by Nick Carter
That same informant had told them of the day's chaotic events in the West, and less than fifteen minutes before, he had phoned over the news of Hessling's heart attack.
Now Balenkov lifted the Klauswitz file again. His eye scanned down it and, as it had so many times in the last hour, went right to the man's accomplishments before he had become a criminal.
He was a marksman, an expert in the rifle half of the biathlon. If David Klein were indeed Dieter Klauswitz, they may very well have their hands on a bombshell, the man who had attempted the assassination of the American. Stephan Conway.
Balenkov's thought processes had already gone one step further. If Oskar Hessling knew about this, he had probably set it up. Also, if he were betraying his shooter, he had something much more far-reaching — and much more profitable — on his mind.
The problem was, what the hell was it?
"The evidence has been placed in the hotel room?"
"Ja, Herr Colonel."
Balenkov rubbed his eyes until they were watery, and then looked up at the younger man.
"Arrest him."
* * *
Police inspector Klaus Reimer was a man who respected orders and authority. When word came from Horst Vintner and his own superior to answer all of Nick Carter's questions and cooperate with him, Reimer didn't question it.
"There is no doubt, Herr Carter… natural causes, a heart attack."
"But the scratches…"
"Made by a woman, and probably just before he died," Reimer replied.
"That would agree with the Italian's story."
"Yes."
"And if there was a woman, and a struggle," Carter said, "it could have brought on the heart attack?"
"Possibly."
"I would like to talk to the Italian."
"He is there, in the sitting room."
Carter moved through the door, nodded to a young officer who left at once, and turned to face Antonio Montanno.
He was about twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, with black curly hair and the chiseled good looks that Italian sculptors had glorified down through the ages.
"I'd like to hear your story," Carter said, lighting a cigarette.
"I've already told it ten times."
"Tell it again, to me."
Montanno sighed and began to mumble it out once more.
"Herr Hessling called the Golden Calf. He wanted me to drop by the house."
"Why?"
"To meet a woman."
"What woman?"
"I don't know. He didn't say."
"Why?"
The young man shrugged, his face flushing. "Who knows? I got here, rang the bell. No answer. I went back to the Calf and called. No answer. That's very unusual for Herr Hessling. I got worried. I came back, climbed the fence, let myself in through one of the windows, and found him. I was afraid — that's why I didn't call the police until this evening."
Carter crushed out the cigarette. "I don't think so. I think you're very handsome. I think Hessling sent for you because he wanted a homosexual affair. I think you turned him down. You fought. You scratched his face, and he had a heart attack and died. It's not exactly murder, but I think the police could make a manslaughter case out of it."
Montanno was laughing. "Hessling might have been a pervert, but he was no homosexual."
"Then why did he ask you over here in the middle of the night?"
"I told you, to meet a woman." His fingers were twisting against each other now, and his eyes were darting around the room, hitting everything but Carter's face.
"Just to meet her?"
He shrugged.
"Why don't you tell me, Tony? Reimer doesn't give a damn about you, and neither do I. We're after something a lot bigger."
Carter could see the turmoil in his young face. Suddenly the broad shoulders sagged and he sat back in the couch.
"All right. He wanted me to make love to this woman. Once or twice a month for the last year, he would call the Calf and have me come over. There would always be a girl. She and I would make love while Hessling watched."
"Did he pay you?"
"Yes. Always a hundred marks."
"And the woman?"
"Sometimes."
"What does that mean?"
Another shrug. "Most of the time they were street girls or from one of the clubs. They would always get a hundred marks, too. Other times… well, they were different."
"How?"
"Jesus, man…"
"How, Tony?"
"They… they hated it. It was like he was forcing them and I was raping them."
"Like he had something on them and this was how they kept him quiet?"
"Could be."
"Okay, Tony. Now, this morning… was there anything different about this morning?"
The young man thought for a minute, and nodded. "From the sound of it, I was going to get a lot more than a hundred marks. This one was something special. From the way he drooled on the phone, it sounded like she was a movie star or something."
Carter stood. "Okay, kid. I think you're clean. Just tell Reimer everything you've told me, and I don't think you'll have any problems. He moved away, and then remembered. "What do you know about Gertrude Klammer?"
"Not much. She runs the Calf and the hotel, answers only to Hessling… answered only to Hessling."
"Do you suppose Hessling had anything on her?"
Montanno smiled. This time it was genuine. "Hessling had something on everybody who worked for him. If it wasn't enough, he added bonus money to get them to do anything he wanted."
"Could Gertrude Klammer have been the woman?"
"It's possible, I suppose, but I doubt it. Hessling liked them fairly young and beautiful."
Carter nodded. "One more thing. Were there ever repeaters… the same girl or woman twice?"
"Never."
Carter briefed Reimer and asked for a complete checkout on Gertrude Klammer, telling him about her odd behavior that night at the Golden Calf.
"But don't pick her up… not yet. Are the phones clean?"
"Ja, go ahead."
He called the hospital. There was no change with Lisa Berrington.
Horst Vintner wasn't at SSD headquarters.
Erhanee picked up on the first ring when Carter dialed the private World Bank number the Indian had given him.
"You're burning the midnight oil."
"Isn't that what you wanted?"
"How's it going?"
"Much better than I expected, but Protec is big. The printout will be longer than War and Peace, but I think I can have it for you by tomorrow afternoon."
"Good. What about the other matter?"
"Just as I thought. No way to get to the old man unless you go through the son, Erich Voigt."
"Where would I find him this time of night?"
"He has an office above a sleaze joint called the Bavarian. Number Ten Knesebeck Strasse, off the Ku'Damm."
"Is everything just off the Ku'Damm?"
"Everything sleazy is," Erhanee said with a chuckle. "According to my sources, this is about the time every night that Voigt counts the day's take."
"Thanks. See you."
Carter returned to Reimer. "You mentioned that you were going to keep Hessling's death under wraps for a few days?"
"If I can," the man said. "With him dead, it might be a good opportunity to scrape up a lot of dirt."
"What if Hans-Otto Voigt knew about it?"
Reimer's face screwed up into a look of pain. "He'd mobilize his troops to take over Hessling's territory as soon as we backed out."
"Would you mind if I tell him?"
Reimer smiled. "Will it do you some good?"
"It might."
"Go ahead. Voigt will find it out before the papers get it anyway. Sad as it is, he's probably got someone in the department."
"And along with the Hessling file, can you get me everything on Voigt?"
"Ja, I'll send it over to your hotel in the morning."
"Danke… a lot."
Carter headed for the door. The little man in the back of his mind was pounding, telling him that there was a connection between the try on Conway, the death of Delaine, and Oskar Hessling.
* * *
Dieter Klauswitz was dozing in a chair by the window, the radio a soft hum behind him, when the knock came on the door.
"Yes?"
"Security, Herr Klein. Could we speak to you for a moment?"
There was a second of panic when he first leaped for the door. But he quickly calmed. He was an American businessman. Everything was completely in order.
He opened the door.
There were two of them, in plain clothes. Over their shoulders he saw two Vopos with their banana-clipped rifles across their chests. That was nothing to get alarmed about. They were everywhere, and they probably slept with their rifles.
"What can I do for you?"
"Routine, Herr Klein. Could I see your papers, please?"
They moved forward into the room without being asked, forcing Klauswitz to move with them.
"My passport and entrance visa are at the desk."
"We know that, Herr Klein. Could we see your currency declaration, please?"
"Of course." He fished it from his briefcase and passed it over.
The man perused it, then moved to the bed. "Would you lay out your currency so we may compare it, please?"
Klauswitz stayed calm. Everything was covered. There was nothing left to chance. He was an American. His passport was authentic, issued directly through the office of an American senator. He could even go screaming to the American embassy.
"There you are." He laid out all his bills: British pounds, American dollars, West German marks, what was left of the twenty-five East German marks he had exchanged at Checkpoint Charlie, and his change. "You are Vopo?"
"Stasis," came the reply as the man meticulously counted the money.
State security police, Dieter thought. What are they looking for?
"This is all your currency, Herr Klein?"
"Of course."
The second man went to work on the two bags and their contents.
"See here, I am an American…"
"Simply routine, Herr Klein," said the money counter as he moved to the closet and began patting down the two extra suits.
Suddenly he stopped, took one of the suit jackets off its hanger, and carried it to the bed. With a penknife, he began to cut the lining.
"See here! You can't just come in here and do this! How dare…!" Klauswitz stopped in mid-sentence, his face ashen.
Pouring out of the lining of the jacket were East German marks, all in high denominations.
"It is illegal to bring Eastern marks into the German Democratic Republic, Herr Klein. Since, according to your currency declaration, you couldn't have bought these since your arrival…"
Klauswitz didn't speak. He knew it would do no good. It was a frame. The marks had been planted. But why?
"You are under arrest, Herr Klein. Will you come with us, please?"
* * *
The Bavarian was not much different from the Golden Calf, just bigger. The girls were just as fleshy, the customers just as loud, and the male help just as mean.
"Scotch, neat."
The barman, a sallow-faced man with no neck, poured from the bottle. "Five marks."
Carter put a twenty on the bar. "Keep it. I'd like to see Erich Voigt."
"He's not in tonight."
"I think he is, upstairs counting his ill-gotten gains."
The barman turned laser-beam eyes on Carter. "Police?"
"No, just a concerned citizen."
"Why don't you drink your drink and find another bar?"
"Why don't you go and tell Voigt a very important man wants to see him?"
The barman reached for him, but Carter was faster. He threw the scotch in the man's eyes and pushed him.
"What's the trouble here?"
He was a mountain in a tacky tuxedo right at Carter's elbow. He had a flat face, pig eyes, and arms as big as Carter's legs.
"No trouble. Who are you?"
"I am the man who stops trouble."
"Good, Bismarck. Then tell your boss an American, Nick Carter, wants to talk to him about Oskar Hessling."
The giant hands were coming up as Carter spoke. Now they stopped, and his face, if possible, became thoughtful. "Hessling?"
"That's right. I think Herr Voigt would be very angry if I didn't see him." Carter could read the man's indecision. "Move!"
Bismarck moved, and Carter turned back into the barman's boiling face.
"Son of a bitch," the man hissed.
"Now, now," Carter replied, and poured himself a fresh drink.
He was just finishing it when he saw the giant motioning to him from a small hallway in the rear of the room. Carter shouldered his way through the crowd and joined him.
"This way."
They went up the stairs, and Carter entered a shiny chrome-and-glass office that was nothing like the joint down below. A short, thin, blond-haired man with a pug nose, drawn mouth, and small, sharp brown eyes sat behind a huge desk.
He looked up as Carter entered, curled his lip, and went back to the stacks of money spread out in front of him.
"Erich Voigt?"
"That's who you wanted to see. Who the hell are you?" He had a rough, gravelly voice that didn't match his size, and he was wearing about five grand worth of suit and jewelry.
"I need some information."
"So do I. Who are you?"
"Carter, American, private detective."
"I don't talk to detectives, private or otherwise."
"Suits me. It's your father I want to talk to anyway. I always believe in going right to the top."
The scowl was real, and his voice, when he spoke again, got even lower and rougher. "You saw my manager downstairs and my bouncer?"
"Yeah."
"Together they weigh over five hundred pounds."
"So?"
"So I think you'd better go before I have them break your arms and legs."
"You don't want to hear about Hessling?"
"What… that he's dead? I knew it five minutes after the body was discovered."
That was like a hard right in the gut, but Carter didn't flinch. "You're connected better than I thought."
Voigt finished playing with his money, snapped a rubber band around a stack of bills, and laid an ugly-looking Walther on the desk between them.
"You have five seconds to get out of here before I shoot a would-be thief."
Carter stood. "Tell Hans-Otto that the wisest thing he will do in the next few days is see me."
The little man was reaching for the gun when Carter went out the door. Downstairs, the barman was talking rapidly on the phone. Bismarck was nowhere in sight.
Carter stepped out onto the street, turned right, went about ten yards, and froze. It was empty. For two solid blocks, there wasn't a soul. It was the high part of the night. There should have been tourists and locals, hookers and freaks moving and laughing between the bars.
There was nothing, no one, not a sound. It was like a war zone just before the battle starts.
He moved on a few more paces, and heard feet hit the street behind him. It was like a signal. They came out of darkened doorways in front of him, Bismarck and two more almost as beefy. Carter threw a quick glance over his shoulder and saw the barman coming at him with a sap.
The sap was a bad lead. Carter dodged, and it went harmlessly past his back. The Killmaster hit the barman in the throat with a left that traveled only twelve inches.
The man took a short backward step, grunting and fighting for air. Carter kicked him in the gut and then got him a second time in the chest. He went sailing into one of the others.
That left Bismarck and his other pal. Carter started to spin to meet them, but he was too late.
A pair of fists like iron caught him square in the middle of the back,
sending him to the ground. He could see the barman still lying on the ground a few feet away, still clutching his throat and belly, but the other three were up and ready to go.
They began putting the boots to him, and Carter covered up.
"Watch his head!"
"Yeah, leave him breathing… don't kill him!"
Bastards, Carter thought, and did a three-eighty spin on his hip, with his legs out. He caught two of them and leaped to his feet.
Bismarck was coming at him, still on his feet. Both hands were held out in front of him, the fingers rigid and the thumbs tucked in behind them.
He made a leap toward Carter, his right hand swinging down in a slashing motion. The Killmaster moved in under it and kicked him hard in the left shin. The grunt from his thick lips was pure agony.
All pain is pain, and Carter was feeling his share of it from their boots. But bone pain is something else again.
Bismarck hopped for a second, and that gave Carter time to kick him in the other shin.
The other two were coming on again. The Killmaster side-kicked one of them in the gut, but the other one rang his bell with a hard right to the side of the head. Carter faked a go-down, and caught him with an elbow in the testicles when he fell for it.
Then he went for the moaning Bismarck. Carter knew he had to make it fast now. His back, his ribs, and his head ached like the end was close. He knew he couldn't take much more.
He put two into Bismarck's gut with all the strength left in his arms, and grabbed hold of the man's left wrist. Carter wound his arm up behind the man's back and turned him.
Then he got a firm grip on the back of his neck and, with his other hand in his belt, ran him across the sidewalk.
The giant's head slammed into the brick wall with a dull thud, and Carter let him slip to the cement.
The barman was up, groggy and clutching his throat, but coming on. Carter stepped forward and kicked his legs from beneath him. He went down with him, slightly faster, so his knee was waiting for the big man's gut.
By the time he was sprawled on the sidewalk on his back, there wasn't much fight left in him.
"What's your name?"
Silence, hate in his eyes, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth.