To Catch a Spy (21 page)

I opened the door and found myself in a kitchen that looked as bare as the garage. Dust danced in the sunbeam from the window over the sink.

“Come,” the soldier said.

I followed him through another empty room. This one had white walls and a blue carpet. It looked as if it might be a dining room. There was no furniture. The soldier kept leading the way with the two women behind us. We walked into another blue-carpeted room with big windows facing the street. There were shades on the windows and the shades were down. Some light was getting through and a small, cheap-looking chandelier with about a dozen lights was on.

There were two chairs in this room, wooden folding chairs facing each other.

“Sit,” said the soldier.

I picked a chair and sat. The women stayed behind me. The soldier took up a position in front of me with his hands folded in front of him.

Something was making a clacking noise in the room behind him, and a man emerged carrying two glasses of something dark with ice cubes. I recognized the man. He was the cop who had rousted me from Elysian Park, only now he wore blue slacks and a white short-sleeved pullover shirt with a soft collar and the words “Washington Yacht Club” stitched in blue on the pocket over his heart.

He handed me a drink.

“Pepsi with ice, right?” he said pleasantly.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the drink.

“I’m drinking something a bit more potent,” he said, sitting in the other folding chair across from me. He hitched up his pants leg and raised his glass.

“Cheers,” he said.

I held up my Pepsi.

“How about them?” I asked, nodding at the other three in the room.

“Ah, this is a business drink,” the man in the chair said. “And we are about to have a business meeting.”

“Nice house you have here,” I said, taking a sip of Pepsi.

“It’s an unoccupied house for sale,” the man said, looking around. “Simple, undistinctive, quiet. We won’t be disturbed.”

I didn’t speak. I drank my Pepsi and waited while he took manly gulps of whatever it was he was downing.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

“Let’s,” I agreed.

“You have some transcriptions made by Volkman and Cookinham,” he said.

“Not on me.”

“Obviously,” he said. “They would take some space.”

I didn’t answer. I drank.

“What is it you want in exchange for those transcriptions?” he asked. “I mean, what do you want in addition to your life?”

“One hundred and twelve thousand dollars,” I said.

The man paused with his drink almost to his lips and said, “How do you come up with such a precise figure?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Just came to mind.”

“You have a strange sense of humor,” he said, looking at the soldier, who wore no expression. “And you’re not afraid?”

“Oh, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’m just good at not showing it, and I know you won’t kill me as long as you don’t have those transcriptions.”

“Or as long as we believe that they exist and you do have them,” he said.

“They exist,” I said.

“Actually, I know,” he said.

He nodded at the soldier, who nodded back and moved into the room from which the man across from me had come. He was back in about ten seconds with a thick folder, which he handed to the man in the chair.

“These are the typed versions of those transcriptions,” he said. “We found them hidden in Volkman’s apartment when we brought his body there. They are very compromising.”

“Lots of names, places, plans,” I said.

“I take it you haven’t listened to the recordings,” he said.

“No.”

“Good. For the moment I’ll trust you on that. If you have listened to them and taken notes, I … well, you understand.”

“Perfectly,” I said. “But I know where they are, and I want one hundred and twelve thousand and fifty dollars.”

“And fifty dollars?”

“My hourly rate for Nazis,” I said.

The man tried to hide a smile and then decided not to. He let out a small laugh.

“The faster we get this done,” I said. “The less it costs you.”

“It will take me a few hours to get that kind of cash,” he said.

“Add on fifty dollars for every hour we wait,” I said.

“Get the money,” the man said, looking over my shoulder.

I heard someone move behind me and watched the woman with the bun who had opened the garage door move back toward the kitchen. A minute later, I heard the garage door open and the Dodge back out.

“When you have the money,” the man said, “you tell us where the transcriptions are. We get them and we let you go.”

“And you let me go?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I asked.

He laughed.

“You’re right,” he said, and then to the soldier, “He’s right. Well, Mr. Peters, what do you propose?”

“Let me think about it,” I said.

“Another Pepsi?”

“Sure.”

The man nodded. The soldier took my glass and headed for the room where the drinks were.

“You have a name I can use?” I asked.

“Many,” the man said. “How about ‘Joe’? Mundane. Easy to remember, but not a name I would like to use for a prolonged period.”

“Joe,” I said. “You’re not an American, are you?”

“I am not,” he said. “And I am. I have citizenship, but that is …”

He waved it away with his hand.

“You’re not going to try something stupid are you?” he asked.

“I’m not planning to,” I lied.

“It would be a mistake,” he said as the soldier returned with another Pepsi for me and another drink for Joe. “You have a sister-in-law named Ruth, your brother’s wife, the mother of your two nephews.”

I didn’t answer.

“She is dying,” he said sadly. “Maybe with all that money you could find some doctor in New York or someplace who could help her. I know of a specialist in Santiago, Chile, who could help her.”

“You know what’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You are a vulnerable man, Peters. Your family is vulnerable, as are your freakish friends and your former wife, for whom I understand you have a great affection. Anne is her name?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And the waitress at the drugstore where we followed you. Anita?”

“You’re very well informed.”

“And generous,” he said. “I could simply threaten the lives of all of them if you don’t give me the transcriptions, but I don’t like to work that way. There are, I admit, barbarians on our side who seem to delight in the pain and suffering of others. For me, it is the last resort.”

“So,” I said, “you killed Volkman and Cookinham?”

“Volkman, no. My associate …” He looked at the young man in the uniform, “who we shall simply call ‘Soldier’ did the shooting. I knocked you out. He removed the body and I, in my ill-fitting police uniform, successfully got rid of you.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” I asked.

“Is that a wise question to plant in my mind?”

“I’m pretty sure it was already there.”

“Well,” he said. “The only thing Volkman said to you was ‘George Hall,’ and I was confident it would have no meaning, that you would go off on a wild duck race.”

“Goose chase,” I corrected.

“I don’t like cliches,” Joe said, recrossing his legs and checking his watch.

I could sense the young redheaded girl with the gun behind me, but I had to give her credit: not a move, shift, or loud breath.

“And,” Joe went on, “it was nice to have you to throw to the police and the FBI for the murder. It kept them busy.”

“I need the toilet,” I said, holding up my finished second Pepsi.

“Through there,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Miss Jones will accompany you. There is no window in the lavatory, and she will most certainly shoot you if you attempt to escape.”

“Then you won’t get your transcriptions,” I said.

His sigh was deep.

“If you try to escape, it will suggest strongly that you have no intention of turning them over or that you do not have them.”

I got up. There was no way they were going to let me get out of this alive, especially when they found out that I had no idea where the transcriptions were. I walked across the room and looked back over my shoulder at Miss Jones, who was a safe distance behind me.

The bathroom was inside a bedroom furnished only with a metal cooler with a set of glasses on top of it. I went into the bathroom and closed the door.

The medicine cabinet was empty. I unscrewed the metal showerhead and looked at the toilet.

“There’s no toilet paper,” I called through the closed door.

“There is no toilet paper,” she called into the next room.

I stood in the space next to the door, backed against the toilet roll bar, the heavy showerhead in my hand. Less than a minute later, I heard Soldier say, “Here are some napkins.”

I opened the door and he put his hand in to give me a small stack of napkins. I yanked him in, kicked the door shut, shoved his face into the toilet bowel tank, and locked the door.

A shot came through the door, making a hole a few inches from my hand.

“I’m holding Soldier against the door,” I shouted. “You missed him, but you’ll probably get him with the next shot.”

Soldier was slumped over the toilet, facedown, not quite out but not quite alert either. I banged his head on the edge of the toilet for good luck and went through his pockets. There was a gun—a Walther—not my weapon of choice, but nothing is.

I heard talking outside the door. I climbed into the bathtub and ducked. Then Joe called, “Peters, this is absurd. You can’t get out of there.”

“And you can’t get in.”

“We can simply shoot through the door till we kill you,” he said. “I can only gather from this that you don’t know where the transcriptions are.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t trust you.”

“The money will be here shortly,” he said. “Think of your brother’s wife. Consider what could happen to your family and friends.”

“Here’s my deal,” I said. “You go back in the other room. I come out with Soldier in front of me. Miss Jones puts down her gun, and when the money comes, we deal.”

“That does not sound acceptable,” Joe said.

“Okay,” I said. “Try this. You go in the other room. I come out, tell you where the transcriptions are and give you Soldier. Then I walk out the front door with no money.”

There was silence while he considered my offer.

“No,” he said.

“You could get shot,” I said.

“I wouldn’t like that,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t like that at all.”

“Soldier would definitely get shot,” I said.

“He is a soldier,” said Joe. “Soldiers get shot in time of war. Very well. Miss Jones and I are moving into the living room.”

I hoped a neighbor had heard Miss Jones’s shot through the bathroom door, but I wasn’t about to count on it. Unfortunately, as I had seen, she had the silencer on. I counted to fifteen and looked down at Soldier, who had a large purple lump over his left eye. He seemed to be dreaming, probably about Berlin or a warm bath.

I opened the door slowly. There was no one in the bedroom. I kept my eye on the door to the living room and stayed close to the wall.

“I’m out,” I said.

“Join us,” Joe said.

“I think I’ll stay here.”

“I believe I hear Miss Smith returning with your money,” he said. “We are out of time.”

“Okay,” I said. “Put the money down by the garage door. I’ll come out, tell you where the transcriptions are, and go through the garage. Tell Miss Smith to leave the garage door open and the keys in the car.”

“I will do so,” said Joe.

“Fine.”

I heard the door from the garage open and heard voices.

“It’s done,” Joe said. “The moment of
verité
is upon us, Mr. Peters. Fate,
Shiksahl
in German, now enters the game.

“All of you in the kitchen,” I said. “Guns on the counter. I’ll take you with me, Joe.”

“Can’t have that,” Joe said. “You’ll have to shoot me if that’s your only plan, and then you would surely be dead.”

“Fine, I’ll take Miss Jones.”

“That can be arranged.”

I gave them time to move into the kitchen and eased out of the bedroom door carefully, gun leveled toward where they would be. They were there. Miss Jones and Miss Smith both had weapons in their hands. Joe stood behind them, a closed cardboard box on the floor in front of him.

“Miss Jones puts her gun down now,” I said.

“Do it,” said Joe.

She did. Now I did what Joe might consider the stupid thing I was considering.

“The transcriptions are hidden among the record albums in Cookinham’s house,” I improvised. “He pulled out the real records, threw them away and replaced them with transcriptions, hid them in plain sight.”

“That sounds like our Mr. Cookinham,” Joe said.

I stepped forward in their direction and then to the right, just out of their line of vision. I ran to the front door, opened it, and ran out toward the street. The hell with the money, the hostage, and the car. I was sure they counted on me wanting that money. I was sure Joe had worked out a way to kill me before I got out of the garage. At least, I was sure enough to run out into the street and move like hell toward the next house.

It took them a few seconds to figure out what I had done. By the time they got to the front door and Miss Jones and Miss Smith could raise their weapons and fire, I had made it around the side of the house next door.

They each fired once. Miss Smith’s weapon had no silencer. Anyone in the neighborhood was now either hiding or on their phone to the police. Behind the house I had run around was a line of bushes. I ran headlong into the bushes, cut my arms, pants, face, and shirt but didn’t let go of the Walther. When I got to the other side of the hedge, I knelt down, turned, and aimed toward where they would be coming from—if they were coming.

But they didn’t. I heard a car, probably the Dodge in the garage, and watching the gap between the two houses in front of me, I saw it drive toward El Segunda.

Ten minutes later, I found a phone booth on El Segunda, pulled change out of my pocket, and called Mrs. Plaut’s. She answered.

“It’s me, Mr. Peters,” I shouted.