“I seem to recall.”
“You may also recall that the two were overt homosexuals. It caused quite a furor, eventually leading to the resignation or dismissal of the director of personnel. In fact, certain members of Congress thought that the pair’s homosexuality was the real reason for their defection, not their expressed horror at the methods of espionage used by your country.”
“Some of our Congressmen have old-fashioned ideas,” I said.
“Yes. But it seems that last year two more Americans who worked for your National Security Agency also defected. The case almost parallels that of Martin and Mitchell. This time, however, there seemed to be some kind of tacit agreement between your country and the Soviet Union that the two would not be put on display in Moscow — despite the overwhelming propaganda value. The names of the last pair — also mathematicians, by the way — are Gerald R. Symmes and Russell C. Burchwood. Symmes and Burchwood.”
“If you could prove it, you could sell that story to a newspaper for a great deal of money, Herr Maas.”
“Yes, I could, couldn’t I? However, I was more interested in selling it to Herr Padillo. Or perhaps I should say trading it to him for some information that he may have. But let me continue. The pair of defectors, Symmes and Burchwood, were also homosexuals — there must be something wrong with the family structure in America, Herr McCorkle — and, unlike Martin and Mitchell, neither was suddenly cured, if that’s the word, and married a fine strapping wife. I believe Martin did find marital bliss in Moscow. Or so he told the press. No, Symmes and Burchwood continued to live together — on their honeymoon, so to speak — and told the Soviet government all they knew about the operations of the National Security Agency. They were, my sources informed me, somewhat piqued because they did not receive the same publicity and fame as Martin and Mitchell. Yet they told all they knew. Which was considerable.”
“You were getting to Padillo,” I reminded him.
Maas regretfully tapped an inch and a half from his cigar into the triangular white, black and red Martini & Rossi Vermouth ash tray. “As I told you when you so impetuously thought of informing the Bonn police of my whereabouts, I knew what Herr Padillo’s mission was and I knew where he was going.
“It seems that our Russian friends had agreed to send the two naughty boys back home — for a price. Padillo was to arrange the transfer here in Berlin — or, rather, in East Berlin. He was to escort them back to Bonn via an American Air Force aeroplane.” That’s the way Maas pronounced it. His English was growing increasingly formal and precise.
“I’m no expert, but it seems like a simple enough job.”
“Perhaps. But, as I said, Herr Padillo has proved effective over the years in his operations in the various countries which are of the Communist persuasion. Too effective, I would say. The price demanded by the Russians for the two defectors was a bona fide, live U.S. agent. Your government agreed. They offered up Michael Padillo.”
Chapter 9
Maas studied my face intently after he dropped his bomb. Then he signaled the proprietor, who brought me another brandy and Maas another cup of coffee. He poured a liberal dollop of cream into it, added three cubes of sugar, and sipped noisily, still studying my face.
“You seem speechless, my friend.”
“I’m working up to an indignant remark,” I said.
He shrugged. “My little lecture of a few moments ago about you Americans’ insularity was to prepare you. You don’t have to make me a speech. I’ve heard them all in my time, from one side or another. Herr Padillo is engaged in a business which follows no set of rules or laws. It is a hard, filthy business that goes on in its peculiarly arcane fashion, fed by overweaning ambition, by greed, by intrigue, blundering often, and then blundering again to cover up the original mistake.
“Look at it objectively, if you can. Forget your association with Herr Padillo. Here are two men whose defection, if revealed, could cause the United States the most acute embarrassment. In addition, if they were to be returned, then your government could learn what they have told the Soviets. Corrective measures could be initiated. What do you spend on your National Security Agency? I have seen estimates of up to a half a billion dollars a year. The agency is your code-breaking apparat. It also designs the U. S. codes and monitors a fantastic number of broadcasts and transmissions. You have a considerable investment there at Fort Meade, with its ten thousand employees. It’s second in size to only your Pentagon.”
“You seem well informed.”
Maas snorted. “Common knowledge. What I’m saying is that the two defectors may have thrown this huge mechanism out of balance. It may be breaking purposefully distorted code messages. These messages are considered prime intelligence. They help determine your country’s economic and military actions in dozens of countries. Now what is an agent worth in terms of your dollars and cents? They have had full use of Herr Padillo. He’s an amortized agent. Their investment in him has paid off manifold. So they sacrifice him, much as you would sacrifice a knight to gain a queen.”
“Hardheaded businessmen,” I murmured. “That’s what made America great.”
“But they are making an even better bargain than our friends in the East suspect,” Maas continued. “By offering up Herr Padillo, they are offering an agent who has been merely on the periphery of their activities. He has worked on specific assignments, and while he would know the details of these assignments and the names of those he worked with in the specific countries, his real knowledge of your intelligence system is extremely limited. So the Americans are, from their point of view, making a perfectly splendid bargain.”
“And you think Padillo knows all this?”
Maas nodded. “By now, yes. Otherwise I would not be relating the details. I would be selling them. I, too, am a businessman of sorts, Herr McCorkle. And I have not yet come to my proposition.”
“You have a nice sales talk. It reminds me of a used-car dealer I once knew in Fort Worth.”
Maas sighed again. “Your humor often escapes me, my friend. However, let us continue. I suspect that Herr Padillo will be trying to leave East Berlin in something of a hurry. Security, of course, will be at a maximum. The wall, although a clumsy, ugly device, remains fairly effective. I have something to sell. In the words of one of your most prominent Americans, I have an egress for sale.”
“Mr. Barnum had a few other homilies that might bear repeating now, too. Just where is your egress, Herr Maas, and how much are you asking?”
Maas fished around in his brief case again and came up with an envelope. “This is a map. Here.” He handed it to me. “It is, of course, worthless unless the necessary arrangements have been made with the Vopos who patrol that particular area. They discovered and retained the exit — it goes under, not over, by the way — and they are quite greedy. That is why the price is fairly high.”
“How high?”
“Five thousand dollars. Half in advance.”
“No deal.”
“An alternative proposition?”
“If Padillo wants to get out of East Berlin, and if he’s in the trouble you say he is, then it’s worth five thousand. But not in advance. Only when he’s at the egress, as you call it. I’m looking for a little insurance, Herr Maas. Your presence, if and when the exit is needed, would make me a trifle more confident.”