The Cold War Swap

Chapter 9

Maas studied my face intently after he dropped his bomb. Then he signaled the proprietor, who brought me another brandy and Maas another cup of coffee. He poured a liberal dollop of cream into it, added three cubes of sugar, and sipped noisily, still studying my face.

“You seem speechless, my friend.”

“I’m working up to an indignant remark,” I said.

He shrugged. “My little lecture of a few moments ago about you Americans’ insularity was to prepare you. You don’t have to make me a speech. I’ve heard them all in my time, from one side or another. Herr Padillo is engaged in a business which follows no set of rules or laws. It is a hard, filthy business that goes on in its peculiarly arcane fashion, fed by overweaning ambition, by greed, by intrigue, blundering often, and then blundering again to cover up the original mistake.

“Look at it objectively, if you can. Forget your association with Herr Padillo. Here are two men whose defection, if revealed, could cause the United States the most acute embarrassment. In addition, if they were to be returned, then your government could learn what they have told the Soviets. Corrective measures could be initiated. What do you spend on your National Security Agency? I have seen estimates of up to a half a billion dollars a year. The agency is your code-breaking apparat. It also designs the U. S. codes and monitors a fantastic number of broadcasts and transmissions. You have a considerable investment there at Fort Meade, with its ten thousand employees. It’s second in size to only your Pentagon.”

“You seem well informed.”

Maas snorted. “Common knowledge. What I’m saying is that the two defectors may have thrown this huge mechanism out of balance. It may be breaking purposefully distorted code messages. These messages are considered prime intelligence. They help determine your country’s economic and military actions in dozens of countries. Now what is an agent worth in terms of your dollars and cents? They have had full use of Herr Padillo. He’s an amortized agent. Their investment in him has paid off manifold. So they sacrifice him, much as you would sacrifice a knight to gain a queen.”

“Hardheaded businessmen,” I murmured. “That’s what made America great.”

“But they are making an even better bargain than our friends in the East suspect,” Maas continued. “By offering up Herr Padillo, they are offering an agent who has been merely on the periphery of their activities. He has worked on specific assignments, and while he would know the details of these assignments and the names of those he worked with in the specific countries, his real knowledge of your intelligence system is extremely limited. So the Americans are, from their point of view, making a perfectly splendid bargain.”

“And you think Padillo knows all this?”

Maas nodded. “By now, yes. Otherwise I would not be relating the details. I would be selling them. I, too, am a businessman of sorts, Herr McCorkle. And I have not yet come to my proposition.”

“You have a nice sales talk. It reminds me of a used-car dealer I once knew in Fort Worth.”

Maas sighed again. “Your humor often escapes me, my friend. However, let us continue. I suspect that Herr Padillo will be trying to leave East Berlin in something of a hurry. Security, of course, will be at a maximum. The wall, although a clumsy, ugly device, remains fairly effective. I have something to sell. In the words of one of your most prominent Americans, I have an egress for sale.”

“Mr. Barnum had a few other homilies that might bear repeating now, too. Just where is your egress, Herr Maas, and how much are you asking?”

Maas fished around in his brief case again and came up with an envelope. “This is a map. Here.” He handed it to me. “It is, of course, worthless unless the necessary arrangements have been made with the Vopos who patrol that particular area. They discovered and retained the exit — it goes under, not over, by the way — and they are quite greedy. That is why the price is fairly high.”

“How high?”

“Five thousand dollars. Half in advance.”

“No deal.”

“An alternative proposition?”

“If Padillo wants to get out of East Berlin, and if he’s in the trouble you say he is, then it’s worth five thousand. But not in advance. Only when he’s at the egress, as you call it. I’m looking for a little insurance, Herr Maas. Your presence, if and when the exit is needed, would make me a trifle more confident.”

“You, too, are a businessman, Herr McCorkle.”

“A most conservative one.”

“Twenties and fifties would do nicely.”

“No checks?”

Maas patted me affectionately on the shoulder. “That humor! No, dear friend; no checks. Now I must leave. I trust you will arrange for the money. I have a feeling that Herr Padillo will be agreeable to my proposition.”

“Suppose he needs to get in touch with you in a hurry?”

“Every night for the next four nights I will be at this number in East Berlin. Between eleven and midnight. Unfortunately I can be there for only four nights. Starting tomorrow. Is that clear?” He rose, brief case in hand. “It has been a most interesting discussion, Herr McCorkle.”

“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?”

“I will be interested in Herr Padillo’s decision. Purely from a businessman’s point of view, of course.”

“One more question. Who were the hard boys who shot the little man?”

Maas pursed his lips. “I’m afraid that the KGB now knows that I know, if you follow me. I shall have to find some way to make my peace with them. It is distinctly uncomfortable to be an assassin’s target.”

“It could make you jumpy.”

“Yes, Herr McCorkle, it could. Auf wiedersehen.”

“Auf wiedersehen.”

I watched him leave the café, clutching his worn brief case. It was a hard way to make a dollar, I decided. The proprietor came over and asked if I wished anything else. I told him no and paid the check — something Maas had overlooked. I sat there in the café in what the reporters keep calling the beleaguered city and tried to sort it out. I removed the map from the envelope and looked at it, but I didn’t know East Berlin and it was meaningless, although it seemed accurate enough, drawn on a one-inch-to-twenty-meters scale. The tunnel appeared to be sixty meters or so long. I put the map back in the envelope. Maybe it was worth five thousand dollars.

I got up and left the café. I hailed a cab and went back to the Hilton. I checked the desk for messages. There were none. I bought a copy of Der Spiegel to find out the current German prejudices and took the elevator up to my room. I opened the door, and the two of them were sitting in the same chairs where Weatherby and I had sat earlier. I tossed the magazine on the bed.

“Privacy is something that I’m beginning to put a very high premium on. What do you want, Burmser?”

Bill or Wilhelm, the dude with the wonderful smile, was with him. Burmser crossed his long legs and frowned. The four wrinkles appeared in his forehead. It may have been a sign that he was thinking.

“You’re headed for trouble, McCorkle,” he said.

I nodded. “Good. It’s my trouble, not yours.”

“You’ve seen Maas,” he said accusingly, and named the café.

“I gave him your message. He wasn’t impressed.” I sat down on the bed.

Burmser got up and walked over to the window and stared out, his hands turned into fists that rested on his hips. “What does Padillo want from you?”

“None of your goddamned business,” I said. It came out pleasantly enough.

He turned from the window. “You’re out of your depth, McCorkle. You’re messing around in a potful of crap that’s going to spill all over you. You’d better take the next plane back to Bonn and run your saloon. Your only value to us is that you could put us on to Padillo before he gets himself into a jam he can’t get out of. But you tell me it’s none of my goddamned business. Let me tell you that we haven’t got time to nursemaid you — and God knows you need one.”

“They had a tail on him today,” Bill said.

Burmser waved a hand in disgust. “Christ, they’ve probably had someone on him since he left Bonn.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Not quite,” Burmser said. “Padillo has decided to play it cute, just like you. He knows better, and maybe he thinks he can take care of himself. He’s not bad, I’ll admit. In fact, he’s damn good. But not that good. Nobody is — not when he’s bucking both sides.” He got up. This time Bill-Wilhelm got up too. “When you see Padillo, tell him we’re looking for him,” Burmser went on, his voice harsh and scratchy. “Tell him he’s in too deep to get out.”

“In the potful of crap,” I offered.

“That’s right, McCorkle: in the potful of crap.”

I got up and walked over to Burmser. Bill-Wilhelm moved in quickly. I turned toward him. “Don’t worry, sonny. I’m not going to slug him. I’m just going to tell him something.” I tapped my finger against Burmser’s chest. “If anybody’s in trouble, you are. If anybody’s played it cute, you have. I’ll tell you the same thing I told your friend here, with just a little more detail. I’m in Berlin on a private matter that involves the partner of the business I run. As far as I’m concerned, I intend to preserve that business by being of whatever assistance I can to my partner.”

Burmser shook his head in disgust. “You’re dumb, McCorkle. A real dumb bastard. Let’s go, Bill.”

They left. I walked over to the phone and dialed a direct long-distance call to Bonn. It answered on the first ring.

“Sitting in your favorite chair sipping your favorite beverage, Cooky?”

“Hello, Mac. Where are you?”

“The Berlin Hilton, and I need five thousand bucks by eight o’clock tonight. Fifties and twenties.”

There was a silence. “I’m thinking,” Cooky said.

“You’re taking one straight from the bottle, you mean.”

“It helps. There are two possibilities: a pigeon at American Express or another one at Deutsche Bank downtown. I’ve got plenty in both accounts. I’m rich, you know.”

“I know. The bank’s closed, isn’t it?”

“I’m a big depositor. I’ll get it.”

“Can you get an evening flight up here?”

“Sure. I’ll tell New York I’ve got a touch of virus.”

“I’ll get you a room.”

“Make it a suite. I know a couple of pigeons in Berlin. We may need room to romp. By the way, my friend from Düsseldorf just left. Somebody had a tap on the phone at your apartment and at the saloon.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I’ll see you tonight. With the money.”

“I appreciate it, Cooky.”

“No sweat.”

My watch said it was four P.M. I had five hours before Weatherby was to pick me up. I looked at the Scotch bottle but decided against it. Instead I went down to the lobby and reserved a suite for Cooky and cashed a check for two thousand Marks. I went back up to my room, wrote out a check to Mr. Cook Baker for five thousand dollars, put it in an envelope, and sealed it. I took the .38 out of the suitcase and put it in my jacket pocket. Then I mixed a drink and hauled a chair around so that I could look out over the city. I sat there for a long time, watching the shadows deepen from gray into black. The grays and blacks matched my thoughts. It was a long, lonely afternoon.

At eight forty-five Cooky called from the lobby I told him to come up and he said he would as soon as he checked in and got his bag to his room. He knocked on the door ten minutes later. I let him in and he handed me a tightly wrapped package a little over an inch thick. “I had to take hundreds — ten of them,” he said. “Ten hundreds, fifty fifties, and seventy-five twenties. That’s five thousand bucks.”

I handed him the envelope containing the check. “Here’s my check.” He didn’t look at it and I didn’t count the money.

“Was it much trouble?”

“I had to threaten to withdraw my account is all. Where’s the booze?”

“In the closet.”

He got it and poured himself a drink, his usual half-tumbler.

“Want some ice?”

“Takes too long. I had a very dry trip. I sat next to this pigeon who was afraid of landings. She wanted to hold my hand. She held it between her legs. She’s the secretary for a Turkish trade mission. What’s new with you and why the suspicious-looking bulge in your pocket? It ruins the drape.”

“I carry large sums of money.”

“Is Mike in a five-thousand-buck jam? That’s respectable trouble.”

I turned the chair back from the window so that it faced the room and sat down. Cooky had propped himself up on two pillows on the bed, his drink cuddled against his chest.

“Mr. Burmser paid me a call,” I said. “He thinks I’m a dumb bastard. I tend to agree.”

“Did he have his boy with him — the toothpaste ad?”

“You know him?”

“We’ve met. He’s very handy with a knife. I understand.”

“It’s part of his image.”

Cooky’s private joke played around his lips. “You seem to be running with the fast crowd at the country club.”

There was a light tap at the door. I got up and opened it. Weatherby stood there, his face the color of wet newsprint. “Little early, I’m afraid,” he muttered, then stumbled into the room and sprawled on the floor. He tried to get up once, shuddered, and lay still. There was a small hole in the back of his mackintosh. I knelt quickly and turned him over. His hands were covered with blood, and when his topcoat and jacket flopped open I saw that his shirt was soaked with it. His eyes were open, his mouth gaped, and his teeth were bared in a smile or a grimace: it was hard to tell which.

Cooky said, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“He must have been holding the blood in.”

I felt for the pulse in his neck. It seemed like the thing to do. It wasn’t necessary. He was as dead as he looked, as dead as he would ever be.