Free Checkpoint Charlie by Brian Garfield Page A

America. They would have no choice but to grant him asylum; and once having done so, as I say, they would use him.
    Of course that wouldn’t do.
    *   *   *
    I MANAGED TO ARRIVE at Tempelhof ahead of him by arranging for his plane to undergo a refueling delay at Gatwick. It gave me time for a brief meeting at Tempelhof with an American Air Force colonel (Intelligence) who was dubious about cooperating until I put him on a scrambler line to Washington. The colonel grunted into the phone, stiffened to attention, said, “Yes, sir,” and cradled the receiver with awe. Then he gave me the item I’d requested.
    I’d had time on the plane, between meals and extra meals, to work out something approximating a plan. It is what distinguishes me from the computer lads: flexibility, preparedness, the ability to improvise quickly and precisely — ingenuity guided by experience. It’s why I am the best.
    The plan had to account for a number of factors such as, for example, the undesirability of my having to set foot physically on their side of the Wall. Much better if I could pull off the caper with long strings, manipulating my puppets from afar. Also there was the fact that Stossel undoubtedly would have several days’ grace inside East Germany before the hijackers released their hostages and the Quito caper came to its conclusion; it would give Stossel time to bury himself far beyond my reach and I had to counter that effect with preparations designed to bring him to the surface at the end of the going-to-ground period.
    The scheme was, I must admit, one of the cleverest of my long, devious and successful career.
    *   *   *
    I WAITED FOR Stossel in a private cubicle at the airport — somebody’s office; it was well furnished, the appointments complete right down to a thoroughly stocked bar and an adjoining full bath. Through the double-paned windows was a soundproofed view of the busy runways.
    Two armed plainclothes guards brought him into the room and examined my credentials carefully before they retreated to the far side of the room and left me to talk with him. We spoke in German.
    I said, “You remember me.”
    â€œYes. I remember you.” He’d had twelve years in prison to think about me and there was a great deal of hate in his voice.
    â€œI was doing my job,” I said, “just as you were doing yours.” I wanted to soften him up a bit and Stossel’s German soul would understand the common concept of duty: he was, above all else, a co-professional. I was leaning on that.
    I said, “I’ve got another job now. My orders are to make sure you get across to your own country in safety. You’ve still got enemies here.”
    It made him smile a bit at the irony of it and I was pleased because it was the reaction I needed from him. I went around behind the bar. “A drink? It’ll be a little while before our transportation arrives. We want the streets empty when we drive you through West Berlin.”
    He looked dubious. I poured myself a bourbon and stepped away from the bar. “Help yourself,” I said offhandedly, and wandered toward the windows.
    A Viscount was landing, puffs of smoke as the wheels touched. In the reflection of the glass I saw him make his choice. He poured himself two fingers of Polish vodka from a bottle that had a stalk of grass in it; he brought the drink around toward me and I turned to face him. “Prosit.” I elevated my glass in toast, and drank. “What’s it feel like to be going home?”
    â€œIt feels good. Doubly good because it must annoy you so much to watch me walk away.” He made an elegant and ironic gesture with the glass and tossed it back Russian style, one gulp, and I watched his eyes close with the pleasure of it — it was the first drink of first-class home-style booze he’d had in a dozen years.
    I said, “Did you ever find out