“Keep your gun under your coat and take it slow,” I told Max. He nodded.
We got out, glanced at the traffic, and walked toward the driver. I saw Padillo and Cooky making for the side near the curb. Water streamed from the Tatra’s radiator. The driver was stunned by the crash; his head rested on the steering wheel. One of the men in the back seat poked his head out of the window and started to say something. I jumped for the door and opened it and showed him my gun at the same time. “Sit and don’t move,” I said in German. Then I said in English: “You — the American — get out.”
Padillo had the front door open. “Out,” he snapped. I could see Cooky’s short-barreled Smith and Weston pointed at the men in the rear. Two men got out of the front. “Take him to the car,” Padillo told Cooky, indicating the second man. “You. Get back in. Keep your hands in sight on the dashboard.”
The young man in the middle of the back seat was scrambling out of the car. “Take him,” I told Max. Max grabbed the man by the arm and shoved him quickly toward the Citroën, prodding him in the back with his gun.
Padillo opened the front door again, reached down, and jerked at something. I couldn’t see, but I assumed it was the radio. Then he slammed the door.
“Let’s go,” he said.
We ran toward the car and threw ourselves in. I went in the back with Cooky and one of the Americans. Max was already gunning the car. The Citroën picked up speed and turned the corner too quickly. Max fought the wheel but climbed a curb, drove on the sidewalk for twenty feet, and then bounced back into the street.
“Take it easy, Max,” Padillo said. “Nobody’s behind us yet.”
The two Americans had said nothing, apparently numb from the shock of the crash and the kidnapping. Then the one in the front seat turned to Padillo and said: “May I ask just what you people think you are doing?”
“Which one are you — Symmes or Burchwood?”
“Symmes.”
“Well, Mr. Symmes, I have a gun that’s aimed right at your stomach. I want you to shut up for the next ten minutes. No questions, no comments. That goes for Mr. Burchwood in the back seat, too. Is all that clear? Just nod your head if it is.”
Symmes nodded.
“Is Mr. Burchwood nodding?” Padillo asked.
“He’s nodding,” Cooky said.
“Fine. Now let’s all settle back and enjoy the ride.”
Chapter 13
Nobody seemed to notice us as we drove rapidly through the side streets of East Berlin. Cooky fidgeted and chain-smoked but kept his gun trained on Burchwood. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes had elapsed since I had pulled the car out into the thoroughfare. Almost three of them had been spent in driving. The crash, the kidnapping, and all had taken less than one.
Max still clutched the wheel tightly, but he seemed less jittery. Padillo was half turned in his seat so that he could watch Symmes, who stared straight ahead. Symmes was tall — over six feet, I judged. He was wearing an American-looking suit of dark blue, a white shirt, and a blue-and-black tie. His hair was long and blond and shaggy. He needed a trim. Burchwood was dark, of average height. His black eyes flittered quickly, and he kept running his tongue over pale lips. He sat with his hands clenched in his lap, staring at the back of Symmes’s neck. He wore an odd jacket and gray flannels. His shirt was pale blue and he had on a gray-and-maroon tie. His eyebrows looked plucked, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Speed it up a little, Max,” Padillo said.
Max pressed down the accelerator and the Citroën quickened its pace. “We’re almost there,” he said.
We made two more rights and I recognized the building. Max turned down the narrow alley and pulled into the space before the shed. I got out and unlocked and pushed open one of the doors. Max drove in.
“I’ll take Symmes; you take Burchwood,” Padillo said to Cooky.
I closed the sliding door and locked it.
“Up the stairs, gentlemen,” Cooky said. “There are five long flights.”
We walked up the stairs and into the dimly lighted room. Padillo tucked his gun into his waistband. Symmes and Burchwood stood in the middle of the room close together. They looked around warily. They didn’t seem to know what to do with their hands.
“Sit on that bunk,” Padillo told them, indicating the nearest cot. “If you yell, there’ll be no one to hear you. For the next few hours you’re going to be held here. After that, you’ll be moved.”
They sat down on the cot. Symmes, the tall one with the blond hair and small pink ears, moved like a chorus boy. “You are Americans, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Most of us,” Padillo said.
“Would it be too much trouble to tell us just what you — I mean can’t you tell us why you wrecked the car and brought us here?”
Burchwood, the shorter dark one, grimaced and ran his tongue over his lips again. “I suppose you’re with the CIA or some other terribly clever organization.”
“No,” Padillo said.
“Well, who are you?”
“I don’t think that matters,” Padillo said. “As long as you do as we tell you, you’ll be all right.”
Burchwood sniffed.
Symmes said, “You apparently know all about us.”
“Not all. Just enough.”
Padillo walked over and sat at the table. Cooky, Max and I joined him. We stared at Burchwood and Symmes. They stared back at us.
“How’s Moscow?” Cooky asked.
“We like it very much, thank you,” Burchwood said. “We were treated with great courtesy.”
“No press, though,” Cooky said. “Not a line anywhere. Not even your pictures in the New York Daily News.”
Symmes waved his hand gracefully. “We are not publicity seekers. Not like some others we know. And if you’re trying to bait us, you can stop right now. We hold certain convictions which I could not possibly expect you to understand or appreciate.”
“Knock it off, Cook,” Padillo said.
“Oh, that’s all right. We’ve met his kind before, haven’t we, Gerald?”
Symmes looked at Cooky thoughtfully. “Often,” he said. He smiled at Cooky. “In time we might get to like you, Slim.”
“I like him right now,” Burchwood said. “I think he could be nice, if he’d just let himself.”
They reminded me of two cats. They had the same grace and the same unwinking stares. And, like cats, they had quickly accepted their new home after sniffing in the corners and scouting under the bed.
“Why don’t you come over here and sit between us?” Symmes said to Cooky, and patted a spot on the bunk. “I’m sure we have just lots in common.”
Cooky reached for. the vodka bottle and poured himself a full tumbler. He gulped half of it and stared into the glass.
“Come on over, Slim. We both like you and we could—” Symmes’s suggestion was cut short by the glass that Cooky threw at him.
“Goddamned queers,” he said. His voice was thick — the first time I had ever heard it slur. “Queers and Communists is what it’s all about now. If they get hold of you, they never let go; you just keep on and on and on...”
“You’ve been at the sideboard again,” Padillo told him.
“We’re not Communists, sweetie,” Symmes sang out.
Burchwood giggled. Max got a pained expression on his face and looked the other way.
Cooky was on his feet and headed toward the pair, who cowered in mock horror. “Oooh — here comes the big man,” Burchwood crooned.
Padillo caught Cooky by the arm and swung him against the wall. “I told you to knock it off. I also told you to keep sober. You’re not doing either.”