Well done, Dieter thought, very well done. I commend you, Herr Oskar Hessling.
The last item in the briefcase was a small, square box. Inside it were ten 7.62mm steel-cased shells. Each one of them had been doctored, a minuscule amount of potassium cyanide inserted in their tips.
Klauswitz was sure he would need only one, two at the most, but he emptied all ten of the shells into the zippered pocket of his black leather jacket.
He closed and locked the doors and the trunk lid of the sedan, and then surveyed the car and the garage.
Everything was in readiness for his return the following day.
After securely attaching the wicker basket to the rear of the bike, he wheeled it from the garage and locked the door. On Moabit Allee he cranked the big machine and roared south toward the brighter lights of downtown Berlin.
As he rode, he retraced the plan and the escape route. He had gone over it three times in minute detail in his mind by the time he parked the machine at the foot of the Insulaner Mountain.
At the end of the war, Berlin was rubble. Before the rebuilding process could start, huge amounts of twisted steel, concrete, bricks, and other debris had to be disposed of or burned.
The solution that was eventually adopted was to heap the scattered rubble into huge artificial hills, cover them with soil in a tiered effect, and plant the whole with grass, shrubs, and small trees. As a result, these rubble «mountains» now dotted the skyline of Berlin.
The largest of them was the Insulaner, soaring 260 feet into the air. From its peak most of West Berlin could be seen.
But come the next morning, Dieter Klauswitz would be interested in only one piece of West Berlin real estate: the wide, sweeping steps of the American Memorial Library. It was on those steps, in a little more than twelve hours, that several West German dignitaries and the American, Stephan Conway, would speak.
Klauswitz removed the wicker basket from the rear of the BMW and strolled across Mehring Damm to a phone booth.
He deposited the correct coins and dialed. The phone was answered on the first ring. He easily recognized the now-familiar wheeze.
"Herr Hessling, this is Pilgrim."
"Ja, mein Herr. The car?"
"Fine, and the suitcases as well."
"Excellent," came the wheeze. "And the papers?"
"Also fine. Everything is go."
"I have already informed our employer. The money should reach me within the hour. It will be deposited in the Bahamas account ten seconds after the newscast confirming."
"It has been a pleasure doing business with you."
"Danke. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Pilgrim."
"Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Hessler."
Dieter Klauswitz walked back across the boulevard, around the fence that bordered the swimming pool that had been built on the lower tier of the rubble mountain, and began climbing the Insulaner.
Oskar Hessling poked the telephone's disconnect button and strained his stubby fingers toward the half-eaten box of chocolates. He popped one into his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with a slurping drink of schnapps.
"Good man," he wheezed, and burped, "damned good man. I knew he would be. And a loner. Perfect."
Oskar Hessling had a habit of talking out loud to himself. Often he would ask himself questions and give himself answers. It had come from years of being alone. It was only one of the myriad oddities about the man. Another was the fact that, in the vast twenty-odd rooms of the mansion where he now sat, there was not a single mirror.
The reason for this was because Oskar Hessling could not stand to look at himself.
He was huge. Not even corpulent, grossly fat, or obese could describe the 450 pounds of flab and blubber that rolled in waves beneath his tentlike clothing.
His jowls hung far below his chin on either side, and his eyes were like tiny dark holes in the sickly white balloon of his face.
But as fat and grossly ugly as Oskar Hessling was, it did not affect the cunning of his razor-sharp mind. Unlike Hans-Otto Voigt — the other master of crime in West Berlin — Hessling needed no army of stooges around him. He did everything necessary to amass his great wealth with just his bank of telephones.
Now he squinted in deep concentration. In two seconds he came up with the number he desired from over five hundred in the memory bank of his phenomenal mind.
"Ja?"
"Guten Morgen, Frulein. The pilgrim has landed."
"I understand."
"I can expect you soon?"
"Mein Herr, I think it would be wiser…"
"My dear lady, I have survived these many years by being extremely careful. I shall expect you in fifteen minutes."
"But…"
The dial tone filled the room from the phone's speaker box. Hessling punched up a new number. He didn't have to think to dial this one. He used it often.
"The Golden Calf."
"Put Antonio on!"
"Certainly, Herr Hessling."
The Golden Calf was just one of the many slightly sleazy nightclubs Hessling owned on or around the Ku'Damm featuring female strippers or male transvestites.
"Ja, mein Herr?"
"Guten Morgan. Are you busy, Tony?"
"Only fair."
"Good, good. I have a tender morsel arriving soon, Tony. Class and looks, a real beauty. You will enjoy her."
"The usual fee, mein Herr?"
"Of course, my boy… and perhaps a little bonus. This is very special. Shall we say an hour?"
"I'll be there."
"Good."
He broke the connection, thought, and dialed yet again. The London number rang several times before the brusque tones of a female voice on an answering machine came through.
"Peter Limpton's office. Mr. Limpton is not in. If you will leave your name, number, and message at the tone, Mr. Limpton will return your call as soon as possible."
Hessling waited until the dull tone sounded, then wheezed out his message. "I believe I will be able to deliver the shipment of radio parts after all, Mr. Limpton. If you will please call me in a day or so at the Berlin number I gave you, we can discuss the financial arrangements."
As the dial tone filled the room, Hessling managed a laugh. It hurt his chest. He washed another chocolate down with schnapps, and dialed the last number he would need that night.
"Stasis, Corporal Kleimann."
"Colonel BaIenkov, bitte."
"Bitte."
Stasis was short for Staatssicherhehsdienst, the East German state security service. Colonel Volatory Balkenkov was Moscow's KGB liaison to Stasis.
Hessling wiped drool from his chin and smiled as he waited. He delighted in his own cleverness. He would soon have it all, and what better way to force the American to sell him the goods than to enlist the aid of the Russians. They needn't know that he was selling the goods right back to them through Peter Limpton.
"Balenkov."
"Guten Morgen, mein Herr," Hessling rasped.
"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?"