“Ah, yes. The cover of the cafe 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
“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.”
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
