The Berlin Target Page 12

  "Wiedersehen, Herr Hessling."

  Balenkov pushed the Stop button and looked up at the man across the table. The fair face was gray now, and he was holding his temples with his hands.

  "And so. Dieter, you see, you were betrayed from the beginning. And I think we know why. Your instructions were not to kill Stephan Conway, were they?"

  "No."

  "It was the woman all along, wasn't it?"

  "Ja," Klauswitz replied in German. "Der Fell Schweinhund!"

  "I completely agree. Herr Klauswitz, with your opinion of Herr Hessling. Now, suppose we start from the beginning, the very beginning, including all the names you know."

  "What do I get out of it?"

  Balenkov shrugged. "I suppose you have already arranged another passport in another name in England, since David Klein actually exists?"

  "Ja. I was going on to Portugal, and then to Argentina."

  "Yes, I'm sure you would have made many friends there," Balenkov replied drily. "I see no reason that, once we have what we want, you cannot continue on your journey."

  "How can I trust you?"

  "Actually, you have no choice. But I will say this: we don't want the scandal of an assassin passing through East Germany. The quicker you are on your way, the better for us."

  Klauswitz sighed. "May I have a cigarette?"

  "Of course." Balenkov pushed an open pack across the table and punched Record on the machine.

  Dieter Klauswitz talked for two hours and seven minutes. At the end of that time, Colonel Balenkov had filled in everything from the other side of the coin — Hessling's side — that Klauswitz couldn't know. He figured it should be an easy matter to locate the other woman.

  "Very good, Dieter," he said finally, gathering up everything and putting it in his briefcase. "You may rest now, and let's hope we have you on your way soon." He met the lieutenant in the hallway. "Has she arrived?"

  "Ja, Herr Colonel, about a half hour ago. She is in the sixth-floor lounge."

  Balenkov took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the hall to the ranking officers' lounge.

  He knew of her reputation and had heard of her beauty, but the reality of it struck him when at last he met her face to face.

  "Colonel Balenkov?"

  "Da."

  "I am Colonel Anna Palmitkov. Shall we get right down to business?"

  * * *

  Stephan Conway was a mixture of grief, stricken husband. Texas-style good-old-boy bluff and bravado, and wily businessman.

  Carter had scarcely shaken the man's hand when he recognized why the media was dancing to Conway's tune. He was big, handsome, suave, and crude, all at the same time. He cussed well, and told anecdotes with a mix of down-home wit and parish-house piety.

  He also managed to interject his "dear sweet wife" into every third sentence.

  "I want the maniac who did this. Inspector, and I want his ass nailed to the wall!"

  It had been a half hour since they had entered the Berlin Ambassador suite, and Vintner had, as yet. not been able to ask one question.

  Besides the inspector, the steno, Carter, and Conway, there was an entire phalanx of the great man's hangers-on, six men and three women. Conway hadn't bothered to introduce them beyond a wave and a perfunctory "part of my staff."

  The men could be grouped into the attorney-accountant categories. Two of them were American, the other four German. Two of the women were American-type secretaries, clean-cut. wholesome, and studious, as befit those who worked near the throne.

  It was the third woman who interested Carter, and from the way Vintner's steno kept throwing quick sidelong glances, she was curious as well. Curious, or in awe.

  Carter guessed the latter, and could see why.

  He had barely caught her name, Ursula Rhinemann, but he couldn't miss her presence. No one, even in a room of one hundred beautiful women, would miss it.

  She was a tall, statuesque woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore her dark hair short, with easy curls at the sides framing an exquisitely featured face set in a mask of seriousness. Her eyes, staring intently at the questioning Vintner, were level, cool, and of an indeterminate color beneath long, darkly mascaraed lashes.

  She had the kind of haunting face and sensuous figure that drew and held men's eyes. Carter was no different.

  Only when the voices of Vintner and Stephan Conway were raised in anger was the Killmaster's concentration drawn back to the two men.

  "As mundane as this questioning may seem to you, Herr Conway, I assure you it is not. Now, will you please tell me about the blackmail attempt?"

  Conway furrowed his wide brow and looked to his attorneys. There must have been some imperceptible nod of agreement, because he started to talk.

  "When I was a student I joined a couple of left-wing organizations. It was one of those idealistic college things," he said with a shrug. "When I found out that they were Communist connected, I got out. It's as simple as that."

  Vintner nodded. "But obviously someone remembered."

  "Yes. I was contacted by a man in San Francisco and shown some petitions I had signed years ago. I was told the material would be suppressed if I agreed to sell certain electronics technology and equipment to a firm here in West Germany."

  "And?"

  "And I told them to go to hell."

  "So those petitions were given to the American FBI."

  "Yes."

  "And you were investigated?"

  "I was, and cleared. I don't see what this has to do with the attempt on my life."

  "Perhaps nothing, perhaps something." Vintner said evenly. "Do you know of anyone who would want your wife killed?"

  "Of course not! She didn't have an enemy in the world."

  "But there were threats against your life."

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "The morning we got to Berlin."

  "How?… Letters? Someone came to you?"

  Conway hesitated. Again a quick look at his people. Vintner didn't catch it. He was looking down at his notes. Carter did. The eye contact was directly with Ursula Rhinemann.

  "No, it was a phone call, here at the hotel."

  "And what did they want?"

  "The same thing, electronics. I think it's the damned Commies."

  Vintner shifted gears. "I have a statement here from your sister-in-law, Ms. Lisa Berrington, that states that you and your wife were on the verge of divorce."

  "Preposterous!" Conway thundered, jumping to his feet. "Lisa's a bitch! She has never liked me, and has always done everything in her power to split us up! Oh, Delaine and I had our arguments, but what couple doesn't?"

  "I see." Vintner sighed. He gathered his papers and stood. "When will you be leaving Germany, Herr Conway?"

  "I know my dear wife would want me to go on with my work. I am scheduled to speak in Munich in four days. I shall probably leave Berlin that morning."

  "Thank you for your cooperation."

  The steno was already out the door. Carter fell in step behind her, and then stopped.

  "Herr Conway, I wonder if I could ask you one more question?" Carter spoke English with a heavy German accent.

  "What is it?"

  "Do you know a man by the name of Oskar Hessling?"

  The man was a good actor, but the question had come out of left field, a direction he had not fully prepared to defend.

  There was ever so slight a twitch at the right eye, a little breath, and the start of another look at the woman, which he arrested just in time.

  "No, I've never heard the name."

  "I see. Danke."

  Vintner was the first to speak in the elevator. "What do you think?"

  "I think he's guilty as sin," Carter replied.

  Vintner nodded. "So do I, but it will be hard to prove without the shooter or the man who hired him. It's a pretty elaborate scam just to get rid of one's wife. Almost unbelievable."

  "I have a theory," Carter said. "The blackm
ail was for real. Conway wants to get rid of his wife, so he used it to promote rumors that he's about to be hit, but the target is really the wife."

  "Like I say," Vintner replied, "pretty elaborate and farfetched. And damned hard to prove."

  "Maybe." Carter turned to the blond stenographer. "I saw you staring at the tall, dark-haired woman. Do you know her?"

  The girl nodded. "Her name is Ursula Rhinemann. A few years ago her picture was on every magazine cover in Germany. She was a fashion model. She is even more beautiful now."

  "What's her connection with Conway?"

  Vintner consulted a printout of Protec's administrative staff. "She's head of public relations for Europe."

  "That's a hell of a job for a fashion model," Carter quipped.

  Vintner shrugged. "Not if she's got brains as well as beauty. It might be a plus. What are you thinking?"

  "An old-fashioned, very simple triangle."

  "With Ursula Rhinemann as the other woman?" Vintner said, his bushy eyebrows arching.

  "You saw her. What do you think?"

  Vintner nodded. "I'll put a team on her."

  Bruchner awaited them at the car, smiling. "We've got the motorcycle! A young punk was picked up for speeding on Bismarck Strasse. He admits stealing it from a garage in Wedding."

  "Any chance he's our shooter?"

  Bruchner shook his head. "None. He's a petty thief, long record, but not capable of this. A team has already interrogated the neighbors around Wiebe Strasse. An old man remembers the biker going into the garage on the BMW and coming back out in a white Mercedes."

  "License number? Description of the driver?"

  Bruchner's face fell. "No tag number, and all he remembers is that the driver was blond."

  "At least it's a start," Carter said, crawling into the car. "Drop me at Tessiner Stuben. I have a meeting with a man who might have some answers."

  Ten

  "Fräulein Klammer?"

  "Ja." Gertrude Klammer's palms, holding the door open a crack, were sweating. This woman wasn't from the Ku'Damm, but she didn't look like police, either.

  "I would like to talk to you, Fräulein Klammer."

  "I am busy now."

  The white Mercedes was due back at Tegel. She hadn't gotten the call to pick it up. She didn't know where to pick it up. She didn't know what to do. Was this woman from Europa?

  "I would like to talk to you about a white Mercedes, Fräulein Klammer."

  Gertrude Klammer's face went as white as the car. "Are you from Europa?"

  "No, Fräulein Klammer. I have something I want you to read."

  A paper was passed through the crack. Gertrude read it and sagged against the wall, letting the door swing wide.

  "Mein Gott…"

  The woman had entered and closed the door behind her. "I want you to sign that paper, Fräulein Klammer."

  "But this is a confession! It says I helped an assassin escape!"

  "You did, Fräulein Klammer, when you rented the Mercedes and left it in the Wiebe Strasse garage."

  "Who are you, police?"

  "No. It doesn't matter who I am. We have this knowledge, and we have uses for it. I assure you, Fräulein Klammer, we have no intention of using it against you."

  "But I didn't even know it was Oskar Hessling who hired me!"

  "We know that. Just sign, Fräulein Klammer. And if you should want to leave Berlin…"The woman placed a stack of one-thousand-mark notes and a pen on the table. "Sign, Fräulein Klammer."

  Gertrude Klammer could feel her pulse racing. "I have no choice, do I?"

  "None. If you don't, a copy of that will be mailed to the SSD. It will only be a matter of time."

  Gertrude sat and, with a quivering hand, signed the paper.

  She barely felt the thin piano wire touch her throat before she was gasping out her last breath.

  * * *

  The restaurant was rosy in the glow of the midafternoon sun. It smelled of fresh flowers and good food. Carter ordered a drink, a beer, and a double order of turbot with leeks en papillote.

  He was two fingers down on his drink when a very weary Jamil Erhanee slid into the opposite chair and dropped a six-inch bundle in front of Carter.

  "You've been busy."

  Erhanee sipped his beer. "Keeping the modems hot."

  "Boil it down for me."

  The Indian took a deep breath and dived in. "Protec is big, I mean really big. And one of the reasons is a huge transfusion of megabucks at just the right time."

  "Delaine's money."

  "You got it. Conway gobbled up little companies like sharks swallow minnows at feeding time once he got his hands on her loot and her line of credit."

  "Score one for our side. What about cash transactions in the last six months?"

  "Protec tosses around millions like they came out of a kid's Christmas account. But, oddly enough, that worked in our favor."

  "How so?"

  "Because smaller amounts stick out like all hell. It goes like this. Protec-Europe is financed out of Zurich. If any funds are transferred from home — San Francisco or New York — to Zurich, it's always for a special reason. And it's always big bucks. About three weeks ago, there was a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar transfer from New York to Zurich."

  "And that's small?"

  "Smallest ever. It was earmarked for the Protec-Berlin slush fund."

  "Who controls that fund?"

  "Lady by the name of Ursula Rhinemann."

  "Bingo," Carter whispered.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. Go ahead, where did the quarter mil go?"

  "To buy a company chateau on the Havel River. But twenty-four hours after the down payment was made, it was withdrawn. There was a three-percent penalty, but that's peanuts."

  "Who did the money changing?"

  "Deutschbank, here in Berlin. I've got a buddy over there who remembered the deal. The money wasn't transferred back into the Protec account. It was withdrawn in cash."

  "By Ursula Rhinemann?"

  "You got it. But there's lots more. Personal on the wife. She drew two-hundred-and-fifty grand in cash from her personal account two days before she and Conway left for Europe."

  "The bastard doesn't get his fingers in at all, does he?" Carter growled.

  "Now come the last two twists." Erhanee paused there, savoring his beer and Carter's anticipation. "Oskar Hessling doesn't keep much cash in this country. In fact, he doesn't keep much cash, period. His horde is in gold, and he likes to buy it illegally. It's cheaper that way. He uses a guy named Peter Rohenstaffer. A little over two weeks ago, Herr Peter made a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar gold buy in London and ferried it to Zurich for Hessling; That news came from a speculator friend in London."

  "It all fits so far."

  The grin on Erhanee's face spread from ear to ear. "Now comes the zinger. This morning, at the crack of opening, almost two hundred and fifty thousand in cash was deposited in the Protec slush fund at Deutschbank."

  "By Ursula Rhinemann."

  "You got it!"

  Carter rubbed his chin in thought. "It's still circumstantial, but there's a definite trail. You got an address on this Rohenstaffer?"

  "I thought you'd ask."

  Erhanee passed across a slip of paper and dived into the food in front of him.

  "Have a good lunch," Carter said, dropping some bills on the table. "I owe you one."

  "It can't wait?"

  "Not as fast as I think things are going to move in the next twenty-four hours," Carter said over his shoulder, and he headed for the foyer and a telephone.

  According to Marty Jacobs, the AXE boys were tying the Voigts in knots, and the day was still young.

  Horst Vintner was out, but Bruchner listened to the tale on Peter Rohenstaffer and agreed to pick Carter up in ten minutes.

  He made one last call, to Lisa's suite at the Victoria.

  "Dammit, Nick, I wish you'd check in more often," she said when she heard hi
s voice.

  "Been busy. What do you know about Ursula Rhinemann?"

  "Name rings a bell, but I can't place it."

  "I think she's the other woman in the triangle. I want you to call every mutual friend you and Delaine had, and see if your sister ever mentioned the name. Also, use your clout with Langley and have them dive into the records of international air carriers. I want to know the dates, if any, that Rhinemann visited the States."

  "Will do. By the way, I haven't exactly been idle."

  "Oh?"

  "Delaine and I both bought a lot of our clothes at a little boutique off Fifth Avenue in New York called Figaro's. I know the owner well, and called her."

  "The red dress?"

  "Yes. The saleswoman was named Kay. I talked to her, and she remembers the incident well. Delaine hated the dress and wouldn't even try it on. Stephan went into such a rage he frightened everyone in the shop. He finally won, and they bought the dress."

  They were both thinking the same thing; it was like ESP through the line.

  The dress was a beacon-better yet, an identifying target for the shooter.

  "It's thin, Lisa, but it might be another nail in the coffin."

  He hung up and hefted Erhanee's bulky bundle of computer printouts into the street. Bruchner was just pulling up to the curb.

  "Here's the address."

  "What's that?" The man nodded toward Carter's bundle.

  "The financial life of Stephan Conway and Protec, my evening's reading. Have you got it?"

  Bruchner passed across a thick, pulpy plastic envelope. "That stuff's pure gold on the street. The boys back there came along to make the arrest and make sure they get it back."

  Carter swiveled his head. Two plainclothes policemen followed them closely in an unmarked sedan. Their faces were square and grim, and their eyes never left the SSD car.

  Carter put the one-pound bag of heroin in his inside coat pocket, and lit a cigarette. Herr Peter Rohenstaffer would be a small link, but at this point any link would do.

  * * *

  The address was in an old section of north Berlin, above Tegel Forest on Weiden Strasse. It dead-ended into a walkthrough alley. Carter had Bruchner stop around the corner, and the two cops pulled in behind them.