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.
I watched him leave the cafe, 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 cafe 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.
