CHAPTER TEN

Nach Osten (Part 2)

Pushkin led Bond to the front of the Mercedes. It was a newish Ponton, the W120, a family car with four stout doors.

Pushkin leaned on the fender and indicated the engine compartment, which was crowded with too much engine. "These cars are provided with a standard 1.8 liter engine which generates something like sixty-five horses of power, if I understand that correctly."

Bond smiled at 'horses of power.' "Whatever you say."

Pushkin touched the engine block. "This is a custom engine. A little big, much more power. About a hundred horses of power. Of course, they had to modify the transmission to handle that much extra power."

"Ahh."

"You can't appreciate that, can you, Neydermeier," he said. "This car doesn't look it, but it has racecar speeds built into her. In case getting Kronsteen out becomes too hot, and there is a chase."

"We wouldn't like that."

"No we wouldn't," Pushkin agreed. "But if there is a chase, then we'd better win it."

"So you're going to cruise through Checkpoint Bravo and into West Berlin in a souped-up Mercedes with Kronsteen sitting in the back seat?"

"Ah!" declared Pushkin, with a finger in the air. "Not sitting in the back. Here, let me show you."

The Russian opened a rear door, stood back, and said proudly, "Find it."

"Find what?"

"Find it," he repeated.

With an annoyed grunt, Bond squatted down and, bracing himself on the door coaming, peered into the rear of the Mercedes. It was your standard issue Mercedes family car, with a bench seat and seatbelts and all the rest. "I don't see anything."

"Exactly!"

"What am I not seeing?"

Pushkin allowed Bond to lever himself out of the car, then he climbed into the Mercedes. Even though it was of generous size, he was still crowded in it. "Here," said the Russian, and he reached to the bottom of the rear seat. His hand disappeared underneath it, and Bond heard a 'tick' as a metal catch gave way.

Pushkin opened the other door and back out. Then, together with Bond, they pulled the rear seat toward the driver's seat.

"That looks pretty small," said Bond of the compartment underneath.

"It will be big enough. He has to hide in it only, what, thirty minutes. Forty."

"If we're lucky."

"See here," Pushkin said, and pointed to the fabric-covered front of the seat. "No structure here, so there's plenty of air. And the Kreuzmacher's modified the trunk. Made it fifteen centimetres smaller by moving the wall. You can't tell for looking, but the trunk is that much smaller." He indicated the amount. "Plenty of space."

"So I understand it," said Bond. "You put Kronsteen into this compartment, click the seat down over him, drive him across Checkpoint Charlie and into our territory. Then what?"

"After that, Kronsteen is your problem. Talk to your cowboys about moving him." As they pushed the seat back into position, Pushkin said, "I paid for all this, Neydermeier. Don't worry, it comes out of my end. But I want you to understand how important it is that Kronsteen goes west."

"Why do you care?"

"You know what he's working on, yes?"

Bond carefully maintained a neutral face. "My job is to bring him west, Herr Aristarkhov," he said. "Anything beyond that is outside of my mission brief."

Pushkin again laughed. "You are so cautious, my new friend. We both know who you work for."

Bond smiled at that. "Herr Aristarkhov, I only care about collecting Kronsteen. When does he move?" The smile lacked anything that could be construed as warmth.

"It will be in a little over a week. Now, what about my money?"

Bond blinked. "What about it?"

"I may be a Socialist, but I still must make a buck, yes?" He roared with laughter.

"Of course," said Bond, "what did you have in mind?"

"First of all, you will arrange it. Not Ackermann. Not your man Arnold. Not anybody else that might be involved. I do not trust them. Only you, my friend."

At that, Bond cocked his head. "Anything I should know?"

Pushkin raised eyebrows at Bond. With a slow and steady motion, he pulled a crumpled packet of Russian cigarettes out of his coveralls. He offered, but Bond declined ⸺ they were the papirosa sort, an unfiltered cigarette with a cardboard tube that acted as a holder. They were of the sort of tobacco that stripped the lining from your lungs.

Pushkin lit his cigarette. "I like you, Neydermeier, but I don't understand why you choose to work with bandits like Godfrey Coombes and his people." He squeezed the cardboard tube and took another drag, then squinted through the smoke out through the garage door. "They are making a fool of you."

"How so?" Bond asked.

"We are expendable, Herr Neydermeier. You and I. We are pawns in a larger game." He took another drag off the cigarette, still looking out the bay door. "The difference is that I am expendable, but not until this game is over. When Kronsteen is out of my hands. But you? You're expendable the moment money is in movement. Coombes and those crooks working for him, they will gut you and leave you to die in a back alley."

"I wouldn't like that," Bond quipped, but he thought about the U-Bahn station.

"They will do anything for money," Pushkin continued. "They will promise anything for money."

Bond said nothing at first. Pushkin looked at him sidelong, and allowed the silence to play out.

"What's it to do with me?" Bond asked at last.

"Tension is growing in Berlin. Mark my words, sometime soon, we Soviets will finish our wall and it will cut through the heart of Berlin. Your people know it. Oh, they don't accept it, but all the signs are there. Your Berlin Airlift. Increasing security at the border. A need to stem the flow of refugees out of East Berlin."

"And?"

"And people like Coombes just make it worse, Neydermeier. They ratchet up the tension. Why? Because a state of tension makes it easy for them to perform the sort of work they do. They want the tension, the provocation. It increases demand for their services. They are bandits, and they are working for you. Or rather, that's what you think they're doing."

"Your concern for my well-being is touching. I'm feeling all warm and tingly inside."

"I want three things, Anglichanin. I want a, what to say, a 'nest egg,' which you will pay me for bringing Kronsteen to you. I want my son to love me again, but that is not something you can help me with. And I want to ruin Coombes and his organization, because they are dangerous."

Bond regarded the Russian. "I think we were talking about terms of payment."

Pushkin nodded. He lit up another papirosa cigarette. "The Aldon has a very fine bar with a very gifted piano player. When you have my money ready, he will play Alexander's Ragtime Band three times in a row at nine-thirty on odd-numbered days."

"Jesus," said Bond, "that seems cruel."

"And it will be one hundred thousand of your American dollars."

"In dollars?"

"Dollars or francs."

"Cash." Bond held his gaze with Pushkin for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, "You're just going to drop off Kronsteen, collect a hundred thousand dollars, and then walk back across Checkpoint Charlie into East Germany?"

Puskin smiled with some bitterness. "Something like that."

"You got yaytsa, my Russian friend."

"You should take a closer look at your friends, Herr Neydermeier."

"I'm having the same thought."

Pushkin turned to Bond and tapped him in the chest with a stern, blunt finger. "One hundred thousand dollars, Neydermeier. In cash. Or you don't get Kronsteen."