by Ross Thomas
“He was sauced when he came to see me one time. He didn’t show it, but he never did very much. Until now. He told me that he knew what I was up to and that if I ever needed any help, just to let him know. But he told you that. Cook also said that he had certain connections and so forth. He talked in circles, but it was enough for me to know that I was blown. I kidded him along. Did he tell you that one of his girl friends told him about me?”
“Yes.”
“They may get drunk and they may talk in the sack, but they didn’t know about me. The only way Cook could have found out on our side was from Burmser or Hatcher—or you. And none of you would talk. He had been tipped off by somebody in the opposition; and if he was tipped off, then he had to be working for them.”
“Not for money,” I said.
“No, but because they knew all about his horrible secret, whatever it was. Maybe he was drunk when it happened, or maybe he got to be a lush afterward. It doesn’t matter now. I had you get him to have the place swept because I wanted to keep tabs on him. When he showed up with you here, I was certain that he was in on it somehow. Maybe they were impressed with the way he could handle a gun.”
“He was gay,” Symmes said dully. “Maybe you think it’s silly, but we can tell. We have to be able to tell.”
“There’s one expert’s opinion,” Padillo said.
“One thing bothers me. Cooky had to get rung in on this, but I called him myself.”
“Why?”
“To borrow five thousand.”
“And who said you needed five thousand?”
“Maas—and the light dawns clearly. Maas set up the tunnel deal so I would have to call Cooky for the money.”
“Don’t sell your fat friend short,” Padillo said. “He just might have a tunnel. I’d be willing to bet that Cook set the deal up with Maas. Cook was the only source that you could get that much money from in a hurry. I’ll bet another buck that he was sitting by his phone, the money in his briefcase, just waiting for you to call. I don’t care how much he has on deposit: getting five thousand dollars out of Deutsche Bank at four in the afternoon is damn near impossible.”
“But why kill Weatherby?”
“It gave him the excuse to tag along, for one thing; and he may have been given instructions to kill him if he got the chance.”
“What do you want to do with him?” Max asked.
Padillo shrugged. “Drag him over in the corner. Somebody will find him sometime.”
Max went through Cooky’s pockets quickly. Then he threw the blanket over him and dragged the body to a corner. It left a smear of blood on the floor. Max got a mop and cleaned it up. Padillo and I watched. Symmes and Burchwood sat quietly on the bed and held hands, their faces white and pinched-looking. Burchwood kept wetting his lips nervously.
Max came back and sat down at the table. He reached for the glass of vodka. “Dirty work,” he commented. “He should have waited until the wall tonight. He’d have had a chance.”
“Probably afraid to,” Padillo said. “He was beginning to crack, and the liquor wasn’t helping. But maybe he just wanted all the way out. He didn’t have to go through that High Noon routine. He could have slipped his gun out when he was sitting at the table.”
“There are a number of ways to commit suicide,” Max said.
“He seems to have tried them all.”
Max was going through the papers that he had taken from Cooky’s body. He passed something over to me. It was the envelope containing the check that I had written for the five thousand dollars. I opened it and handed it over to Padillo. He glanced at it and tore it up. Neither of us had anything to say.
CHAPTER 14
Max got up and put on his coat. “I’d better do some checking,” he said. Padillo sat slumped in his chair, his feet on the table, his eyes half closed. His mouth was in its thin, hard line. He only nodded. “I’ll be back in an hour,” Max said. Padillo nodded again. Max left, closing the door quietly.
Burchwood and Symmes were stretched out on two of the cots. Symmes seemed asleep, but Burchwood lay on his back, his arms folded behind his head. He stared at the ceiling. We waited.
Padillo sighed and swung his feet off the table. “There’s a good chance it may go sour tonight,” he said.
This time I nodded. Then I said, “If anything happens to me, you can have my ties. They were selected with great care.”
“The gold cuff links. They’re yours,” he said.
“You mean the ones with your initials?”
“The same.”
“That’s thoughtful.”
Padillo picked up the vodka bottle and eyed it critically. “We have four more hours to go. We may as well finish this.”
“Why not?” I said, and moved a glass toward him. He poured ex pertly. There was a half-tumbler for each.
“Maybe Max will bring another bottle,” he said.
“And cigarettes. We’re about out.”
“How many do you have?”
I took out my package and counted. “Six.”
Padillo counted his. “Four.”
We drank and lighted cigarettes.
“There’ll be a few odds and ends to clear up if we get over tonight,” I said. “Minor items really—such as Weatherby dead in my room, the Mercedes I rented and wrecked, what happened to Cooky—a few details.”
“You’ve forgotten one,” Padillo said.
“What’s that?”
“I have to get our two friends all the way back to Bonn.”
“You’re right. I’d forgotten. You have a plan, of course.”
“Of course. The wall is a minor problem compared with the zone. First we get them out of Berlin. I’m using the editorial we. We’ll go at night. At the edge of Berlin the first thing we have to cross is a three-mile-wide strip where they ask for a special pass if they find you in it. Then there’s a strip about fifteen hundred feet wide that’s planted in crops—maybe a foot high at the most. Anyway it doesn’t provide any cover. Next there are the watchtowers located on the strip that’s about four hundred and twenty feet wide. That’s what they call the security strip. Every house, tree and shrub has been removed. There’s nothing but the towers. Of course we make that.”
“We’re pretty good, I’d say.”
“We’re perfect. Now comes a nineteen-foot strip that is constantly patrolled. They have dogs—Dobermans. Then there’s a fence that we have to get over—assuming we pull a fast one on the patrol. Now that we’re over the fence we go across eighty feet of land mines. But we’re still lucky. We avoid getting blown up. Then another fence. I seem to recall that it’s electrified. Then there’s another hundred and thirty feet or so of plowed land that will show any footprint. After the plowed land there’s a thirty-three-foot death strip. Anything that moves in it is shot. But once we make that, all we have to do is go over another fifteen-foot fence that is wired to sound a million or so alarms if it’s touched. But we’re clever. We get over that, too—all the time helping our two friends here.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing much. We make our way through a hundred and ten miles of East Germany and repeat the whole process again at the west border.”
“I tell you what. I bought a round-trip ticket on an airplane that flies to Düsseldorf. I’ll use that.”
“I don’t think we’ll try going through the zone. We’ll have to fly. Maybe charter a plane,” he said dreamily.
“Something tells me they might be looking for us—I mean our side.”
Padillo scratched his chin. “You know, I think you’re right. We’ll figure it out later.”
In an hour Max returned. He brought cigarettes, vodka and sausage.
“Hear anything?” Padillo asked.
Max shrugged. “They’ve got the Vopos and Grepos on special alert. They expect a break over the wall tonight, tomorrow or the next day. My source wasn’t too communicative.”
“I can’t blame him,” Padillo said.
�
�But they have twenty-seven miles to cover,” Max said. “Tonight is as good as tomorrow. Maybe better. I don’t think they expect us to try so soon.”
“Everything O.K. on Kurt’s end?”
Max nodded. “They’re set. They sent word through the usual channel.”
“Good. Max, you slice the sausage and the bread. I’ll make some coffee.”
We ate and gave sandwiches and coffee to Symmes and Burchwood. They sat together again on one of the cots and ate hungrily. They whispered to themselves and ignored us.
All conversation died. Max sat and stared into his coffee, Padillo slumped back in his chair and elevated his feet to the table. He stared at the ceiling. His lips were back in their thin tight line. I put my head down on the table and closed my eyes. The vodka and food helped. I slept.
I awoke when Padillo shook my shoulder. “We leave in fifteen minutes,” he said. I nodded, rose and walked over to the sink. I doused my face in cold water. Padillo moved to the cots and shook Symmes and Burchwood awake. “Sit over there at the table,” he said. “I’m going to tell you what you have to do.”
Max had the map spread out. “You two,” Padillo said, “will go downstairs with us and get quietly into the back seat of the car. McCorkle will sit with you. Max will drive and I’ll be in the front. We have a twenty-minute ride ahead of us—maybe twenty-five minutes. If we’re stopped, say nothing. If you try anything, either Mac or I will shoot you.”
They nodded. I think they believed him. I didn’t know whether I did or not.
“We will park here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map. “You will get out of the car and follow me. Mac will be right behind you. The four of us will stand in this doorway. When I give the signal you’ll run—not walk—to the wall. You’ll go up a ladder and down another on the other side. Then you’ll run to this doorway. Both times you’ll run as fast as you ever have in your lives. If you don’t run fast enough, you may get shot by the Germans. If you try any heroics, you will be killed by me. I hope you believe that.”
“What happens when we get over the wall?” Symmes asked. “We’ll save that for later,” Padillo said. “But nothing so bad as what will happen if you don’t make it.”
Symmes and Burchwood looked at each other glumly.
Padillo turned to Max. “You know what to do?”
Max examined the fingernails of his right hand. “I drive, park the car and wait three minutes. If you’re not back, I leave.”
Padillo looked at his watch. “We’ve got five minutes. We may as well have a drink.”
He poured five measures of vodka, held up the bottle, shrugged, and topped off the glasses with what was left. It was a sizable jolt. Symmes and Burchwood gulped theirs down greedily. I wasn’t far behind. I looked around the room. The blanket-covered shape in the corner was only a lump. I couldn’t feel anything toward it one way or the other. I was numb.
Max turned off the two sixty-watt bulbs and we walked down the stairs guided by his flashlight. In the shed Max flicked the light over the car.
“It’s a Wartburg,” he said. “The Citroen was too hot.”
I walked around the car and got in the backseat on the right-hand side. Padillo stood by the rear left-hand door until both Symmes and Burchwood were in. Then he closed the door, walked around the back of the car, slid the shed door open, and waited until Max backed the car out and had it pointed toward the alley. He closed and locked the door and got in the front seat next to Max. He turned and showed Symmes and Burchwood his gun. “This is just to remind you,” he said. “McCorkle has one, too.”
I dutifully dragged my .38 out of my raincoat pocket and let them look at it. “It shoots real bullets,” I said.
Max guided the Wartburg out of the alley and headed it west. It was about seven-thirty. Still daylight. He drove normally. The traffic grew heavier as we approached the Mitte section of East Berlin.
Padillo sat half-turned in the front seat, his eyes flicking from Burchwood and Symmes to the rear of the car and then to the traffic in front. Burchwood and Symmes sat stiffly in the back, their knees close together. They held hands again. I wished there was somebody to hold mine.
It grew darker. Max switched on his parking lights. It was that time of day when you debate whether you can see better with or without your headlights. We had been driving for fifteen minutes when we stopped for a traffic signal. We waited fifteen seconds, and then the Volkspolizei drew up beside us in a Trabant. There were four of them. The two on the right looked us over carefully. One of them said something to the driver. The light changed to green and Max pulled away. The Trabant dropped in behind us.
“They’re following,” Max said.
“Don’t look around,” Padillo warned Symmes and Burchwood. “Talk to each other. I don’t care if you repeat the Lord’s Prayer. Just talk like you were carrying on a conversation. Give me a cigarette, Mac, and offer me a light.”
Symmes and Burchwood talked. I don’t remember what they said, but it seemed like nonsense at the time. I produced my last cigarette and tapped Padillo on the shoulder. He turned around and smiled, accepting it. “They’re still behind us,” he said.
“I know,” Max said. “We should turn at the next block.”
“How’s the time?” Padillo asked.
“We have a three- or four-minute leeway.”
“Go up three blocks and then turn. If they still follow, you’re going to have to try to lose them.”
Max continued to drive at a steady forty kilometers an hour. He made two green lights. I counted blocks. On the third one he signaled for a right turn. He pulled over to the right-hand lane and turned the steering wheel carefully, shifted down into second, and watched the police Trabant in the rearview mirror. He sighed. “They kept on going,” he said.
I exhaled noisily. I discovered that I had been holding my breath. Padillo glanced at his watch. “We should be right on time,” he said. Max circled the block and drove back the way we had come. He turned left on a side street and parked the car. It was twilight.
“Everybody out,” Padillo ordered.
I showed Symmes and Burchwood my gun before I put it into my raincoat pocket. “It’ll shoot right through it,” I said.
Padillo was out first and around the car to open the door for the pair. I crawled out after them.
“I go first,” Padillo said. “Then Symmes and Burchwood. You’re last, Mac.”
We headed down a narrow passageway between two buildings. I let my left hand drag on the brick wall. My right hand was in my coat pocket, wrapped around the revolver. It was not dark, and I could easily see the three figures outlined before me. Padillo turned right around a corner. I followed after Symmes and Burchwood into the recess of a doorway. The door itself had been bricked up. Directly in front of us was the wall, built of meter-square concrete slabs and topped off with crudely laid concrete blocks. Three or four strands of barbed wire ran across the top. I could also catch the faint glint of broken bottles stuck into dabs of cement on top of cement blocks.
Symmes and Burchwood huddled together in a corner of the recess. Padillo kept his eyes fixed on a seven-story apartment building in West Berlin that lay directly in front of us.
“The third floor from the top,” he whispered. “The fourth window from the left. See it?”
“Yes.”
“When that Venetian blind goes up we get ready. When it goes down we set the outdoor record for the sixty-foot dash—straight ahead. The wire’s been cut between here and the wall. Just push it open. You’ll go first this time. Then Symmes and Burchwood.” He turned to them. “You understand?” They whispered yes. We waited fifteen seconds. Nothing happened. The blind didn’t move. Two Vopos passed in front of us, fifty feet away from our doorway, ten feet from the wall. We waited another five seconds.
To our right there were three sharp explosions. They were followed by bright flashes of light. “That’s the diversion on the right,” Padillo said. “Now on the left.” Two seconds
later there were three more blasts followed again by the light. “They’re a hundred and fifty yards to our right and left. Molotov cocktails. They should draw the Vopos. Their machine pistols are good for only a hundred and ten yards. Watch the blind.”
I watched the building that was 150 feet away. It could have been 150 miles. We could hear the police shouting orders to the left and right, their voices distant but penetrating. Somewhere a siren began. The blind that we had been watching began to rise slowly. It seemed to inch its way to the top of the window, it paused, and then suddenly it dropped.
“Now!” Padillo barked.
Searchlights began to play fitfully on the wall but lost their effectiveness in the dusk. I took my gun from my pocket and ran. A machine pistol chattered from my left. I kept running, scanning the top of the wall. I could hear Burchwood and Symmes panting and scrambling behind me. We pushed through the wire and were at the wall. “Where’s the goddam ladder?” I whispered to Padillo. He stared up the rough gray blocks.
Suddenly a blond head poked over the wall. “Be right with you chaps. I had to snip the wire,” the head said; “now just let me get the pallet over the glass.” A thick brown pallet made of two blankets sewn together, thickly stuffed and padded, was flopped over the top. Then the head reappeared with a reassuring grin. “Just a moment,” it said. “Have to straddle the thing to get the ladder up.”
He was young, not more than twenty. He got one leg over the wall and sat astride the stuffed pallet. “Embarrassing if any of that glass worked through,” he said calmly. “Here comes the ladder.” It started up over the wall. “My name’s Peter,” the blond kid said. “What’s yours?”
He had it balanced on the wall when the shout came. It couldn’t have been from more than forty feet away. Then the faint, not quite yellow light settled on the kid. His mouth opened to say something more, something casual perhaps, but the bullets slammed into him. He teetered for a moment on the wall as if trying to make up his mind which way to fall. But he was past caring. The ladder balanced crazily for a moment and then tilted up slowly and slid out of sight on the other side. The kid fell forward on the pallet, rolled to his left, and followed the ladder.