The Berlin Target

by Nick Carter

  His face had a battered appearance. His nose had been broken and poorly reset; there was a scar on his chin and a faint red line at his hairline where his gray hair refused to grow. All in all, it was a face that had seen the wars.

  "Your English is good. I'd say aristocratic Queens."

  "Princeton, Class of 43."

  That was a grabber, and Carter didn't try to hide the reaction.

  "My mother took me to the States two jumps in front of Hitler in 39."

  "When did you come back to the fatherland?"

  "In 45, with Patton. What do you want, Carter?"

  "A helping hand. You give me one, I give you one. What do you say?"

  "First of all, I say don't give me any bullshit. No P.I. in the world has the kind of clout that just got shoved up my ass. "Who the hell are you?"

  Carter weighed the situation, and the man, and made his decision. "Strictly between you and me?"

  "I'll let you know after I know."

  Carter nodded. He felt he was on equal footing with this man, and consequently in safe territory. He withdrew his oversize passport wallet and from a false side in the leather took out his true credentials.

  Vintner took one look at them, passed them back, and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, what have you got?"

  "You first," Carter said, lighting a cigarette to combat the pipe clouds more than anything.

  "They both got it from a French F1, Tireur d'Elite, 7.62mm."

  Carter whistled. "Sniper specialist."

  Vintner nodded. "The woman died instantly. The officer, Hans Erlichmann, took forty-five seconds from a scratch on his thigh."

  "Cyanide?"

  "Yes, they just confirmed it."

  "What was the range?"

  "Over four-hundred meters. We found the gun on top of the Insulaner. You know it?"

  "I know it," Carter replied. "Any prints?"

  "None. A couple of kids were messing around on a blanket on that side of the hill. They had sneaked up from the swimming pool. About the right time, a big guy in black leather and a helmet almost steps on them coming like hell down the hill."

  "Did they see his face?"

  Vintner shook his head. "He had his visor down. They saw him climb on a big BMW motorcycle and fly."

  "But they didn't get the license number?"

  "No way, too far away. But the boy identified the make, model, and year. He's got one himself. We've got the word out everywhere it matters. Chances are the bike was stolen within the last two weeks. Now you."

  Carter told him about Lisa Berrington, the phone call, the rift in the Conway marriage, and his own reasons for being drawn into the fracas.

  "Delaine Conway wasn't any more specific about what she was afraid of, was she?"

  "No," Carter replied. "But I'll try to get a little more tomorrow. Lisa should be back to reality by then. What about Conway himself?"

  Vintner shrugged. "Just cursory… grief and all that."

  "Yeah," Carter said, noting the wryness in the man's voice. "When will you take his statement?"

  "About noon tomorrow. He's at the Berlin Ambassador. I told him we could do it there."

  "You mind if I sit in?"

  "Suit yourself. Just remember, this is out of your line. I'm the cop."

  Carter smiled. "No problem, you're the man. But we've both got theories, haven't we?"

  Suddenly the big chief inspector's granite face broke into a smile of its own. "Yeah, I imagine we do."

  "All the more reason I'm a 'private detective' instead of connected." Vintner nodded, and Carter continued. "This kind of a hit would take a lot of money to finance, wouldn't it?"

  "You know it would."

  "I've got an appointment with a man at seven tonight who might help us in that area. In the meantime, do you have a copy of the television footage?"

  "Of course."

  He reached for the phone, and a minute later Fräulein Metzger entered. "Herr Carter would like to see the film," Vintner told her in clipped, commanding German.

  "Ja, Herr Chief Inspector, "she replied, looking at Carter through new eyes.

  "Here's a number where you can reach me any time, day or night."

  Carter pocketed the card. "I'm at the Victoria." He started after the woman, then paused in the doorway. "One more thing you could help me with…"

  "Christ, man, you don't want much."

  "Nothing major. What do you have on Oskar Hessling?"

  Vintner's eyes narrowed in concentration, then he shrugged. "Not too much. He plays footsie with the other side now and then, so we have a suspect file on him. Basically, he's a local police problem."

  "Could you get me access to that file?"

  "I think so. Call me back in a couple of hours. Hessling's a fixer. You think he had something to do with this?"

  "If he did. I don't know anything about it," Carter replied. "This is D.C. business."

  "Call me."

  "I will."

  Carter watched the film clear through four times. There were several fine points of it that could substantiate Lisa's snap judgment that Delaine Conway, and not her illustrious husband, was the actual target.

  Carter made mental notes of each of them to pass along to Vintner later, then left SSD headquarters to head for the Golden Calf.

  Roscher Strasse was still relatively quiet at seven o'clock in the evening. The Ku'Damm and the streets leading from it, like Roscher Strasse, didn't really start swinging until the cats began to howl at around midnight.

  That was the street, outside. Inside the bars and strip joints was another story, including the Golden Calf.

  Two steps inside the door, an explosion of noise hit Carter full in the face. It was a combination of hard rock music, the cacophony of drinkers' shouted conversation, and the constant clinking of glasses and bottles behind a busy bar.

  There were six women to every man. Most of them — the ones that were fully clothed — were bosomy and spangled. The waitresses and the five or six girls dancing on small stages around the room wore only one spangle and nothing else except spike heels or the female version of storm troopers' boots.

  Carter got a few hundred appraisals as he moved through the clothed ones toward a slightly quieter area.

  He yawned. It was the universal sign that he wasn't in the market. Their eyes looked for better game, and the bodies parted for him.

  A clone of Maria Magdalena Metzger appeared the moment he sat down. Only this one was younger. And she was naked.

  "Ja?"

  "Bier," he said, holding up two fingers. "I have a friend coming."

  She waddled away and came back quickly with two steins of suds. Carter paid her and sipped while he eyed the line along the bar. It was a game to pick out the real girls from the young boys dressed as girls.

  He found six, and decided they were the ten, twelve, and two o'clock shows advertised on a huge wall poster.

  "How's the clock-and-dagger business?"

  Carter swiveled back around in his chair, smiled, and accepted Jamil Erhanee's outstretched hand.

  "Getting quieter every day."

  "Untrue. You've aged. Thanks for the beer."

  Jamil Erhanee was tall for an Indian, with wide shoulders, a thick chest, and no waist or hips. He could have been an athlete in his native Bombay if he hadn't decided that crime was a quicker road to riches.

  It was tennis that got him to the United States and an education in international finance. As a sideline, he became a genius with a computer before the machines came into their own.

  Soon after graduating from college, Erhanee drifted to England where he established strong underworld connections. From there it was onto Europe, where his genius was truly recognized. In no time he was laundering all kinds of funds all around the world. It was suspected that, at one time, Erhanee handled over three quarters of the funds being laundered and circulated internationally by the underworld.

  But even that wasn't enough for the ambitious young Indian. He ye
arned for independence, so he became foolish. He saw the opportunity for the "big one." It was foolproof, he was sure. All he had to do was change a few wires here and there, make a telephone call or two to his own, privately installed computer modem, and he would beat the World Bank for a few million dollars.

  He succeeded in pulling off the scam, but he got caught. They gave him twenty years. He had served five when Carter had him sprung to help on a mission. It was successful, and the Killmaster managed to get him a full parole.

  "How goes it now, Jamil?"

  "Boring," he said and shrugged, his sparkling white teeth bared in a gleaming smile. "But legitimate. I am in charge of security for World Bank computer systems. I make sure no one does what I did and gets away with it."

  "That brings us down to business."

  "Hessling?"

  "Yeah, but something else first. Through your system, can you pipe into almost any bank, find out which way and where the cash is moving?"

  "It's possible. Of course, in most cases, it is also very illegal."

  "I know." Carter grinned. "That's why I'm asking you."

  "Ah, Nick, you're a godsend!" Erhanee laughed.

  "How so?"

  "Because you make things happen. This will break the boredom! What do you want?"

  "I want you to tap into Protec International Limited. I want to know about any big movement of cash in the last six months by the company and its president, Stephan Conway."

  "That's the hotshot that almost bought it this afternoon," Erhanee replied, his face darkening beyond its already mahogany hue.

  "That's right. Only his wife bought it instead. I want to know why, and you might give me the answer."

  Carter could almost see the bells going off in the other man's agile brain.

  "Sounds like hanky-panky. Hey, Nick, that's not your scene, dousing marital brush fires."

  "It might be more than that. Conway had a high clearance with the Pentagon. He was making some very touchy, high-level electronics gear."

  "Protec probably moves some pretty big bundles of cash around the world. What you need might be hard to pin down."

  "I've got faith in you, Jamil. Also, can you go back to Day One on the wife. Delaine? Her maiden name was Berrington. Old Virginia money. I want to know what happened to it when she married Conway."

  "That should be easy."

  "More beer, mein Herr?"

  Carter looked up to an arresting sight. "Uh…" He looked at Erhanee.

  "Make mine schnapps. I get bloated on this stuff."

  "Two schnapps, bitte."

  "Ja."

  Erhanee watched the young woman move away with appreciative eyes.

  "You like 'em big?" Carter asked with a chuckle.

  "Oh, yeah. Only trouble is, five years from now she'll look like a box and outweigh me by forty pounds."

  The schnapps came and Carter paid her with a generous tip. As he dropped the money on her tray, he happened to glance around her. Near the bar he noticed an older woman conservatively dressed in a skirt and a cardigan sweater, which she held tightly together over the expanse of her bosom.

  He would have thought nothing of it except for the fact that the woman was staring directly at them, and Carter could detect an almost morbid fear in both her manner and her eyes.

  When their eyes met, the woman quickly turned and headed for the door that led to an adjoining hotel.

  "Who is that woman?"

  The waitress looked. "Fräulein Klammer. She is the manager. Why?"

  "Must wondering why she was staring at us like that."

  The girl laughed, making her bare breasts dance across the tray beneath them. "She probably thinks you're police," she said, and moved away.

  "That'll be a cold day in hell," Erhanee said, laughing.

  "What?"

  "The day that anybody in this joint is afraid of the police!"

  Carter shrugged off the odd feeling the staring woman had given him and leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "Okay, now Hessling."

  The Indian sighed. "He's an enigma, Nick. You hear stories, but nothing concrete. He's slimy as hell, and has got his fingers in everything, but only he knows what. He's a loner. Probably got two, three hundred people under his thumb, but not a single one of them knows who the other one is."

  "How can I get a line on him, particularly his deals with the East and anybody in the States?"

  Erhanee thought for a moment, his narrow, handsome face screwed into rapt concentration, and then he smiled. "Voigt."

  "Voigt who?"

  "Hans-Otto Voigt. Anything shady or dirty that Hessling doesn't own or have his fingers in, Voigt does. They're the two powers around here. It's been almost war for years, but both of them are so powerful it's remained a standoff, if anybody knows more about Hessling than the police, it's probably Voigt. Call it the underworld form of industrial espionage."

  "How can I get to this Voigt?"

  "Pretty tough. He's semiretired, only handles the big deals. His son, Erich, takes care of the day-to-day business. The old man has a castle out on an island in the Havel. He hardly ever leaves it unless he goes south for the sun."

  "See what you can set up for me."

  "I'll try, but it might be rough. Got anything to use as bait?"

  "I might have," Carter replied, checking his watch.

  Vintner had said to call him in about two hours for the Hessling police file. It had been two and a half hours.

  "Wait here a minute. I've got to make a phone call." He stopped by the bar and asked where the public pay phone was located.

  "Up the stairs, by the desk," the barman replied, waving a hand toward the door where the frightened woman had disappeared.

  Halfway up the stairs, he met her. She stood, arms folded beneath her bosom, feet planted wide apart. Even though the fear on her face was stronger than before, she was obviously blocking his path.

  "What do you want?"

  "To use the telephone, Fräulein Klammer."

  "How do you know my name?"

  "One of your girls told me."

  "I know all the police on the Ku'Damm. You are not police."

  "You are SSD."

  "Nein."

  "Why did you ask my name?"

  "Curiosity."

  "Liar," she hissed, and moved around him down the stairs.

  Carter merely shrugged and moved on up the stairs to the phone.

  "State Security."

  "Chief Inspector Vintner, bitte."

  "One moment, please." There was a brief pause and she was back. "Go ahead, mein Herr."

  "Vintner."

  "Carter. Were you able to get the file on Hessling?"

  "Yes, but I doubt it will do you much good."

  "How so?"

  "He's dead. We got a call about an hour ago."

  Eight

  Dieter Klauswitz dined in the large, rustically decorated dining room of the Metropol. He had meant to return immediately to his room but found himself instead wandering out onto Friedrich Strasse.

  He would walk off the huge meal before returning to his room and attempting sleep.

  To his right he saw the wall, eerily illuminated by sodium-vapor lights. It gave him an odd feeling. He had lived years in West Berlin, but this was the first time he had ever been in the Eastern sector.

  Someone had once said, "If you want to find out what Berlin was like before the war, go visit the East."

  It was true.

  The pace was not as frantic, there were fewer cars and people on the streets, and everywhere were uniformed Vopos who seemed to watch every moving thing.

  At the Unter den Linden, Klauswitz stopped and lit a cigarette. To his right, at the end of the two-hundred-foot-wide boulevard, was the Brandenburg Gate. He had never seen it up close, let alone from this side of the wall.

  In its own way, the huge structure was a symbol of both the old and the new Germany. Klauswitz toyed with the idea of strolling down beneath the tall linden trees and
taking one last, closer look. Then, out of the comer of his eye, to the left just south of the Unter den Linden, he saw the building.

  It was formidable, a thick-walled, narrow-windowed fortress over four hundred feet long. It was the Soviet embassy.

  Klauswitz retraced his steps back to the Metropol.

  * * *

  "From there he walked back to the hotel. He had one drink in the bar, a brandy, and went on up to his room."

  Colonel Volatoy Balenkov nodded, his broad face impassive as he listened to the young lieutenant report on the movements of the American, David Klein.

  "You got the passport from the concierge at the Metropol?"

  "Ja, Herr Colonel. The experts have cleared it."

  "Authentic?"

  "Perfectly, Herr Colonel."

  "Damn!" The colonel slammed the desk with one hand and stood. At the window he stared up Friedrich Strasse to the Metropol.

  What a mess, he thought. Should he gamble that Oskar Hessling had told the truth?

  Absently, his fingers ran over the ribbons above his left breast pocket on his gray tunic. The medals were impressive. Hero of the Soviet Union, the red and yellow Order of Lenin, the Order of the Red Banner, the maroon and pink for the capture of Berlin.

  The list went on and on, and anyone who could read them would see that Volatoy Balenkov had had a distinguished military career.

  But that wouldn't mean a thing in Moscow if he arrested an American businessman and had nothing to charge him with but the accusation of a West German criminal.

  "What would you do, Lieutenant?"

  The Stasis lieutenant's face came up sharply from the papers in his hands. It was not like a Russian, let alone a Russian colonel, to ask the opinion of an East German lieutenant.

  "Based on the fact that Herr Hessling has never given us wrong information, I would hold him for questioning if nothing else." Balenkov sighed and returned to his desk. "You have a point, Lieutenant. The trouble is… with Herr Oskar Hessling dead, we don't know what we are to arrest Klein for, or what to do with him if he is Klauswitz."

  This was only partially true. Balenkov's suspicious, quick mind had been piecing together possibilities all day. For the past two hours he had been going over the files that their informant in the West German police had provided.