Padillo snorted. “Think back over it. It’s been a sloppy show from the beginning. I called you in because you’re sentimental enough to think that friendship means something more than a card at Christmas and because you’re big enough to be useful in case they start throwing bottles down at the corner bar. I used you to get Cook involved to the point where I could control him so that my chances of getting back to Bonn with our two pansies would be better than sixty-forty. I’ve used you, Mac, and I can get you killed yet. I managed to do it for Weatherby, and he’d been around a long time and was twice as cautious and careful as most. Put it this way: I’ve already promised you my gold cuff links. You’ve got another favor coming. You can call it any time.”
“I’ll think up something. Meantime, what about our two friends downstairs?”
“They’re the insurance,” he said. “NSA never announced their defection, and the boys who work in the new building out in Virginia just past the sign that says Bureau of Public Roads aren’t going to broadcast the fact that they’re back. But unless they clean up everything, including Weatherby turning up dead in your room in the Hilton, and the money we’ve spent, I’m going to call a press conference at Mac’s Place and blow the lid off everything.”
“They wouldn’t like that.”
“No, but the reporters would.”
“What’ll happen to Burchwood and Symmes?”
“They’ll disappear quietly.”
“Dead?”
“Possibly, but probably not. Sometime somebody may pick up a rock and start wondering what happened to a couple of the bugs. They’ll have to be produced quickly.”
“You think it will work out the way you just told it?”
“No, but if I didn’t say it and try to believe it then there wouldn’t be any reason for any of it. And I’d feel more like a damn fool than I do right now.”
I looked at my watch. “We have a couple of hours until our good fairy comes. You want to get some sleep? I caught a nap this afternoon.”
Padillo rose from the swivel chair, lowered himself to the floor, and stretched out full length, his head resting over the closed trap door. “Wake me up in a couple of weeks,” he said. I took over the chair, leaned back, and put my feet up on the desk. I noticed that I needed a shine—and a shave, and a bath, and six eggs over easy with a dozen or so slices of thick bacon, a stack of well-buttered rye toast, a fresh, red whole tomato and a gallon of coffee. Instead I settled for another swallow of bad gin and a cigarette of doubtful merit. I sat in the swivel chair and waited some more. It was quiet. The telephone didn’t ring and nobody knocked on the door. I told myself I was learning patience. I was a poor student.
At four-thirty I poked Padillo with my toe. He was up immediately, fully awake. I told him the time. “I’ll rouse them up downstairs,” he said. He opened the trap door and went down the ladder. Symmes was the first up, followed by Burchwood, and then Padillo. I closed the trap door.
“In about ten minutes we’re going to take another little ride,” Padillo told the pair. “You will do exactly as you are told. You will say nothing regardless of whom you see or what you are asked to do. You will speak only if he or I ask you a direct question. Is that understood?”
“I don’t care what it is any more,” Symmes said. “I just want to get it over. I don’t want any more killing and I don’t want to be pushed and shoved and ordered around like an idiot. Just get it over with, whatever it is, for God’s sake.”
“Have you got anything to say, Burchwood?” Padillo asked.
His dark eyes snapped and his tongue ran around his lips nervously. He shook his head in a weary, hopeless manner. “I don’t care any more,” he mumbled. “I’m just too tired to care.”
“In a couple of hours you’ll have a chance to rest. Just do as you’re told. All right?”
They stood there, disheveled, pale and drawn, their hands hanging loosely by their sides. Symmes closed his eyes and nodded. Burchwood said, “Yes, yes, yes, Christ, yes.”
Padillo looked at me and shrugged. I leaned against the wall. Padillo again sat in the chair. Burchwood and Symmes simply stood, weaving a little. Symmes kept his eyes closed.
At four forty-five we heard the car. Padillo took out his revolver and opened the door. I removed my gun from my coat pocket. It was getting to feel like an old friend.
Maas was at the door. He had left the car engine running. “Ah, Herr Padillo.”
“Everything ready?”
“Yes, yes, but we must hurry. We should be there at five.”
“All right,” Padillo said; “get back in the car. We’ll load up.” He swung around from the door to face us. “You two in the back seat with Mac. Get in this side.”
He went out first. I followed Symmes and Burchwood. Outside, Padillo held open the door of a brown 1953 Mercedes 220. Burchwood and Symmes crawled into the back seat. I followed. Padillo closed the door to the office and got in the front seat next to Maas. “Let’s go,” he said.
Maas drove slowly down the dark alley, using only his parking lights. When he got near the end he stopped. Without saying anything Padillo got out and walked to the corner and looked carefully both ways. He signaled Maas on. The car started up, stopped for Padillo, and we were out in the street. Maas switched on his driving lights.
“Where’d you get the car?” Padillo asked.
“From a friend,” Maas said.
“Your friend forgot to give you the key to the ignition.”
Maas chuckled. “You are very observant, Herr Padillo.”
