The Cold War Swap

Chapter 8

It was raining the next morning when I awakened. It was the dull, flat, gray German rain, the kind that makes lonely people lonelier and sends the suicide rate up. I looked out over Berlin through my window, and it was no longer a tough, cheerful, wise-cracking town. It was just a city in the rain. I picked up the phone and ordered breakfast. After my third cup of coffee and a glance at the Herald Tribune I got dressed.

Then I sat in an easy chair, smoked my seventh cigarette of the day, and waited for something to happen. I waited all morning. The maid came in and made up the bed, emptied the ash trays, and told me to raise my feet while she used the vacuum cleaner. At eleven I decided it was time for a drink. That killed another twenty minutes, and another drink brought me up to noon. It had been a dull morning.

At twelve-fifteen the phone rang.

“Mr. McCorkle?” It was a man’s voice.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. McCorkle, this is John Weatherby. I’m calling for Mr. Padillo.” The voice was English and sounded public-school. He fairly clipped his consonants and savored his vowels.

“I see.”

“I was wondering if you’d be free during the next half hour, say. I’d like to pop over and have a chat.”

“Pop away,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

“Thanks awfully. Good-bye.”

I said good-bye and hung up.

Weatherby was knocking at the door twenty minutes later. I asked him in and indicated a chair. He said he wouldn’t mind a whiskey and soda when I asked if he would like a drink. I told him I didn’t have any soda and he said water would be fine. I mixed the drinks and sat down in the chair opposite him. We said cheers and took a drink. He produced a package of Senior Service and offered me one. I accepted it and a light.

“Nice place, the Hilton,” he said.

I agreed.

“You know, Mr. McCorkle, one sometimes finds oneself in rather peculiar positions. This go-between business may seem a bit far-fetched to you, but—” He shrugged and let the sentence lie down and die. His clothes were English and he wore them well. A brown tweed jacket with dark flannel slacks, not baggy. Old but carefully cared for Scotch-grain brogues that looked comfortable. A black knitted-silk tie. I had draped his mackintosh raincoat over a chair. He was about my age, possibly a few years older. He had a long narrow face with a strong red nose and a chin that jutted and just escaped having a dimple. He wore an RAF-type mustache, and his hair was long and a little damp from the rain. It was ginger-colored, as was his mustache.

“You know where Padillo is?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. That is to say I know where he was last night. He’s been moving about a bit, you know.”

“No,” I said, “I didn’t know.”

He looked at me steadily for a moment. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Perhaps I’d better explain. I formerly was with the government here in Berlin. I came to know Padillo rather well: we were more or less in the same line of work and there were a couple of mutual projects, you know. I still have contacts in the East — quite a few good friends, in fact. Padillo has been in touch with me, and I put him in touch with my friends. He’s been staying with them — moving about a bit, as I said. I believe you received a message from him through a Miss Arndt?”

“Yes.”

“Quite. Well, my further instructions were to meet you here at the Hilton today, and tonight at ten we’re to go to the Café Budapest.”

“That’s in East Berlin.”

“Right. There’s no problem. I’ll lay on the transport and we’ll drive over. You have your passport, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Then what?”

“Then, I suppose, we wait for Padillo.”

I got up and reached for Weatherby’s glass. He finished the last swallow quickly and handed the glass to me. I mixed two more drinks.

“Thanks very much,” he said as I handed his drink to him.

“To be frank with you, Mr. Weatherby, I don’t much care for any of this. Probably because I don’t understand it. Do you have any idea why Padillo is in East Berlin or why he just doesn’t come back through Checkpoint Charlie? He’s got his passport.”

Weatherby set his glass down carefully and lighted another cigarette. “All I know, Mr. McCorkle, is that I’m being paid in dollars by Mr. Padillo — presumably by him — to do what I’m doing and what I’ve done. I haven’t questioned his motives, his objective or his modus operandi. My curiosity is no longer as... shall we say intense as it once was. I’m simply doing a job of work — one that I’m particularly suited for.”

“What happens at this café tonight?”

“As I said, presumably we meet Padillo and he tells you what he needs. If anything.” He rose. “I’ll call for you at nine tonight. Thanks awfully for the drinks.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

Weatherby slung his raincoat over his arm and left. I went back to the chair and sat there trying to decide whether or not I was hungry. I decided I was, so I took my raincoat out of the closet and went in search of the elevators. I caught a cab to a restaurant I knew. The proprietor and I were old friends, but he was ill and the food reflected his absence. After lunch I took a walk — something I seldom do; but the long afternoon that lay ahead seemed a dull infinity. I was walking down an unfamiliar street, pricing the luxury goods in the small shops, when I spotted him. It was just a peripheral glimpse, but it was enough. I increased my pace, turned the corner, and waited. A few seconds later he turned it, almost at a trot.

“Got the time?” I asked.

It was Maas: still short and squatty, wearing the same brown suit, although it looked as if it might have been pressed. He carried the same shabby briefcase.

“Ah!” he said. “Herr McCorkle. I was trying to catch up with you.”

“Ah!” I said. “Herr Maas. I bet you were.”

He looked hurt. His spaniel eyes seemed on the verge of manufacturing a few tears.

“My friend, we have many, many things to talk about. There is a café not far from here where I am well known. Perhaps you will be my guest for a nice cup of coffee.”

“Let’s make it a nice glass of brandy. I just had coffee.”

“Of course, of course.”

We walked around another corner to a café. It was empty except for the proprietor, who served us in silence. He didn’t seem to know Maas.

“Police ever catch up with you?” I asked pleasantly.

“Oh, that. They will soon forget. It was — how would you say? — a misunderstanding.” He brushed it away with a flick of his hand.

“What brings you back to Berlin?”

He took a noisy sip of his coffee. “Business, always business.”

I drank my brandy and signaled for another. “You know, Herr Maas, you’ve caused me a great deal of embarrassment and trouble.”

“I know, I know, and I sincerely regret it. It was most unfortunate, and I apologize. I really apologize. But tell me, how is your colleague, Herr Padillo?”

“I thought you might know. I get the word that you have all the information sources.”

Maas looked thoughtfully into his empty cup. “I have heard that he is in East Berlin.”

“Everybody’s heard that.”

Maas smiled faintly. “I have also heard that he is — or shall we say has had a misunderstanding with his... uh... employers.”

“What else have you heard?”

Maas looked at me, and his spaniel eyes turned hard as agate. “You think me a simple man, do you not, Herr McCorkle? Perhaps a buffoon? A fat German who has eaten too many potatoes and drunk too much beer?”

I grinned. “If I think of you at all, Herr Maas, I think of you as a man who has caused me a great deal of trouble from the moment you picked me up on that plane. You poked your nose into my life because of my business partner’s extracurricular activities. As a result, a man got killed in my saloon. When I think about that I think about you, Herr Maas. You’ve got trouble written all over you, and trouble is something I try to avoid.”

Maas called for more coffee. “I am in the business of trouble, Herr McCorkle. It is how I make my living. You Americans are still very insular people. You have your violence, to be sure, and your thieves, your criminals, even your traitors. You wander the world trying to be — how does the slang go? — the good guys and you are despised for your bungling, hated for your wealth, and ridiculed and mocked for your posturing. Your CIA would be a laughing-stock, except that it controls enough funds to corrupt a government, finance a revolution, subvert a political party. You are not a stupid or stubborn people, Herr McCorkle, but you are an ignorant people, a disinterested people. And I pity you.”

I had heard it all before — from the British and the French and the Germans and the rest. Part of it was envy, part of it was truth, and none of it would change anything. I long ago gave up being either guilty or proud of my nationality, and there were plenty of reasons for both. I had a life to live, and I lived it the best I could, adapting to the changing rules, avoiding the ho-hummery whenever possible, escaping a little perhaps, but putting keen value on a few things that still seemed important, although these too seemed to be getting just a bit worn and shabby.

“Herr Maas, I don’t need a civics lecture today. I just wish you would get to your point — if you have one.”

Maas gave me one of his sighs. “I am no longer shocked, my friend, by what man does to man. Disloyalty does not dismay me. Perfidy I find the rule, not the exception. However, these things can often be turned to profit. It is my business to do so. Look.” He pulled his left coat sleeve up, unbuttoned his shirt cuff, and folded it back over his forearm. “See this?” he said, pointing to a series of numbers tattooed on the inside of his pudgy arm.

“A concentration-camp number,” I said.

He rolled down his sleeve and buttoned it. He smiled, and there was no humor in it. “No, it is not a concentration-camp number, although it appears to be one. I had it tattooed in April of 1945. It saved my life several times. I have been in concentration camps, Herr McCorkle, but never as a prisoner. Do you follow me?”

“It isn’t hard.”

“When it was necessary — and profitable — I was a Nazi. When that was no longer fashionable, I became a victim of the Nazis. You are shocked?”

“No.”

“Good. Then perhaps we can get down to business.”

“We do have some, I take it?”

“Yes, we have some concerning Herr Padillo. You see, it was he who was my primary reason for going to Bonn.”

“Who was the other man?”

Maas waved his hand airily. “A minor functionary who was interested in buying some arms. Of no consequence, really. He had little money. But it was Herr Padillo I wished to see. And here is where the irony creeps in, Herr McCorkle, and perhaps the pity too. Your establishment is very dim, is it not? There is little light?”

“True.”

“As I said, the little man was of no importance. Your place is dimly lighted, so I can only assume that a mistake was made. The two gentlemen who burst in shot the wrong man. They were supposed to kill me.” Maas laughed. It sounded as humorous as the ha-ha’s people write in letters.

“The pity, I take it, is that you weren’t shot. It’s not the funniest story I’ve heard in a long time, although it has its points.”

Maas reached into his brief case and rummaged around. He came up with a long dappled cigar. “Cuban,” he said. “Would you care for one?”

“I’d be betraying the fatherland.”

Maas got the cigar lighted and took a few experimental puffs. “I had information that I wished to sell to Herr Padillo concerning his current assignment. You see, Herr McCorkle, a man of Herr Padillo’s talents is rare. Such men are difficult to come by, and they are to be treasured. In the course of their activities they make enemies because their primary function is to frustrate the opposition’s carefully made plans. Herr Padillo, through his language ability and his personal resourcefulness, has been highly successful in his assignments. Has he told you of them?”

“We never discussed it.”

Maas nodded. “He is also a prudent man. But, as I said, his successes were notable. In the course of his work he found it necessary to remove some rather prominent political figures. Oh, not the ones who make the headlines, but those who, like Herr Padillo, worked in the shadows of international politics. He is, I’m reliably informed, one of the best.”

“He also makes a hell of a good hot buttered rum,” I said.

“Ah, yes. The cover of the café in Bonn. Really excellent. For some reason, Herr McCorkle, you do not strike me as the kind of man who would engage in this business of information and politics.”

“You’re right. I’m not that kind of man at all. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Yes. How much do you think that our friends in the East might pay for a topflight agent of the United States — for one who is the sine qua non of its intelligence apparat?”

“I don’t know.”

“Money, of course, would be out of the question.”

“Why?”

“An ambitious man in the U.S. intelligence organization for which Herr Padillo occasionally does odd jobs, shall we say, would not be looking for money. He would be looking for the coup that would enhance his reputation, for the brilliant stroke that would advance his career. That is what I came to tell Herr Padillo. For a price, of course.”

“And you were interrupted.”

“Unfortunately, yes. As I have told you before, my sources are excellent. They cost a bit, but their reliability is without question. I learned that a trade was in the offing between our Russian friends in the KGB and Herr Padillo’s employers.”

“What kind of trade?”

Maas puffed some more on his cigar. It was growing an excellent ash.

“Do you remember two men called William H. Martin and Vernon F. Mitchell?”

“Vaguely. They defected four or five years ago.”

“Five,” Maas said. “They were mathematicians for your National Security Agency. They went to Mexico, flew to Havana, and caught a Russian trawler. And then in Moscow they talked and talked and talked. They were most communicative, much to the embarrassment of your National Security Agency. As I recall, virtually every major nation in the world changed its codes and caused the agency and its computer no end of trouble.”

“I seem to recall.”

“You may also recall that the two were overt homosexuals. It caused quite a furor, eventually leading to the resignation or dismissal of the director of personnel. In fact, certain members of Congress thought that the pair’s homosexuality was the real reason for their defection, not their expressed horror at the methods of espionage used by your country.”

“Some of our Congressmen have old-fashioned ideas,” I said.

“Yes. But it seems that last year two more Americans who worked for your National Security Agency also defected. The case almost parallels that of Martin and Mitchell. This time, however, there seemed to be some kind of tacit agreement between your country and the Soviet Union that the two would not be put on display in Moscow — despite the overwhelming propaganda value. The names of the last pair — also mathematicians, by the way — are Gerald R. Symmes and Russell C. Burchwood. Symmes and Burchwood.”

“If you could prove it, you could sell that story to a newspaper for a great deal of money, Herr Maas.”

“Yes, I could, couldn’t I? However, I was more interested in selling it to Herr Padillo. Or perhaps I should say trading it to him for some information that he may have. But let me continue. The pair of defectors, Symmes and Burchwood, were also homosexuals — there must be something wrong with the family structure in America, Herr McCorkle — and, unlike Martin and Mitchell, neither was suddenly cured, if that’s the word, and married a fine strapping wife. I believe Martin did find marital bliss in Moscow. Or so he told the press. No, Symmes and Burchwood continued to live together — on their honeymoon, so to speak — and told the Soviet government all they knew about the operations of the National Security Agency. They were, my sources informed me, somewhat piqued because they did not receive the same publicity and fame as Martin and Mitchell. Yet they told all they knew. Which was considerable.”

“You were getting to Padillo,” I reminded him.

Maas regretfully tapped an inch and a half from his cigar into the triangular white, black and red Martini & Rossi Vermouth ash tray. “As I told you when you so impetuously thought of informing the Bonn police of my whereabouts, I knew what Herr Padillo’s mission was and I knew where he was going.

“It seems that our Russian friends had agreed to send the two naughty boys back home — for a price. Padillo was to arrange the transfer here in Berlin — or, rather, in East Berlin. He was to escort them back to Bonn via an American Air Force aeroplane.” That’s the way Maas pronounced it. His English was growing increasingly formal and precise.

“I’m no expert, but it seems like a simple enough job.”

“Perhaps. But, as I said, Herr Padillo has proved effective over the years in his operations in the various countries which are of the Communist persuasion. Too effective, I would say. The price demanded by the Russians for the two defectors was a bona fide, live U.S. agent. Your government agreed. They offered up Michael Padillo.”