The Berlin Target

Nine

"We have worked him in teams all night, Herr Colonel."

Balenkov scraped a little more beard off the right side of his face before he spoke. "And he has told you nothing beyond his name, rank, and serial number."

"What, Herr Colonel?"

"Nothing. What does he say?"

"He claims to be what his papers say he is, and he demands to call his embassy."

The colonel nodded at his own reflection in the mirror and wiped the lather from his face. "It figures. It will be impossible to trip him up. What he has is too strong."

The lieutenant held the older man's uniform tunic. "Should we employ persuasion?"

"We may have to, but only as a last resort. No, I think in Herr Klein/Klauswitz's case, we shall try reason."

Balenkov didn't elaborate, and the Stasis lieutenant didn't question him further. The two men left the Russian's rather Spartan apartment and descended to the waiting Chaika.

"Your office. Comrade Colonel?"

"Nyet. Kempelstoff."

The high-domed black car pulled from the curb onto Karl Marx Strasse, heading for Lichtenberg and East Berlin's top security prison.

The lieutenant started to make conversation, but Balenkov quieted him with a slight wave of his hand. The colonel's mind was working, going over every facet of information they had gleaned on the previous day's events in the West.

He already had a theory that had been partially confirmed by Moscow the previous evening. But putting the rest of it together was a puzzle of several pieces.

Eventually he pulled memos, notes, files, and a pad from his briefcase. Diligently he went through every scrap of information and jotted more notes as he read.

By the time they reached the prison, Balenkov was fairly sure he could make a reasonable case.

Carter managed to shower, shave, dress, and slip from the room without awakening Lisa Berrington.

He stopped by the desk on the way to the dining room. "Any calls or messages for Room Seven-fourteen, Carter?"

"Nein, mein Herr."

Over toast, juice, and coffee, Carter jotted down questions he would like to have the answers for from Stephan Conway. It was almost nine when he paid his check and returned to the front desk.

"Still nothing, Herr Carter."

"Danke." He turned, and practically ran into Bruchner.

"Inspector Vintner is in the car."

"I'll only be a second," Carter replied. "One call."

The AXE operator hit the scrambler connect the instant he mentioned his name, and seconds later a raspy-voiced Marty Jacobs was on the line.

"I hope you got some sleep."

"A little, not much," Carter replied, remembering the almost insatiable demands Lisa had made on his sore body earlier. "How far along are we?"

"Set. Of course we'll have to be a little circumspect in the daylight hours. The real action won't start until tonight. That is, if it's a go."

Carter could tell from the nervousness in the man's voice that he hoped Carter's answer would be negative.

"It's a go… all the way."

"Oh, Christ."

"Cheer up, Marty. Whatever your boys get, we'll donate to your favorite charity."

"You know, of course, that we are breaking the laws of a friendly country."

"So are the Voigts. I'll ring you for a progress report this afternoon."

Besides the driver and Bruchner, there was a young blond stenographer who looked all business. Carter was introduced as he slid into the back seat, and Vintner answered the Killmaster's eyeball question with a nod: it was okay to talk.

"Anything new?"

"Damned little, "the chief inspector replied. "The F1 was ripped off from a French military armory in Marseilles. We did a roundup, but so far all the pros we've brought in for questioning have tight alibis. I think what we need is something that will shake the street up, get some answers."

Carter smiled. "I think I have a way of doing that that you don't have."

He elaborated, and then held his breath until a broad smile spread across Vintner's face. "I'll give Reimer the word from the ambassador to have his people go blind."

"I think it will work." Carter said.

"So do I. Of course, I haven't heard a word you've said."

"Of course." Carter handed the man the list of questions he had made over breakfast. "I'd rather have you ask those. I think it better, at this point, that Conway not know who I am."

"Herr Vintner?" It was Bruchner from the front seat.

"Ja?"

"The radio… evidently a terrorist attack in the drive of a private residence in Grunewald. Two vehicles were bombed, no one injured."

Vintner started to reach for the radiophone connection in the back seat, and suddenly stopped. "Find out who owned the vehicles!"

"Ja." Bruchner went back to his headset, and seconds later he turned toward the rear seat. "A late-model Mercedes and a new Rolls-Royce, both registered to Erich Voigt."

"Tell the section police to handle it."

"Ja, mein Herr."

Vintner turned to Carter and grinned. "Your people don't waste any time."

"Herr Klein, I am Colonel Volatoy Balenkov."

Dieter Klauswitz ignored the outstretched hand and rose to his full height. His eyes were watery and red from lack of sleep, but there was grim determination in his face.

"Colonel, as an American citizen I demand that I be allowed to contact my embassy."

"In due time. Herr Klein." Balenkov sat and began arranging his papers.

"I also demand an inspection of my jacket."

"Your jacket?"

"Yes. I believe the lining of my jacket was opened, the GDR notes inserted, and the jacket resewn."

"Who would do that, Herr Klein?"

"Probably the maids at the hotel, at your order."

"I see you have very little respect for us, Herr Klein."

"I have none at all."

One eyebrow arched sharply. "I must remind you where you are…"

"You need hardly do that. I've known I was in a police state from the moment I passed through Checkpoint Charlie."

"Why did you enter East Germany, Herr Klein?"

"I have a ticket on Aeroflot for London."

There are flights to London from West Berlin."

"I was curious."

"I see." The man was good, Balenkov thought; he bluffed well. The colonel only hoped he could be bluffed. "Please sit down, mein Herr. I wish you to read something, and then perhaps we can discuss a theory of mine."

Reluctantly, the blond man sat down and accepted the paper-clipped file folder. Balenkov watched his face closely, and cursed to himself when there wasn't a blink, an eyebrow raised, or a discernible change of expression.

The file was the West Berlin police dossier on Dieter Klauswitz.

"Interesting, but what does it have to do with me?"

"Perhaps nothing, but three things in that file, despite the fact that Klauswitz is a known criminal, intrigue me. Do you know what the biathlon is?"

"I believe it is an athletic event that includes cross-country skiing and shooting."

"Shooting with a rifle, yes. You will note from the file that Klauswitz is a master marksman. You will also notice that during his brief military career he was stationed in Stuttgart, and after his military service, attended the American University in Munich. I suspect Herr Klauswitz's English is as good as mine… or yours."

"I have met several Germans who spoke perfect English."

"Of course," the colonel replied. "Bear with me, Herr Klein; I am putting something together. Are you aware that an assassination attempt was made on an American businessman in West Berlin yesterday?"

"No, I was not aware of that."

"No matter. The man wasn't killed. His wife and a police officer were."

"Look here, I'm tired of all this…"

"Herr Klein, shut up." Balenkov went to his notes. "We have reason to believe that one Oskar Hessling hired Dieter Klauswitz to commit this crime. I received a memo from First Directorate, KGB Moscow, last evening that connects Herr Klein to Oskar Hessling. It seems that Hessling attempted to blackmail Herr Klein a few years ago. We think that this attempted assassination might well be a further attempt at blackmail."

"I ask you again, what in God's name has all of this got to do with me?"

"A great deal, I think, Herr Klein. From the time the shooting took place until you came through the wall was exactly one hour and fifteen minutes. Our people in the West have also made discreet inquiries this morning with officials of Mockdendorf Limited. They have indeed done business with Herr David Klein recently, but only by phone and telex. According to them, David Klein has not been in Germany personally for over a year."

Balenkov paused, studying his quarry. It was slight, but the signs were there: a subtle pinch around the mouth, the barely perceptible sag in the otherwise square shoulders, the quivering of the nostrils.

The colonel could sense it. He almost had his man.

"And there was, of course, the phone call from Herr Hessling the morning before you came over."

"What?"

"Oh, yes, Herr Hessling and I have done quite a bit of business in the past."

Balenkov slid a small cassette recorder-player from his briefcase and punched the Play button.

"Stasis, Corporal Kleimann.»

"Colonel Balenkov. bitte."

"Bitte."

"Balenkov."

"Guten Abend, mein Herr."

"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."

Balenkov pushed the Stop button and looked up at the man across the table. The fair face was gray now, and he was holding his temples with his hands.

"And so. Dieter, you see, you were betrayed from the beginning. And I think we know why. Your instructions were not to kill Stephan Conway, were they?"

"No."

"It was the woman all along, wasn't it?"

"Ja," Klauswitz replied in German. "Der Fell Schweinhund!"

"I completely agree. Herr Klauswitz, with your opinion of Herr Hessling. Now, suppose we start from the beginning, the very beginning, including all the names you know."

"What do I get out of it?"

Balenkov shrugged. "I suppose you have already arranged another passport in another name in England, since David Klein actually exists?"

"Ja. I was going on to Portugal, and then to Argentina."

"Yes, I'm sure you would have made many friends there," Balenkov replied drily. "I see no reason that, once we have what we want, you cannot continue on your journey."

"How can I trust you?"

"Actually, you have no choice. But I will say this: we don't want the scandal of an assassin passing through East Germany. The quicker you are on your way, the better for us."

Klauswitz sighed. "May I have a cigarette?"

"Of course." Balenkov pushed an open pack across the table and punched Record on the machine.

Dieter Klauswitz talked for two hours and seven minutes. At the end of that time, Colonel Balenkov had filled in everything from the other side of the coin — Hessling's side — that Klauswitz couldn't know. He figured it should be an easy matter to locate the other woman.

"Very good, Dieter," he said finally, gathering up everything and putting it in his briefcase. "You may rest now, and let's hope we have you on your way soon." He met the lieutenant in the hallway. "Has she arrived?"

"Ja, Herr Colonel, about a half hour ago. She is in the sixth-floor lounge."

Balenkov took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the hall to the ranking officers' lounge.

He knew of her reputation and had heard of her beauty, but the reality of it struck him when at last he met her face to face.

"Colonel Balenkov?"

"Da."

"I am Colonel Anna Palmitkov. Shall we get right down to business?"

Stephan Conway was a mixture of grief, stricken husband. Texas-style good-old-boy bluff and bravado, and wily businessman.

Carter had scarcely shaken the man's hand when he recognized why the media was dancing to Conway's tune. He was big, handsome, suave, and crude, all at the same time. He cussed well, and told anecdotes with a mix of down-home wit and parish-house piety.

He also managed to interject his "dear sweet wife" into every third sentence.

"I want the maniac who did this. Inspector, and I want his ass nailed to the wall!"

It had been a half hour since they had entered the Berlin Ambassador suite, and Vintner had, as yet. not been able to ask one question.

Besides the inspector, the steno, Carter, and Conway, there was an entire phalanx of the great man's hangers-on, six men and three women. Conway hadn't bothered to introduce them beyond a wave and a perfunctory "part of my staff."

The men could be grouped into the attorney-accountant categories. Two of them were American, the other four German. Two of the women were American-type secretaries, clean-cut. wholesome, and studious, as befit those who worked near the throne.

It was the third woman who interested Carter, and from the way Vintner's steno kept throwing quick sidelong glances, she was curious as well. Curious, or in awe.

Carter guessed the latter, and could see why.

He had barely caught her name, Ursula Rhinemann, but he couldn't miss her presence. No one, even in a room of one hundred beautiful women, would miss it.

She was a tall, statuesque woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore her dark hair short, with easy curls at the sides framing an exquisitely featured face set in a mask of seriousness. Her eyes, staring intently at the questioning Vintner, were level, cool, and of an indeterminate color beneath long, darkly mascaraed lashes.

She had the kind of haunting face and sensuous figure that drew and held men's eyes. Carter was no different.

Only when the voices of Vintner and Stephan Conway were raised in anger was the Killmaster's concentration drawn back to the two men.

"As mundane as this questioning may seem to you, Herr Conway, I assure you it is not. Now, will you please tell me about the blackmail attempt?"

Conway furrowed his wide brow and looked to his attorneys. There must have been some imperceptible nod of agreement, because he started to talk.

"When I was a student I joined a couple of left-wing organizations. It was one of those idealistic college things," he said with a shrug. "When I found out that they were Communist connected, I got out. It's as simple as that."

Vintner nodded. "But obviously someone remembered."

"Yes. I was contacted by a man in San Francisco and shown some petitions I had signed years ago. I was told the material would be suppressed if I agreed to sell certain electronics technology and equipment to a firm here in West Germany."

"And?"

"And I told them to go to hell."

"So those petitions were given to the American FBI."

"Yes."

"And you were investigated?"

"I was, and cleared. I don't see what this has to do with the attempt on my life."

"Perhaps nothing, perhaps something." Vintner said evenly. "Do you know of anyone who would want your wife killed?"

"Of course not! She didn't have an enemy in the world."

"But there were threats against your life."

"Yes."

"When?"

"The morning we got to Berlin."

"How?… Letters? Someone came to you?"

Conway hesitated. Again a quick look at his people. Vintner didn't catch it. He was looking down at his notes. Carter did. The eye contact was directly with Ursula Rhinemann.

"No, it was a phone call, here at the hotel."

"And what did they want?"

"The same thing, electronics. I think it's the damned Commies."

Vintner shifted gears. "I have a statement here from your sister-in-law, Ms. Lisa Berrington, that states that you and your wife were on the verge of divorce."

"Preposterous!" Conway thundered, jumping to his feet. "Lisa's a bitch! She has never liked me, and has always done everything in her power to split us up! Oh, Delaine and I had our arguments, but what couple doesn't?"

"I see." Vintner sighed. He gathered his papers and stood. "When will you be leaving Germany, Herr Conway?"

"I know my dear wife would want me to go on with my work. I am scheduled to speak in Munich in four days. I shall probably leave Berlin that morning."

"Thank you for your cooperation."

The steno was already out the door. Carter fell in step behind her, and then stopped.

"Herr Conway, I wonder if I could ask you one more question?" Carter spoke English with a heavy German accent.

"What is it?"

"Do you know a man by the name of Oskar Hessling?"

The man was a good actor, but the question had come out of left field, a direction he had not fully prepared to defend.

There was ever so slight a twitch at the right eye, a little breath, and the start of another look at the woman, which he arrested just in time.

"No, I've never heard the name."

"I see. Danke."

Vintner was the first to speak in the elevator. "What do you think?"

"I think he's guilty as sin," Carter replied.

Vintner nodded. "So do I, but it will be hard to prove without the shooter or the man who hired him. It's a pretty elaborate scam just to get rid of one's wife. Almost unbelievable."

"I have a theory," Carter said. "The blackmail was for real. Conway wants to get rid of his wife, so he used it to promote rumors that he's about to be hit, but the target is really the wife."

"Like I say," Vintner replied, "pretty elaborate and farfetched. And damned hard to prove."

"Maybe." Carter turned to the blond stenographer. "I saw you staring at the tall, dark-haired woman. Do you know her?"

The girl nodded. "Her name is Ursula Rhinemann. A few years ago her picture was on every magazine cover in Germany. She was a fashion model. She is even more beautiful now."

"What's her connection with Conway?"

Vintner consulted a printout of Protec's administrative staff. "She's head of public relations for Europe."

"That's a hell of a job for a fashion model," Carter quipped.

Vintner shrugged. "Not if she's got brains as well as beauty. It might be a plus. What are you thinking?"

"An old-fashioned, very simple triangle."

"With Ursula Rhinemann as the other woman?" Vintner said, his bushy eyebrows arching.

"You saw her. What do you think?"

Vintner nodded. "I'll put a team on her."

Bruchner awaited them at the car, smiling. "We've got the motorcycle! A young punk was picked up for speeding on Bismarck Strasse. He admits stealing it from a garage in Wedding."

"Any chance he's our shooter?"

Bruchner shook his head. "None. He's a petty thief, long record, but not capable of this. A team has already interrogated the neighbors around Wiebe Strasse. An old man remembers the biker going into the garage on the BMW and coming back out in a white Mercedes."

"License number? Description of the driver?"

Bruchner's face fell. "No tag number, and all he remembers is that the driver was blond."

"At least it's a start," Carter said, crawling into the car. "Drop me at Tessiner Stuben. I have a meeting with a man who might have some answers."