Klauswitz stayed calm. Everything was covered. There was nothing left to chance. He was an American. His passport was authentic, issued directly through the office of an American senator. He could even go screaming to the American embassy.
"There you are." He laid out all his bills: British pounds, American dollars, West German marks, what was left of the twenty-five East German marks he had exchanged at Checkpoint Charlie, and his change. "You are Vopo?"
"Stasis," came the reply as the man meticulously counted the money.
State security police, Dieter thought. What are they looking for?
"This is all your currency, Herr Klein?"
"Of course."
The second man went to work on the two bags and their contents.
"See here, I am an American…"
"Simply routine, Herr Klein," said the money counter as he moved to the closet and began patting down the two extra suits.
Suddenly he stopped, took one of the suit jackets off its hanger, and carried it to the bed. With a penknife, he began to cut the lining.
"See here! You can't just come in here and do this! How dare…!" Klauswitz stopped in mid-sentence, his face ashen.
Pouring out of the lining of the jacket were East German marks, all in high denominations.
"It is illegal to bring Eastern marks into the German Democratic Republic, Herr Klein. Since, according to your currency declaration, you couldn't have bought these since your arrival…"
Klauswitz didn't speak. He knew it would do no good. It was a frame. The marks had been planted. But why?
"You are under arrest, Herr Klein. Will you come with us, please?"
The Bavarian was not much different from the Golden Calf, just bigger. The girls were just as fleshy, the customers just as loud, and the male help just as mean.
"Scotch, neat."
The barman, a sallow-faced man with no neck, poured from the bottle. "Five marks."
Carter put a twenty on the bar. "Keep it. I'd like to see Erich Voigt."
"He's not in tonight."
"I think he is, upstairs counting his ill-gotten gains."
The barman turned laser-beam eyes on Carter. "Police?"
"No, just a concerned citizen."
"Why don't you drink your drink and find another bar?"
"Why don't you go and tell Voigt a very important man wants to see him?"
The barman reached for him, but Carter was faster. He threw the scotch in the man's eyes and pushed him.
"What's the trouble here?"
He was a mountain in a tacky tuxedo right at Carter's elbow. He had a flat face, pig eyes, and arms as big as Carter's legs.
"No trouble. Who are you?"
"I am the man who stops trouble."
"Good, Bismarck. Then tell your boss an American, Nick Carter, wants to talk to him about Oskar Hessling."
The giant hands were coming up as Carter spoke. Now they stopped, and his face, if possible, became thoughtful. "Hessling?"
"That's right. I think Herr Voigt would be very angry if I didn't see him." Carter could read the man's indecision. "Move!"
Bismarck moved, and Carter turned back into the barman's boiling face.
"Son of a bitch," the man hissed.
"Now, now," Carter replied, and poured himself a fresh drink.
He was just finishing it when he saw the giant motioning to him from a small hallway in the rear of the room. Carter shouldered his way through the crowd and joined him.
"This way."
They went up the stairs, and Carter entered a shiny chrome-and-glass office that was nothing like the joint down below. A short, thin, blond-haired man with a pug nose, drawn mouth, and small, sharp brown eyes sat behind a huge desk.
He looked up as Carter entered, curled his lip, and went back to the stacks of money spread out in front of him.
"Erich Voigt?"
"That's who you wanted to see. Who the hell are you?" He had a rough, gravelly voice that didn't match his size, and he was wearing about five grand worth of suit and jewelry.
"I need some information."
"So do I. Who are you?"
"Carter, American, private detective."
"I don't talk to detectives, private or otherwise."
"Suits me. It's your father I want to talk to anyway. I always believe in going right to the top."
The scowl was real, and his voice, when he spoke again, got even lower and rougher. "You saw my manager downstairs and my bouncer?"
"Yeah."
"Together they weigh over five hundred pounds."
"So?"
"So I think you'd better go before I have them break your arms and legs."
"You don't want to hear about Hessling?"
"What… that he's dead? I knew it five minutes after the body was discovered."
That was like a hard right in the gut, but Carter didn't flinch. "You're connected better than I thought."
Voigt finished playing with his money, snapped a rubber band around a stack of bills, and laid an ugly-looking Walther on the desk between them.
"You have five seconds to get out of here before I shoot a would-be thief."
Carter stood. "Tell Hans-Otto that the wisest thing he will do in the next few days is see me."
The little man was reaching for the gun when Carter went out the door. Downstairs, the barman was talking rapidly on the phone. Bismarck was nowhere in sight.
Carter stepped out onto the street, turned right, went about ten yards, and froze. It was empty. For two solid blocks, there wasn't a soul. It was the high part of the night. There should have been tourists and locals, hookers and freaks moving and laughing between the bars.
There was nothing, no one, not a sound. It was like a war zone just before the battle starts.
He moved on a few more paces, and heard feet hit the street behind him. It was like a signal. They came out of darkened doorways in front of him, Bismarck and two more almost as beefy. Carter threw a quick glance over his shoulder and saw the barman coming at him with a sap.
The sap was a bad lead. Carter dodged, and it went harmlessly past his back. The Killmaster hit the barman in the throat with a left that traveled only twelve inches.
The man took a short backward step, grunting and fighting for air. Carter kicked him in the gut and then got him a second time in the chest. He went sailing into one of the others.
That left Bismarck and his other pal. Carter started to spin to meet them, but he was too late.
A pair of fists like iron caught him square in the middle of the back, sending him to the ground. He could see the barman still lying on the ground a few feet away, still clutching his throat and belly, but the other three were up and ready to go.
They began putting the boots to him, and Carter covered up.
"Watch his head!"
"Yeah, leave him breathing… don't kill him!"
Bastards, Carter thought, and did a three-eighty spin on his hip, with his legs out. He caught two of them and leaped to his feet.
Bismarck was coming at him, still on his feet. Both hands were held out in front of him, the fingers rigid and the thumbs tucked in behind them.
He made a leap toward Carter, his right hand swinging down in a slashing motion. The Killmaster moved in under it and kicked him hard in the left shin. The grunt from his thick lips was pure agony.
All pain is pain, and Carter was feeling his share of it from their boots. But bone pain is something else again.
Bismarck hopped for a second, and that gave Carter time to kick him in the other shin.
The other two were coming on again. The Killmaster side-kicked one of them in the gut, but the other one rang his bell with a hard right to the side of the head. Carter faked a go-down, and caught him with an elbow in the testicles when he fell for it.