Berlin

by Nick Carter

  "If you give me your name and address I'll see that you're reimbursed for your car," I told her. She studied me as if she were eyeing some unbelievable object under a microscope. I wished I had the time to stay with her. She was not only extremely pretty, but there was a fascinating quality to her, an air of bemused assurance I'd never met before in a European girl.

  "I don't believe all this," she said, her face creasing into a frown. "I know what just happened, because I was part of it, but I don't believe it. And now you're offering to pay for my car. Why don't you tell me who you are and what this is all about?"

  "Because I don't have the time, for one thing, honey. You just give me your name and address and I'll see that you're reimbursed."

  She shook her head again in disbelief. "I don't have the slightest idea why, but somehow I believe you," she said.

  "I have an honest face," I grinned down at her.

  "No, you have a fascinating face," she said. "But you could be anything from an avenging angel to a super jewel thief."

  "You work on it, honey," I said. "Now, your name. I'm running very late."

  "My name is Lisa," she said. "Lisa Huffmann. The car really belongs to my aunt. I'm here visiting her, but if you make the check out to me I'll endorse it over to her. That's Lisa Huffmann, three hunched Kaiserlautern Strasse."

  "It's as good as done," I said, noting the fullness of her lower lip, the soft, appealing line of her mouth. She continued to keep her cool, contained posture.

  "Five thousand five hundred and forty-six dollars," she announced calmly. "It was a brand-new car."

  I grinned. I found myself deciding I wanted to see this cool, unperturbed little morsel again. Her parting shot nailed down my conclusion.

  "And nine dollars and thirty cents worth of groceries," she added.

  "Lisa, girl," I laughed, "I'm going to deliver this to you myself if I possibly can." I left her standing there on the comer, watching as I hailed a Volkswagen taxi. I waved to her out the window as the cab rolled away. She didn't wave back. She just stood there, arms folded across her high breasts, and watched me go off. I'd have been disappointed in her if she had waved.

  IV

  AXE headquarters in West Berlin was always a legitimate cover, functioning normally in every respect, its real purpose known to not more than two of those involved. In addition, as an extra precaution, the entire cover was shifted every nine months to a year. All top AXE agents were informed of the shifts as they occurred and of all necessary code and identity procedures. As I paid the cab, I looked up at the modest office building with its collection of name-plates and signs lining one wall. My eyes came to a halt at the bottom name — BERLIN BALLET SCHULE. In smaller letters underneath were the words: Direktor — Herr Doktor Prellhaus.

  I smiled. That would be Howie Prailler, of course. Howie was in charge of establishing and maintaining all AXE covers in the European theater. He had a special line of contacts and a special kind of talent for it. We'd met a couple of times previously. I took the elevator up to a large, airy, bright studio where I found myself watching some fifteen young fräuleins, ranging in age from about twelve to twenty, exercising and bending, practicing ballet dips and whirls. I noted there were four young men also, and three teachers — two men and a woman. Everyone was clothed in leotards and tights and very intent on his work. I entered unnoticed, except for the smallish, brown-haired woman at a desk off to the side. She beckoned to me and I went over.

  "I have an appointment with Herr Doktor," I said. "I'm here about the magazine story on the school."

  I was careful to be very formal and proper. The Germans are sticky about titles. If it's Herr Doktor, you'd better damn well address him as Herr Doktor. It was part of a general European attitude toward imposing forms of address I always felt was a holdover from the days when titles meant something.

  The woman picked up a phone, pressed a buzzer and spoke to someone. Then she smiled and looked up at me.

  "Go right in," she said. "The other gentleman from the photographer's studio has already arrived. Down the hallway, the second door."

  I followed her glance across the studio and saw a small corridor on the other side. Skirting swinging and kicking legs, I threaded my way through the embryonic ballerinas, found the second door down the corridor and entered a small office. An instant glance at the insulation of the door and ceiling told me it was soundproof. Hawk was sitting in a deep leather chair and Howie Prailler behind a small, plain desk. Hawk's instant, two-word question reflected both his years of experience and his concern.

  "What happened?" he asked. I nodded to Howie who gave me a fast smile in return. His eyes, too, were deep with worry.

  "I had company," I said to Hawk.

  "So soon?" he asked, his gray eyes behind the rimless spectacle unblinking. Only his voice showed his surprise.

  "Exactly what I said to myself," I agreed.

  "You shook them before coming here, of course."

  "No, they're waiting outside to meet you. I told them I'd bring you out."

  Hawk ignored me. It was a technique of his, especially when he realized I had him one up.

  "How did you shake them?" he asked blandly.

  "They think I misjudged a race with the Berlin-Hamburg Express." He listened intently as I briefly recounted exactly what had happened.

  "Close, N3," he commented when I'd finished.

  "Too damned close," I agreed. "I wish I knew where they put a tail on me first."

  "So would I," Hawk said. "I can see how they could have gotten onto Ted Dennison, but I can't fathom them tabbing you. Not yet, at least. This is very disturbing to me, N3."

  "It didn't do much for my peace of mind either," I commented. I saw Howie Prattler trying to suppress a grin. Hawk's steely gray eyes didn't flicker.

  "Sit down, Nick," he said. "Let me tell you what we've got so far. Every time I look into this thing, I like it less. Does the name Heinrich Dreissig mean anything to you?"

  I knew a little about the man, really not much more than anyone who reads the newspapers fairly regularly.

  "He heads that new German political party," I answered. "I believe they call themselves the NSH."

  "That's right, the Neue Stack Herrenvolk Party. And you know what that translates into."

  "Yes," I said. "The New State People's Party… roughly." It was a rough translation because there was no real one-word English equivalent for herrenvolk. The compound word, so loved by the Germans, took on a meaning of its own. Master people was not! accurate. Neither was super people or elite. Perhaps upper people was closest and even that was inaccurate. But to the Germans, and anyone who knew German, it meant the superior people and smelled of the old Hitler Maker Race routine without actually saying so; a neat piece of political footwork.

  "Let me give you a little background," Hawk went on. "The NSH and Heinrich Dreissig have been around for a while as a kind of fringe group. About seven or eight months ago, they suddenly began to move out of the sidelines and into the main area. They stopped being a two-bit, fringe operation and mounted a very sizable campaign during the last election. So sizable, in fact, that they won 40 seats in the Bundestag. Now, that may not seem like much, but 40 seats out of 499 is damn near 10 per cent. From a group that had only held three seats it's a very dramatic jump. Now, from your knowledge of politics in our country, you know what that land of thing takes."

  I nodded. "It takes loot. Moolah. Dough. Money and a lot of it.

  "Exactly," Hawk continued. "And since then they've tripled their party personnel, continued their propaganda step-up and gained an estimated 500 per cent increase in party membership. Dreissig has been devoting more time to hard, political speeches and what we call fence-mending in the States. Frankly, we're afraid of Dreissig and his NSH for a number of reasons. We know they have some very neo-Nazi ideas. We know they are very nationalistic. We know they are clever enough to stay within bounds so they can't be slapped down… until they're ready for further moves.
We also know that they could upset the very delicate balance of European relations between the Russians and ourselves, between East and West. It hangs on a very finely balanced scale now. The emergence of a strong neo-Nazi nationalistic party could cause undreamed of repercussions brought on by fright, suspicion or misjudgment. We can't have that. But we know the NSH and Dreissig are up to something. We have to know what it is. That's why it's vital we find out where they're getting all this new money. If we can find that out, it will tell us a lot about what they're planning."

  "And that's what Ted had learned and was to pass on to me," I said, musing aloud.

  "Correct, N3," Hawk answered. "And they made sure he wouldn't pass it on. But there's another man who I feel confident knows. In fact, I'd wager that he probably passed the information on to Ted. But he's an operative we have in East Germany… a sleeper. We can't risk moving him out. You'll have to go in and get to him."

  "I understand the Russians are keeping a very tight check on all traffic to and from East Berlin," I said.

  "They are. That's the problem we must first meet," Hawk said. "How to get you into East Berlin. All of this has hit so suddenly that we haven't quite figured that one out yet. I thought perhaps your fertile little mind might come up with an idea or two. Howie can get you almost any kind of false papers. That's not the problem. The sticky bit is to get you some reason for entry which won't subject you to careful scrutiny at the Brandenburg Gate or to observance after you get in. Howie will be working on it also. You two get together tomorrow morning. I've got to catch the six o'clock flight back tonight from Tempelhof."

  Hawk stood up. "It's your kettle of fish to fry now, N3," he said. "We must know where Dreissig is getting the money. Then we'll find out what his plans are.

  "Before you go," I interjected, "give me a check for that girl's car."

  "I'll send you one from the States," Hawk said gruffly. "I've got to make up vouchers and transfer the request for funds. Hell, I can't go around writing out five-thousand-dollar checks."

  "You know damn well you can do just that," I said, smiling pleasantly. "And don't try to sell me a bill of goods. I know better."

  I did know better. AXE has funds all over the world, enough for a variety of purposes and emergencies — hush money, bribe money, information money, unexpected-expenses funds and money for legitimate items such as Lisa Huffmann's car. The slush fund for the European area was drawn on a Swiss bank. That was why he couldn't get away with the poormouth routine with me, though he always gave it a try. Perhaps that was one of the underlying reasons why he and I had such a good working relationship. Both of us, each in our own way, always gave it the old college try. It was, and always had been, a subtle battle of wits and one-upmanship between two people who thoroughly respected each other. I knew Hawk always balked at shelling out AXE funds for what he liked to call the "careless and casual" attitude on the part of his crew. It wasn't anything personal, ever. He knew that his operatives were far from careless or casual. It was, I'd always suspected, the residue of a tight, New England upbringing.

  "Why didn't you pick some girl with a Volkswagen?" he grumbled, taking out his checkbook. "You've got to do something about your expensive tastes, N3."

  "I will, as soon as I stop living," I commented. When I reminded him to be sure and add the nine dollars and thirty cents for groceries, he looked up at me for a long minute, steel-gray eyes unblinking.

  "We're lucky." I shrugged.

  "How do you come to that?" he said slowly and evenly.

  "She could have been shopping at der Deutsche equivalent of Tiffany's."

  Hawk thrust the check at me with a grunt. "I suppose I should be happy you're alive," he said gruffly. "Try and be more careful next time, N3."

  It was practically a maudlin statement for Hawk. I nodded. The old bear did have feelings. You just had to blast for them. I waved goodbye to Howie Prailler, made my way back past the stretching, kicking ballerinas and down to the street. When I'd put the check in my pocket, I had touched the key and thoughts of Helga leaped up at once. I'd been given an unexpected bonus, an extra night in West Berlin with Helga. Of course, I was expected to come up with a good way to get into East Berlin, but maybe Helga could be helpful there, too. She seemed to know her way around. But first, there was Lisa Huffmann. Lisa evoked a completely different set of thoughts. Even in the brief and hectic time I'd spent with her, she had exuded a rare sophistication which appealed to the intellect as well as the body. Helga, however, was pure body. There was that strange aspect I'd felt about our lovemaking that intrigued me, but that was still pure body.

  I kept eyes sharply peeled as I walked a few blocks. Satisfied that I was not being tailed again, I hailed a cab and settled back in the seat. I watched the smart, glittering shops of Kurfürstendamm Strasse go by; they were the equal of any modern Western capital. It was indeed a fantastic accomplishment. At the end of World War II, 90 per cent of the buildings of the street were either demolished or severely damaged. Every street in the city was gutted. Not only had it all been rebuilt, but 200,000 new homes had been erected. Every scrap of rubble that was salvageable was used in the rebuilding. They city was indeed a phoenix that had risen out of its own fiery ashes. I couldn't help wonder about Heinrich Dreissig and his neo-Nazi party. It was unthinkable that today's Germans would permit that phoenix of hate to rise out of the past. Yet to many, the past had been unthinkable. But it had happened. We had reached 300 Kaiserlautern Strasse and I got out before a modest, middle-class apartment house. I examined the mailboxes in the foyer. A small card was scotch-taped onto one. "L. Huffmann & Detweiner," it read. I rang the bell and L. Huffmann came to the door in a soft, cream-white dress that clung deliciously to her, accentuating the long narrow line of her slender body. It did all right by her lovely breasts, too, revealing the graceful, upturned thrust of her bustline. I saw her eyes widen as they focused on me.

  "Surprised?" I grinned.

  "Yes… and no," she replied "I certainly didn't expect you back so soon."

  "I haven't much time," I told her, handing her the check. "Thanks again for the use of the car."

  Lisa Huffmann studied the check, a small frown furrowing her smooth, wide brow. It was a numbered check on a numbered account in the Swiss bank. You couldn't tell a thing from it.

  "It's good," I said.

  "Thank you," she answered, fastening me with a long, speculative look once again. "And you're still the man of mystery. I don't even know your name. Is that still verboten?"

  I laughed. "I guess not," I said. "It's Nick… Nick Carter." I wanted to say more. I wanted to stay, but staying would only mean added distractions. Right now Helga was enough. Besides, I had a very ticklish job to do. But I did want to see this very appealing creature again. Her composed self-assurance was both challenging and refreshing.

  "You'll note that the grocery money is included," I said calmly.

  "I noted it," she answered.

  "Look, I'd like the chance to explain to you when I can," I said. "How about tabling everything till then?"

  "When will then be?"

  "I can't answer that now, but I'll be in touch. Will you be visiting your aunt here much longer?"

  "Another week or so," she said coolly. "Though I'd be tempted to stay six months to hear you explain all this."

  Her mind was clicking away like mad, rejecting one possible explanation after the other. I could read it in her eyes and I had to laugh. "You're a very unusual dish, Lisa Huffmann," I said. "You're not like any fräulein I've ever met."

  "And you're not like any man I've ever met," she said.

  I smiled and turned to go. I took two steps, then turned back suddenly, reached out and pulled her to me. I kissed her and her lips remained unmoving, soft and wet, but unresponsive. Then, suddenly, they parted just enough to hint at what might be there.

  "I didn't want you to forget," I said, pulling away. Her eyes were cool and taunting.

  "I hardly think that would be poss
ible," she said. "Even without that last item. You did come on rather strong."

  This time I walked away; I grinned, looking back at her from the sidewalk. And this time she waved, a small, contained wave, hardly more than the flick of her hand. I felt better as I walked down Kaiserlautern Strasse, in the same way one feels better after having discharged a debt. It always bothered me when I had to involve the innocent in this dirty game. It was often necessary, but I'd never got over being bothered by it. It was an old-fashioned, outmoded way of looking at things, I knew. Hawk himself often argued the point with me. "There are no innocents any longer," he'd say. "Everybody's involved today. Some are aware of it, most don't realize it, but they're still involved." It was ironic in a way, because it was right here in Germany that Adolf Hitler spelled it out when he said there were no more civilians. Everybody was a form of soldier, from housewives to kids, from factory workers to front-line troops. It was a concept that the Russians and the Chinese Communists had eagerly embraced for their own purposes. It made moral decisions unnecessary. It was the kind of thinking that made it easy to blow up a boat full of people to get at one person. Hawk, of course, maintained that we had to look at it that way in order to understand the enemy and his actions.

  My thoughts were on the Russians and the Chinese as I decided to walk to Helga's place and I wondered which of them might be backing Dreissig and his NSH Party. It really didn't figure to be the Russians unless they were setting him up as a clever pretext for action on their own part. It could be. They were Machiavellian enough to do it that way. The Chinese were a more likely suspect. They had a whole battery of agents out to make life miserable for the Russians and for us. They operated on the old anarchistic theory that the more chaos the merrier. And of course, there was the possibility of a combine of old German industrialists backing Dreissig, out to unify and rebuild the Fatherland, still flaming with the old militaristic nationalism. That was the theory I leaned toward myself. Hell, there was more nationalism in the world today than ever before. For every one of the major powers who thought in some form of internationalism there were ten new countries all fired up with the spirit of nationalism. Why shouldn't it rub off on the Germans? Given German background and history, it was not only natural but made to order. It was strange how the two major facets of the German national character could be summed up in two kinds of music, the march and the waltz. They loved both with a passion and they responded to both with the same intensity. Since the last war, we had made the waltz the most popular expression of the German character and now Dreissig was coming along with marches once again. And if he played loud enough, they'd start to march again. It was that simple, that certain and that complex.