"What did Limpton have to say?"
"Hessling was putting the squeeze on a big American electronics manufacturer. He had told Limpton earlier that the goods would be pure gold. In fact, worth more than gold to Limpton's people. Evidently, the squeeze didn't work. Hessling called him a couple of weeks ago and said that the deal was off."
"And last night it was back on?"
The man nodded and began to dry his hands. "He directed Limpton to give him a call Tuesday in Berlin. Alma wants you to do a little digging before then."
"Will do."
"Have a nice flight."
Carter returned to the lounge and answered Lisa's quizzical stare with the truth. "Business."
"So you're not on vacation."
"It would seem that I'm not," he replied. "But it's just routine. I'll still look into your problem."
Right 922 was called for boarding. When they had passed through security, Lisa folded her arm through Carter's and leaned close to his ear.
"Do you travel without your friends now?"
"Oh, no. False bottom in the suitcase I checked."
The «friends» she was referring to were Carter's 9mm Luger, which he affectionately called Wilhelmina, a deadly little stiletto named Hugo, and a walnut-sized gas bomb dubbed Pierre.
Carter actually thought, that sunny morning walking down the airport concourse with the beautiful and appealing woman on his arm, that he wouldn't need his «friends» on this trip to Berlin.
Every day at noon, the Freiheitsglocke in the American Memorial Library building boomed out the hour. It sounded each noon to remind Berlin and the world that all men derive the right to freedom equally from God.
Dieter Klauswitz cared nothing about symbols or God. About his freedom, he had an undying passion to keep it. He removed the five pieces of his means to keep his freedom from the leather case and began assembling them.
From his sunny, 260-foot-tall perch above Berlin, he had a commanding view of the boulevard in front of the library. On the steps, workmen were putting the finishing touches to the podium and seats with bunting for the rally.
On the sidewalks and in one lane of the partially blocked-off boulevard, the curious, the demonstrators, and the enthusiasts had already begun to gather.
Berlin police manned the barricades, their spotless uniforms and white helmets gleaming. Uniformed and plainclothes SSD, men and officers of the special security department, stood about grim-faced in the heat.
They looked uncomfortable.
Klauswitz himself was slightly uncomfortable. His muscles ached from lying on the ground all night. But not enough to jeopardize his performance. With the added clothing beneath the leather, he was perspiring, but not enough to impair his determination.
When the F1 was completely assembled and checked, he scooted around on his belly until he found the perfect piece of hard, flat ground for the bipod. When this was done, he fit the stock to his shoulder and his eye to the scope.
The line from the open end of the scope down the twenty-eight-inch barrel, over the front sight and the silencer, was clean and pure all the way to the library steps.
An electrician in blue coveralls stood at the podium, connecting and adjusting a bank of microphones.
Klauswitz moved the cross hairs of the scope against the sight until a button on the man's left breast pocket was sighted in. He adjusted the range, then rolled the magnifier to full.
The button seemed to explode in size in the scope.
"Bang," Klauswitz said, "you're dead."
He popped the box magazine and, one by one, loaded it with the cyanide-treated shells. When the magazine was reset, he made one more sighting calculation.
Perfect.
He scooted over to the wicker basket, withdrew the thermos and sandwiches, and like so many of the workmen below him, proceeded to have his lunch.
The honeyed shade of her dark blond hair, the slant of her eyebrows, and the intense blue eyes were the only physical evidence to the fact that Delaine Berrington Conway was Lisa's sister.
Where Lisa's figure was full and roundly feminine, Delaine's was angular, with small breasts and almost boyishly slim hips.
Even her face, with its sharp bones and planes, lacked the soft character of Lisa's.
At this moment she was dressed in a plain white bra and white panties. She sat at her vanity, idly rolling an eyeliner pencil back and forth between her fingers.
"Jesus Christ, aren't you dressed yet? We have to leave in ten minutes!"
Delaine looked up to see her distinguished-looking husband, her champion of industry, scowling at her from the doorway.
"I really don't feel like going, Stephan."
"Bullshit. You're going, and that's all there is to it!"
Delaine stared at him in the mirror. It wasn't hard to see why she had fallen in love with this man, married him, and endured him for the last four years.
"You have to go, Delaine," he said, his face darkening with menace.
It was a chiseled, leathery face, but not a coarse one. The long nose had been accidentally broken once, but it retained an aquiline grace. And the long, horizontal dimple in his left cheek never lost its appeal, even when he clenched his jaw tightly, as he was doing now. His eyes, normally a warm and moody gray, were now hidden beneath his heavily frowning brow.
"Who was she, Stephan?"
"What?"
"Last night's conquest. Do you have a mistress on your staff over here, or did you bring her with us in the entourage from the States?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"It's not like you to pick up a cheap tart off the streets, Stephan. Besides, the perfume I smelled on you last night when you got into bed was too expensive for a tart."
"Delaine, please, do we have to go into this…"
"I guess I would rather have it be a tart, though. That means you would forget her the next morning. But you haven't been forgetting this one. And that perfume has become familiar. You should stick to women who use my brand of perfume, Stephan."
"Christ, Delaine, we'll talk about this tonight…"
"I want to talk about it now!"
"Well, I don't!" he shouted, and stomped to the closet. With an angry growl, he threw the doors open and bunched the clothing in his big arms.
Then, hangers and all, he walked them to her and dropped them on the floor. He lifted her like a feather from the vanity stool and set her on her feet in the middle of the clothing.
He fumbled in the randomly thrown pile of clothing until he withdrew a dress.
"Put this on and pull yourself together. We'll deal with your paranoia later."
Delaine grimaced in distaste at the garish red dress he thrust into her hands.
"Must I?"
"You must."
"And if I don't?"
"If you don't, little girl, I'll really give you something to divorce me over! I need you on that stand today. It would be a slap in the face of the others if you weren't there, standing by my side."
"Would you hit me again, Stephan? You're very good at doing that so it doesn't show."
Without warning, he slammed his balled fist into her stomach. She gasped and crumpled into a fetal ball in the middle of the pile of clothing.
"That answer your question?" he hissed.
She gagged.
"Ten minutes. Be ready."
He stomped from the bedroom, and Delaine pulled herself to her feet. Still fighting nausea from the pain, she reached for the red dress. She hated it; it wasn't her style at all, a red, scoop-necked, sheath-skirted design that she considered too bright and cheap-looking for her taste. But Stephan had been adamant when he bought it for the trip.
Until now she had refused to wear it.
"Oh, God," she whispered, sliding the slinky garment over her head. "Hurry, Lisa, hurry! Come and take me away from this madman!"