Triple Trap Read online

  In Munich late that night the two American agents, Sauer and Court, sat wearily drinking beer while studying several large road maps on the tavern table before them. It had been a long day.

  “They must be sending it to Vienna,” Court insisted. “See what they’re doing? Look.” He tapped his fingers on the maps. “They flew part of the contraband from the U.S. through London. Right? And part through Belgium here at Brussels. Okay? And part—most of it—they flew into Germany, here and here. So okay. Now they’ve got it all together—what do they do? They’re moving it like checkers through Germany from here to here to here, always moving southeast toward the Austrian border. Right? And here, all the way at the other end of Austria—right next to the Czech border and the Hungarian border—is Vienna. A dime’ll get you a dollar that’s where they’re moving the stuff to.”

  Sauer looked skeptical. “There’s no guessing where they’re going to move it next, Court. ’Kay? We’ve been following trucks up and down every road in Germany. They could move it back up here through East Germany into Berlin. They could move it across the border into Czechoslovakia, here through Germany or here through Austria. Or here through Austria to Hungary. See what I’m saying? There’re just too many goddamn options. We’re playing a shell game with some real wiseasses. And there’s just the two of us against them. ’Kay?”

  “Then I’m going to say it again,” Court said. “We should blow the whistle right here in Munich. They almost slipped the stuff past us once already, in Stuttgart. And if they ever split the load up again and send it in different directions, we’ll really be in the soup. All this high-tech stuff would end up in Russia, and that would be a disaster. You’re trying to have your cake and your penny both, Sauer.”

  Sauer nodded soberly. “It’s all or nothing,” he said with weary determination. “’Kay?”

  All day they had followed that truck with its load of smuggled contraband up and down German roadways, until the driver finally pulled into the freight depot outside Munich. Sauer was sick of the cat and mouse game.

  “Listen,” Court said, pressing his point, “if we lose this load, our names would be mud back in the pickle factory.”

  “My name,” Sauer said. “I’m responsible for this operation.”

  “So? Take my advice. Let’s impound the stuff right now. Tonight. Before they repaper it again. We’ll be home for Christmas.”

  “Our orders are to track this shipment to the end,” Sauer said, “then grab everyone and roll it up all the way back to Kansas City and L.A. If we stop it now, we’re just going to get the small fry. And if we call in help, we’re going to look like we couldn’t handle it. See what I’m saying?” He poked Court on the arm. “Come on, Court. We got a chance to make ourselves look good. God knows we both need Brownie points. I say chance it. These bastards haven’t given us a mickey so far. ’Kay?”

  “Then at least let’s grab their man in L.A.,” Court replied. “He’s folding his tent and he’ll be out of there in the next day or two. We’ve got enough federal raps on him to make him sing like a turkey. If we grab him now, he can cop a plea and give us the names of the others.”

  “If we grab him, that’ll tip our hands,” Sauer said. “These guys over here will run for the woods, and we’ll end up with some small fry in L. A. who doesn’t know who any of these people are.”

  Court tried once more. “Look how many times they’ve repapered this stuff,” he insisted. “In Brussels the papers said the stuff was heating units. In Stuttgart they labeled it plumbing supplies. Next it’ll be Christ knows what all. Have you counted how many trucking terminals and airports we’ve been through?”

  “Let’s get some sleep,” Sauer said. “That truck is going to pull out at six-fifteen in the morning.”

  “Okay. I said my piece.” Court yawned and stretched. “Just one more thing. We should at least level with Hardy.”

  “Level with him. If he had any idea what was going on, he’d have us back in Washington before breakfast.”

  “Well, he is the case officer, Sauer. You can’t lie to him.”

  “He is the worst case officer in the world. In the universe. ’Kay?”

  “Sooner or later we have to tell him. We could both get busted in the ranks for withholding information from him.”

  “Do you want to be the one who tells him?”

  “No,” Court said. “No, I don’t. But those rosy reports you’ve been filing don’t square with what’s really going on, and if he finds out, you know exactly what he’s going to do.”

  “I’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Sauer said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  Court followed him to the front door, yawning. “When was the last time we were home? It’s been weeks. Since before Kansas City. I’ve been wearing this suit for so long, it just jumps on me in the morning like a trained monkey.”

  “My granddaughter will be three months old tomorrow,” Sauer said sadly. “And I’ve only seen her twice. With a little bit of luck we’ll both be home for Christmas.”

  “When you miss a Christmas away from home,” Court said, “you never make it up.”

  “I never knew Germany could be this cold.”

  “Neither did Germany,” Court said. “The deskman says it’s the coldest winter here in fifty years.” Court pushed the road maps into his parka pocket. “Where to tomorrow, do you figure?” he asked.

  “There,” Sauer said, pointing east. “Across the Austrian border. My guess is they’re going to ship the whole load to Salzburg tomorrow. See what I’m saying?”

  Court nodded. “Okay. And where do you think we’re going to spend Christmas? In Vienna? Or Moscow?”

  On the way back to their hotel Sauer drove past the truck depot. The long tractor and trailer rig was still where it had been parked at eight P.M., alongside the terminal in a row with other rigs. Behind them was a high wall of plowed snow.

  “Eleven o’clock and all’s well,” Sauer said.

  “And at six A.M.,” Court said with his eyes half shut, “we’re going to start following that goddamn thing again. All day tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that. Forever. We’ve died and gone to hell and this is our punishment until judgment day.”

  “Six-fifteen,” Sauer corrected him.

  The driver of the truck sat by the potted plants in the tiled hallway of his hotel, waiting for the phone call. It was eleven-thirty P.M., and he’d been waiting patiently for more than a half hour. He had already watched the cleaning girl scrub the tiled floor, then dry-mop it, then dust every single leaf on the potted plant, then wax them.

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” he said with a smirk.

  She smiled back at him. “Then I’ve already washed my way to heaven twice,” she said.

  He watched her carry her cleaning things up to a frostedglass door. “You didn’t wash the roots of the plants,” he said. “We could wash them together.”

  She turned and looked at the driver—the hanks of oily hair and the bad teeth. Her silence was her answer as she pushed the door shut. The whole hotel smelled of strong soap.

  The phone rang a few moments later.

  “Hello,” the driver said. “This is Ruskin.”

  “Good,” the mystery voice said. “How did it go today?”

  “Well,” Ruskin said. “I led them up and down the roads, and finally stopped at eight here in Munich. This is getting us nowhere. Why don’t we split the load up into a dozen packages and send them in different directions? They’ll never be able to follow all that.”

  “If we alarm them, they’ll impound the goods,” the mystery voice said. “We have to finesse them. Make the shipment disappear so that they have no idea where it went. We don’t want them to know that we know they are following us. So tell you what we will do, Ruskin. You will leave an hour before schedule time.”

  “Five A.M.? Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Five A.M. tomorrow. Sleep well. I will send you more money. Before you go to sleep, make su
re the two of them are tucked in bed for the night.”

  “You can be sure of that,” Ruskin said. “They are as tired as I am.”

  Before going to bed, Ruskin walked back through the snow to the terminal with a flashlight and looked at his rig. He yanked the hoses and peered at the tires and checked the locks and hoped that nothing would be frozen in the morning. Then he walked by the hotel of the two American agents, saw their car parked in the parking area, and walked back to his own hotel. He was shivering when he got back.

  Ruskin got into bed with a sigh, wishing that the little cleaning girl would come into his room and wax his plant for him.

  Sauer got out of bed and put on the light.

  “What’s the matter?” Court asked, raising his head from the pillow.

  “Something’s up,” Sauer said. “I can feel it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Sleep in the car,” Sauer said. “I’m going to keep my eye on that load. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Sauer put his clothes on over his pajamas, zipped into his heavy parka, and went out to the car. He drove several blocks through the streets to the truck terminal and picked a parking spot with a clear view of the truck with the contraband.

  It was the coldest night he could remember, and his breath came in long steamy plumes. There was a frost halo around the moon, and sitting in the midst of the frozen, snow-covered terrain, he could imagine the cry of a wolf. Sauer shivered. How he hated winter.

  He got a heavily insulated sleeping bag from the trunk of his car, got into the backseat and zipped himself into it, parka and all. He took a long pull on a pocket flask of brandy and composed himself, half reclining, half sitting, and soon dozed off.

  Sauer was awakened by the sound of scraping.

  It was still dark. A heavy mist had settled over the city, covering his windows with frost that completely blocked his view. Through the frosted panes even the streetlights were little more than a glow and a blur. He cranked down the window, feeling bitterly cold air tumble into the car. Inside the terminal compound he could see the truck driver scraping the ice off his windshield. Sauer looked at his watch. It was just before five A.M.

  Sauer zipped out of his sleeping bag and clambered into the front seat. As he searched for the window scraper, he heard the truck motor start. He cranked down the window and looked again.

  The driver stepped down from the cab, and guided by a flashlight, was taking a inspection walk around his rig. Sauer started the car, backed around the intersection, then turned and drove back to the hotel with his head out of the open window in order to see where he was going.

  “Quick, quick, quick!” he said to Court as he rushed into their room. “Up up! The son of a bitch is pulling out an hour early.” He yanked Court from the bed, and seizing the man’s clothes, pushed them into his arms. “Dress in the car. Come on, come on.” He threw everything in sight into the suitcases and led the way, bumping down the steps to the front. The defroster had melted two small holes in the frost on the windshield.

  “I told you something was up,” Sauer declared.

  “Good God, it’s cold,” Court said, trying to get his pants on.

  Sauer raced through the heavy mist back to the truck terminal. Even in the thick fog it was obvious that the truck was gone.

  “Holy Good John,” Sauer said. “How could he have moved that fast?” He took the road that led to the autobahn.

  “Slow down!” Court cried. “You can’t see ten feet in front of you. Slow down!”

  Sauer stopped the car abruptly and turned off the engine as he cranked down the window.

  “What are you doing?” Court asked.

  “Listening for the sound of his engine,” Sauer answered. He started the car again and drove with more caution through the mist toward the autobahn, then he made a U-turn and headed back toward the terminal. “He couldn’t have gotten that far ahead of me,” he said. “He must have gone in a different direction. Hot damn! If that bastard got away from us, we’re ruined.”

  Court clicked his tongue and said nothing.

  Sauer drove around in the mist, which was so thick that at times he couldn’t find the intersections.

  “Do you know where the hell you are?” Court asked. “Slow down. You’re going to get us killed.”

  Sauer cranked down his window again, listening. “Bastard! He left an hour early. I should never have come back to get you. I thought I had time. Hot damn!” Sauer sat there, baffled, in a rage and panting heavily. “Now what?” he demanded of himself. “Now what?”

  Abruptly he spun the wheel and drove off. “Court. Get that road map out. There’s a back road to the border that parallels the autobahn. You know the one I mean? We were looking at it. Remember? Find it and guide me to it. It has to be this way.”

  Court, with one leg in his trousers and his lap full of clothes, looked at the map under the overhead light. “Okay. You’re coming to a fork ahead. Take the left hand and follow it until we get to the next town.”

  “Do you remember the license number of the truck?” Sauer demanded.

  “It’s burned in my memory,” Court said. “It’s 484951. I’ll give you five hundred dollars for a cup of coffee.” He tried to pull his trousers on.

  Sauer, with a furious grimace, had his head pressed forward over the steering wheel, trying to see through the rolling fog. Periodically it would clear and he would speed up, only to plunge into another rolling embankment of fog.

  “Give it a break,” Court said. “Slow it down. You’ve lost him.”

  “No!” Sauer said. “I’ll find him. I’ll bet you anything he’s going on the side road to the Austrian border.”

  “Okay, okay,” Court said. “Just slow down before you hit something.”

  Sauer abruptly slammed on the brakes. He was inches away from the rear end of a truck. Its license plate loomed in the middle of their windshield.

  “They don’t make them any luckier than you, Sauer,” Court said. “There it is—484951.”

  Chapter 3

  At the German-Austrian border the freezing mist of morning had been blown to flinders by a sudden rising wind that promised more snow. The customs station parking lot was crowded with cars, many of them with ski racks. People had formed lines at the currency exchange windows inside, and there was a backup of cars going through the passport check on both sides of the border. Snapping the flags on their poles, the steady breeze made the officials walk stiffly, hunched inside their greatcoats.

  The truck had joined a long line of parked trucks waiting for clearance, leaving the driver in his cab with nothing to do but fold his arms and shut his eyes.

  Sauer and Court sat in their car in the parking lot, waiting for the truck to clear customs. Sauer looked at the backup of traffic at the passport check stations and at the long line of trucks. “This is abnormal,” he said to Court. “They’re looking for something.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not our guy,” Court said. “That’s all we’d need.”

  At last a customs official with a fluttering clipboard came striding down the line, one hand holding his cap on his head against the stiff breeze. He took the driver’s papers and studied them. The driver stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, shivering. Two other customs men went over his rig, pointing and talking to each other. The hoses, the brakes, the coupling, the locks and seals on the doors. They held a mirror under the cab chassis to study the underside. They even climbed up and carefully examined the interior of the cab.

  Finally, after the customs man had handed him his papers and went on to the next truck, the driver rolled through the border check with Sauer and Court not far behind him. Salzburg was just down the road.

  The trucker offloaded his cargo at a freight depot near the Salzburg airport and drove back toward Germany. Before he reached there, another trucker, Wolf, received a phone call with new shipping instructions.

  “Did you receive the money?” the voice asked.


  “I did, sir.” Wolf listened attentively, as usual, bemused by the faint accent in the voice. He was never able to identify that accent. Indeed he was never quite sure it was an accent. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ruskin has dropped off the cargo in the terminal near the Salzburg airport. You know the place?”

  “Yes. Of course,” Wolf said.

  “This is what I want you to do. Bring your rig to that terminal and pick up the cargo. You’ll have the papers shortly by messenger. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You leave the Salzburg terminal and drive to Neumarkt—you know the route. You will probably be followed by a car with German license plates. Don’t pay any attention to it. At Neumarkt you pull into the terminal there and drive around the back, where you can’t be seen from the road. Muller’s truck will be there waiting for you—you know who I mean, his truck is identical to yours. You switch license plates with him and let him leave. The car with the German license plates will see Muller’s truck with your license plates and think it’s your truck and follow it. It will drive toward Graz. You understand? When it is well gone, you leave and drive to Linz on the autobahn. You understand? The car with the German license plate will follow the other truck for two or three days, long enough for you to get that cargo into Vienna, and I’ll take it from there. Later on, arrange to meet with Muller and swap license plates again. Do you understand?”

  “I do.” Wolf wondered if it was a faint Russian accent he was hearing.

  “I will call you at the usual hotel in Linz with more instructions. I’ll probably want you to stay overnight and drive to Vienna the next morning. Understood?”

  “Yes. Understood.” Wolf smiled. The voice’s money was very nice, and there was never anything quite illegal about the jobs.

  For two days the freight, still marked Plumbing Supplies, sat there inside the Salzburg truck terminal. In a room in a small inn that looked out on the terminal, Sauer and Court took turns with binoculars watching through the lace curtains. They dozed on the beds, read magazines, and paced up and down. But mostly they watched the trucks that came and went until late at night.