Free The Cold War Swap by Ross Thomas

I decided it was time for a drink. That killed another twenty minutes, and another drink brought me up to noon. It had been a dull morning.
    At twelve-fifteen the phone rang.
    “Mr. McCorkle?” It was a man’s voice.
    “Speaking.”
    “Mr. McCorkle, this is John Weatherby. I’m calling for Mr. Padillo.” The voice was English and sounded public-school. He fairly clipped his consonants and savored his vowels.
    I see.
    “I was wondering if you’d be free during the next half hour, say. I’d like to pop over and have a chat.”
    “Pop away,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
    “Thanks awfully. Good-bye.”
    I said good-bye and hung up.
    Weatherby was knocking at the door twenty minutes later. I asked him in and indicated a chair. He said he wouldn’t mind a whiskey and soda when I asked if he would like a drink. I told him I didn’t have any soda and he said water would be fine. I mixed the drinks and sat down in the chair opposite him. We said cheers and took a drink. He produced a package of Senior Service and offered me one. I accepted it and a light.
    “Nice place, the Hilton,” he said.
    I agreed.
    “You know, Mr. McCorkle, one sometimes finds oneself in rather peculiar positions. This go-between business may seem a bit far-fetched to you, but—” He shrugged and let the sentence lie down and die. His clothes were English and he wore them well. A brown tweed jacket with dark flannel slacks, not baggy. Old but carefully cared for Scotch-grain brogues that looked comfortable. A black knitted-silk tie. I had draped his mackintosh raincoat over a chair. He was about my age, possibly a few years older. He had a long narrow face with a strong red nose and a chin that jutted and just escaped having a dimple. He wore an RAF-type mustache, and his hair was long and a little damp from the rain. It was ginger-colored, as was his mustache.
    “You know where Padillo is?” I asked.
    “Oh, yes. That is to say I know where he was last night. He’s been moving about a bit, you know.”
    “No,” I said, “I didn’t know.”
    He looked at me steadily for a moment. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Perhaps I’d better explain. I formerly was with the government here in Berlin. I came to know Padillo rather well: we were more or less in thesame line of work and there were a couple of mutual projects, you know. I still have contacts in the East—quite a few good friends, in fact. Padillo has been in touch with me, and I put him in touch with my friends. He’s been staying with them—moving about a bit, as I said. I believe you received a message from him through a Miss Arndt?”
    “Yes.”
    “Quite. Well, my further instructions were to meet you here at the Hilton today, and tonight at ten we’re to go to the Café Budapest.”
    “That’s in East Berlin.”
    “Right. There’s no problem. I’ll lay on the transport and we’ll drive over. You have your passport, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good.”
    “Then what?”
    “Then, I suppose, we wait for Padillo.”
    I got up and reached for Weatherby’s glass. He finished the last swallow quickly and handed the glass to me. I mixed two more drinks.
    “Thanks very much,” he said as I handed his drink to him.
    “To be frank with you, Mr. Weatherby, I don’t much care for any of this. Probably because I don’t understand it. Do you have any idea why Padillo is in East Berlin or why he just doesn’t come back through Checkpoint Charlie? He’s got his passport.”
    Weatherby set his glass down carefully and lighted another cigarette. “All I know, Mr. McCorkle, is that I’m being paid in dollars by Mr. Padillo—presumably by him—to do what I’m doing and what I’ve done. I haven’t questioned his motives, his objective or his
modus operandi
. My curiosity is no longer as … shall we say intense as it once was. I’m simply doing a job of work—one that I’m particularly suited for.”
    “What happens at this café tonight?”
    “As I said,