The Berlin Target

Ten

"Fräulein Klammer?"

"Ja." Gertrude Klammer's palms, holding the door open a crack, were sweating. This woman wasn't from the Ku'Damm, but she didn't look like police, either.

"I would like to talk to you, Fräulein Klammer."

"I am busy now."

The white Mercedes was due back at Tegel. She hadn't gotten the call to pick it up. She didn't know where to pick it up. She didn't know what to do. Was this woman from Europa?

"I would like to talk to you about a white Mercedes, Fräulein Klammer."

Gertrude Klammer's face went as white as the car. "Are you from Europa?"

"No, Fräulein Klammer. I have something I want you to read."

A paper was passed through the crack. Gertrude read it and sagged against the wall, letting the door swing wide.

"Mein Gott…"

The woman had entered and closed the door behind her. "I want you to sign that paper, Fräulein Klammer."

"But this is a confession! It says I helped an assassin escape!"

"You did, Fräulein Klammer, when you rented the Mercedes and left it in the Wiebe Strasse garage."

"Who are you, police?"

"No. It doesn't matter who I am. We have this knowledge, and we have uses for it. I assure you, Fräulein Klammer, we have no intention of using it against you."

"But I didn't even know it was Oskar Hessling who hired me!"

"We know that. Just sign, Fräulein Klammer. And if you should want to leave Berlin…"The woman placed a stack of one-thousand-mark notes and a pen on the table. "Sign, Fräulein Klammer."

Gertrude Klammer could feel her pulse racing. "I have no choice, do I?"

"None. If you don't, a copy of that will be mailed to the SSD. It will only be a matter of time."

Gertrude sat and, with a quivering hand, signed the paper.

She barely felt the thin piano wire touch her throat before she was gasping out her last breath.

The restaurant was rosy in the glow of the midafternoon sun. It smelled of fresh flowers and good food. Carter ordered a drink, a beer, and a double order of turbot with leeks en papillote.

He was two fingers down on his drink when a very weary Jamil Erhanee slid into the opposite chair and dropped a six-inch bundle in front of Carter.

"You've been busy."

Erhanee sipped his beer. "Keeping the modems hot."

"Boil it down for me."

The Indian took a deep breath and dived in. "Protec is big, I mean really big. And one of the reasons is a huge transfusion of megabucks at just the right time."

"Delaine's money."

"You got it. Conway gobbled up little companies like sharks swallow minnows at feeding time once he got his hands on her loot and her line of credit."

"Score one for our side. What about cash transactions in the last six months?"

"Protec tosses around millions like they came out of a kid's Christmas account. But, oddly enough, that worked in our favor."

"How so?"

"Because smaller amounts stick out like all hell. It goes like this. Protec-Europe is financed out of Zurich. If any funds are transferred from home — San Francisco or New York — to Zurich, it's always for a special reason. And it's always big bucks. About three weeks ago, there was a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar transfer from New York to Zurich."

"And that's small?"

"Smallest ever. It was earmarked for the Protec-Berlin slush fund."

"Who controls that fund?"

"Lady by the name of Ursula Rhinemann."

"Bingo," Carter whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go ahead, where did the quarter mil go?"

"To buy a company chateau on the Havel River. But twenty-four hours after the down payment was made, it was withdrawn. There was a three-percent penalty, but that's peanuts."

"Who did the money changing?"

"Deutschbank, here in Berlin. I've got a buddy over there who remembered the deal. The money wasn't transferred back into the Protec account. It was withdrawn in cash."

"By Ursula Rhinemann?"

"You got it. But there's lots more. Personal on the wife. She drew two-hundred-and-fifty grand in cash from her personal account two days before she and Conway left for Europe."

"The bastard doesn't get his fingers in at all, does he?" Carter growled.

"Now come the last two twists." Erhanee paused there, savoring his beer and Carter's anticipation. "Oskar Hessling doesn't keep much cash in this country. In fact, he doesn't keep much cash, period. His horde is in gold, and he likes to buy it illegally. It's cheaper that way. He uses a guy named Peter Rohenstaffer. A little over two weeks ago, Herr Peter made a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar gold buy in London and ferried it to Zurich for Hessling; That news came from a speculator friend in London."

"It all fits so far."

The grin on Erhanee's face spread from ear to ear. "Now comes the zinger. This morning, at the crack of opening, almost two hundred and fifty thousand in cash was deposited in the Protec slush fund at Deutschbank."

"By Ursula Rhinemann."

"You got it!"

Carter rubbed his chin in thought. "It's still circumstantial, but there's a definite trail. You got an address on this Rohenstaffer?"

"I thought you'd ask."

Erhanee passed across a slip of paper and dived into the food in front of him.

"Have a good lunch," Carter said, dropping some bills on the table. "I owe you one."

"It can't wait?"

"Not as fast as I think things are going to move in the next twenty-four hours," Carter said over his shoulder, and he headed for the foyer and a telephone.

According to Marty Jacobs, the AXE boys were tying the Voigts in knots, and the day was still young.

Horst Vintner was out, but Bruchner listened to the tale on Peter Rohenstaffer and agreed to pick Carter up in ten minutes.

He made one last call, to Lisa's suite at the Victoria.

"Dammit, Nick, I wish you'd check in more often," she said when she heard his voice.

"Been busy. What do you know about Ursula Rhinemann?"

"Name rings a bell, but I can't place it."

"I think she's the other woman in the triangle. I want you to call every mutual friend you and Delaine had, and see if your sister ever mentioned the name. Also, use your clout with Langley and have them dive into the records of international air carriers. I want to know the dates, if any, that Rhinemann visited the States."

"Will do. By the way, I haven't exactly been idle."

"Oh?"

"Delaine and I both bought a lot of our clothes at a little boutique off Fifth Avenue in New York called Figaro's. I know the owner well, and called her."

"The red dress?"

"Yes. The saleswoman was named Kay. I talked to her, and she remembers the incident well. Delaine hated the dress and wouldn't even try it on. Stephan went into such a rage he frightened everyone in the shop. He finally won, and they bought the dress."

They were both thinking the same thing; it was like ESP through the line.

The dress was a beacon-better yet, an identifying target for the shooter.

"It's thin, Lisa, but it might be another nail in the coffin."

He hung up and hefted Erhanee's bulky bundle of computer printouts into the street. Bruchner was just pulling up to the curb.

"Here's the address."

"What's that?" The man nodded toward Carter's bundle.

"The financial life of Stephan Conway and Protec, my evening's reading. Have you got it?"

Bruchner passed across a thick, pulpy plastic envelope. "That stuff's pure gold on the street. The boys back there came along to make the arrest and make sure they get it back."

Carter swiveled his head. Two plainclothes policemen followed them closely in an unmarked sedan. Their faces were square and grim, and their eyes never left the SSD car.

Carter put the one-pound bag of heroin in his inside coat pocket, and lit a cigarette. Herr Peter Rohenstaffer would be a small link, but at this point any link would do.

The address was in an old section of north Berlin, above Tegel Forest on Weiden Strasse. It dead-ended into a walkthrough alley. Carter had Bruchner stop around the corner, and the two cops pulled in behind them.

Carter left the Protec report in the SSD car and moved down the block. Dusk had settled just enough to turn on the automatic streetlights.

Number 32 was indistinguishable from its other two-story-neighbors. Carter rang the bell and put the hardest look he could muster on his face.

A pockmarked face under slicked-back gray hair appeared in a crack of the door. Carter wouldn't have known it was a woman if she hadn't spoken.

"What do you want?"

"'I'd like to speak to Peter Rohenstaffer."

"What about?"

"I'd like to tell him myself."

"He isn't here."

"Where is he?"

"None of your business. He is out of town."

"I see. Who are you?"

"I am his mother."

"Oh, well, would you tell Herr Rohenstaffer that we have a mutual friend who has just died?"

"Who?"

"He'll know. Tell him I have to have an accounting."

The woman's mouth began to flap, but before any sound came out of it Carter turned and walked down the steps.

With the departure of daylight, a light mist had settled in, blurring the illumination from the streetlights into murky shadows.

Carter walked toward the corner where the two cars wailed, then doubled back. Near the alley, he took up his watch beneath the stoop across the street and two houses closer to the alley than Number 32.

It was eight minutes by his watch when he saw the curtains of the front windows part slightly. Two minutes later the door of Number 32 opened, and a tall figure in a dark raincoat slipped down the steps. He carried a bulky briefcase, and from the speed of his movement and his carriage Carter put him somewhere in his mid-thirties.

He crossed the street, passed by the stoop where Carter waited, and headed toward the alley. Carter gave him five seconds and then followed. At the alley turn, the man was about ten yards ahead.

Carter caught up to him before the man heard his footsteps.

"You are Herr Peter Rohenstaffer?"

He turned to flee, but Carter tangled his own leg between the other man's and he went down. As he came up, the Killmaster grabbed his tie and put him against the wall.

"About three weeks ago you made a gold buy in London for Oskar Hessling…"

"Leave me alone! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"You ferried the gold to Zurich and deposited it for Hessling."

"Who are you?"

"A man who wants an answer… one answer."

"Go to hell."

He tried to bring a knee up into Carter's crotch. The Killmaster caught it on his hip and exploded his right fist into the man's gut.

"How did you find out Hessling was dead?"

This time he tried a foot to the shin. It connected, and Carter bit his lip in pain.

"Okay, mein Herr."

Carter dropped another in his belly, and tattooed his head against the brick wall.

"Stop! God, stop, you'll crack my skull…!"

Carter stopped, and flexed the muscle of his right forearm. Instantly he felt Hugo's smooth hilt in the palm of his hand. He put a half inch of the blade up Rohenstaffer's right nostril and gathered a handful of the man's hair to hold his head steady.

"I don't have time to play games, and I don't care if you live or die. Talk!"

"Tony called me… told me Oskar was dead." The man was close to sobbing.

"When were you supposed to pick up the second bundle?"

"Last night. Hessling was going to call me right after the payoff was made. Tony called instead."

"How much?"

"Same as the other, two hundred and fifty American."

"Why would Tony call you?"

"He knows I'm Hessling's outside man."

"So you know all Oskar's action?"

Silence.

Carter drew a little blood with Hugo.

"Mein Gott, don't kill me!"

"What's in the briefcase? Files? Records?"

"Yes."

"Anything in there about the job that paid a half mil American?"

"No, that was a private deal. Hessling handled it all after the contact."

"But you made the first contact?"

"Yes. It was a woman over the phone. She left ten thousand earnest money in a drop. I figured she was serious, so I put her onto Hessling."

"What did she want for her money?"

"I don't know." Carter tickled the man's nose a little more. "I don't know, I swear!"

Carter pulled the blade from his nose but left it close. "After the deal was set, you must have made some of the arrangements. Hessling wouldn't get his hands dirty."

"I don't know if I did or not. I do a lot of things for him."

"Like steal a BMW motorcycle… or have it stolen."

Rohenstaffer nodded.

"Where did you deliver it?"

"The airport parking lot. I left it with the keys and split."

"What else?"

"Nothing."

"There must be something else. You know that kind of fee calls for something big. Don't tell me you haven't guessed."

The eyes went wild and started rolling. Carter knew he was losing him. This time Hugo's needle-sharp tip went to his neck.

"I didn't know until I heard it on the news!" he sobbed. "I swear it! I figured it was going to be a hit, but I never guessed it would be the American!"

"You bargained for the gun, didn't you?"

"Yes. I only know him as the Turk. He sells out of a whorehouse in Wedding called the Nightbird Hotel."

"I think you're telling me the truth."

"I am, I swear."

"What else?"

"Uh… uh, the car. I don't know whether it had anything to do with the hit or not, but I set up Gertrude Klammer to deliver a rented Mercedes to a garage on Wiebe Strasse."

"You're a good man, Rohenstaffer."

Carter dropped him with a slice to the back of the neck. He knelt and went to work on the briefcase with Hugo. It opened in seconds. Beneath a couple of shirts, some socks, and underwear, he found a gold mine.

He threw out the clothing and closed the briefcase. After stashing the heroin on Rohenstaffer, he jogged back down the block and slid into the SSD car beside Bruchner.

"Well?"

"Big business. He's sleeping peacefully back in the alley."

"The junk on him?"

Carter nodded.

Bruchner climbed out of the car and walked back to the two policemen. He exchanged nods and words, and returned.

"They'll handle him. Damned dope peddlers. Anything else?"

"I'll tell you on the way. Do you know the Golden Calf on the Ku'Damm?"

"Who doesn't" Bruchner chuckled. He whirled the car into a U-turn and headed back toward the center of the city. "What's in the briefcase?"

The life and times of Oskar Hessling. You can make copies for your people and the locals. The originals are bait for Hans-Otto Voigt."

"What's at the Golden Calf, besides cheap snoops and whores?"

"A very nervous woman by the name of Gertrude Klammer."