Free The Cold War Swap by Ross Thomas Page A

presumably we meet Padillo and he tells you what he needs. If anything.” He rose. “I’ll call for you at nine tonight. Thanks awfully for the drinks.”
    “My pleasure,” I said.
    Weatherby slung his raincoat over his arm and left. I went back to the chair and sat there trying to decide whether or not I was hungry. I decided I was, so I took my raincoat out of the closet and went in search of the elevators. I caught a cab to a restaurant I knew. The proprietor and I were old friends, but he was ill and the food reflected his absence. After lunch I took a walk—something I seldom do; but the long afternoon that lay ahead seemed a dull infinity. I was walking down an unfamiliar street, pricing the luxury goods in the small shops, when I spotted him. It was just a peripheral glimpse, but it was enough. I increased my pace, turned the corner, and waited. A few seconds later he turned it, almost at a trot.
    “Got the time?” I asked.
    It was Maas: still short and squatty, wearing the same brown suit, although it looked as if it might have been pressed. He carried the same shabby briefcase.
    “Ah!” he said. “Herr McCorkle. I was trying to catch up with you.”
    “Ah!” I said. “Herr Maas. I bet you were.”
    He looked hurt. His spaniel eyes seemed on the verge of manufacturing a few tears.
    “My friend, we have many, many things to talk about. There is a café not far from here where I am well known. Perhaps you will be my guest for a nice cup of coffee.”
    “Let’s make it a nice glass of brandy. I just had coffee.”
    “Of course, of course.”
    We walked around another corner to a café. It was empty except for the proprietor, who served us in silence. He didn’t seem to know Maas.
    “Police ever catch up with you?” I asked pleasantly.
    “Oh, that. They will soon forget. It was—how would you say?—a misunderstanding.” He brushed it away with a flick of his hand.
    “What brings you back to Berlin?”
    He took a noisy sip of his coffee. “Business, always business.”
    I drank my brandy and signaled for another. “You know, Herr Maas, you’ve caused me a great deal of embarrassment and trouble.”
    “I know, I know, and I sincerely regret it. It was most unfortunate, and I apologize. I really apologize. But tell me, how is your colleague, Herr Padillo?”
    “I thought you might know. I get the word that you have all the information sources.”
    Maas looked thoughtfully into his empty cup. “I have heard that he is in East Berlin.”
    “Everybody’s heard that.”
    Maas smiled faintly. “I have also heard that he is—or shall we say has had a misunderstanding with his—uh—employers.”
    “What else have you heard?”
    Maas looked at me, and his spaniel eyes turned hard as agate. “You think me a simple man, do you not, Herr McCorkle? Perhaps a buffoon? A fat German who has eaten too many potatoes and drunk too much beer?”
    I grinned. “If I think of you at all, Herr Maas, I think of you as a man who has caused me a great deal of trouble from the moment you picked me up on that plane. You poked your nose into my life because of my business partner’s extracurricular activities. As a result, a man got killed in my saloon. When I think about that I think about you, Herr Maas. You’ve got trouble written all over you, and trouble is something I try to avoid.”
    Maas called for more coffee. “I am in the business of trouble, Herr McCorkle. It is how I make my living. You Americans are still very insular people. You have your violence, to be sure, and your thieves, your criminals, even your traitors. You wander the world trying to be—how does the slang go?—the good guys and you are despised for your bungling, hated for your wealth, and ridiculed and mocked for your posturing. Your CIA would be a laughing-stock, except that it controls enough funds to corrupt a government, finance a revolution, subvert a political party. You are not a stupid or stubborn people, Herr McCorkle,but