The Berlin Target

Six

Dieter Klauswitz's hands beneath the black driving gloves were sweating slightly. That was understandable, and Klauswitz knew it wasn't fear. It was anticipation, the anticipation of properly executing a well-engineered plan with tremendous rewards at its end.

As Stephan Conway finished his speech, he stepped back from the podium. The sound of equal cheering and jeering from the crowd reached Klauswitz's ears, but he closed it out.

Now all of his attention was riveted to the top steps of the library. The three Germans, their wives on their arms, stood. In a line, vague smiles plastered on their faces, they moved forward toward Conway.

The woman in the red dress sat, immobile, as she had through all the speeches, including her husband's.

"Move, damn you, move!" Klauswitz hissed, seeing the frown on Conway's face.

At last the American stepped back, took his wife by one elbow, and tugged her forward with him. As the strains of the West German anthem filled the air, partially quieting the crowd, the tan suit and the red dress joined the line.

The F1 was a bolt-action rifle. The marksman slid the bolt back and then forward, jamming one of the deadly shells into the chamber. He disengaged the safety behind the trigger, and then caressed the trigger itself with his right index finger.

"Damn, damn, damn!" he hissed as the anthem went on and on and both of them remained closed off from his line of fire by others in the line.

Now the first thought of fear entered Klauswitz's mind.

What if they stayed like that through the American anthem? He would never get a clear shot. And then there would be milling around before moving down the steps to the limousines.

"Damn!"

The Star-Spangled Banner" built, and sweat popped out in beads on Klauswitz's forehead.

Then it happened. Conway took a step forward, his back ramrod straight, his big shoulders squared, his knuckles almost white where he gripped his wife's elbow.

She had no choice but to step forward as well.

Klauswitz inhaled, exhaled slowly, until nearly all breath was expelled and his entire body was relaxed.

Then he squeezed.

Horst Vintner was standing thirty feet in front of the podium and slightly to the side at the bottom of the steps. He made his body rigid as it reacted to the martial music.

But his eyes never stopped moving. They swept the steps and the people on them constantly.

It was Vintner who reacted first when he saw the red dress just above the woman's left breast explode.

The hand-held radio was at his lips and he was running up the steps as fast as his sixty-two-year-old legs would carry him.

"Seal off all the streets as far as two over from the Mehring! Stop all traffic from leaving the boulevard as well! The woman has been shot!"

Vintner saw everything at once as he plowed into Stephan Conway's gut.

The woman was already dead, her eyes still open, staring dumbly as she slipped to the steps.

His two men were running toward the center of the steps, and the others stood, staring and flatfooted. None of them had, as yet, realized what was happening.

Vintner and Conway hit the steps in a pile. They had barely stopped rolling when, less than a foot from Conway's shoulder, Vintner saw a long gouge appear in the concrete. He heard the ricochet, and saw a uniformed officer near the library door grab his right thigh.

Vintner covered Conway's body with his own. "Lie still! Don't move!"

"My wife…"

"Your wife is dead. He's still shooting!" Vintner rolled to his back, and heard Conway grunt from the weight.

Everything flashed through the veteran policeman's mind and across his eyes at the same instant.

The wide walk at the foot of the steps and the boulevard beyond were chaos. The two ends of the Mehring and the wider perimeter seemed calm other than massed traffic.

Everyone was doing his job.

Angle was from above… the woman wasn't lifted from her feet by the force of the slug… she was driven down and back… the second slug was also from above… nearly straight down into the concrete.

Vintner's eyes cased the roofs of the office buildings and high-rise apartment houses across the boulevard even as he barked this information into his radio.

"The roofs! Don't let anyone — man, boy, woman, or dog — out of the area!"

The replies came fast and furious.

"All building exits secured, sir!"

"Mehring secured!"

"Perimeter tight, sir!"

Vintner lowered the radio. "Bruchner!"

"Here, sir!"

The man was already crouching at Vintner's shoulder, his own body adding to the shield over Conway, his service revolver in his hand.

"There was a uniform hit, back by the door."

"Yes, sir, in the thigh. But he's dead."

"Good God, did it hit an artery?"

"No, sir, just a scrape on the side of the leg, but he's dead."

Vintner's experienced brain was already putting it together.

Flesh wound, but it killed.

Cyanide-tipped bullets.

A professional hit.

Dieter Klauswitz had barely seen the result of the second slug before the helmet was on his head and he was hurtling down the other side of the Insulaner.

He covered the distance to the swimming pool in seconds, and even though he had sprinted full tilt, he was breathing normally when he slowed to a walk.

He took the steps calmly to the street level, one at a time, and fired up the BMW. The traffic on that side of the Insulaner was not yet even aware of the chaos on the other side in front of the library.

He headed south on Tempelhofer Damm, past the old airport. Around him, going in both directions, were cyclists dressed exactly like himself. At the south end of Steglitz, he bore right.

In a huge arc that would take him nearly three quarters of the way around the city, he rode, using main arteries and side streets about equally.

Avoiding the east-west highway, he zigzagged through all side streets in smaller residential neighborhoods toward Zehlendorf. At the park, he struck north again toward Hallensee. Once there, he zipped onto the highway and ground the throttle open.

At eighty-five miles an hour it took him no time to reach the Muller Strasse cutoff and drop down into Wedding.

Wiebe Strasse was deserted except for one old man at its north end who didn't look up as Klauswitz idled past.

Inside the garage, with the door closed, he checked the time.

With the mobility of the motorcycle over a car, he had traveled practically three quarters of West Berlin's ring in fourteen minutes.

He stripped out of the leathers and threw them aside. The tie went on first, under the collar and knotted, then the jacket. He transferred the suitcase and briefcase to the front of the car, and two minutes after pulling into the garage on the BMW, he pulled out in the white Mercedes.

He turned north toward Tegel Airport, always moving away from the scene. As it had been with the BMW, there were white Mercedeses around him at almost every stoplight.

At the traffic circle in front of the airport, there was a roadblock.

He had expected it. He could have avoided it by using one of the smaller streets to go around Tegeler Lake, but instead he joined the line. There were only three cars in front of him.

"Guten Tag, mein Herr."

"Guten Tag. What's the trouble?"

"Just a check for insurance cards, mein Herr."

Deiter Klauswitz handed over the rental car papers. The officer scarcely glanced at them.

"You are taking the airport road, mein Herr?"

"No, I have business in the Spandau district. I'm an American."

The man's expression changed at once. He scanned the passport briefly and handed it back. "Very good, Herr Klein. You may go out of the line here. The Schwarzer Weg south around the See. It will be faster."

"Thank you."

"Bitte sehr."

He wheeled the Mercedes out of the line and made the left turn that would take him down to the scenic, tree-lined Schwarzer Weg and around the huge lake. He drove well within the speed limit. According to his watch, he still had twenty-three minutes.

Around the lake, he crossed over the Hovel River and speeded up on the Nellendover Strasse north.

At Spandau Prison he made the huge arc that went around the grounds and found the tourist parking lot. He rescued the briefcase and suitcase, locked the car, and walked back to the boulevard after placing the keys on top of the left front tire under the fender well.

It took him thirty seconds to flag down a passing cab.

"Where to, mein Herr?"

"The Ruhleben U-Bahn."

"Bitte, mein Herr."

The taxi lurched forward. Dieter Klauswitz leaned back in the seat and lit the first cigarette he had had in twelve hours.

He peeled the thin black driving gloves from his hands and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. He would deposit them in a trash receptacle in the subway station.

So far… perfect. With only one step to go.

With the usual German efficiency and concentration on detail, the area had been sealed off within seconds after the shooting. Now pedestrians were being let out one by one, and each was thoroughly searched. All vehicular traffic was still quarantined.

Horst Vintner had set up a command post in the front reading room of the library. Through the tall windows he had a commanding view of the entire area, and more radiophones had been brought in for added communications.

There were roadblocks on all the roads through West Berlin, as well as the four routes through the wall that led to the autobahn and West Germany. All private planes had been grounded at Tempelhof and Tegel airports, and roadblocks had been erected at the access roads to Tegel and the commercial airlines.

"Herr Vintner…"

"Ja?"

"They have finished with the on-sight and are ready to remove the bodies."

"Ja." Vintner nodded, scratching his initials on the form shoved in front of him. In Germany, he thought ruefully, everything but a normal bowel movement required a form and a signature.

"Herr Conway would like to return to his hotel."

The chief inspector nodded and waved his hand.

"Herr Vintner…"

"Ja, Bruchner?"

"All the roofs have been checked. Nothing. The office-by-office and room-by-room search is also nearly completed, and also nothing."

"He had to get rid of the rifle. Garbage cans, autos, sewers…?"

"Checked, mein Herr. Nothing."

"Dammit, Bruchner! It's only a six-block area and we've got three hundred men out there!"

"I know, mein Herr, but…"

Vintner put his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. He slowed everything down: the adrenaline pumping through his veins, his mental processes, and the sweep of his eyes.

"Where… where did the bastard fire from?"

He started to his right, at the Mehring Gate. No, the angle was wrong.

Mentally he moved his own body out to the steps. He placed it just as he remembered Delaine Conway's stance, slightly turned to her left, decreasing his own six-foot height to her five-foot-eight.

His eyes traveled along the roofs of the buildings across the Mehring Damm for the hundredth time in the last hour. And for the hundredth time he came up with nothing.

But for the first time he continued on to the left, down Mehring Damm… and then up.

"The Insulaner," he whispered.

"What?"

"The Insulaner, Bruchner! The Insulaner! Take four teams, ten men each, and go up the Insulaner. Start at the top on this side and work your way down!"

"Ja, Herr Vintner."

That was it. Vintner was sure of it. The Insulaner.

God, it would be well over four hundred meters.

The son of a bitch was one hell of a shot, even if he did miss his primary target.

Dieter Klauswitz's timing was perfect. He arrived trackside precisely two minutes before the 2:41 express U-Bahn to Schlesisches Tor pulled in.

He sat in one of the seats looking forward. He shouldn't have. Watching all the small stops fly by only added tension. But then tension and danger were part of it.

He only counted the express stops: Olympia Stadium… Neu-Westend… Theodor-Heuss-Platz…

Sweat was soaking the back of his shirt, but he welcomed it. The last few minutes were always the worst. Once you had the loot and you stepped back out the window or onto the roof to make your final escape, that was always the worst part.

Kaiser Damm… Sophie-Charlotte-Platz… Bismarck Strasse…

It was a cross-city interchange and a long stop. A woman of immense proportions and a florid face oozed into the seat beside him.

"Guten Tag, mein Herr."

"Gut… good afternoon, madam." He had to remember: English from here on in. He was just a businessman, no knowledge of German other than their wonderful ability to manufacture cheap toys.

Deutsche Oper… Ernst-Reuter-Platz… Zoologischer Garten…

"Engländer?"

"Nein… no, I'm an American."

"Ach, I am so sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Ja. Der Amerikaner. Herr Stephan Conway. He vas shot at der library a little while ago."

Klauswitz wished the fat old lady spoke no English. "That's terrible!"

"Ja."

Wirtenberg-platz… Nollendorf-platz… the Ku'Damm…

Right about now he would be passing almost under his old apartment. Klauswitz willed the train to go faster between stations and the stops to be shorter.

Gleisdreieck… Mockernbruke…

"Ladies and gentlemen… Hallesches Tor, Hallesches Tor…"

Klauswitz gathered his bags and stood. "My stop."

"Wiedersehen."

"Good-bye, madam."

He emerged into the sunlight blinking, and forced down the urge to look over his shoulder, down the Mehring Damm, and see the result of the chaos he had caused nearly an hour and a half before.

He had shot the woman and traversed nearly the entire city of West Berlin twice by four modes of transportation: motorcycle, auto, taxi, and U-Bahn.

Now he was back, three blocks north from where the deed had been committed, just outside the police security perimeter, and using his fifth and final mode of transportation: his feet.

Swinging his bags jauntily, he walked north along Friedrich Strasse. The American soldiers on the West German side of Checkpoint Charlie barely glanced at the cover of his passport and nodded.

Unlike their Volkspolizei counterparts fifty yards away, they could care less who left the city.

"Your papers, mein Herr."

The Vopo corporal's face, beneath his coal-scuttle helmet, was youthful but hard. The icy blue eyes never left Klauswitz's as he passed over his passport and prepaid entry visa.

"You know of the midnight curfew, Herr Klein?"

"Yes, I do, but I am staying the night and flying out of the GDR in the morning."

Klauswitz passed over the Metropol Hotel one-night voucher and the prepaid Aeroflot ticket. He kept his eyes on the AKM 7.62mm assault rifle and the gray five-button tunic behind it as the man examined the remainder of his papers.

"Very good, Herr Klein. You may change your currency at that first window."

"Thank you."

"Bitte."

The Vopo almost had a smile on his face as Klauswitz moved to the window. The East Germans and the Russians were always happy to oblige anyone who wanted to spend lots of dollars or marks on Aeroflot instead of Western commercial airlines.

To enter East Germany, a traveler must change twenty-five West German marks for twenty-five East German marks, and this money must be spent in the GDR. Also, all money of any kind must be declared.

Klauswitz had his twenty-five marks ready by the time he reached the window. Another Vopo, this one with a twelve-year chevron on his arm, took the money and handed Klauswitz a currency declaration voucher.

He filled it out, got his GDR marks, and picked up his bags.

"Customs there, mein Heir."

Klauswitz crossed the aisle and placed his bags on a table.

The customs inspector spoke to him in German.

"I'm sorry, I speak very little German," Klauswitz replied, proud of the fact that he had not rattled an automatic reply.

"Are any of these things dutiable?" the man asked in English.

"No, no, everything is for my personal use. I have business papers in the briefcase."

The check of the suitcase was perfunctory. Each paper in the briefcase was read.

"You do business here?"

"Not this time," Klauswitz replied, smiling. "Perhaps next time."

"Ja. Pass."

Klauswitz picked up his bags and walked on up Friedrich Strasse, past the Unter den Linden, and ten minutes later entered the lobby of the Metropol.

Horst Vintner stood staring down at the French F1 sniper rifle. In one hand he held the magazine. In the other hand he held the two spent shell casings and the remaining eight rounds of live ammunition.

"It's a good thing," Bruchner said from his side, "that he didn't have time for a third shot. He would have gotten Conway for sure."

"Ja, for sure," Vintner replied, his brows meeting in a frown.

He had already examined the tips of the live shells. He wouldn't have to get the autopsy results on the two bodies to know that they had been doctored with cyanide. He'd seen the method used too often.

In the hands of a good shooter, this ammo, with this rifle, was accurate and deadly at an even longer range than the Insulaner to the library.

The doctored shells and the choice of weapon told Vintner that he was dealing with not just a shooter, but a flat-out expert marksman and a pro.

The woman had caught it right in the heart. The slug killed her probably before the cyanide could even take effect.

Horst Vintner didn't like it. It smelled.

"Heir Chief Inspector…"

"Ja?"

"We might have something… two witnesses."

Carter had set the timer on the television before he dozed off. The announcer's voice awakened him, but it was several seconds before the man's monotonal voice became words in his brain. When it did, he sat bolt upright in the bed and glued his eyes to the screen.

"…fortunately, there was not time for the assassin to attempt a third shot. Even with that, according to our footage and eyewitness reports, it was only the quick action of SSD Chief Inspector Horst Vintner that saved the life today of American industrialist Stephan Conway."

Carter was already reaching for his jacket as a camera panned up over the heads of the crowd to Stephan and Delaine Conway standing on the steps of the library. Suddenly he saw Delaine Conway crumple against her husband and a tall, stocky man surge from the crowd.

"However, the incident — as you can see — did have tragic consequences. The assassin did claim two victims. Mrs. Conway — the former Virginia socialite Delaine Berrington — died instantly from a bullet wound in the upper chest. The second victim…"

Carter didn't hear the rest. He was already out the door and hurtling down the hall. He pounded a fist on first one door of Lisa's suite and then the other.

"Lisa… Lisa! Are you in there? Answer me!"

"May I help you, mein Herr?"

A plump-faced maid, a huge ring of keys hanging from a long chain around her neck, stood in the middle of the hall.

"Open the door! Hurry!"

"Nein, mein Herr."

"Ja! Schnell! Quickly!" Carter roared.

"Ja, ja, ja," the woman replied, and with obvious reluctance she jangled a key into the lock.

Carter burst into the room. He analyzed the entire scene at a glance.

Lisa had done the same thing he had done, used the timer on the television to wake her up. She had been in the process of dressing when the announcement had come on. Now she sat, white-faced, wide-eyed, catatonic on the side of the bed, staring at the screen.

She wore a skirt and bra, and a blouse was pulled over only one shoulder.

"Lisa…"Carter approached her closely. "Lisa…"

The head turned, the eyes grew wider, and then she started screaming.

"Mein Gott!" the maid cried out, and lurched toward the door.

"Stay here!" Carter bellowed, enveloping Lisa in his powerful arms, locking hers to her sides and her body to his. "Doctor… is there a doctor?"

"Ja!" The maid had to shout to be heard over Lisa's hysterical screams.

"The phone… get him up here!"

It took only a couple of minutes, and the man was all efficiency when he arrived. While Carter held her to the bed, the physician gave her a sedative, straight to her system through a vein in her right arm.

In short, clipped sentences, Carter explained.

"Shock," the doctor said when he had finished. "Perhaps a hospital would be best for a day or two. Are you her husband?"

"Friend, close friend. I agree, a hospital."

By the time two attendants arrived with a gurney, Lisa had calmed. She was nearly out as they strapped her down, but she managed to speak.

"Nick…"

"Yes, Lisa?"

"Nick… Nick…"

"I'm here, Lisa, I'm right here."

He grasped her hand. Her eyes opened, wavered, and eventually found his.

"It's wrong, Nick… it's wrong."

"Yeah, baby…"

"He did it, Nick… Stephan killed her…"

"Lisa…"

She was fading fast, but just as her eyes closed, he heard her say one more thing: "That dress… terrible. Delaine would never wear that dress…"