"You are taking the airport road, mein Herr?"
"No, I have business in the Spandau district. I'm an American."
The man's expression changed at once. He scanned the passport briefly and handed it back. "Very good, Herr Klein. You may go out of the line here. The Schwarzer Weg south around the See. It will be faster."
"Thank you."
"Bitte sehr."
He wheeled the Mercedes out of the line and made the left turn that would take him down to the scenic, tree-lined Schwarzer Weg and around the huge lake. He drove well within the speed limit. According to his watch, he still had twenty-three minutes.
Around the lake, he crossed over the Hovel River and speeded up on the Nellendover Strasse north.
At Spandau Prison he made the huge arc that went around the grounds and found the tourist parking lot. He rescued the briefcase and suitcase, locked the car, and walked back to the boulevard after placing the keys on top of the left front tire under the fender well.
It took him thirty seconds to flag down a passing cab.
"Where to, mein Herr?"
"The Ruhleben U-Bahn."
"Bitte, mein Herr."
The taxi lurched forward. Dieter Klauswitz leaned back in the seat and lit the first cigarette he had had in twelve hours.
He peeled the thin black driving gloves from his hands and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. He would deposit them in a trash receptacle in the subway station.
So far… perfect. With only one step to go.
With the usual German efficiency and concentration on detail, the area had been sealed off within seconds after the shooting. Now pedestrians were being let out one by one, and each was thoroughly searched. All vehicular traffic was still quarantined.
Horst Vintner had set up a command post in the front reading room of the library. Through the tall windows he had a commanding view of the entire area, and more radiophones had been brought in for added communications.
There were roadblocks on all the roads through West Berlin, as well as the four routes through the wall that led to the autobahn and West Germany. All private planes had been grounded at Tempelhof and Tegel airports, and roadblocks had been erected at the access roads to Tegel and the commercial airlines.
"Herr Vintner…"
"Ja?"
"They have finished with the on-sight and are ready to remove the bodies."
"Ja." Vintner nodded, scratching his initials on the form shoved in front of him. In Germany, he thought ruefully, everything but a normal bowel movement required a form and a signature.
"Herr Conway would like to return to his hotel."
The chief inspector nodded and waved his hand.
"Herr Vintner…"
"Ja, Bruchner?"
"All the roofs have been checked. Nothing. The office-by-office and room-by-room search is also nearly completed, and also nothing."
"He had to get rid of the rifle. Garbage cans, autos, sewers…?"
"Checked, mein Herr. Nothing."
"Dammit, Bruchner! It's only a six-block area and we've got three hundred men out there!"
"I know, mein Herr, but…"
Vintner put his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. He slowed everything down: the adrenaline pumping through his veins, his mental processes, and the sweep of his eyes.
"Where… where did the bastard fire from?"
He started to his right, at the Mehring Gate. No, the angle was wrong.
Mentally he moved his own body out to the steps. He placed it just as he remembered Delaine Conway's stance, slightly turned to her left, decreasing his own six-foot height to her five-foot-eight.
His eyes traveled along the roofs of the buildings across the Mehring Damm for the hundredth time in the last hour. And for the hundredth time he came up with nothing.
But for the first time he continued on to the left, down Mehring Damm… and then up.
"The Insulaner," he whispered.
"What?"
"The Insulaner, Bruchner! The Insulaner! Take four teams, ten men each, and go up the Insulaner. Start at the top on this side and work your way down!"
"Ja, Herr Vintner."
That was it. Vintner was sure of it. The Insulaner.
God, it would be well over four hundred meters.
The son of a bitch was one hell of a shot, even if he did miss his primary target.
Dieter Klauswitz's timing was perfect. He arrived trackside precisely two minutes before the 2:41 express U-Bahn to Schlesisches Tor pulled in.
He sat in one of the seats looking forward. He shouldn't have. Watching all the small stops fly by only added tension. But then tension and danger were part of it.
He only counted the express stops: Olympia Stadium… Neu-Westend… Theodor-Heuss-Platz…
Sweat was soaking the back of his shirt, but he welcomed it. The last few minutes were always the worst. Once you had the loot and you stepped back out the window or onto the roof to make your final escape, that was always the worst part.
Kaiser Damm… Sophie-Charlotte-Platz… Bismarck Strasse…
It was a cross-city interchange and a long stop. A woman of immense proportions and a florid face oozed into the seat beside him.
"Guten Tag, mein Herr."
"Gut… good afternoon, madam." He had to remember: English from here on in. He was just a businessman, no knowledge of German other than their wonderful ability to manufacture cheap toys.
Deutsche Oper… Ernst-Reuter-Platz… Zoologischer Garten…
"Engländer?"
"Nein… no, I'm an American."
"Ach, I am so sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Ja. Der Amerikaner. Herr Stephan Conway. He vas shot at der library a little while ago."
Klauswitz wished the fat old lady spoke no English. "That's terrible!"
"Ja."
Wirtenberg-platz… Nollendorf-platz… the Ku'Damm…
Right about now he would be passing almost under his old apartment. Klauswitz willed the train to go faster between stations and the stops to be shorter.
Gleisdreieck… Mockernbruke…
"Ladies and gentlemen… Hallesches Tor, Hallesches Tor…"
Klauswitz gathered his bags and stood. "My stop."
"Wiedersehen."
"Good-bye, madam."
He emerged into the sunlight blinking, and forced down the urge to look over his shoulder, down the Mehring Damm, and see the result of the chaos he had caused nearly an hour and a half before.
He had shot the woman and traversed nearly the entire city of West Berlin twice by four modes of transportation: motorcycle, auto, taxi, and U-Bahn.
Now he was back, three blocks north from where the deed had been committed, just outside the police security perimeter, and using his fifth and final mode of transportation: his feet.
Swinging his bags jauntily, he walked north along Friedrich Strasse. The American soldiers on the West German side of Checkpoint Charlie barely glanced at the cover of his passport and nodded.
Unlike their Volkspolizei counterparts fifty yards away, they could care less who left the city.
"Your papers, mein Herr."
The Vopo corporal's face, beneath his coal-scuttle helmet, was youthful but hard. The icy blue eyes never left Klauswitz's as he passed over his passport and prepaid entry visa.
"You know of the midnight curfew, Herr Klein?"
"Yes, I do, but I am staying the night and flying out of the GDR in the morning."
Klauswitz passed over the Metropol Hotel one-night voucher and the prepaid Aeroflot ticket. He kept his eyes on the AKM 7.62mm assault rifle and the gray five-button tunic behind it as the man examined the remainder of his papers.