The Berlin Conspiracy (12 page)

It didn’t even make sense that I was working the other side. What if they had managed to turn me? They’d want to get me reactivated, sure, but not by dropping a line to the agency that practically said “please send our new double agent, Jack Teller.” It was too stupid for words. Sam had to see that. Even Powell had to see it. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t thick, at least not that thick. On the other hand, maybe he was well aware of it and he was just blowing smoke. Maybe Powell had something to hide.

A chilling thought. What if there was a plot and the Berlin chief of station was mixed up in it? It made a kind of uneasy sense. He had dismissed the whole idea before I even got it out of my mouth—no questions, no concerns, no allowance for the possibility that there might be some truth in it. And if he was somehow involved, his next move would be to discredit me. Sam had said that Powell thought I was “part of it” and he made a point of saying the house arrest was Powell’s idea. Maybe Sam was trying to tell me something. Maybe he had the same idea but, for obvious reasons, couldn’t say anything.

If what I was thinking was true, then it wouldn’t be enough for Powell to ship me back to Florida. I’d never make it that far, or if I did, I’d wash up on the beach one morning in the near future and it’d be “poor bastard, what the hell was he
doing out there in the middle of the night anyway?” I turned the shower off and laughed at myself. Powell was a topflight asshole, but I was getting carried away.

The phone started ringing in the bedroom. I stepped out of the tub, threw on one of the hotel bathrobes, and picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Teller?”

“That’s right.”

“This is room service.”

“Room service? I didn’t—”

“Do you remember me?” the voice said. “I served you yesterday evening.” I recognized the Colonel’s smoky voice.

“Yes …” I answered. “I do remember you.”

“May I confirm your dinner order for tonight?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“The same as yesterday and at the same time?”

I glanced at the clock at the side of the bed. It was twelve forty-five, giving me eight hours, more than enough to figure out how to lose my nursemaid.

“Yes,” I said. “That’ll be fine. Same as last night.”

“For one person, is that correct?”

“Yes, I’ll be alone,” I confirmed.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Teller,” he said, then hung up.

I waited before putting the receiver down, and sure enough, I heard the secondary click of the third party hanging up. I wondered if Sam knew about the tap or if it was off Powell’s bat. Either way, it was unlikely they’d tumble—the Colonel had played it well and I hadn’t blown it.

Now all I had to do was figure out how to get past the junior James Bond sitting by my door. I could either go through him—not likely since he had at least one gun—or I could go around him. The window was out of the question. It was six stories up and my Spider-Man days were
long gone. Anyway, it was broad daylight. My best chance was to finesse him. I thought if I could get him inside I’d figure something out. Maybe I could even lock him in the bathroom.

I went through the living room and opened the door leading into the foyer. My sentry was slumped over a chair by the door reading an old copy of the
Saturday Evening Post.
One of the nameless foot soldiers who were kept around for this kind of duty, he was right off the production line—early thirties, short hair combed back with a dab of grease, and a cocky “don’t mess with me” expression on his face. The .38 that was tucked away in his shoulder harness peeped out from under his navy blue jacket.

“How you doing?” I greeted him.

“Just fine,” he answered coolly.

“I’m Jack,” I said. “Jack Teller.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged. “I know.”

“You?”

“Smith,” he deadpanned.

“Right. Well, Smith”—I smiled, quickly losing confidence in my plan—”I’m ordering room service, so what can I get you? They do a mean sirloin.”

He stared blankly at me. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Okay,” I said. “How about a drink?”

Still nothing.

“Look,” I persisted. “There’s no point in you sitting out here when I’ve got a whole suite in there. It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable.”

“I’m fine right here,” he said.

Jerk. He was told to stay and he was gonna stay no matter what I tried. “Suit yourself.” I shrugged and went back inside.

I considered a diversionary fire, with lots of smoke and chaos. It had worked for me one time in Caracas when I was
in a similar jam, but Smith was the type who’d die of smoke inhalation before he left me. I wandered into the bathroom to take a leak and shave, running various scenarios in my head. I was thinking about the time that I lost an unwanted companion in Mexico City by donning an evening gown and tiara when I saw the answer, right there in the ceiling above me—an access panel.

I threw some clothes on (making sure I had my wallet this time), grabbed one of the Louis XIV chairs from the living room, placed it on top of the toilet, and climbed on. It was a high ceiling, but when I balanced myself on the chair’s carved wooden arms, I was able to reach high enough to push the panel aside. I grabbed the inside frame and, with some effort, managed to pull myself up. The chair went flying as I left it, making a hell of a sound as it bounced off the bidet. I waited, ready to pounce on Smith if he came running, but he stayed put.

There was a space between the false ceiling and the insulation above, but it was filled with electrical wires and pipes. Just enough room for me to squeeze through if I lay flat on my belly and pulled myself along the thin support beams that held the ceiling up. I figured I could follow the water pipes, which would feed every room along the length of the hotel, until I came across another access panel.

It was slow progress—dark, hot, and dusty. The insulation was getting up my nose and I was having trouble breathing. I was starting to think I should’ve stuck with the fire idea when I felt a panel in front of me. It sounded like it was raining below and I realized that someone was in the room taking a shower. There was no way I was going any farther and I didn’t like the idea of waiting there until the room was clear, so I did what I always did in a tight spot—go for it and hope for the best.

I pried the panel open with my room key and was met
with a blast of hot steam. When it cleared I lowered my head and looked around. I spotted a woman’s robe hanging on the back of the door and then, rotating halfway around the room, a woman’s soapy body pressed against a clear plastic shower curtain. She was humming something while she lathered up, maybe “Bali Hai” from
South Pacific.
She had a nice voice. I don’t know exactly how long I lingered there, but the blood started rushing to my head, so I pulled myself back into the crawl space in order to plan my drop.

Better a she than a he, I thought—hysterical screams are easier to deal with than physical violence. I untied my shoes, put one in each jacket pocket, then lowered myself down, feetfirst, as far as I could. Then I closed my eyes and let go. It was a soft landing and I thought I’d be okay until she abruptly stopped singing.

“Harold? … Is that you?”

I threw myself against a wall and said something along the lines of “Ugh.”

“Why don’t you come in with me, darling? It feels absolutely divine!” I considered my options and decided a quick exit was the only sane one. I reached across the room, flushed the toilet, and grunted again.

“Don’t you want to, sweetheart?”

I took a deep breath and made for the door as quickly as I could. I squeezed the handle and pulled it open a crack, aware that Harold could be lurking anywhere.

“Well, fine, I’m sorry I asked….” She pouted as I shut the door behind me. Luckily, Harold was snoring on the bed. I felt a slight pang of guilt about the silent treatment he’d get when he woke up, but in the end I was sure he’d apologize and all would be forgiven.

I stepped into the hallway and found myself at the door next to my suite. It was all clear, so I headed straight for the elevators, located at the far end of the corridor. There was
a phone ringing in one of the rooms and I realized that if it was mine, Smith would wonder why I wasn’t answering and check it out. I picked up my pace, called for the elevator, but the damned thing was stopping at every floor on the way up. I wasn’t feeling lucky, so I headed for the door marked
EMERGENCY EXIT.
Good thing I did because just as I got there Smith appeared at the opposite end of the hall, waving his gun in the air.

He took aim and fired.

“Jesus Christ,” I yelled, “you almost hit me!” But he was lining me up again, so I didn’t stick around to give him any more accuracy reports. I whipped the emergency-exit door open and his second shot tore through the wood a few inches from my head.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” I shouted, even though it was pretty damn clear what he was doing. I pulled the door closed behind me and made a dash down the stairs. I heard his footsteps above me, but if he wanted to shoot me—which by now I was convinced he did—he’d have to catch me because there was no shot from above.

I hit bottom, pushed the door open, and stepped into the lobby, gasping for air. He wouldn’t be able to gun me down in front of the concierge, so I walked—briskly—toward the hotel entrance.

Then a voice called out.

“Jack! Hey, Jack! … Jack Teller!”

I spun around
and saw that Horst was standing at the reception desk, house phone in hand. “I have just phoned to your room!” he exclaimed, replacing the receiver and walking toward me. Over my shoulder I could see Smith step into the lobby, holding the .38 in his jacket pocket.

I grabbed Horst and hustled him toward the door. “How did you get here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you got a car?”

“Yes, but—”

“Show me!” I pushed him out the door, glancing back to see Smith picking up his pace.

“What are you doing, Jack?” Horst laughed as he straightened his jacket.

“WHERE’S YOUR GODDAMNED CAR, HORST?!”

“There!” He pointed across the street and my heart sank
at the sight of the clapped-out old Volkswagen Beetle convertible. It looked like it might make forty if you got out and pushed.

“It looks not so good, but—”

“Give me the keys,” I said.

“But—”

“Give me the damn keys, Horst!”

He took the keys out of his pocket and I grabbed them. Racing across Kürfrstendamm, I glanced over my shoulder to see Smith emerge from the hotel, and managed to just miss going under a bus. Leaping onto the curb, I high-jumped over the car door, slid in behind the wheel, pushed the key into the ignition, and turned it over.

Nothing.

I pulled the choke, tried again, and the Bug sputtered to life. I shoved it into first gear, hit the floor with the pedal, and popped the clutch. … The car rattled forward a couple of feet and died.

Smith was negotiating his way through traffic, his piece out in the open now. I was about to make a run for it when Horst casually opened the passenger door and slipped in beside me.

“Place the choke exactly halfway out,” he said calmly. “Then give it no throttle until you have reached second gear.”

I followed his instructions and we pulled away just as Smith bounded onto the sidewalk. I thought he was gonna start shooting, but he headed for his own car—a big black Chrysler parked up the street. I watched him in the rearview mirror as he got in, revved the engine, and came rocketing after us.

“What are we doing?” Horst inquired, not looking overly concerned.

“Hold on,” I said, and took a sharp left into oncoming
traffic, forgoing the brakes. A tangle of cars screeched to a stop, piling into each other in a chain reaction of crunching metal as we swerved safely through the intersection. I reached over to grab Horst, who’d come loose and was hanging precariously onto the windshield, pulled him back into his seat.

“My goodness!” was his reaction.

The Chrysler made the same turn and started gaining on us again. “I think you’d better grab hold of something this time!” I yelled.

“Thank you for the advice,” he said, bracing himself as I hit the brakes sharply, spinning the car a hundred and eighty degrees until the Chrysler was coming straight at us. I popped the clutch and gave it full throttle, taking Smith head-on, who gave it all he had, more than happy to match the Chrysler against the Beetle.

Horst braced himself as I raced forward. Staying with it until the last possible moment, I whipped the wheel sharply to the right, and the tailpipe went
crunch!
as we bounced over the curb onto the sidewalk. The Chrysler sped past us, came to a screeching stop, tires smoking, a hundred feet down the road. I punched the gas and swerved back onto the street, scrambling through the same intersection, where a dozen irate motorists were still surveying the damage.

Horst banged the dashboard a couple of times and let out a wild yell. “WOOOO-HOOOOO! A car chase!” Then, more calmly, he added, “I’ve never been in a real car chase.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my first in a tin can,” I replied.

“You’re doing quite well,” he assured me. “But he comes again!” Sure enough, Smith had managed to get behind us and was coming up fast. He was on us in no time, playing bumper cars, accelerating into the rear end of the VW, then backing off and slamming us again.

“He seems quite persistent,” Horst said, his enthusiasm fading with the destruction of his automobile.

“I noticed that,” I agreed. The Bug was coming apart beneath us and I was starting to think about alternate escape plans when I spotted an alley halfway up the block. It looked just about wide enough for the Volkswagen, with nothing to spare.

“Hold on!” I yelled, swinging into a ninety-degree right turn. The back end swerved into a building, taking out the rear fender. I spun the wheel back, managed to get control, pointed the car into the alleyway, and hit the gas. What was left of the Bug bounced back and forth along the walls like a pinball in heat while the Chrysler ended up wedged between the two walls. I had to smile when I thought about the phone call Mr. Smith would be making home.