by Ross Thomas
“Let’s change places,” I said.
“It is not necessary.”
“Let’s do it anyway. My eyes are better than yours and I’ve probably been in more wrecks. I used to race a little when I had less sense.”
Max smiled. “Truthfully, I am nervous about the accident. If anything should go wrong—”
“It won’t,” I said with what I hoped was an air of confidence.
We changed places. Max took the radio. A half-minute later it sputtered.
“We’re a block behind them—about four minutes away.” It was Cooky, his voice as deep and bland as if he were reading the news. “They are in a black Tatra: three in the back, three in the front. One of ours is in the back in the middle. The other’s in the front in the middle. There are two cars between us and them. No connection. Over.”
“We have it,” Max said. “Over.”
We waited.
“We’re still one block behind—three minutes away now. Same as before. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
“Two and a half minutes away. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I gripped the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. Max was sweating slightly, and he took out a handkerchief and polished his fogged glasses.
“Two minutes away and we’re closing,” the radio said. “Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I started the engine. Or tried to. The starter ground busily, but nothing happened.
The radio crackled. “One and a half minutes away and still closing. Over.”
“We have it,” Max shouted, and his voice cracked. “Over.”
I let up on the accelerator and waited thirty seconds. It seemed more like thirty years. “Flooded,” I said, playing master mechanic. I turned the key and the engine caught.
“One minute away and right behind them. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I took my gun out of my raincoat pocket and laid it on the seat. Max did the same thing. We looked at each other. I grinned and winked. Max managed a weak smile. It probably had more confidence than mine.
“Two and a half blocks from you, thirty seconds away, and approaching at approximately fifty kilometers an hour. It’s up to you. Good night and good luck.”
I put the car in gear and edged it slowly toward the corner. The traffic on the thoroughfare was light. I counted to five and then moved the car past the corner of the building so I could see the approaching left-hand traffic. A Travant went past. Then I saw the Tatra a half-block away. It looked like the Chrysler folly of 1935. It was moving at around fifty. The Citroen was thirty feet behind it.
I started inching the car out into the thoroughfare past the curb, slowly. The driver of the Tatra gave me the horn and I stopped. He kept on coming, not braking. I waited three seconds and decided that that was the moment. I stepped on the gas and the Mercedes shot out into the path of the Tatra. The driver hit his horn, tried to swerve to the right, and slammed into the rear door and fender of the Mercedes. We bounced and skidded a yard or so.
“Keep your gun under your coat and take it slow,” I told Max. He nodded.
We got out, glanced at the traffic, and walked toward the driver. I saw Padillo and Cooky making for the side near the curb. Water streamed from the Tatra’s radiator. The driver was stunned by the crash; his head rested on the steering wheel. One of the men in the back seat poked his head out of the window and started to say something. I jumped for the door and opened it and showed him my gun at the same time. “Sit and don’t move,” I said in German. Then I said in English: “You—the American—get out.”
Padillo had the front door open. “Out,” he snapped. I could see Cooky’s short-barreled Smith and Weston pointed at the men in the rear. Two men got out of the front. “Take him to the car,” Padillo told Cooky, indicating the second man. “You. Get back in. Keep your hands in sight on the dashboard.”
The young man in the middle of the back seat was scrambling out of the car. “Take him,” I told Max. Max grabbed the man by the arm and shoved him quickly toward the Citroen, prodding him in the back with his gun.
Padillo opened the front door again, reached down, and jerked at something. I couldn’t see, but I assumed it was the radio. Then he slammed the door.
“Let’s go,” he said.
We ran toward the car and threw ourselves in. I went in the back with Cooky and one of the Americans. Max was already gunning the car. The Citroen picked up speed and turned the corner too quickly. Max fought the wheel but climbed a curb, drove on the sidewalk for twenty feet, and then bounced back into the street.
“Take it easy, Max,” Padillo said. “Nobody’s behind us yet.”
The two Americans had said nothing, apparently numb from the shock of the crash and the kidnapping. Then the one in the front seat turned to Padillo and said: “May I ask just what you people think you are doing?”
“Which one are you—Symmes or Burchwood?”
“Symmes.”
“Well, Mr. Symmes, I have a gun that’s aimed right at your stomach. I want you to shut up for the next ten minutes. No questions, no comments. That goes for Mr. Burchwood in the back seat, too. Is all that clear? Just nod your head if it is.”
Symmes nodded.
“Is Mr. Burchwood nodding?” Padillo asked.
“He’s nodding,” Cooky said.
“Fine. Now let’s all settle back and enjoy the ride.”
CHAPTER 13
Nobody seemed to notice us as we drove rapidly through the side streets of East Berlin. Cooky fidgeted and chain-smoked but kept his gun trained on Burchwood. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes had elapsed since I had pulled the car out into the thoroughfare. Almost three of them had been spent in driving. The crash, the kidnapping, and all had taken less than one.
Max still clutched the wheel tightly, but he seemed less jittery. Padillo was half turned in his seat so that he could watch Symmes, who stared straight ahead. Symmes was tall—over six feet, I judged. He was wearing an American-looking suit of dark blue, a white shirt, and a blue-and-black tie. His hair was long and blond and shaggy. He needed a trim. Burchwood was dark, of average height. His black eyes flittered quickly, and he kept running his tongue over pale lips. He sat with his hands clenched in his lap, staring at the back of Symmes’s neck. He wore an odd jacket and gray flannels. His shirt was pale blue and he had on a gray-and-maroon tie. His eyebrows looked plucked, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Speed it up a little, Max,” Padillo said.
Max pressed down the accelerator and the Citroen quickened its pace. “We’re almost there,” he said.
We made two more rights and I recognized the building. Max turned down the narrow alley and pulled into the space before the shed. I got out and unlocked and pushed open one of the doors. Max drove in.
“I’ll take Symmes; you take Burchwood,” Padillo said to Cooky.
I closed the sliding door and locked it.
“Up the stairs, gentlemen,” Cooky said. “There are five long flights.”
We walked up the stairs and into the dimly lighted room. Padillo tucked his gun into his waistband. Symmes and Burchwood stood in the middle of the room close together. They looked around warily. They didn’t seem to know what to do with their hands.
“Sit on that bunk,” Padillo told them, indicating the nearest cot. “If you yell, there’ll be no one to hear you. For the next few hours you’re going to be held here. After that, you’ll be moved.”
They sat down on the cot. Symmes, the tall one with the blond hair and small pink ears, moved like a chorus boy. “You are Americans, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Most of us,” Padillo said.
“Would it be too much trouble to tell us just what you—I mean can’t you tell us why you wrecked the car and brought us here?”
Burchwood, the shorter dark one, grimaced and ran his tongue over his lips again. “I suppose you’re with the CIA or som
e other terribly clever organization.”
“No,” Padillo said.
“Well, who are you?”
“I don’t think that matters,” Padillo said. “As long as you do as we tell you, you’ll be all right.”
Burchwood sniffed.
Symmes said, “You apparently know all about us.”
“Not all. Just enough.”
Padillo walked over and sat at the table. Cooky, Max and I joined him. We stared at Burchwood and Symmes. They stared back at us.
“How’s Moscow?” Cooky asked.
“We like it very much, thank you,” Burchwood said. “We were treated with great courtesy.”
“No press, though,” Cooky said. “Not a line anywhere. Not even your pictures in the New York Daily News.”
Symmes waved his hand gracefully. “We are not publicity seekers. Not like some others we know. And if you’re trying to bait us, you can stop right now. We hold certain convictions which I could not possibly expect you to understand or appreciate.”
“Knock it off, Cook,” Padillo said.
“Oh, that’s all right. We’ve met his kind before, haven’t we, Gerald?”
Symmes looked at Cooky thoughtfully. “Often,” he said. He smiled at Cooky. “In time we might get to like you, Slim.”
“I like him right now,” Burchwood said. “I think he could be nice, if he’d just let himself.”
They reminded me of two cats. They had the same grace and the same unwinking stares. And, like cats, they had quickly accepted their new home after sniffing in the corners and scouting under the bed.
“Why don’t you come over here and sit between us?” Symmes said to Cooky, and patted a spot on the bunk. “I’m sure we have just lots in common.”
Cooky reached for the vodka bottle and poured himself a full tumbler. He gulped half of it and stared into the glass.
“Come on over, Slim. We both like you and we could—” Symmes’s suggestion was cut short by the glass that Cooky threw at him.
“Goddamned queers,” he said. His voice was thick—the first time I had ever heard it slur. “Queers and Communists is what it’s all about now. If they get hold of you, they never let go; you just keep on and on and on …”
“You’ve been at the sideboard again,” Padillo told him.
“We’re not Communists, sweetie,” Symmes sang out.
Burchwood giggled. Max got a pained expression on his face and looked the other way.
Cooky was on his feet and headed toward the pair, who cowered in mock horror. “Oooh—here comes the big man,” Burchwood crooned.
Padillo caught Cooky by the arm and swung him against the wall. “I told you to knock it off. I also told you to keep sober. You’re not doing either.”
“They bug me,” Cooky said.
“They’re trying to.” Padillo walked over to the cot, where Symmes and Burchwood grinned wickedly at him. They nudged each other as Padillo stood looking down at them with a faint smile.
“He’s cute, too,” Burchwood said.
Symmes smirked. “I saw him first. After all, he rescued me.”
They both tittered.
Padillo grinned at them. “Playtime’s over,” he said. “When the sun goes down you’re going over the wall with us. You’ll have a gun pointed at you all the way. If something happens, if you do the wrong thing, that gun goes off. Once you’re back in the West, I plan to turn you in. You may as well know that now. I don’t know what they’ll do with you; I don’t really care. But if you don’t do exactly as I say, and do it when I say, then you’ll be dead.”
He turned abruptly and walked back to the table. Symmes and Burchwood seemed to huddle together on the cot, as if they were cold. After a moment they began whispering to each other.
“You think that’ll work?” I asked.
“If it doesn’t, then I shoot them.”
“That simple, huh?” Cooky said. “Everything’s as simple as that.”
“To me it is,” Padillo said.
“Suppose you let us in on how we’re going to get over the wall and when and where. Or is that simple, too?”
“How drunk are you, Cook?” Padillo said.
“I’ll carry my end.”
“Not if you stagger, you won’t. I didn’t ask for your help. I may appreciate it, but I didn’t ask for it. And if you’re lushed, you’ll get left.”
“I asked him,” I said.
Padillo turned to me. “Think back. Did you?”
I thought back. “I asked him,” I repeated.
“Then you keep him sober. If he’s not, he gets left.”
“I want to know where we go over the wall and when,” Cooky said sullenly. “I have a right to know.”
“No, you don’t,” Padillo said. “You don’t have any rights at all. But I’ll give an idea of what we’re going to do. No places, though. No exact times. Just an idea. There’ll be an eight-foot-high wall. We run to that wall at dusk, after we receive a signal. We go up a ladder and down another on the other side. Then we run to an apartment building directly in front of the wall.”
“What are the Vopos and Grepos doing all this time?” Cooky asked. “They’ll be diverted.”
“How?”
Padillo looked at him coldly. “It doesn’t matter how. Let’s just say that they will.”
“I think we should know,” Cooky insisted. His voice was petulant.
“No.”
“Our plan worked before—some time ago,” Max interrupted smoothly. “The trouble lies in the number who have to go over. Usually there have been only one or two.”
“We heard all that,” Symmes called. “We’re not going; you can’t make us. What if you have to drag us? What if we scream? You can’t shoot us; you’d give yourself away.”
Padillo didn’t look at them. “You won’t scream,” he said in a patient voice, “because I can kill you a dozen ways with my hands before you open your mouth. Or I can slit your throat with a knife. If you go limp on us, that’s what I’ll do.” He turned and looked at them then. “Maybe I haven’t made it clear. If you don’t bust a gut to get over that wall, you’ll die. If you’ve made up your minds to try to screw up, just let me know. I’ll kill you right now.” He could have been making an offer to run them down to the corner drugstore so that they wouldn’t get wet in the rain.
Symmes stared at Padillo. He swallowed once, and then he and Burchwood resumed their whispering.
Cooky shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. “I don’t think any of us are going over the wall,” he said.
“Why not?” Padillo asked.
“Because we’re going to turn ourselves in.”
Padillo rose from his chair. He got up slowly, carefully. “I don’t think I understand, Cook. Maybe I should—maybe it’s obvious—but I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been riding me enough. I think you understand.”
“Spell it out,” Padillo said.
“I’ve just said it. We’re going to turn ourselves in.”
“I understand that part,” Padillo said. “That’s very clear. But why should we turn ourselves in? Do you want it that simple? Just march down to the nearest corner and call a cop?”
I sat still, my hands resting on the table. Max did the same.
“Something like that,” Cooky said.
“Your idea, Cook?”
“My idea.”
“Why didn’t we do it this morning? Why didn’t we turn ourselves in then?”
Cooky tried the half-joke smile, but his face crumpled in the effort. “I didn’t know you had such a crazy plan then; you can’t get over that wall. You can’t even get through the death strip. It’s a crazy plan. I don’t want to get killed.”
Padillo kept his eyes on Cooky. “Did you tell Cook that you were going to meet Weatherby at the Hilton last night, Mac?”
“Yes.”
“Tell anyone else?”
“No.”
“What have they got on you, Coo
k?” Padillo asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean what has the opposition got on you—what kind of blackmail? What have you done that’s so bad that you’d kill a man like Weatherby? And you killed him: nobody else could have, because nobody knew he was going there except you and Mac.”
“You’re nuts. I just don’t want to get killed going over that wall.”
“I think you’re a sleeper, Cook. I think they’ve just been waiting to use you for something like this.”
“You’re rambling,” Cooky said.
“No. You’re not doing it for money: you’ve got enough. Not out of conviction: you don’t have any. It could only be blackmail. What was it, Cook? Pictures?”
“We’re going to turn ourselves in,” Cooky said, but his voice didn’t have much conviction.
“No easy way,” Padillo said. “You’ll have to make us.”
Cooky looked as if he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. He seemed to shrug, but his shoulder dipped quickly and his hip rolled. The gun was almost pointing at Padillo when Cooky’s nose disappeared and the ugly red blotch opened in his throat. Then Cooky’s gun went off and the bullet smacked into the floor. Padillo had fired twice. The shots slammed Cooky back over a chair. He was dead by the time he fell from the chair to the floor. The gunpowder smell was sharp and metallic and my ears rang. My hands still rested on the table, the palms grew wet, and I felt the sweat gather in my armpits. Padillo shook his head in a gesture of embarrassment or disgust and stuck the revolver back in his waistband.
“I just outdrew the fastest gun in East Berlin,” he said. “Except that he was drunk.”
“It all went a little quickly for me,” I said.
“Search him, Max. Keep the money; burn the rest.”
I got up and walked over to one of the cots and got a blanket. I threw it down by the body. “You can cover him up with this,” I told Max.
Padillo walked around the table, bent, and picked up Cooky’s Smith and Wesson. He looked at it curiously. “Mine shot high,” he said. “It’s the first time I’ve used it.”
“Well?” I said.
Padillo poured himself a glass of vodka. Then he poured two more for Max and me. He held his glass with both hands and looked down into it. “If you go back far enough, you can dig up something in his past that he thought was God-awful—that he didn’t think he could live with.” Padillo sighed and took a swallow of his drink. “Maybe that’s why he drank too much and lied too much and chased the girls. And, after a while, maybe he blamed it on everything.
