And Klauswitz had another flaw. He loved nice things… clothes, food, the best wines, the most beautiful women.
He became a thief, and a good one. His athletic body allowed him to scale walls like a human fly, and his alert mind and nimble fingers enabled him to open safes whenever he chose.
But Klauswitz got caught. He went to prison, was released, and got caught again.
Now he was awaiting trial, and his old ability with a rifle was going to save him. He had no compunction about killing someone, anyone, if he could secure a new identity, a great deal of money, and avoid another prison term.
That was why he was in the Volkspark Rehberge, and doing business with Herr Oskar Hessling.
At the westernmost part of the park was a walled cemetery. The walkway ended abruptly in the trees that separated the lake from the cemetery.
Klauswitz drove the BMW off into the trees until he was completely enshrouded in darkness. He killed the engine and sat for several seconds. When he was sure no one had seen and become curious about his maneuver, he put the bike on its stand and moved soundlessly through the trees.
With ease he vaulted the stone wall and moved like a specter through the tombstones. It was difficult reading the names and the dates on the markers through the dark visor before his face, but he dared not raise it. The last thing he wanted was for the Turk to see his face.
"He always delivers," Hessling had said. "He doesn't know me; he mustn't know you. He will hand over the goods; you will hand over the envelope. You will never see each other again."
Klauswitz had to hand it to Oskar Hessling. He was a planner. He planned everything down to the last detail. Nothing was left to go astray.
That was why Klauswitz had agreed to perform this service for the man. That and, of course, the fringe benefits.
When, deep in the cemetery, it became just too dark to make his way, he used a small penlight.
At last he found it: KRONER LANE, PLOTS 16–34.
He had barely snapped off the light when a short, dark figure in jeans and a dark jacket materialized from nowhere.
"Good evening, effendi."
"You are the Turk?"
"I am."
"Frau Horning is buried near here."
"I believe she is in Number Eighteen."
"You have the merchandise?"
"You have an envelope for me?"
Klauswitz used two fingers to withdraw a plain white envelope from beneath his jacket.
"One second."
The Turk faded into the darkness and returned in seconds. He crouched by the mound of a grave and set a leather case between them.
"Hold the light," Klauswitz said, passing it to the other man.
The case was about two feet by one foot and approximately five inches deep. He popped the two clasps and opened the lid, turning the case at the same time so that the light would reveal its contents.
"It is a French F1, Tireur d'EIite, 7.62mm. They say it will consistently group ten rounds into a circle smaller than inches at better than two hundred meters."
The black helmet nodded, and beneath the dark visor Klauswitz's thick lips curled in a smile. "It will."
Dieter Klauswitz had used the French sniper rifle before, but never with a silencer. This one was a beauty, broken down into five parts. The bipod was attached, and the barrel was equipped with a flash hider.
The man behind the visor loved guns. He deeply regretted that he would have to abandon this one after it had done its work.
"How clean is it?"
"Stolen in Marseilles two weeks ago," the Turk replied. "Absolutely untraceable. Do you need ammo?"
"No. That's been taken care of." Klauswitz passed the envelope over and closed the lid of the case.
"Good hunting," the Turk chuckled, and the two men faded into the darkness in different directions.
Seconds later the steady bass throb of the BMW's engine filled the park, and the rider headed north toward Wedding and Wiebe Strasse.
Gertrude Klammer backed the Mercedes into the dirt-floored garage. She killed the lights and the engine, and left all the keys on the front seat.
The envelope was beneath the bricks just as the message said. Gertrude didn't bother to check the contents. She knew the thousand marks would be there.
Stuffing it into her purse, she stepped out onto the walk of Wiebe Strasse and carefully closed the door. When the padlock was snapped, she hurried toward the lights of the larger Moabit Allee.
The Wedding section frightened her. It was full of empty houses too run-down for the landlords to repair. Young, hippie-type squatters and single foreign workers occupied them because they could do so for nothing.
But there were also criminals of all kinds in the area. She was elated to find a cruising cab within two blocks.
Unknown to Fräulein Gertrude Klammer, she had a protector. He sat on the BMW at the other end of Wiebe Strasse in the darkness between two houses. He didn't move until the woman was safely in the cab and it was speeding away.
The last thing Klauswitz wanted was for this woman to be molested in any way. It would be a disaster for the police to question her reasons for being in the Wedding section alone at this hour.
He didn't start the bike. He pushed it to Number 9 and unlocked the door with the second key Hessling had provided.
Inside, he was the epitome of efficiency. He closed the door tightly and snapped the BMW's light on, aiming it so the beam illuminated the rear of the garage and the Mercedes. Then, from the rafters of the garage, he took down a wicker picnic basket and a suitcase.
The wicker basket contained sandwiches, fruit, and a thermos of juice. He lifted everything out and put the gun case in the bottom of the basket. When the thermos and food were replaced, the basket was filled perfectly to the lid.
The suitcase went into the trunk of the car. Inside it was a briefcase and the complete wardrobe of a traveling businessman.
Quickly, Klauswitz stripped out of the leather and boots. Beneath them he was completely naked. From the suitcase he donned socks, shorts, dark blue pinstripe trousers, and a white-on-white shirt. He carefully knotted a light blue tie and slipped into the suit jacket.
Everything fit, including a pair of black Gucci loafers, imprinted on the inside heel with the mark of the Italian shoemaker's Fifth Avenue store in New York City.
In fact, all the clothes bore American labels.
He removed the jacket and shoes, and placed them on the Mercedes's rear seat. Carefully, retaining the knot in the tie, he removed it and placed it on the jacket.
It was a bit of a struggle to get the leathers on over the clothing, but he managed.
Next he checked the briefcase.
The papers were all in order and scrupulously accurate. They detailed recent business transactions between Mockdendorf Limited of West Berlin, a toy manufacturer, and Klein Enterprises of Albany, New York.
Mockdendorf was a very real company, with offices in West Berlin, Hamburg, and Frankfurt.
Klein Enterprises was a fiction, but the Vopo guards at Checkpoint Charlie would never know that.
He replaced the papers and picked up a passport packet. Inside, he found a U.S. passport issued in the name of David Klein. Address: 414-C Shamrock Towers, Albany, New York. Occupation: President, Klein Enterprises.
He flipped to the back pages of the passport where frontier stamps were placed. David Klein had entered the West German Republic two days before, via Frankfurt.
The passport photograph was of a blond-haired, smiling Dieter Klauswitz.
Also in the packet was a payment voucher for the Metropol Hotel. This he would need in order to stay overnight in the German Democratic Republic. And he had to stay overnight, because the remaining item in the packet was a first-class ticket on Tuesday morning's Aeroflot flight from East Berlin to London's Heathrow Airport.