The Cold War Swap (22 page)

Wolgemuth listened carefully to Padillo’s speech. “You, of course, underestimate yourself, Mike. You have that rare quality that kept them coming back to you year after year to perform just one more task. You have the actor’s ability to assimilate an identity, to build a new personality with all its kinks and idiosyncrasies. When you are a German you walk like a German, you eat like one, and you smoke like one. These are little things, but after twenty years of occupation a European can recognize an American by his fat behind and the way it moves when he walks. You are a born mimic, an utterly ruthless rogue, and you have the cunning and skepticism of a successful criminal lawyer—and for that package I would be willing to pay a very high price indeed.”

Padillo raised his glass in a mock salute. “I’ll accept the compliment but refuse the offer. You should be looking for younger blood, Kurt.”

“I couldn’t even tempt you with the chance for a little revenge against your present employers?”

“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.”

“How’U he know us?”

“He won’t; you’ll know him. He’s my twin brother.”

An MP captain accompanied by a staff sergeant with a leathery face and
squinting blue eyes walked up to Padillo at the Pan American ticket counter just after he had cleared his ticket.

“Let’s see your orders, Sergeant.”

Padillo slowly unbuttoned his raincoat and started to reach for his billfold in his hip pocket when the woman screamed. It was high and piercing and she put her lungs into it. It seemed to come from about a dozen or so yards to our left. I turned and saw a fleshy man of about thirty in a light covert topcoat take a clumsy swing at our Negro driver, who jumped back gracefully and flicked out his razor. He danced around the white man, making little feinting motions with the razor. The white man looked at him and proceeded to peel off his topcoat. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. A woman stood near the white man and clutched a small black purse to her chin. She was blond and plump and did a good job of looking terrified. A crowd was forming.

The Negro moved around the white man counterclockwise. He shuffled now, no longer dancing. His arms were widespread and the razor glittered, cutting edge up in his right hand. He seemed to know what he was doing.

“Come on, whiboy, come on,” the Negro called softly. His accent
was pure molasses again. “You ain’ in the States now; come on, whiboy.”

The white man seemed to study the Negro as he turned with him. Then he suddenly threw his wadded-up topcoat in the Negro’s face. He followed the coat, diving in low at the shuffling legs. He moved fast for his weight. They went down on the floor and rolled around some. The Negro let out a good yell. The MP captain and his sergeant were in the middle of the crowd, trying to untangle the arms and legs. A voice over the loud-speaker announced Pan American Frankfurt-Main flight. Padillo and I prodded Symmes and Burchwood down the passageway that led to the plane.

It was Pan American Flight 675 and it was due to leave Tempelhof at 1630 and arrive at Frankfurt-Main at 1750. It was three minutes late in take-off and we were the last aboard. I thought Wolgemuth’s timing had been cut a bit fine, but we managed to get seats near each other. I sat with Burchwood, Padillo with Symmes. Neither of them was talking to us.

It was a dull flight and I kept my raincoat on. The revolver was in the pocket and I kept trying to remember how many shots I’d fired and if I had any rounds left. I decided it didn’t matter since I wasn’t going to shoot anybody soon anyway. I sat there in the aisle seat and stared at the back of the seat in front of me, and when I got tired of that I admired the hostesses’ legs and engaged in some mildly erotic fantasies. It passed the time.

We landed in Frankfurt at 1752 and went down the landing steps with the rest of the passengers. The bastardization of the lyrics to “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” kept running through my head. “There’ll be no one there to meet us, there’ll be no one there to greet us,” then some da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da. The other passengers had their hands shaken, their cheeks kissed, and their backs slapped. All we got was a faint nod from the twin of the Negro who, the last time we saw him, an hour and twenty minutes before, had been threshing around on the floor with a straight razor clutched in his right hand.

Padillo walked up to the Negro and said, “Wolgemuth sent us. We just left your brother in Berlin.”

The tall Negro looked us over carefully. He seemed to have a world of time. He wore an open white shirt with long points, a black cashmere coat sweater buttoned only at the last two buttons, lightweight gray flannel slacks without cuffs, black ribbed socks that looked silk, and a pair of burnished-black loafers with cute little tassels. His hands were like his brother’s: big enough to fit around a basketball comfortably. He held a long slim cigar in one of them. It was fitted with an ivory holder. He drew on it thoughtfully and let some smoke find its way out of his thin straight nose.

“I just talked to Wolgemuth,” he said. “You’re to have my car. It’s the fastest one we could lay our hands on. The only thing is I’d kind of like to get it back. In one piece.”

“Something special?” I asked.

He nodded and blew some more smoke out of his nose. “It is to me. I got about 122 hours of my own time invested in it.”

“You’ll get it back,” Padillo said. “If you don’t, Wolgemuth’ll buy you a new one.”

“Uh-huh.” He turned and we followed. Outside the airport he led us to a new Chevrolet Impala two-door hardtop. It was black and its rear end seemed to squat. It had no hubcaps. A big fish-pole aerial adorned the rear end. The Negro took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Padillo, who handed them to me.

“You didn’t spot any action around the airport?” Padillo asked.

“Couple of MPs more than usual, but that’s normal this time of the month, right after payday. None of the Christians in Action around that I know by sight. I checked real good.”

Padillo shook his head and frowned. “O.K., Mac, let’s go. You drive. You two in the back seat.”

Symmes and Burchwood climbed in. Padillo got in the front.

“What’s so special about this boat?” I asked the Negro.

He smiled. It was as if I’d asked how it felt to win DM 400,000 on
Lotto. “It’s got the four-twenty-seven under the hood and a Hurst four on the floor. It’s got a Schiefer clutch, Jahns twelve-to-ones, and an Isky kit. It’s got high-speed shocks and traction masters. Plus the Pittman arm’s down to two-to-one steering.”

“Sounds like a bomb,” I said, getting in.

He placed his big hands carefully on the door and leaned down to look at me. “You done any driving before?”

“Once or twice around the Nürburgring. Sports stuff mostly.”

He nodded. “I’d sure like to get this back in one piece.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He nodded again, glumly this time. He didn’t have much faith. He patted the door affectionately. “Yeah,” he said. “See what you can do. Well, take care now.” I think he was talking to the car.

“You do the same,” I said, and fitted the key into the ignition, threw the clutch out, started the engine, backed out, and headed for the Autobahn.

“What have we got here?” Padillo asked.

“A hopped-up Chevy with a police radio that’ll probably hit a hundred and twenty-five—maybe a hundred and thirty downhill. How fast you want to try for?”

“Keep it around eighty. If we pick up somebody who wants to play tag, use your own judgment.”

“O.K.”

I concentrated on driving. I had to. The clutch was stiff and the special springs eliminated the royal American bounce. Something special had been done to the steering. It felt like rack and pinion. The accelerator pedal was a massive chrome and rubber affair and I had to keep hard pressure on it. It was a car that was meant to be driven at high speed, and the only power assists it had were locked in the V-8 engine. I got it up to between eighty-five and ninety and kept it there, drifting past the double-trailered trucks that streamed out of Frankfurt, headed north.

About twenty miles out of Frankfurt we stopped at the German
counterpart of a Howard Johnson and picked up some cigarettes and a bottle of Weinbrand. We let Symmes and Burchwood go to the bathroom by themselves.

Back on the Autobahn, Padillo said: “Something’s gone sour.”

I let the car slow down to seventy and then to sixty. “How’s that?”

“There should have been something at Frankfurt. I’m not sure what, but something was missing.”

“The reception not warm enough for you?” I asked, and moved the speedometer back up to eighty-five.

“Somebody must have tumbled to us by the time we got there.”

I pressed the accelerator, and the Impala moved quickly up to ninety-five. “If you’ll take a look behind you, I think somebody did. They’ve got a big green Cadillac, and it’s been pacing us since we picked up the booze.”