Triple Trap

by William H Hallahan

  Arnoski folded his arms angrily. “You’ve put us in a corner now, Gogol,” he said.

  “Marten,” Gogol said. “Remember? My name is Eric Marten.”

  Arnoski flapped an annoyed hand. “We’ve lost it. The whole thing.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gogol said.

  “No? How do you expect to get it out of there?”

  Gogol shrugged in silence.

  “The committee is going to be very upset when I report this,” Arnoski said.

  “Are they?” Gogol said irritably. “They’re very good at being upset.”

  “It’s months late. And now it’s boxed up in a warehouse here in Vienna, surrounded by the Americans and the Austrians waiting for you to come and get it so they can arrest you. That puts it a very long way from Moscow.”

  “The committee tried four times to get that same matériel,” Gogol said. “Four times. And it failed four times. And lost an enormous amount of money doing it. And now the committee is upset with me?”

  “You were told to get the matériel at any cost. You were told to kill the two agents in Germany. You were told to split the cargo up and ship it piecemeal to Moscow through a half-dozen different ports of entry. You have disobeyed every single order, and you’ve lost weeks of time, lost a fortune in rubles, and now you’ve lost the matériel itself. I would think the committee feels justified in being upset, Gogol.”

  “Marten,” Gogol corrected him again. “My name is Eric Marten. Remember? It’s the name on my passport. I am a Swiss businessman named Eric Marten.”

  Arnoski looked at Gogol with a furious face. “If I were you, Marten, I would be worried about my future as a Swiss businessman.”

  Gogol laid his head back and chuckled.

  “I will tell you,” Arnoski continued, “if you don’t get that matériel out of that warehouse and into Moscow, your career is finished—as Marten and as Gogol both.” Arnoski reached for his overcoat.

  “Really? Do you think I’ve failed?” Gogol chuckled again.

  “Of course you’ve failed!” Arnoski replied. “And your arrogance is infuriating. There is no possible way in the world you can get that shipment out of that warehouse.”

  “Then just watch.”

  “Watch?” Arnoski answered. “There’s nothing to watch. I return to Moscow in the morning. I give you seven days to get that shipment over the border. A week, Gogol. If you don’t, you’re going to end up in a clerk’s cubby in Moscow.” Arnoski flung aside the newspaper and left, buttoning up his heavy overcoat. Outside, the wind stole his hat, and he lost all his strutting dignity chasing it down Karntner Strasse.

  Gogol laughed as he watched through the café window. But the smile soon died. He had no way in the world of getting that matériel out of that warehouse. He was cornered.

  Perhaps Arnoski would get his way. Emil Gogol sat in the coffeehouse on the famous Karntner Strasse in Vienna in the most expensive clothes money could buy and stared at a clerk’s cubby in Moscow.

  Across the Donau Canal just off Prater Strasse, Sauer and Court and Austrian customs agents kept watch over the premises of the old warehouse. Sitting in cars, standing in doorways, concealed inside the unheated warehouse, freezing around the clock, the watchers waiting impatiently while the seventeen cartons and crates sat there. And sat there. Their patience was being tested severely by the biting cold, and they now murmured their discontent to each other. After five days of surveillance, they knew something was amiss.

  Inside the warehouse, maddeningly, in sullen winter light, the equipment sat untouched in the midst of the busy terminal, stenciled and labeled with a false waybill. Instructions: hold for pickup.

  So far the addressee had failed to claim it.

  “I was right,” Sauer said to Court over breakfast in the hotel. “They’ve abandoned it. We should never have called in the Austrians.”

  “Maybe.” Court made a skeptical face. “They’ve fooled us before. If they walk away from it, then we still have it and we win. We didn’t get the masterminds behind it, but better luck next time.”

  “I should never have listened to you.” Sauer threw down his napkin and walked away.

  “Sorry about that,” Court called after him. He reached for another roll.

  It was cold. So cold. The duty seemed interminable, and there was no way of knowing when it would end. Then, on the snowy afternoon of the sixth day, the break came.

  That day had begun like all the rest, with a biting cold wind under depressing gray skies, and the threat of snow. Austrian customs men were in their positions behind shaded windows, in several parked vans and inside the warehouse.

  The men shivered and yawned and smoked and murmured to each other as the hours passed.

  At one o’clock snow began to fall thickly. At three in the afternoon an envelope arrived at the Kaiserin Elisabeth Hotel just off Karntner Strasse, addressed to “The American agent Sauer.”

  He ripped it open with his forefinger and pulled out a single sheet of plain white paper with one word written on it. Folded in the paper was a Russian ruble note.

  “What’s that word mean?” he asked the deskman.

  The deskman shrugged at it then looked at the other deskman.

  “It’s Russian,” the second deskman said.

  “What does it say?”

  “Cpaceeba,” said the deskman.

  “What does it mean?” Sauer asked patiently.

  “Thanks,” the deskman said. “In Russian, it means thanks.”

  Sauer looked from the single word on the paper to the ruble note. Thanks for what?

  Austrian customs men with Sauer and Court entered the warehouse in force. There they found nothing amiss: the seventeen cartons and crates were intact, sitting in the middle of the floor exactly where they had been placed six days before. Bewildered officials milled about.

  Sauer touched a carton. It moved at the push of his fingertip. He picked it up. It was empty. He pushed another: empty.

  “Zeleenograd,” he said aloud. And they all understood. Zeleenograd, the Soviet’s secret city of high-tech activities, ringed about with mine fields. The equipment was undoubtedly already in Zeleenograd on military duty against the capitalists who had made it.

  Angrily, with flailing arms and legs, Sauer waded into the shipment. The neatly labeled empty containers fled in all directions from his attack.

  The Austrian agents tried to hide their smiles. Several turned away in laughter.

  Cpaceeba.

  In the Hotel Kaiserin Elisabeth, Sauer and Court packed their bags and descended to the lobby to wait for a taxi to the airport.

  “Christ,” Sauer said. “It’s cold.” His face was gaunt and he looked old beyond his years.

  Court asked, “How much longer can the Russians go on doing this—I mean, getting the technology they need by stealing it from their enemy?”

  Sauer shrugged. “How much longer are we going to let them get away with it?”

  Court shrugged. “I don’t know. How can we stop them? They’re pretty good at it.”

  The taxi arrived and the bellhop wheeled their baggage through the front door.

  “Christ,” Sauer said. “I’m ruined. I was outsmarted. I lost the whole goddamn payload and I got bupkis in return. The Russians got critical technology—it’s worse than a military defeat—and I got egg on all our faces. It’s the end of me.”

  “You did what you could,” Court said.

  “No, Court,” Sauer said. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I put everything on one roll of the dice and lost. I won the booby prize—a desk job.”

  “One thing,” Court said. “We’ll be home for Christmas.”

  Part Two

  Chapter 5

  Sauer stepped out of the car and looked up and down the dark parking plaza. The freezing breeze was going right through his coat. Beyond the bare trees he could see the lighted dome of the Jefferson monument; behind him was the skyline of Washington.

  “Where is th
is guy?” he asked.

  Court cranked down the car window. “What are you standing out there for?”

  “So he’ll see us.”

  “He’ll see the car,” Court said. “You think he’s blind?”

  “Then why the hell is he so late?” Sauer got back into the car, shivering. “My God, it’s cold.”

  “Maybe you need a heavier coat.”

  “It’s not the coat. ’Kay? It’s sixteen months in Panama station. Thin blood.”

  “Thin blood? You’ve been back for four months.”

  “Takes longer than that. ’Kay?” Sauer held his hands down to the warm air of the heater. “I’m still shivering from Vienna. I’ve never been so cold in my life.”

  Court watched him. “Easy does it, Sauer.”

  “Easy does it? Easy did it. This Vienna thing screwed both of us and you know it.”

  “Without prejudice, they said, Sauer.”

  “If you believe that, then I’ve got a nice bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you. ’Kay?” Sauer watched a snowflake fall into the light of a streetlamp. “Snow,” he said. “Eight goddamn inches day after tomorrow. I wish I were back in Panama.”

  They sat in the car with the motor running and waited. At twelve-thirty Sauer squirmed irritably.

  “What’s the story on this guy?” he asked. “What’d you say his name is?”

  “You said you didn’t want to know anything about him.”

  “He’s half an hour late, and now I changed my mind. ’Kay? What’s his name.”

  “Brewer. His name is Brewer.”

  “Where have I heard that name before?” Sauer asked.

  Court took a three-folded sheet of paper from his overcoat pocket and snapped on the dashboard light. “I have to tell you, Sauer. I got this information in strictest confidence from Borden himself. So don’t tip your hand.”

  “Okay, okay. Tell me about him.” Sauer watched Court read from the paper.

  “You may have heard of him because of Bobby McCall. The first thing I have to tell you is this is the guy that took the fall for Bobby McCall.”

  “The one that was framed? The prison rap?”

  “That’s it. He hasn’t been out very long, and Borden says he’s feeling very pissed off—especially about the way Washington failed to help him get out. So go easy. Or you’ll have your hands full in a hell of a hurry.”

  “He’s not the only one feeling pissed off.”

  “Sauer. Listen to me. Borden says this guy is a dangerous piece of work if you get him started.”

  “What else? What’s his background?”

  “Okay. According to Borden’s notes, this Brewer is a specialist in computer technology. In artificial intelligence, whatever that is. He’s an expert on Russian smuggling—especially, it says here, in high-tech arms smuggling.”

  Sauer shivered. “Christ, all I want to do is go home.” He unscrewed the cap from a flask and swallowed a mouthful. “You?”

  “No, thanks.” Court shook his head. Then he yawned. “I’m still feeling that jet lag.”

  Sauer looked up and down the dark parkway. A lifetime of checking the shadows. Across the Potomac he could see the Washington Monument, a glowing lighthouse in the bitter night.

  “How are we ever going to live down those empty cartons?” he murmured.

  “Come on, Sauer. We did our jobs. Blame it on the Austrians.”

  “Who’s going to believe that? They busted their humps for us. This thing made the Austrian government look as bad as we do.”

  “So okay, then,” Court said. “We’re not all alone on this one. The Reds fooled us and the Austrians both.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that, Court. You don’t look so bad. You just followed orders. But I was the one in charge. It’s my ass that was on the line.” Sauer looked out at the shadowy shrubs blowing in the sharp breeze. “It was a goddamn disaster. First, those Russian smugglers make us look like two assholes. Then some grandstander named Brewer comes swooping in—and when he finds them, he’ll get all the glory. And you and I end up in the clown suits.”

  “Come on, Sauer. It’s not that bad.”

  “You heard them. What did they say? They think those Russian smugglers are geniuses. They said those guys could steal eggs from under sitting hens. They said they could steal a hot stove with bare hands. They say its going to take a genius to catch them. Is that us? No. It’s some guy named Brewer. If the smugglers are geniuses and Brewer’s a genius, then we’re two hairy assholes. If you think that helps our careers, then you need a white cane and a seeing-eye dog. ’Kay?”

  Court shrugged indifferently then held the paper down to the dashboard light again. “I can’t figure out who this Brewer’s with. He’s been on loan to everybody—a real alphabet souper. CIA. NIA. NSA. ICIG. DDB. ACU over at State. Everyone borrows him. Guy lives out of a suitcase.”

  “When you’re hot you’re hot,” Sauer said in a low voice.

  “Ha?”

  “Nothing.” Sauer pointed at the white piece of paper. “What’s his G.S. rating?”

  “He outranks both of us by a big number. And he’ll be even higher when he gets McCall’s job.”

  “He’s up for McCall’s job?”

  “Yeah. A real plum. He’ll be Borden’s boss.”

  “What else does it say?”

  “Here. You read it.”

  Sauer took the sheet then held it down to the dashboard light. “Christ. He’s been all over the map. This thing doesn’t say who he’s with now.”

  “That’s what I just said,” Court replied. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s a shit detail.”

  Sauer looked thoughtfully at Court then snapped off the light. “Well, ain’t that tough old beans? This Brewer can step in and make a hero of himself finding those smugglers. Then when the medal’s pinned on him all nice and neat, he steps into one of the cushiest jobs in Washington. Poor Brewer.”

  They sat waiting in the darkness and the silence.

  “What a goddamn mess this has made of my life,” Sauer said.

  In his memory, Sauer’s career stretched back like footprints wandering in a desert, searching for an oasis. He scanned the terrain in vain for his last victory. He looked back on a dozen failures—personal battlefields littered with wreckage and salted with defeat and now capped by the ultimate disaster in Vienna. He no longer dreamed of seeing the exultant face of victory. His wounds could no longer be soothed by the licking lie.

  “Listen, Sauer,” Court said softly. “Borden told me some stories about this Brewer. So I’m warning you again. Don’t mess with him or you’ll really have your hands full.”

  “Mess with him? All I want to do is put my life back together again.”

  “Still and all, you’re pretty pissed off. So don’t tangle with him. Hear?”

  The bitter breeze off the Potomac pushed against the car, trying to get inside.

  At quarter to one a car came slowly down the curving drive and pulled up behind them. The headlights went out.

  “Okay,” Court said. “We’ve got a lot riding on this. So let me do all the talking. And remember what I said. Don’t mess with him. Nice nice nice.”

  A man walked up to their car. He curled himself inside the backseat and pulled the door shut.

  “You were supposed to be here after midnight,” Sauer said.

  “Are you Sauer or Court?”

  “He’s Court,” Sauer said.

  Brewer nodded. “Who’s idea was it to meet here?”

  “Are you giving grades, Brewer?” Sauer demanded.

  “You still haven’t asked me who I am or shown me any I.D. How do you know I’m Brewer?”

  “Let’s skip the crap,” Sauer said. “We have business to conduct.”

  “Easy does it, Sauer,” Court said. He turned and reached out a hand. “Court’s the name.”

  “Okay,” Brewer said, taking Court’s hand. “What’s up?”

  “We need you to help us find some guys. It sho
uld be right down your alley.”

  “Go on.”

  “Smugglers. Russian. High-tech arms smugglers.”

  “Got any names?”

  “We don’t know,” Court said. “In fact, we don’t much at all. We don’t even know what they look like. All we know is they’re very good at smuggling. They just pulled off a major job in Vienna.”

  “Were you two on the case?”

  “From the beginning,” Court said. “Since Kansas City.”

  “Is that all you can tell me?” Brewer asked.

  Sauer turned an angry face and looked at Brewer fully for the first time. Even in the poor light he felt the presence of the man: the head thrust forward from the shoulders, the short neck, the large square teeth and muscular jaw, the skeptical eyes. In the backseat Brewer was as impassive as a pile of rocks.

  “Listen, Brewer,” he said. “You’re here because you’re supposed to be good at finding people. ’Kay? And that’s what we need you to do—find some people. And, no, that’s not all we can tell you. ’Kay?”

  Brewer asked, “Who was in charge of the Vienna detail?”

  “He was,” Court answered. “The Russians really pushed our face into the pie.”

  “I see. Bad luck.” Brewer looked at Sauer’s sullen profile. “Why me?”

  “Because,” Court said quietly, “your background fits it. If you can do this, we’ll give you all the information we have and all the help we can.”

  “We want to catch the bastards ourselves,” Sauer said.

  “That figures,” Brewer said.

  “You have to get on this right away, Brewer,” Sauer said. “It’s red hot.”

  Brewer shook his head. “You’ve called the wrong man. I’m not available. I’ve got another assignment coming up.”

  “The McCall job?” Court asked. “We were hoping you could help us with this even after you start that job.”

  Brewer grunted thoughtfully.

  “This one’s off the books, Brewer,” Sauer said.

  “Off the books?” Brewer looked at the two faces. “It gets worse and worse. Off the books.”

  “Look, Brewer,” Sauer exclaimed abruptly. “I don’t give a damn whether you take it or not.”