The Berlin Conspiracy

by Tom Gabbay

  Better a she than a he, I thought—hysterical screams are easier to deal with than physical violence. I untied my shoes, put one in each jacket pocket, then lowered myself down, feetfirst, as far as I could. Then I closed my eyes and let go. It was a soft landing and I thought I’d be okay until she abruptly stopped singing.

  “Harold? … Is that you?”

  I threw myself against a wall and said something along the lines of “Ugh.”

  “Why don’t you come in with me, darling? It feels absolutely divine!” I considered my options and decided a quick exit was the only sane one. I reached across the room, flushed the toilet, and grunted again.

  “Don’t you want to, sweetheart?”

  I took a deep breath and made for the door as quickly as I could. I squeezed the handle and pulled it open a crack, aware that Harold could be lurking anywhere.

  “Well, fine, I’m sorry I asked….” She pouted as I shut the door behind me. Luckily, Harold was snoring on the bed. I felt a slight pang of guilt about the silent treatment he’d get when he woke up, but in the end I was sure he’d apologize and all would be forgiven.

  I stepped into the hallway and found myself at the door next to my suite. It was all clear, so I headed straight for the elevators, located at the far end of the corridor. There was a phone ringing in one of the rooms and I realized that if it was mine, Smith would wonder why I wasn’t answering and check it out. I picked up my pace, called for the elevator, but the damned thing was stopping at every floor on the way up. I wasn’t feeling lucky, so I headed for the door marked EMERGENCY EXIT. Good thing I did because just as I got there Smith appeared at the opposite end of the hall, waving his gun in the air.

  He took aim and fired.

  “Jesus Christ,” I yelled, “you almost hit me!” But he was lining me up again, so I didn’t stick around to give him any more accuracy reports. I whipped the emergency-exit door open and his second shot tore through the wood a few inches from my head.

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” I shouted, even though it was pretty damn clear what he was doing. I pulled the door closed behind me and made a dash down the stairs. I heard his footsteps above me, but if he wanted to shoot me—which by now I was convinced he did—he’d have to catch me because there was no shot from above.

  I hit bottom, pushed the door open, and stepped into the lobby, gasping for air. He wouldn’t be able to gun me down in front of the concierge, so I walked—briskly—toward the hotel entrance.

  Then a voice called out.

  “Jack! Hey, Jack! … Jack Teller!”

  EIGHT

  I spun around and saw that Horst was standing at the reception desk, house phone in hand. “I have just phoned to your room!” he exclaimed, replacing the receiver and walking toward me. Over my shoulder I could see Smith step into the lobby, holding the .38 in his jacket pocket.

  I grabbed Horst and hustled him toward the door. “How did you get here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you got a car?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Show me!” I pushed him out the door, glancing back to see Smith picking up his pace.

  “What are you doing, Jack?” Horst laughed as he straightened his jacket.

  “WHERE’S YOUR GODDAMNED CAR, HORST?!”

  “There!” He pointed across the street and my heart sank at the sight of the clapped-out old Volkswagen Beetle convertible. It looked like it might make forty if you got out and pushed.

  “It looks not so good, but—”

  “Give me the keys,” I said.

  “But—”

  “Give me the damn keys, Horst!”

  He took the keys out of his pocket and I grabbed them. Racing across Kürfrstendamm, I glanced over my shoulder to see Smith emerge from the hotel, and managed to just miss going under a bus. Leaping onto the curb, I high-jumped over the car door, slid in behind the wheel, pushed the key into the ignition, and turned it over.

  Nothing.

  I pulled the choke, tried again, and the Bug sputtered to life. I shoved it into first gear, hit the floor with the pedal, and popped the clutch. … The car rattled forward a couple of feet and died.

  Smith was negotiating his way through traffic, his piece out in the open now. I was about to make a run for it when Horst casually opened the passenger door and slipped in beside me.

  “Place the choke exactly halfway out,” he said calmly. “Then give it no throttle until you have reached second gear.”

  I followed his instructions and we pulled away just as Smith bounded onto the sidewalk. I thought he was gonna start shooting, but he headed for his own car—a big black Chrysler parked up the street. I watched him in the rearview mirror as he got in, revved the engine, and came rocketing after us.

  “What are we doing?” Horst inquired, not looking overly concerned.

  “Hold on,” I said, and took a sharp left into oncoming traffic, forgoing the brakes. A tangle of cars screeched to a stop, piling into each other in a chain reaction of crunching metal as we swerved safely through the intersection. I reached over to grab Horst, who’d come loose and was hanging precariously onto the windshield, pulled him back into his seat.

  “My goodness!” was his reaction.

  The Chrysler made the same turn and started gaining on us again. “I think you’d better grab hold of something this time!” I yelled.

  “Thank you for the advice,” he said, bracing himself as I hit the brakes sharply, spinning the car a hundred and eighty degrees until the Chrysler was coming straight at us. I popped the clutch and gave it full throttle, taking Smith head-on, who gave it all he had, more than happy to match the Chrysler against the Beetle.

  Horst braced himself as I raced forward. Staying with it until the last possible moment, I whipped the wheel sharply to the right, and the tailpipe went crunch! as we bounced over the curb onto the sidewalk. The Chrysler sped past us, came to a screeching stop, tires smoking, a hundred feet down the road. I punched the gas and swerved back onto the street, scrambling through the same intersection, where a dozen irate motorists were still surveying the damage.

  Horst banged the dashboard a couple of times and let out a wild yell. “WOOOO-HOOOOO! A car chase!” Then, more calmly, he added, “I’ve never been in a real car chase.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s my first in a tin can,” I replied.

  “You’re doing quite well,” he assured me. “But he comes again!” Sure enough, Smith had managed to get behind us and was coming up fast. He was on us in no time, playing bumper cars, accelerating into the rear end of the VW, then backing off and slamming us again.

  “He seems quite persistent,” Horst said, his enthusiasm fading with the destruction of his automobile.

  “I noticed that,” I agreed. The Bug was coming apart beneath us and I was starting to think about alternate escape plans when I spotted an alley halfway up the block. It looked just about wide enough for the Volkswagen, with nothing to spare.

  “Hold on!” I yelled, swinging into a ninety-degree right turn. The back end swerved into a building, taking out the rear fender. I spun the wheel back, managed to get control, pointed the car into the alleyway, and hit the gas. What was left of the Bug bounced back and forth along the walls like a pinball in heat while the Chrysler ended up wedged between the two walls. I had to smile when I thought about the phone call Mr. Smith would be making home.

  “I’ll pay for the damages,” I offered weakly as we surveyed what was left of Horst’s car. It wasn’t pretty—the right front fender was hanging by a thread, the left rear one was gone, the back end was crushed, and the engine was spewing steam and oil. It had died soon after scraping through the alley and we’d pushed it off the road into an empty construction site, where it sat.

  “I’m not so sure it can be repaired,” Horst said. I concurred and offered to buy the car from him. “No.” He shook his head sadly as he walked around the wreckage. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”
/>
  “Because it belongs to Hanna.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I see.”

  “She was quite fond of it,” he said gloomily. “She even gave it a name—Otto. I don’t know why Otto.” I nodded sympathetically and he stood there, head bowed, for a few minutes, looking over the twisted metal as though it was a fallen friend.

  “How much would it take to get her another one?” I finally ventured.

  “I don’t think there is another like this.”

  I suggested that she might appreciate something a bit newer, a bit jazzier even. She could call it Otto Jr.

  “It could cost quite a bit,” Horst suggested quietly.

  “How much?” I wondered.

  “Three hundred?” He shrugged.

  “Marks?” I asked, and he looked askance.

  “Dollars.”

  I nodded, reached for my wallet, and counted three hundred into his palm. It pretty much cleaned me out of dollars, but I had enough deutsche marks to get me through a few days. I figured I could get the Company to cover the cost of the car as a legitimate business expense. If they didn’t kill me first, that is.

  Horst removed the plates and we left it for others to decide Otto’s final resting place. The familiar grin reappeared on Horst’s face as he swung his arm around my shoulder.

  “So why not a drink? I think our nerves do deserve it.”

  He knew a little hideaway in the district called Stateside Inn. You could’ve been walking in off Route 66—license plates hanging from the ceiling, sawdust on the floor, a pool table in the back, and Hank Williams on the jukebox. It was Horst heaven. The only customers at this hour were three off-duty soldiers and a pair of old girls trying to do business with them and not having much luck. Gus the bartender went with the scenery, too, although I found out later he was a retired English teacher from Philadelphia who had never been west of the Mississippi. We sat at the bar and Horst ordered a couple of Buds.

  “You live in the beer capital of the world and you drink that piss water?” I smiled.

  “You’re right.” He leaned in and whispered, “It’s terrible. But they have no Pilsner here.” He shrugged and offered a Camel, which I took. “By the way, how is your dog injury?” he asked.

  “Not too bad,” I answered, rubbing my calf. “Just a little sore.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Sometimes these things can become quite nasty.” The beers came and I asked Horst what the hell he was doing at my hotel.

  “I came to see you,” he shrugged.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I didn’t remember telling him where I was staying and it was kind of strange that he’d turn up out of the blue, particularly at that moment.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I never told you I was at the Kempinski. Did someone tell you I was there?”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “Who would tell me?”

  “Then how did you—”

  He displayed the Hotel Kempinski matchbook he’d just used to light our cigarettes. “Don’t you remember? You gave me a light with this match on the first night. I said to you all Americans stay at this hotel.”

  “You’re right.” I smiled, feeling stupid. “I remember now.”

  We both took a swig off the beers, then Horst said, “Who was the man that chased us?”

  “A guy named Smith,” I answered. “It’s not important.”

  “Ah,” he nodded, getting the message and changing the subject. “So … It’s a shame you have left so quickly yesterday evening. Hanna has made quite a good meal for us.”

  Of course I owed him an apology. And Hanna. I felt like a real heel. “Christ, Horst, I’m sorry. Tell Hanna, I’m sorry too, will you?”

  “It’s not a problem.” He waved it off. He asked if I’d made it in time for my meeting and I told him I had. He suggested that I come to dinner tonight instead, then I could apologize to Hanna myself.

  “I’m sorry, Horst, I, ah … I have to be somewhere again tonight.”

  “I see,” he nodded earnestly. I didn’t want him to think I was avoiding him and I had to admit that the thought of seeing Hanna again was certainly appealing. “I’ll tell you what,” I suggested. “How about I take you both out to dinner one night? Someplace very expensive.”

  “I know just the place!” he smiled.

  “Good. That’s what we’ll do, then. Just give me a couple of days to clear up my business.”

  Horst nodded happily, polished off his beer, and decided he’d better find a taxi since he was supposed to be using Otto to collect Hanna from the factory where she worked. He tried to get me to come along but I begged off, staying at the bar and ordering another Bud. I bought a pack of Marlboros from the machine and asked Gus how he ended up in Berlin. I listened for a while without really hearing, then asked if there was a public phone in the house. He pointed me to the back, next to the men’s room.

  Sam was in his office, probably waiting for my call.

  ‘That son of a bitch tried to kill me!” I said as soon as he picked up.

  “Which son of a bitch?”

  “Smith,” I said.

  “Who the hell is Smith?” He wasn’t talking to me, so I assumed Powell was in the room with him. Sam came back after a moment: “He says he fired two warning shots.”

  “Is Powell with you?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” he confirmed.

  “The guy came within six inches of my head.”

  “He says he came pretty close,” he said to Powell; then, after a pause, to me: “The feeling here is that if he’d been trying to hit you, we’d be at the morgue identifying your body right now.”

  “That’s bullshit!” I said.

  “Look, Jack,” Sam said in his “let’s cut the crap” voice. “Maybe the guy got carried away, but that’s not exactly the big issue down here at the moment. The big issue is what the hell are you up to?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “That’s great, Jack. Great fucking answer.” He paused and I guessed Powell was saying something to him. When he came back on the line he asked, “Who was the guy waiting for you at the hotel?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “Just a guy in the lobby that I hijacked.”

  Sam relayed the information then chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” I asked.

  “How’d you manage to pick a guy with such a hot car?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” I said, but Sam had stopped laughing.

  “Why don’t you just tell me where you are so I can send somebody out to bring you in?”

  “Somebody like Smith?”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute and I could tell he was pissed off. “I guess you think I’m part of the conspiracy, huh? Maybe all of us are. Powell, me, Smith … Who else? Maybe the whole fucking world’s out to get you.”

  “Let’s just say I want to finish what I started.”

  An unhappy silence greeted me. When he finally spoke, it was in a low-key, cold-blooded voice that I’d heard on Sam before, but never directed at me: “If you fuck with me on this, Jack, I’m gonna have to cut you loose. You’ll be on your own out there with nobody to come home to.”

  It sent a shiver up my spine, which was exactly what it was supposed to do.

  “Be smart, for a change,” he added.

  I was about to spit out some kind of bravado bullshit, but I came up empty, which was unusual but probably just as well. So I just said, “Sorry you feel that way, Sam,” and hung up.

  I went back to the bar, nursed my beer, and chain-smoked Marlboros while I thought things through. It was disturbing. If you fuck with me on this… he’d said. Fuck with him? That wasn’t how Sam and I operated. What the hell was it supposed to mean, anyway? Fuck with him on what?! And how did he think I’d respond to that kind of bullshit? Fold? Christ, he knew me better than that. But he meant it, that was for sure. So there was no going back now, even if I wanted to.

  It looked like I was g
oing to have to depend on the Colonel. Not the most comforting thought I’d ever had, but for some inexplicable reason I felt he was playing it straight with me. There was no evidence of that and nothing in his dossier to suggest that he was anything other than a callous instrument of the state, but I had a gut feeling—a sense that I could trust him. Of course, that’s exactly when you’re most vulnerable. I’d try not to forget that.

  I considered how to play it. The Colonel couldn’t know that I was on my own now; that would make him too comfortable. He’d have to think I could walk out at any time. And I couldn’t seem too eager, either. In fact, I had to be the opposite, play it cool, let him think I couldn’t care less. If he was on the level, you had to assume he was operating with Moscow’s blessing, at the highest levels, and that the idea was to prevent the assassination. If not, why bother telling anyone? So the Colonel would be getting pressure from above. I’d go in like I didn’t have a care in the world, say I’d passed the information on and was happy to be heading back to Florida. If he let me go, then I’d know it was all a scam. On the other hand, if he was serious he’d have to give me something to work with.

  It was pushing five o’clock and the place was filling up, so I decided to move on. When I hit the street I realized I was a bit woozier than I should’ve been on two beers. Maybe it was the pack of Marlboros that I’d polished off, or the fact that I hadn’t had any real food in two days. I stopped at the first Imbiss I saw—one of the street-corner kiosks that were scattered around the city—and ordered sausages and coffee.

  As I stood at the counter I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone, that someone had been watching me since I left the bar. Just to be sure I’d change cars a couple of times on the way to the meeting.

  NINE

  I arrived forty minutes early and had the taxi pull up a block away from the house on Berlinerstrasse. I wanted to see if I could catch the Colonel off guard, maybe get ahead of the game for a change. The driver, happy enough with the meter ticking over, sank his head into a newspaper while I waited, watching the last rays of sunlight give way to a veil of murky darkness. The night air brought with it a sense of anticipation and I felt a surge of energy.