"Very good, Herr Klein. You may change your currency at that first window."
"Thank you."
"Bitte."
The Vopo almost had a smile on his face as Klauswitz moved to the window. The East Germans and the Russians were always happy to oblige anyone who wanted to spend lots of dollars or marks on Aeroflot instead of Western commercial airlines.
To enter East Germany, a traveler must change twenty-five West German marks for twenty-five East German marks, and this money must be spent in the GDR. Also, all money of any kind must be declared.
Klauswitz had his twenty-five marks ready by the time he reached the window. Another Vopo, this one with a twelve-year chevron on his arm, took the money and handed Klauswitz a currency declaration voucher.
He filled it out, got his GDR marks, and picked up his bags.
"Customs there, mein Heir."
Klauswitz crossed the aisle and placed his bags on a table.
The customs inspector spoke to him in German.
"I'm sorry, I speak very little German," Klauswitz replied, proud of the fact that he had not rattled an automatic reply.
"Are any of these things dutiable?" the man asked in English.
"No, no, everything is for my personal use. I have business papers in the briefcase."
The check of the suitcase was perfunctory. Each paper in the briefcase was read.
"You do business here?"
"Not this time," Klauswitz replied, smiling. "Perhaps next time."
"Ja. Pass."
Klauswitz picked up his bags and walked on up Friedrich Strasse, past the Unter den Linden, and ten minutes later entered the lobby of the Metropol.
Horst Vintner stood staring down at the French F1 sniper rifle. In one hand he held the magazine. In the other hand he held the two spent shell casings and the remaining eight rounds of live ammunition.
"It's a good thing," Bruchner said from his side, "that he didn't have time for a third shot. He would have gotten Conway for sure."
"Ja, for sure," Vintner replied, his brows meeting in a frown.
He had already examined the tips of the live shells. He wouldn't have to get the autopsy results on the two bodies to know that they had been doctored with cyanide. He'd seen the method used too often.
In the hands of a good shooter, this ammo, with this rifle, was accurate and deadly at an even longer range than the Insulaner to the library.
The doctored shells and the choice of weapon told Vintner that he was dealing with not just a shooter, but a flat-out expert marksman and a pro.
The woman had caught it right in the heart. The slug killed her probably before the cyanide could even take effect.
Horst Vintner didn't like it. It smelled.
"Heir Chief Inspector…"
"Ja?"
"We might have something… two witnesses."
Carter had set the timer on the television before he dozed off. The announcer's voice awakened him, but it was several seconds before the man's monotonal voice became words in his brain. When it did, he sat bolt upright in the bed and glued his eyes to the screen.
"…fortunately, there was not time for the assassin to attempt a third shot. Even with that, according to our footage and eyewitness reports, it was only the quick action of SSD Chief Inspector Horst Vintner that saved the life today of American industrialist Stephan Conway."
Carter was already reaching for his jacket as a camera panned up over the heads of the crowd to Stephan and Delaine Conway standing on the steps of the library. Suddenly he saw Delaine Conway crumple against her husband and a tall, stocky man surge from the crowd.
"However, the incident — as you can see — did have tragic consequences. The assassin did claim two victims. Mrs. Conway — the former Virginia socialite Delaine Berrington — died instantly from a bullet wound in the upper chest. The second victim…"
Carter didn't hear the rest. He was already out the door and hurtling down the hall. He pounded a fist on first one door of Lisa's suite and then the other.
"Lisa… Lisa! Are you in there? Answer me!"
"May I help you, mein Herr?"
A plump-faced maid, a huge ring of keys hanging from a long chain around her neck, stood in the middle of the hall.
"Open the door! Hurry!"
"Nein, mein Herr."
"Ja! Schnell! Quickly!" Carter roared.
"Ja, ja, ja," the woman replied, and with obvious reluctance she jangled a key into the lock.
Carter burst into the room. He analyzed the entire scene at a glance.
Lisa had done the same thing he had done, used the timer on the television to wake her up. She had been in the process of dressing when the announcement had come on. Now she sat, white-faced, wide-eyed, catatonic on the side of the bed, staring at the screen.
She wore a skirt and bra, and a blouse was pulled over only one shoulder.
"Lisa…"Carter approached her closely. "Lisa…"
The head turned, the eyes grew wider, and then she started screaming.
"Mein Gott!" the maid cried out, and lurched toward the door.
"Stay here!" Carter bellowed, enveloping Lisa in his powerful arms, locking hers to her sides and her body to his. "Doctor… is there a doctor?"
"Ja!" The maid had to shout to be heard over Lisa's hysterical screams.
"The phone… get him up here!"
It took only a couple of minutes, and the man was all efficiency when he arrived. While Carter held her to the bed, the physician gave her a sedative, straight to her system through a vein in her right arm.
In short, clipped sentences, Carter explained.
"Shock," the doctor said when he had finished. "Perhaps a hospital would be best for a day or two. Are you her husband?"
"Friend, close friend. I agree, a hospital."
By the time two attendants arrived with a gurney, Lisa had calmed. She was nearly out as they strapped her down, but she managed to speak.
"Nick…"
"Yes, Lisa?"
"Nick… Nick…"
"I'm here, Lisa, I'm right here."
He grasped her hand. Her eyes opened, wavered, and eventually found his.
"It's wrong, Nick… it's wrong."
"Yeah, baby…"
"He did it, Nick… Stephan killed her…"
"Lisa…"
She was fading fast, but just as her eyes closed, he heard her say one more thing: "That dress… terrible. Delaine would never wear that dress…"
Seven
"I am sorry, Herr Carter, but the chief inspector cannot see you."
She was big, buxom, blonde, and looked as if she should be carrying a spear in a Wagnerian opera. She was also, according to everyone he had seen already, the only path to Horst Vintner, the man who had the answers to all the questions rattling through Carter's brain.
"Look, all I want to do, Fräulein…"
"Metzger… Maria Magdalena Metzger."
"Well, Fräulein Metzger, if I could just talk to him for a few minutes…"
"Nein. He is much too busy now to see an American private detective. Guten Tag."
Before Carter realized it, she had maneuvered him into the hall and slammed the door of her office in his face.
"Dammit," he growled, and nailed the first person he passed, a short brunette with huge glasses and a frown that covered her whole face. "Fräulein…"
"Ja?"
She didn't stop, and Carter had to walk fast to keep up with her. "Is there a telephone around here?"
"Are you authorized?"
"It doesn't look like it."