“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.
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 in 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.
“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?”