The Berlin Target

Eleven

Bruchner backed him on the stairs while Carter knocked. There was no answer.

"Fräulein Klammer?"

The only sound was the chatter of the drinkers in the bar below and an occasional moan from one of the other rooms.

"I'm going to pick it."

Bruchner nodded.

Both the bartender and the man at the desk had told them that the woman was in her apartment and had been all day.

Carter's hands sweated as he used the two picks on the lock. He already had a pretty good idea of what he was going to find.

He wasn't wrong.

"Bruchner!"

"Ja?" Carter nodded him in and closed the door. "Mein Gott."

There were two rooms: a living room and a tiny bedroom alcove behind tattered curtains.

Gertrude Klammer was arranged neatly on the bed, her eyes open, staring at the maze of cracks in the ceiling plaster. The angry red gash around her neck told the tale of her last seconds.

"Garrote?"

Carter nodded. "Piano wire, very fast and very quiet."

Bruchner lifted the phone while Carter went to work on the two rooms. He didn't expect to find much, but then he was only looking for one thing.

Whoever had done the number on Gertrude Klammer hadn't been interested in looking for anything. The place was as neat as a pin.

"They'll be here in fifteen minutes. I told them to use the back entrance and keep the excitement down."

"Good," Carter replied. He had just about finished, and had found nothing.

"You think it was the shooter, covering his tracks after he found out Hessling was dead?"

"Could be." Carter moved to the corpse.

The things one gets used to doing, he thought, gingerly pushing a finger into the fleshy part of the neck. The indentation stayed about three seconds. The woman had been dead about five hours.

The body was fully clothed, with no bruises or any other sign of a struggle.

Had Gertrude Klammer known her attacker? It would appear so.

Carefully Carter undid the buttons of her blouse, took a deep breath, and ran a finger under the right cup of her bra.

Nothing.

The other side was more productive: a thin, folded slip of paper. Carter glanced at it and handed it to Bruchner.

"The receipt for the Mercedes."

"Yeah," the Killmaster said. "That means I got the truth out of Herr Peter. Get on the phone and put a team out to find this Turk."

"Will do."

"Mind if I take your car back to the Victoria? I've got a lot of studying to do, and I want to get the Hessling papers copied."

"Go ahead," Bruchner said. "I'll wait here for the cleanup crew."

There was a drizzle in the air by the time Carter nosed the car up the Ku'Damm and around the Tiergarten toward the building housing the SSD offices.

Horst Vintner was still out of his office. Carter dropped off the briefcase, with instructions to have it delivered back to him at the Victoria the minute the contents had been copied, and then returned to the car.

"Any messages for Carter?" he asked when he returned to the hotel.

"Ja, mein Herr."

Carter ripped the envelope. It was from Lisa.

"I'm at the Company offices. You ask a lot. Do you know how many flights have to be checked? If I get done by eight… dinner?"

Carter took the elevator to his floor. The instant he hit the room he sensed it: someone had paid a call. His extra pair of shoes were three inches off the mark at the foot of the bed. His suitcase had been moved slightly, just enough to detach the hair he had attached to one side of it with saliva.

Cautiously he went from corner to corner, wall to wall, phone to TV set.

Nothing.

Next he went through the bag and his personal effects — shirts, ties, socks, underwear — inspecting each item carefully before removing it.

In the bathroom he checked his shaving gear and smelled his aftershave and toothpaste. He even disassembled the stick deodorant. A tiny cyanide-tipped needle or pin stuck in the tube would work wonders.

He was almost satisfied that it had only been a search, when he noticed the slight crack between the porcelain and the rubber stopper on the toilet seat lid.

He got down on his hands and knees and used his penlight. There they were: two tiny springs set into the rubber stoppers.

Keeping his hands as steady as possible, he lifted the lid from the top of the reservoir tank. Two wires ran up, out of the flush pipe. They were attached to an oilskin bundle submerged in the water. Gently he replaced the lid and moved into the bedroom to the telephone.

"SSD," came a terse reply to the third ring.

"Horst Vintner, bitte."

The growling voice came on the line at once. "Vintner."

"Carter. How close are my copies to being done?"

"One moment," He was right back. "Another half hour. I've been checking them as they came off. Makes for very interesting reading."

"Good. When you have them delivered, have it done by a bomb expert."

"What?"

"Yeah, I've got about six sticks of dynamite in my toilet tank."

He hung up and dived for the Berlin directory.

"Der Bavarian."

"Erich Voigt, bitte."

"Herr Voigt has not come in."

"Yeah? Well, you tell him Carter called. The bomb didn't go boom."

"What is this…?"

"This is bullshit. Tell him I'm doubling the pressure."

Carter hung up and returned to the bathroom. Gingerly he splashed water on his face and then sat down to read the rise to power of Stephan Conway.

Oncoming dusk and the onset of a light but warm drizzle had driven most of the bathers from the grassy banks of the Hallensee. Those that were left kept to their nude hedonism.

The Turk lay on the grass directly below the concession stand. About fifty yards out in the lake, a raft bobbed at its moorings. Unlike the couples around him, the Turk wore a suit.

He was where he was supposed to be. Where was the woman?

He had checked her source out with Hamburg. She was legit. She had agreed to the price over the phone. Not so unusual. People who wanted guns in a hurry usually didn't quibble about price.

Near the Turk's hip, wound tightly in a waterproof bag attached to a belt, was a sample of the merchandise, a silenced Walther PPK.

She had told him on the phone that she wanted ten of them. The Turk had jacked the price up a thousand marks per unit. She had agreed, as long as the quality was good. She had also hinted that there might be a larger order to follow.

He checked the fading light. It must be close to six o'clock. She was almost a half hour late.

And then he saw her. She was directly in front of him, standing near the water. She looked like some kind of raven-haired goddess, with the upper half of her body silhouetted against the gray sky. Her clothing was a halter bra and a wraparound skirt.

I will be wearing a matching black and white striped top and skirt.

Then her hands started working, and the skirt fell to the grass.

She stood, making sure that the Turk had spotted her, then she turned toward the water and stretched to her toes.

The Turk's mouth watered. Maybe he could extract a little extra payment. She was beautiful, not the kind of woman with whom the Turk normally came in contact.

The long legs seemed to quiver with strength clear up to the equally quivering, well-rounded buttocks. Her stomach was flat, indented between sharp hip bones. The breasts were large, firmly jutting from her rib cage.

"Maybe I give you a deal on price after all, woman," the Turk muttered, moving the belt around his middle and fastening it.

She arched her body into the water, and the Turk went in after her. The sun had beat down most of the day, until about an hour before, making the water warm.

She crawled up onto the raft with lithe ease, and stretched out with her toes facing the grassy slope and her head toward the center of the lake. The Turk joined her in the same position, his thigh nudging hers.

"You brought the sample?"

Her German was accented slightly, but the Turk couldn't place her native tongue.

"I did."

"Let me see."

He removed the belt and pushed the pouch in front of their heads so it couldn't be seen by anyone on the bank. He unzipped it, peeled back the inner, waterproof lining, and extracted the Walther.

"The silencer?"

He removed the silencer and screwed it into the snout of the Walther. "It is a prime piece, completely rebuilt. I can get you all you want."

She had rolled to her left side and molded her body to his. It was difficult, with her soft breasts caressing his shoulder, for the Turk to keep his mind on business.

She fumbled in the darkness beneath her breasts and removed a small oilskin pouch. Each movement made more sweat break out on the Turk's body.

"I have to say, this is the strangest way I have ever made a delivery."

She chuckled. "But you must admit it is private. No one on shore is paying any attention to us, and no one can hear us."

"True."

She handed him three shells from the pouch. "Load it."

"Load it…?"

"Of course. I don't want merchandise with faulty firing pins."

The Turk shrugged against her, and ejected the clip. He inserted the three shells. He jammed the clip back into the butt and armed it. "Okay?"

"Yes." She nodded, rolling her body partially over his. "Fire, once, into the water."

He shifted the gun to his right hand and fired. Her hand was just above his, her warm breath on the back of his neck. Her bra must have slipped down. He could feel her bare nipples hardening against his back.

"Satisfied?" he stammered.

"Again." He fired a second shell into the water. "Now let me."

She reached for the gun. Her whole body moved over him. The feel of her skin was intoxicating, so intoxicating that he failed to notice that on her right hand she wore a glove, a clear plastic surgeon's glove.

She lifted the gun from his hand, but instead of firing the third and final round into the water, she turned the barrel toward his head. Before he could stop her, the blunt nose of the silencer was grinding into the soft hollow behind his right ear.

"What the…?"

"Shhh, be very still and very quiet."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm angling the barrel so if I fire, the bullet will go directly into your brain."

"You crazy bitch…!"

He froze. Her left hand had moved around to place a piece of paper and a small pen on the raft under his face.

"Read that and sign it."

The Turk had to wipe the sweat with nervous fingers from his eyes before they would focus.

"You are a crazy bitch!"

"Didn't you supply the F1 for Hessling?"

Silence. She ground the silencer deeper.

"Oow, damn you!"

"Didn't you?"

"I've got a lawyer! You pigs can't get away with…"

She chuckled in his ear. "I am not SSD or the police."

"Then why…?"

"Blackmail. I know who hired Hessling to find Klauswitz."

"I don't know Klauswitz."

"No matter. When it all goes together, there will be a great deal of money. The evidence must be overwhelming. If you cooperate, you will get this confession back. You might even make some of the profit."

She could feel his body relax slightly beneath hers.

"But if the police get this…" he stammered.

"They won't. Sign!"

The Turk took the pen in his shaking right hand. He closed his left hand over his right wrist to keep it steady, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page: Demetrius Baclevic.

"Very good."

She pulled the pen and paper from beneath his face and fired the third slug into his brain.

She folded the paper carefully and returned it and the pen to the pouch. When the pouch was anchored securely in her bra, Anna Palmitkov slid into the water and swam back to the grassy shoreline.

It was just after seven o'clock. With any luck, she would have a meeting arranged between herself and Stephan Conway before the evening was out.

Lisa called at seven. Carter broke long enough to pad down the hall to her suite for food.

The atmosphere was tense as he brought her up to date on what he had learned.

Ursula Rhinemann had made at least two trips a month to the States in the last six months, some to New York, some to San Francisco. It could be all business, or there could have been a lot of hanky-panky mixed in. There was no way of telling without checking all of Stephan Conway's movements in the States as well, and that would be very difficult.

Lisa would start on it in the morning.

"It's all loose, isn't it?" she sighed. "Circumstantial."

"So far," Carter admitted. "If Rhinemann is part of the triangle, it looks as though Conway has put her up front with everything. If there is a fall, it's her word against his."

They finished the meal in silence. Carter didn't tell her that a little over an hour before, the bomb boys had removed eight sticks of dynamite from the toilet in his room.

From the haggard look on her face, she couldn't take that knowledge along with everything else she had absorbed during the last few days.

At the door she kissed him perfunctorily on the cheek. It was pretty obvious to Carter that she wanted — and needed — to be alone as much as he.

"Get a good night's sleep," he murmured, squeezing her shoulder gently.

"I'll try."

"Take a pill."

Again in his room, he dived back into the Hessling papers. They said a lot, but nothing that would do him any good nailing Conway. The only real information was that, by reading between the lines, Herr Hessling did have some strong contacts in the Eastern sector that were very profitable.

Carter was almost finished, when there was a light tap at the door.

"Yeah?"

"Vintner."

Carter opened the door and the big man marched into the room. He dropped into an easy chair, loosened his tie, and undid his top shirt buttons.

"Long day?"

"You know it. Your boys have started World War Three out there. Thank God the Voigts don't know where to hit back!"

"Other than blowing up my ass… literally," Carter growled. "Drink? I've got brandy and scotch."

"Brandy's fine. Any results?"

"Not yet." Carter handed him the glass. It was gone in one swallow. "Anything on the Turk?"

"His name is Demetrius Baclevic. And he's disappeared."

"Tipped?"

"Who knows? Maybe old man Voigt will tell you, if you ever get to him."

Carter brought the SSD man up to date on every piece of info he had garnered that day. Vintner sat, slouched, scowling at the empty glass rolling between his big hands.

"So, what have we got?" he said at last. "We've got a lot of little things that point to Ursula Rhinemann, and from her we guess Conway."

"But nothing that would nail him," Carter added.

"How's the sister taking it?"

"Rough."

"How do you figure it?"

Carter sighed, finished his drink, and refilled both their glasses.

"Conway marries Delaine for her money and contacts. The money works, the marriage doesn't. It gets worse when Rhinemann comes on the scene. Somebody tries to blackmail Conway. He sees it as a way to threaten his own life. So he sends Rhinemann out to hunt for a shooter."

"And she finds Hessling."

"Right. The irony is that Hessling probably found her, only she didn't know it."

Carter decided to come clean about the Peter Limpton/Boris Simonov connection with Hessling.

"My guess is Hessling hired the shooter, and gave him instructions to waste Delaine and do everything he could to make it look like Conway was the target. Hessling keeps all the marbles, and when everything cools down, he's really got some blackmail ammunition."

Vintner pulled himself from the chair. "It would fit. But with Hessling dead, so is the proof."

"Unless we get the shooter."

"Yeah, unless we get the shooter."

"Check in with me in the morning."

"Will do," the chief inspector grunted, and closed the door behind him.

Carter sat in an easy chair by the window, turned off the lamp, and stared out at the city.

Was the shooter still out there, or was he long gone? Hessling's phone call to Limpton/Simonov would indicate that the man was sure he was going to get the goods. That would mean that Hessling had the shooter on ice in case he needed him to back up the blackmail shot.

Thinking about it made Carter weary. He dozed. And the doze deepened and became sleep.

The phone brought him upright in the chair. He snapped on the light and glanced at his watch. It was three in the morning.

"Carter here."

"All right, you son of a bitch, call off your dogs!"

"Nice of you to call, Erich."

"My limo will be at the side door of the hotel in fifteen minutes."

"And Hans-Otto?"

"My father is on the island waiting for you."

"Nice to do business with you, Erich."

He cut the connection and redialed AXE Berlin. When he got Marty Jacobs on the line, he gave the order to halt the war.

Then he took a long shower, shaved, and climbed into clean clothes.

Forty-five minutes after Erich Voigt's phone call, he went downstairs.

Screw 'em, the Killmaster thought. They made me wait two days, they can wait an extra half hour.