I went into the curve too fast, but the engine was still braking and the Cadillac didn’t have a chance. It overshot. I kept the Chevrolet in second and made the curve and shifted up into third again.
“They’re going to back up,” Padillo said.
“That’s a hell of a risk on that road.”
We sped through the Autobahn underpass and hit the blacktopped road that led to Venusberg and down to the ferry that crossed the Rhine to Bonn. I kept the car in third, shifting down into second as we scattered a few small children and ducks in a village and started to climb the twisting road to the top of the hill.
“I don’t see them,” Padillo said.
“We may have picked up a few minutes. We should gain another five or ten on these curves.”
The Chevrolet took them on rails, its hard tough springing reminiscent of an old MG-TC I had once owned. I shifted down into second to drift the first bend in an S-shaped curve. The engine was responding nicely on the short straight and I was estimating the rpm’s needed for the next bend when we went into it, came out of it, and hit the roadblock.
They had the two junkers parked across the road: a couple of battered but still solid Mercedes of the early- 1950 vintage. I was still in second, so I hit the brakes with my left foot and jammed the accelerator down with my right, trying to spin the car into a tight U-turn, but it was too late and the Chevrolet crashed into one of the Mercedes and I was slammed forward against the steering wheel.
There seemed to be dozens of them. They got the Chevrolet doors open and dragged us out. I was stunned, and my stomach ached where the seat belt had cut into it. I felt them lift the gun out of my pocket. I slid down on the ground and vomited. It was mostly wine. I lay there for what seemed a long time, and then I looked up and Padillo was still standing, held by two men in gray felt hats and belted coats whose colors kept changing in the light that filtered through the trees. One of them reached into Padillo’s pocket and took out his revolver. They patted some more pockets and found the knife and got that too. I was sick again.
Two of them grabbed me under the arms and helped me to stagger over to a car and then tumbled me into the back on the floor. I lay there panting and trying not to be sick again. I managed to grab the back of the front seat and haul myself to my knees. It took all day. Padillo was sprawled across the backseat, his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes opened and they blinked at me a couple of times and closed again. I knelt on the back floor and looked out the rear window. They had moved the two Mercedes and the Chevrolet over to one side of the road. They were dragging one of the Mercedes off into a clump of trees. It was being pulled by a Ford Taunus. At least it looked like a Ford Taunus, but the light was getting bad. A man climbed into the front seat and aimed a gun at me. He had a sallow ugly face and his long nose was spotted with ripe blackheads.
“Pick up your friend and make him sit up,” he said. He spoke German, but it was heavily accented. I couldn’t place the accent. I turned and picked up Padillo’s feet and swung them down to the floor. Then I pushed and shoved him into a sitting position, but he slumped forward and I had to push him back again. He had vomited over his uniform and there was an ugly dark spot under his right ear that oozed blood. I sat in the back seat beside him and looked at the man with the gun and the blackheads on his nose.
“Nothing foolish, please. No heroics,” he said.
“Nothing foolish,” I agreed, and spit out one of the sponge-rubber things that had come loose in my mouth. While I was at it I dug some of the wax out of my nose. I didn’t have any manners. I didn’t need any. I started working on the other sponge-rubber piece with my tongue. It came loose and I spat it out, too. I also peeled off my mustache.
The man with the gun watched me curiously but said nothing. The car we were in was English, I noticed: a Humber with walnut panels built into the rear that let down into tea trays. Or cocktail trays, if you were so inclined. It was an export model with the steering wheel on the left-hand side. Next to that was a two-way radio set made of gray metal. I offered myself nine to two that green Cadillac had one just like it. I looked out the rear window. They were pulling the Chevrolet into the clump of trees. Somebody might find it tomorrow—or next week. The tall Negro down in Frankfurt hadn’t had much faith and I wished I had listened to him. We could have gone someplace and talked about cars and drunk beer.
Another man got into the driver’s seat. He turned around and looked us over without much interest, grunted, turned back, and started the car. We followed another Humber down the curving narrow blacktop. There were four men in the car ahead. The two in the backseat were Symmes and Burchwood. I couldn’t tell if they were speaking to anyone yet.
At the Rhine we turned left and drove along the highway for a half-mile or so before we came to a spot that curved out slightly toward the river. It had a few picnic tables and a trash can and a place to park cars. A stone retaining wall bellied out into the Rhine, and there were steps leading down it to a small dock, where an inboard launch about eighteen feet long was tied up. The green Cadillac was parked in the picnic area, and I decided it must have gone by while I was flat on the ground. I noticed that it was a Fleetwood.
The driver of our car parked, got out, and talked to the driver of the other Humber, which carried Symmes and Burchwood. Then that driver got out and walked over to the green Cadillac and talked to someone in the backseat. The man with the gun stayed with us. There was another man in the front seat of the other car. He probably had two guns.
Our driver came back and said something in a language I couldn’t even place, much less understand. But the man with the gun understood it and he told me to get out and to help Padillo out. Padillo opened his eyes and said, “I can walk,” but his voice didn’t carry much conviction. I walked around the car, opened his door, and helped him out.
The man with the gun was right with me. “Down the steps. Get him into the launch,” he told me. I draped Padillo’s arm around my neck and half dragged, half led him down the stairs. “You’ve picked up a few pounds,” I said. I helped him into the launch and he sank down on the cushioned seats that ran along the side. It was getting quite dark. Symmes and Burchwood came down the steps to the dock and got into the boat. They looked at Padillo, who was hunched over. “Is he hurt?” Symmes asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He doesn’t say much. Are you hurt?”
“No, we’re not hurt,” he said, and sat down next to Burchwood. The man who had driven our car walked up to the bow and got behind the wheel. He started the engine. It caught and burbled in neutral through its underwater exhausts. We sat there for five minutes. We seemed to be waiting for something. I followed the gaze of the man at the wheel. A light across the Rhine flashed three times. He picked up a flashlight that had been clamped to the dash, aimed it across the river, and flicked it on and off three times. It was a signal, clever McCorkle decided. The interior light of the green Cadillac flashed on as the back door opened and a man got out and started down the stairs to the dock. He was short and stocky and waddled a bit as he walked across the dock to the boat. It was
