The Cold War Swap by Ross Thomas Read Free Book Online

Hatcher.”
    We shook hands.
    I asked them to sit down and called to Karl to bring me coffee.
    Nice place you have here, Mr. McCorkle,” Hatcher said. He had a clipped, brisk voice that sounded like upper Michigan. I was probably wrong.
    “Thanks.”
    “Mr. Hatcher and I would like to have a talk with you,” Burmser said. He sounded like St. Louis. He looked around the room as if a dozen people were trying to catch his words.
    “Sure,” I said. “We have an office in back. Just bring your drinks with you.”
    We got up and paraded single file back to the office, which was a small room containing a desk, three filing cabinets, a typewriter, and three chairs. There was also a calendar of more than usual interest supplied by a Dortmund brewer.
    “Sit down, gentlemen,” I said, lowering myself into the chair behind the desk. “Cigarette?” Burmser took one. Hatcher shook his head. Then we all sat back sipping our drinks with Burmser and me blowing clouds of smoke toward Hatcher. He didn’t seem to mind.
    “Haven’t seen much of you around the embassy circuit,” Burmser said.
    “A saloon makes a hermit out of you.”
    Hatcher was apparently convinced that we had observed enough of the social amenities. “The reason we’re here, Mr. McCorkle, is to discuss with you what happened here yesterday.”
    “I see.”
    “Perhaps our identification would help.” They both produced little black identification books, and I read them one at a time. It wasn’t the CIA. It was better—or worse—depending upon your point of view. I passed them back.
    “How can I help you?” I said pleasantly.
    “We happen to know that your partner, Mr. Padillo, was here yesterday when the shooting took place.”
    “Yes.”
    “I think you can talk frankly with us,” Burmser said.
    “I’m trying to.”
    “We’re not so much interested in the man who got killed: he was a small-time agent. We’re more interested in the man he met here. A Herr Maas.”
    “What about him?”
    “You met him on the plane coming back from Berlin yesterday,” Burmser recited. “You struck up a conversation and then offered him a ride to your restaurant.”
    “I told all that to the police, to Lieutenant Wentzel.”
    “But you didn’t tell Wentzel that Padillo was here.”
    “No; Mike asked me not to.”
    “I supposed you know that Padillo occasionally does some work for us?”
    I took a long drink. “How long have you been in Bonn, Mr. Burmser?”
    “Two and a half—three years.”
    “I’ve been here thirteen, not counting my time with MAAG. Look in your files. You should know how this place was opened. I was blackjacked into taking Padillo on as a partner. I’m not sorry I did. He’s a damn good man when he’s not studying airline schedules. I know he works for one of your outfits, but I never asked which one. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to get tangled up in
I Spy”
    I think Hatcher blushed a little, but Burmser kept boring in. “We’re concerned about Padillo. He was to catch a flight yesterday. To Frankfurt. And then from Frankfurt to Berlin. But he went to Frankfurt by train; he wasn’t on the flight to Berlin.”
    “So he missed a flight.”
    “This was a very important flight, Mr. McCorkle.”
    “Look,” I said. “For all I know he was on Flight 487 to Moscow with a connection to Peiping. After he got the plans, he was to disguise himself as a coolie and take a sampan down to Hong Kong. Or maybe he met a broad in Frankfurt, bought himself a couple of fifths of Martell, and shacked up in the Savigny. I don’t know where he is. I wish I did. He’s my partner and I’d like him back. I never got used to the idea of being in business with a guy who caught more planes than a traveling salesman. I’d like him to get out of the spook business and help write up the menus and order the booze.”
    “Yes,” Burmser said. “Yes, I can understand all that. But we have reason to believe that this man Maas had something to