Free The Cold War Swap by Ross Thomas Page B

you are an ignorant people, a disinterested people. And I pity you.”
    I had heard it all before—from the British and the French and the Germans and the rest. Part of it was envy, part of it was truth, and none of it would change anything. I long ago gave up being either guilty or proud of my nationality, and there were plenty of reasons for both. I had a life to live, and I lived it the best I could, adapting to the changing rules, avoiding the ho-hummery whenever possible, escaping a little perhaps, but putting keen value on a few things that still seemed important, although these too seemed to be getting just a bit worn and shabby.
    “Herr Maas, I don’t need a civics lecture today. I just wish you would get to your point—if you have one.”
    Maas gave me one of his sighs. “I am no longer shocked, my friend, by what man does to man. Disloyalty does not dismay me. Perfidy I find the rule, not the exception. However, these things can often be turned to profit. It is my business to do so. Look.” He pulled his left coat sleeve up, unbuttoned his shirt cuff, and folded it back over his forearm. “See this?” he said, pointing to a series of numbers tattooed on the inside of his pudgy arm.
    “A concentration-camp number,” I said.
    He rolled down his sleeve and buttoned it. He smiled, and there was no humor in it. “No, it is not a concentration-camp number, although it appears to be one. I had it tattooed in April of 1945. It saved my life several times. I have been in concentration camps, Herr McCorkle, but never as a prisoner. Do you follow me?”
    “It isn’t hard.”
    “When it was necessary—and profitable—I was a Nazi. When that was no longer fashionable, I became a victim of the Nazis. You are shocked?”
    “No.”
    “Good. Then perhaps we can get down to business.”
    “We do have some, I take it?”
    “Yes, we have some concerning Herr Padillo. You see, it was he who was my primary reason for going to Bonn.”
    “Who was the other man?”
    Maas waved his hand airily. “A minor functionary who was interested in buying some arms. Of no consequence, really. He had little money. But it was Herr Padillo I wished to see. And here is where the irony creeps in, Herr McCorkle, and perhaps the pity too. Your establishment is very dim, is it not? There is little light?”
    “True.”
    “As I said, the little man was of no importance. Your place is dimly lighted, so I can only assume that a mistake was made. The two gentlemen who burst in shot the wrong man. They were supposed to kill me.” Maas laughed. It sounded as humorous as the ha-ha’s people write in letters.
    “The pity, I take it, is that you weren’t shot. It’s not the funniest story I’ve heard in a long time, although it has its points.”
    Maas reached into his brief case and rummaged around. He came up with a long dappled cigar. “Cuban,” he said. “Would you care for one?”
    “I’d be betraying the fatherland.”
    Maas got the cigar lighted and took a few experimental puffs. “I had information that I wished to sell to Herr Padillo concerning his current assignment. You see, Herr McCorkle, a man of Herr Padillo’s talents is rare. Such men are difficult to come by, and they are to be treasured. In the course of their activities they make enemies because their primary function is to frustrate the opposition’s carefully made plans. Herr Padillo, through his language ability and his personal resourcefulness, has been highly successful in his assignments. Has he told you of them?”
    “We never discussed it.”
    Maas nodded. “He is also a prudent man. But, as I said, his successes were notable. In the course of his work he found it necessary to remove some rather prominent political figures. Oh, not the ones whomake the headlines, but those who, like Herr Padillo, worked in the shadows of international politics. He is, I’m reliably informed, one of the best.”
    “He also makes a hell of a good hot buttered rum,” I