The Berlin Target

by Nick Carter

  "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…"

  Seven

  "I am sorry, Herr Carter, but the chief inspector cannot see you."

  She was big, buxom, blonde, and looked as if she should be carrying a spear in a Wagnerian opera. She was also, according to everyone he had seen already, the only path to Horst Vintner, the man who had the answers to all the questions rattling through Carter's brain.

  "Look, all I want to do, Fräulein…"

  "Metzger… Maria Magdalena Metzger."

  "Well, Fräulein Metzger, if I could just talk to him for a few minutes…"

  "Nein. He is much too busy now to see an American private detective. Guten Tag."

  Before Carter realized it, she had maneuvered him into the hall and slammed the door of her office in his face.

  "Dammit," he growled, and nailed the first person he passed, a short brunette with huge glasses and a frown that covered her whole face. "Fräulein…"

  "Ja?"

  She didn't stop, and Carter had to walk fast to keep up with her. "Is there a telephone around here?"

  "Are you authorized?"

  "It doesn't look like it."

  "Then there is a public pay phone on the main floor by the side entrance."

  She was gone and so was Carter, down the stairs.

  He used the hot-line number to West Berlin's AXE offices, but when a female voice answered, he didn't request the scrambler. He just barked.

  "This is Carter, N3! Get me Marty Jacobs… now!"

  She moved. Click, click, whirr, whirr, and the head of AXE Berlin was on the line.

  "Jesus, Nick, you didn't check in when you arrived. I didn't know you were in town."

  "I was going to, later. Marty, F need action, and I need it now."

  Quickly, Carter gave the man a rundown on events and what he wanted.

  "I don't know, Nick — this guy Vintner's a hard nut, an old hand."

  "I don't give a damn if he's Adolf reincarnate, I want pressure."

  "I'll have to call D.C., speak to the old man himself, for that kind of clout."

  "Do it!"

  "Okay. Why the private investigator scam?"

  "Two reasons. First, it's the only alternate credentials I have with me. Second, until I find out what this is all about, I doubt if the old man wants us involved officially."

  "Reasonable. I'll move. It shouldn't take any more than an hour."

  "Cut that in half if you can!"

  Carter hung up, went into the street, and headed toward a bar he had already spotted. "Scotch, neat… a double."

  He paid for the drink when it came, and carried it and his change to the pay phone in the corner.

  "Klinkcom-Charlottenburg, good afternoon."

  "Give me the head nurse on Four East."

  "One moment."

  "Fou
r East. This is Sister Gruber."

  "Sister Gruber, this is Nick Carter. I accompanied Lisa Berrington to the hospital and signed her in."

  "Ja, ja, Herr Carter."

  "How is she?"

  "Sleeping soundly now. We gave her another sedative."

  "Did she awaken at all?"

  "Only once, and I'm afraid she was still a bit hysterical. But I am sure she will be fine by tomorrow, mein Herr." Thank you. I'll call again later this evening."

  He downed the scotch and went back across the street to SSD headquarters. On the second floor he parked on the same hard wooden bench that he had already warmed for almost two hours.

  Twenty minutes later, Fräulein Metzger came at him down the hall like a one-woman panzer division.

  "Follow me!" she grunted, whirled into reverse, and goose-stepped away.

  "Danke," Carter replied with a wide smile as he followed her down the hall and into an office.

  The hinges rattled when she slammed the door behind her.

  The office was Spartan and drab, almost dingy. A well-worn oak desk held a telephone, a million uncoordinated papers, and about a hundred pipes. Two chairs and a wooden file cabinet of undeniable antiquity made up the rest of the furniture. The uncovered parquet floor was uneven and splintery, and the walls had been painted a nauseous green a decade or two earlier.

  All in all, it was very shabby and somehow, to Carter, very un-German.

  Carter was staring at a square patch on the wall where a picture or a calendar had once hung, when the door opened behind him.

  "Carter?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Vintner."

  He was about six feet, a couple of inches shorter than Carter but twice as wide and all muscle. He was well dressed in a mussed summer suit that fitted his bulk perfectly, but he wore it with no flair. He looked "cop," the kind of man on whom clothes lost character and whose shoes, though polished, never seemed quite as bright as they should be.

  "I speak German," Carter said in German.

  "No shit. So do I," Vintner replied in New York-accented English. "But ten-to-one my English is better than your German. Sit down."

  Carter did, on the hard-bottomed, straight-backed chair, while Vintner slid onto the cracked leather one. The chief inspector shoved a pipe between his teeth and put fire to the bowl, eyeing Carter through the smoke screen he made.