“It’s not exactly crystal-clear,” I said.
Padillo took a sip of his vodka. “The chief reason that the Soviets haven’t publicized these new defectors is that they have become increasingly effeminate. At least that’s what Burmser told me. If they put them on TV or let them be interviewed by the Western press, then Moscow could be turned into the mecca for the world’s disenchanted homosexuals. The two guys are really of the la-de-da variety. They would be laughed at, and so would the Russians. So the KGB comes up with a deal, a quiet swap: me for the two defectors. Burmser is the contact, the go-between. He had to find something to trade and he settled on me because if I vanished one fine spring day there’d be none to cry, no Congressman to go visiting out in Virginia to find out what happened to a valuable constituent. Mac might get drunk for a day, but he’d get over it. After that, nothing—until the propaganda drums started beating in Moscow. Then the Soviets could produce their American agent of the variety which is said to be nonexistent by Washington.”
“How can the defectors get you off the hook?”
“It’s simple. Their defection is still a secret—one that has been kept by both the Russians and the States. I get them back over the wall, turn them in, and threaten to blow the lid off the whole story unless they turn me loose for keeps.”
Marta silently placed a bowl of soup in front of each of us. She also set a platter of bread and cheese on the table.
“Aren’t you eating?” Padillo asked.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I’ll eat later.”
“I’ve told them about how it was with you and Weatherby.”
She nodded.
I started to say I was sorry, but I knew it would be flat and meaningless. I drank the soup instead.
“Where do you plan to kidnap them?” Cook asked. His forehead glistened with sweat and his hands shook slightly.
“Better have a drink, Cooky,” I said.
He nodded and poured himself half a tumbler of vodka and took a large swallow.
“If they fly them in, they’ll arrive at Shonefeld, probably on an Army TU-104. Max is trying to check this out now. The guard should be light. If they follow the usual pattern, the guards who accompany them will hand them over at the airport and fly right back to Moscow. Since this is supposed to be a combined effort—the GDR and the Soviets—they’ll probably bring them to the MfS on Normenstrasse.”
“Not the Soviet Embassy?” Cooky asked.
“No. It’s too well watched, for one thing; and the East Germans like to keep their hand in.”
Padillo spread a map of Berlin on the table. “They’ll drive north from the airport along this route. At this intersection is where we’ve planned to pull it off: nothing fancy—just a plain, daylight Chicago-style snatch. One car—the one you brought—will be parked here,” he said, indicating a side street. “Their car will be traveling north, and you will be on their left on a one-way street. The job is to get your car into the main thoroughfare and make them smash into it—but not enough to hurt anybody, so your timing has to be just right. I’ll be right behind them in the Citroen. I’ll park so they can’t back up. Then all of us out. We get the two pansies in the Citroen, one in front and one in back, and we drive like hell to here. We smash their radio first. It’ll take them a few minutes to get to a telephone from that particular spot. By the time they do, we should be back up here.”
“You kept saying ‘you,’ ” I said. “You want me to drive the crash car?”
“You or Max.”
“How’ll I know when to pull out?”
“I’ve got a couple of miniature walkie-talkies. I’ll give you the word. Cooky goes with me. Max goes with you.”
Cooky pushed his bowl of soup away and poured himself another glass of vodka. “You don’t think they’ll be looking for something? Don’t forget we’ve already been spotted.”
“They may be. But by the time they get that far they’ll have grown a little careless. Secondly, it’s the only time the two NSA guys will be out in the open. It’s the only chance—unless you can bust them out of the Ministry for State Security. I don’t think we’re that good—or dumb enough to try.”
We heard the door slam five floors down. “That must be Max,” Padillo said. We waited until the footsteps reached the door. There was a knock. A pause. And three quick knocks. Padillo moved to the wall by the door.
“Max?”
“
Padillo unlocked the door and opened it for a tall, stooped man in his late twenties who wore horn-rimmed glasses that rested on a prominent nose that leaned casually to one side. Quick blue eyes flickered over Cooky and me. The man was wearing a greenish-blue raincoat and a gray felt hat. He shook hands with Padillo, who introduced him as Max Vess. We shook hands and he walked over to Marta, who had cleared away the dishes, and embraced her. “I’m sorry,” he said in German. “I am truly sorry. He was a good man.” She smiled slightly and nodded and turned to the dishes in the sink.
“You heard, then?”
He shrugged. “It’s on the West radio. The police are looking for Herr McCorkle. He was last seen crossing at Friedrichstrasse. With Herr Baker. Nothing more than that. They described Weatherby as a British businessman.” His eyebrows shot up and he smiled slightly. “An accurate enough description, I suppose.”
“How’d you make out?” Padillo asked.
Max took a small notebook out of his pocket. “They arrive tomorrow at noon. A car will met them—a Czech Tatra. They’ll be handed over to one KGB operator and two from the MfS. They’ll be taken to the Ministry on Normenstrasse. There’ll also be a driver.”
