The radio crackled. “One and a half minutes away and still closing. Over.”
“We have it,” Max shouted, and his voice cracked. “Over.”
I let up on the accelerator and waited thirty seconds. It seemed more like thirty years. “Flooded,” I said, playing master mechanic. I turned the key and the engine caught.
“One minute away and right behind them. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I took my gun out of my raincoat pocket and laid it on the seat. Max did the same thing. We looked at each other. I grinned and winked. Max managed a weak smile. It probably had more confidence than mine.
“Two and a half blocks from you, thirty seconds away, and approaching at approximately fifty kilometers an hour. It’s up to you. Good night and good luck.”
I put the car in gear and edged it slowly toward the corner. The traffic on the thoroughfare was light. I counted to five and then moved the car past the corner of the building so I could see the approaching left-hand traffic. A Travant went past. Then I saw the Tatra a half-block away. It looked like the Chrysler folly of 1935. It was moving at around fifty. The Citroen was thirty feet behind it.
I started inching the car out into the thoroughfare past the curb, slowly. The driver of the Tatra gave me the horn and I stopped. He kept on coming, not braking. I waited three seconds and decided that that was the moment. I stepped on the gas and the Mercedes shot out into the path of the Tatra. The driver hit his horn, tried to swerve to the right, and slammed into the rear door and fender of the Mercedes. We bounced and skidded a yard or so.
“Keep your gun under your coat and take it slow,” I told Max. He nodded.
We got out, glanced at the traffic, and walked toward the driver. I saw Padillo and Cooky making for the side near the curb. Water streamed from the Tatra’s radiator. The driver was stunned by the crash; his head rested on the steering wheel. One of the men in the back seat poked his head out of the window and started to say something. I jumped for the door and opened it and showed him my gun at the same time. “Sit and don’t move,” I said in German. Then I said in English: “You—the American—get out.”
Padillo had the front door open. “Out,” he snapped. I could see Cooky’s short-barreled Smith and Weston pointed at the men in the rear. Two men got out of the front. “Take him to the car,” Padillo told Cooky, indicating the second man. “You. Get back in. Keep your hands in sight on the dashboard.”
The young man in the middle of the back seat was scrambling out of the car. “Take him,” I told Max. Max grabbed the man by the arm and shoved him quickly toward the Citroen, prodding him in the back with his gun.
Padillo opened the front door again, reached down, and jerked at something. I couldn’t see, but I assumed it was the radio. Then he slammed the door.
“Let’s go,” he said.
We ran toward the car and threw ourselves in. I went in the back with Cooky and one of the Americans. Max was already gunning the car. The Citroen picked up speed and turned the corner too quickly. Max fought the wheel but climbed a curb, drove on the sidewalk for twenty feet, and then bounced back into the street.
“Take it easy, Max,” Padillo said. “Nobody’s behind us yet.”
The two Americans had said nothing, apparently numb from the shock of the crash and the kidnapping. Then the one in the front seat turned to Padillo and said: “May I ask just what you people think you are doing?”
“Which one are you—Symmes or Burchwood?”
“Symmes.”
“Well, Mr. Symmes, I have a gun that’s aimed right at your stomach. I want you to shut up for the next ten minutes. No questions, no comments. That goes for Mr. Burchwood in the back seat, too. Is all that clear? Just nod your head if it is.”
Symmes nodded.
“Is Mr. Burchwood nodding?” Padillo asked.
“He’s nodding,” Cooky said.
“Fine. Now let’s all settle back and enjoy the ride.”
CHAPTER 13
Nobody seemed to notice us as we drove rapidly through the side streets of East Berlin. Cooky fidgeted and chain-smoked but kept his gun trained on Burchwood. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes had elapsed since I had pulled the car out into the thoroughfare. Almost three of them had been spent in driving. The crash, the kidnapping, and all had taken less than one.
Max still clutched the wheel tightly, but he seemed less jittery. Padillo was half turned in his seat so that he could watch Symmes, who stared straight ahead. Symmes was tall—over six feet, I judged. He was wearing an American-looking suit of dark blue, a white shirt, and a blue-and-black tie. His hair was long and blond and shaggy. He needed a trim. Burchwood was dark, of average height. His black eyes flittered quickly, and he kept running his tongue over pale lips. He sat with his hands clenched in his lap, staring at the back of Symmes’s neck. He wore an odd jacket and gray flannels. His shirt was pale blue and he had on a gray-and-maroon tie. His eyebrows looked plucked, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Speed it up a little, Max,” Padillo said.
Max pressed down the accelerator and the Citroen quickened its pace. “We’re almost there,” he said.
We made two more rights and I recognized the building. Max turned down the narrow alley and pulled into the space before the shed. I got out and unlocked and pushed open one of the doors. Max drove in.
