The Cold War Swap

by Ross Thomas

  “There are people who will make a buck whatever the graft—fire, pestilence, famine or war.” The apartments we were passing were the ones that had been thrown up in a hurry in 1948. Their plaster or stucco exteriors were flaking off, exposing the red brick underneath. The brick looked like angry red sores. The balconies sagged and clung halfheartedly to the buildings.

  “You can still walk back,” I said.

  “Straight ahead,” Cooky directed. “You know how many of them were crossing over just before the wall went up?'

  “About a thousand a day.”

  “That’s thirty thousand a month. Working stiffs mostly, but also a boatload or two of engineers, doctors, scientists, technicians of all kinds. It was bad public relations on Bonn’s part.”

  “How?”

  “They talked it up too much. They rubbed it in until it stung. Ulbricht went off to Moscow and convinced Khruschchev that he had to seal it off: the GDR couldn’t stand the embarrassment. The West kept score, and every time they hit a thousand the newspapers carried it in ‘second-coming’ headlines. So one hot August day when Ulbricht got back from Moscow the word went out. First there was just the barbed wire. Then they started putting up the wall: concrete slabs a meter square. And when they found that that wasn’t enough they topped it off with a yard or so of cinder blocks. A guy I know from Lone Star Cement took a look at it and said it was a lousy job—from a professional viewpoint.”

  “So what should Bonn have done?”

  “Turn left here. They should have known it was going up. Their intelligence was lousy, but no worse than ours or the British. Maybe there wasn’t time, but the blocks had to be cast, the cement ordered. Somebody should have buttoned on. You don’t set out to build a twenty-seven-mile-long wall through the middle of a big town without a few leaks. If they had known, they could have turned their propaganda guns loose. RIAS could have knocked hell out of the Reds some more. The British and the Americans and the French could have sent what are called ‘tersely worded notes.’ There were sixty thousand East Berliners working in West Berlin. Some of them could have stayed. Hell, they could have done a lot of things.”

  “All they needed was a good PR man.”

  Cooky grinned. “Maybe. At least the East was all set for it with an outfit they called ‘The League of the German Democratic Republic for the Friendship Among the Peoples.’ The flacks for this outfit started pounding away on three points, all aimed at excusing the wall. First, they cried a lot about how the West was inducing doctors, engineers and others to cross over by the use of what they called ‘cunning and dishonorable methods.’ It comes out money in the translation.

  “Second, those who lived in East Berlin and worked in West Berlin were getting four East German Marks for every Western D-Mark they earned. This meant that a guy could go over to West Berlin, sign on as a common laborer, and make as much as the specialist with a university education who worked in the East. That seemed to bother them some, too.

  “And, third, they were all upset about the smuggling. Or maybe the Russians were unhappy. At any rate, the East’s flacks claimed that the wall went up to stop the ‘illegal export’ of such stuff as optical instruments, Dresden china, Plauen laces and the like. They claimed it cost them thirty-five thousand million marks a year—however much that is.”

  “You may be right that the West bragged too much about the numbers of refugees,” I said.

  “I’d have probably done the same.”

  “It was just too good to ignore—especially if you’re screaming for unification. But it’s academic now—like calling that third-down play on Monday instead of Sunday. And if you want a McCorkle prediction, I’ll be happy to make one.”

  “What?”

  “That wall isn’t coming down—not in our lifetime.”

  “You only bet cinches, Mac. We’re damn near there—wherever there is. Turn left.”

  I turned left down a dark, mean street whose name I didn’t catch and didn’t even look for. We drove a block, and the Café Budapest was on a corner, the first floor of a three-story building with a small electric sign that had half of its bulbs burned out. It was a prewar building, and you could see where it had been patched up with plaster that was newer than the original. Parking was no problem. We got out and walked toward the entrance, which was recessed into the corner of the building, catawampus to the sidewalk.

  Cooky pulled open the heavy wooden door and we went in. The room was about sixty feet long and thirty-five feet wide. It had a high ceiling, and at the far end there was a platform where a four-piece band gave out a weary version of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” A few couples moved around the twelve-by-twelve dance floor. Two girls danced together. There were some dark wooden booths along both sides of the room and the bar was at the front, next to the door. The place was a quarter full, and we seemed to have missed the happy hour. We didn’t take off our coats.

  “Let’s try a table,” I said.

  We sat down at one near the door.

  “What time is it?” I asked Cooky.

  “Five till ten.”

  “Let’s stick to vodka. I understand it’s halfway decent.”

  A waitress came over and I ordered two vodkas. We attracted about as much attention as a flea in a dog pound. The waitress came back with the drinks and waited to get paid. Cooky gave her some D-Marks and waved the change away. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say thank you. She walked off and stood tiredly by a booth and examined her fingernails. After a while she started to chew on one of them.

  Cooky drank half his vodka and smiled. “Not bad.”

  I sipped mine. I can’t tell the difference in vodka, except for the proof. This was high-octane.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “We wait.”

  “What if nothing happens?”

  “We go back to the Hilton and I explain what a dead body is doing in my room. You can be thinking something up.”

  We sat there and drank vodka and listened to the band give its version of “Deep Purple.” At exactly ten P.M. the door opened and a girl came in. She wore a belted dark-green leather coat and high-heeled black pumps. Her hair was dark and long and fell to her shoulders in what they used to call a page-boy bob. She moved to our table and sat down.

  “Order me a glass of wine,” she said in German.

  I signaled the waitress. She trudged over and I ordered the wine.

  “Where’s Weatherby? The girl asked. She pronounced the “w” like a “v” and the “th” like a “z.”

  “Dead. Shot.”

  Persons register shock in many different ways. Some gasp and start saying “no” over and over as if, through denial, things can be changed back to the way they were. Others are more theatrical and they grow white and their eyes get big and they start chewing on their knuckles just before they yell or scream. And then there are those who just seem to die a little. The girl was like that. She grew perfectly still and seemed to stop breathing. She stayed that way for what seemed to be a long time and then closed her eyes and said: “Where?”

  I foolishly started to say “in the back,” but I said, “In West Berlin, in the Hilton.”

  The waitress was bearing down on us and the girl said nothing. Cooky found some more money and paid again, this time increasing the tip. There were still no thanks.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Marta. He was to have a car.”

  “Who?”

  “Weatherby.”

  “I have a car.”

  “You’re McCorkle?”

  I nodded. “This is Baker. This is Marta.” Since it was a girl, Cooky gave her his dazzling smile. His German hadn’t been sufficient to keep up with the conversation. I wasn’t sure that mine had been either.

  “Padillo said nothing about another man.”

  “He’s a friend.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Did Weatherby—did he say anything before he died?” She got it out well enough.

&nbs
p; “No.”

  She nodded. “What kind of car do you have?”

  “A black Mercedes—the new one parked just across the street.”

  “Finish your drinks,” she said. “Tell a joke. Laugh and then leave. Shake hands with me, both of you, before you go. He does not speak German?”

  “No.”

  “Tell him then.”

  I told him.

  The girl said, “Go out to your car and start the engine. I will follow in a minute or so.”

  I turned to Cooky and clapped him on the back. “When I get through saying this see how loud you can laugh. O.K. You can start any time.”

  Cooky laughed, the girl laughed, and I laughed. We shook hands and said auf wiedersehen and went out the door. The girl remained seated at the table.

  It had grown cool, and I turned my coat collar up as we hurried toward the Mercedes. A car parked down the block started its engine, flicked on its lights, and spun its tires in its hurry to get away from the curb. It roared toward our corner and I jerked at Cooky’s arm. The car was long and dark and looked something like a postwar Packard. It seemed to be aimed at us and we stumbled backward on the sidewalk. The car drew abreast and slowed slightly and I saw that there were two men in the front seat and one in the back. The two in the front didn’t look at us. The back door flew open and a man spilled out, somersaulting once before he came to rest on his back in the gutter.

  A face looked up at us with open eyes and long black hair that was mussed and dirty. Yet the teeth gleamed as whitely as ever. None were missing, but the smile held no humor. Bill-Wilhelm lay dead in the gutter, and the car kept on going and skidded around the corner, the engine straining, the back door still flapping as the man in the rear seat tried to close it.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and raced for the Mercedes.

  I started the engine and pounded the horn ring three times. The girl seemed to have understood, because the café door opened and she ran toward the car as I flicked the lights. When she saw the body she paused slightly but not much. I had the back door open, and the car was moving when she slammed it shut.

  “What happened?”

  “They dumped an American agent on us. Which way?”

  “Straight ahead and then left at the second crossing. He looked dead.”

  “He was. Is Padillo all right?”

  “He was an hour ago.”

  “That’s a long time in this town.”

  “Where are we going?” Cooky asked.

  “I’m just following directions,” I said.

  “We’re being followed,” she said.

  I caught a glimpse of the headlights in the rearview mirror, “Brace yourself,” I told her. “How good are you with that pistol, Cooky?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Can you get a tire?”

  “From thirty or thirty-five feet. No more.”

  “O.K., I’m going to take the next corner fast and then slam on the brakes. Jump out and see what you can do.”

  I sped up, threw the Mercedes down into second, and yawed around the corner on fat springs. I braked quickly to the curb and Cooky jumped out and ran to the corner. His gun was in his hand. He shielded himself with the edge of the building. The car started the corner fast, the driver making excellent use of gears and brakes. Cooky aimed carefully and fired twice. The car’s right front and rear tires blew, giving the gun’s blast a double echo. The car slewed toward the curb and I could see the driver wrestling for control, but it was too late, and it bounced over the far curb and crunched nicely into a building. By then Cooky was back in the Mercedes and I had it in low, the accelerator pressed hard against the floor board. It wasn’t competition pickup, but it was steady. Cooky took out his flask and drank. He offered it to the girl in the rear seat, but she refused.

  “Which way?” I asked her.

  “We must take the side streets. They’ll have radio contact.”

  “Which way?” I snapped.

  “Left.”

  I spun the wheel and the Mercedes bounced around another corner. I was hopelessly lost.

  “Now?”

  “Straight ahead for three streets … then right.”

  I kept the Mercedes in second to provide braking power if we needed to turn quickly.

  “I wonder why they dumped him on our doorstep.”

  “Burmser’s boy?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe they thought he was a friend of ours.”

  “I hope they weren’t right.”

  CHAPTER 11

  As we threaded our way deeper into East Berlin, the girl Marta said nothing but “right” and “left” and “straight ahead.” Both pedestrian and automobile traffic grew lighter as the residential area gave way to an industrial section.

  “We’re in the Lichtenberg District,” she said. “It’s not far now. The next right.”

  I turned right and drove half a block.

  “Here,” she said; “turn down this alley.”

  It was between two five-story buildings that had escaped rqajor combat damage. The alley was narrow—just wide enough for the Mercedes. I drove slowly, keeping only the parking lights on.

  “At the back there is a shed. You can put the car in there.”

  “Left or right?”

  “Left.”

  The alley was a cul-de-sac ending against a brick wall. Between the brick wall and the building was a shedlike building with sliding doors. I stopped the car and the girl got out.

  “Help her, Cooky.”

  The girl handed Cooky a key and he unlocked a door and slid it open. I drove the car in and killed the engine and the lights. There was another car parked in the shed—a fairly new Citroën ID-19. It was green or black: I couldn’t tell in the dark.

  “This way,” the girl whispered. She opened a door that led from the shed into the building. “They used to make uniforms here during the war, but the Russians took the machinery. Then it was turned into a sleeping barracks. Then a light-manufacturing concern. And now it is vacant. It will be for another month.” She opened her purse and produced a pencil flashlight. “All the way to the top. Five flights.” We moved up the stairs, guiding ourselves by the railing. By the time we reached the fifth floor I was gasping a little. The stairs ended on a small landing that had a large door. The girl knocked and it opened quickly. Padillo stood in the door, a cigarette in one hand, a revolver in the other. The girl brushed past him. She said, “There is trouble.”

  Padillo ignored her. “Hello, Mac.”

  “Weatherby’s dead. Cooky decided to come along.”

  “Hello, Cook.” Padillo never called him Cooky.

  “Mike,” Cooky acknowledged. “You can point that thing the other way.” Padillo smiled and tucked the gun in the waistband of his slacks.

  We entered the room. It was at least seventy-five feet long and thirty-five feet wide. From the twelve-foot ceiling hung long cords ending in two sixty-watt bulbs that fought weakly against the gloom. The windows were covered with tar paper. At one end of the room were a sink and a two-burner hot plate. A wooden box of canned goods and dishes and glasses sat on a low bench next to the sink. A long, un-painted wooden table with some nondescript kitchen chairs clustered together under one of the sixty-watt bulbs. At the other end of the room were six cots covered by thick gray blankets. A closetlike cubicle stood in one corner of the room.

  “That’s the John,” Padillo said. “Let’s sit over here.” We sat at the long table. “What are you smoking?” he asked.

  “Pall Malls.” I handed him the pack.

  “I ran out yesterday. You want a drink?”

  “I’m half tight now,” I said, “but, now that you mention it, yes.”

  “Marta, would you mind?” The girl had taken off her green leather coat. She wore a skirt and a frilly blouse. The blouse curved pleasantly. From the sink she brought a bottle of Stolichnaya, one of the better brands of Russian vodka. She poured drinks into water tumblers.

  We drank. There
were no toasts.

  “Weatherby,” Padillo said. “What happened?”

  “We were in my room at the Hilton. He knocked on the door, stumbled in, and died on the rug. He’d been shot. In the back, if that makes any difference.”

  “He say anything?”

  “He apologized for being early.”

  Padillo’s lips compressed into a thin line and his fingers drummed on the table. “Christ.”

  I took another drink of the vodka: more high-octane. “So what brings us to East Berlin?” I asked.

  “A couple of promoters have a clever one going,” Padillo said. “They want to trade me for a pair of NSA defectors and I’m trying to buy up my contract. Weatherby was helping. Now that he’s gone, we may have to cancel.”

  “How many do you need?” Cooky asked.

  “Four.”

  “Weatherby, Mac and you would make three.”

  “There’s another guy due: Max.”

  “With me you have four,” Cooky said.

  “You seem anxious for trouble, Cook.”

  Cooky smiled his half-joke smile. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I don’t think we can get back through Checkpoint Charlie. When we came out of the café a big black car dumped a dead one right in front of us. He worked for your outfit, I understand. Then we were followed and I had to shoot the tires off another big black car. I think we’re pretty well tagged.”

  “Cooky’s very handy with a gun,” I said. “Show him.”

  Padillo looked at him thoughtfully. “Go ahead, Cook.”

  Cooky stood up. “Give me a count, Mac.”

  I counted once more by thousands. Cooky dropped his shoulder, rolled his hip again, and made the draw in a swift circular motion.

  “You’re fast,” Padillo said. “What are you wearing—a Berns-Martin?”

  Cooky nodded and reholstered his gun.

  “You’d have to be sober for what I have in mind. Or nearly so,” Padillo said. “How hard would that be?”

  “Hard enough,” Cooky said, “but I can cut it.”

  “You don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Look, either you recruit me or you don’t. I thought you needed some help and I volunteered. Now you sound as if you’re trying to steer me off.”