“Nothing foolish, please. No heroics,” he said.
“Nothing foolish,” I agreed, and spit out one of the sponge-rubber things that had come loose in my mouth. While I was at it I dug some of the wax out of my nose. I didn’t have any manners. I didn’t need any. I started working on the other sponge-rubber piece with my tongue. It came loose and I spat it out, too. I also peeled off my mustache.
The man with the gun watched me curiously but said nothing. The car we were in was English, I noticed: a Humber with walnut panels built into the rear that let down into tea trays. Or cocktail trays, if you were so inclined. It was an export model with the steering wheel on the left-hand side. Next to that was a two-way radio set made of gray metal. I offered myself nine to two that green Cadillac had one just like it. I looked out the rear window. They were pulling the Chevrolet into the clump of trees. Somebody might find it tomorrow — or next week. The tall Negro down in Frankfurt hadn’t had much faith and I wished I had listened to him. We could have gone someplace and talked about cars and drunk beer.
Another man got into the driver’s seat. He turned around and looked us over without much interest, grunted, turned back, and started the car. We followed another Humber down the curving narrow blacktop. There were four men in the car ahead. The two in the backseat were Symmes and Burchwood. I couldn’t tell if they were speaking to anyone yet.
At the Rhine we turned left and drove along the highway for a half-mile or so before we came to a spot that curved out slightly toward the river. It had a few picnic tables and a trash can and a place to park cars. A stone retaining wall bellied out into the Rhine, and there were steps leading down it to a small dock, where an inboard launch about eighteen feet long was tied up. The green Cadillac was parked in the picnic area, and I decided it must have gone by while I was flat on the ground. I noticed that it was a Fleetwood.
The driver of our car parked, got out, and talked to the driver of the other Humber, which carried Symmes and Burchwood. Then that driver got out and walked over to the green Cadillac and talked to someone in the backseat. The man with the gun stayed with us. There was another man in the front seat of the other car. He probably had two guns.
Our driver came back and said something in a language I couldn’t even place, much less understand. But the man with the gun understood it and he told me to get out and to help Padillo out. Padillo opened his eyes and said, “I can walk,” but his voice didn’t carry much conviction. I walked around the car, opened his door, and helped him out.
The man with the gun was right with me. “Down the steps. Get him into the launch,” he told me. I draped Padillo’s arm around my neck and half dragged, half led him down the stairs. “You’ve picked up a few pounds,” I said. I helped him into the launch and he sank down on the cushioned seats that ran along the side. It was getting quite dark. Symmes and Burchwood came down the steps to the dock and got into the boat. They looked at Padillo, who was hunched over. “Is he hurt?” Symmes asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He doesn’t say much. Are you hurt?”
“No, we’re not hurt,” he said, and sat down next to Burchwood.
The man who had driven our car walked up to the bow and got behind the wheel. He started the engine. It caught and burbled in neutral through its underwater exhausts. We sat there for five minutes. We seemed to be waiting for something. I followed the gaze of the man at the wheel. A light across the Rhine flashed three times. He picked up a flashlight that had been clamped to the dash, aimed it across the river, and flicked it on and off three times. It was a signal, clever McCorkle decided. The interior light of the green Cadillac flashed on as the back door opened and a man got out and started down the stairs to the dock. He was short and stocky and waddled a bit as he walked across the dock to the boat. It was growing too dark to see his face clearly, but I didn’t have to. It was Maas all right.
Chapter 20
Maas waved at me cheerfully from the dock and climbed into the launch. One of the drivers let go of the stern line and the launch headed out into the Rhine, taking an oblique course upriver. I nudged Padillo in the ribs with my elbows. “Company’s here,” I said. He lifted his head and regarded Maas, who smiled cheerfully at us from his seat near the stern.
“Christ,” Padillo said, and dropped his head back down on arms folded across his knees.
Maas talked quietly with one of the men who had driven the Humbers. The other two men sat across the launch from us and smoked cigarettes. Each held a gun casually in his lap, pointing at nothing in particular. I decided that they could keep them. Burchwood and Symmes sat next to me and stared straight ahead. It was dark now.
The boat driver reduced his speed and angled the launch sharply to the left. Down river, a half-mile away, I could see the lights of the U.S. Embassy. They looked warm, inviting and safe, but they didn’t get any closer. I hadn’t really expected them to. The dark outline of a selfpowered barge loomed ahead of us. It was anchored in the channel about fifty feet from the riverbank and sat low in the water as if heavily loaded. It was the kind of barge that you see plowing up and down the Rhine from Amsterdam to Basel, the family wash snapping merrily in the breeze. They are almost always family owned and operated. Children get born on them and old men die on them. The occupants sleep and eat and make love below decks in compact quarters located near the stern that are about the size of a smallish American house trailer. The barge we approached was about 150 feet long. The pilot of the launch cut the engine and we drifted, stern first, toward its bow.
Somebody shined a light on us and threw a rope, and the man in the stern next to Maas caught it and pulled us up snug to a rope ladder and wooden rungs. Maas was first up the ladder and he had trouble with one of the rungs. I hoped he would fall, but someone on the barge caught him and pulled him up. The two men with the guns were on their feet and one of them waved negligently at Symmes and Burchwood. They got the idea and went up the ladder after Maas. Padillo had raised his head from his arms and watched Symmes and Burchwood climb the ladder.
“Think you can make it?” I asked.
“No, but I will,” he said.
We got up and I let Padillo precede me to the ladder. He grabbed a rung and started to pull himself up. I boosted him from behind and some hands reached down and caught him under the arms and pulled. I started up and the strain knotted and twisted my stomach where the Chevrolet’s seat belt had cut into it. Some more hands, not particularly gentle, fastened on and helped me. The barge had its parking lights on for navigational safety and the only other light was from the flash that somebody kept shining around.
“Straight ahead,” a voice muttered in my ear, and I put my hands out and started to take some small careful steps in that general direction. A light suddenly appeared from an open door that led down into the living quarters. I could see Maas backing his way down the stairs, holding onto the rails. Burchwood and Symmes followed, then Padillo and I. I heard the launch pulling away. Only the two men with the guns remained, and they motioned for me to follow Padillo.
I turned into the doorway and started feeling for the steps below. I moved down slowly in the narrow passage until there weren’t any more steps. I turned around. We were in a room about seven by ten. The ceiling was barely tall enough for me to stand erect. There were two built-in bunks with brightly quilted covers along one side. Padillo stood slumped and listless beside them. I noticed that he was rid of most of the make-up devices and the hair piece. His face was back to normal except for the pallor of his skin. Burchwood and Symmes stood next to him.