The Berlin Target

Four

Fräulein Gertrude Klammer held her right wrist with her left to stop it from shaking as she applied lipstick to her thin lips.

She was rather pretty, in a stem, aging way, with light brown hair that she always wore pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head. The skirt and full blouse she wore were just as severe. Over the blouse she wore a baggy cardigan sweater. She had the nervous habit of pulling the cardigan together, as if her primness could hide her quite remarkable figure.

The severity and the primness were acquired characteristics. The remarkable figure had been acquired at the age of twelve, and it was on it that she blamed most of her troubled life.

From the age of thirteen, men had been attracted to Gertrude, and she found it impossible to resist them. And all she ever got from men was a child… and a police record from the prostitution and petty thievery she had engaged in to feed her son.

Now the boy was seventeen and was enrolled in the Hauptdort Academy in Leipzig. He was a gentleman, and he didn't know that his mother ran a back-street dive that catered to pimps and whores, and a small hotel above it that charged for its rooms by the hour.

It was a good job, reliable and secure, even though it did not pay well enough. And for that reason, Gertrude was not above doing a little moonlighting now and then.

The messages, always folded around a five-hundred-mark note, had started arriving three weeks before. It wasn't the first time her mysterious employer had requested her services in such a way.

There were three altogether, simple and typewritten on plain paper and slipped under her door.

We will be requiring your services very soon, read the first one.

A week later the second arrived: A white Mercedes sedan has been reserved for you at Europa car rental. Claim the car at Tegel Airport on Friday afternoon at three o'clock sharp.

Gertrude had picked up the car and returned to the hotel, where she had parked it in an all-night garage just off the Kurfürsten Damm nearby.

She had awakened that Sunday morning in a cold sweat, and it got worse when she spotted the white envelope by her front door.

The message was much longer, but equally as terse in its demands. There was also a key in the envelope.

Needless to say. Fräulein Klammer, you never received any of these messages.

Fräulein Klammer adjusted her sweater, grabbed a purse, and left her top-floor apartment. Halfway down the stairs, she ran into the night chambermaid.

"Guten Tag, Fräulein Klammer," the old woman said, ambling on by her, shoulders bent forward with the load of linen she carried.

"And good morning to you, Marie. Busy?"

"Ja, ja… such sin on the sabbath! This is what we have come to!"

Marie was right. The desk on the floor above the street was crowded. Four girls were standing in line waiting for room keys. Their customers stood shyly in the shadows against the far wall.

"Georg?"

"Ja, Fräulein?"

"I'm going out for a while. I shouldn't be over an hour or so."

"Ja, ja."

She looked into the hotel bar on the street floor. It was crowded, and the air was filled with deafening American rock music as well as the scent of stale beer and cloying, cheap perfume. Holding her breath and pulling her sweater together as she always did, she moved through the smoky room and stepped out onto Roscher Strasse.

To her left, the night sounds of the Ku'Damm blasted at her. She moved quickly toward the sound and the garish neons. Once on the Ku'Damm, she walked past peep shows, all-night strip clubs, and sex movies to the garage.

I know nothing, she thought as she climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes. I am guilty of nothing but picking up the car and taking it back. What it is used for has nothing to do with me. I am guilty of nothing.

But as Fräulein Gertrude Klammer pulled out onto the Ku'Damm and turned north toward the Wedding section of West Berlin, she vowed that this would be the last time she would accept one of the envelopes and its shady commands.

Dieter Klauswitz throttled the big, powerful BMW back and leaned it left. Skillfully he eluded oncoming traffic on the See Strasse and glided into the Volkspark Rehberge.

Ahead of him stretched the wide motorway that split the park from east to west. To his right was the Plotzensee. About a hundred yards inside the entrance he darted the powerful motorcycle into the trees onto a pedestrian walk and bicycle lane.

There were several strollers who dodged out of his way, but none of them screamed abuses at him. Pedestrians were used to the ill-mannered long-haired youths who rode their powerful machines anywhere they chose.

They only shook their heads and continued their evening stroll as Klauswitz roared around the lake.

But beneath the black leather and helmet with its dark visor was no raw youth with long hair and greasy beard.

Dieter Klauswitz was clean-shaven with cold, intense blue eyes and chiseled Aryan features. His hair was strikingly blond and carefully trimmed. And beneath the leather jacket and leather pants was a toned and athletic body.

Dieter Klauswitz was thirty-eight years old, and an accomplished thief.

As a youth he had honed his body to perfection. His desire, while he was growing up in Bavaria, was to be a great downhill skier.

That had failed.

In place of it he had trained himself in the cross-country biathlon. He schooled himself on every make of rifle known to man and became an expert. His instructors eventually deemed him one of the best marksmen they had ever seen. They also deemed him one of the worst skiers.

And Klauswitz had another flaw. He loved nice things… clothes, food, the best wines, the most beautiful women.

He became a thief, and a good one. His athletic body allowed him to scale walls like a human fly, and his alert mind and nimble fingers enabled him to open safes whenever he chose.

But Klauswitz got caught. He went to prison, was released, and got caught again.

Now he was awaiting trial, and his old ability with a rifle was going to save him. He had no compunction about killing someone, anyone, if he could secure a new identity, a great deal of money, and avoid another prison term.

That was why he was in the Volkspark Rehberge, and doing business with Herr Oskar Hessling.

At the westernmost part of the park was a walled cemetery. The walkway ended abruptly in the trees that separated the lake from the cemetery.

Klauswitz drove the BMW off into the trees until he was completely enshrouded in darkness. He killed the engine and sat for several seconds. When he was sure no one had seen and become curious about his maneuver, he put the bike on its stand and moved soundlessly through the trees.

With ease he vaulted the stone wall and moved like a specter through the tombstones. It was difficult reading the names and the dates on the markers through the dark visor before his face, but he dared not raise it. The last thing he wanted was for the Turk to see his face.

"He always delivers," Hessling had said. "He doesn't know me; he mustn't know you. He will hand over the goods; you will hand over the envelope. You will never see each other again."

Klauswitz had to hand it to Oskar Hessling. He was a planner. He planned everything down to the last detail. Nothing was left to go astray.

That was why Klauswitz had agreed to perform this service for the man. That and, of course, the fringe benefits.

When, deep in the cemetery, it became just too dark to make his way, he used a small penlight.

At last he found it: KRONER LANE, PLOTS 16–34.

He had barely snapped off the light when a short, dark figure in jeans and a dark jacket materialized from nowhere.

"Good evening, effendi."

"You are the Turk?"

"I am."

"Frau Horning is buried near here."

"I believe she is in Number Eighteen."

"You have the merchandise?"

"You have an envelope for me?"

Klauswitz used two fingers to withdraw a plain white envelope from beneath his jacket.

"One second."

The Turk faded into the darkness and returned in seconds. He crouched by the mound of a grave and set a leather case between them.

"Hold the light," Klauswitz said, passing it to the other man.

The case was about two feet by one foot and approximately five inches deep. He popped the two clasps and opened the lid, turning the case at the same time so that the light would reveal its contents.

"It is a French F1, Tireur d'EIite, 7.62mm. They say it will consistently group ten rounds into a circle smaller than inches at better than two hundred meters."

The black helmet nodded, and beneath the dark visor Klauswitz's thick lips curled in a smile. "It will."

Dieter Klauswitz had used the French sniper rifle before, but never with a silencer. This one was a beauty, broken down into five parts. The bipod was attached, and the barrel was equipped with a flash hider.

The man behind the visor loved guns. He deeply regretted that he would have to abandon this one after it had done its work.

"How clean is it?"

"Stolen in Marseilles two weeks ago," the Turk replied. "Absolutely untraceable. Do you need ammo?"

"No. That's been taken care of." Klauswitz passed the envelope over and closed the lid of the case.

"Good hunting," the Turk chuckled, and the two men faded into the darkness in different directions.

Seconds later the steady bass throb of the BMW's engine filled the park, and the rider headed north toward Wedding and Wiebe Strasse.

Gertrude Klammer backed the Mercedes into the dirt-floored garage. She killed the lights and the engine, and left all the keys on the front seat.

The envelope was beneath the bricks just as the message said. Gertrude didn't bother to check the contents. She knew the thousand marks would be there.

Stuffing it into her purse, she stepped out onto the walk of Wiebe Strasse and carefully closed the door. When the padlock was snapped, she hurried toward the lights of the larger Moabit Allee.

The Wedding section frightened her. It was full of empty houses too run-down for the landlords to repair. Young, hippie-type squatters and single foreign workers occupied them because they could do so for nothing.

But there were also criminals of all kinds in the area. She was elated to find a cruising cab within two blocks.

Unknown to Fräulein Gertrude Klammer, she had a protector. He sat on the BMW at the other end of Wiebe Strasse in the darkness between two houses. He didn't move until the woman was safely in the cab and it was speeding away.

The last thing Klauswitz wanted was for this woman to be molested in any way. It would be a disaster for the police to question her reasons for being in the Wedding section alone at this hour.

He didn't start the bike. He pushed it to Number 9 and unlocked the door with the second key Hessling had provided.

Inside, he was the epitome of efficiency. He closed the door tightly and snapped the BMW's light on, aiming it so the beam illuminated the rear of the garage and the Mercedes. Then, from the rafters of the garage, he took down a wicker picnic basket and a suitcase.

The wicker basket contained sandwiches, fruit, and a thermos of juice. He lifted everything out and put the gun case in the bottom of the basket. When the thermos and food were replaced, the basket was filled perfectly to the lid.

The suitcase went into the trunk of the car. Inside it was a briefcase and the complete wardrobe of a traveling businessman.

Quickly, Klauswitz stripped out of the leather and boots. Beneath them he was completely naked. From the suitcase he donned socks, shorts, dark blue pinstripe trousers, and a white-on-white shirt. He carefully knotted a light blue tie and slipped into the suit jacket.

Everything fit, including a pair of black Gucci loafers, imprinted on the inside heel with the mark of the Italian shoemaker's Fifth Avenue store in New York City.

In fact, all the clothes bore American labels.

He removed the jacket and shoes, and placed them on the Mercedes's rear seat. Carefully, retaining the knot in the tie, he removed it and placed it on the jacket.

It was a bit of a struggle to get the leathers on over the clothing, but he managed.

Next he checked the briefcase.

The papers were all in order and scrupulously accurate. They detailed recent business transactions between Mockdendorf Limited of West Berlin, a toy manufacturer, and Klein Enterprises of Albany, New York.

Mockdendorf was a very real company, with offices in West Berlin, Hamburg, and Frankfurt.

Klein Enterprises was a fiction, but the Vopo guards at Checkpoint Charlie would never know that.

He replaced the papers and picked up a passport packet. Inside, he found a U.S. passport issued in the name of David Klein. Address: 414-C Shamrock Towers, Albany, New York. Occupation: President, Klein Enterprises.

He flipped to the back pages of the passport where frontier stamps were placed. David Klein had entered the West German Republic two days before, via Frankfurt.

The passport photograph was of a blond-haired, smiling Dieter Klauswitz.

Also in the packet was a payment voucher for the Metropol Hotel. This he would need in order to stay overnight in the German Democratic Republic. And he had to stay overnight, because the remaining item in the packet was a first-class ticket on Tuesday morning's Aeroflot flight from East Berlin to London's Heathrow Airport.

Well done, Dieter thought, very well done. I commend you, Herr Oskar Hessling.

The last item in the briefcase was a small, square box. Inside it were ten 7.62mm steel-cased shells. Each one of them had been doctored, a minuscule amount of potassium cyanide inserted in their tips.

Klauswitz was sure he would need only one, two at the most, but he emptied all ten of the shells into the zippered pocket of his black leather jacket.

He closed and locked the doors and the trunk lid of the sedan, and then surveyed the car and the garage.

Everything was in readiness for his return the following day.

After securely attaching the wicker basket to the rear of the bike, he wheeled it from the garage and locked the door. On Moabit Allee he cranked the big machine and roared south toward the brighter lights of downtown Berlin.

As he rode, he retraced the plan and the escape route. He had gone over it three times in minute detail in his mind by the time he parked the machine at the foot of the Insulaner Mountain.

At the end of the war, Berlin was rubble. Before the rebuilding process could start, huge amounts of twisted steel, concrete, bricks, and other debris had to be disposed of or burned.

The solution that was eventually adopted was to heap the scattered rubble into huge artificial hills, cover them with soil in a tiered effect, and plant the whole with grass, shrubs, and small trees. As a result, these rubble «mountains» now dotted the skyline of Berlin.

The largest of them was the Insulaner, soaring 260 feet into the air. From its peak most of West Berlin could be seen.

But come the next morning, Dieter Klauswitz would be interested in only one piece of West Berlin real estate: the wide, sweeping steps of the American Memorial Library. It was on those steps, in a little more than twelve hours, that several West German dignitaries and the American, Stephan Conway, would speak.

Klauswitz removed the wicker basket from the rear of the BMW and strolled across Mehring Damm to a phone booth.

He deposited the correct coins and dialed. The phone was answered on the first ring. He easily recognized the now-familiar wheeze.

"Herr Hessling, this is Pilgrim."

"Ja, mein Herr. The car?"

"Fine, and the suitcases as well."

"Excellent," came the wheeze. "And the papers?"

"Also fine. Everything is go."

"I have already informed our employer. The money should reach me within the hour. It will be deposited in the Bahamas account ten seconds after the newscast confirming."

"It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

"Danke. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Pilgrim."

"Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Hessler."

Dieter Klauswitz walked back across the boulevard, around the fence that bordered the swimming pool that had been built on the lower tier of the rubble mountain, and began climbing the Insulaner.

Oskar Hessling poked the telephone's disconnect button and strained his stubby fingers toward the half-eaten box of chocolates. He popped one into his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with a slurping drink of schnapps.

"Good man," he wheezed, and burped, "damned good man. I knew he would be. And a loner. Perfect."

Oskar Hessling had a habit of talking out loud to himself. Often he would ask himself questions and give himself answers. It had come from years of being alone. It was only one of the myriad oddities about the man. Another was the fact that, in the vast twenty-odd rooms of the mansion where he now sat, there was not a single mirror.

The reason for this was because Oskar Hessling could not stand to look at himself.

He was huge. Not even corpulent, grossly fat, or obese could describe the 450 pounds of flab and blubber that rolled in waves beneath his tentlike clothing.

His jowls hung far below his chin on either side, and his eyes were like tiny dark holes in the sickly white balloon of his face.

But as fat and grossly ugly as Oskar Hessling was, it did not affect the cunning of his razor-sharp mind. Unlike Hans-Otto Voigt — the other master of crime in West Berlin — Hessling needed no army of stooges around him. He did everything necessary to amass his great wealth with just his bank of telephones.

Now he squinted in deep concentration. In two seconds he came up with the number he desired from over five hundred in the memory bank of his phenomenal mind.

"Ja?"

"Guten Morgen, Frulein. The pilgrim has landed."

"I understand."

"I can expect you soon?"

"Mein Herr, I think it would be wiser…"

"My dear lady, I have survived these many years by being extremely careful. I shall expect you in fifteen minutes."

"But…"

The dial tone filled the room from the phone's speaker box. Hessling punched up a new number. He didn't have to think to dial this one. He used it often.

"The Golden Calf."

"Put Antonio on!"

"Certainly, Herr Hessling."

The Golden Calf was just one of the many slightly sleazy nightclubs Hessling owned on or around the Ku'Damm featuring female strippers or male transvestites.

"Ja, mein Herr?"

"Guten Morgan. Are you busy, Tony?"

"Only fair."

"Good, good. I have a tender morsel arriving soon, Tony. Class and looks, a real beauty. You will enjoy her."

"The usual fee, mein Herr?"

"Of course, my boy… and perhaps a little bonus. This is very special. Shall we say an hour?"

"I'll be there."

"Good."

He broke the connection, thought, and dialed yet again. The London number rang several times before the brusque tones of a female voice on an answering machine came through.

"Peter Limpton's office. Mr. Limpton is not in. If you will leave your name, number, and message at the tone, Mr. Limpton will return your call as soon as possible."

Hessling waited until the dull tone sounded, then wheezed out his message. "I believe I will be able to deliver the shipment of radio parts after all, Mr. Limpton. If you will please call me in a day or so at the Berlin number I gave you, we can discuss the financial arrangements."

As the dial tone filled the room, Hessling managed a laugh. It hurt his chest. He washed another chocolate down with schnapps, and dialed the last number he would need that night.

"Stasis, Corporal Kleimann."

"Colonel BaIenkov, bitte."

"Bitte."

Stasis was short for Staatssicherhehsdienst, the East German state security service. Colonel Volatory Balkenkov was Moscow's KGB liaison to Stasis.

Hessling wiped drool from his chin and smiled as he waited. He delighted in his own cleverness. He would soon have it all, and what better way to force the American to sell him the goods than to enlist the aid of the Russians. They needn't know that he was selling the goods right back to them through Peter Limpton.

"Balenkov."

"Guten Morgen, mein Herr," Hessling rasped.

"Ah, Hessling. I was wondering when you were going to call. What do I get for my little favors?"

"As yet, Colonel, I am not sure. But the prospect for reward is great. Sometime in the late afternoon, today, an American, David Klein, will check into the Metropol."

"Yes?"

"His real name is Dieter Klauswitz. He's a West German, currently out on parole and awaiting trial for robbery. That should be enough to hold him for a few days, shouldn't it?"

"More than enough. But why?"

"I must make a contact or two on Tuesday. I'll call you that evening and let you know what to do with him, and how great both our rewards will be. Auf Wiedersehen, Colonel."

"Wiedersehen, Herr Hessling."

Hessling pushed the disconnect button and poured himself another glass of schnapps. He wouldn't be needing the telephone anymore.

He could almost see the Russian's face grow florid and hear the curses being thrown at him over the wall.

Hessling didn't care. He had provided many services for the Russian pig. This, in the end, would be another one. Needless to say, the service would also swell Hessling bank accounts to bursting.

But enough of business, he thought. It was time to contemplate the pleasures that would take place shortly.

Antonio and the woman.

His heart was already palpitating too much. He would have to be careful and not get too excited.

She parked several blocks away and walked down the winding street lined by tall hedges. Over them she could see the slate roofs and soaring gables of huge, stately houses against the dark sky.

It was easy to spot Herr Oskar Hessling's mansion. It was larger and grander than all the others on the street.

With a slightly shaking hand, she pushed the button on the entry buzzer. She disliked doing business in the wee hours of the morning.

"Ja?" said a voice through the speaker grille.

"I am at the gate."

"Ah, yes, Fräulein, come in. The front door is unlocked."

There was a buzz and the gate popped open. She stepped through and closed it behind her.

The house sat well back from the street at the round of a U-shaped, tree-lined drive. It was deathly quiet other than the tapping of her heels on the cobbled walk. The front door opened with a grating sound from the hinges, and she stepped into a long, high-ceilinged hall with huge oak doors leading into well-appointed rooms on either side.

The last door on the right, my dear. It is my study."

The voice came from a small speaker secreted somewhere in the wall above her.

The house was baronial, with dark, wood-paneled walls, rough-hewn ceiling beams, ornately carved balconies, displays of stuffed animals, and brooding tapestries. There were even crossed sabers and a knight's helmet over the fireplace at the end of the hall.

Hessling sat in the special chair that had been designed and reinforced to accommodate his huge bulk. Ranged on the horseshoe desk around him were television screens, computer consoles, and the telephones he used to run his empire.

The room was as gargantuan as its owner, and the walls, floor to ceiling, were lined with leather-bound tomes. She was sure that not a single one of them had ever been opened.

"Guten Morgen, Fräulein."

"Herr Hessling."

"You are even more beautiful than at our last meeting."

Hessling could feel the pressure in his pounding heart as he watched her glide across the room. Her amazing body was draped in an expensive black dress that stylishly revealed richly curved hips, flaring thighs, and jutting breasts.

The woman wasn't a classic beauty, but she was vibrant and eroticism seemed to ooze from her. And even more than her sensuality, Hessling sensed that beneath that calm, cold beauty lay a full-blown predator.

Hessling liked that. It added spice to what he was going to force her to do.

Dismissing the leer in his piglike eyes — and trying not to look at his grossness with her own — the woman set the briefcase on the desk beside him. She flipped the catches and opened the lid. "It's all there… in dollars."

Before she could retreat, he grabbed her arm. Her stomach churned as his thick lips slobbered over the back of her hand.

"You're shaking, my dear."

"Why shouldn't I?" she murmured. "It isn't often I arrange to have someone murdered."

"True. But I think you also shake because you find me repugnant."

This time she met his gaze directly. "Yes. I do," she replied, snatching her arm from his grasp and stepping back.

His massive shoulders shrugged. "No matter. It doesn't bother me. Everyone, my entire life, has found me repugnant. I've learned to feed on it."

"Would you please count the money? I have to get back. Needless to say. I have a long day ahead of me."

"Yes, you do, don't you." He laughed, and it instantly turned into a gasping wheeze. It was several moments before he got his breathing back under control. "The bar is there, against the wall. Fix yourself a drink."

She didn't want to spend a minute more than necessary with him, but a drink would help. She could feel his tiny eyes peeling away her clothing as she poured liquor into a glass.

When she turned back to face him, it was even worse. As his meaty hands extracted the bound bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills from the briefcase, his eyes never left her.

She shivered. She felt as though he were actually raping her with his eyes.

"I have done some checking… made a few inquiries."

"So?"

"I know who you are, Fräulein. I know your connections, and from a few deductions I think I can safely say that you are not doing this entirely on your own initiative."

"You have been paid," she said, trying in vain to keep a nervous quiver out of her voice. "Whatever you know, the money is to buy your silence as well as the deal."

"I think not." He finished stacking the money and gave her his full attention. "I think my silence requires an added payment of sorts."

"How much?"

"Oh, not monetary."

"What, then?" The eyes narrowed until she could hardly see the pupils at all. Her whole body was shaking now.

"You are very beautiful. Fräulein. Your body beneath that clothing is, I'm sure, a work of art. I would like to see you naked."

"You're mad."

"No, not mad… lustful. Under this bulk I am a volcano of seething lust."

"You mean you want me to…"

"Have sex? Yes. But not with me. I cannot, you see. My doctors tell me the excitement would kill me. My heart, you know."

She set the glass down on the bar. Her hands were trembling so hard now that she couldn't hold it.

"What, then…" she stammered.

"I want to watch you make love. I have already arranged for a young man to drop by shortly."

"No!"

"He is Italian, and quite handsome. He is also, I assure you, very clean. I do believe, my dear, that in the end you will enjoy it."

"You are mad, completely mad!" she cried, lurching toward him without fully realizing what she was doing. "I won't do it! You can't make me! You daren't say a word! You are as implicated as I!"

"Ah, that is where you are wrong. It would be your word against mine. And I assure you, my dear. I can provide the authorities with enough information that they would look no further than you or your lover."

Suddenly his left hand shot forward and captured her wrist. His strength was immense, and the speed with which he pulled her toward him astounded her.

His right hand was equally as quick and adept as he gathered the front of her dress in his fingers.

"Stop! Stop it, you pig!"

His hand yanked, and the buttons from the bodice to the hem parted. In almost the same movement, his fingers slid beneath one cup of her bra and began to painfully knead her breast.

"Beautiful, sheer perfection," he wheezed.

"Bastard!" she shrieked, and raked the right side of his face with the claws of her left hand.

Blood spouted from four even red lines in his fat cheek. It gathered on his chin and dripped down to spread a crimson stain on his shirt.

But he didn't howl in pain, nor did he remove his hand from her breast. Instead, he smiled.

"A predator… a sleek cat with claws. Remove your underwear… and we'll have you ready for Tony when he arrives."

His breath was coming in gasps now, so strained that he could hardly utter the words. He was perspiring heavily, and his chest was heaving with obvious effort.

"Your… flesh… excites… me…"

Suddenly she stopped trying to get away from him. The rage faded from her face, replaced by a smile. Her eyes narrowed as the idea took hold, and her body became pliant under his hands.

"My body… it pleases you?" she purred.

"Shouldn't do this… dangerous… for me."

"Let go of my arm so I can take off my bra."

"Yes… beautiful…"

Leaning forward so her scent filled his nostrils, she lifted her legs and slipped off her pumps. Clasping both hands behind her neck, she stretched languidly, like a cat, breasts thrusting upward.

Hessling clasped his own hands to his chest, as if by doing so he could ease the incredible pain he could feel building inside it. He tried to look away, but he found it impossible. Her eyes and her body challenged him to ignore her, to be unaware of what she was offering.

She shrugged and the ripped dress slid over her shoulders, arms, and hips, falling in a heap at her feet. Her figure was exquisite, a voluptuous jewel of perfect proportions. She leaned down to retrieve the dress, full breasts moving impatiently in the tight confines of her bra.

She smiled, placing the dress over a chair. Touching her lower lip with her tongue, she concentrated on rolling the black sheen of panty hose to her ankles, then stepped free. The stomach was flat, the legs firm and delicately muscled, the lines of her body free from bloat or softness.

He gasped in admiration, as much for the practiced performance as for the undeniable beauty.

The lacy bra was so tight it cut into the smooth flesh. Unhooking it, she pulled it down over her arms. Her breasts were high, conical, and tipped with delicate pink.

With a smooth action of her hips, she removed the black panties, tossing them away.

"That's… enough, for now," he choked, thumping his chest with his meaty fists. "We shall wait for the boy…"

"What for?" she chided, running her hands under and over her breasts.

She stepped forward and took one of his hands. It was balled into a tight fist.

Holding his wrist with one hand, she raked the nails of the other hand down to the curled fingers. When they opened, she thrust the hand between her legs and clamped her thighs over it.

"Oh, God… oh, God…"

She pulled his head between her breasts and squeezed their soft fullness with her elbows.

Involuntarily, his hand began to move between her legs. Her perfume made his mind reel, and even as he felt breath leaving him, he blubbered between the twin mounds of soft flesh that denied him air.

"Ox…oxygen…" he gasped, his free hand snaking across the desk.

She saw the movement and stopped it with her own hand.

She speeded up her gyrations. A moaning sound joined his labored breathing. His body was heaving now. and he began to whine. And then the whine turned into a rattle.

Suddenly he lurched, sending her against the desk. He swayed to his feet, clutching his chest, and then toppled with a dull thud to the floor.

"Pig," she hissed, tears streaming from her eyes. "Dirty pig!""

She didn't want to touch him again, but she had to. She practically had to grind her fingers into the folds of flesh at his neck before she was sure he was dead.

She dressed quickly. She found the buttons that had been pulled from her dress and dropped them into her purse. With paper clips, she fastened the dress, and then returned the stacks of bills to the briefcase.

Then, briefcase and purse in hand, she stood at the door and surveyed the room a last time.

The glass. It was all she had touched besides the front doorknob.

She cleaned the glass with her skirt and used the garment again on the knob as she let herself out.

Barely taking a breath, she ran all the way to her car and tumbled inside.

Then she fell apart.

It was twenty minutes before she could make her fingers work to put the key in the ignition.

As she drove past Hessling's in the predawn darkness, she saw a tall, handsome young man pushing the button.