by Nick Carter
Carter curled his fingers in the side of his hair and bounced the back of his head on the sidewalk a couple of times.
"Speak to me."
"Dirk…"he gagged.
"Okay, Dirk, after you clean this mess up, you go back in and tell little Erich that this is just the beginning. Hear me?"
Blink. Gag.
The Killmaster dribbled his head a few more times on the concrete. When the gags sounded like "Yes," he stopped.
"Tell him I'm at the Victoria. If I don't get word by early morning that I see Hans-Otto, it's war."
Carter staggered down the street and out on the Ku'Damm. It was a half block to a taxi stand, and he almost didn't make it.
The driver calmly surveyed him. "Hospital?"
"The Victoria."
"You're sure, mein Herr?"
"I'm sure. But if you know about a rear entrance, that would help."
* * *
The lights in his room were on, and Lisa Berrington was sitting on the side of the bed.
"Good God, what happened to you?"
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"First things first."
"I tried to prove how macho I am on the wrong side of town. Now you. How did you get in here?"
"The maid. She thinks we're having an affair."
"And out of the hospital?"
"I woke up and was rational. A policeman named Bruchner from the SSD came and took my statement. When it was over, I demanded he spring me."
"Are you all right?"
"Better than you. Here, let me help you with that."
She helped him with his jacket, set him on the bed, and poured two stiff drinks. As he sipped his, she started peeling away his clothes.
"Mind?"
"No. Silly question. How do you feel?"
"You asked me that already."
"I'm asking again."
"A little queasy when I think on it too much. Mostly angry. Want to bring me up to date?"
He did, as she finished getting him almost naked and then started doing marvelous things to his sore muscles with her hands.
"That should prove it, shouldn't it? That Stephan hired someone to kill my sister?"
"Circumstantial," Carter growled. "We need more. A motive. A who. The killer, so far, has got away clean."
"God, your whole body is turning black and blue."
"Whatever you're doing, it's helping."
She had moved away from the bed. Now she was back, her hands at it again. He lay with his eyes closed. The next moment he winced and nearly cried out as probing fingers found the ache in the bruised muscles of his back.
"Ow, enough!" he cried.
"Don't," she said when he tried to push her away. "Just relax. I don't think there is anything broken."
"Not yet!"
"Shhh."
Carter sighed and did manage to relax. She was good. Her massaging fingers seemed able to reach deep to the core of his aches and soreness. There was an exquisite agony, but in its wake a soothing calmness spread through him.
After that single, feeble protest, Carter felt himself grow limp, and he submitted without resistance to the treatment. He could hear her voice drone in a steady monotone, but he scarcely knew what she was saying.
He felt her hands peeling off his last piece of clothing, his shorts. Then she was working on the ache where pummeling fists had punished his kidneys. In long, soothing strokes, her strong fingers ran up the column of his back, across his tortured shoulders, down the slope of his rib cage. He could feel the agony slipping away, to be replaced by a delicious sense of well-being and then, unbelievably, a miraculous resurgence of strength.
"Thanks," he gasped finally. "You're one hell of a nurse!"
"Oh, I almost forgot. When the SSD officer, Bruchner, left me off…"
"Yeah?"
"A woman — a big, blond woman — from his office was waiting in the lobby for you. She left these."
Carter took the two manila envelopes from Lisa's hands and ripped them open. He quickly went through the Voigt file.
"Hand me a pad out of that briefcase, will you?"
She did. "Important?"
"Very." He told her in no uncertain terms just who Hans-Otto Voigt was, and how much clout the old man had. "I think he can come up with answers better and much faster than I or the police can. I just have to get to him."
"Is that so difficult?"
"Very, but I think I've got a way." Carter managed to roll his feet over the side of the bed and then stood with a groan.
Only then did he realize that he was totally naked. "Urn, this is a bit awkward…"
"Not really." She smiled. Her fingers went to work on her dress.
"I could put on a robe."
"I'd rather you didn't," she said, her smile broadening as she shrugged out of the dress. She stood in a half-slip and bra, boldly appraising him. The breasts that swelled her bra to bursting hung heavy and taut behind black lace. "Better?"
"Almost."
She was working the half-slip downward as he made his way to the phone.
He got the AXE hot-line operator on the line, and gave her Marty Jacobs's name and a code-red designation. She went to scrambler and came back on in seconds. "Mr. Jacobs isn't here, sir."
"I figured he wasn't. Put me through to his home."
"Yes, sir."
A very sleepy voice mumbled something like, "Yeah, who is it?"
"Marty, this is Carter."
"Christ, Nick, it's three o'clock in the morning!"
"The fight for freedom never sleeps. Got a pencil?"
"Gimme a minute." He was back in ten seconds. "Shoot."
"I want to put the squeeze on Hans-Otto Voigt and his little boy Erich."
"What kind of a squeeze?"
Carter told him, and then read his own notes scribbled from the file. "How many men do you have?"
"Six in-house, and I can get about fifteen more."
"That should be enough."
"Nick, are you nuts? You want to start World War Three in West Berlin, let alone what the police will do to us if something goes wrong!"
"I'll take care of the cops. You just put three teams together. Start with his morning couriers taking the operating capital to the illegal casinos. Also, hit four or five of his bookmakers and the safe in the Bavarian."
"You're out of your goddamned mind!"
"I know, but I'll lay you twenty-to-one it'll work. I'll let you know first thing in the morning when to move."
"I'll get right on it."
"You're a good man, Jacobs. Ciao."
Carter dropped the pad and files on the telephone stand, stood, and turned to face Lisa. She had stretched out on the bed, naked.
"Aren't you taking an awful chance?" she asked.
"Yeah, but you fight fire with fire."
"Come, kiss me."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. I don't want to sleep alone. If I'm with you, I won't dream. I'll have something to hang on to."
Carter made it to the bed, where she moved over and made room for him. She turned and lay sideways on the bed, facing him, her weight on an elbow stretched across his body, her head propped in her hand. He felt her solid, warm breasts settle on his chest. Doubling the pillow under his head so he could get a better look at her, he ran a hand through her hair. It was wet from her exertions over him.
"He did it, didn't he?" she whispered softly.
Carter nodded. "I think so. The shooter was good, too good to miss. I don't think he missed. I think Voigt can tell me for sure, and if Hessler hired the shooter, I think we've got a motive."
She trembled. "The bastard."
Carter snapped off the light and touched her shoulder gently. She came against him willingly, wantonly.
"You're sure?" he rasped into the side of her neck.
"I'm sure," she murmured.
Carter felt her move over him, felt the warmth of her lips and then her whole mouth.
"Relax," s
he said. "Remember, I know exactly what I'm doing."
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."