"Go ahead," Bruchner said. "I'll wait here for the cleanup crew."
There was a drizzle in the air by the time Carter nosed the car up the Ku'Damm and around the Tiergarten toward the building housing the SSD offices.
Horst Vintner was still out of his office. Carter dropped off the briefcase, with instructions to have it delivered back to him at the Victoria the minute the contents had been copied, and then returned to the car.
"Any messages for Carter?" he asked when he returned to the hotel.
"Ja, mein Herr."
Carter ripped the envelope. It was from Lisa.
"I'm at the Company offices. You ask a lot. Do you know how many flights have to be checked? If I get done by eight… dinner?"
Carter took the elevator to his floor. The instant he hit the room he sensed it: someone had paid a call. His extra pair of shoes were three inches off the mark at the foot of the bed. His suitcase had been moved slightly, just enough to detach the hair he had attached to one side of it with saliva.
Cautiously he went from corner to corner, wall to wall, phone to TV set.
Nothing.
Next he went through the bag and his personal effects — shirts, ties, socks, underwear — inspecting each item carefully before removing it.
In the bathroom he checked his shaving gear and smelled his aftershave and toothpaste. He even disassembled the stick deodorant. A tiny cyanide-tipped needle or pin stuck in the tube would work wonders.
He was almost satisfied that it had only been a search, when he noticed the slight crack between the porcelain and the rubber stopper on the toilet seat lid.
He got down on his hands and knees and used his penlight. There they were: two tiny springs set into the rubber stoppers.
Keeping his hands as steady as possible, he lifted the lid from the top of the reservoir tank. Two wires ran up, out of the flush pipe. They were attached to an oilskin bundle submerged in the water. Gently he replaced the lid and moved into the bedroom to the telephone.
"SSD," came a terse reply to the third ring.
"Horst Vintner, bitte."
The growling voice came on the line at once. "Vintner."
"Carter. How close are my copies to being done?"
"One moment," He was right back. "Another half hour. I've been checking them as they came off. Makes for very interesting reading."
"Good. When you have them delivered, have it done by a bomb expert."
"What?"
"Yeah, I've got about six sticks of dynamite in my toilet tank."
He hung up and dived for the Berlin directory.
"Der Bavarian."
"Erich Voigt, bitte."
"Herr Voigt has not come in."
"Yeah? Well, you tell him Carter called. The bomb didn't go boom."
"What is this…?"
"This is bullshit. Tell him I'm doubling the pressure."
Carter hung up and returned to the bathroom. Gingerly he splashed water on his face and then sat down to read the rise to power of Stephan Conway.
Oncoming dusk and the onset of a light but warm drizzle had driven most of the bathers from the grassy banks of the Hallensee. Those that were left kept to their nude hedonism.
The Turk lay on the grass directly below the concession stand. About fifty yards out in the lake, a raft bobbed at its moorings. Unlike the couples around him, the Turk wore a suit.
He was where he was supposed to be. Where was the woman?
He had checked her source out with Hamburg. She was legit. She had agreed to the price over the phone. Not so unusual. People who wanted guns in a hurry usually didn't quibble about price.
Near the Turk's hip, wound tightly in a waterproof bag attached to a belt, was a sample of the merchandise, a silenced Walther PPK.
She had told him on the phone that she wanted ten of them. The Turk had jacked the price up a thousand marks per unit. She had agreed, as long as the quality was good. She had also hinted that there might be a larger order to follow.
He checked the fading light. It must be close to six o'clock. She was almost a half hour late.
And then he saw her. She was directly in front of him, standing near the water. She looked like some kind of raven-haired goddess, with the upper half of her body silhouetted against the gray sky. Her clothing was a halter bra and a wraparound skirt.
I will be wearing a matching black and white striped top and skirt.
Then her hands started working, and the skirt fell to the grass.
She stood, making sure that the Turk had spotted her, then she turned toward the water and stretched to her toes.
The Turk's mouth watered. Maybe he could extract a little extra payment. She was beautiful, not the kind of woman with whom the Turk normally came in contact.
The long legs seemed to quiver with strength clear up to the equally quivering, well-rounded buttocks. Her stomach was flat, indented between sharp hip bones. The breasts were large, firmly jutting from her rib cage.
"Maybe I give you a deal on price after all, woman," the Turk muttered, moving the belt around his middle and fastening it.
She arched her body into the water, and the Turk went in after her. The sun had beat down most of the day, until about an hour before, making the water warm.
She crawled up onto the raft with lithe ease, and stretched out with her toes facing the grassy slope and her head toward the center of the lake. The Turk joined her in the same position, his thigh nudging hers.
"You brought the sample?"
Her German was accented slightly, but the Turk couldn't place her native tongue.
"I did."
"Let me see."
He removed the belt and pushed the pouch in front of their heads so it couldn't be seen by anyone on the bank. He unzipped it, peeled back the inner, waterproof lining, and extracted the Walther.
"The silencer?"
He removed the silencer and screwed it into the snout of the Walther. "It is a prime piece, completely rebuilt. I can get you all you want."
She had rolled to her left side and molded her body to his. It was difficult, with her soft breasts caressing his shoulder, for the Turk to keep his mind on business.
She fumbled in the darkness beneath her breasts and removed a small oilskin pouch. Each movement made more sweat break out on the Turk's body.
"I have to say, this is the strangest way I have ever made a delivery."
She chuckled. "But you must admit it is private. No one on shore is paying any attention to us, and no one can hear us."
"True."
She handed him three shells from the pouch. "Load it."
"Load it…?"
"Of course. I don't want merchandise with faulty firing pins."
The Turk shrugged against her, and ejected the clip. He inserted the three shells. He jammed the clip back into the butt and armed it. "Okay?"
"Yes." She nodded, rolling her body partially over his. "Fire, once, into the water."
He shifted the gun to his right hand and fired. Her hand was just above his, her warm breath on the back of his neck. Her bra must have slipped down. He could feel her bare nipples hardening against his back.
"Satisfied?" he stammered.
"Again." He fired a second shell into the water. "Now let me."
She reached for the gun. Her whole body moved over him. The feel of her skin was intoxicating, so intoxicating that he failed to notice that on her right hand she wore a glove, a clear plastic surgeon's glove.
She lifted the gun from his hand, but instead of firing the third and final round into the water, she turned the barrel toward his head. Before he could stop her, the blunt nose of the silencer was grinding into the soft hollow behind his right ear.
"What the…?"
"Shhh, be very still and very quiet."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm angling the barrel so if I fire, the bullet will go directly into your brain."