“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 major 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, unpainted 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.