“The garage, Max,” Padillo said. “It’s only a half a mile away.”
“What happened?” Max asked.
“They got lucky or Kurt’s people got careless. The bombs went off O.K. and they gave us the signal. We got to the wall and there was this blond kid—”
“Very young?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“That would be Peter Vetter.”
“He was on top of the wall, pulling the second ladder up and making introductions, when a spare patrol dropped by. They shot him, and the ladder went with him. On the other side. Either Mac or I shot out the light, and we ran like hell.”
“My God, my God,” Max murmured.
Symmes buried his head in his arms on his lap and started to weep uncontrollably. “I can’t do any more,” he sobbed. “I don’t care what happens—I just can’t. You’re all awful, just awful, awful!”
“Shut him up,” Padillo ordered Burchwood.
Burchwood gestured helplessly. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” Padillo said irritably; “just shut him up. Pat him on the head or something.”
“Don’t touch me!” Symmes screamed.
Padillo reached back and grabbed a handful of the long blond hair. He jerked Symmes’s head up. “Don’t flake out on us now, Jack.” His voice crackled harshly. His eyes seemed to burn into Symmes’s face.
“Let go of my hair, please,” the blond man said with a curious kind of dignity. Padillo released him. Symmes slumped back into the seat and closed his eyes. Burchwood patted his knee tentatively.
Max made the half-mile in two minutes. He pulled down a side street and honked the horn in front of a none- too-prosperous-appearing
“I’m like our friend in the back seat,” he said “I can’t do much more. It’s been a very long day.”
A fat man, wearing dirty white coveralls and wiping his hands on a piece of waste, walked up to Max. “You’re back, Max?”
Max nodded wearily. “I’m back.”
“What do you want?”
Padillo got out of the car and walked around to the fat man.
“Hello, Langeman.”
“Herr Padillo,” the man said. “I did not expect you back.”
“We need a place to stay tonight—four of us. We also need food, some schnapps, and the use of a telephone.”
The fat man threw the waste into a can. “The risk has increased,” he said. “So has the price. How long will you be staying?”
“Tonight—maybe most of tomorrow.”
The fat man pursed his lips. “Two thousand West German Marks.”
“Where?”
“There is a basement. Nothing fancy, but dry.”
“And the telephone?”
The man jerked his head toward the rear of the garage. “Back there.”
Padillo took out his revolver and casually transferred it to his slacks waistband. “You’re a thief, Langeman.”
The fat man shrugged. “It’s still two thousand Marks. You can call me some more names if it makes you feel any better.”
“Pay him, Max,” Padillo said. “Then take those two down to the basement. Be sure Langeman gets you the food and schnapps. For that price, he can throw in some cigarettes.”
Max, Langeman and the two Americans moved toward a door at the end of the garage. I got out of the car and walked around it slowly. I was old and tired. My joints creaked. A tooth hurt. I leaned against the front fender and lighted a cigarette.
“What now?”
“You still have Maas’s number?”
I nodded my head carefully. There was danger that it might drop off.
“Let’s call him and see if he still wants to do a little business.”
“You trust him?” I asked.
“No, but have you got any better ideas?”
