The file was the West Berlin police dossier on Dieter Klauswitz.
"Interesting, but what does it have to do with me?"
"Perhaps nothing, but three things in that file, despite the fact that Klauswitz is a known criminal, intrigue me. Do you know what the biathlon is?"
"I believe it is an athletic event that includes cross-country skiing and shooting."
"Shooting with a rifle, yes. You will note from the file that Klauswitz is a master marksman. You will also notice that during his brief military career he was stationed in Stuttgart, and after his military service, attended the American University in Munich. I suspect Herr Klauswitz's English is as good as mine… or yours."
"I have met several Germans who spoke perfect English."
"Of course," the colonel replied. "Bear with me, Herr Klein; I am putting something together. Are you aware that an assassination attempt was made on an American businessman in West Berlin yesterday?"
"No, I was not aware of that."
"No matter. The man wasn't killed. His wife and a police officer were."
"Look here, I'm tired of all this…"
"Herr Klein, shut up." Balenkov went to his notes. "We have reason to believe that one Oskar Hessling hired Dieter Klauswitz to commit this crime. I received a memo from First Directorate, KGB Moscow, last evening that connects Herr Klein to Oskar Hessling. It seems that Hessling attempted to blackmail Herr Klein a few years ago. We think that this attempted assassination might well be a further attempt at blackmail."
"I ask you again, what in God's name has all of this got to do with me?"
"A great deal, I think, Herr Klein. From the time the shooting took place until you came through the wall was exactly one hour and fifteen minutes. Our people in the West have also made discreet inquiries this morning with officials of Mockdendorf Limited. They have indeed done business with Herr David Klein recently, but only by phone and telex. According to them, David Klein has not been in Germany personally for over a year."
Balenkov paused, studying his quarry. It was slight, but the signs were there: a subtle pinch around the mouth, the barely perceptible sag in the otherwise square shoulders, the quivering of the nostrils.
The colonel could sense it. He almost had his man.
"And there was, of course, the phone call from Herr Hessling the morning before you came over."
"What?"
"Oh, yes, Herr Hessling and I have done quite a bit of business in the past."
Balenkov slid a small cassette recorder-player from his briefcase and punched the Play button.
"Stasis, Corporal Kleimann.»
"Colonel Balenkov. bitte."
"Bitte."
"Balenkov."
"Guten Abend, mein Herr."
"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?"
"More than enough. But why?"
"I must make a contact or two on Tuesday. I'll call you that evening and let you know what to do with him, and how great both our rewards will be. Auf Wiedersehen, Colonel."
"Wiedersehen, Herr Hessling."
Balenkov pushed the Stop button and looked up at the man across the table. The fair face was gray now, and he was holding his temples with his hands.
"And so. Dieter, you see, you were betrayed from the beginning. And I think we know why. Your instructions were not to kill Stephan Conway, were they?"
"No."
"It was the woman all along, wasn't it?"
"Ja," Klauswitz replied in German. "Der Fell Schweinhund!"
"I completely agree. Herr Klauswitz, with your opinion of Herr Hessling. Now, suppose we start from the beginning, the very beginning, including all the names you know."
"What do I get out of it?"
Balenkov shrugged. "I suppose you have already arranged another passport in another name in England, since David Klein actually exists?"
"Ja. I was going on to Portugal, and then to Argentina."
"Yes, I'm sure you would have made many friends there," Balenkov replied drily. "I see no reason that, once we have what we want, you cannot continue on your journey."
"How can I trust you?"
"Actually, you have no choice. But I will say this: we don't want the scandal of an assassin passing through East Germany. The quicker you are on your way, the better for us."
Klauswitz sighed. "May I have a cigarette?"
"Of course." Balenkov pushed an open pack across the table and punched Record on the machine.
Dieter Klauswitz talked for two hours and seven minutes. At the end of that time, Colonel Balenkov had filled in everything from the other side of the coin — Hessling's side — that Klauswitz couldn't know. He figured it should be an easy matter to locate the other woman.
"Very good, Dieter," he said finally, gathering up everything and putting it in his briefcase. "You may rest now, and let's hope we have you on your way soon." He met the lieutenant in the hallway. "Has she arrived?"
"Ja, Herr Colonel, about a half hour ago. She is in the sixth-floor lounge."
Balenkov took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the hall to the ranking officers' lounge.
He knew of her reputation and had heard of her beauty, but the reality of it struck him when at last he met her face to face.
"Colonel Balenkov?"
"Da."
"I am Colonel Anna Palmitkov. Shall we get right down to business?"
Stephan Conway was a mixture of grief, stricken husband. Texas-style good-old-boy bluff and bravado, and wily businessman.
Carter had scarcely shaken the man's hand when he recognized why the media was dancing to Conway's tune. He was big, handsome, suave, and crude, all at the same time. He cussed well, and told anecdotes with a mix of down-home wit and parish-house piety.
He also managed to interject his "dear sweet wife" into every third sentence.
"I want the maniac who did this. Inspector, and I want his ass nailed to the wall!"
It had been a half hour since they had entered the Berlin Ambassador suite, and Vintner had, as yet. not been able to ask one question.
Besides the inspector, the steno, Carter, and Conway, there was an entire phalanx of the great man's hangers-on, six men and three women. Conway hadn't bothered to introduce them beyond a wave and a perfunctory "part of my staff."
The men could be grouped into the attorney-accountant categories. Two of them were American, the other four German. Two of the women were American-type secretaries, clean-cut. wholesome, and studious, as befit those who worked near the throne.
It was the third woman who interested Carter, and from the way Vintner's steno kept throwing quick sidelong glances, she was curious as well. Curious, or in awe.
Carter guessed the latter, and could see why.
He had barely caught her name, Ursula Rhinemann, but he couldn't miss her presence. No one, even in a room of one hundred beautiful women, would miss it.
She was a tall, statuesque woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore her dark hair short, with easy curls at the sides framing an exquisitely featured face set in a mask of seriousness. Her eyes, staring intently at the questioning Vintner, were level, cool, and of an indeterminate color beneath long, darkly mascaraed lashes.