Then Myerson made a face. “It’s asinine, I agree — you don’t make deals with terrorists. These governments are fools. But we’ve got no choice. If we held out — refused to release Stossel — you can imagine the black eye we’d get if the hijackers started murdering hostages one at a time.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ve got our national tail in a crack. We have to turn him over to the DDR. I don’t like turning mass murderers loose any more than you do but I still don’t see what it’s got to do with me.”
He smiled again. I fought the impulse to flinch. “How’s your broken-field running these days, fat man?”
I saw it coming. His smugness made me gag. He said, “You’re going to intercept the pass, Charlie.”
“Before or after he crosses the wall?”
“After.”
“Lovely.”
“We can’t recapture him until after the hijack has been dealt with, can we. The hostages have to be turned loose before we can lay a finger on Stossel.”
“In other words you want to deliver him to the East Germans and wait for the hijack to end and then afterward you expect me to get him back and put him back in Leaven-worth to finish out his sentence.”
“Right. After all, we can’t have the world think we’ve gone soft, can we. We’ve got to prove they can’t get away with it. Carry a big stick and all that.”
“We could kill him,” I said. “It’s a lot easier to assassinate him in East Germany than it is to bring him out alive. No, never mind, don’t say it. I know. We won’t be stampeded into committing public murder, especially on hostile soil. We have to bring him back alive because that’s the best way to rub their noses in it.”
“You have the picture, I’m happy to see.”
I said, “It’s impossible.”
“Of course it is. They’ll be expecting it. They’ll leave no openings at all.” He smiled slowly, deliciously. “Charlie, it’s the kind of job you do best. You get bored with anything less.”
“Ever since that caper with von Schnee I’ve been persona non grata in the Eastern sector. If they catch me on their side of the wall they’ll lock me up for a hundred and fifty years. In thumbscrews. On German peasant food.”
“Yes. I know. Adds a bit of spice to the challenge, doesn’t it.” And he smiled more broadly than ever.
Emil Stossel had cut his eyeteeth on Abwehr duplicity and he’d run a string of successful agents in the United States for the Eastern bloc intelligence services. The FBI hadn’t been able to crack him and I’d been assigned to him about twelve years ago before we all got dumped into a fishbowl where we were no longer permitted to do that sort of thing domestically. It took time and patience but in the end we were ready to go in after him. His HQ was in Arlington not far from the Pentagon — Stossel had nerve and a sense of humor.
The actual bust was an FBI caper and as usual they muffed it. Stossel got away long enough to barricade himself in the nearby high school and before it was finished he’d killed several of his teen-age hostages. It had led to five life sentences, to be served consecutively, and even the Red diplomats had been wise enough not to put up more than token objection. But Stossel remained one of the cleverist operatives the DDR had ever fielded. He was an embarrassment to them but they wouldn’t mind having him back; he could be of use to them: They’d use his skills. He’d soon be directing clandestine operations again for them, I had no doubt of it; they’d keep him out of sight but they’d use him and we’d feel the results before long. It was another excellent reason to get him back.
Stossel’s callous annihilation of the teen-age innocents in the high school naturally had endeared him to the verminous terrorists who infested the world of “liberation” movements. He was a hero to them; it didn’t matter whether he was a professional or an asinine leftist incompetent — it was his brutality that made him a hero to the Quito hijackers. At the same time the East Germans, to whom Stossel was undoubtedly a public embarrassment, could not disown him now without offending their Marxist disciples in Latin America. They would have no choice but to grant him asylum; and once having done so, as I say, they would use him.
Of course that wouldn’t do.
I managed to arrive at Tempelhof ahead of him by arranging for his plane to undergo a refueling delay at Gatwick. It gave me time for a brief meeting at Tempelhof with an American Air Force colonel (Intelligence) who was dubious about cooperating until I put him on a scrambler line to Washington. The colonel grunted into the phone, stiffened to attention, said, “Yes, sir,” and cradled the receiver with awe. Then he gave me the item I’d requested.
I’d had time on the plane, between meals and extra meals, to work out something approximating a plan. It is what distinguishes me from the computer lads: flexibility, preparedness, the ability to improvise quickly and precisely — ingenuity guided by experience. It’s why I am the best.
The plan had to account for a number of factors such as, for example, the undesirability of my having to set foot physically on their side of the Wall. Much better if I could pull off the caper with long strings, manipulating my puppets from afar. Also there was the fact that Stossel undoubtedly would have several days’ grace inside East Germany before the hijackers released their hostages and the Quito caper came to its conclusion; it would give Stossel time to bury himself far beyond my reach and I had to counter that effect with preparations designed to bring him to the surface at the end of the going-to-ground period.
The scheme was, I must admit, one of the cleverest of my long, devious and successful career.
I waited for Stossel in a private cubicle at the airport — somebody’s office; it was well furnished, the appointments complete right down to a thoroughly stocked bar and an adjoining full bath. Through the double-paned windows was a soundproofed view of the busy runways.
Two armed plainclothes guards brought him into the room and examined my credentials carefully before they retreated to the far side of the room and left me to talk with him. We spoke in German.
I said, “You remember me.”
“Yes. I remember you.” He’d had twelve years in prison to think about me and there was a great deal of hate in his voice.
“I was doing my job,” I said, “just as you were doing yours.” I wanted to soften him up a bit and Stossel’s German soul would understand the common concept of duty: he was, above all else, a co-professional. I was leaning on that.
I said, “I’ve got another job now. My orders are to make sure you get across to your own country in safety. You’ve still got enemies here.”
It made him smile a bit at the irony of it and I was pleased because it was the reaction I needed from him. I went around behind the bar. “A drink? It’ll be a little while before our transportation arrives. We want the streets empty when we drive you through West Berlin.”
He looked dubious. I poured myself a bourbon and stepped away from the bar. “Help yourself,” I said offhandedly, and wandered toward the windows.
A Viscount was landing, puffs of smoke as the wheels touched. In the reflection of the glass I saw him make his choice. He poured himself two fingers of Polish vodka from a bottle that had a stalk of grass in it; he brought the drink around toward me and I turned to face him. “Prosit.” I elevated my glass in toast, and drank. “What’s it feel like to be going home?”