Free Checkpoint Charlie by Brian Garfield Page B

what led me to you in Arlington in the first place?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œIt was a trivial error.”
    â€œHumans make them.”
    â€œYes. But I have the feeling you’ll make the same mistake again — the same weakness will trip you up next time.” I smiled. “In fact I’m sure of it.”
    â€œWould you care to bet on it, Dark?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œHow much, then?”
    â€œYour freedom,” I said.
    He was amused. “We’ll never meet again, unless it’s in an East German prison — you inside, me outside.”
    â€œI’ll take the bet, Stossel.” I turned to watch the Viscount taxi toward the terminal. “I’d like you to memorize a telephone number. It’s here in the Western sector.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œYou may want to get in touch with me.” I gave him the number: I repeated it three times and knew he wouldn’t forget it — he had an excellent memory for numbers.
    He laughed. “I can’t conceive of —”
    The phone rang, interrupting him. I went to the bar to answer it. Listened, spoke, then turned to Stossel. “The car’s here.”
    â€œI’m ready.”
    â€œThen let’s go.”
    *   *   *
    I STOOD ON the safe side of Checkpoint Charlie with my hatbrim down and my collar up against the fine night drizzle and watched the big Opel slide through the barriers. The Wall loomed grotesquely. Stossel emerged from the car at the DDR booth and I saw him shake hands with the raincoated delegation of East German officials. They were minor functionaries, police types, Vopos in the background in their uniforms; near me stood an American TV crew with a portable camera, filming the scene for tomorrow’s news. It was all bleak and foreign-intriguish; I hoped they were using black-and-white. The East Germans bundled Stossel into a dark Zis limousine and when it disappeared I walked back to Davidson’s Volkswagen and squeezed into the passenger seat.
    Davidson put it in gear. “Where to?”
    â€œBristol Kempinski.”
    On the way to the hotel he tried to pump me about my plans. Davidson is the chief of the Berlin station; Myerson hadn’t had any choice but to brief him on my mission because there’d have been a flap otherwise —jurisdictional jealousies are rampant in the Company and never more ferocious than on the ultra-active stations like Berlin. Myerson had been forced to reveal my mission to Davidson, if only to reassure him that I wasn’t horning in on any of his own works-in-progress. But he knew none of the tactical details and he was seething to find out. I had to fend him off without putting his nose too far out of joint. I didn’t enjoy it; I’m no good at it — I’m an accomplished liar but that sort of diplomatic deceit is not quite lying and I lack the patience for it. In any case I was tired from the long flight and from the adrenalin that had shot through me during the crucial stage of the set up. If it had gone wrong at that moment…. But it hadn’t and I was still on course and running.
    In the hotel room I ordered a huge dinner sent up. Davidson had eaten earlier but he stubbornly hovered, still prying for information, watching with amazement and ill-concealed disgust while I demolished the enormous meal. He shared the wine with me; it was a fair Moselle.
    â€œWhat did you want from that Air Force colonel who met you at the airport?”
    â€œLook, Arthur, I don’t mean to be an obstructionist, I know it’s your bailiwick but the operation’s classiffied on a need-to-know basis and if you can get authorization from Langley then I’ll be happy to fill you in on the tedious details. Right now my hands are tied. I ask you to understand and sympathize.”
    Finally he went away after making it clear he intended to file a complaint. I was relieved to see his