by Nick Carter
"I don't know Klauswitz."
"No matter. When it all goes together, there will be a great deal of money. The evidence must be overwhelming. If you cooperate, you will get this confession back. You might even make some of the profit."
She could feel his body relax slightly beneath hers.
"But if the police get this…" he stammered.
"They won't. Sign!"
The Turk took the pen in his shaking right hand. He closed his left hand over his right wrist to keep it steady, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page: Demetrius Baclevic.
"Very good."
She pulled the pen and paper from beneath his face and fired the third slug into his brain.
She folded the paper carefully and returned it and the pen to the pouch. When the pouch was anchored securely in her bra, Anna Palmitkov slid into the water and swam back to the grassy shoreline.
It was just after seven o'clock. With any luck, she would have a meeting arranged between herself and Stephan Conway before the evening was out.
* * *
Lisa called at seven. Carter broke long enough to pad down the hall to her suite for food.
The atmosphere was tense as he brought her up to date on what he had learned.
Ursula Rhinemann had made at least two trips a month to the States in the last six months, some to New York, some to San Francisco. It could be all business, or there could have been a lot of hanky-panky mixed in. There was no way of telling without checking all of Stephan Conway's movements in the States as well, and that would be very difficult.
Lisa would start on it in the morning.
"It's all loose, isn't it?" she sighed. "Circumstantial."
"So far," Carter admitted. "If Rhinemann is part of the triangle, it looks as though Conway has put her up front with everything. If there is a fall, it's her word against his."
They finished the meal in silence. Carter didn't tell her that a little over an hour before, the bomb boys had removed eight sticks of dynamite from the toilet in his room.
From the haggard look on her face, she couldn't take that knowledge along with everything else she had absorbed during the last few days.
At the door she kissed him perfunctorily on the cheek. It was pretty obvious to Carter that she wanted — and needed — to be alone as much as he.
"Get a good night's sleep," he murmured, squeezing her shoulder gently.
"I'll try."
"Take a pill."
Again in his room, he dived back into the Hessling papers. They said a lot, but nothing that would do him any good nailing Conway. The only real information was that, by reading between the lines, Herr Hessling did have some strong contacts in the Eastern sector that were very profitable.
Carter was almost finished, when there was a light tap at the door.
"Yeah?"
"Vintner."
Carter opened the door and the big man marched into the room. He dropped into an easy chair, loosened his tie, and undid his top shirt buttons.
"Long day?"
"You know it. Your boys have started World War Three out there. Thank God the Voigts don't know where to hit back!"
"Other than blowing up my ass… literally," Carter growled. "Drink? I've got brandy and scotch."
"Brandy's fine. Any results?"
"Not yet." Carter handed him the glass. It was gone in one swallow. "Anything on the Turk?"
"His name is Demetrius Baclevic. And he's disappeared."
"Tipped?"
"Who knows? Maybe old man Voigt will tell you, if you ever get to him."
Carter brought the SSD man up to date on every piece of info he had garnered that day. Vintner sat, slouched, scowling at the empty glass rolling between his big hands.
"So, what have we got?" he said at last. "We've got a lot of little things that point to Ursula Rhinemann, and from her we guess Conway."
"But nothing that would nail him," Carter added.
"How's the sister taking it?"
"Rough."
"How do you figure it?"
Carter sighed, finished his drink, and refilled both their glasses.
"Conway marries Delaine for her money and contacts. The money works, the marriage doesn't. It gets worse when Rhinemann comes on the scene. Somebody tries to blackmail Conway. He sees it as a way to threaten his own life. So he sends Rhinemann out to hunt for a shooter."
"And she finds Hessling."
"Right. The irony is that Hessling probably found her, only she didn't know it."
Carter decided to come clean about the Peter Limpton/Boris Simonov connection with Hessling.
"My guess is Hessling hired the shooter, and gave him instructions to waste Delaine and do everything he could to make it look like Conway was the target. Hessling keeps all the marbles, and when everything cools down, he's really got some blackmail ammunition."
Vintner pulled himself from the chair. "It would fit. But with Hessling dead, so is the proof."
"Unless we get the shooter."
"Yeah, unless we get the shooter."
"Check in with me in the morning."
"Will do," the chief inspector grunted, and closed the door behind him.
Carter sat in an easy chair by the window, turned off the lamp, and stared out at the city.
Was the shooter still out there, or was he long gone? Hessling's phone call to Limpton/Simonov would indicate that the man was sure he was going to get the goods. That would mean that Hessling had the shooter on ice in case he needed him to back up the blackmail shot.
Thinking about it made Carter weary. He dozed. And the doze deepened and became sleep.
The phone brought him upright in the chair. He snapped on the light and glanced at his watch. It was three in the morning.
"Carter here."
"All right, you son of a bitch, call off your dogs!"
"Nice of you to call, Erich."
"My limo will be at the side door of the hotel in fifteen minutes."
"And Hans-Otto?"
"My father is on the island waiting for you."
"Nice to do business with you, Erich."
He cut the connection and redialed AXE Berlin. When he got Marty Jacobs on the line, he gave the order to halt the war.
Then he took a long shower, shaved, and climbed into clean clothes.
Forty-five minutes after Erich Voigt's phone call, he went downstairs.
Screw 'em, the Killmaster thought. They made me wait two days, they can wait an extra half hour.
Twelve
The estate was exactly what the term implied and then some. It covered a good-size island in the middle of the Havel River.
They covered him from both sides as they got out of the Mercedes limo. At the dock they patted him down and found Wilhelmina. One of them started to stick his hairy paw under Carter's jacket, and the Killmaster grabbed his wrist.
"Oh, no, you don't," he hissed. "This Christian doesn't meet the lions naked."
"It's impossible!"
"Then we end the cease-fire."
"Wait here."
He stomped down to the waiting launch and started working a phone. Carter turned to the other one.
"Got a match?"
Reluctantly a lighter flared, and Carter inhaled deeply. The cigarette was half gone when the angry goon returned, angrier than ever.
"Come!"
It was a fifteen-minute ride, and another five-minute walk up from the boathouse. Hans-Otto didn't slack on security. During the walk. Carter counted nine men armed with machine pistols or shotguns. Loping at each man's side was a big German shepherd.
The Sixth Panzer Division would have had a hard time cracking this one, Carter thought.
As he walked between the two men through heavily forested formal gardens, the Killmaster ticked off what he had gleaned from police files about Hans-Otto Voigt.
He had been actively anti-Nazi during World War II. In his twenties he had joined a small elite group in Berlin devoted to ove
rthrowing the Nazis by internal espionage.
Right after the war, he survived by using the same smuggling avenues to form a huge black market. But as well as being a survivor, Voigt was a born leader, cunning and ruthless.
It was only a matter of time before smuggling and the black market were just a small part of his operations. By the late fifties, Voigt was the acknowledged kingpin of crime in West Berlin and northern Germany. And since then he had been able to keep that empire intact.
The villa was built on a rise directly in the center of the island. The walkway up from the water was a long, winding affair that passed outlying houses, gardens, and several more gun-toting guards.
Architecturally, it was a mishmash of Rhine River castle and mock English Tudor. It appeared to have been built by some long-dead or crazed Teutonic knight rather than by a modern, living gangland overlord.
One of two huge, brass-studded oak doors opened, and Carter stepped into a massive hallway. Erich Voigt awaited him.
"I want your gun."
The only way you'll get it is to take it."
The younger man stepped forward. Carter didn't move. He smiled.
"You bastard."
"I didn't come to listen to you whine, Erich."
"My father is in the hothouse. This way."
Carter followed him through a maze of corridors, glancing into well-furnished rooms as they moved. There were fresh-cut flowers everywhere.
From the outside, the house had loomed large. Inside it was enormous. Even though it was comparatively new, it had a sprawling, solid aura of aged splendor; Carter credited it to good taste in construction and the dominant use of expensive woods and stone for building materials.
Erich led him through wide, open French doors into a tiny Eden, completely surrounded by a high, immaculately clipped myrtle hedge. The hedge surrounded a sea of camellias, oleander, carnations, and myriad botanical marvels Carter couldn't name.
Above and around the whole was glass, keeping out the river breezes, the city smells, and keeping the interior what it was… a hothouse.
In the middle of the sea of flowers sat an ornate fountain. Beside the fountain was a table and four chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a short, wide man. The face was grizzled with age but still handsome in the chiseled Teutonic mold. The eyes were piercingly blue under heavy dark brows that didn't match the mane of steel-gray hair.
"Are you Carter?" The voice was growlingly husky, as if he had polished off a carton of cigarettes within the last hour.
"I'm Carter."
"A few years ago I would have just had you shot and buried in the Havel."
"A few years ago I would have dealt directly with you and would not have had to deal with the boy."
At the word boy, Erich came forward with his fists clenched.
"Erich, sit down," the old man hissed. "He's right."
Erich sat. So did Carter. Hans-Otto leaned forward, a glint of impishness in his hard blue eyes. "You like my garden?"
"Lovely. The flowers are beautiful."
"Good. If you die tonight, I will see you get the finest bouquet. Why do you cost me so much money?"
"Because I wanted to trade with you, and your son has stone ears."
"So. What do you have? What do you want?"
Carter hefted the briefcase to the table and opened it. "I have Oskar Heading."
The old man rifled through the papers quickly, but Carter could tell that he didn't miss a thing. When he was through, he slapped the case closed and, in the same movement, backhanded Erich across the face.
"Dummkopf!"
"Papa…"
"Shut up! Get out of my sight!" When the younger Voigt was gone, Hans-Otto turned his gaze back to Carter as he tapped the case. "Who are you?"
"Somebody important."
"You must be, the way you turn my people upside down. This" — he tapped the case harder — "this, I would kill for. Who do you want killed?"
"Herr Voigt" — Carter slowly lit a cigarette, speaking in a low, modulated tone — "if I want someone killed, I'll do it myself."
Voigt's hard blue eyes squinted, then he nodded. "Ja, I believe you would."
"I want information, and a body… live, if possible. I want to know who hired him, and who the shooter is who tried for the American, Stephan Conway."
"I didn't hire him."
"I wouldn't be here if I thought you had. When you find out who the shooter is, I want your help locating and getting him."
"Agreed. What else?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe something… maybe nothing."
Hans-Otto was a man of quick decisions. The old eyes blinked once and the big head came up with a jerk. "Erich!"
"Yes?"
"Get me a telephone out here, and some beer. What kind of beer do you want. Carter?"
"Dutch, it costs more."
"Dutch beer! And move!"
Carter heard the younger man sprint into the house, and he leaned back in his chair. His hunch was right. If anyone could find out who and where the shooter was, it was Hans-Otto Voigt.
* * *
Anna Palmitkov rapped on the door. It was opened at once, but only a crack. No light was lit and the face in the crack was in shadows.
"Yes?"
"Fräulein Rhinemann?"
"Yes."
"I just talked to you on the phone."
"Come in, hurry!"
Anna Palmitkov darted through the door. It was quickly closed and locked behind her. As soon as the lights were turned on, she walked down into the sunken living room and turned to face the other woman with a flourish.
"Who are you?" Ursula asked, clutching a half-empty glass of whiskey between her two trembling hands.
"Who I am is of no consequence. I assure you, I have the material I mentioned so vaguely on the telephone."
Anna slipped the big bag she carried from her shoulder. She rummaged in it and withdrew three sheets of paper and a manila folder.
"Sit down," she said curtly, glancing up at the other woman.
Ursula flushed. "This is my flat. How dare you…"
The Russian woman's hand arced like a whip and struck like a darting snake. The flat palm cracked against the side of Ursula's head, sending her sprawling and the glass of whiskey crashing against the mantel.
"Now will you listen?" she hissed.
"Yes." Tears were streaming down Ursula Rhinemann's beautiful face. Her body shook, and she was sure she wouldn't be able to hold down what little food she had in her stomach. "What do you want?"
"Nothing, I assure you, that you will not be able to give. Now, I am going to tell you a story…"
For the next hour, Ursula listened. The more she listened, the whiter and sicker she became.
She knew! This woman knew practically the whole thing, almost down to the time when she and Stephan had first conceived the plan!
"This is the confession of a woman named Gertrude Klammer. Small, by itself, but a link. Another, stranger, link is this statement by a minor illegal arms dealer, Demetrius Baclevic."
"I know none of these people…"
"Read!"
Ursula read, dropped the papers, and ran from the room. The sounds of vomiting from the adjoining bath didn't bother Anna Palmitkov. She fixed a drink from the other woman's well-stocked sideboard and lit a cigarette.
Eventually Ursula returned, shaken, and resumed her seat. "I know nothing of this."
"Don't you? The third sheet of paper was pressed into Ursula's hand. "This is the statement of Dieter Klauswitz, to the effect that he was hired by Oskar Hessling to assassinate Delaine Berrington Conway. It also states that you and Stephan Conway ordered, through Oskar Hessling, this murder.»
"That's impossible! The killer didn't even know that Stephan and I…"
Ursula suddenly screamed and clamped her lips tightly shut.
Anna Palmitkov's smile was that of a predator.
"We have Dieter Klauswitz in an East German prison at this very mome
nt."
"It means nothing!" Ursula gasped. "It means absolutely nothing! None of this can be connected to myself or Stephan!"
"Perhaps not, directly. But several weeks ago one of our agents was working with Oskar Hessling. His cover name was Peter Limpton. His real name is Boris Simonov. He turned out to be a traitor after he was caught by the Americans, but several of the operations he initiated bore fruit even without his knowledge. These, for instance."
From the manila envelope, Anna produced ten eight-by-ten prints. All were in living, fleshy color. Each of them was from a different angle, and they all showed Ursula Rhinemann and Stephan Conway in various stages of making love.
Ursula bent her face into her hands. Silent tears dripped from her fingers and all the starch went out of her body.
"You're not the police," she said finally, looking up, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "What do you want?"
A smile of victory creased Anna Palmitkov's face. "That's more like it," she said, producing another sheet of paper and moving toward the other woman. "Here is an updated list of the equipment Oskar Hessling has already tried to blackmail Stephan Conway for. There are also detailed instructions as to where and how they should he routed."
"Stephan will never agree!"
"I think he will." Anna said, calmly sipping her drink."! think your lover will agree to anything to save his skin. Call him."
"Now?"
"Now. I'm sure he has a private phone."
"Yes." Ursula nodded dumbly. "He installs a scrambler line wherever he goes… for business."
"Good, even better. Call him!"
Still weeping, Ursula tugged the phone toward her and dialed.
"Yes?"
"Stephan… it's me."
"Ursula, how dare you call me here… even on this phone!"
"Stephan, something very important has come up…"
"Dammit, Ursula, can't it wait until morning?"
"No, dammit, it can't!"
"All right, all right, darling… calm down. What is it?"
In a halting, weepy voice, Ursula read the three confessions, and then told him about the pictures.
When she finished, there was a long, deathly silence on the other end of the line.
"Stephan?… Are you still there?"