“One morning,” Cooky muttered. “Just one morning without a hangover.”
“Have some coffee,” I called. “You might even keep the second cup down.” He headed for the cubicle that enclosed the toilet. When he came out he seemed a bit pale. He walked over to the sink and splashed water on his face. Then he slumped at the table. Padillo put a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Sugar?”
“I’ll use my own,” he said, and took out the long silver flask, shook it to see if it still held a gurgle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swallow. He shuddered and washed it down with coffee.
He seemed to brighten visibly. “Care for one?” he asked, shoving the flask toward Padillo.
“No, thanks, Cook; I seldom drink before nine.”
Cooky nodded and brought the flask back and poured a sizable jolt into his coffee.
“All right, group; it’s map-study time,” Padillo said. He unfolded the Falk-Plan von Berlin again, which had cost somebody DM 4.80, and we went over the route until nine, when we heard the door slam downstairs. It was Max and Marta. She had done her crying for Weatherby during the night. Her eyes were red-rimmed. They sat down at the table.
“We’ve gone over the route a number of times, Max. It’s the same one that you suggested. We’re going to cross tonight. That means that Marta will have to get in touch with Kurt and his crew. We’ll use plan three. Same time, same place, just as Weatherby and I agreed on. You know it, Marta?”
“Yes.”
“When you get over into the West, stay over. Don’t come back. If something goes wrong, we’ll let you know what we plan next.”
“We will be there,” she said. “I should go now.” She looked at us, her eyes resting briefly on each. “I wish you good luck. All of you.” She left quickly, a tall, pretty, sad girl wearing a belted, green leather coat who examined the burden of her grief in lonely privacy. I thought that Weatherby would have liked her for that.
“After the crash,” Padillo continued, “get out of the cars normally. Don’t run. Cook and I will take the curb side. You two take the driver’s side. Max will drive the Citroën back to here. We’ll have to use the guns — but just wave them around; try not to drop them or pull any triggers. O.K.?”
We nodded.
“Cook and I will pick them up at the airport. The walkie-talkies are Japanese, and they’re supposed to work within a mile’s range. Cook will be on one radio, Max on the other. We’ll close up just behind them in the block that ends on the street where you’ll be parked. When Cook gives you the word, pull out. You can judge how fast you should move by the speed of their car. Clear?”
Max and I nodded again.
“I think it should work if they have only one car, if the walkie-talkies function, if one of you doesn’t get hurt in the crash, and if they don’t trap us on the way back here. That makes several ifs. I hope not too many. It’s ten now. Cook and I will leave here at eleven. You and Max leave at twelve-fifteen. You should hear from us on the radio setup by twelve-thirty-if it works. We may as well check them out now.”
The radios were Japanese, and they were called Llyods, and they worked. Padillo went down the five flights of stairs. “Do you read me all right?” His voice came through clear and tinny. “They’re working fine,” Max said. “Can you read me?” Padillo replied that he could. We waited until Padillo came back up and then we all had a drink. The vodka again.
There wasn’t much to talk about, so we sat silently, sipping our drinks and smoking, each engrossed in his own thoughts, each wrestling with his own particular and personal fears.
At eleven Cooky and Padillo left. Max and I talked about the weather, a new act of a Berlin cabaret that I had caught on my previous trip, the cost of living in Berlin as compared with Bonn, and the movie business in general. Max said he went often to the movies. We didn’t talk about what was going to happen at twelve-thirty P.M. At twelve-ten we went downstairs. I traded Max the key to the Mercedes for the one to the shed’s sliding doors. I unlocked and shoved open the one in front of the Mercedes and Max backed it out. I closed the door, locked it, and climbed in beside him.
“You know they may be looking for this car — the police,” he said.
“Probably. Do you think they’ll turn it back to the rental-car service?”
Max laughed. “No chance.”
“Well, I’ve just bought a new Mercedes.”
Max drove carefully. We left the industrial area of Lichtenberg and began zigzagging our way through narrow side streets. At twelve twenty-eight Max said, “We’re almost there. Next block we turn right. We should be hearing from them shortly.” He made the right turn into a one-way street that was just wide enough for two cars. Max parked the Mercedes ten feet from the corner. “There is the thoroughfare they will take,” he said, and took off his glasses and polished them.
“Let’s change places,” I said.
“It is not necessary.”
“Let’s do it anyway. My eyes are better than yours and I’ve probably been in more wrecks. I used to race a little when I had less sense.”
Max smiled. “Truthfully, I am nervous about the accident. If anything should go wrong—”
“It won’t,” I said with what I hoped was an air of confidence.
We changed places. Max took the radio. A half-minute later it sputtered.
“We’re a block behind them — about four minutes away.” It was Cooky, his voice as deep and bland as if he were reading the news. “They are in a black Tatra: three in the back, three in the front. One of ours is in the back in the middle. The other’s in the front in the middle. There are two cars between us and them. No connection. Over.”
“We have it,” Max said. “Over.”
We waited.
“We’re still one block behind — three minutes away now. Same as before. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
“Two and a half minutes away. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I gripped the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. Max was sweating slightly, and he took out a handkerchief and polished his fogged glasses.
“Two minutes away and we’re closing,” the radio said. “Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I started the engine. Or tried to. The starter ground busily, but nothing happened.
The radio crackled. “One and a half minutes away and still closing. Over.”
“We have it,” Max shouted, and his voice cracked. “Over.”
I let up on the accelerator and waited thirty seconds. It seemed more like thirty years. “Flooded,” I said, playing master mechanic. I turned the key and the engine caught.
“One minute away and right behind them. Over.”
“We have it. Over.”
I took my gun out of my raincoat pocket and laid it on the seat. Max did the same thing. We looked at each other. I grinned and winked. Max managed a weak smile. It probably had more confidence than mine.
“Two and a half blocks from you, thirty seconds away, and approaching at approximately fifty kilometers an hour. It’s up to you. Good night and good luck.”
I put the car in gear and edged it slowly toward the corner. The traffic on the thoroughfare was light. I counted to five and then moved the car past the corner of the building so I could see the approaching left-hand traffic. A Travant went past. Then I saw the Tatra a half-block away. It looked like the Chrysler folly of 1935. It was moving at around fifty. The Citroën was thirty feet behind it.
I started inching the car out into the thoroughfare past the curb, slowly. The driver of the Tatra gave me the horn and I stopped. He kept on coming, not braking. I waited three seconds and decided that that was the moment. I stepped on the gas and the Mercedes shot out into the path of the Tatra. The driver hit his horn, tried to swerve to the right, and slammed into the rear door and fender of the Mercedes. We bounced and skidded a yard or so.