The Berlin Target

Twelve

The estate was exactly what the term implied and then some. It covered a good-size island in the middle of the Havel River.

They covered him from both sides as they got out of the Mercedes limo. At the dock they patted him down and found Wilhelmina. One of them started to stick his hairy paw under Carter's jacket, and the Killmaster grabbed his wrist.

"Oh, no, you don't," he hissed. "This Christian doesn't meet the lions naked."

"It's impossible!"

"Then we end the cease-fire."

"Wait here."

He stomped down to the waiting launch and started working a phone. Carter turned to the other one.

"Got a match?"

Reluctantly a lighter flared, and Carter inhaled deeply. The cigarette was half gone when the angry goon returned, angrier than ever.

"Come!"

It was a fifteen-minute ride, and another five-minute walk up from the boathouse. Hans-Otto didn't slack on security. During the walk. Carter counted nine men armed with machine pistols or shotguns. Loping at each man's side was a big German shepherd.

The Sixth Panzer Division would have had a hard time cracking this one, Carter thought.

As he walked between the two men through heavily forested formal gardens, the Killmaster ticked off what he had gleaned from police files about Hans-Otto Voigt.

He had been actively anti-Nazi during World War II. In his twenties he had joined a small elite group in Berlin devoted to overthrowing the Nazis by internal espionage.

Right after the war, he survived by using the same smuggling avenues to form a huge black market. But as well as being a survivor, Voigt was a born leader, cunning and ruthless.

It was only a matter of time before smuggling and the black market were just a small part of his operations. By the late fifties, Voigt was the acknowledged kingpin of crime in West Berlin and northern Germany. And since then he had been able to keep that empire intact.

The villa was built on a rise directly in the center of the island. The walkway up from the water was a long, winding affair that passed outlying houses, gardens, and several more gun-toting guards.

Architecturally, it was a mishmash of Rhine River castle and mock English Tudor. It appeared to have been built by some long-dead or crazed Teutonic knight rather than by a modern, living gangland overlord.

One of two huge, brass-studded oak doors opened, and Carter stepped into a massive hallway. Erich Voigt awaited him.

"I want your gun."

The only way you'll get it is to take it."

The younger man stepped forward. Carter didn't move. He smiled.

"You bastard."

"I didn't come to listen to you whine, Erich."

"My father is in the hothouse. This way."

Carter followed him through a maze of corridors, glancing into well-furnished rooms as they moved. There were fresh-cut flowers everywhere.

From the outside, the house had loomed large. Inside it was enormous. Even though it was comparatively new, it had a sprawling, solid aura of aged splendor; Carter credited it to good taste in construction and the dominant use of expensive woods and stone for building materials.

Erich led him through wide, open French doors into a tiny Eden, completely surrounded by a high, immaculately clipped myrtle hedge. The hedge surrounded a sea of camellias, oleander, carnations, and myriad botanical marvels Carter couldn't name.

Above and around the whole was glass, keeping out the river breezes, the city smells, and keeping the interior what it was… a hothouse.

In the middle of the sea of flowers sat an ornate fountain. Beside the fountain was a table and four chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a short, wide man. The face was grizzled with age but still handsome in the chiseled Teutonic mold. The eyes were piercingly blue under heavy dark brows that didn't match the mane of steel-gray hair.

"Are you Carter?" The voice was growlingly husky, as if he had polished off a carton of cigarettes within the last hour.

"I'm Carter."

"A few years ago I would have just had you shot and buried in the Havel."

"A few years ago I would have dealt directly with you and would not have had to deal with the boy."

At the word boy, Erich came forward with his fists clenched.

"Erich, sit down," the old man hissed. "He's right."

Erich sat. So did Carter. Hans-Otto leaned forward, a glint of impishness in his hard blue eyes. "You like my garden?"

"Lovely. The flowers are beautiful."

"Good. If you die tonight, I will see you get the finest bouquet. Why do you cost me so much money?"

"Because I wanted to trade with you, and your son has stone ears."

"So. What do you have? What do you want?"

Carter hefted the briefcase to the table and opened it. "I have Oskar Heading."

The old man rifled through the papers quickly, but Carter could tell that he didn't miss a thing. When he was through, he slapped the case closed and, in the same movement, backhanded Erich across the face.

"Dummkopf!"

"Papa…"

"Shut up! Get out of my sight!" When the younger Voigt was gone, Hans-Otto turned his gaze back to Carter as he tapped the case. "Who are you?"

"Somebody important."

"You must be, the way you turn my people upside down. This" — he tapped the case harder — "this, I would kill for. Who do you want killed?"

"Herr Voigt" — Carter slowly lit a cigarette, speaking in a low, modulated tone — "if I want someone killed, I'll do it myself."

Voigt's hard blue eyes squinted, then he nodded. "Ja, I believe you would."

"I want information, and a body… live, if possible. I want to know who hired him, and who the shooter is who tried for the American, Stephan Conway."

"I didn't hire him."

"I wouldn't be here if I thought you had. When you find out who the shooter is, I want your help locating and getting him."

"Agreed. What else?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe something… maybe nothing."

Hans-Otto was a man of quick decisions. The old eyes blinked once and the big head came up with a jerk. "Erich!"

"Yes?"

"Get me a telephone out here, and some beer. What kind of beer do you want. Carter?"

"Dutch, it costs more."

"Dutch beer! And move!"

Carter heard the younger man sprint into the house, and he leaned back in his chair. His hunch was right. If anyone could find out who and where the shooter was, it was Hans-Otto Voigt.

Anna Palmitkov rapped on the door. It was opened at once, but only a crack. No light was lit and the face in the crack was in shadows.

"Yes?"

"Fräulein Rhinemann?"

"Yes."

"I just talked to you on the phone."

"Come in, hurry!"

Anna Palmitkov darted through the door. It was quickly closed and locked behind her. As soon as the lights were turned on, she walked down into the sunken living room and turned to face the other woman with a flourish.

"Who are you?" Ursula asked, clutching a half-empty glass of whiskey between her two trembling hands.

"Who I am is of no consequence. I assure you, I have the material I mentioned so vaguely on the telephone."

Anna slipped the big bag she carried from her shoulder. She rummaged in it and withdrew three sheets of paper and a manila folder.

"Sit down," she said curtly, glancing up at the other woman.

Ursula flushed. "This is my flat. How dare you…"

The Russian woman's hand arced like a whip and struck like a darting snake. The flat palm cracked against the side of Ursula's head, sending her sprawling and the glass of whiskey crashing against the mantel.

"Now will you listen?" she hissed.

"Yes." Tears were streaming down Ursula Rhinemann's beautiful face. Her body shook, and she was sure she wouldn't be able to hold down what little food she had in her stomach. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, I assure you, that you will not be able to give. Now, I am going to tell you a story…"

For the next hour, Ursula listened. The more she listened, the whiter and sicker she became.

She knew! This woman knew practically the whole thing, almost down to the time when she and Stephan had first conceived the plan!

"This is the confession of a woman named Gertrude Klammer. Small, by itself, but a link. Another, stranger, link is this statement by a minor illegal arms dealer, Demetrius Baclevic."

"I know none of these people…"

"Read!"

Ursula read, dropped the papers, and ran from the room. The sounds of vomiting from the adjoining bath didn't bother Anna Palmitkov. She fixed a drink from the other woman's well-stocked sideboard and lit a cigarette.

Eventually Ursula returned, shaken, and resumed her seat. "I know nothing of this."

"Don't you? The third sheet of paper was pressed into Ursula's hand. "This is the statement of Dieter Klauswitz, to the effect that he was hired by Oskar Hessling to assassinate Delaine Berrington Conway. It also states that you and Stephan Conway ordered, through Oskar Hessling, this murder.»

"That's impossible! The killer didn't even know that Stephan and I…"

Ursula suddenly screamed and clamped her lips tightly shut.

Anna Palmitkov's smile was that of a predator.

"We have Dieter Klauswitz in an East German prison at this very moment."

"It means nothing!" Ursula gasped. "It means absolutely nothing! None of this can be connected to myself or Stephan!"

"Perhaps not, directly. But several weeks ago one of our agents was working with Oskar Hessling. His cover name was Peter Limpton. His real name is Boris Simonov. He turned out to be a traitor after he was caught by the Americans, but several of the operations he initiated bore fruit even without his knowledge. These, for instance."

From the manila envelope, Anna produced ten eight-by-ten prints. All were in living, fleshy color. Each of them was from a different angle, and they all showed Ursula Rhinemann and Stephan Conway in various stages of making love.

Ursula bent her face into her hands. Silent tears dripped from her fingers and all the starch went out of her body.

"You're not the police," she said finally, looking up, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "What do you want?"

A smile of victory creased Anna Palmitkov's face. "That's more like it," she said, producing another sheet of paper and moving toward the other woman. "Here is an updated list of the equipment Oskar Hessling has already tried to blackmail Stephan Conway for. There are also detailed instructions as to where and how they should he routed."

"Stephan will never agree!"

"I think he will." Anna said, calmly sipping her drink."! think your lover will agree to anything to save his skin. Call him."

"Now?"

"Now. I'm sure he has a private phone."

"Yes." Ursula nodded dumbly. "He installs a scrambler line wherever he goes… for business."

"Good, even better. Call him!"

Still weeping, Ursula tugged the phone toward her and dialed.

"Yes?"

"Stephan… it's me."

"Ursula, how dare you call me here… even on this phone!"

"Stephan, something very important has come up…"

"Dammit, Ursula, can't it wait until morning?"

"No, dammit, it can't!"

"All right, all right, darling… calm down. What is it?"

In a halting, weepy voice, Ursula read the three confessions, and then told him about the pictures.

When she finished, there was a long, deathly silence on the other end of the line.

"Stephan?… Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm thinking. Is the woman still there?"

"Yes."

"Put heron!"

She held the receiver out to the Russian. "He wants to talk to you."

Anna Palmitkov removed a Cartier earring and spoke into the phone. "Yes."

"Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I am willing to suppress the information I have in return for certain… indulgences on your part."

"You're asking me to commit treason!"

"Murder, treason… it's all the same."

"Damn you!"

"I have very little time, Mr. Conway. What do you say?"

"I'd like to tell you to kiss my ass."

"I'm sure you would." She chuckled mirthlessly.

"I'll have to see you first… talk to you in person."

Anna paused, reasoned. "That could be arranged."

"I'm due to inspect my Spandau plant in the morning. There is a beer hall on Pininberger Strasse in Staaken, near the wall."

"I can find it."

"Shall we say noon?"

"Noon would be fine. Guten Morgen, Herr Conway."

Anna hung up the phone and replaced her earring.

"He's not going to do it," Ursula said, her already wide eyes even wider.

"He wants to talk. But I'm sure, my dear, that he will do it."

"Are you awake?" she asked from the darkness beside him.

"Yes."

Carter moved his arm over her stomach, but there was no response. She had been waiting in his room, in fact in his bed, when he returned from the meeting with Voigt.

"What happened?" she had asked.

Carter told her as he undressed and slid into the bed beside her.

They talked, and the more they hashed it over, the more desultory she had become. Carter made overtures and she responded, weakly. The lovemaking was mechanical, no passion, minimal result.

Afterward, they had lain for many moments in silence, apart.

Now it seemed she wanted more talk, and Carter wasn't really up to it.

"I've got a gut feeling, right there" — she pressed his arm — "that no matter what you uncover, it will all lead to the Rhinemann woman, and Stephan will end up walking away."

"Not if I can help it."

"Perhaps not even you, Nick, can work a miracle this time. The more we learn about Stephan, the more I realize that he is rich, clever, powerful, and completely amoral. People like that can get away with anything. There are no laws for them."

The dull monotone of her voice struck him. It wasn't like her, and the fatalistic viewpoint she was taking could be dangerous.

"Hey," he said, squeezing her.

"What?"

"I think you've got post-coital depression."

"Don't patronize me, Nick."

"All right," he sighed, "I won't. We need the shooter. I think Hans-Otto will give him to us."

"And then, hopefully, everything will fall into place?"

"Hopefully. Everything in this business is bits and pieces. You only pray they come together."

"Remember Hong Kong?" she asked, her voice raspy with mood.

"Yeah."

"You stayed with me all that night and the next day. That next night I woke up and gave you a name. You left my hospital room. I know where you went and what you did, Nick."

Gently, Carter rolled away from her.

He remembered. He had very carefully worked the Chinese underworld and gotten himself an Uzi. Then he had gone to a Kowloon warehouse and blown away three men.

No report had ever been filed, nor was any connection ever made.

But Lisa had known.

Suddenly he was conscious that she was up, out of the bed, and slipping into her robe.

"Where…?"

"You need your sleep," she replied, moving toward the door. "Tomorrow is a big day… for both of us."

He started to object, but the door was already closing behind her.

Carter was bone-tired, but he lay awake for a long time after she left, worrying about the way he thought her mind was perhaps playing tricks on her.

It was first light when at last he allowed his eyes to close and let sleep overtake him.