“No chance. They thought they had a good business proposition. The Russians needed a blood-and-thunder agent for a full-scale production. My employers, God bless them, wanted to get Symmes and Burchwood back quietly and without fuss. So you trade A for B and C, especially if A seems to be getting a little crotchety. Who set up the deal in the East—the good colonel?”
“So I understand,” Wolgemuth said. “He’s been back for several months now, supposedly in charge of propaganda.”
“He’s had some experience in the art of the swap,” Padillo said. “But our side is made up of the percentage boys and, as our friend Maas told McCorkle, they have me down as an amortized agent.”
There was a knock at the door. Wolgemuth said come in and one of the giant-size messenger boys came in carrying a large Manila envelope. He handed it to Wolgemuth and left. The German tore it open and produced two well-worn billfolds. “Some more of the fancy frippery you object to, Mike. But it might come in handy.”
I opened mine. It had ninety-two American dollars, 250 West German Marks, an Army ID card that said I was T/Sgt. Frank ]. Bailey, carefully folded travel orders, a couple of dirty pictures, an American Forces driver’s license, a letter in bad English from a girl named Billi in Frankfurt that seemed overly explicit, a card that said I was a member of the Book-of-the-Month-Club, and a box of Trojans.
Wolgemuth produced two more billfolds and said: “These are for the other two.”
Padillo stuffed them into a hip pocket. “How does this make-up look to you, Kurt?”
“It’s good enough. As she said, the whole theory is distraction. The uniforms, of course, are the main thing. Then the faces. If you don’t linger around Tempelhof, you should make it all right. And, of course, there’ll be a drunken fight to take their minds off you for a few moments.”
Padillo shoved back his chair and stood up. “The tickets?”
“The driver has them,” Wolgemuth said.
Padillo held out his hand. “Thanks for everything, Kurt.”
Wolgemuth brushed the thanks away with a wave. “You’ll get a bill.” He shook hands with me and told me how glad he was to have met me and sounded as if he really meant it.
“You’ll find your two wards downstairs,” he said.
Padillo nodded and we left the room. Max was standing by the sliding steel door in the fancy reception room that led to the elevator. He looked at us critically through his glasses. Then he nodded his head in approval.
“I’ll see you in Bonn sometime soon,” Max said.
“Tell Marta that—” Padillo ran out of words. “Just tell her I said thanks.”
We shook hands with Max and walked through the door to the elevator. It took us down to the ground-level corridor. Symmes and Burchwood were there, shaved and dressed in Class-A uniforms. One of the giants leaned against the wall and seemed to admire the ceiling. Padillo handed Burchwood and Symmes the two billfolds.
“You can memorize your new names on the way to Tempelhof. Symmes will stick with me, Burchwood with McCorkle. We go through Pan American without fuss, just like you’ve done it before. I don’t think you need any more lectures. You both look nice. I like your haircut, Symmes.”
“Do we have to talk to you?” Symmes asked. His voice was petulant.
“No.”
“Then we’ve decided not to any more.”
“Fine. O.K., let’s go.”
Outside was a 1963 Ford sedan. A tall Negro in an Army uniform with the single stripe of a PFC was wiping its headlights with a dust-cloth. He saw us come out and ran around to open the door. “Yassuh, get ri’ in. We fixin’ to leave heah in jus’ a second. Yassuh.”
Padillo looked at him coldly. “You can cut out the Rastus act, Sambo. Wolgemuth said you picked up our tickets. Let’s have them.”
The Negro smiled at Padillo. “I haven’t heard a Texas accent like that since I left Mineral Wells.”
Padillo grinned back. “It’s supposed to be from nearer Kilgore,” he said in his normal voice. “You ready?”
“Yassuh,” the Negro said, and moved around the car to the driver’s seat. I got in the front seat. Burchwood, Symmes and Padillo got in the back. The Negro opened the glove compartment and handed me four Pan Am tickets. I selected the one with Sergeant Bailey on it and handed the rest to Padillo.
“What’s the plan at the airport?” Padillo asked.
“I’ll let you out and park the car quick,” the Negro said. “It doesn’t matter where, because I’ll be coming back with either the police or the MPs. Then while you’re checking your tickets there’s going to be a nasty racial incident. An American tourist from Georgia will insist that I insulted his wife; he’ll smack me one and then I’ll light into him with this weapon, which is indigenous to my race.” He produced a straight razor and snicked it open. “If that cracker clips me too hard, I just might cut him a little.”
“Who’s the cracker?”
“One of the guys Wolgemuth recruited from Frankfurt a couple of years ago. He’s genuine enough. After the cops stop it and cart me off he won’t show up to press charges.”
“What’s your cover?” Padillo asked.
“Play a little sax in the combo at one of Wolgemuth’s dives. Run a few errands. Get in trouble like this when it’s needed.”
“How about the Frankfurt end?”
“Man’ll meet you with a car, give you the keys, and then you’re on your own.”
