As we threaded our way deeper into East Berlin, the girl Marta said nothing but “right” and “left” and “straight ahead.” Both pedestrian and automobile traffic grew lighter as the residential area gave way to an industrial section.
“We’re in the Lichtenberg District,” she said. “It’s not far now. The next right.”
I turned right and drove half a block.
“Here,” she said; “turn down this alley.”
It was between two five-story buildings that had escaped rqajor combat damage. The alley was narrow—just wide enough for the Mercedes. I drove slowly, keeping only the parking lights on.
“At the back there is a shed. You can put the car in there.”
“Left or right?”
“Left.”
The alley was a cul-de-sac ending against a brick wall. Between the brick wall and the building was a shedlike building with sliding doors. I stopped the car and the girl got out.
“Help her, Cooky.”
The girl handed Cooky a key and he unlocked a door and slid it open. I drove the car in and killed the engine and the lights. There was another car parked in the shed—a fairly new Citroen ID-19. It was green or black: I couldn’t tell in the dark.
“This way,” the girl whispered. She opened a door that led from the shed into the building. “They used to make uniforms here during the war, but the Russians took the machinery. Then it was turned into a sleeping barracks. Then a light-manufacturing concern. And now it is vacant. It will be for another month.” She opened her purse and produced a pencil flashlight. “All the way to the top. Five flights.” We moved up the stairs, guiding ourselves by the railing. By the time we reached the fifth floor I was gasping a little. The stairs ended on a small landing that had a large door. The girl knocked and it opened quickly. Padillo stood in the door, a cigarette in one hand, a revolver in the other. The girl brushed past him. She said, “There is trouble.”
Padillo ignored her. “Hello, Mac.”
“Weatherby’s dead. Cooky decided to come along.”
“Hello, Cook.” Padillo never called him Cooky.
“Mike,” Cooky acknowledged. “You can point that thing the other way.” Padillo smiled and tucked the gun in the waistband of his slacks.
We entered the room. It was at least seventy-five feet long and thirty-five feet wide. From the twelve-foot ceiling hung long cords ending in two sixty-watt bulbs that fought weakly against the gloom. The windows were covered with tar paper. At one end of the room were a sink and a two-burner hot plate. A wooden box of canned goods and dishes and glasses sat on a low bench next to the sink. A long, un-painted wooden table with some nondescript kitchen chairs clustered together under one of the sixty-watt bulbs. At the other end of the room were six cots covered by thick gray blankets. A closetlike cubicle stood in one corner of the room.
“That’s the John,” Padillo said. “Let’s sit over here.” We sat at the long table. “What are you smoking?” he asked.
“Pall Malls.” I handed him the pack.
“I ran out yesterday. You want a drink?”
“I’m half tight now,” I said, “but, now that you mention it, yes.”
“Marta, would you mind?” The girl had taken off her green leather coat. She wore a skirt and a frilly blouse. The blouse curved pleasantly. From the sink she brought a bottle of Stolichnaya, one of the better brands of Russian vodka. She poured drinks into water tumblers.
We drank. There were no toasts.
“Weatherby,” Padillo said. “What happened?”
“We were in my room at the Hilton. He knocked on the door, stumbled in, and died on the rug. He’d been shot. In the back, if that makes any difference.”
“He say anything?”
“He apologized for being early.”
Padillo’s lips compressed into a thin line and his fingers drummed on the table. “Christ.”
I took another drink of the vodka: more high-octane. “So what brings us to East Berlin?” I asked.
“A couple of promoters have a clever one going,” Padillo said. “They want to trade me for a pair of NSA defectors and I’m trying to buy up my contract. Weatherby was helping. Now that he’s gone, we may have to cancel.”
“How many do you need?” Cooky asked.
“Four.”
“Weatherby, Mac and you would make three.”
“There’s another guy due: Max.”
“With me you have four,” Cooky said.
“You seem anxious for trouble, Cook.”
Cooky smiled his half-joke smile. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I don’t think we can get back through Checkpoint Charlie. When we came out of the cafe a big black car dumped a dead one right in front of us. He worked for your outfit, I understand. Then we were followed and I had to shoot the tires off another big black car. I
