The Cold War Swap (26 page)

“Hand me the phone,” I told Burchwood.

“Who are you going to call?”

“A doctor.”

He handed me the phone and I dropped it. Burchwood picked it up and said, “What number?” I told him and he dialed it.

It rang for a while and a sleepy voice answered it. “Willi?”

“
Ja
.”

“McCorkle.”

“You drunk again, you and that no-good partner?”

“No. Not drunk yet. Just shot. Can you help?”

“I’ll be right there,” he snapped, and hung up.

I slopped some more whiskey down. The pain wouldn’t go away. “Dial ‘nother number,” I told Burchwood. He looked at Symmes, who nodded. He dialed and the number rang. It rang a long time before it answered.

“Fredl,” I said. “S’Mac.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Home.”

When I awoke I was in my own bed between fresh clean sheets and daylight was creeping through a crack in the drawn drapes. Fredl sat in a chair next to the bed smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I moved experimentally and my thigh responded by sending out a wave of pain. My stomach felt as if someone had slammed a bat into it.

“You’re awake,” Fredl said.

“But am I alive?”

She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “Very much so. It took Dr. Klett an hour to pick the shot out of your thigh. He said you got only the fringe of the pattern. Also your stomach is going to be sore for a week or so and you bled a lot. And, finally, what in God’s name have you been up to?”

“Too much,” I said. “Where are Symmes and Burchwood?”

“Those two!” she sniffed.

“You jealous?”

“No, they just seemed so tired and pathetic—and lost, I suppose.”

“They’ve been through a lot, but they’re O.K. I’d hate to see anything happen to them.”

“One’s asleep in the den. The other’s on the couch in your living room.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

“What time did I call you?”

“About three this morning. You passed out right after that, they said. Then the doctor arrived and started to use his tweezers. He said that you lost quite a lot of blood—that you’ll be weak for a few days.”

I ran a hand over my face. “Who shaved me?”

“I did—and gave you a bath. Since when have you been a sergeant?”

“Since yesterday morning—or afternoon. A long time ago.”

“A long story?”

“Long enough. I’ll tell you about it while I get dressed.”

“For what? Your funeral?”

“No. To go out. Into the world. To take care of things. Earn a living. Run a saloon.”

Fredl rose from the chair and walked across the room to the dresser, where she opened a drawer and took out a shirt. She turned, holding the shirt against her breasts, and looked at me strangely.

“It’s not there anymore.”

“What’s not there?”

“Your place. They blew it up the day before yesterday.”

I threw the covers back and tried to swing my legs over the side. They refused to obey and I grew weak and a little giddy. I finally learned what that word meant. I closed my eyes and sank back into the bed and the pillow. It was all coming apart too soon. A nice comfortable, quiet, easy world was breaking up and McCorkle wasn’t tough enough for any other world.

“Who blew it up?” I said carefully, keeping my eyes closed.

“I don’t think they’ve found out yet. But it was early in the mornmg.

“What time early in the morning?”

“Around three.”

“How did they blow it up? With a firecracker?”

“Dynamite. They seemed to have all the time in the world. They placed it in several areas where it would do the most damage. Herr Wentzel said that he thinks it was because of the man who was killed there the other day. Someone blamed you and Padillo for it, Wentzel said. He said he’s looking for you both.”

“You talk to him?”

“No. It was in the papers.”

“They should tell him to try the river,” I said.

“For what?”

“For Padillo. That’s where he is: dead in the Rhine.”

I opened my eyes and Fredl still stood there, the shirt held tightly against her. She put it down carefully on the bed and came around it and sat down next to me. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. It was all in her eyes and the way her hands moved and the way her teeth caught her lower lip and held it.

“You want to talk about it?”

I thought about that for a moment and I knew then that there would be only one time that I would tell it honestly, the way I saw it
happen, leaving out nothing. And so I told her and in the telling it grew easier and when I came to the part at the end about Padillo there was no reason to hold back the tears.

Afterward we sat there in the dim room, not talking. I asked for a cigarette and she lighted one for me. It tasted all right, so I wondered out loud if I could have some coffee and some brandy. While she went to get them I lay in the darkened room and thought about what I had to do and if I had the strength to do it.

Fredl came back with the coffee and I drank it and sipped on the brandy and then had another one.

“Are they awake?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Why don’t you give them some of my clothes? They could use them.”

“I already have. They’re presentable.”

“Then help me get dressed.”

It was an effort, but I managed to get into some slacks and a shirt. I left the shorts off. Fredl knelt and worked my feet into a pair of socks and loafers. I ran my hand through her hair. She looked up and smiled.

“Marry me?” I asked.

“Aren’t you rather on the rebound from a lot of things?”

“Maybe, but there’s nothing else I want.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

I got up shakily. “Let’s go in and post the banns.”

We walked into the living room. Symmes was sitting up on the divan.

“You’d better get Burchwood,” I told him. “There’re some things that have to be settled.”

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I feel all right.”

“You look positively ghastly—like death warmed over.” He left and went into the den to get Burchwood. They both came out and sat on
the couch. My clothes looked all right on Symmes. He was tall enough, even if he didn’t have the breadth—or fat. But they draped around Burchwood. The two sat close together on the couch, not touching, and they looked very much as they had when they were in the loft in Berlin.

“Would you like some coffee?” Fredl asked. They nodded. She was going to be a help, I decided. I’d never have thought to ask.

Reminded of my manners, I offered them a cigarette even though I knew they didn’t smoke. “I want to thank you,” I said formally, “for getting me off the barge. You didn’t have to, especially after what you had been through.”

“We had a deal with you and Padillo—remember?” Burchwood said.

“That’s what I want to talk about. You can also talk in front of Miss Arndt. She could be part of your insurance. It all depends.”

“On what?” Symmes asked.

“On what you do. You can walk out that door with my blessing and go any place you take a notion to. Or you can turn yourself in and I’ll make the deal for you that Padillo promised.”

“Can you?” Symmes asked.

“If I can’t, you can still go out that door.”

They were silent for a moment. Fredl brought in the coffee and placed it on the low table in front of them. Then she sat in a chair near me.

“We’ve talked it over,” Symmes said slowly, “and we’ve decided to go back. We still think we were right,” he added hastily. “We’re not two repentant sinners. Don’t take that attitude.”

“I don’t take any attitude at all,” I said. “I don’t know what I would do in your place.”

“You see, Mr. McCorkle, we have no place to go but back. We speak nothing but English; we have no money, no friends; and I doubt that we have any families any more. The thought of going back to Moscow—just
the effort alone—is …, well, we just can’t do it. But we don’t want to go back to the U.S. just to get killed. And life has grown very cheap these last few days.”

“You want me to set it up, then?”

They nodded.

“Is now all right?”

They looked at each other. Now was far sooner than tomorrow or the next day. They telegraphed each other their answers and Symmes did their nodding. I picked up the phone and dialed a number that had been given to me a long time ago. A man’s voice said hello.

“Mr. Burmser,” I said.

“Speaking.”

“This is McCorkle. I have a message from Padillo for you.”

There was a silence on the other end. He must have been switching on the tape recorder. “Where are you, McCorkle?”

“Padillo said to tell you he was dead.”

I hung up.

It took them fifteen minutes to get to my house, which was pretty fair time. There was a knock on the door and Fredl answered it. I wasn’t getting up for anybody.

Hatcher, the man I had met at the saloon, was with Burmser. They came in quickly, wearing nice gray suits and black shoes and carrying their hats. They stopped when they saw Symmes and Burchwood, who just looked at them and then looked away.

“This is Gerald R. Symmes and Russell C Burchwood,” I said. “This man is Mr. Burmser and the other one is Mr. Hatcher. If you want, they’ll show you their little black books that tell you who they work for.”

Burmser started toward Symmes and Burchwood. “What are you going to do—put the cuffs on?” He stopped and looked at Hatcher.

“Would you like some coffee—or perhaps a drink?” Fredl asked.

“This is Miss Arndt, my fiancée,” I said. “Mr. Burmser and Mr. Hatcher.”

“I’ll take the drink,” Burmser said.

Hatcher nodded. “Please,” he said.

“Where’s Padillo?” Burmser demanded.

“As I said, he’s dead. You can fish in the Rhine for what’s left of him. Along with a man named Jimmy Ku and a man named Maas. They’re all dead, and there are a couple more that are dead on a Dutch barge that’s tied up about a mile up the river.”

“Did you say Ku?”

“Yes. Ku.”

Hatcher reached for the telephone and dialed a number. He started talking into it in a low voice. I didn’t pay any attention to what he said.

“Now we come to the problem that Mr. Symmes and Mr. Burchwood face,” I said. “Padillo offered them a deal. I intend to see that it’s carried out.”

“We make no deals, McCorkle,” Burmser said. “I’m sorry about Padillo, but he wasn’t acting on our authority.”

“You’re a goddamned liar, Burmser,” I said. “Padillo’s job was to get Symmes and Burchwood here into West Berlin. Isn’t that what you told him? Didn’t you tell him that it was just a run-of-the-mill job, that all he would have to do would be to shepherd them through Checkpoint Charlie and they’d be carrying all the necessary papers and passes in their nice new suits? And didn’t you work a deal with the KGB to trade Padillo for Symmes and Burchwood—and didn’t you do it without getting clearance on it? It was going to be your own coup. Christ, Burmser, you know what a crummy deal you pulled. And Padillo got out of it, or tried to, using whatever method he could get his hands on. He wanted out. He wanted to run a bar somewhere in Los Angeles, but in the end he would have settled for just being left alone. Yet you couldn’t let him have that; you had to set him up for the prize-patsy award, and in the end he got killed and you killed him just as if
you had put the gun up against his back and pulled the trigger three times, just to make sure he was dead.”

Fredl came in with the drinks. Burmser’s tight expression didn’t change. He accepted the drink but offered no thanks. He took a long pull and set it down. It could have been Pepsi-Cola for all he knew.

“Some of these things, these operations, you don’t understand, McCorkle. You couldn’t possibly, because even Padillo didn’t. I told you in Berlin to keep out of it—that it was a delicately planned thing and depended on exact timing. But you came blundering in—”

“I didn’t blunder in; I was asked in by my partner. And, by the way, have you checked out Cook Baker recently? He’s dead, you know. Padillo killed him in East Berlin. He killed him when he found out that Baker had shot a man named Weatherby. He also killed him after he found out that Baker was working for the opposition, but I don’t think that bothered Padillo too much.”

Hatcher grabbed for the phone again and started dialing. He was having a busy day.

“And remember your Berlin spiv—Bill-Wilhelm? Maas and Baker fingered him and somebody shot him and dumped him in front of me just in front of the Café Budapest. Was all that part of your delicate operation?”

Burmser glanced at Hatcher, who signaled that he had heard that morsel, too, and would check it out.

“Now then. Let’s get down to the polite blackmail.”

“We don’t pay blackmail, McCorkle.”

“You’ll pay this or you’ll find this whole sweet mess reported in a Frankfurt paper under Miss Arndt’s by-line. She knows it all—every last detail.”

A thin film of sweat popped out on Burmser’s forehead. He chewed on his upper lip, remembered that he had a drink, and took a big swallow as if he were thirsty.

“What about Symmes and Burchwood?”

“These two young men, against impossible odds, outwitted their
fiendish Communist captors and, with a remarkable display of determination and daring, escaped over, under or through the Berlin wall to safety.”

Symmes giggled. Burmser had his drink to his mouth again and choked.

“They’d never buy that.”

“Why not? They’d have them under lock and key. And it’s going to come out. Too many people know about them now. I can name a half dozen who might peddle the story this afternoon for the price of a drink.”

“You want us to make them into heroes?”

Symmes giggled again. Burchwood tittered.

“You made their escape possible. You’ll get all the kudos you can use.”

Burmser’s tight expression relaxed. “Possibly something could be developed along the lines you just mentioned—”

“Don’t get cute, Burmser. I want to hear from them every three months. I might even insist on visiting rights. The story—the whole story—will be good for years. Especially if you make that phony announcement.”