished. I can go back to running a saloon.”
“It’s not exactly crystal-clear,” I said.
Padillo took a sip of his vodka. “The chief reason that the Soviets haven’t publicized these new defectors is that they have become increasingly effeminate. At least that’s what Burmser told me. If they put them on TV or let them be interviewed by the Western press, then Moscow could be turned into the mecca for the world’s disenchanted homosexuals. The two guys are really of the la-de-da variety. They would be laughed at, and so would the Russians. So the KGB comes up with a deal, a quiet swap: me for the two defectors. Burmser is the contact, the go-between. He had to find something to trade and he settled on me because if I vanished one fine spring day there’d be none to cry, no Congressman to go visiting out in Virginia to find out what happened to a valuable constituent. Mac might get drunk for a day, but he’d get over it. After that, nothing—until the propaganda drums started beating in Moscow. Then the Soviets could produce their American agent of the variety which is said to be nonexistent by Washington.”
“How can the defectors get you off the hook?”
“It’s simple. Their defection is still a secret—one that has been kept by both the Russians and the States. I get them back over the wall, turn them in, and threaten to blow the lid off the whole story unless they turn me loose for keeps.”
Marta silently placed a bowl of soup in front of each of us. She also set a platter of bread and cheese on the table.
“Aren’t you eating?” Padillo asked.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I’ll eat later.”
“I’ve told them about how it was with you and Weatherby.”
She nodded.
I started to say I was sorry, but I knew it would be flat and meaningless. I drank the soup instead.
“Where do you plan to kidnap them?” Cook asked. His forehead glistened with sweat and his hands shook slightly.
“Better have a drink, Cooky,” I said.
He nodded and poured himself half a tumbler of vodka and took a large swallow.
“If they fly them in, they’ll arrive at Shönefeld, probably on an Army TU-104. Max is trying to check this out now. The guard should be light. If they follow the usual pattern, the guards who accompany them will hand them over at the airport and fly right back to Moscow. Since this is supposed to be a combined effort—the GDR and the Soviets—they’ll probably bring them to the MfS on Normenstrasse.”
“Not the Soviet Embassy?” Cooky asked.
“No. It’s too well watched, for one thing; and the East Germans like to keep their hand in.”
Padillo spread a map of Berlin on the table. “They’ll drive north from the airport along this route. At this intersection is where we’ve planned to pull it off: nothing fancy—just a plain, daylight Chicago-style snatch. One car—the one you brought—will be parked here,” he said, indicating a side street. “Their car will be traveling north, and you will be on their left on a one-way street. The job is to get your car into the main thoroughfare and make them smash into it—but not enough to hurt anybody, so your timing has to be just right. I’ll be right behind them in the Citroen. I’ll park so they can’t back up. Then all of us out. We get the two pansies in the Citroen, one in front and one in back, and we drive like hell to here. We smash their radio first. It’ll take them a few minutes to get to a telephone from that particular spot. By the time they do, we should be back up here.”
“You kept saying ‘you,’ ” I said. “You want me to drive the crash car?”
“You or Max.”
“How’ll I know when to pull out?”
“I’ve got a couple of miniature walkie-talkies. I’ll give you the word. Cooky goes with me. Max goes with you.”
Cooky pushed his bowl of soup away and poured himself another glass of vodka. “You don’t think they’ll be looking for something? Don’t forget we’ve already been spotted.”
“They may be. But by the time they get that far they’ll have gro
wn a little careless. Secondly, it’s the only time the two NSA guys will be out in the open. It’s the only chance—unless you can bust them out of the Ministry for State Security. I don’t think we’re that good—or dumb enough to try.”
We heard the door slam five floors down. “That must be Max,” Padillo said. We waited until the footsteps reached the door. There was a knock. A pause. And three quick knocks. Padillo moved to the wall by the door.
“Max?”
“Ja.”
Padillo unlocked the door and opened it for a tall, stooped man in his late twenties who wore horn-rimmed glasses that rested on a prominent nose that leaned casually to one side. Quick blue eyes flickered over Cooky and me. The man was wearing a greenish-blue raincoat and a gray felt hat. He shook hands with Padillo, who introduced him as Max Vess. We shook hands and he walked over to Marta, who had cleared away the dishes, and embraced her. “I’m sorry,” he said in German. “I am truly sorry. He was a good man.” She smiled slightly and nodded and turned to the dishes in the sink.
“You heard, then?”
He shrugged. “It’s on the West radio. The police are looking for Herr McCorkle. He was last seen crossing at Friedrichstrasse. With Herr Baker. Nothing more than that. They described Weatherby as a British businessman.” His eyebrows shot up and he smiled slightly. “An accurate enough description, I suppose.”
“How’d you make out?” Padillo asked.
Max took a small notebook out of his pocket. “They arrive tomorrow at noon. A car will met them—a Czech Tatra. They’ll be handed over to one KGB operator and two from the MfS. They’ll be taken to the Ministry on Normenstrasse. There’ll also be a driver.”
“How much did it cost?”
“Dear. Five hundred D-Marks.”
“Here.” Padillo took a roll from his pocket and counted out five hundred West German marks.
Max put them in his pocket. “I’ll take Marta home,” he said. “She’s had enough today.”
Padillo nodded and Max helped the girl into her green leather coat. “I’ll be back in the morning around nine. I’ll bring Marta.” He nodded to us and they left. The girl had said nothing.
“Let’s go over it again,” Padillo said.
We went over it again, not only that time, but ten times more. At two in the morning we’d had enough. I fell asleep on a cot quickly and I dreamed a long dream about locks that wouldn’t lock, doors that wouldn’t open, and cars that wouldn’t move when I pressed the accelerator.
CHAPTER 12
I awakened to the sound of running water hitting the bottom of a saucepan. Padillo was at the sink. He put the saucepan on the two-burner hot plate and turned the switch. I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty in the morning. I wondered whether the sun was shining or it had decided to rain again. It really didn’t seem to matter, so I got up and went over to the table and sat down. Cooky was still asleep in the far cot.
“Instant coffee for breakfast,” Padillo said. “There’s some canned meat of some sort if you’re desperate.”
“I’m not.”
“Tell me some more about your friend Maas and his tunnel.”
“For five thousand bucks he’ll spirit us out under the wall. Cooky brought the five thousand, as I told you last night. Here’s the map.” I reached into my jacket pocket and threw the envelope on the table.
Padillo picked it up, took out the map, and studied it. “It could be anyplace,” he said. “You have his phone number?”
I nodded.
Padillo turned back to the hot plate, spooned some instant coffee into two cups, poured in the boiling water, stirred both of the cups, and set them on the table. “You want some sugar?”
“If you have it.”
He tossed me two cubes and I unwrapped them and dropped them into my cup, stirring them with a spoon.
“If everything goes all right this afternoon, we’re going to try to make it over this evening.”
“Evening?”
“At dusk. It’s the best time, because their lights are least effective. We’ll use one of the methods that Weatherby worked out. Marta will arrange it in the West Sector. If it doesn’t work, you’ll probably have to give Maas a ring. His price isn’t bad, by the way.”
“That’s what Cooky said. You think it’ll work?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I honest to God don’t. It’s costing a lot. Weatherby was a special sort of guy. I’m having a hard time getting used to the idea that he’s dead just because I got tired of my job.”
“I didn’t know him, but he seemed like a grown man. He must have added up the risks at one time or another.”
“Have you?”
“I don’t think about it. If I thought about it, I’d go back to bed and pull the covers over my head. I don’t know if I’ll even be of much help.”
Padillo borrowed another cigarette. “You’ll do. I might even get you on permanently, Mac. You show promise.”
“No, thanks. This is McCorkle’s last case. The fox of Berlin is retiring from the field.”
Padillo grinned and stood up. “I’d better rouse Cook.” He walked to the far cot and shook Cooky, who rolled out and buried his head in his hands.
“One morning,” Cooky muttered. “Just one morning without a hangover.”
“Have some coffee,” I called. “You might even keep the second cup down.” He headed for the cubicle that enclosed the toilet. When he came out he seemed a bit pale. He walked over to the sink and splashed water on his face. Then he slumped at the table. Padillo put a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Sugar?”
“I’ll use my own,” he said, and took out the long silver flask, shook it to see if it still held a gurgle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swallow. He shuddered and washed it down with coffee.
He seemed to brighten visibly. “Care for one?” he asked, shoving the flask toward Padillo.
“No, thanks, Cook; I seldom drink before nine.”
Cooky nodded and brought the flask back and poured a sizable jolt into his coffee.
“All right, group; it’s map-study time,” Padillo said. He unfolded the Falk-Plan von Berlin again, which had cost somebody DM 4.80, and we went over the route until nine, when we heard the door slam downstairs. It was Max and Marta. She had done her crying for Weatherby during the night. Her eyes were red-rimmed. They sat down at the table.
“We’ve gone over the route a number of times, Max. It’s the same one that you suggested. We’re going to cross tonight. That means that Marta will have to get in touch with Kurt and his crew. We’ll use plan three. Same time, same place, just as Weatherby and I agreed on. You know it, Marta?”
“Yes.”
“When you get over into the West, stay over. Don’t come back. If something goes wrong, we’ll let you know what we plan next.”
“We will be there,” she said. “I should go now.” She looked at us, her eyes resting briefly on each. “I wish you good luck. All of you.” She left quickly, a tall, pretty, sad girl wearing a belted, green leather coat who examined the burden of her grief in lonely privacy. I thought that Weatherby would have liked her for that.
“After the crash,” Padillo continued, “get out of the cars normally. Don’t run. Cook and I will take the curb side. You two take the driver’s side. Max will drive the Citroen back to here. We’ll have to use the guns—but just wave them around; try not to drop them or pull any triggers. O.K.?”
We nodded.
“Cook and I will pick them up at the airport. The walkie-talkies are Japanese, and they’re supposed to work within a mile’s range. Cook will be on one radio, Max on the other. We’ll close up just behind them in the block that ends on the street where you’ll be parked. When Cook gives you the word, pull out. You can judge how fast you should move by the speed of their car. Clear?”
Max and I nodded again.
“I think it should work if they have only one car, if the walkie-talkies function, if one of you doesn’t get hurt i
n the crash, and if they don’t trap us on the way back here. That makes several ifs. I hope not too many. It’s ten now. Cook and I will leave here at eleven. You and Max leave at twelve-fifteen. You should hear from us on the radio setup by twelve-thirty—if it works. We may as well check them out now.”
The radios were Japanese, and they were called Llyods, and they worked. Padillo went down the five flights of stairs. “Do you read me all right?” His voice came through clear and tinny. “They’re working fine,” Max said. “Can you read me?” Padillo replied that he could. We waited until Padillo came back up and then we all had a drink. The vodka again.
There wasn’t much to talk about, so we sat silently, sipping our drinks and smoking, each engrossed in his own thoughts, each wrestling with his own particular and personal fears.
At eleven Cooky and Padillo left. Max and I talked about the weather, a new act of a Berlin cabaret that I had caught on my previous trip, the cost of living in Berlin as compared with Bonn, and the movie business in general. Max said he went often to the movies. We didn’t talk about what was going to happen at twelve-thirty P.M. At twelveten we went downstairs. I traded Max the key to the Mercedes for the one to the shed’s sliding doors. I unlocked and shoved open the one in front of the Mercedes and Max backed it out. I closed the door, locked it, and climbed in beside him.
“You know they may be looking for this car—the police,” he said.
“Probably. Do you think they’ll turn it back to the rental-car service?”
Max laughed. “No chance.”
“Well, I’ve just bought a new Mercedes.”
Max drove carefully. We left the industrial area of Lichtenberg and began zigzagging our way through narrow side streets. At twelve twenty-eight Max said, “We’re almost there. Next block we turn right. We should be hearing from them shortly.” He made the right turn into a one-way street that was just wide enough for two cars. Max parked the Mercedes ten feet from the corner. “There is the thoroughfare they will take,” he said, and took off his glasses and polished them.
