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ONE
Three Years Ago
The big jet banked over the Sea of Marmara and
began its glide path over Istanbul. The minarets glit-
tered and the old Ottoman city shimmered in crisp
winter temperatures beneath a cloudless sky.
In the rear of the first-class section Nick Carter
surveyed his four fellow passengers from behind the
nearly black lenses of his glasses. He did so by moving
his eyes only, keeping his head stationary.
The reason?
Nick Carter, AXE Killmaster was traveling on
the passport Of a nonexistent German industrialist from
Frankfurt named Horst Keller.
And Herr Horst Keller was blind.
"Herr Keller, let me get your seat belt."
Carter smiled through the shag of the false gray
beard. "Thank you so much," he replied in heavily ac-
cented English.
The flight attendant snapped his seat belt and laid an
understanding hand on his shoulder. "We have a
ground attendant waiting to take you to baggage
claim."
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NICK CARTER
"That won't be necessary. I just have my briefcase.
This is just a short business trip. I'll be taking the eve-
ning flight back to Frankfurt. "
g 'Very well
"But your attendant could see me through customs
and to the taxi stands. "
' 'Of course. "
She gave his shoulder a final squeeze and moved up
the aisle tosee to the other passengers.
Carter leaned back with a sigh, fingering the white
cane between his legs and dropping his other hand on
the briefcase. Both would be discarded soon, as had the
accouterments of the previous cover that had taken him
from Washington to Mexico City and on to Germany.
He was tired. It had been two days of solid traveling
with very little time in between flights.
But he hoped there would be a soft bed and a good
night's sleep awaiting him in Istanbul.
He would need at least some rest before carrying out
the last leg of his assignment: terminating Eban
Balistronov.
Customs gave the papers and the two books in braille
a cursory glance and closed the briefcase.
"You won't be staying long in Turkey, Herr Keller?"
"Just a few hours, business."
"l wish you success. Next. "
The young female attendant took Carter's elbow.
"This way to the taxis, Herr Keller."
If he had been traveling under his own passport,
Carter would have accepted the driver's fare and been
on his way. But Herr Keller would bargain.
It took almost five minutes to come to an agreement,
and then they were hurtling through the maze around
Yesilkoy Airport and onto the elevated highway toward
the city.
His destination was the arch leading to the Topkapi
Palace.
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NICK CARTER
"That won't be necessary. I just have my briefcase.
This is just a short business trip. I'll be taking the eve-
ning flight back to Frankfurt. "
g 'Very well
"But your attendant could see me through customs
and to the taxi stands. "
' 'Of course. "
She gave his shoulder a final squeeze and moved up
the aisle tosee to the other passengers.
Carter leaned back with a sigh, fingering the white
cane between his legs and dropping his other hand on
the briefcase. Both would be discarded soon, as had the
accouterments of the previous cover that had taken him
from Washington to Mexico City and on to Germany.
He was tired. It had been two days of solid traveling
with very little time in between flights.
But he hoped there would be a soft bed and a good
night's sleep awaiting him in Istanbul.
He would need at least some rest before carrying out
the last leg of his assignment: terminating Eban
Balistronov.
Customs gave the papers and the two books in braille
a cursory glance and closed the briefcase.
"You won't be staying long in Turkey, Herr Keller?"
"Just a few hours, business."
"l wish you success. Next. "
The young female attendant took Carter's elbow.
"This way to the taxis, Herr Keller."
If he had been traveling under his own passport,
Carter would have accepted the driver's fare and been
on his way. But Herr Keller would bargain.
It took almost five minutes to come to an agreement,
and then they were hurtling through the maze around
Yesilkoy Airport and onto the elevated highway toward
the city.
His destination was the arch leading to the Topkapi
Palace.
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3
As the driver threaded his way through the long lines
of traffic, Carter adjusted the right lens of his dark
glasses. By turning the lens slightly it became a mirror.
From the airport to the palace he scanned the road-
way behind them in the makeshift rearview mirror.
Twice he saw cars moving with the same cavalier at-
titude toward life and limb as his own, but both of them
sped past and disappeared.
The chances were one in a thousand that he would
have a tail, but years as the top executioner for super-
secret AXE had made Carter sensitive to everything,
even the slightest detail.
"Topkapi."
Carter tipped the driver a reasonable sum and stepped
gingerly from the cab. "Can you tell me which way is
the entrance?"
The driver mumbled a reply. Carter turned his collar
up against the brisk cold and tapped his way up the long
flight of stone steps.
"A tour has just started, sir. It will be one hour until
there is another. "
"Is there somewhere I can wait?" Carter asked,
already knowing the answer.
"Of course. Just inside and to your right. "
The Killmaster purchased a ticket for the full tour and
followed the man's directions. Twice more in the huge,
marbled hall he asked directions. At last he was seated
in the empty waiting room. It would be a good half hour
before the room would be filling up in preparation for
the next tour.
He waited five minutes before moving to the extreme
rear of the room and passing through a door marked
Baylor.
As he expected, the cavernous men's rest room was
deserted.
In seconds he had doused his head with water and
darted into one of the booths. Quickly he removed his
black pants and suit jacket. When they were inside out,
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NICK CARTER
he put them on again and removed the lining that had
been Velcroed to the light tan interior.
The lining went into the briefcase and a beige tie was
withdrawn to replace the dark blue he wore. Secreted
between the outer layer and the lining of his heavy top-
coat was a tan trench coat. He removed the lighter gar-
ment and folded the heavier into the bag.
He used a small packet of tissues to dry his hair and
remove the last of the gray. The false beard and
mustache went into the toilet and the residue of spirit
gum was removed with the rest of the tissue.
When the change was complete he took a small
penknife from his pocket and stood on the commode.
There were six screws in the air-conditioning vent above
the commode. It took approximately a minute apiece to
get them out, and half again as long to replace them
after he shoved the briefcase behind the vent.
With maintenance in the state it was in Turkey, it
would most likely be two months before it was dis-
covered. Perhaps longer.
He then - removed Horst Keller's false German
passport and fanned it out above the water. It was con-
structed of flash paper. One touch of the flame from his
lighter and it disintegrated. What ash was left he
dropped into the bowl and flushed away.
Then he lit a cigarette, sat down, and waited.
His timing was almost perfect.
Approximately twenty minutes before the tour was to
start, the rest room became crowded.
The men's voices chattered and grumbled in at least a
half-dozen languages. Most of the talk centered around
the wonders of the Topkapi Palace they were about to
see: the Chinese porcelains; the magnificent gold- and
silver-threaded robes of the Ottoman sultans; and the
priceless jewels of the treasury, including the dream of
every world-class thief—the eighty-eight-carat Topkapi
Diamond.
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5
A few men muttered that they would rather be drink-
ing or wandering on the fringes of the Grand Bazaar in
search of the consummate belly dancer.
When the traffic seemed to be at a peak, the Kill-
master stepped from the booth.
The urinals were all occupied and there were four men
spread across the long row of washbasins. Carter edged
in between them. No one paid him the slightest atten-
tion.
A few strokes with a comb and his dark hair was in
place. Carefully he' studied his clean-shaven face in the
mirror. 7 There was one tiny bit of dried spirit gum
beneath his chin. He plucked it off and returned to the
waiting area.
He estimated seventy souls—men, women, and chil-
dren—were sitting or milling around, waiting for the
tour. If all went according to plan, there would be that
many or more just across the hall in ten or so minutes
finishing the previous tour.
At two minutes before blast off, a uniformed woman
stepped into the waiting room and asked for everyone's
attention in three different languages. She was very
dark, with sharp features, coal-black hair and eyes to
match. Her smile drooped at the corners and her voice
was weary as she recited by rote the explanation of the
tour.
Seconds later they were filing through a turnstile into
the huge hallway that would take them into the center of
the palace.
Carter averted his face as he hit the turnstile and
passed his ticket chit to Droopy Smile. He meshed with
the crowd as they moved down the hall to the first
gigantic tapestry.
Coming at them from the other direction was the
horde of the previous tour. A clone of Droopy Smile
was at their head explaining the tapestries on the op-
posite wall.
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NICK CARTER
The two groups came together, separated by sections
of velvet rope.
"This is the famous Argev Tapestry. It depicts the
reign of Suliman .. ."
"This is the last viewing spot of the tour, ladies and
gentlemen. It is a work of the Byzantine period. You
will notice the fine gold thread "
"You will follow me, please, this way to the inner
palace and the vault room ..
"Thank you so much for your attention. The exit
turnstile is right this way .. e"
Nimbly, Carter unhooked one of the sections of rope,
stepped through, and slid it back in place. He was at the
very rear of the departing group but managed to shuffle
his way almost to the center by the time they reached the
exit. The guide was there accepting smiles and tips.
Carter pressed a fifty-lira note into her palm and
beamed. "Wonderful tour, mademoiselle, absolutely
fascinating, " he gushed in French.
"Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup. "
Outside, he descended the steps between two British
grande-dame types in heavy tweeds and sensible shoes.
"It's almost unbelievable, the wealth those chaps
were able to accumulate back then, wasn't it, ladies?"
"Quite astonishing, really," one replied. "Before
taxes, of course, anything was possible. "
"And did you see the jewels? Dear God ..
Carter nodded, smiled, and patted their shoulders as
if they were both his great aunts. But his eyes worked
everywhere.
Nothing.
Horst Keller was gone and Nick Carter, Killmaster,
was in Istanbul, clean.
The apartment was in the old-town section of
KomKapi on Asker. Carter paid off the third cab since
leaving the elderly ladies on the steps of the Topkapi
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Palace, and stepped into the street.
7
The bite in the air was more severe now, but it didn't
seem to affect the swarming crowds of screaming
children, barking dogs, and women hurrying home with
mesh grocery bags and baskets slung from their
shoulders.
Carter took a last check up and down the street.
When he was sure, he darted into the vestibule of
number 18 and climbed to the third floor.
The stairs were wooden and worn. The hallway was
laid with tile that had seen better days ten yeqrs before.
Surprisingly, it was clean and smelled far better than the
street outside.
There were two keys on the ring he had received in
Washington. He found 3B and rapped lightly on the
door.
No answer, but that was as it should be. She was a
working woman, a journalist, with many friends in the
Turkish government. She had also been a free-lance
CIA control in Turkey for the last five years.
Carter popped the first lock and then the second. He
swung the door open.
No answer.
He walked in and closed the door, snapping both
locks in the process.
The apartment—light and furnished in modern, fem-
inine style—consisted of three rooms and a bath. It was
neat and clean. The whole was permeated by a faint in-
censelike aroma that was elusively vague and provoca-
tive.
It was also cold. But then, in Turkey, that was nor-
mal. The heating system was probably ancient and
turned on only when the occupant was home.
He checked all three rooms and found the phone.
"You have reached the Istanbul exchange of Amal-
gamated Press and Wire Services. At present we have no
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NICK CARTER
representatives on station in Istanbul, but if you will
leave your message at the sound of the tone, it will be
automatically relayed to the nearest active Amalga-
mated office.. e"
Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, the worldwide
cover for AXE, had recently run into a meat grinder in
Turkey. At the time it was thought best that all offices
be closed down rather than risk being blown.
Carter waited for the tone and then spoke. "This is
Nightshade. The bird is in the roost."
He hung up and searched for a bottle. The only thing
he could find was a half-full quart of Turkish vodka. He
poured the best part of a glass and found the bathroom.
When all the coffee and various other liquids from
the flight were gone, he returned to the living room.
He had barely flopped on the sofa when a key scraped
in the door.
Carter jerked to a sitting position, all senses on full
alert.
It was the first time he had thought of it since leaving
Washington. He didn't have a weapon. He was in Istan-
bul cold. It was that kind of mission.
What if the hand turning the key didn't belong to
Zina Talinka?
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TWO
When she opened the door and saw Carter sitting on
her sofa, she at first merely stared, her mouth open in
an unconsciously sexy expression.
"You look startled. "
"l know."
"You knew I'd be here."
"I know. It's just ."
"What?"
The tiny smile at the corners of her lips grew grim.
"It's just that seeing you made me remember what
you're here to do."
Their eyes met in a long moment of silence. It was
Carter who looked away first, and then back as she
moved toward the kitchen.
He studied her as she unloaded groceries from a
woven hemp basket.
She was about thirty-one or thirty-two now, and as
appealing as he remembered her from a couple of years
before, the last time they had worked together.
Her figure was trim and smartly encased in the latest
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NICK CARTER
fashion. She still wore her dark hair in a shoulder-length
style. It had a soft, natural gloss and was very beautiful.
Her features were classic, and the color of her skin was
just dark enough to be exotically glamorous.
Carter moved to her shoulder, replenishing his glass
from the bottle on the counter.
"l brought whiskey," she said, not looking at him.
'WThis will do . . .
for now. You don't approve, do
you."
She shrugged. 4 'My approval or disapproval doesn't
make any difference. "
"Maybe it does to me, Zina. I gave you your first
field training, remember?"
He couldn't see her face, but he saw her shoulders
tense. There was another moment of silence, and then
she turned.
"l imagine you're tired, and hungry."
He nodded. "A little."
"Shower. I'll have dinner ready by the time you've
finished."
"And after dinner ... we'll go over it."
"Yes," she whispered, and turned back to busy
herself at the counter. "After."
In the shower Carter turned the water from hot to
cold and back again. There was something in her eyes,
her manner, that bothered him. He thought it was in-
decision, and that was bad. Being indecisive when
you're about to kill a man might give that man an edge
to kill you.
He dried his body, shaved quickly, and, not thinking,
stepped back into the bedroom.
He hadn't heard her. She was there, in the midst of
changing.
She didn't gasp. She didn't cry out. She didn't even
register much surprise. She merely stared.
He had caught her in only panties, her white bra
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CROSSFIRE RED
11
dangling from a hand at her side. She made no move to
cover her breasts—softly rounded, not very large but
ample, crowned by rose-beige nipples. Her waist was
small, her thighs pleasingly full' Her panties were sheer
nylon, their white contrasting excitingly with her dark
skin.
"Sorry."
She shrugged. "We'll be cooped up here together for
two days. It's inevitable. Dinner is ready. "
She dressed without another word and Carter did the
same.
The meal was delicious. It was also interesting. In-
stead of Turkish dishes, Zina had purchased all the in-
gredients of a first-class Russian meal.
As an appetizer there was salmon caviar covered with
sour cream, along with black bread layered with kuas
kissel, a liquid jam made of cranberries. The entree was
herring with potatoes. The dessert was a honey cake
filled with pistachio nuts.
Carter wondered if it wasn't Zina's version of a wake
for the Russian who was about to be terminated. But
beyond congratulating her on the preparation, he said
nothing.
Later, with brandys they faced each other over the
small table strewn with notes and maps. Carter scowled
at the notes; Zina knew better than to ever write
anything down. But, once again, for the time being he
said nothing.
"This morning a Soviet freighter, the Talnoye, passed
through the Bosporus. "
"Eban Balistronov is on board."
"Yes. The ship will dock here—at Gallipoli—before
going on through the Dardanelles into the Aegean. "
"And that's where Balistronov is getting off?"
She nodded. ' 'A Bulgarian who was sent in some
weeks ago will take Balistronov's place aboard the
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NICK CARTER
Talnoye to satisfy the head count for customs. "
Carter thought for a moment. "Why not just pick a
Soviet ship that docks right here at Istanbul?"
"The customs people here in Istanbul are much
stricter. At Gallipoli they are more careless, and also, if
there is some problem, they can be bribed. "
'WI see," Carter replied, lighting a cigarette. "Go
on."
"He will take a local train to Tekirdai tomorrow
morning. There he will change to the express from
Athens. If there are no problems, he will arrive in Istan-
bul around three tomorrow afternoon."
' 'Who is his target?"
"I found that out early this morning. His name is Lev
Sabat, a refugee from the Ukraine. "
know of him." Carter nodded, and leaned back
into the sofa. He found a crack in the ceiling plaster and
concentrated on it to recall what he knew of Lev Sabat.
The man was Ukrainian. Five years before, he and
two of his closest friends had pulled off a hair-raising
escape, the details of which Sabat had never divulged.
He had come to Ankara and eventually to Istanbul,
where he had become a prime mover and shaker in the
constantly smoldering exiled Ukrainian nationalist
movement. Besides lecturing all over Europe on the evils
of Russian-style communism, Sabat had personally
become a one-man symbol of Ukrainian resistance. It
was also well known that the man had often come to the
aid of several Western intelligence agencies.
Yes, Carter thought, Lev Sabat had definitely become
a major itch on the big Russian bear's behind, one that
the KGB would definitely like to scratch and cancel.
"Are you asleep?"
' 'No, just getting Sabat in perspective. Did your
source have any timetable for the hit?"
"No, only a copy of the day-by-day, hour-by-hour
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13
timetable of Sabat's movements that will be supplied to
Balistronov when he arrives."
Carter accepted the sheet of single-spaced typing and
let his eyes devour it. As he read, he threw more ques-
tions at Zina Talinka.
"Tell me about your source."
"l have sent a full report to Langley."
"I know that," he replied, chain-lighting another
cigarette with his free hand.
"You smoke far too much."
Carter glanced up briefly. "When I go, it won't be
cigarettes that kill me. Now, tell me about your source. I
want to hear it from your own lips. "
There was a deep sigh from across the table and then
she began.
"I was contacted at a party at the French embassy
about six months ago."
"How?"
"A note was slipped into my purse. I never saw it
done. It told me to dial a certain number at a certain
time the following day. I did. It was a woman's voice."
"How old a woman?"
"I don't know—it was impossible to tell."
"Russian?"
"l don't know that, either. She spoke excellent
French but with a slight accent. I couldn't pinpoint the
accent. "
"What did she give you?"
' 'Not much that first time. Two, Jews were coming
out through Bulgaria. They would need help at the fron-
tier. Could I help them? I did."
"Without questioning if it was a setup?"
"I covered myself. After that first time I received a
message or a phone call at my office at least once a
week. The information got better and better. Two weeks
ago she told me that Balistronov was being sent into
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Istanbul to assassinate someone very important."
"Did you try for personal contact?" Carter asked.
"Yes. She refused. She told me the arrangement that
we had was quite good enough. "
"You insisted?"
"Yes, but she was adamant. I did the usual checking,
going through the list of Soviet embassy personnel and
their wives, as well as all the known undercovers we
have even the most tenuous files on. Again, nothing
substantial. Truthfully, Nick, I have come up with only
two hints. '
"And those are?"
"From the quality of information she has been pass-
ing, I would say that she is much higher up on the scale
than a clerk or secretary. Also, for the same reason, she
must have access to the embassy diplomatic pouch."
"What else?"
"One of her comments during the original informa-
tion on Balistronov. She said, 'The neighbors are send-
ing in one of their top men, Balistronov.' "
This brought Carter's head up with a snap. "GRU?"
"That was my guess. "
The GRU—or the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye
Upravlenie—is the chief intelligence directorate of the
general staff of the Red Army. While the GRU is not as
far-reaching or as powerful as the KGB, its top mem-
bers still have access to valuable intelligence material.
In Soviet intelligence parlance, GRU staff always
refer to their KGB counterparts as 'Sour neighbors. "
"If she is high enough, she could be valuable. Very
valuable. "
"l think so," Zina replied.
' 'If she's not trying to set up something like a disin-
formation channel e."
Carter scanned the Sabat report one more time,
dropped it, and moved to the French doors. He opened
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them and stepped out onto the balcony.
15
The night sky had clouded over and the mist threat-
ened rain. The air was still biting cold and Carter won-
dered if it wouldn't turn to snow by morning.
No matter. Turkish trains weren't inhibited by any
kind of weather. Balistronov would arrive on time.
Even though the apartment was only on the third
floor, because the building was on a hill, he could see
almost to the Golden Horn over the blackened rooftops.
Unconsciously, as the smoke from thousands of
chimneys filled his nostrils, Carter surveyed the city
with the paper he had just read in his mind.
Lev Sabat lived in the Sematya district near the
Yedikule Surlari, the Palace of Seven Towers.
Abruptly he turned and reentered the living room,
closing the doors behind him. Zina still sat at the table,
shivering from the blast of cold air.
' 'According to that report, Sabat frequents one or all
of three different places during the day: his office, the
propaganda print shop owned by the Ukrainian move-
ment, or his club."
Zina nodded, her eyes wide, knowing that the darker,
more cunning and devious side of Carter the agent had
now taken over.
"According to that, his daylight movements are
almost impossible to predict. On top of it, he doesn't
drive; he always travels by public transportation."
She looked puzzled. "So?"
' 'Depending on Balistronov's time limit and the
method he plans to use, I think the hit will be made at or
near Sabat's home. When is your next contact?"
"Tomorrow at noon. With each contact she gives me
a new time and number. I believe she wants to know if
you are in place. Also, she said this morning that she
would fill me in on anything else she learns about the
operation. "
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NICK CARTER
Carter was shrugging into his trench coat. "Tell her I
need two pieces of information. I need to know the
timetable and route of Balistronov's escape, and his
means of termination. "
"The means?" she asked, and gulped.
"The KGB likes its kills to look like accidents. I
doubt if Balistronov will blow Sabat away with a sawed-
off shotgun. I'll be late. Don't wait up."
" You're going out?"
' 'I'm going to inform Lev Sabat that the powers that
be in Moscow have finally decided to kill him. "
Lev Sabat lived in a flat, gray building in a block of
many flat, gray buildings. It looked more like a prison
in its cinder-block starkness than middle-class housing.
Carter guessed from the rest of the area that it was no
more than a few years old, but already neglect and the
effects of shoddy construction had set in.
He took more than an hour casing the neighborhood
and the building itself. He also made sure from the
onset that there were no other watchers.
The streets for blocks around were deserted because
of the cold. Carter saw only a fewvehicles, and all of
these were hurriedly intent on getting their passengers to
their warm destinations.
As the Killmaster headed back toward Sabat's build-
ing, he encountered a stooped old man pushing a four-
wheeled cart. On the cart was a large white barrel and
cleaning equipment, such as brooms and shovels.
A street sweeper, Carter thought. Poor guy, out
working on a night like this.
On the street opposite Sabat's building he stood in the
shadow of a doorway for the length of a cigarette, scan-
ning the traffic.
At last he crossed the street and let himself into the
first-floor vestibule. The stairs were filthy with garbage
and tossed-out furniture beneath them. To Carter's
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right were mailboxes. Sabat lived in apartment 8. The
old fool obviously was all guts or no brains. He cared
little or nothing for security, even going so far as to
place his own name on his mailbox.
Carter climbed to the fourth floor. There were two
apartments to a floor. Since the door to his left bore a
number 7, he guessed the one to his right was 8. The
metal number had long since fallen off, leaving only its
outline in the door's peeling paint.
He knocked. It was almost a full minute before he
heard shuffling steps and a voice that uttered a guttural
growl that could hardly be construed as a word, let
alone a greeting.
Carter replied in English. "Are you Lev Sabat?"
'C Yes."
"l am a friend."
A chuckle. "Is that so? I have few friends, and none
that I know speak English."
The Killmaster leaned closer to the crack in the door
and spoke in little more than a whisper. "We have a
mutual friend. Sir Lloyd Mackey."
In response to the mention of Sir Lloyd, head of M16
for the eastern Mediterranean, locks began to click.
Lev Sabat had aged a lot since the last picture of him
Carter had seen. He was not much more than five foot
seven, with a broad torso and shoulders and a thick,
bull neck. The body still looked in good shape, but the
face was a map of lines and the eyes looked weary.
"And how is Sir Lloyd?"
"Fine, the last time I saw him, which was nearly a
year ago. 'i
"And his lovely bride?"
Carter smiled. "Anne Mackey died almost five years
ago, Sabat. And if that's your way of clearing me, it's
ridiculous. I'm sure Moscow knows also that she's
dead. "
There was a flash of life in his eyes and a bit of a smile
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NICK CARTER
as he stepped aside. "Come in. "
Carter did and offered his credentials without being
asked. Sabat took them with his left hand, keeping his
right in the pocket of the torn and faded robe he wore.
When he checked the ID and handed it back, he pulled
an old Webley cannon from the pocket of the robe.
"Do you know how to fire that?" Carter asked.
"Not very well, I'm afraid." The smile was real now.
"My war has been fought with words. Am I on loan
from the British to the Americans now?"
'CNO, not really," Carter replied. "I'm here because I
think I can save your life."
The eyebrows went up and the eyes widened. "Well,
well, I must say that's an admirable use for your talents.
Let's talk. Raki?"
"Do you have anything else?"
"No."
"Then raki it is."
The two men talked for nearly an hour. At the end of
that time, much to Carter's surprise, Sabat looked ten
years younger. There was color in his cheeks and fire
had returned to his eyes.
' 'I'm getting to the bastards," he said with glee.
"Why else would they risk arousing world opinion by
killing me if I weren't?"
"As far as getting to them with your speeches and
your writing, I'm sure you are. If you weren't, you
wouldn't be railed at so much by the Communist press.
As far as your death arousing world opinion, I think
not."
'CHOW SO?"
"l think it will look, to the world, like an accident.
They have a hundred ways. "
Sabat shrugged, the massive shoulders rising and
staying up. "Then what do we do?"
' 'Depending on how he plans to do it, I want to use
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CROSSFIRE RED
you as bait. I want Balistronov."
19
"Ah, then you are a man of action. That's good."
Here Sabat paused, hefting his bulky body to his feet.
He paced the small one-room apartment from wall to
wall for a full five minutes before stopping to face Car-
ter once again. "1 know of Balistronov. He has killed
many of my comrades in exile, not to mention others.
He is a man whose time to die is long overdue. "
"Then you'll do it?"
"Of course I will do it! I only wish it would come
down to firing the shot that kills him myself."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. "
Carter told him that a woman would be contacting
him in the next twenty-four hours to fill in the holes as
best they could.
"And what happens, Carter, if we can't fill in the
. if you don't discover the whole of this man's
holes .
assassination plot? "
The Killmaster hesitated for what seemed a very long
time before replying. "Then we abort. We get you to
safety somewhere in the country, perhaps out of Turkey
for a while.
Suddenly the man's wide Slavic features broke into a
huge grin and there was genuine amusement and merri-
ment in his eyes.
"Would I be assuming correctly, Carter, that your
dominant reason for being in Istanbul is not to save my
wrinkled old skin but to eliminate this Balistronov?'"
Carter chewed his lip and let his eyes roam around the
disarray of the one-room flat. Sabat was no fool, and it
was obvious now that his lack of security, his reason for
not hiding under an alias, was pure guts. By doing so he
was throwing his existence in Moscow's face.
At last the Killmaster nodded. "Your assumption
would be correct. I only learned today that you were the
target."
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NICK CARTER
"Then I must also assume that, if they sent you to
eliminate a master assassin, you are quite as talented in
this rather unique vocation as he is."
Carter met the other man's level stare and a smile
creased his own face. "l think that's another valid as-
sumption."
"Then let's not think about me taking any trips in the
near future. "
The mist had turned to a light snow by the time Carter
hit the pavement again. He checked the perimeter and
again found it clean of any watchers. To be on the safe
side, he walked for over an hour in an ever-widening
circle away from Sabat's building.
Again he ran into the stooped figure of the old street
sweeper. The man wore no uniform, just well used but
heavy, durable clothing in layers against the cold.
Carter's Turkish was rusty, but something made him
stop and strike up a conversation with the old man.
"It is the devil's job you do on such a night, old
man."
A shruE, the watery eyes focusing on the cigarette in
Carter's lips as he lit it. The Killmaster handed over the
pack.
"Keep them."
"Many thanks." He lit up and shoved the pack into a
large side pocket of his coat.
' 'It is the right time to
clean the streets, late, when they are empty."
The germ of an idea began rolling around in the back
of Carter's mind. He couldn't pinpoint it, but its
existence made him ask the old man more questions.
"You always work at night?"
"Always."
"And always in this same area?"
Another shrug. "Sometimes here, sometimes there."
He waved a thick arm toward the rest of the city in
general. "The people discard their shit everywhere in
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21
the city. There is no pattern to the scatter or the
cleanup."
"Good night, old man."
' 'Good night."
"Stay warm."
Another shrug. Carter had already been dismissed
from the old man's mind as he lowered his broom back
to the pavement.
Two blocks along, on a busier street, Carter hailed an
ancient taxi.
It was nearly three in the morning before he let
himself into Zina Talinka's apartment. There was a
single five-watt bulb burning for a night light. The heat
had probably been turned off for the night at around
eleven or twelve. It was cold as hell and the sofa had not
been made up into a bed.
Probably my punishment, Carter thought, stretching
out and tucking his coat around himself for a blanket.
He had barely settled in before he sensed her presence
and then opened one eye to see her in the bedroom door-
way. She was wearing a loose Mother Hubbard-type
nightgown of cotton flannel that covered her completely
from throat to ankles.
"They shut the heat off at midnight. "
"l gathered that."
"l didn't mean for you to sleep out here. The bed is
warm. and large enough for both of us. "
Abruptly she disappeared. Carter wasn't about to
quibble. The room was like a refrigerator.
She lay with her back to him as he stripped to his
underwear and slipped in beside her. Between her body
heat and the huge down quilt, the bed was toasty.
"Did you see him? Sabat?"
"Yes. He thinks stopping Balistronov is worth any
cost. He's agreed to be the bait."
There was a long, tense silence between them before
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NICK CARTEW
Zina spoke again. "Then it would be petty of me not to
help you all I can. But when it's over I'm telling
Washington I'm through. "
In the darkness Carter nodded to himself. "Perhaps
that would be for the best."
He squeezed her shoulder and felt her body tense.
As he dozed off he thought there might as well be a
bundling board between them.
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THREE
Carter spent the next day pacing the apartment like a
caged animal. He smoked, drank coffee, napped fit-
fully, and paced some more.
There were no file photos Of Balistronov, not even a
description. So much depended, then, on identifying
him after, rather than before, the attempt. And to pro-
tect Sabati they would have to know the killer's method.
It was late afternoon, false dusk, when Zina's key
sounded in the lock.
Carter was on her the moment she stepped into the
entryway. He wrested the food basket from her arms
and took it into the kitchen. By the time he returned, she
had removed her coat and jacket. Carter guided her to
the sofa.
"Talk to me. You made contact. i'
"Yes. Balistronov is in. She told me he made contact
only by phone. Evidently that is what he always does, so
she still has no idea what he looks like."
Carter sighed. • 'I imagine only two or three people,
very high up in the KGB, know what he looks like or
who he really is. That's part of his magic. Go on!"
' 'Her instructions came from Moscow in this morn-
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ing's pouch,
Borrow ends at 10:04 PM O
NICK CARTER
along with false credentials, traveling
papers, and the order to supply a car that could not be
traced. She said that in the pouch there was' '—she
hesitated, her brows furrowing--"there was also ... "
"The tube and eight capsules. She didn't explain. She
said you would know what that meant. "
Carter sat back with a deep sigh. He could feel half
the day's tension seeping from his body.
"Yeah. Oh, yeah, I know just what that means.
They've used it before, quite a few times. "
"I don't understand. "
"The tube will be Balistronov's method." Here
Carter leaned forward until his face was only inches
from Zina's. "We got one once from a Bulgarian hit
man in London. We caught him after he had just killed
an exiled writer from Sofia. "
Zina's hands came together in her lap to keep them
from shaking. "With a tube?"
"It's about six inches long, weighs about seven or
eight ounces, and it's made from aluminum. Hermet-
ically sealed inside the tube is a plastic ampule contain-
ing a liquid poison. The liquid becomes gaseous when
the tube is fired directly into the victim's face from short
range, probably no more than a foot, maybe a little
more. The victim breathes the vapors in, and the arteries
carrying blood to the brain are paralyzed. "
Carter paused, lighting a cigarette and letting that
much sink in. When he was sure it had, he continued.
"Death is usually within two or three minutes. Long
before an autopsy can be performed, the effect of the
poison will wear off and leave no traces. As far as any
physician can tell, the victim died of a thrombosis—a
stroke.
"Oh, my God."
"And you still think it's immoral of me to terminate
Balistronov?" Carter dragged deeply on his cigarette
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25
and went on without giving her a chance to reply. 6' The
eight capsules are to safeguard the tube's user against
inhaling any of the poison gas himself. If taken a few
hours before, his own arteries will enlarge to permit an
unimpeded flow of blood to the brain. He may pass out
momentarily and be 111, but he won't die."
Zina Talinka's face was stark white now. Her hand,
trembling, moved to her purse and extracted a small rec-
tangular box.
"This was delivered this afternoon to my office. "
Carter opened the box. Inside were four yellow
gelatin capsules resting on a bed of cotton.
"Jesus, our mystery lady is two steps ahead of us all
the way. What were her instructions?"
"She was to make first-class sleeper accommodations
on the Istanbul-Munich express and deliver the tickets
along with everything else tonight at a dead drop. "
"She wouldn't say."
Carter grunted. "That's probably so I can't stake out
the drop and get an ID on her as well as Balistronov.
Besides being smart, our lady is very cautious. When
does he leave?"
"Tomorrow night, midnight."
Again Carter leaned back, this time with an even
greater sigh and a solemn grin of satisfaction.
"Bingo, we've got it, got it all. Balistronov is prob-
ably planning the hit for sometime tomorrow night. I'd
say between eight and eleven. When it's done, he'll get
rid of the tube and head straight for the train station. "
He stood and began to pace. In his mind he went over
the route of the express. From Istanbul it was nonstop
to Sofia, Bulgaria. From there it went on to Belgrade,
Zagreb, Salzburg, and into Munich.
' 'Did she give you the name on his false documents,
and how far the tickets went?"
"Yes, I have it right here." Again her hand went to
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NICK CARTER
her purse and withdrew a slip of paper. Carter snatched
it from her.
"One day, Zina Talinka, writing things down like this
will be the death of you.
The name on Balistronov's traveling papers and
passport was Cedric Harland-White, and the ticket was
first class all the way to Munich.
Clever, Carther thought. British. And chances were a
hundred to one that Balistronov would step off the train
in Sofia or Belgrade and disappear back into the Soviet
Union. The Brit, Harland-White, would simply disap-
pear as well. Any questions asked the authoritiés would
zero in on an apparent Englishman.
"What are these numbers?"
"The license number of the car. It will be a dark blue
Volvo sedan, an older model."
Carter memorized everything on the paper in seconds
and burned it in an ashtray.
"Do you want to eat?"
"No." Carter grabbed his coat.
' 'I've got to think
and do a little preparation. "
Before Zina could say a word he was gone.
He walked for over an hour through the tiny streets of
the old town. Slowly but surely, all the pieces began to
fall into place and a complete plan began to form in his
mind.
Across from the Marmara embankment he went into
a small bar and ordered raki. For another hour he
sipped the powerful liquor and stared at his own image
in the cracked mirror behind the bar.
Finally he had it all except a way to get close enough
to Balistronov. After another glass of raki, he even had
that figured out and settled 'on. He remembered the old
street sweeper and the cart he had been pushing with the
large barrel attached to it.
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27
It was time to make the call. He found a pay phone in
the darkened rear of the bar, dropped in several coins,
and dialed the number they had given him in
Washington.
"I'd like to speak to the Tradesman," Carter replied
in German.
"Who wants him?"
' 'Nightshade. "
"This is the Tradesman. I was warned to expect your
call. What will you need?"
' 'A Beretta, dulled finish. It must be silenced, with a
full magazine, the bullets hollow-tipped and dipped in
cyanide. "
' 'That will be no problem. What else?"
"A van. In the back of it a street sweeper's cart, com-
plete, brooms and everything. Will that be any prob-
"It will take a few hours. When will you need this?"
"Tomorrow evening, around seven."
"It will be done. What else?"
"That will do. I'll want the van parked on Yedikule
Court near the Seven Towers."
"It will be there."
"When I am finished I will park it in the same place.
The garbage will be in the barrel. I trust it can be dis-
posed of. "
' 'No problem."
"What is the number there?"
Carter gave it to him.
"I'll call back in five minutes. "
The Killmaster disconnected and returned to the bar.
He ordered a fresh glass of raki and walked back to a
table near the phone. When it rang he waved at the bar-
man and took it himself, "Yes."
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"Who is this?"
Borrow ends at 10:04 PM O
NICK CARTER
Carter recognized the same voice from the previous
call. "Nightshade."
"The van will be white, a Yugoslavian Slotsky,. li-
cense number fourteen-twelve-fourteen. The keys will
be under the left front fender, on the tire. The fee will be
ten thousand American."
"I will inform the proper people yet this evening. "
"Danke. Auf Wiedersehen, Nightshade."
"Auf Wiedersehen, Tradesman."
Carter took a taxi to the Grand Bazaar. Over half the
thousand or so shops were still open and, despite the
cold, doing a flourishing business.
In the poorer section he found a used clothing shop.
He bought a well-used, heavy, dark cloth jacket, hip
length, and a muffler and woolen cap. To this he added
a pair of scuffed workman's boots and a pair of heavy
dark gloves.
A half hour later he was back in the apartment. Zina
was making coffee.
"l couldn't sleep. "
"Good. I've got a lot of instructions to give you and
I'm not going to write them down, so get your memory
cap on. "
She almost barked at him in reply, but thought better
of it. Instead she poured two cups of strong Turkish
coffee and sat across from him at the table.
"Tomorrow morning, at around ten, I want you to go
to Sabat's office. I've already told him to be there. Your
excuse is an interview. You'll take the capsules with you
and explain everything to him. "
Shock flooded Zina's face. "You're going to let it
happen? You're going to let Balistronov—
"Be quiet," Carter snapped, "and listen! I want you
to stay with him all day. That shouldn't be hard with the
excuse of an interview. That will be around six. Since
Sabat has proven himself to be a creature of habit, I told
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29
him to stick to his routine. He will go out to eat at
around eight-thirty and return home at about ten."
"And that's .. e"
"That's right. All you have to do is be in the area.
But, dammit, stay out of sight. And even if you spot
Balistronov, for God's sake leave him alone!"
"Where where will you c?"
"Never mind," Carter. groWled. "That's all been ar-
ranged."
They prepared a snack together and ate in silence.
When they were done they cleaned up in tandem. In the
process of putting away the last of the dishes, Zina sud-
denly began laughing out loud.
- "Are you losing control?" Carter asked, his eyes nar-
rowing as he stared at her.
' 'No, no, I don't think so. It's just that all this
domesticity seems so incongruous!"
"Not really," he replied with a shrug. "There are two
sides to everything. Maybe you should think about your
other side, what results from the information you pass.
Also, ask yourself why this woman, probably a Russian,
is betraying- her country and asking for nothing in
return."
They undressed in the dark and slipped into the bed
with only the dim glimmer from an outside streetlamp
bouncing off the bedroom ceiling.
Side by side they lay in silence for many moments. At
last Zina spoke.
"Once I knew a man, a Yugoslav, who killed for
money. "
Beside her, Carter shrugged. "Sometimes it's as good
as any other reason. "
"I don't believe you mean that. Do you?"
It was several seconds before he replied. "No," he
sighed. "Not really."
"I knew, when I first met you, what you were. I
guess, now, it's more real."
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NICK CARTER
Carter rolled his head to the side. The bounced light
from the ceiling fell across part of her face. She was
wide-eyed, staring, and he guessed internalizing,
weighing the lives of Sabat and Balistronov.
Suddenly he felt like telling her the truth, that killing
was only a small part of his life and his job. He felt like
illuminating the real world of shadows to Zina Talinka,
a world she had been on the fringe of for so many years
but whose inner core she had never really seen.
But he didn't.
"Balistronov isnit the first. He won't be the last," he
murmured.
Zina sighed deeply. "I guess reasonable solutions on
this level don't always work. I think killing Balistronov
is extreme, too extreme. But what he plans to do is
worse, so I must go along with what you do. "
Carter should have left it at that. He should have set-
tled back and kept his mouth shut. But somehow he
couldn't. He felt that he should tell her how he felt in-
side, how people like her shouldn't accept people like
him even though she was going to help him.
"Don't change your beliefs, Zina. What I'm going to
do isn't heroic, adventuresome, or honorable. It's living
with constant fear and thinking one day that it's all
over. But I'll do it when the time comes. "
"l know you will."
Carter continued as if he hadn't heard her, as if he
were talking to himself now, reasoning with himself.
"Killing people isn't the triumph of good over evil
that we see in the movies or on the little square box,
when the guy with the black hat clutches his middle and
does a perfectly executed pirouette before falling to the
strains of accompanying music.
' 'No, Zina, it's trying to stay calm and do what I do
best
blow the top of a man's head off until you can
see his brains. It's being stiff with fear, then blasting
away at some poor bastard who might or might not
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31
know who you are or why you blew his head away.
"It's not walking tall over the bodies afterward; it's
falling all over yourself in an effort to get rid of any-
thing that would put you on the scene, and get away be-
fore the authorities or any friends of the dead make you
dead as well.
"It's not even a feeling of satisfaction, because when
they're dead they look small, useless, and helpless.
Their blood smells bad while it's drying, especially if
you've had to shoot them up bad, and they usually lose
control over their bowels at the last second."
Carter thought she would be sick by the time he
finished. He almost hoped she would be.
But she wasn't.
In the dim light her face was unchanged, as if it had
been sculpted from a superb piece of olive-hued marble.
Carter lay back and shut his eyes. Moments later he
felt her move, and shortly after that she cuddled her
body into the crook of his arm.
Somehow she had wriggled out of her nightgown.
Now her naked flesh felt warm against his skin.
"Then why do you do it?" she murmured, her warm
lips against his ear.
"Why? They tell me someone has to do it. I'm good
at it. I'm a survivor. And I've found out that, once you
start, it's damned hard to stop. They don't let you."
"They won't let me, either. I can see that now. "
Carter didn't reply.
Suddenly she was pressing her lips to his and Carter
was responding. He felt the sweet tingle of her breasts as
they pressed his chest. As the tension of anticipation
mounted, he took her in his arms and met her arching
body with his.
He dropped his lips from hers and buried his face in
her breasts as he felt her hands run through his hair and
gently' caress the back of his neck.
Carter wanted to ask her if she was sure, but he
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NICK CARTER
couldn't. It was too late for that.
The surge of desire had gripped him as if every nerve
end in his body were raw.
He kissed her again and rolled her gently beneath
him. Her hand, like a feather, found and guided him.
She moaned and then whimpered as she enveloped
him and urged him, with her hands on his taut buttocks,
to move.
Carter felt himself shudder as he plummeted to the
depths of her and she responded with the same animal
abandon,
As quickly as it had begun it was over, with both of
them trembling against each other as their passion sub-
sided.
"Nick . ,
"I've changed my mind. "
"I'm not quitting the Agency."
He accepted this comment with the same stoic silence
he had accepted her previous, highly emotional, resolve
to resign.
But at that moment he couldn't know how drastically
Zina Talinka's decision would one day affect so many
people's lives.
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FOUR
Carter left the apartment just after dusk. He wore his
suit and trench coat, and carried the workman's clothes
in Zina's woven hemp grocery basket.
The KumKapi section, like the Sematya section where
Sabat's building was located, was on the Sea of Mar-
mara side of the Istanbul peninsula. Still being overly
cautious, the Killmaster hailed a cab several blocks from
the apartment and directed the driver to the Sultan
Selim Camii.
From there he walked the short distance to the em-
bankment of the Golden Horn. Once there, he ambled,
pausing now and then to check his rear and the area just
above him on the elevated walkway.
It was cold, and although there were dark clouds
scudding across the sliver of a moon, there was no hint
of rain.
The river traffic on the Horn was heavy. Steady and
blinking lights bespoke fishing boats, ferries, power
rigs, and an occasional freighter sailing down the strait.
Beyond the far hills of Istanbul and behind him, the
soaring minarets framed a tranquil beauty.
But the scene didn't captivate Carter. His eyes took in
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FOUR
Carter left the apartment just after dusk. He wore his
suit and trench coat, and carried the workman's clothes
in Zina's woven hemp grocery basket.
The KumKapi section, like the Sematya section where
Sabat's building was located, was on the Sea of Mar-
mara side of the Istanbul peninsula. Still being overly
cautious, the Killmaster hailed a cab several blocks from
the apartment and directed the driver to the Sultan
Selim Camii.
From there he walked the short distance to the em-
bankment of the Golden Horn. Once there, he ambled,
pausing now and then to check his rear and the area just
above him on the elevated walkway.
It was cold, and although there were dark clouds
scudding across the sliver of a moon, there was no hint
of rain.
The river traffic on the Horn was heavy. Steady and
blinking lights bespoke fishing boats, ferries, power
rigs, and an occasional freighter sailing down the strait.
Beyond the far hills of Istanbul and behind him, the
soaring minarets framed a tranquil beauty.
But the scene didn't captivate Carter. His eyes took in
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NICK CARTER
all they saw as he walked, and only relaxed when he was
sure that all was safe.
It was a few minutes before seven. He walked up to
the top of the embankment and hailed a cab just off the
Caddesi. By using the wide expressway that ringed the
whole city, it was less than ten minutes until they
reached the off ramp that led down into Yedikule Court
and the Palace of the Seven Towers.
Carter paid the cabbie and waited until the taxi had
disappeared before walking around the huge old turrets
and wall to the parking lot.
He spotted the white Slotsky van in an end slot near
the gate. The hood was still warm. Barely bending and
not pausing in his stride, he snatched the keys from
beneath the fender.
"Good man, Tradesman," he murmured as he
unlocked the rear doors and leaped inside.
The cart, trash barrel, and cleaning equipment were
there. Inside the barrel he found the Beretta. Just as he
had requested, it had been sprayed to remove the steel
gloss. The serial number and manufacturing code and
year had also been filed away from the butt and under
the barrel.
He released the magazine. It was full. And a check of
one of the slugs confirmed his other request: it had been
carefully drilled and his nostrils detected just the
slightest aroma of almonds.
He shed his trench coat and pulled the workman's
jacket over his suit jacket. The boots were a shade tight,
but hopefully he wouldn't be in them long enough for
them to become really uncomfortable.
When he was ready, he placed the silencer and the
automatic in the big side pockets of the dark jacket and
crawled over the seat.
It was seven-thirty when he drove out of the parking
lot. He took narrow side streets to Lev Sabat's building,
and drove slowly past. Two blocks away he made a right
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turn. One block farther on, he made another right turn.
He would do this in ever-widening circles until he had
circled outward from the building for twenty blocks.
Then he would make the same circles back inward.
On one of them he knew he would spot the car that
had been supplied to Balistronov.
Zina Talinka knew she was right in her decision by the
time she let Lev Sabat out of her car at his apartment.
She had spent the entire day with him and found him
not only a wise man but, in her opinion, a good one.
He had been full of stories about his youth and the
country he loved. He was sad to be in exile, but glad that
he could fight in his own way against those he called the
rapists of his people.
"l was born a peasant," he had told her, "and only a
lad when the Revolution came. They would free the
peasants, I thought. Then as I grew and learned, I knew
that we had only exchanged a czar for a Politburo of
czars. The peasant was still under the heel in his wooden
dirt-floor hut, and nothing would change."
Now, as she drove back to the old town and her own
apartment, Zina felt a strange sort of elation. She was a
part of what Lev Sabat was doing, and she was also a
part—no matter how small—of destroying the man who
would destroy the old Ukrainian.
At home she changed into a dark blouse and tight
jeans. Around her waist she buckled a wide studded belt
that she had bought that morning. On her feet went
spike-heeled boots.
Twenty minutes in front of a mirror changed her
from a serious career woman to a punk rocker with
high, teased hair and makeup that appeared as though it
had been applied with a trowel. A waist-length black
leather jacket completed the costume.
On the street she walked until she found a taxi.
"Do you know the discotheque Cadahay?"
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The driver nodded, grunted something, and lurched
from the curb.
The Cadahay was two blocks from Sabat's apart-
mente It was on the third floor and at a slight bend in the
street. From the window table she had reserved by
phone late the previous evening, she could see Sabat's
building and anyone who entered or left it.
He was tall, with dark hair only slightly graying at the
temples. His face was as angular as his body was lean.
His eyes, as well as the slight downturn of his lips, gave
his features a rather bored expression.
The whole on first glance was distinguished, and on
closer inspection seemed "British" distinguished. The
suit, in fact, was British—Hawkes of Savile Row—and
the shoes were Bond Street, Loranges. The shirt, the tie,
and the gold cuff links were Addison, Bond Street.
No one would mistake him for anything other than a
proper English gentleman as he parked the dark blue
Volvo sedan, locked it, and pocketed the keys in the
light tan Burberry topcoat.
He folded the newspaper under his arm and strolled
off toward the Suliman, an excellent little restaurant on
the Koca Mustapha Caddesi that had a fine alternate
menu of Russian dishes.
The Suliman was exactly a six-block walk from Lev
Sabat's building, and it was where the Ukrainian had
eaten his dinner each night for the last two years.
Lev Sabat was surprised that his hands weren't
clammy as he counted out the bills onto the table for his
meal. He was even more surprised at the way he had
been able to eat the light buffet meal of salmon, caviar,
and heavy black bread. He had even had a second, then
a third glass of vodka to wash it down.
And his stomach wasn't even queasy.
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Courage, he thought with satisfaction. He had
courage.
But in truth, Sabat knew that his courage came from
the fact that he had won. They wanted him dead. He
had become too much of a thorn in their sides. Even if
the capsules didn't work against the gas when it came,
he was happy.
They wanted him dead. The bastards were afraid of
him, and if he did die, the article illuminating the cir-
cumstances of his death would be printed. He had al-
ready written it and mailed it with instructions.
Outside the restaurant, Lev Sabat turned toward his
building.
It would be a fifteen-minute walk, and then the mo-
mentof truth.
Carter spotted the car on the incoming third swing of
circles. He drove by it, went on for three blocks, and
turned around to make the ID positive.
It was the dark blue Volvo sedan.
Two blocks farther on there was a narrow, one-way
alley. He turned into it, drove through, and parked on
the street.
Minutes later he was pushing the barrel cart back
down the alley, with the muffler wrapped around his
face, his collar turned up, and his shoulders sagging as if
they carried the entire weight of the working man's
world.
The tall, distinguished man left the restaurant seconds
after Sabat. He trailed the Ukrainian at a distance until
he was sure that the man was not deviating from his
regular route, and then stepped up his pace as he cut
over to a parallel street.
Now he walked with a purpose, taking long strides,
his usually bored eyes alert, darting everywhere. The
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newspaper was still clutched under his left arm.
Inside it, near his armpit, was the tube.
He reached the alley at the rear of Sabat's building a
full five minutes before the other man turned into the
block in front of the building. Other than a scavenging
cat and a sleeping derelict, the alley was deserted.
A lockpick opened the rear entrance. Inside he paused
in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust and tuning his
ears to any sign of life.
From somewhere above he heard a radio in one of the
apartments, from another the dull drone of conversa-
tion from a television station.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallway
was lit by a low-watt bulb. He unscrewed it and moved
on up to the third floor. There he moved into the com-
munal bathroom and locked the door behind him.
It wouldn't be a long wait.
Carter had been wrong. From her table by the win-
dow, Zina Talinka had not taken her eyes off the front
of Sabat's building for more than a second at a time.
She had seen only Sabat exit. In the time he had been
gone, only an old woman and two young boys had
entered. Now she saw the old Ukrainian walking up to
the door.
Had something warned Balistronov off? Would he
change his rail reservations and do it tomorrow night?
. or the next?
God, she thought, gathering her purse and the check,
I can 't go through all of this a second time!
He heard the door slam three floors below and, like a
cat, emerged from the lavatory. He discarded the
newspaper and held the tube along the palm of his right
hand, his index finger straight along the top of the
release plunger. In his left hand he held a penlight.
The footsteps were clear now, the steady thump,
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39
thump, thump as they climbed the stairs. Then the shuf-
fling gait as they moved along the second-floor hallway.
How simple it is, he thought, when the planning is
done well.
He moved to the stairs and heard the old man grum-
bling to himself about the missing hall light.
Then he saw him making the turn, stepping on the
first step.
He waited until Sabat was halfway up, and then he
started down. He had only taken two steps when Sabat
stopped, his hand on the railing, his head tilted up, his
eyes probably straining into the darkness.
The killer was only three feet from Sabat when he
snapped on the penlight and focused it on the old man's
face.
My God, he's smiling!
"Good evening, Mr. Balistronov . . . if that's your
real name. "
He knows! The traitorous son ofa bitch knows!
For an instant fear froze his finger. The first fear he
had ever felt in his life.
And then the instincts of the killing machine he was
took over. He depressed the plunger, saw the white
vapor cloud in front of Sabat's face, and noted the
gasping intake of breath.
It was also instinct that made him move on down the
stairs and out into the street.
He knew. The bastard knew! But how? Was he
blown?
Should he return to the car? He had to. He had left
his escape documents and his tickets in the glove com-
partment. That was usual procedure.
But Sabat had known.
Betrayed, somehow betrayed!
But he walked on in the direction of the car. Routine
had ruled his life It would save him now ... somehow.
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Zina saw the tall man just in time to melt into the
darkness of a doorway.
In the same instant, she had been trained well enough
to know that it was a mistake. The sudden movement, if
he saw it, would alert him. She should have ducked her
head and walked on, passed him as if he meant nothing
to her.
He must be Balistronov: the look, the dress. But how
had he gotten into the building without her seeing him?
She remembered Carter's words: "If he spots you, or
you think you spot him, do nothing, say nothing. Don't
follow him, don't even look at him. And, for God's
sake, don't do anything to tip him. "
She hadn't breathed in seconds. It felt as though her
chest would explode. She could see him clearly now. He
would pass within a few feet of her. Light from the
streetlight fell across his face.
It wasn't Balistronov. It couldn't be. He didn't look
Russian. He looked British. He looked like a banker.
He...
He was looking right at her. His eyes were intense,
almost wild.
It was him.
His step faltered.
Zina unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse
and stepped out.
"Do you look for a date tonight?"
she asked in
Turkish, falling in stride beside him.
His eyes bored into and through her. "I don't speak
Turkish. "
"Ah, English?" she said, shifting language. "You
want date tonight?"
"No."
She rubbed her left breast against his arm. "l am
young and not too expensive. 't
Suddenly his arm came up like a striking snake. His
fingers found her throat and lifted her whole body until
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her toes were barely touching the pavement.
"Leave me alone, slut. "
41
Then he released her as quickly as he had grabbed
her, and stomped off.
Behind him, Zina rubbed her throat and struggled for
air. He was as strong as a bull and his grip had been like
-iron.-
But she smiled. Instinct told her that he was rattled.
Something had unnerved him.
She hoped that Balistronov's being shaken would
make it easier for Carter. Looking into the Russian's
eyes, she was sure she had glimpsed the Devil himself.
When he was out of sight, she turned and ran toward
Sabat's building as fast as her high-heeled boots would
carry her.
Two false alarms: an old man with a briefcase, and a
young stud out on the prowl. Both of them looked as
though they were heading for the car.
But the old man had crossed the street and gotten into
the only other car on the block, a dilapidated Escort.
The young stud had dropped a crumpled cigarette
pack at Carter's feet and, with a jeering laugh, strolled
on.
Carter pushed the straw broom listlessly about three
hundred feet from the Volvo. He had begun checking
his watch every minute or so a half hour earlier.
Now it was nearly ten-thirty. Sabat would have fin-
ished his dinner and returned home. And if Balistronov
had been waiting
He scooped the minuscule pile of papers he had
gathered into the barrel and dropped the broom handle
into its holder.
Then he heard the footsteps. He didn't look up; he
just turned the cart around and began pushing it back
toward the Volvo.
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When he was thirty feet from the car, he chanced a
quick glance. The man was about six-one, lean, well
dressed, and intent. He was about the same distance
from the car as Carter, but he was moving fast.
Then the Killmaster heard it, the unmistakable sound
of keys jingling in the man's hand.
The silencer had already been screwed into the barrel
of the Beretta. It rested nose-down in the lathe slot be-
tween the broom and the shovel covered with old rags.
The safety was off and a shell had been jacked into the
chamber.
He checked the street. The block they were in was
empty. Two blocks down, a pair of lovers were embrac-
ing in a doorway. Carter could barely make out the
boy's arms sliding under the girl's coat. They were
oblivious to their surroundings, and should cause no
problem. Somewhere on another street he heard the
squeal of brakes. From somewhere behind one of the
dark, curtained windows came the vague sounds of
screeching Indian music.
Ten feet now and the tall man was unlocking the door
on the driver's side.
Carter couldn't miss, not at this distance. But even if
he didn't hit a vital spot—head, neck, heart, gut—it
wouldn't matter.
The cyanide would make up the difference.
Carter kept pushing the cart with his left hand, the
right moving toward the butt of the Beretta.
The hand moved in a deliberate, smooth, fluid mo-
tion. The fingers curled around the gun.
Balistronov had barely glanced at Carter. Now he was
sliding under the wheel.
Suddenly, at the last second, the survival instinct, the
honed awareness of the hunter who had become the
hunted filled his brain.
He whirled, saw the long snout of the silencer, and
lurched to his feet. He was tensing his body for a last
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lunge to save his life when Carter fired.
43
The Killmaster pumped three of the powerful death-
tipped slugs into the Russian's body. One would have
been enough; three made sure of a more instant death, a
death without a lot of messy blood.
When the heart stops, the blood-pumping process
stops with it.
Balistronov managed to keep his feet for a full three
seconds before he fell back into the crack between the
door and the car.
The Killmaster's next moves were mechanical,
thought out many times to the nth degree in the last half
hour.
He ran the top of the trash barrel in Balistronov's
middle, grasped him by the back of the neck, and
pulled. The body went headfirst into the barrel and Car-
ter stuffed the legs down out of sight.
All in one movement he dropped the lid, plucked the
keys from the ignition, and backed the cart away far
enough to lock and slam the door.
In less than two minutes from the time Balistronov hit
the car, Carter was pushing his dead body down the
alley in the garbage barrel.
In the back of the van he hauled the body half out of
its resting place and frisked it.
He found exactly what he had expected to find,
nothing more than a small roll of Turkish lire. Some-
where between Sabat's building and the Volvo, Balis-
tronov had disposed of the tube. In the heel of the right
shoe he found a Moscow-issued Warsaw Pact traveling
pass good for thirty days, and a passport photo.
The Killmaster peeled off his top layer of clothes and
dropped them and the Beretta into the barrel. The boots
joined the rest, and he slipped his feet into his own
shoes.
The drive back to the parking lot adjoining the Palace
of the Seven Towers took five minutes. He waited in the
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NICK CARTER
darkened cab for another two minutes. Pedestrians were
nonexistent, auto traffic was light and mostly a block
away.
Locking the van, he replaced the keys under the left
front fender and walked away in the direction of the
dark blue Volvo.
It was all there, in the glove compartment of the
Volvo: passport, identity papers, tickets, and cash. The
passport and identity papers were British and in the
name of Cedric Harland-White. There was no picture,
of course, on the passport, but there was a perfectly
forged seal press and a small lamination device with a
cord that could be used by plugging into the car's
cigarette lighter.
The fact that all the cash was Bulgarian said a lot.
Balistronov, as the Killmaster had suspected, had
planned on getting off the train in Sofia. Once there, he
would probably have gone directly to the local KGB
rezident and gotten his own documents for the trip on
into mother Russia.
Carter drove to the rail station. In the parking lot he
laminated his own photograph onto the passport and
burned Balistronov's. This done, he locked the car with
the keys inside and walked into the station.
In the men's room he mashed the seal under his heel
and threw the pieces as well as the lamination kit into a
trash barrel.
It was 11:35.
On the station's big master board he located the de-
parture track for the Istanbul-Munich express.
The train was on time.
At the head of the tunnel going down to the track, he
stopped at a bank of telephones.
"You have reached the Istanbul exchange of Amal--
gamated Press and Wire Services. At present we have no
representatives on station in Istanbul, but if you .
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45
Carter waited out the remainder of the recorded
message and spoke at the tone.
"Nightshade has been delivered without problems.
The courier is coming home. "
He killed the connection and redialed.
"Dasek "
"It's me, Zina."
"It's done ... clean."
There was a sigh from the other end of the line, an at-
tempt at speech, and silence.
"Sabat?" Car'ter asked.
"His shoulder and arm were bruised, probably when
he fell. He has stomach cramps and there was some
vomiting, but the physician says that he will be fine."
Carter himself sighed with relief. They had taken the
gamble and won. "How about aftereffects?"
"None that they could tell."
c 'And you gave no one your name?"
"No. They think I was a prostitute he picked up on
the street. "
"Good. You were excellent, Zina. Good-bye."
He hung up without waiting for a reply, and moved
on down to his train.
He would probably never see Zina Talinka again,
and that was how it should be.
In wet operations of this size it was unwise to put the
same team together more than once.
Three hours later, a customs official at the Bulgarian-
Turkish frontier dutifully added the name of Cedric
Harland-White to his list of foreign passengers passing
through the country.
Shortly after the train continued on its way, the list
was sent to officials of the Durzhavna Sigurnost, the
Bulgarian equivalent of the KGB.
Not knowing why, but following the orders of his
Moscow superiors, the head of the DS office trans-
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NICK CARTER
mitted to the KGB that the man, Harland-White, had
passed over the frontier.
Carter would be safely ensconced in a London safe
house before questions began to arise in the Sofia of-
fices of the KGB about the whereabouts of Comrade
Eban Balistronov.
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FIVE
Six months later
Carter leaned back in the seat of the gondola, lit a
cigarette, and drank in the crisp June air of Switzerland.
It had to be the freshest in the world.
The speaker in the gondola's roof crackled and then a
soft, female voice came through on a recording.
"The Grindelwald-Mannlichen gondola cableway is,
with its six-point-two-kilometer length, the longest gon-
dola cableway in Europe. It went operational in De-
cember 1978. Traveling time from the Grindelwald val-
ley station at nine hundred and forty-two meters via
Holenstein, the intermediate station at fifteen hundred
and twenty-nine meters, to the mountain station of the
Mannlichen is about thirty minutes. From the valley
floor to Mannlichen, an altitude of two thousand two
hundred and twenty-two meters, is reached
There was a click and the voice began saying the same
thing in French.
Carter tuned it out and let his eyes drift across the
snow-capped majesty of the Eiger, the Monch, and the
Jungfrau to his left.
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The stiff mountain breeze and the sight of the snow
made him turn up the collar of his windbreaker.
It also made him smile.
Forty-eight hours before, he had been lying on a
sandy beach in Rio, drinking in sun with his body and
other sun-baked, partially clad bodies with his eyes.
It was a working vacation, but little work had been
done in the two weeks he had been there. The mission
had been to contact a Central American diplomat who
had proof of Russian arms shipments to Communist
rebels in several Central American nations still friendly
to the U.S.
After two weeks Carter was pretty sure it was a bust
and the guy hadn't made it out of his country.
Then the call had come from the chief of AXE
himself, David Hawk,
luck?"
c 'It looks that way," Carter had replied. "I think he
bought the farm. Should I come home?"
"Maybe not. Do you remember that woman in
Turkey, Zina Talinka?"
"Sure. Istanbul. We did the Balistronov run to-
gether. "
"That's right. Do you remember the female contact?
The one who fingered Balistronov?"
"l remember the situation. Talinka didn't have an
"She still doesn't, but the woman has passed us
nothing but pure gold. Now it looks as though we may
get even more. "
"She's being transferred back to Moscow and pro-
moted. She wants to continue feeding us. "
'SFrom Moscow?"
"That's right, N3, and she wants a meet on neutral
ground. Talinka says the woman will talk only to you. "
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49
"I've set up a meet at a farm in Switzerland, above
Mannlichen."
' 'Day after tomorrow. She has instructions and will
meet you there. "
"It could be a trap."
"It could be. You'll have to judge for yourself,"
Hawk had replied. ' 'If it isn't, and she's on the level, it
could be a real coup."
A real coup indeed, Carter thought, grinding out his
cigarette. Someone highly placed in the GRU and in
Moscow Center could be an intelligence dream.
The gondola ground to a halt and Carter stepped out.
The sun gleamed dazzlingly in the rarefied air. On
green patches beyond the station buildings, families
were spreading the contents of lunch baskets on
checkered cloths. Boys and girls in shorts, a few in
lederhosen, tumbled on the slopes.
Carter entered the small restaurant and looked over
the buffet. It was late afternoon but there was still
enough food spread out on the long table to feed an
army of tourists.
There were twenty kinds Of cold sandwiches. Salami
and cheese between slices of freshly baked dark bread
lured him. He also purchased two beers, and went back
inside.
Adjusting the shoulder straps on his backpack, he
took off for open country along the ridge that separated
the Grindelwald and Wengen valleys.
A half-hour hike took him far out of sight of the sta-
tion. A half hour beyond that, there was nothing but
mountains and solitude. The beer had relaxed him. That
and the stillness made him feel separated from himself,
as if in a dream. So much so that he almost missed the
narrow road.
On your toes, kiddo, Carter told himself. You're not
on vacation now.
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NICK CARTER
lane twisted downward through a
checkerboard Of fields. It was even cooler now as dusk
approached. Puffs of dust exploded around his heels.
He could smell and taste it. He also thought he could
smell a storm coming in over the far mountains.
"Hold off for a few hours," he said aloud to the
ominous sky. ' 'She'll be coming this way at night.
That's bad enough."
The road bisected another and began tacking back up
a gentle hillside. It entered a thick stand of trees, wound
like a snake, and then gradually petered out into no
more than a cow path.
Another quarter of a mile and he spotted the farm
buildings in the center of partially cultivated land and
pastures. Through it all raced a creek swollen and noisy
with glacier melt.
A barn with a stone foundation leaned wearily toward
the mountains. It looked as though it were about to lose
its battle with gravity. All the buildings—barn, shed,
stable, and a two-story chalet—were clean and neat
despite having withstood over a hundred years of Alpine
weather.
Even though he knew the place had been checked and
swept clean earlier that day, Carter still checked the out-
buildings first.
Empty, and no signs that anyone had gotten curious.
He climbed the split-log stairway to the chalet porch
and opened the door. Logs were set in the fireplace and
the whole house had a fresh pine scent to it. The
refrigerator was full, and so was the bar.
The telephone had a dial tone. It was also equipped
with a scrambler. The Zurich office of AXE—a stringer
newsroom for Amalgamated—picked up on the first
ring.
"This is Carter. Give me Mellon. "
Seconds later the voice of Amos Mellon, Zurich head
of AXE, came on the line.
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"How goes it, Nick?"
51
"I'm in. The place looks good. Zina Talinka?"
"She arrived about an hour ago. I've got her hoteled
and on hold. "
"Good. You followed instructions up here, didn't
you, Amos?"
"Just like the old man said, Nick . . .
no wires, no
recorders, no cameras. "
' 'Good. Whoever our mysterious lady is, I'm pretty
sure she'd spot them. I'll check in every eight hours. "
"Right. Ciao."
Carter built himself a drink, rescued his favorite girl,
a 9mm Luger named Wilhelmina, from his backpack,
and sat down in the gathering darkness to wait.
He heard the footsteps—boots—long before their
owner was anywhere near the chalet. The wind was
whistling outside now and a misty rain had seeped down
from the mountains.
As the boots climbed the outside stairs, Carter tipped
the lampshade at his side toward the door. He put his
hand on the switch and flipped the Luger's safety off.
The knob turned and the door opened slowly. When
it was wide, Carter flipped on the light.
She was tall, with a statuesque body in a figure-
hugging jump suit. She had a rucksack on her back, and
a silk scarf knotted under her chin hid her hair and the
sides of her face. The sharp, penetrating eyes staring at
Carter were as icy blue as the surrounding mountain
streams.
"Step in. Shut the door," Carter growled.
She did.
"Drop the rucksack on the floor. Kick it over here. s'
She did.
"Who are you?"
She whipped off the scarf. "Bend the shade a bit so I
can see you," she said.
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Carter tipped the shade slightly so the light would fall
across his face.
"Good evening, Mr. Carter. I am Dasha Peshkova
Koneva. Lieutenant Colonel Dasha Koneva."
"You know me by sight?" he asked.
she replied, removing her gloves.
"Of course,"
"Your photograph at Moscow Center in the neighbor's
files is quite a good likeness."
Carter leaned forward and managed a smile as he set
"I doubt if there is room for
the Luger on the floor.
anything under that outfit but you."
"l am not armed. In the rucksack you will find
several papers. I have brought them as an example of
my intentions. Also, I think this picture will erase any
doubts you may have of my sincerity:" She moved to
stand in front of Carter and dropped a three-by-five
snapshot in his lap. "l could use a drink."
Carter nodded toward the bar. - "There's Russian
vodka. "
"Thank you."
He picked up the photograph and studied it. "The
woman is you."
, 'I she said, pouring a glass half full. "Look
' 'Yes It IS,"
more closely at the man. "
He did. "I'll be damned. It's Balistronov."
"His real name was Mikhail Vandrovitch Konev. He
was my husband. Na zdorov'e, Mr. Carter. Cheers."
Outside the chalet the rain was now coming down in
driving sheets. Occasionally there would be a jagged
flash of lightning and then the low, ominous roll of
thunder.
Inside, Dasha Koneva sat staring into the fire, the
drink in her hand forgotten.
"We were married for only two years, and that was
long ago. It was only after the divorce that I learned
what he really did for the neighbors. So, in answer to
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your question, no, I didn't divorce him because he was
an assassin. I divorced him because I couldn't stand to
be married to one of them any longer."
"Who do you mean when you say them?"
"He was part of the Communist elite in my country.
Even back then I hated them, but I thought the people
would eventually change what was going on. Now I
know differently. "
Carter watched her set the glass down. She placed her
hands over her face and stared at the fire through the
web of long, graceful fingers.
He guessed she was in her late thirties, maybe forty.
Her hair was long and blond-streaked. She had high
cheekbones, a nose slightly too large, and those huge
cold blue eyes that hadn't warmed one degree since she
had entered the chalet.
She was very tall, almost six feet, and sturdy. Carter
supposed she was the ideal of Russian beauty, like the
Soviet socialist-realist paintings he had seen of sturdy,
raw-boned peasant girls in the fields.
And yet he also sensed a burning sensuality about her
that seemed to emanate in waves each time she looked at
him.
"Well," she said, dropping her hands to ther knees,
"what do you think?"
Carter dropped his eyes to the sheaf of papers on the
floor between them. It had taken him nearly two hours
to read through them. While he had read, she had lit the
fire and done an inspection tour of the chalet.
It was obvious that she was checking to make sure
they had complied with her demand for no recorders or
cameras.
When she had finally returned to the large main room
where Carter sat by the fire, she had said as much.
Now they were down to the bottom line.
The papers were, to use Hawk's expression, pure
gold. They consisted of closely handwritten notes and
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documents. One packet was the entire list of a KGB net
in Greece and Turkey. The other was the next year's
naval plan for submarine surveillance in the Mediterra-
nean Sea.
"I I have no doubts of your sincerity," Carter
shrugged. "Of course, mine isn't the last word. "
"Of course not. Another drink?" Her voice was full
of authority, yet it held almost a soothing, musical qual-
ityw
"Sure."
She plucked the glass from his hand and moved like a
slow-loping deer to the bar.
She looked even more stunning on her feet, with her
startlingly light eyes and her long mane of thick hair.
She had pulled down the zipper of her jump suit several
inches. In the opening, the cleavage between her breasts
was dark and inviting. She obviously wore no bra, and
the friction of the material against her breasts had
teased the nipples into a constant state of erection.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, not really," Carter replied with a slight smile,
accepting the refilled glass. "It's just hard to imagine
you as a lieutenant colonel. "
C' That's understandable. You Americans underes-
timate the Soviet state just as you underestimate
women. "
"Touché," Carter coughed, and grabbed a legal pad.
"Suppose, for the time being, we move the discussion to
you."
Carter nodded. "Background, life, philosophy, if
you will."
"Is all that necessary?" she. asked, stretching out on
the thick rug before the fireplace.
"It will help," he replied, focusing on the legal pad
rather than on her extraordinary figure.
She sipped the vodka and stared again into the fire for
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several moments before she started to speak, at first
with reluctance, then more freely and with obvious emo-
tion.
She had been born in the Kuybyshev district, in the
Volga area, to peasant parents. Her mother had died
from tuberculosis when Dasha was three. Her father
had worked like a mule in a cement factory and, like a
mule, had dropped dead in his traces when Dasha was
nine.
She had attended state schools and showed enough
aptitude and precociousness to receive an invitation
from Moscow upon graduation from secondary school.
There she became a member of Komsomol, and even-
tually a Youth Guard leader.
She graduated with honors from the Military Institute
of Foreign Languages and, at eighteen, joined the Red
Army and attended the military diplomatic academy.
"There I became the mistress of General Igor Valen-
tin. It was Igor who steered me into the GRU and en,
sured my future. It was also through Igor that I first
came into contact with the military and Politburo elite. I
had believed in communism as a salvation for the Rus-
Sian people. These men were not practicing the-com-
munism that I had been taught."
"But you continued with your career even though you
had doubts?" Carter interjected.
"Of course," she replied with a harsh laugh. "I
didn't want to go back to being a peasant. "
"Igor Valentin ...
I recall the name w"
"Khrushchev had him shot.
Dasha went on to relate that, by intelligence and play-
ing politics, she was able to rise in rank and become
senior officer of the Fourth Directorate, the Near East
desk, Chief Intelligence Directorate, General Staff of
the Soviet Army.
"By then I was a major and became a member of the
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elite myself. I became close friends with all the senior
officers of the Moscow military district staff, the Mos-
cow garrison, and the general staff. We lived like kings
while the peasants still died of Tb "
It was then that she had been sent to Istanbul as the
GRU rezident.
"The rest you know." She finished off her vodka and
lay back with her eyes closed.
' 'Not quite. "
Carter had taken furious notes in his own form of
shorthand. Now he quickly read them over. This woman
had connections that American intelligence could only
dream of cracking.
If she could funnel information out of Moscow, it
could alter things for years to come.
"Why, Dasha Peshkova?" he asked simply, his eyes
never leaving hers.
"Why?"
"Why are you betraying your country?"
Her beautifully shaped eyebrows arched sharply. "I
am not betraying my country. I am trying to save it.
believed in the Soviet system and was ready to fight any-
one who spoke against it. I believed that I was fighting
for mother Russia, not Soviet Russia."
Carter smiled. "l heard someone else say those words
once. Lev Sabat."
"Sabat is right. I listened too long to the Soviet upper
classes, and then realized that their praise of the party
and communism was only lip service. Privately they lie,
cheat, deceive, intrigue, inform, even cut each other's
throats in their pursuit of money and power and ad-
vancement for themselves. Secretly they despise every-
thing Soviet, and look down on ordinary people. "
"Then you're saying that communism is a fraud."
"Soviet communism is a fraud. It is a disease gnawing
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at our country from within. Outwardly, I praise our
leaders. Inside, here, I wish them death. When I return
in four days, I will be associating intimately with impor-
tant people—ministers, marshals, generals, even mem-
bers of the Central Committee of the Politburo."
' 'And from them you will glean information that you
will pass on to us."
"Precisely."
Her shoulders were shaking and she was clasping her
hands between her thighs.
Carter glanced toward the window. First rays of a
gloomy dawn were just breaking over the horizon.
He stood and stretched. "It's nearly dawn. Get some
sleep. We'll start in again this afternoon."
Together they climbed the stairs in silence. Carter
opened her bedroom door.
"This one is yours. And don't worry. If you've
covered yourself coming up here, we are both safe. "
' 'Safe?" she said, a tight smile curving her lips.
"What is safe? Are you married, Nicholas Carter?"
"No."
"That is good. In the three days we are alone here, I
think I may want to make love with you. I wouldn't
want you to be cheating on your wife. Good night,
Nicholas Carter. "
He shook his head and walked on down the hall to his
own room.
Carter checked in with Zurich at nine the next morn-
inge At ten-thirty, he met Amos Mellon at the Mann-
lichen station.
"Is she a winner?"
"Odds on, going away," Carter replied, passing the
man a sealed envelope. "This is for Hawk, Eyes Only.
We've got a real hot potato here and if she's for real,
she could get very burned."
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Mellon nodded. ' 'It should be in Washington by to-
night."
"Tell them to get back to me as soon as possible."
"Will do. Do you want a voice confirmation with
Zina Talinka?"
"Yeah," Carter growled. "I'll call in between five
and six this afternoon. "
Dasha Koneva was up and in the kitchen when he
returned to the chalet. There had been a change of
clothing in her rucksack. Now she wore a pair of tight-
fitting Western-style jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair was in
a pony tail.
Carter chuckled. "You look like an American college
student."
"University students look the same the world over,"
she said lightly. "Breakfast? By now, though, I suppose
it's lunch."
"I didn't know Russian lieutenant colonels cooked. "
"Not often for American agents. Sit. "
She had prepared poached eggs, garlic sausage,
cheese, and grilled tomatoes. It was delicious, and
Carter told her so.
"In Moscow I have a nice apartment. It has a large
kitchen, and because I do not have to stand in line for
food, I cook a lot."
They ate the remainder of their lunch in silence.
Afterward, Dasha suggested a walk.
It was clear now, with a brilliant sun. The previous
evening's rain had been snow on the higher peaks, and
now they gleamed whiter than ever.
"You could just defects you know," Carter said out
of the blue as they paused on a rocky incline overlook-
ing Grindelwald valley far below.
' 'What good would that do?" she replied, slipping
her arm through his. "l would not be able to bring out
much more than I have already told you. No, I am Rus-
Sian. There are five generations of my family buried in
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the cemeteries of Kuybyshev. When I die I will be buried
there as well. "
Gently, Carter turned her to him, his hands on her
shoulders. "And what if you're caught? Wouldn't you
try to escape?"
She shrugged. "Perhaps. It would depend."
' 'On what?"
Her lips broke into a smile, the first genuine smile he
had seen. "On how I feel when that time comes. You
have a very nice face, Nicholas Carter. It is attractively
beat up."
Carter matched her smile. "Have you decided if you
want to make love with me or not?"
"Oh, yes,"
she replied, laughing aloud,
"l have
decided. I have just not decided when. "
"I think I like Dasha Peshkova the woman better
than Lieutenant Colonel Kenova."
' 'I don't think your Washington people would
agree. "
He squeezed her tightly and brushed his lips down
across her forehead and nose to end with a light peck on.
her full lips.
"Let's go back to the chalet," she whispered, and,
shrugging from his grasp, took off across the meadow.
Carter caught her on the porch but held her only for
an instant before she disengaged herself with a throaty
laugh and moved into the main room under the chalet's
high, beam-ceilinged roof.
"I must tell you, Nicholas, that for the first time in
my life I feel freedom."
It wasn't exactly what Carter had wanted to hear. She
had gotten to him and he admitted it.
"I make a great toddy ... three parts rum to one part
potion. Want one?" he grinned.
"Yes, I think I do," she said, letting her long legs
carry her the distance of the huge room with a minimum
of strides.
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He watched her move. The lithe form before him was
outrageously female. Every hollow and curve, from the
long legs over the flaring hips and angling up from the
narrow waist, was erotic perfection.
She opened the thick drapes and flung wide the win-
dowed doors. The Alpine air and sun streamed in, fill-
ing the corners of the chalet.
"You'll catch cold," Carter commented as he con-
cocted two cups of toddy.
' 'Nonsense. It is invigorating. Have you ever been to
Siberia
"Yes."
"Then you know. The cold there is biting but it is also
invigorating and cleansing. Y'
Taking the cup from his hand, she threw her long
body across a couch. One slim hand rested on a
tabletop. The other brought the her smiling
lips.
The T-shirt stretched tautly over her breasts. His eyes
floated from her face to take in the lush curves as they
strained against the material.
' 'What are you thinking?"
He coughed and turned to the window. "Whac a
charming little village Grindelwald is."
i 'No, - you weren't. You were thinking about my
breasts."
"You're absolutely -right,"
he admitted, grinning
sheepishly.
This time the laugh was girlish, more carefree as she
slid from the couch and ran her arm through his. "l am
enjoying being a woman. Don't make me stop. "
"You're enjoying making me squirm. "
"Yes, I am," she chuckled, squeezing the side of her
breast against his arm. "Soon, Nicholas. But first we
must talk."
A cloud passed across the sun. It momentarily
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dimmed the warm afternoon glow on the white moun-
tains and put the picturesque little houses of Grindel-
wald in the valley far below them into purple shadow.
It was a long time before she spoke again. And when
she did, she left his side and moved out into the open of
the wooden balcony.
"You have told only your superior in Washington of
my identity?
"Yes. I marked the material so only my boss will see
it. That's how you wanted it."
"Yes, and that is how it must remain. I want only
three people to know of me: yourself, your superior,
and my contact in Moscow. "
Carter took a deep breath. "That may be difficult. "
Her shoulders tensed and then she whirled. The cloud
wasn't outside now. It was inside her, in the icy blue of
her eyes as they bored into his.
"Itc must be so. I want no leaks. The fewer people
who know, the less chance of discovery."
"If you are so afraid, why do this at all, Dasha?"
"Do you think I am afraid?" As she spoke, her voice
lost its low, throaty quality. It rose in pitch and the
words became garbled as they tumbled from her lips. ' 'I
am not afraid. I know that one day they will catch me.
And when they do they will execute me. It is a fact. And
before they do that they will torture me. I have seen it in
the cellars of Moscow Center."
"Then ?"
"I want longevity. I want to fight them as long as I
can. If only three of your people know my identity, I
think it will buy me more time. "
A single tear had squeezed from the corner of her eye.
It traced a path down her cheek flushed with the cool
mountain air.
"When I die, I want to know that I have done all I
could do. "
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A shudder passed through Carter's body that had
nothing to do with the chill wind coming up from the
valley.
"l think they will agree," he murmured, a soft smile
curving his lips.
"Good. And the contact I want in Moscow is the
Talinka woman, the one from Istanbul. "
The smile faded to a thin-lipped grimace on Carter's
face. "You're mad, Dasha Peshkova."
' 'Am I? We've worked well together, and she is a
woman. I think I will be safer with her."
"Dasha, let me—
"No, let me finish," she interrupted, the grainy
harshness back in her voice. "I can get her permits and
visas for the Moscow press corps without my superiors
knowing who authorized them. As a journalist she can
travel legitimately in and out of the country in
emergencies. And, most of all, I have come to trust
her."
"There are things about Zina Talinka you should
know," Carter said. "She is too inexperienced for
anything of this magnitude. She also has doubts about
herself. And, worst of all, I think there is a core of feat
in her that would make her crack under the slightest
pressure. "
"I'll be the judge of that," Dasha replied curtly.
"The Talinka woman is my contact or it is no game. "
"But why? Why do you insist on her as our contact
with you in Moscow?"
Dasha spun away from him, her hands becoming fists
as she leaned her weight on the balcony's wooden rail-
ing.
"You wouldn't understand. "
"Wouldn't 1?"
"Try me."
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They stood like that for many moments. The woman,
her tall body tense, her shoulders quivering, her mane of
hair gleaming in the setting sun. Carter, a pace behind
her, his body slumped, his face contorted with honest
distaste for everything that put him in this position.
Suddenly the air was filled with her laughter. But
there was no mirth in the sound. It was empty and
hollow.
"You wouldn't understand, Nicholas, because you're
a man. And, worse yet, a man like Balistronov was."
Carter turned on his heel and walked back into the
chalet's main room. He moved directly to the phone and
in seconds was speaking to Amos Mellon.
"I have Zina Talinka here for the voice check, Nick."
"We're going one step further, Amos. Put her on the
gondola and get her up here. I'll meet her at the lift sta-
tion."
"Nick, are you nuts?" Mellon gasped. "I thought
you wanted privacy and secrecy!"
"I do, dammit, but now it's got to be a face-to-face
meet. "
"But, Nick ."
"Amos, just do as you're fucking told."
"Yes, sir."
Carter slammed the phone down and headed for the
bar. Halfway there he sensed Dasha's presence in the
doorway.
"It will be all right, Nicholas. "
He turned and stared levelly into her pale blue eyes.
"I sure hope so, lady. It's your goddamned funeral. "
Within a half hour of putting the two women
together, Carter began to see the method to the Russian
woman's madness.
In the year they had worked together in Istanbul, a
bond—a very strong bond—had obviously been forged
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between them. The fact that no meeting had ever taken
place and all business had beeri conducted via clan-
destine telephone calls hadn't hampered the growth of a
trusting friendship.
It began as polite repartee but quickly grew into
•chatty conversation. Dasha Koneva relayed to the other
woman much the same information about herself, her
background, and her reasons for becoming a spy that
she had given Carter.
But there were subtle differences in the telling, em-
phasis put on different things in a different tone of
voice.
After a while Carter felt like a third wheel. He was
fairly sure they didn't even notice his absence when he
put on a heavy sweater and went for a walk.
He headed back up toward the high ridge line, leaning
into the wind, letting it boil his hair and sting his face
and neck.
It's your baby, Nick, Hawk had said. You make the
decisions.
Well, in actual fact, it wasn't up to him. Dasha
Koneva was too big a fish in the espionage pond to let
go. The decisions were hers. What she wanted she would
get because she had all the weight.
But that didn't stop the knot from forming in Car-
ter's gut when he thought of the myriad possible mis-
takes a surface operative like Zina Talinka could make.
The Turkish woman had proven herself on her home
turf where she knew exactly how to operate and could
speak the language.
But it would be a damned sight different over there,
in Moscow, right in the middle of the bear's belly.
It was two hours before he returned to the chalet.
They were in the doorway, saying good-bye, Zina
already bundled up in her knit jacket.
Carter remained standing in the shadows of the trees.
He couldn't hear their words, but in the spill of light
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from the great room through the doorway, he could see
their faces.
They were both alive, animated, almost filled with
zeal.
He tried to remember how young he had been when
his face was still filled with that kind of enthusiasm and
his head buzzing with a cause. A long time ago.
Maybe Dasha Koneva was right. Maybe Carter was
just an American Balistronov. Maybe he had lost the
real reason, the zeal, the idea of a cause.
We spy on them, they spy on us. We kill them, they
kill us.
It's just a job.
To him.
But not for Dasha Peshkova Koneva or Zina Talinka.
They parted with an embrace and then a wave and a
smile. Carter met Zina on the edge of the trees.
"I'll walk you back to the cableway station."
"All right. "
It was nearly an hour and they were almost there
before either of them spoke.
"I'll go, you know," she said at last.
"l figured you would."
"Dasha told me that you don't want me to. She said
you don't think I'm capable."
Carter shrugged. "l think you might be the courier. I
just don't think you're seasoned enough to avoid every
mistake. "
"No one avoids every mistake, Nick. "
"On one like this they do, or they don't live."
They were close to the station now. Carter could see
Amos Mellon on the balcony of the second tier watching
them approach.
"l like her," Zina said, "and think I understand
why and what she is doing."
"More so than you understood why and what I was
doing in Istanbul?"
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grasping Carter's elbow. "Yes, in a
way. She has made me understand better why we all do
the things we are doing. "
"You mean on our side," Carter replied, lighting a
cigarette.
"Yes."
"Stop and think, Zina. They think they're doing the
right thing on the other side. "
"She doesn't."
"Touché," he said, smiling, dropping the cigarette
after only a few drags. It tasted awful.
"And she says there are many more just like her over
there. They are simply very afraid to do anything about
it, I think she is a woman of great courage and convic-
tion."
"Yeah, she is that."
Mellon joined them.
"Word just came in from Washington. They say the
info is solid. Give the contact a full green light, your
discretion."
Carter chuckled. "My discretion? Jesus." He turned
to Zina. ' 'Do you have a vacation coming?"
'I Yes."
' 'Go back to Istanbul and get your vacation time.
Take it somewhere in the Caribbean. Mellon here will
set it up with Washington to get you secretly into the
States for some added training. "
"Thank you, Nick."
"Don't thank me for putting your head in the lion's
mouth. Thank her."
Carter turned and began the long walk back to the
chalet. Now there were no wheels rolling in his mind. It
was dead. The course was set. He would do what had to
be done to set up the network and then he would be
done with it.
There was a night light on in the great room and the
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rest of the chalet was dark. Carter paused and tapped at
her door.
"Dasha Peshkova i"
"I've made the arrangements for Zina. Washington
says it's a go. "
"I hope, Nicholas, we will do much good. Good
night. "
"Yeah."
Carter spent the next day teaching Dasha the codes,
the use of advanced films and cameras, and safe drop
sites in and around Moscow that had been set up for a
long time but never used.
He also gave her names and places in nearly all the
regions of the Soviet Union beyond Moscow where
there were people who could aid her in an emergency.
"Even in Kuybyshev?"
"Thåt's right, even in your own Volga region. His
name is Ivan Tollpetzka. He's a railway brakeman—
' 'I know. I know his father and his two brothers. "
"Not anymore you don't. They died some time ago in
he gulag. "
"No," she murmured after a moment's pause,
idn't know that.
Over and over they went into each detail. She was a
ood study. Carter had to admire her intelligence as
uch as her beauty and perseverance.
When he wasn't going over details with her, he was on
he phone to Washington through Zurich, setting up the
ntricacies of the net they would establish and getting
ore details to feed her spongelike mind.
By dusk she was swaying with the load. "Enough,
nough!" she cried. "My mind is bursting!"
' 'Not quite. There is one more, very important
etail. "
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"What is that?"
"The ultimate emergency. If you think you are
blown—or Talinka is blown—there is an emergency way
to get word out. And you're to use it for that purpose
only."
"Does Zina also have the same method?"
"She has a method, yes, but not the same one. "
Carter explained.
"Every Sunday and every Thursday, starting in a
month's time, a woman will be with her children in
Gorky Park between three and five. She will always be
sitting on one of the benches along the river, reading.
Her child or children will be playing nearby. Do you
understand?"
'S Yes," Dasha said, and repeated.
"The woman will be reading War and Peace in
French. She will also always be wearing a black onyx
ring with a diamond in its center on the ring finger of
her right hand. If it is on her left hand, she is being
watched, so be sure it is on the right. You will not pay
any attention to the woman, but you will strike up a
conversation with the children. "
"Will there always be more than one child?"
"No. It could be one child—or three. "
"And they will be American?"
'S Yes." Here Carter smiled. "They will be the wives
and children of the embassy staff. Hopefully you will be
operating for many months or years, so they will
change. "
"Do I make the pass to the children?"
"Yes, in Grimickya chocolates, small boxes. Always
carry several so you can pass them out to the other
children as well, before and after. It would be best if
you started doing this as a routine practice when you get
back to Moscow. Needless to say, stay away from our
women and children unless it's the real thing."
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"Let us hope it never is. "
69
"Yeah," Carter growled, meeting her eyes and feel-
ing himself swimming in their blueness,
"let's hope
there never is. "
They sat, staring for a full minute, until Dasha
Koneva leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips with
hers.
"You are very thorough, Nicholas. I thank you for
it. "
"That's my end of it," he murmured. 'J Tomorrow
you leave and you're on your own ...
unless "
"Unless ... ?"
"Unless you want a cutout or a full backup in
Moscow besides Talinka."
' 'No. I want it just as it is."
Carter shrugged. "Very well."
"Is that all?"
"That's it."
"Then," she said, slapping her thighs and standing,
"we will celebrate. "
"We will?"
"Yes, our last night. I will prepare a wonderful Rus-
Sian meal. We will drink wine, and vodka, and dine."
"And then?" Carter asked, unable to keep a smile
from his face at her sudden change of mood.
"And then, Nicholas, you will do the dishes," she
said, curling her lower lip between her teeth in a man-
nerism he had begun to associate with her lighter
moods.
Carter lay in the semidarkness, smoking, a sheet
covering his naked body from the waist down. Beside
him the radio was tuned to a station just over the fron-
tier. A woman was singing a plaintive American love
song in French. It sounded better in French than it ever
had in English.
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Outside, a crisp wind had blown the clouds away and
a stark white moon sent sham daylight slanting through
the partially pulled drapes.
The meal had been truly Russian even though Dasha
had been forced to improvise with what the cupboards
had offered.
Afterward they had washed the dishes together, with
the woman asking offhand questions about Carter's
youth. Instead of answering them, he fielded them with
evasions. He was sure she knew, but it didn't dampen
her spirits or kill her curiosity.
She seemed downright happy.
Only once did Zina Talinka's name come up. They
were sitting before the fire having brandy.
' 'Zina reminds me of a girlhood friend," Dasha had
said. "Probably the only true friend I ever had. She,
too, was an orphan. We were taken to Moscow together
and attended the same schools. She was a lovely girl,
much prettier than I, but not the most intelligent. Do
you know Verkhonoye?"
"Yes," Carter replied.
The Verkhonoye school is located about a hundred
miles from Kazan, near the Tatar Soviet Republic. It is a
desolate area filled with low-lying, jagged hills and bai-
ren plains. Because of its inaccessibility, Verkhonoye is
an ideal location for a spy school that technically
doesn't exist.
But exist it does, for the training of young girls to use
their bodies in service to the state.
"She was only fifteen and knew nothing of Verk-
honoye when a KGB recruiter convinced her that she
should volunteer. I knew what Verkhonoye was, and
did my best to dissuade her. It did no good. "
"She couldn't take the degradation. She hanged
herself."
That had ended the reverie in front of the fire. Shortly
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after that they had both retired.
71
Carter stubbed out his cigarette and started to roll to
his side, when there was a light rap on the door.
"Nicholas may I come in?"
"Of course. "
The door opened and Dasha stepped into the room.
She was totally nude, and the pale white moonlight
made her body ghostly as she moved to the bed.
There was no embarrassment. Her strides were long
and confident, her arms swung free and easily, and she
held her head proudly. She was every inch a woman at
home in her own body.
"You'll catch pneumonia," he said.
"Not if I can share the warmth of your body. "
Carter held up the sheet and she slid in beside him.
She cuddled into his arm and pressed the soft fullness of
her breasts to his side.
From his position he could see the top of her head and
the silk of her hair spilling over his shoulder and throat.
He felt the fluid curve of her back and hip gently with
his hand as she curled and nuzzled against him.
"This is another reason I wanted Zina Talinka to be
my Moscow contact," she whispered.
' 'A woman?" he replied, thinking he already knew
what she was about to say.
"Yes. In Moscow we will be drawn very close. If it
were you in Moscow, for instance, it might be very dif-
ficult to keep a distance between us."
Carter started to reply, but she silenced him with a
finger over his lips. With the fingers of her other hand
she traced the hair on his chest down to his navel and
around where it feathered out over his abdomen.
Then it was her lips tracing the same pattern, until
they found him and all thoughts of Moscow, Zina
Talinka, and of Dasha Koneva being anything but a sen-
suous, desirable woman left his mind.
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He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensations
her fingers and lips were creating in his body. He let her
go on until he knew he could stand it no more.
"Enough," he growled, pulling her upward until his
lips found hers.
"Take me," she moaned, arching her back until her
pelvis found him.
The rest she did with her hands. Carter moaned and
dropped his face to her breasts as he felt her warmth
envelop him.
Then the fury of their desire meshed. Both their
bodies glistened with perspiration even though the air in
the room was cool. Writhing flesh lost all form, and the
room seemed to take on an iridescent red glow that
matched the pure fire of their passion.
Groans came from both their throats somewhere deep
down as the moment of peak excitement arrived and
they met it at the same time.
Slowly their gasps subsided, and the quivering bodies
rolled away from each other in satiation. They lay like
that for some time in the near darkness.
Then he heard her speak. Her voice sounded as if it
were coming from deep in a well.
"We are alike in many ways, you and I, Nicholas. We
must live for the moment because it may always be our
last. "
Carter didn't reply. His mind had already returned to
reality.
As he listened to Dasha Peshkova Koneva's words, he
wondered, hoped, that Zina Talinka was living for the
moment.
Carter turned the collar of his windbreaker high up
around his neck. Smoke curled into his face from the
cigarette dangling from his lips.
Dasha Koneva was almost out of sight down the
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mountain now, Oler gondola just a speck against the
hillside.
It was over. He had set up the net, briefed her, and
they had said good-bye.
"Who knows," he had said, brushing her cheek with
his lips, "we may meet again. "
"I doubt it, and so do you," she had said, a sad smile
curving her sensual lips. "We've had our day and our
night. It would be too dangerous to even think of ever
having another. Good-bye, Nicholas."
Carter had returned her smile with a wry one of his
own, and handed her into the gondola.
They had made love the whole night long, and now
they were able to coolly and calmly walk away from
each other, accepting the fact that it was the only night
they would ever have.
Nature of the business, Carter thought as he walked
to the Grindelwald side of the station and caught the
next gondola down to the valley.
Just the nature of the business.
But for the first time in a long time—longer than he
could remember—he found himself wishing that it
wasn't.
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SIX
The snow lay thick and white across Moscow. It had
stopped falling only an hour before when the clouds had
rolled east toward Asian Russia, leaving a blue-domed
sky above the city.
Dasha Peshkova Koneva, in a heavy fur coat and hat,
with her slacks tucked into sturdy walking boots,
crossed Trubnaya Square and entered the wide, tree-
lined center section of Tsvetnoy Boulevard.
In the old days, before travel was so restricted into the
capital, old ladies would be seen hawking fresh hot-
house flowers on the boulevard. They had brightened a
Sunday afternoon.
But not anymore. Now there were just hordes of pe-
'destrians crowding the walks, thankful to escape their
tiny, cramped apartments after a week-long blizzard
had kept everyone indoors.
Dasha Koneva was grateful for all the people. She
and Zina Talinka would be simply two more attractive
women in a crowd of many.
Dasha was also worried. The message she had picked
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up Friday evening at the drop near the Kremlin's east
wall had sounded frantic.
Zina needed to talk to her in person. A new man had
been sent in from Istanbul to be her assistant. Twice she
had caught him in her office. She wasn't certain that he
had gone through her papers, but there was that chance.
Then, Monday evening after he had been particularly
suspicious, she had followed him.
In a café on Donskaja Square near the Donskoj
monastery, he had met Aleksandr Delenin, head of the
Moscow division of the KGB.
Zina had already alerted Washington that she might
be under suspicion. They had not ordered her out yet,
but she guessed that they soon would.
After two and a half successful years, this would be
good-bye.
It was irrational and stupid security to chance a
meeting like this, and Dasha knew it. But the plea from
Zina had been so strongly worded, and the bond of
friendship and trust between them so great, that she
hadn't the heart to ignore the woman's request.
She was nearing Samotechnaya Square now and the
crowds were thicker. Couples strolled, women sat chat-
ting on benches, and children romped in the snow
beneath stark, leafless trees.
Dasha slowed her pace and squinted her eyes into the
sun's glare. And then she saw the familiar white fur hat
with the dark blue cloth crown.
She was about one hundred yards away when Zina
turned. The dark-haired woman's lower lip was curled
between her teeth and her eyes were wide.
Fear. Even at that distance Dasha could see it con-
torting her friend's features.
She slowed her pace even more, to an ambling walk.
And then she began to spot them. Two women three
benches away from Zina. They chatted, but their eyes
never left the Turkish reporter. A man directly behind
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her, lounging against a tree. It would seem that he was
reading a newspaper, but his eyes constantly lifted to
scan the crowd flowing into the square from the
boulevard.
Dasha stopped at a zakuski cart. One eye surveyed the
tidbits of herring, pickles, and cold meats under the
glass. The other checked beyond the trees to the traffic
lanes.
It didn't take long to spot them: two black Ziv
limousines, one on the north, the other on the south.
Their drivers lounged against the front fenders, but
there were two men in the back seats of both cars.
The neighbors. The KGB. And there was little doubt
that they were watching Zina Talinka.
Dasha pointed to some red salmon caviar. The vendor
spread a liberal portion of it on a slab of black bread
and handed it over. She fumbled in the pocket of her
coat until she found the correct amount and dropped
the coins into the vendor's hand.
Over the bread she looked at Zina. Their eyes met,
spoke, and then the woman bolted.
She ran across the square away from Dasha and
darted into the trees.
It was no match. She had barely covered a half block
when two of the dark-coated men brought her to the
ground. She struggled like a wildcat, clawing, biting,
kicking.
Dasha held her ground, forcing herself to stay calm
and eat her caviar and black bread as the woman's
curses in Turkish and English reached her ears.
The crowd in the square did the same. They all looked
over in curiosity at the two men struggling with the
woman, and thén quickly turned away.
It was unwise to be too curious about the neighbors'
business.
At last one of the men struck Zina in frustration. It
was a smashing blow with the side of his hand to the
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back of the neck. She wilted, and the two men carried
her to one of the waiting Zivs.
Seemingly unconcerned, Dasha Koneva moved to a
nearby bench and sat between two old women. They
had been talking about the latest shortages. The conver-
sation halted abruptly but continued again when the
newcomer joined in with an agreement that it was
criminal the way old people were made to stand in line
for everyday goods.
The limousines had both gone, but two men and two
men had remained, scanning the crowd.
over an hour before Dasha thought it safe to
leave. She walked with her usual steady, sure stride back
to her apartment on Maxim Gorky Embankment.
But inside her heart was pounding and her stomach
churning.
It was obvious what Zina Talinka had done. She had
waited until Dasha had arrived before showing her hand
and bolting. It was the woman's way of telling her con-
tact and friend that it was all over.
She had tried to salvage their net right up to the final
moment. Chances were good that she had not even used
her own method of emergency escape; she had wanted
to make absolutely •ertain that indeed she had been
blown and to warn Dasha.
Also, the woman had chosen Sunday for the meeting.
That meant that the embassy woman would be in Gorky
Park.
Dasha closed her eyes against the vivid, terrifying
images that raced across her brain. They would torture
her, of course. How long would she hold out? And if
she did hold out against brutality on her body, then they
would use drugs. Then there would be no holding out.
In her apartment, Dasha took no time for tears. She
stripped quickly to the skin and then began dressing
again in layers. First she donned a drab, one-color
ensemble of peasant clothing, and over that another.
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Then she re-dressed in her own expensive clothes and
fur coat. Outside, no one would look twice; in Russia,
in winter, everyone looked bulky and bundled up.
This outside layer would be shed by morning.
From behind a section of her bedroom baseboard, she
removed the documents of Gena Anatoleyevna Log.
inova. Loginova had been a peasant woman about
Dashats age from the river town of Toljatti, near
Kuybyshev. She had died in a farming accident two
years earlier, but Dasha had erased that fact from her
record. Since then, almost monthly, Dasha had placed
an item in the worker's file—and in the KGB file—on
Gena Loginova.
In short, Dasha had kept the woman alive.
The papers included an identity card complete with
Dashafs picture, birth certificate, and working card,
along with three filled-out traveling permits with only
the dates blank.
Now she filled the current date on one of those cards
and put everything in her purse.
From a drawer in her desk she removed four small
boxes of Grimickya chocolates. One of them had been
slightly creased with a fingernail.
Inside that box was the microfilm with the message
she had prepared so long ago and hoped that she would
never use.
To: Keepers
From: Weathervane
Re: The Trip
Sunday has come.' The pasha's pride is lost. The
dogs are only barking but the bite should be no
more than 72 hours away.
Joining my family to avoid counting the trees.
The chocolates went into her purse and then she was
ready.
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At the door she paused, looking over the three rooms
that had been hers for nearly twenty years. By Western
standards it wasn't much. By Soviet standards it was
more than adequate for a single person.
To Dasha Peshkova Koneva it had been a palace.
The guards at the Karl Marx Square building barely
glanced at Dasha's identity cards. They knew her, and it
wasn't odd for GRU staff officers to come and go on a
Sunday.
The machinery of intelligence never stops.
In her sixth-floor office, she used first her own access
codes to get into the computer. Then she used the codes
she had stolen long ago to get into the "Most Secret"
KGB file.
In seconds she was scanning the record of Zina
Talinka.
It was neither worse nor better than she had expected:
the woman had been under close surveillance for three
months, intensive for one.
Suspicion had arisen when a recent KGB operative
planted in the offices of the Turkish news service had
lifted incriminating impressions from the second sheet
of a pad on her desk.
This brought a Svan smile to Dasha Koneva's lips.
Two and a half years ago, the American, Nick Carter,
had warned her that Zina had a difficult time memoriz-
ing unless she could do it from the written word.
Then the "current status" file came up. There was a
hastily memoed insert describing the arrest in Samo-
technaya Square. From there she had been taken di-
rectly to Lubyanka Prison.
Dasha typed until the status recommendation came
up. It originated with Aleksandr Delenin himself.
Since Zina Talinka was a foreign national and a
newswoman, it was recommended that the interrogation
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until that avenue became totally ex-
Good, Dasha thought; her guess of a possible sev-
enty-two hours of grace was probably correct.
And then she allowed a tear to roll down her cheek.
BecausesZina was Turkish, maybe it would not go too
badly for her. Maybe she would even survive and be
traded.
Maybe.
Not so for Dasha herself. If caught, she would be tor-
tured until they knew every item she had passed to the
West. Then, in the enclosed courtyard of Lubyanka, she
would be shot.
That in itself did not bother her. Knowing that they
would plug all the leaks and salvage the intelligence she
had so painstakingly passed in over two years did bother
her.
If the Americans couldn't get her out, she would take
herself out. Permanently.
Dasha brought up her own "current status" file. Into
this she entered a speaking engagement and inspection
tour for the next three days at the GRU officers training
school near Minsk.
Since she was a GRU staff officer, there would be no
need to obtain a traveling permit. Her military identity
card would suffice. Only the common people needed
traveling permits.
The last thing she took with her when she left the of-
fice was her military-issue 7.62mm Tokarev automatic
and two spare magazines.
If the peasant Gena Loginova was arrested, Dasha
Koneva had already decided that as many KGB
neighbors as possible would go with her.
She parked her Lada sedan in the visitors' area near
the lake. From there she walked on the winding paths
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through the trees to the Pushkin Skajas the broad
walkway that followed the Moscow River.
At least once a week in all seasons she had come
there, talked to the children, passed out candy, and
mingled with the crowd.
She emerged from the trees at about the center of the
huge stretch of park. As usual, the largest concentration
of children was to her right, across from St. Nicholas
Cathedral.
She turned that way, had gone only a few steps when
a snowsuited boy of about eight was tugging on her
coat.
"Madame, madame ,
"Yes, little one?"
"Did you bring chocolates today?"
Dasha smiled. ' 'Perhaps. Have you been a good stu-
dent?"
"I have, madame, I truly have." The boy nodded
vigorously. "I study hard so that one day I will grow
strong in mind and body to serve our glorious Soviet
state."
And so, even at eight or nine, she thought grimly,
they learn only too well what magic words to use for
gain.
She passed a box to the boy and patted his head. With
a hurried word of thanks, he was off to a bench where
he would devour his treasure.
Dasha continued walking. She passed two lone
women. One was knitting, the other reading. Both of
them glanced up from timeto time at a circle of children
playing tag in the snow.
Dasha paused. The woman who was reading glanced
up, frowning. The book rolled back toward her
stomach.
It was Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, and it was in the
original Russian.
Dasha nodded, gave the woman a typical Muskovite
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grimace that was supposed to pass for a smile, and
walked on.
She had no luck by the time she reached the end of the
park and the Krymskij Bridge.
It was just after four o'clock.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on Carter's
words:
. every Sunday and every Thursday ... be-
tween three and five ... "
Could she possibly have not come today? Could they
have grown lax because there had been no need for
contact in all this time?
She started back, retracing her steps between the two
rows of benches. She had gone only a short way when
she saw a woman emerge from the public rest rooms.
Her long beige leather coat was Western, perhaps
French, and expensive. On her head perched a Russian-
style hat of golden lynx fur. Her gloves were tan suede,
matching her boots and purse.
As she reached one of the benches she pulled a book
from her purse. Just before opening it, she removed her
gloves.
She crossed her legs and held the book on her knee in
such a way that anyone passing could see the dust
jacket.
Dasha only glanced once without slowing her pace.
Then she realized that she hadn't been breathing, and
found herself taking great gulps of air before she felt
faint.
Across the dark dust jacket in bold script had been
written Tolstoi, and just below it, La guerre et lapaix.
Dasha managed to maintain an air of casualness by
leaning against the bench and lighting a cigarette. Her
eyes followed the children playing in the snow, but she
managed quick glances at the woman's hands.
It seemed an eternity until the woman turned the
page.
And then Dasha saw it ... the black onyx ring.lt had
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a large diamond in the center, and it was on her right
hand.
All clear. She wasn't being watched.
But all clear for what?
There were seven small children in a circle playing
tag. Two older boys were wrestling nearby, and a boy of
about ten was throwing snowballs against a concrete
fence near the river.
Which child was hers?
Dasha strained to hear their laughing voices. They
shouted in a jumble of English, French, and Russian,
plus languages she could not pin down.
She chewed her lip and fingered the remaining boxes
of chocolates in her purse. Out of the corner of her eye
she saw the woman look up, directly at her.
"You will not pay any attention to the woman, but
you will strike up a conversation with the children. "
"Hello, you are very pretty."
She was about six years old, with a pert little face
flushed with the cold staring out from a fur-bordered
hood.
"Hello," Dasha replied in Russian, "you are very
pretty as well. What's your name?"
' 'Nina Federkaya. "
"That's a pretty name. Does Nina Federkaya like
chocolates? '
"Oh, yes."
There is a God, Dasha Peshkova thought. Child, you
are sent from heaven!
"Then this is for you."
"Thank you." A mittened hand came out from a
deep pocket and snatched the box.
"Nina e.. " a woman called from nearby.
"Da, Mama?"
"What have you there? Let me see."
The child streaked away holding the box aloft. Like a
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good mother, she inspected it. Satisfied, she nodded and
smiled at Dasha Koneva.
The woman in the beige leather coat had closed her
book and was staring at Dasha.
"George ... ohv George," she called.
"Yes, Mom?"
One of the two young wrestlers got to his feet.
"It's time we were going now."
"But, Mom--
"It's time. Come along. "
The boy turned to his playmate and, in fairly good
Russian, bid him good-bye with a hope that he would
see him again on Thursday.
Bless you, American mother, Dasha thought. for
being so bright.
As the boy passed the bench where she sat, Dasha
touched him on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," she said in English, "I couldn't help
overhearing. George, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I just want to congratulate you on your Russian. It's
quite good."
The boy flushed. "Thanks, but I'm only just starting
to learn. "
"And well you should. Perhaps by knowing each
other's language it will be easier for our two countries to
come together in peace."
"My mother says I'm not to talk politics with
strangers."
Dasha laughed. ' 'But your mother doesn't say you
cannot accept a gift, does she?"
"Well
"Good, then these are for you. Do you have a brother
or Sister?
"A sister, Anita. She couldn't come to the park to-
day. She has a cold."
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"Then give this second box to your mother to take
along home to her."
"Thank you very much."
S' That's all right. Good-bye, George."
"Good-bye. Uh, who shall I tell her gave me the
candy?"
"Just tell her ... a Russian lady,"
' 'George, come along now. "
"Coming, Mom. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
It's done, she thought, watching the two of them
leave the park, The machinery is in motion.
She drove to Minsk and checked into the Army-run
military hotel. Because of her GRU status she would not
be bothered, but, nevertheless, she left word that she
was preparing a speech and wanted no interruptions.
In the room she paused only long enough to shift
essentials to a small, cheap, used bag she had placed in
one of her larger bags.
Outside, in a darkened alley, she discarded her fur
coat and the outer layer of her clothes and tugged on a
cheap wool coat. She burned all her own identification
and discarded the expensive clothes. She knew they
would never be found by the authorities. No trash
picker in his right mind would turn in such valuable
clothing.
She walked to the train station and bought a third-
class ticket to Khar'kov.The train was scheduled to
leave in less than an hour.
In the toilet she made out another of her traveling
permits, this one allowing her to travel from Khar'kov
to Kuybyshev, and waited for the train.
It was nearly midnight when she arrived. She checked
into a workers' hostel near the station and shared a cold
room with six other women.
In the morning she discarded the second layer of
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87
clothes. Now she drew hardly any attention at all. She
was just another faceless peasant moving like a shadow
among millions of other shadows.
At six the local train departed for Kuybyshev, where
ongoing passengers would board the Trans-Siberian
Railroad. Most of those passengers would be in the
fi!it-class section. Where Dasha sat in the second-class
coach, there were working men and women, soldiers on
leave, or glassy-eyed peasants with their arms wrapped
protectively around their middle where their bottles of
cheap vodka were hidden.
The few times someone spoke to her, Dasha had little
trouble drawing on the dialect and the tonal inflections
of her youth. It was the same with the stewards and con-
ductors, who all doubled as KGB informers. With her
knit gloves on to hide her uncallosed hands, no makeup
on her face, and the threadbare quality of her clothes,
they accepted her as just another of many.
It was nearly dusk when the train pulled into
Kuybyshev at last. For the last hours, as they passed
through fertile snow-covered fields and by familiar
landmarks, Dasha had ridden with her nose pressed
against the window.
This was her Russia, the Russia she remembered as a
child. It had been her only time of innocence.
Free of the station, she walked to the familiar city. By
the time she reached the tiny village of Obersk outside
the city, it was pitch-black.
But here nothing had changed at all. The streets were
still dirt. Acrid smoke still poured from the chimneys of
the tiny, one-room mud-and-wood cottages, and every-
one still walked with his gaze to the ground.
Even drawing on all her memories, it still took an
hour to locate the right street and the right house.
It was larger than the others on Petrov Lane, two
rooms with a roof over the adjoining tool and animal
shed.
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NICK CARTER
But Ivan Ivanovitch would have a large house. He
was on the railway, a brakeman. His pay was probably
double what the other men in Obersk made.
The shutters were tightly closed, but Dasha could see
the faint, flickering light of a coal-oil lantern through
the cracks.
There was a bell by the door, but she ignored it and
rapped with her knuckles. She listened, and when there
was no sound from within she rapped again.
"Da?" a voice said from behind the door.
"Ivan Ivanovitch Tollpetzka?"
"Da ... who's there?"
$ CA friend in need. "
"All the souls in Obersk are in need. What do you
want?"
"l am a woman from Moscow."
Locks rattled and the door opened wide enough to
reveal the man with a lantern held high above his head.
"Don't you know me, Ivan Ivanovitch? You used to
chase me with your pony when we were children."
Carefully she untied the babushka from under her
chin, removed it, and shook her hair free.
A smile appeared at once on his wide face. "Dasha
. Dasha Peshkova."
"May I come in, Ivan?"
He stepped aside and she moved into the room. It was
small, with the barest of furnishings and a dirt floor.
She had lived in a cottage nearly its twin as a child.
By the time he had closed and locked the door, she
had moved to the table. When he joined her, the smile
had been replaced by a scowl.
He sat and slowly leaned toward her, his heavy brows
meeting in a vee at the bridge of his nose. The dark eyes
were alert and untrusting, and beneath his thick mus-
tache his lips were compressed in a tight line.
6 'I have heard your name many times since you went
from Obersk, Dasha Peshkova. "
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'V Yes," she nodded, "l imagine you have."
89
"They say you are powerful now, an officer in the
military ... even the GRU."
Again she nodded. "I am a lieutenant colonel in a
powerful position in Moscow."
"Then why are you in Obersk, and why are you
dressed like that?"
"Because I also have another name, Ivan Ivan-
ovitch."
"And what might that be?"
"Weathervane."
It took almost a full minute for it to sink in, but when
it did the smile returned larger than ever. From some.
where behind him he found two glasses and a bottle of
vodka.
He spoke as he poured. "l was told that they
had someone very important inside, but I never
dreamed . . e"
"Did they also tell you that one day Weathervane
might come to you?"
"They did." He raised his glass to hers. "Welcome,
Dasha Peshkova. Na zdorov'e."
"And to your health, old friend. "
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SEVEN
Carter built drinks at the bar and glanced at Ginger
Bateman's reflection in the mirror.
She stood at the window, head raised, chin lifted, lips
slightly parted. The room's soft illumination modeled
her body to perfection, highlighting the long curve of
her thighs, the full, rich swell of her hips, the exciting
line of her torso and breasts.
With her hands at her sides, one foot slightly in front
of the other, she personified woman, and classy woman
at that.
But there was a lot more to Ginger Bateman than
beauty. There were brains, responsibility, and power.
As AXE director David Hawk's right hand, Ginger
Bateman swung a lot of weight.
"Thanks for bringing everything over."
She shrugged and moved to the couch. "It's a rush.
Easier for me to drop everything off than for you to
drive to Dupont Circle."
"Everything" was airline tickets to Milan, Italy, and
a false passport and ID. The passport and fake ID were
to be used to escape the country in case the mission went
wet.
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The mission was tricky, not really in Carter's line, but
when the CIA boys had done all they could with no
results, the problem had been handed to AXE.
There were two warring factions, the Diletto and the
Marcosi families. In time, if left alone, they would
probably kill each other off. But time had run out.
The Dilettos were principal suppliers to dope pushers
who were specializing in American military bases all
over the world to sell their product.
Legal means had been employed, as well as govern-
ment pressure, to put a stop to it.
Nothing had worked.
Now State and the Pentagon wanted more extreme
measures taken.
As for Don Giovanni Marcosi, the head of the other
warring family, the same applied.
For years the Marcosis had been front brokers for
Moscow in their sale of arms to Third World countries.
They supplied the conduits for smuggling the arms to
the buyers and laundering the money on the way back to
the Soviet Union.
At first it had been small arms, ammunition, nothing
big. But in the last year the operation had grown to
dangerous proportions. Now they were dealing in tanks,
all kinds of missiles, and even heavier stuff.
Moscow-trained agitators would go into a small coun-
try, get the revolution started, and the Marcosis would
supply the hardware. Several terrorist groups also
benefited, and all without the Kremlin getting its hands
dirty.
Carter moved to the sofa and handed Ginger the
drink. Her breasts filled the front of her dress when she
leaned forward to take it.
The ice shook slightly in the glass. She looked up, saw
the path of his eyes, and smiled. 'You've got a one-
track mind, Nick."
' 'Just being a boy," he chuckled. "You have some
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93
vacation coming, don't you?" She nodded. "Why not
join me in the south of France when this is over?"
Her eyes clouded and she concentrated on her drink.
"You amaze me. "
'COh? How so?"
"You're always so sure, Nick, that when you go in
you'll always come out.
He sat beside her and brushed her neck with his lips.
"It's like being a driver at the Indy 5m. If the driver
thought he was going to smash up, he'd never go out on
the track."
"We've put a lot of pressure on them, both families."
' 'Yeah."
%'They're probably guessing that we'll be sending
someone."
"Maybe," Carter said. "But I've handled a lot worse
than a bunch of hoods. What time is my plane?"
"Midnight. i'
Carter checked his watch. ' 'It's only seven. How
about dinner with the condemned man?"
She whirled, nearly spilling her drink. "Don't say
that! Don't ever say that, Nick!"
"Ah, the lady cares."
"Of course I care .. e"
He silenced her with his lips. It was a warm kiss, gen-
tle, with feeling.
"Dinner?"
' 'Of course, " she said with a smile. "And since you'll
be heading for the airport afterward, I should be safe
with no rules broken. "
"You, Bateman, are a cruel woman."
The warmth between them was real and solid as they
walked down the front stairs of his restored Georgetown
town house to get his car. He kept his new BMW in a
private garage down the street.
He hit the key and the automatic door opener at the
same time. By the time the door was up, Carter had
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replaced the electronic gadget above the visor and was
backing out.
Years of living on the edge, of accepting the warning
of his instincts, told him. But even then he was a split
second too late.
The BMW was half out the door when a large black
four-door rocked to a halt directly behind it, handily
blocking the driveway.
The Killmaster saw the blur of the driver rolling out
of the sedan as he pushed the gear lever forward and
jammed the accelerator.
The tires screeched and the German car lurched for-
ward.
'SNick, what the hell!" Ginger screamed.
The rest of her words were lost in the crunch of the
car against the rear wall of the garage.
"Out!" Carter yelled. "Get through that side door
over there!
Bateman was trained, not like Carter, but she had
been in the field. She rolled out of the car and hit the ce-
ment in a running crawl.
Carter did the same on the other side, clawing
Wilhelmina from his shoulder riS and thumbing the
safety off.
All hell was breaking loose.
The sedan's driver was draped over the hood, firing in
Carter's direction. The Killmaster got off one shot the
instant he hit the concrete. It screamed wildly off the
hood but made the man duck.
Carter was rolling to get closer to the big car's side
and out of the driver's line of fire, when he heard
shouting to his left, behind some crates just outside the
garage.
"Mimo, there are two of them! A woman!"
Italian.
Carter lay on his back and saw the second shooter. He
was leveling and firing. He got off three shots in
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Bateman's direction before Carter got the Luger up.
The Killmaster got off three that landed in a close pat-
tern on the man's chest.
"Basta!" he bellowed, and whirled toward Carter, a
big .45 in both his hands.
Carter took a millisecond to sight in, and fired. The
slug caught the second shooter dead center in the face,
sending him reeling over the shrubs, spurting blood.
Out of the corner of his eye, Carter could see the first
shooter rolling toward the front of the car. He had
discarded the handgun and was wielding a double-
barreled sawed-off shotgun.
Carter could see the man's intent. He was going to
come around the front fender and fire on the way up.
With the scatter-gun he couldn't miss.
Just as the man came up on one knee, Carter stood,
giving him a perfect target. At the same time, he shifted
the Ituger to his left hand and punched the wall button
with his right.
It was a calculated risk, but the only choice he had.
And it worked.
The sound and motion of the door distracted the
man's attention. The scatter-gun wavered and Carter
dropped to his belly, firing.
The sharp, popping sound of the Luger was lost in the
explosion of the shotgun's twin barrels. But the 9mm
slugs found their target. The scatter shot hit the rear
window and trunk of the BMW.
Carter got to his feet and staggered forward. The
reverberation was ringing in his head, making him
dizzy.
One look told him that he had scored with all four
bullets left in the clip ... one in the gut, two dead center
in the chest, and the fourth had torn off half the man's
head.
Then, through the bells and fog in his head, he heard
a voice Ginger's voice.
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NICK CARTER
"Nick ... Nick, are you all right?"
"Yeah," he answered, and hit the light switch.
"Nicki I . I'm hit."
He rolled around the car and dropped to his knee
beside her. She was sitting, her back against the inner
door. Her eyes were closed and her head was lolling.
"Where, baby?"
maybe my legs . feels funny
"Arm . . . Side
down there ..
Gently, Carter opened the long coat she was wearing.
"Shit ..
Carter crumpled the empty pack and dropped it
carelessly on the floor. He fumbled change from his
pocket and barely managed to find the slot in the
cigarette machine with his shaky fingers.
He had the same trouble getting the pack open and a
fresh butt to his lips.
The clock read nine-thirty. She had been in surgery
for over an hour.
He had just managed to find the end of the cigarette
with his lighter when David Hawk burst into the waiting
room with another man in tow.
"How is she?"
"Don't know," Carter replied. "She took three
slugs. I don't know exactly where. They were working
on her all the way here in the ambulance. She's in
surgery now. Doc's name is Harris. He says the vital
signs are good. "
"She's a hell of a lady," Hawk growled. "The
bastards!" He dropped his stocky frame onto a vinyl-
upholstered couch and waved his free hand toward the
man who had followed him into the room. "Larry
Peterson, FBI. "
"Nick."
Carter shook the man's extended hand. He was tall
and wiry, with sharp eyes and a small mustache that
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managed to add years to a boyish face.
"What have you got?" Carter asked.
97
All business, Peterson flipped open a notebook and
dropped his voice into a cop's monotone.
' 'Both automatics were old Army-issue Colt forty-
fives. They were stolen about six months ago from a
shipment bound for the smelter. The shotgun was pro-
fessionally doctored. It was stolen from a hardware
store in Dover, Delaware, about three weeks ago. The
Lincoln Town Car was lifted last night from an under-
ground garage in Richmond. "
"Figures," Carter growled. "What about the
sh ooters?
Peterson managed a tight-lipped smile. "There, with
the help of Interpol, we had a little better luck. Both of
them are soldiers in Diletto's mob."
"Out of Italy?" Carter said in disbelief.
"Napoli, to be exact. They came in with phony
passports about a week ago. Names are Mimo Bocetti
and Carmine Diletto. You're lucky, Nick. They're both
aces. Carmine is the old Don's nephew. He only gets the
big jobs. "
"He isn't lucky," Hawk snapped, "he's good."
' 'Yeah," Carter said, his mouth dry. "But not good
enough."
"We've got a blanket out," Peterson said, "in case
there's a backup. But that's not likely. These boys work
alone."
Carter turned to David Hawk. 'Cl'll take the morning
Concorde to Paris and connect to Milan. l'
"Sorry, Nick. "
"Sorry? Hell, I've got even more reason to burn their
butts now!"
Hawk mashed out the remnants of his cigar and
hauled himself to his feet. ' 'Maybe so, but something a
lot bigger has come up. They'll wait. "
Carter moved in close to his superior and lowered his
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NICK CARTER
voice. "We've known her, you and I, fifteen years.
Nothing can be more important."
"There is, Nick, believe me," Hawk said, then
jammed a fresh cigar between his lips. "Let's take a
walk. Excuse us, Peterson?"
"Sure thing. "
Hawk was silent until they were in the hospital park-
ing lot.
"Weathervane's blown."
"Dasha Koneva?"
"That's right. This came over the scrambler about an
hour ago. "
As Carter read, he put the•real meanings to the coded
phrases before him.
The trip: She was blown and on the run.
Sunday has come: Contact has been made with the
embassy.
The pasha's pride is lost: Zina Talinda has been ar-
rested.
The dogs are only barking: As yet, KGB and GRU of-
ficials didn't know Dasha's identity.
The bite should be no more than 72 hours away: She
was guessing three days before they uncovered her and
started searching in earnest.
Joining my family: She went to Kuybyshev.
A void counting the trees.
The last phrase brought a sad smile to Carter's lips. It
was an old peasant expression dating back to czarist
times. It meant one was on his or her way to Siberia.
"Three days," Hawk said, "before they nail her
down. After that, maybe three more before they turn
the country upside down and find her. "
"Not much time," Carter hissed. "Certainly not
enough to use the regular routes of escape."
' 'That's right," Hawk said, worrying the hell out of
his cigar. "But I want her out. For lots of reasons."
"Such
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"She's probably got tons in her head that she hasn't
passed us. The KGB would love to get her so they could
find out just what she has passed. And, lastly, she's one
of us now, Nick. I'd like the word to get around that we
take care of our own."
"Five or six days? That's one hell of a tall order."
"I know, but I've already done some hard thinking.
Remember Lev Sabat? "
"Of course," Carter said with a nod.
"His escape was pretty spectacular. He never revealed
the route or the way he did it. I'm wondering just how
many close friends Sabat still has in the Soviet Union,
and if he could duplicate that escape. "
"In other words," Carter said, "if we could get in,
Sabat could get us out. "
"That's it," Hawk said. "Of course, I haven't come
up with a way to get the two of you in yet."
"And that's if Sabat would even agree to go."
"Nick. .t'
. It was the FBI agent, Peterson, standing
in the open door of the emergency entrance.
"Yeah?" Carter said quickly, his breath catching
oddly in his throat.
"She's out of surgery. The doctor wants to talk to
you both. "
Dr. Harris was a tall, physically youthful man with
age in his eyes and maturity in his bearded face.
"Mr. Carter . . .
Mr. Hawk. I understand you're
close to the patient."
Hawk nodded.
"Very close," Carter murmured.
"Please sit down."
His voice was noncommittal and his eyes said
nothing. The hand motioning them to the couch was
casual. Carter found himself searching the man's green
surgical gown for blood.
There wasn't any.
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For some inane reason, it made him feel better.
"Miss Bateman was hit three times. One bullet passed
through the fatty part of her thigh. She'll have a scar
and be on crutches for a while from that. The second
bullet creased her left forearm and side. Once again,
nasty scars but nothing irreparable."
"And the third?" Carter asked, not liking the frown
that had suddenly appeared on the doctor's face.
"The bullet entered here, and just missed the upper
. the shoulder blade. That's
portion of the scapula .
why it took so much time in surgery. She came through
it fine."
"How fine?" Carter asked.
"Barring any postoperative complications, I'd say
she'll be out of here in a week or so. Miss Bateman is in
excellent health. She should recover quickly."
"When can we see her?" Hawk asked.
"Probably not for a couple of hours. She's still
sedated and in the recovery room. We'll want to keep
checking when she becomes conscious, and then move
her to a bed."
Carter and Hawk exchanged looks of relief. Suddenly
the situation became awkward. The doctor broke in.
"I've got to get back to work," he said, moving to the
door. "If you need any more information or help, you
can contact the duty nurse at Station A. That's the desk
down the hall on your left."
"Dr. Harris e"
"Thanks, " Carter said.
The man shrugged. "It's my job."
When the door closed behind the doctor, Carter
turned to Hawk. "Let's find a bar. I think I've got an
idea. "
Carter ordered a second drink. When it came he
leaned back and studied Hawk's face, trying to sense
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101
some reaction to the proposal he had spent the last half
hour spelling out.
"lt might work," the head of AXE muttered at last.
"It will work," Carter said. ' 'Marcosi has contacts in
Russia and all the Eastern-block countries. He could get
Sabat and myself in on an arms buying and inspection
tour without batting an eye."
Hawk smiled. "And God knows, what you're offer-
ing him in return would certainly appeal to him."
"That's right. I get Diletto off his back. Then, when
this is over, I drop the bomb that he helped us get
Weathervane out, and both families are out of busi-
ness."
"And we have Weathervane. "
"It'll work. I'll make it work."
Hawk closed his eyes in concentration. Carter felt his
body tense, willing an affirmative answer from the other
man.
"So all you need is Sabat's answer."
"I can be in Istanbul by tomorrow afternoon. "
Hawk lifted his glass to his lips. In one long and
steady swallow he drained it.
"Okay, Nick, it's a go. Only the same rules apply. No
one in our government is to be involved."
"I'll make it strictly gangland style."
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EIGHT
The street had not changed, and neither had the
habits of Lev Sabat. The old man arrived at the same
restaurant at the same evening hour as he had for years.
He had been seated for only a few minutes, just time
to order his first vodka, when he spotted Carter a few
tables away.
His mouth fell. open in surprise but quickly closed
when he saw a barely perceptible nod from the Ameri-
can agent.
They both dined without looking at each other again.
Carter was the first to leave. He waited in the shadows
of a doorway a block away.
When Sabat passed, Carter fell in step beside him.
"You're looking well. "
"As well as can be expected for an old man," Sabat
said and chuckled. "Have you come to save my wrin-
kled old skin again?"
' 'Actually, no. I've come to ask a favor."
"Anything."
"The woman who tipped me the first time, three
years ago, is being hunted by the KGB."
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'"In Russia. I want to go in and get her before they
find her. "
Sabat emitted a growling laugh and came to a halt
facing Carter. "You are indeed a man who loves the im-
possible, aren't you?"
"l don't think it's so impossible. I have a way of get-
ting us in. Can you and your friends get us out?"
• Sabat took a pipe from his pocket and packed it as he
walked on. When smoke was billowing about his head,
he spoke again.
"Surely you must have escape routes, an organization
of your size ."
"We do," Carter replied/ "But none that can be ac-
tivated on such short notice. "
' 'How short?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Good God, that's—
i' We have only five days ... six at the most."
"Where is she?"
"In Kuybyshev, with someone we can trust. But
they'll be looking for her soon."
"Yes, and even as big as Russia is, they will find her.
might be able to activate my routes. Can you put a
message on Voice of America for me?"
"Sabat, 1 can give you anything yoöwant. Will you
Again the man stopped. His eyes, when they met Car-
ter's, were twinkling.
"It would be a joy to tweak their noses on home
ground."
Carter sighed with relief. "Here is a passport and
identity papers. Also an airline ticket. The plane leaves
tomorrow at noon. "
"Ah, Rome?"
"Yes."
Sabat chuckled as he scanned the papers. "Antonio
Garpesi? I am an Italian?"
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"That's how we're getting in," Carter replied.
105
Don Giovanni Marcosi burped and made a wry face
in the bathroom mirror. He swished with an American
mouthwash to rid his mouth of the bitter taste of all the
medications, bromides, and pills he had just consumed.
It was a nightly ritual, just as seeing his doctor was a
twice-weekly ritual. It was all done to keep Don Marcosi
alive as long as possible.
Again he looked in the mirror and sighed, running his
hands over his bulging belly.
"Too much pasta, too much wine, too much work,
too much everything! Giovanni, you're an asshole!"
And then he smiled.
"But you're a rich asshole."
Then he frowned.
"But for how long?"
Don Giovanni Marcosi was fifty-eight years old,
young by modern standards. But he was dying and his
enemies had guessed it.
Don Carlo Diletto wanted the Marcosi rackets. To get
them he had revived an old family vendetta between the
Marcosis and the Dilettos. For a year, they had been
killing each other off systematically. Now, as Don Gio-
vanni Marcosi was dying, he was also losing. And he
was worried. Not for himself, but for his two daughters.
They were spoiled brats, but they were all Marcosi
had in the world. If the feud wasn't settled before his
death, the daughters would have nothing.
Marcosi knew his daughters. They were little better
than beautiful, high-class whores.
' 'Mamma mia," he mumbled, "what will they do if
they don't have my money to live on?"
He padded into the cavernous bedroom. Pausing at a
large bureau, he kissed his dead wife's picture and made
the sign of the cross before a small statue of the Virgin.
Then he looked up.
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"Holy Mother, give me the means and the strength to
strike down that son of a bitch Carlo Diletto and his
brothers. Forgive me!"
He dimmed the lights until the room was barely il-
luminated by a pale glow that emanated from concealed
bulbs in the ceiling.
He dialed the bedside phone. It rang in the gatehouse.
It would also be picked up on the main floor by one of
the five guards who would patrol all night.
"Bed now."
"Si. Sleep well, Don Giovanni."
' 'Grazie."
He replaced the receiver and rolled beneath the
covers. As the sleeping pill he had taken began to take
effect, he heard a rustling at the window, a parting of
the drapes.
The wind, he thought.
But then he remembered that he had closed the wine
dows.
"Don Giovanni Marcosi?t'
He sat bolt upright. The figure was tall, the face in
shadows. The Italian was perfect, the accent Sicilian.
"What the hell 2"
"Don't, Don Giovanni. If that's a gun you reach for,
I will kill you before you have the safety off."
A black-gloved hand emerged from the drapes. The
steel of a stiletto's blade gleamed in the pale light.
Marcosi sweated. As a young man he had been
fearless. He had made his first bones when he was only
thirteen. One had to be fearless to become a Don.
Now he was old and, like all old men facing death, he
was afraid.
"Who are you? How the hell did you ..
"Never mind who I am, Don Giovanni. I am a man
who can do you a great service. I came to make you an
offer."
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Suddenly an envelope swirled through the air and
landed in Marcosi's lap.
"In there are two names, descriptions, everything you
need to contact your Russian friends."
' 'Russian friends? You're crazy .
know you send buyers into Russia and Czech-
oslovakia. I don't want bullshit; I want you to listen.
My friend and I want to fly into Prague tomorrow after-
noon. You will have the path paved and the necessary
visas ready. "
"And what will you do for this?"
"l will give you peace, Don Giovanni."
The pace of Marcosi's heart slowed slightly. This kind
of language he understood.
"Diletto?"
Marcosi laughed. "You have a better army than I?
.. More soldiers? More skilled? Bullshit!"
"Don Giovanni, I got in here, didn't I?"
The heart picked back up and he felt sweat run down
his back into the crack between his naked buttocks.
"Why are you helping me," he stammered, "and not
Diletto?"
"Simple. You have the contacts I need; Diletto
doesn't. Besides, why should Carlo Diietto help me? He
is winning anyway. Personally, I don't care either way.
Both you and Diletto are scum. I don't have to kill you;
you 're already dying. "
The man's words stirred some remnant of Marcosi's
youth. No man alive dared call Don Giovanni Marcosi
scum.
His right hand whipped again toward the bedside
stand. The black-gloved hand came up and the stiletto
thudded into the front of the drawer between Marcosi's
fingers.
"Jesus Christ. "
A sickening odor assailed Marcosi's nostrils, bringing
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on nausea. He didn't have to lift the covers. He knew he
had fouled himself.
"Turn over and put your face in the pillow."
Marcosi did as he was told. One by one, he identified
sounds: footsteps, stiletto pulled from the drawer,
phone line cut.
"I'm leaving now. The instructions and buy-list are in
that envelope. Because of what we need we will have to
go to the factory and testing grounds near Sverdlovsk.
Arrange it. "
"How do I know you will carry out your part of the
bargain?
A deathly chuckle wheezed near his ear. "You will
read it in the morning papers, Don Giovanni. I deliver
very promptly, and I want you to do the same. Have one
of your men deliver the papers I need to the newspaper
kiosk near the front of the opera house tomorrow by
noon. Have him browse the top copy of Italia and slip
them inside. Understood?"
"Understood." Now Marcosi was smiling.
' 'And if they are not there, I'll be back, Don Gio-
vanni. And I'll enter your bedroom the same way I did
tonight."
The smile slipped from the man's face and he felt a
cold sweat cover his whole body.
Don Carlo Diletto dried his body and gazed through
the open door at Sophia's nude body on the bed. She
hadn't moved since they had finished.
He chuckled silently to himself. Perversity was indeed
his middle name. What would the three important men
from New York say if they knew they had been kept
waiting two hours because he, Carlo Dilettot had gotten
a sudden urge to stop by and taste the sweetness of his
mistress's body?
No matter if they did know. He would be the power
soon, and the New York families had realized it. Why
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else had they decided to meet with him instead of the old
fool, Marcosi?
"Sophia?"
He snapped his fingers. "My clothes."
Like a puppy she jumped from the bed, gathered his
clothes, and scurried into the dressing room.
"Grazie. "
She kissed him lightly and returned to the bed. He
watched her. She had a marvelous, tight-buttocked ass
that rippled with each step rather than jiggled. She kept
her body tuned like the engine of an expensive sports
car: always willing, always ready, always able to drive
his body to exalted heights of erotic glee.
She'd better take care of her body, Diletto thought,
because it was all she had. Sophia was the dumbest
woman Carlo Diletco had ever met.
"You are very late." She was back, at his elbow,
reaching to straighten his tie.
"Sl, cata. I know."
"This meeting . . . with the Americans . .
"Si?" Diletto knew exactly what she was leading up
to.
"It will make you lots of money?"
"Lots."
"Enough for a red Ferrari?"
He laughed aloud. "Doesn't your husband ever ques-
tion youabout the expensive toys I give you?"
"Pietro?" She shrugged. "Who cares?"
And if he did care, what could he do about it? the
Don thought. Pietro had a soft, cushy job in Diletto's
organization. He was nearly as stupid as his wife. Pietro
only kept his job because Diletto enjoyed screwing his
wife.
She was tall, but her dark head barely came to Dilet-
to's shoulder. Behind her he surveyed himself in the
mirror. He looked good in custom-tailored English
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suits. They sat well on his imposing frame. Far from his
lean, hungry days as a skinny urchin in Sicily, he was
now a big man. But at fifty, there was not an ounce of
fat on him.
"Sophia?"
Her head lifted and her dark, deep-set eyes radiated
adoration. But was that love? Of course not. He didn't
need love, he needed passion. And Sophia was enough
passion for ten men.
Did she feel passion for her husband?
"Pietro • • e"
"Is he a good lover?"
There was only a moment's hesitation. "He is longer,
but you are fatter."
So much for Sophia's philosophy of love. But then,
Diletto thought, it was a stupid question.
"I'll go now." She nodded and he walked majestic-
ally toward the door.
"Tomorrow night?"
"No, I must spend an evening with my wife. Ciao."
"Ciao."
Diletto exited the apartment and immediately cursed
his brother for not being on watch in the hall.
But then, there was little danger. Don Giovanni Mar-
cosi was a defeated, broken man.
He whistled his way into the elevator and all the way
down to the basement garage.
"Damn." He growled when the elevator doors
opened and he saw their four heads in the limousine.
Preparing a verbal blast in his mind, Diletto walked
rapidly to the car and yanked open the driver's side
door. His brother Sergio tumbled from the seat. His
head made a dull, thudding sound when it struck the ce-
ment.
Diletto had seen enough corpses, made enough of
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them himself, to know death when he saw it. Indeed, he
could even smell it.
"Jesus... all four ."
"Don Carlo Diletto. "
He whirled, his hand sliding under his coat . . . to
nothing. Diletto had quit carrying a piece years before.
That's what his brothers were for.
But his brothers were all dead.
The stiletto went in between the fifth and sixth ribs on
his left side. Don Carlo Diletto was dead the instant its
point found his heart.
The assassin removed the blade, wiped it clean on Di-
letto's five-hundred-dollar Savile Row suit, and moved
quickly toward the garage exit.
He didn't see the white face and the wide, staring eyes
of a young girl three cars away from Don Carlo Dilet-
to's limousine.
He would never know that two hours later the girl
would give an accurate description of all she had seen.
There was no reason to fear, however, because her de-
scription of him would fit many darkly handsome, mus-
tachioed Italian men.
Also, weeks later, the detective in charge of the in-
vestigation threw his hands in the air in frustration.
"File the description with Interpol and forget it. The
bastard did us a favor anyhow. Five dead Dilettos make
less work;"
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NINE
The intelligence on Don Giovanni Marcosi's dealings
with Soviet and Eastern-bloc arms factories was even
better than Carter had hoped. The man had clout.
Their interim visas and transient travel permits were
barely checked by Czech Ruzyne Airport.
Other tourists endured as much as an hour's wait as
their bags were slowly and meticulously gone through.
Carter and Sabat passed through the luggage inspec-
tion in minutes. Their bags were snatched at once by a
young, officious-looking, dark-suited man.
"Antonio Carpesi and Rico Andelli?"
'SDa, " Carter replied in Russian, "I am Rico Andelli.
Signore Carpesi speaks no Russian."
They had agreed on the plane that Carter would do all
the talking. No matter how Lev Sabat tried, he could
not disguise the fact that his Russian was more native
than learned.
'KA welcome relief," the dark-suited man said. "My
Italian is very bad. I am Oleg Sykaya. I will be your
driver. This way, please."
Carter and Sabat fell in step behind him.
Oleg Sykaya looked like he belonged on the Russian
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Olympic tractor-driving team. Beneath the thick, sandy-
colored hair, his face was blocky and square, with a
stubby nose, a muscle-bunched jaw, and a broad,
freckled forehead. Except for the bright, intelligent eyes
and the quick smile, it could have been a field hand's
face, with its tanned features, its tousled, sun-bleached
hair, and its air of elemental vitality and good health.
Carter thought it a shame that Oleg Sykaya would be
dead in twenty-four hours.
The car was a large black Ziv with official Russian
plates.
Once again, Carter felt relief. Marcosi had followed
his instructions to the letter.
Because they would have no business in Moscow,
there would be no need to take an Aeroflot flight from
Prague to the Russian capital. A car and driver would
be much more convenient for their needs.
Driving skillfully through the streets of Prague, the
young man did his best to pump them. Carter countered
his questions with questions.
'"You know the area around Pregov?"
"0h, yes, quite well. "
"Good. And the Sverdlovsk area, once we cross the
"Equally as well," Sykaya replied. "l was born at
Serov. There is really no need to stop at the Czech fac-
tory in PreSov. Our Russian small arms are far superior
to the Czechs'. I think you can get everything you need
at Sverdlovsk."
"We will see," Carter said with a smile.
How interesting, he thought. Deep down, there was
still competition. The Russians would love to outbid
their Czech neighbors for a large arms order.
Their first stop was the KGB offices in Prague on the
Stepanska. The rezident was Yuri Feodor Guskov, and
he was no young and eager Oleg Sykaya.
The eyes were like dark X-ray buttons, cruel and alert
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as he introduced himself and brusquely waved them to
chairs.
"This is most unusual. "
"Our needs are most unusual," Carter replied, light-
ing a cigarette and letting the smoke drift arrogantly
from his nostrils.
"You wish five-day travel permits in the Soviet
"That is correct."
"You should need only two days to inspect the new
Sindor missiles at Sverdlovsk."
"That's true, but we must stop at PreSov for tonight
and part of tomorrow. Also, after Sverdlovsk we would
like some time to holiday in Moscow. My friend Carpesi-
has never visited your glorious Russian capital."
"I see," Guskov said dryly. "As you know, foreign
travelers in the Soviet Union are required to remain on
the Intourist routes and must keep to a strict itinerary.
Carter leaned forward. The smile on his face was as
humorless as the other man's frown.
"Comrade Guskov, I'm sure my buyers wouldn't
mind if I didn't even enter the Soviet Union. I'm sure
that I can make all my purchases right here in Czech-
oslovakia."
There was a good deal of blustering and veiled insults,
but a half hour later they were on their way to Preäov.
Aleksandr Delenin popped an antacid pill into his
mouth—the tenth of the day—and belched. He was
fifty-two years old and he couldn't remember when he
hadn't suffered from stomach trouble.
' 'We cannot wait too much longer to give an explana-
tion to the Turks," he said, scowling at his aide, Piotr
Illyich Nikolsky.
"The woman, Zina Talkina, does not respond to mild
torture. You, yourself, Comrade Colonel, have told us
to go no more harshly without your direct order. "
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"I know, I know," Delenin grunted, hauling himself
to his feet and turning to the window that overlooked
the Lubyanka courtyard.
Why had such a perplexing problem been dumped on
him now? In a few months he would have the promo-
tion that would give him early retirement. Why had such
a high-level spy been detected now?
Damn.
The Talinka woman had obviously been a courier for
nearly two years. Why couldn't the dumb bitch.have
been more careful and not gotten caught for at least
another year?
"How much longer, Comrade Colonel, before you
must inform the Turks of her whereabouts? "
"Two days, three at the most."
"And you have no leads on the spy? "
"Only that he must be highly placed. Of course,
neither the KGB nor the GRU will let me examine their
high-level personnel files to see who has access to what.
Neither of them wants to admit that they may have such
a spy in their midst!"
"Of course."
Aleksandr Delenin turned back to his desk. As he did
so, he caught his reflection in a small wall mirror.
He was big, like a Siberian polar bear whose habitat
was the frozen, icy wasteland. The bear and Delenin had
both been bred in the same place.
He saw his own quick, restless eyes and the tight de-
cisiveness around the mouth and nostrils. The eyes were
red from lack of sleep. The lines seemed to deepen with
each passing hour.
He sighed and slumped into his chair. "I am fifty-
two, Piotr Illyich, and I look and feel seventy."
"It is a very trying case, Comrade Colonel."
"It is that. If we use drugs, we dare not give her back
to the Turks."
"No. She must have an accident."
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Delenin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Be.
hind his eyelids he saw the woman's face and her full,
mature figure. She was beautiful.
But then, all life must eventually end.
"Use the drugs."
"It is best, Comrade Colonel."
"Yes. I suppose it is."
It was evening when they reached PreSov and checked
into a VIP hostel. An hour later Carter joined Oleg
Sykaya for the evening meal.
"Your friend ?"
' 'Not feeling well. He gets carsick easily. I've had
something sent up to his room."
They ordered cabbage soup and beef stroganoff with
fried potatoes.
CSThe Czechs try," Sykaya said, "but they are bar-
barians over a stove.
Carter agreed.
The service, typically, was at a snail's pace. This
suited Carter to a T. They had several shots of vodka
before the meal ever arrived. When it did, it was washed
down with more vodka. When it ended, Carter ordered
a full bottle brought to the table.
No Russian will turn down a good toast or turn away
from a bout of good-natured drinking. Oleg Sykaya was
a true Russian. An accordionist in a corner of the room
aided the effort.
"To Russia."
"To the motherland," Carter toasted, and took the
potent vodka in one swallow.
4 'Narod Russkaya!"
"To the Russian folk."
"Tell me, my friend," Sykaya slurred, ' 'IS Rome as
decadent as I have heard?"
"Probably even more so," Carter said and chuckled.
"Its streets are paved with willing prostitutes. Crime
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and pornography are rampant .. w"
Carter wern on and on. And as he told tales of sexual
perversion and degradation in the West, he kept pour-
ing.
Oleg Sykaya drank in every word Carter said, and
drank up every shot he poured.
By the time they stumbled up to their respective
rooms, Carter was sure the Russian was in no shape to
make a bed check on Sabat.
Lev Sabat, in a floppy hat, a shapeless coat, and a
rumpled suit, fit in easily with the local population as he
made his way through the old, narrow streets of PreSov.
Twice he lost his way and had to backtrack. Finally he
found the landmark ruins of the old Greek cathedral.
One block beyond he found the café.
Even coming from the darkness Outside, Sabat had to
pause in the doorway to let his eyes become accustomed
to the smoky gloom of the café.
Then he saw him sitting at a table in the farthest
corner. He was dressed in workman's clothing—a blue
shirt, heavy denim trousers, and a heavy, fur-collared
jacket.
How like his father he looks, Sabat thought as he
moved directly to the table and sat down.
"Sdrawstwuktjo, Yurlie Timofey."
"Hello to you, Levshenya. It has been many years."
' 'So many that I was afraid you had stopped monitor-
ing for the emergency signal."
"NO, never, old friend of my father. There are many
who use it. "
"l got word of your father's death. I mourned."
The younger man shrugged. "Russian winters are
hard. My father lived seventy-one of them. That is
probably many more than shall survive."
Two glasses had been sitting with a bottle on the
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table. Yurlie Timofey poured, then pushed one toward
the other man.
"Na zdorov'e."
"Na zdorov'e."
They drank, wiped the backs of their hands across
their lips, and leaned their heads closer together.
"You had no trouble crossing the frontier?" Sabat
asked.
"None. I bring bricks and lumber here once a
month."
Sabat nodded. "That is why I asked for you. That,
and your youth. "
"Tell me, what could be so grave to risk your neck
back in the motherland?"
Sabat poured the glasses full again and pitched his
voice to a low, compelling tone. He gave the son of his
old friend every detail of their mission and his plan to
carry it out.
By the time he finished, Yurlie Timofey was shaking
his head and his dark eyes were wide.
"l admire your courage, but I think you and this
American are mad."
Sabat smiled. ' 'Your father and I did far crazier
things in the past. Did you bring a photograph of your-
self? ,
"1 did."
"Good." Sabat seemed to squeeze the other man's
hand. "Here is a KGB identity card in your name. It will
agree with the rest of your own papers. Can you have it
laminated?"
"It should be noproblem. "
"Good. Now, about the other?"
' 'I have a relief driver we can trust. He can take our
truck back."
' 'And can your wife cover for you that long? Three,
perhaps four days?"
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"l would think so. I am so long on the road as it is.
Where will you be going over the frontier?"
"At Chop," Sabat replied. "We are due at the muni-
tions factory outside Presov at nine tomorrow morning.
We should cross the frontier before noon."
"Then you should reach Saratov on the Volga tomor-
row night."
"It's almost seven hundred kilometers ... I'd say by
nine o'clock if we have no trouble.
"That would be perfect. There is a village about ten
kilometers this side of Saratov called Ivanobach."
it on the main road?" Sabat asked.
"Yes. Just before you reach the village, about a kilo-
meter, there is a cement factory on your right. Can you
get your driver to pull in behind that factory?"
Sabat smiled. "I can already feel the need of a piss
coming on. "
"Good. With a KGB car we can drive on into Kuyby-
Shev the same night. "
"I 'feel like a youth again,
Sabat raised his glass.
Yurlie Timofey."
They drank.
"Tell me, Levshenya, after all this time, don't you
miss your homeland?"
There were tears in Lev Sabat's eyes as he nodded.
' 'God, yes, son of my old friend. Why do you think I've
chosen to come back to die?"
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TEN
The flash was so vivid that after it the interior of the
cottage seemed like a cavern. It was quickly followed by
a crash of thunder directly overhead.
' 'That will have struck somewhere," Dasha said
aloud, and threw another small log on the fire. Even
though the cottage was warm she had not been able to
take the chill from her body all morning.
Spending a sleepless night had not helped. She had
been unable to shut her mind off. Questions had
plagued her brain for which there was no way to secure
answers.
Had they broken Zina Talinka? Were they already
searching for her? And, if so, had she been stupid to let
her heart rule her head and come to hide in Kuybyshev?
And the most haunting question of all: Would the
Americans reply?
The next flash and peal were not so near. When it
died out, she heard footsteps outside, sloshing through
the mud toward the cottage.
Quickly she flattened her body into a dark corner and
held the Tokarev before her in both hands.
She heard the three light raps—the signal—before the
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door opened, but still she held her finger tensed on the
trigger of the Tokarev. Only when Ivan Tollpetzka
slipped inside did she relax.
"One of these times, Dasha Peshkova, you will blow
a hole in my fat belly."
There was a forced lightness in his voice, but his face
was a gloomy mask. She lay the pistol on a sideboard
and crossed to help him out of his heavy coat.
"You are soaked. "
"It is the belly of hell out there."
"I've made tea."
Ivan Tollpetzka watched her pour a mug of the
steaming liquid and then join him at the table.
"It is not good, is it."
"No," he replied, letting the steam rise to warm his
face. "There is no word from the Americans. "
"And your rail route out?"
"l've made inquiries. They will not risk it on such
short notice. "
Dasha dropped her head into her hands. "I will not
let them take me back to Moscow."
A heavy but tender hand dropped to her shoulder. ' 'If
there is no word by morning, I will try by myself to take
you north ... to Finland."
The iow laugh that came from Dasha's throat was
hoarse and raspy. "That would truly be *Yicide, Ivan
Ivanovitch."
He shrugged. "So would staying here ... now
Carter felt wretched when he climbed out of bed the
following morning. His tongue was furred, his head
ached, and his stomach was boiling.
A cold-hot-cold shower helped somewhat, so he was
nearly clear-headed by the time he hit the dining room.
Lev Sabat was already there, wolfing down a huge
breakfast.
Carter was alert to notice the other man's barely per-
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ceptible nod as he tapped the small vase of flowers in the
center of the table. Sabat had already located the micro-
phone. The gesture was significant.
Use Italian, Sabat was saying, even though I speak
only a few words.
"Buon giorno," Carter said. "Howe went your eve-
"Eccellente, il mio amico. Eccellente," Sabat replied.
"I slept like a newborn babe. "
Carter could only handle some black bread, cheese,
and coffee.
His head cleared completely and his spirits went up
four full notches when Oleg Sykaya joined him. The
man looked as if he had been dug out of the ground. He
did little more than mumble "Good morning," and
went no further than tea.
Thankfully, Carter had a few minutes alone with
Sabat outside while Sykaya got the car.
In precise, clipped sentences the old man reiterated
the previous night's conversation.
"So far so good," Carter said. "Here he comes."
They arrived at the Pregov munitions factory pre-
cisely on the hour. The ever-present KGB representative
escorted them on the tour along with the Czech man-
ager.
Carter played the game, now and then commenting to
Sabat in Italian. The man's gibberish answers twice
brought a smile to Carter's face. The old man was en-
joying himself.
"You go now to Sverdlovsk?" the KGB man asked as
he walked them back to the car.
"Yes," Carter replied, shaking the man's hand
warmly. "And after this morning I'm sure I'll find
•everything there I need. "
The man was positively jovial as he waved after them.
The proof that their papers were gold came at the
Chop frontier post. They were smartly saluted and
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passed through immediately.
They were ten minutes into Russia, and Sykaya sug-
gested they stop for lunch.
"How long do you think into Saratov?"
The man shrugged. ' 'Nine, maybe ten hours. Why?"
"I think that would be a good place to stop for the
night. "
"Fine. With the KGB identification on the car I can
make it faster if you like."
"No, no need," Carter said. "That looks like a good
place for lunch up there. "
They parked in a small square. The village was no dif-
ferent than any of a thousand others all over the vast ex-'
panse of Russia.
Old women in their babushkas were everywhere,
sweeping the streets with straw brooms. Young, rosy-
cheeked girls carried baskets stocked with potatoes and
bread.
To their left, in front of the largest building, stood a
group of soldiers, automatic weapons slung over their
shoulders.
Inside the small café, Sabat led the way to a table by
the window. As usual,. it was nearly five minutes before
a heavyset, sleepy-eyed woman came their way with tea
and menus. Also as usual, the huge menu was fiction.
Out of thirty or more "Midday Specials," only two
were available.
They left their order to her discretion and Sykaya ex-
cused himself for the toilet.
The Killmaster lit a cigarette and noticed Sabat. The
old man's face was pressed to the glass and his eyes were
watery.
"Anything wrong?" Carter asked in a low voice.
"No," Sabat replied, keeping his gaze on the street
and letting a sad but warm smile crease his lips. ' 'It s
just my Russian soul showing."
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Piotr Illyich Nikolsky burst into his superior's office
without knocking. We have a name, Comrade Colo-
nel!"
3' The drugs worked? "
"Who is it?" Delenin asked, his knuckles white where
his hands gripped the arms of his chair.
"Colonel Dasha Koneva. "
"Damn," Delenin growled, his hand darting to the
telephone.
s 'I have already checked her office. She checked off
the in-duty roster the day before yesterday."
"Her apartment?" Delenin barked, forsaking the
phone for the time being and switching on his desk-top
computer.
"A team is on the way there now."
In seconds Delenin had brought up Dasha Koneva's
duty sheet.
"She is in Minsk, speaking this evening at the officers
candidate school.
Nikolsky was already on the phone. There were three
VIP hotels in Minsk. He found her listed in the second,
and passed the phone to Delenin.
"You have a Colonel Dasha Kovena staying there?"
"Da, she is in room three-oh-seven. But there is a red
'Do not Disturb' on her card. "
' 'This is head of Moscow Security, Colonel Alek-
sandr Delenin. "
The clerk's voice suddenly became alert. "What shall
I do, Comrade Colonel?"
"You have a KGB rezident?"
"Da, two, comrade. They are right here in the
lobby.
"Get them up to Koneva's room at once. I want her
arrested and held. "
"Da, Comrade Colonel, one moment."
Delenin drummed his fingers on the desk. He lit a
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NICK CARTER
small cigar, and in seconds had a halo of smoke swirling
around his head.
It was nearly fifteen minutes before a new voice came
on the line.
"Comrade Colonel Delenin?"
' 'This is Lieutenant Bashikov, Minsk Center."
"Yes, yes, have you arrested her?"
"No, Comrade Colonel, the room was empty. Her
bags were there, unpacked. Colonel Koneva has been
secluded in her room since her arrival."
"Damnt" Delenin hissed. "Listen, Lieutenant, I
want you to inform Minsk Center to seal off the entire
city. I want that woman found!"
"Da, Comrade Colonel. Wait, my assistant has
found a train stub carbon in the wastepaper basket .. ."
"The destination?"
"Tallinn, Comrade Colonel."
Delenin's eyes shifted to the huge map of Russia on a
nearby wali. "Was there anything else in the waste-
basket?
There was a mumbled conversation on the other end
and Bashikov's voice came back on. "No, Comrade
Colonel, just the carbon slip."
','I see."
' 'Do you still want an alert here?"
"Yes, and report back directly to me!"
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
Delenin dropped the phone back on its cradle and
moved to the map. "They found her bags, but she was
not in the room."
' 'It is late," Nikolsky replied. "Perhaps she has al-
ready left for the school. "
Delenin's brows formed a bushy vee in the center of
his broad forehead and his eyes became slits as he stared
coldly at the map. "I don't think so. I do not think she
has been in Minsk for the past forty-eight hours. They
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found the carbon of a train receipt in a wastebasket."
"To where?"
"North to Tallinn, here on the Baltic. t'
The aide stepped to the map, and immediately sucked
in his breath sharply. "That's directly across from Hel-
sinki. She's heading for Finland!"
Delenin worried his cigar for a full minute. Suddenly
he smiled. "I'm not so sure. I think perhaps our bird
may have flown south to the Black Sea, or perhaps even
to the east. It would fit."
"I'll alert all the posts anyway. "
"Yes, Nikolsky, do that. And get me her complete
dossier . . . background, education, childhood, every-
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
"And, Nikolsky .. ."
"The Talinka woman. "
'S The accident has been arranged for this evening,
Comrade Colonel, on the Tula road. The Turkish em-
bassy will be notified of her unfortunate demise tomor-
row morning. The 'Most Secret' order is on your desk."
Delenin nodded and waved the man out. With a sigh,
he sat at his desk and picked up a pen.
No matter how hard he tried he could not keep his
hand from shaking as he signed the order for Zina
Talinka's "accidental" death.
"We're getting close to Saratov now," Sykaya
growled from the front seat. "We will stop there."
Both Carter and Sabat had been complaining that
they needed a stop for the last twenty miles. Sykaya had
told them repeatedly, and rightly so, that it was danger-
ous to stop on the narrow road at night.
"There!" Carter suddenly cried. "There is a side
road. Pull off there!"
He had seen the sign two hundred yards back, warn-
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ing drivers of large trucks entering the road from the ce-
ment plant.
"Damn, can't it wait a few more minutes?" Sykaya
asked.
"No," Carter rasped, "my comrade Carpesi is in
pain. Pull in here. You can stop behind that cement
plant."
Cursing, Sykaya wheeled the big car up the narrow
lane. It opened onto a large, well-lit parking area.
'CNo," Carter said, "not here. Over there, in the
shadows." He laughed shortly. "My friend is shy."
"Shit," the driver mumbled, but the Ziv lurched for-
ward.
Near the building in semidarkness, he rocked the car
to a halt and clicked open the automatic door locks.
Carter waited until Lev Sabat had exited the car. The
moment the door closed, extinguishing the light, he
flipped the catch on his belt buckle. The buckle disen-
gaged. He pulled, and three feet of tempered piano wire
slipped from the leather.
"Don't you have to go?" Sykaya asked.
"l can wait," Carter said, leaning forward as he
wound the two ends of the wire garrote around his
gloved hands.
"Well, 1 might as well."
Carter quickly jammed his hands into his lap as the
door opened and the interior of the car was flooded with
light.
He could feel a sudden burst of sweat in the center of
his back as he watched the KGB man disappear into the
shadows.
A million questions seemed to shoot through his mind
in seconds.
Would Lev Sabat's contact, Yurlie Timofey, think
Sykaya was him and show himself?
Would Sykaya spot the van and wonder what it was
doing there at such a late hour?
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Would the KGB man with his suspicious mind won-
der where the plant's night watchman was?
Carter slipped from the car. 'He lit a cigarette and,
leaving it dangling from the corner of his mouth, leaned
casually against the front fender. Carefully he re-
wrapped the garrote and then folded his arms over his
chest with his hands in his armpits.
He didn't have long to wait.
The two of them emerged from the shadows at the
same time, Sabat with a puzzled frown on his face.
"Oleg "
. .. Carter murmured.
"Better check this tire," the Killmaster said, rapping
his heel against the tire. c 'I think it is low."
"I checked everything when we filled with petrol at
the frontier."
Carter shrugged and moved a few steps from the car.
"Suit yourself, but I think it's going flat."
"Very well."
Pulling a penlight from his jacket pocket, Sykaya
dropped to one knee. The light snapped on just as Car-
ter dropped the piano wire over his head.
"What. . .
He was quick. He managed to get two fingers between
his throat and the wire.
But the Killmaster was quicker and much stronger.
He planted a knee in the middle of the man's back and
yanked.
There was a scream that quickly died to a gargle as the
wire bit sharply.
It took only seconds.
"Is he
"Yes, he is," Carter said, dropping the body and
turning to a grinning Sabat.
'S You are efficient, my friend, very efficient." He
turned and whispered into the darkness. "Yurlie, are
you there? Yurlie Timofey!"
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A tall, lean man with heavy, brooding features mate-
rialized from the shadows. He held a Tokarev pistol in
each hand.
"l had him covered all the time he was pissing, but
without a silencer I didn't want to shoot unless I had to.
Nicholas Carter? "
' 'Yes."
"Welcome to Russia. I am your guide, Yurlie Timo-
fey. This one is yours." The man's grin was almost evil
as he handed Carter one of the pistols.
"The van?"
"This way," the big man replied. "Grab that end!"
Together they carried the body around the building.
The van was parked under the overhang of a loading
dock. Carter could barely make out a figure behind the
wheel.
Unceremoniously they dumped the KGB agent's body
into the van and Timofey slammed and locked the rear
doors. He slapped them twice and the engine roared to
life.
Seconds later the van was speeding away.
"His clothes and possessions will be burned. His
body will never be found."
Carter nodded. "Is there a watchman?'"
"Yes, but he's passed out from drink. He is every
night. That is why I chose this place."
"Were you able to get all your identification in
order?"
The man tapped his breast pocket and smiled. "I
always wondered what it felt like to be KGB."
"Do you know the village of Obersk, on the lake of
"l could find it in my sleep."
"Then let's go," Carter said. "That's our next stop! 'i
It had been several hours since the evening meal, and
neither had spoken more than a word or two. In a few
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minutes Ivan Tollpetzka would put on his heavy coat
and fur hat and go out for the last time. He would walk
to the train station and meet his contact.
Then they would know. Were the Americans coming?
If they were not, Dasha Konova had already made up
her mind what to do. She would not wait until dawn and
strike out with Ivan. She had come too far to risk an-
other life to save her own.
She would steal away in the night, alone, if there were
no instructions from the Americans.
"You are pensive, Dasha. Or is it indigestion? I know
my cooking is terrible. "
"Neither, my friend," she said, smiling warmly at the
man sitting across from her. "I am ... thinking about
my childhood. Will you go now?"
"Yes,"
the giant replied, hauling himself from the
chair.
He had barely reached the wall peg where his coat was
hung when they both heard a scratching sound at the
door. It galvanized them as one.
A knife with a long curved blade appeared from no-
where in Tollpetzka's hand. The Tokarev was out of its
hiding place and held steady in both her hands.
"Yes, who is it?"
"It is I, Aleksei Malonovitch," came a whispered
voice from the other side of the door.
g 'I've come to
warn you if it's you they are after. "
"Who?" Tollpetzka hissed.
"KGB, two and a driver in an official car. They have
already crossed the bridge and are headed this way.
They will be here in five, maybe ten minutes at the most.
Do you want help, Ivan Ivanovitch?"
He turned. Dasha shook her head. "I have involved
too many already, " she whispered.
He turned back to the door. "No, Aleksei Malono-
vitch, but I thank you."
"Go with God, Ivan Ivanovitch."
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NICK CARTER
They heard his footsteps crunching over the light
crust of snow, then silence.
"Can I run?" Dasha murmured.
"No. If they are over the bridge, it is already too late
for that. The box. Quickly, the brooms!"
Both of them grabbed heavy straw brooms and fever-
ishly began sweeping at a section of the dirt floor.
Dasha had been told about the box, but as yet had not
seen or had to use it.
Finally the lid was uncovered and Tollpetzka yanked
it up.
"Quickly, inside! The glass tube there, poke it
through the lid in the opening as I close it. Stop pushing
when you feel the pressure of my finger. I will arrange
the dirt around it. "
She folded herself into a fetal position on her right
side. An average-size or petite woman would have had
no trouble. Dasha had to practically bring her knees up
to her chin to fit.
"Ivan Ivanovitch .. ."
"If this doesn't work, thank you."
He shrugged and chuckled. '61f this doesn't work,
perhaps we'll meet again in the darkness."
She pushed the glass tube through the hole as the lid
came down, and stopped when she felt pressure. Fora
brief second she felt panic as the darkness engulfed her.
And then the hurried sounds from. above occupied her
mind.
She heard the swish of the broom. And then the tiny
shaft of light that had seeped through a crack in the lid
was obliterated.
There was the steady thump of Tollpetzka's big boots
as he packed the earth. And then there was a solid thud
as the heavy table was placed on the floor directly over
her.
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Silence. An eerie, almost deathly otherworldly si-
lence.
What if they didn't even search for her? What if they
just took Ivan Tollpetzka away?
She had prepared herself to die, but not to be buried
alive. She would never be able to lift the heavy lid, the
dirt, and the table.
She could hear her own breathing, and stopped.
Could they hear it above?
Her lungs felt as though they were about to explode.
She had to breathe.
How long had it been? It must be much more than ten
minutes.
Were they above her? What were they doing?
And then she heard it.
The table was being dragged away. The brooms, she
heard the brooms. And something else ....
Digging. They were using something else to dig away
the dirt.
Dasha began breathing heavily through the tube as
she flipped the safety off the Tokarev and aimed the
pistol at the lid.
She heard a scraping sound. The lid was being lifted.
The light streamed into her eyes and for a millisecond
she blinked.
In that instant a strong hand gripped her wrist. She
started to fire, but stopped just as she heard Ivan Toll-
petzka's voice.
"It's all right, Dasha, it's all right! The Ameri-
cans
She blinked her eyes open and the face materialized
above hers.
"Na zdorov'e, Dasha Peshkova. You'll hurt my ego
no end if you don't remember. The name is Carter ...
Nick Carter."
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ELEVEN
"Her car was found at the train station in Minsk,
Comrade Colonel. "
Aleksandr Delenin looked up from the mound of
papers and computer printouts that lay across his desk.
For the last four hours he had been piecing the days
of Dasha Koneva's life together like the parts of a puz-
zle. In the last half hour a pattern had emerged.
The woman had been clever in her espionage ac-
tivities. Extremely clever. Had not Zina Talinka made
her fatal error, it might have been another two years
before they would have discovered the spy on their very
doorstep.
With the shrewd mind and the experience of a learned
detective, Delenin had discovered a great deal of fact,
and made more assumptions.
The loss of the assassin, Balistronov, in Turkey had
been the beginning. The man had once been Koneva's
husband. From his reports and memos it was obvious
that Balistronov had—probably because of their past re-
lationship—told her more thanhe should have.
The pattern of leaks continued in Turkey, and then in
the USSR itself after her return to Moscow.
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Since that time she had almost been tripped up twice.
But both times she had cleverly switched the blame to
someone else. In both cases, that someone had disap-
peared or taken his own life.
"The train station and airports?" Delenin asked.
"Covered completely," Piotr Illyich Nikolsky re-
plied. "And every attendant and conductor on every
train has been alerted."
Delenin rubbed his temples and commanded yet more
from his weary brain.
"If she is moving, she is sure to be spotted," he said.
"If she has gone to ground, she must have help."
"We have set up checkpoints on all roads out of Mos-
cow. There is no way—
"Ahi Piotr Illyich, do you think she went to Minsk
only to return to Moscow?"
"Perhaps, Comrade Colonel, to throw us—
"No,'t Delenin growled, moving to the huge wall
map. "She is not in a large city. I feel it. If she is mov-
ingi she is heading east or south. If she is stationary, she
is somewhere among the peasants who are too busy with
their own lives to notice her. What does our region head
in Kuybyshev say?"
"Nothing. The city has been searched practically
house by house. Informers have been interrogated and
all known dissidents have also been brought in for ques-
tioning. "
"What about here, this village?"
Nikolsky squinted his eyes to see the tiny dot on the
map across the lake from Kuybyshev. ' 'Obersk?"
"I assume the Kuybyshev rezident—
"Never assume anything, Nikolsky! The woman
spent her childhood in Obersk."
"But, Comrade Colonel, so many years ago—"
"Do not assume! I want the village searched and
every man, woman, and child in it interrogated."
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"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
137
Nikolsky moved toward the door shaking his head,
his forehead wrinkled in a perplexed frown. His supe-
rior saw it and stopped him.
"Nikolsky . . e"
' 'Comrade Colonel? "
"You are Russian, are you not, down to the last bit of
blood in your body?"
' 'Of course. "
"If you were dying, Piotr Illyich, what would you like
to see before death claimed you?"
"The plains of Irkutsk, with the summer snows on
the mountains of Mongolia in the distance. i'
"You grew up in Irkutsk, didn't you?"
"Da, Comrade Colonel," he replied, the frown dis-
appearing.
"Dasha Koneva is trying to leave mother Russia.
When she does, a little of her soul will die at the parting.
Search the village of Obersk„ Piotr Illyichi and do it
In two hours it would be dawn. But now, as they
slipped from the cottage, the darkness was Stygian.
They moved in single file through the narrow streets,
with Tollpetzka leading the way. At the car he halted,
turning to the woman.
"They will come, Dasha Peshkova, as sure as the sun
will soon rise. But as sure as it will set again, they will
learn nothing. "
"Bless you, Ivan Ivanovitch," Dasha replied, and
kissed the giant on both cheeks.
And then they were in the Ziv, flying around the lake
and back to the main highway. that would&ke them
north and east toward Sverdlovsk.
"At first light we'll have to move you to the trunk,
Dasha," Carter said. "We've made a makeshift bed for
you. "
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NICK CARTER
She nodded. "It's all right. At least we are moving.
Anything is better than sitting in one place, waiting like
a mouse for the cat to pounce."
They would lose a precious half day at the Sverdlovsk
factory, but the stop had to be made. Periodic checks
would be made on the two Italian arms buyers. The
Sverdlovsk stop would give them at least another
twenty-four hours before their nonarrival in Moscow
would raise questions.
At dawn they transferred Dasha to the trunk. The
timing turned out to be perfect. At Ufa, on the main
highway, they were stopped at a roadblock. With the
KGB insignia, Yurlie Timofey was able to bypass the
long line of cars and trucks and go in the lane for of-
ficial vehicles.
"Yurlie," Carter said.
"Stop past the checkpoint and walk back, get
chummy with one of them. This doesn't look normal."
Other than careful scrutinization of the foreign pas-
sengers' papers, the car was passed right through.
Yurlie Timofey did as Carter asked. Through the rear
window Carter could see him chatting up one of the
greatcoated KGB men running the checkpoint.
Five minutes later he was back in the car.
"They are looking for her," he said, moving back
into the lane of traffic.
"You're sure?" Carter asked.
"Very sure. The bastard wouldn't say why she was
wanted. They never do. But they have made her, all
right. He showed me a photograph."
Carter and Sabat exchanged knowing looks. The
timetable would have to be speeded up.
"I hope your woman in Kopysk has everything
ready. "
Sabat smiled and shrugged. "If she doesn't, we can
still make the trip worthwhile before they get us.
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139
"Return to the Sverdlovsk factory and blow it up."
The house was large by Russian standards, at least six
rooms. It was located about three miles north of Kopysk
and about a mile off the Sverdlovsk road. The grounds,
in the center of a small forest, were well kept and the im-
mediate area around the house was enclosed by a stone
wall with barbed wire on top of it.
"A typical politician's retreat," Sabat said. "Stop
here, Yurlie."
"Who lives here?" Dasha asked, somewhat wide-
eyed.
"It is the house of the district commissioner," Sabat
chuckled as he exited the car and disappeared into the
trees.
C'Oh, my God."
"Not to worry," Yurlie Timofey murmured from the
front seat, C'Madame Morkhkin has been with us for a
long time. "
While they waited, Timofey related the woman's
background, giving them the reasons she was betraying
her husband and country.
"Her marriage was forced by her father, who was a
rabid Stalinist. It has never been happy. When her hus-
band started climbing the political ladder, she saw less
and less of him. Then the KGB wooed her son away,
with her husband's blessing.
"The son became an organizer in Afghanistan. He
was killed by rebels. I suppose 'that is what finally
turned her against them, the stupidity of the 'Russian
Vietnam.' That's how it all started. They began to really
hate each other, and the more they quarreled, the more
she hit back at him in her own way."
"And you think you can trust her on the basis of
that?" Carter asked.
"She has proved herself many times," Timofey re-
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plied with a shrug. "Oh, when she first came to us we
were highly suspicious. At first she gave us just idle bits
of information. But when her husband was promoted to
this post, she became invaluable. She takes great risks
sometimes, but she seems to revel in it. Believe me, she
is trustworthy."
Lev Sabat was huffing back toward the car. "Her car
is parked in front. That is the sign. Drive in, Yurlie, and
pull around to the rear. "
Yurlie Timofey took off like a shot. Just inside the
gates he stopped long enough for Carter and Sabat to
jump out and close them.
Then they were in a small, rear courtyard and a tall
woman in a plain woolen dress and black shawl was mo-
tioning them hurriedly into the house.
"We must be careful. There are a group of Young
Pioneers camped nearby. They have passed the house
several times already today," she said in a hushed whis-
per.
They passed into a large kitchen. It was well ordered
and spotlessly clean. The table in its center was set with
a tea service, and nearby a huge nineteenth-century
samovar was steaming.
"Madame Mordhkin," Yurlie Timofey said with a
low chuckle, "tea?"
"Of course," the woman replied. "There is no need
not to be civilized."
"Madame, I want to thank you for your kindness and
your assistance. "
"You are Sabat?"
g 'I have read some of your work. You are slightly
hysterical, but you write extremely well."
"Thank you. This is—" He gestured toward Carter
and Dasha Koneva, but the woman whirled on them and
spoke, silencing him.
"l don't want to know who you are. What I do, I do
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141
for my own reasons. I assume you do the same. You will
spend the night here. I have arranged transportation for
you in the morning. Sit, we will have tea. "
She moved in long, graceful strides toward the samo-
var and began drawing the tea.
They sat, mute, as the woman served them tea and
small sugar buns. It was as if they were neighbors just
dropping by.
Carter watched her go through the silent ritual with
the tea. She was a handsome woman, probably around
sixty. Her short hair was black with gray streaks, and
her face was strong and made craggy more by the out-
doors than age.
Only when she sat at last did she speak again.
"You still must go to the factory this afternoon?"
"Yes," Sabat replied. "Yurlie will drop us back here
and then head for Moscow."
"I have a place of concealment for the car near
Kazan, about halfway to Moscow. It should be twenty-
four hours, probably more, before it is found," Timo-
fey explained.
"The truck will be here to pick you up at seven, just
after dawn," Madame Mordhkin said. "He makes the
trip twice a month to Astrakhan on the lower Volga."
Here she paused and faced Sabat directly. "I assume
you have already arranged for everything you will need
there to take you on?"
Sabat nodded.
"Good. The dacha is small, as you can see. There are
two bedrooms and a cot in the study. The rooms can be
divided among you as you see fit. "
"Madame • • e"
$ 'I hesitate to ask, but since this part of our journey is
the most susceptible to capture g"
"Servants?"
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"l have two. My maid is on holiday. The gardener is
faithful to me. When it is necessary, he is blind and deaf
as to what goes on here. It is his son who will drive you
to Astrakhan."
"And your husband? Is there any chance that he
might be returning to the dacha before we depart? "
"None. He has a state flat in Sverdlovsk. He only
comes home on weekends. I don't even expect him this
weekend. He has a new mistress, quite young and
pretty."
"I'm sorry I asked."
"Don't be. It doesn't bother me. Will you be back
from the factory by six?"
"That should be no problem," Yurlie Timofey of-
fered.
"Good. Dinner will be at seven."
Back in the Ziv, Carter turned to Sabat. "To the
point, isn't she?"
"Quite," he replied, producing a small bottle of
vodka. "To our journey."
The routine at Sverdlovsk went much the same as it
had at the Czech factory. Their credentials were not
questioned and they were allowed to inspect and witness
a demonstration of everything on their list.
Even though Carter was anxious to get it over with
and back to the safety of the countryside and the dacha,
he played the game to the hilt.
Even Sabat joined in to a greater degree with his
Italian gibberish.
By the time the inspection was over and the ritual
toasts were under way, it was as though they were all
one big happy family.
It was during this toasting period that Carter dropped
his little bombs concerning Don Giovanni Marcosi. He
was careful in the way he worded his accusations against
the aging Italian mobster, but he could see that the KGB
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representative was taking it all in and evaluating it.
By the time they returned to the car, the Killmaster
was pretty sure the Russians would think twice about
dealing with Marcosi again. That, plus CIA leaks to
their people in Italy concerning the old man's shaky
foundations, should just about put the Marcosi family
out of business.
"What was that all about?" Sabat asked in the Ziv.
"I thought it was Marcosi who got us in. "
' 'He did," Carter replied. "But that doesn't mean he
isn't scum and we want him out of business."
Sabat asked no more.
Madame Mordhkin was true to her word. A warm
peat fire was going strong in the combination kitchen/
dining room when they returned, and dinner was ready
to be served.
It was good, nourishing Russian fare. There was
delicious dark bread, a platter of roast chicken and
potatoes, and a borscht that was so thick it could be
eaten with a fork. In fact the cabbage soup passed the
fork test when Carter sank the utensil into his bowl and
it stood upright without wavering.
The meal was barely finished when Yurlie Timofey
bid them good-bye. Carter walked him out to the car.
"Your help has been invaluable."
He shrugged. "Such things have become a game. I
hope you make it. "
The two men embraced and Carter waited until he
could no longer see the taillights before going back in-
side.
Madame Mordhkin was being domestic in the
kitchen. Dasha had already withdrawn for a bath. Sabat
had poured brandy and now sat before a low table in the
sitting room.
On the table he had spread a map of the lower Volga
valley and the tip of eastern Turkey.
"It is time to clarify."
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Carter grunted in agreement and lit a cigarette.
"Madame Mordhkin's man will take us here, just
outside Astrakhan, in the morning. There is a fisher-
man, Grechko, who has a house here, near the Cas-
pian."
' 'We stay there?"
"Yes, it should be very safe. The KGB is not as strict
as they are here, closer to the Turkish frontier."
Carter smiled. "So getting to the frontier will be the
problem. "
"The big problem," Sabat said, nodding. "That is
where the heart of my previous escape took place. Just
north of the city is the east-west, north-south railroad
terminus. There is a train that leaves every morning at
six sharp for Tbilisi. "
' 'On the frontier."
"Yes. Twice a week there are three sealed cars
equipped with double sets of wheels. At the frontier
those wheels are changed to accommodate the wider
Turkish rail gauge. "
Carter nodded his understanding. It was part of the
Russian paranoia about invasion. Years before, they
had changed all the rails in the Soviet Union to a nar-
rower gauge so they couldn't be invaded by rail.
"And the three cars?" Carter asked.
"Filled with medical and military supplies and some
foodstuffs. They are part of the Russian aid to Syria. "
"I see," Carter said. "They go directly from Astra-
khan across Turkey to Damascus."
"Exactly," the old man said, beaming. "With tools
and torches we cut into the bottom of one of the cars.
We hide inside with the piece back in place until we are
sure we are over the frontier and in Turkey. The cars
won't be checked because after they are loaded in Astra-
khan they are sealed and run into a warehouse until they
leave."
Carter toasted him with his glass. "It is a good plan,
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and one that should work. "
145
Sabat chuckled with glee. "It worked before. "
Until then, Madame Mordhkin had remained in the
kitchen. Carter guessed it was because she didn't want
to be able to overhear their conversation. She did not
want to know their plans or the route of escape beyond
the dacha.
Now she entered and started turning down the lights.
' 'It is time for bed. I am known tohe an early riser. It
would look odd if too many lights were burning late."
"Of course, " Sabat said, folding his map.
The woman had already disappeared down the hall.
Carter followed Sabat. At the study door he started to
follow the man inside but was stopped by a hand on the
chest.
"No, my friend, the study is mine."
"But . . e"
' 'You are in the guest bedroom, there."
"Who decided ... But the door was already clos-
ing, and beyond it Carter could hear the old man's low
laughter.
Carter could guess what he would find awaiting him
in the guest room.
He lifted his hand to knock, then tried the door. It
opened with a gentle shove. Light from a pair of tall
tapers streamed toward him from the bed.
Dasha Peshkova Koneva, wearing a filmy negligee
over equally sheer underwear, was sitting in an easy
chair near the bed reading a magazine.
"I wondered if you were ever coming to bed."
"Was this your idea?" he murmured.
"Yes," she said, an impish smile playing around her
full lips. "Do you mind?"
' 'You know I don't. "
Carter stood, watching her, fascinated. He had al-
most forgotten how really beautiful she was. Every shin-
ing hair was in place. Her extraordinary blue eyes
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sparkled in the candlelight. Her full breasts strained at
the flimsy material covering them. Her strong legs were
long and white.
She was everything a man might want.
When he reached her she stood and seemed to melt
into his arms. Gently he ran his hands over her body.
The material of the negligee was silky and it did things
to his senses.
"ls this standard equipment for defecting Soviet fe-
male agents? "
She smiled mischievously. "It is a loan from Madame
Mordhkin."
"I'll thank her in the morning."
They undressed each other with a calculated slowness,
each taking time to kiss and caress in the process. Then
together they eased down into the softness of the heavily
quilted bed.
Carter found himself on his back. Dasha moved over
him and placed his hands at her breasts. At the same
time, she began to move her hips.
He covered her breasts with his hands and fondled
them in time with his kissing. The points erected, thrusE
ing hard against his palms. After a minute or so, she
began to moan low in her throat.
She leaned back and stared down at him. Her eyes
were tender and beseeching. Then she leaned forward
and Carter could sense the hunger in her lips.
Reaching down, he caught both of her thighs and
raised her. She put her arms around his neck, and when
she felt his probing shaft, caught her breath sharply.
Carter lunged upward, too hard and too fast.
But she didn't try to break away. Instead she buried
her face in his shoulder and clung to him as though will-
ing him to do what he would with her body.
The passion within him now was beyond containing.
When he felt the resisting muscles of her thighs slacken,
he took a smooth buttock in each hand and pressed
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them down. She locked her legs behind his and he low-
ered her still further.
Whether it was the dark, romantic evening with its
undertone of danger or the sensual moment itself, Car-
ter didn't know. But never before had he felt so com-
pletely the possession of her body. It was as though
everything were big and soft and voluptuous. Even her
breasts rubbing against his chest felt as though they too
had swollen.
He tried to find her mouth with his; she avoided it
and pressed her face closer into his shoulder. And then a
shudder ran through her, her legs stiffened and she tried
to rise up as though no longer able to support the driv-
ing pressure of his loins.
The shudder passed and she sank down. The move-
ment brought on an orgasm that practically lifted the
top of his head off.
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Oblomov, head of Kuybyshev security, was a thin
little man with squinty eyes and a very nervous disposi-
tion.
Delenin had never liked him, but then he often found
himself disliking the people he worked with. At least
Oblomov met them at the helicopter with a thermos of
hot .tea and two clean cups. Piotr Nikolsky poured the
moment they were in the car and handed one cup to his
superior.
"What is the man's name, Oblomov?"
"Aleksei Malonovitch Polevet, Comrade Colonel. He
works in the rail dispatch office."
' 'A dissident?"
"There is nothing that would prove him a dissident in
his file."
"What made you arrest him for interrogation?"
"An old woman, Comrade Colonel. She claims she
saw him out very late last night, after midnight, and he
looked suspicious. He was in Petrov Lane, but she
couldn't see which cottage he went to. When he came
back, two men—strangers—appeared. They also went
into Petrov Lane."
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"Did she see them go out?"
"No," Oblomov replied, and then averted his eyes.
"But by that time the old woman could have fallen
asleep. "
"Or she could have been seeing things in the first
place," Delenin muttered. "Who is this old woman?"
"A pensioner. She often informs on her neighbors for
a few extra rubles. "
Delenin sipped his tea in disgust and stared out the
window at the bleakness Of the village they were ap-
proaching across the lake.
They drove in silence through the near deserted
streets. Six in the morning, still dark. Most of the in-
habitants were still asleep or passed out.
What would the peasants do without their vodka?
Oblomov had commandeered a two-room cottage on
the edge of the village. Aleksei Malonovitch was in the
second room. Delenin raced him alone. He had barely
stepped through the door when the man spoke.
"l know nothing."
"l haven't asked you anything."
"You are KGB. You'll ask."
Delenin went to work on him mentally and physically.
At the end of a half hour he knew he would get nothing
out of the man without drugs, and there wasn't time for
that.
He returned to the front of the cottage. "0blon}ov,
where is the old woman—the one who noticed him?'
"There, Comrade Colonel."
The bundle of rags in a dark corner turned out to be a
crouching old crone. When Oblomov barked her name,
the babushka-clad head came up, revealing an ancient,
wrinkled face and watery, vacant eyes.
Delenin crouched before her. "Old woman, tell me
again exactly what you saw."
In a cracked voice, her veined hands fluttering for
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emphasis, she related the story much the same as she
had told it to Oblomov.
' 'But you didn't see the two men come out of Petrov
"No."
"Were you too full of vodka, old woman?"
"NO, I saw what I saw."
'SAIeksei Malonovitch tells me he couldn't sleep. He
went for a walk."
' 'No one in the village goes for a walk at that hour.
He is lying. I saw what I saw."
Oblomov jumped in, angry now, and afraid that he
had brought Delenin and his aide all the way to Kuyby-
Shev on a wild-goose chase.
"It will go hard with you, old woman, if you are
lying. "
"I do not lie!" she snapped. ' 'Malonovitch went into
the lane just before the car parked down by the lake."
c 'A car . . .
in Obersk?" Delenin said, incredulous.
' 'What kind of car?"
' 'A big black car, a sedan with four doors. It
was . . ." She paused.
"It was what, old woman?" Delenin asked, his voice
tight.
"It It was a KGB car," she whispered.
"You never said anything about a KGB car before!"
he hissed.
She seemed to shrivel back into her rags. "One does
not talk about the KGB."
"All right," Delenin said in exasperation. "Could the
two strangers have come from the car?"
' 'They could have," she replied, shivering with fear
now.
"And others? Were there any others in the car?"
"I couldn't see ... too dark."
Delenin grasped Oblomov's elbow and piloted him
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across the room. thought you said you hadn't sent
anyone into Obersk until our specific order came
down!"
"I didn't, Comrade Colonel! I swear it!"
"l don't think the old woman is lying. It sounds like a
KGB Ziv."
swear it did not come from Kuybyshev Center. "
"AII right. Nikolsky?"
'SDa, Comrade Colonel?"
"Stoke up that fire. You know what to do. We must
take some sterner measures with Comrade Aleksei Ma-
Ionovitch Polevet. "
Through a crack in the door, Ivan Tollpetzka
watched them come. Oblomov and his driver he knew.
They were leading. The two in dark greatcoats and fur
hats behind them he didn't know. But they had KGB
stamped all over them.
Quickly he fashioned a sling over his right arm. Inside
it he hid the ancient German Mauser pistol his father
had brought home years before as a souvenir.
It would be ironic to kill them with a German pistol.
He left the latch off the door and climbed into bed'
He had barely arranged himself when the pounding
began.
"Yes, yes."
"Ivan Ivanovitch Tollpetzka?"
"Yes, what is it?"
'SKGB, we want to talk to you. Open the door."
"I am sick. I broke my arm. I have been off work for
three days."
' 'Open up, Ivan Ivanovitch."
"The door is open. Come in."
Tollpetzka's first shot caught the driver in the center
of the chest, driving him back into the others.
His second and third shots tore away much of
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Oblomov's stomach and sent what was left of him back
through the open door to sprawl in the muddy street.
Delenin and Nikolsky, forewarned, were able to
react. They were also saved from death by the bodies of
the other two men.
One rolled to the right, the other to the left. Nikolsky,
younger and in better shape, came up on one knee firing
first.
Tollpetzka's fourth slug narrowly missed the younger
KGB man's head, slamming into the wall behind him.
Nikolsky didn't miss. He pumped a full magazine
into Ivan Tollpetzka, making the body dance in the bed
long after life had left it.
Delenin was on him in an instant. "He's dead.
Thern
' 'Both dead. Oblomov is almöt cut in half. "
"Damn. Well, we have the rest of our answer. Now
let's find that goddamned car!"
The sharp, penetrating smell of the restoked peat fire
awakened Carter. He opened his eyes just as Dasha
emerged from the bathroom.
Even with her hair pulled back severely and tied in a
bun, wearing a loose peasant blouse and tight-fitting
blue jeans, she looked elegant. Carter admired her for a
few seconds before speaking.
' 'Good morning."
She nodded. There was very little of the sensuous
warmth of the previous night in her manner. Carter had
not expected any. This morning it was back to business.
"The others are in the kitchen. Madame Mordhkin
has instructed us to leave the bags and everything else
we can't carry in this room. She will have them disposed
of yet today. "
"I'll be ready in a few minutes."
In the bath Carter splashed water on his face and
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brushed his teeth. He didn't bother to shave. Five min-
utes later he was entering the kitchen.
Sabat and Dasha were at the table sipping from
steaming mugs. Madame Mordhkin was at the stove.
The smell of cooking food hovered around her.
Near the door, mug in hand, was a tall,
thin young man. His angular body, with his sharp nose
supporting steel-rimmed glasses, caused Carter to think
of a praying mantis.
He wore a loose, high-collared shirt sash-belted over
baggy peasant trousers tugged into ankle boots.
"Good morning," Carter said.
There was a general chorus of replies, and Madame
Mordhkin nodded toward the young man.
"Maxim Davidovitch. He will drive the lorry."
Carter shook hands. Behind the round spectacles the
young man's eyes were vague. But when he spoke the
voice was strong and full of command.
' 'Do not take too long. We must be off before first
light. "
With that he left and Carter took his place at the
table.
"I'll just have coffee."
"No," the woman said, soundly setting a heaping
plate of food before him. "It may be late in the day
before Maxim can get food to you in the back of the
lorry. Eat! 't
Carter ate.
It was midafternoon and they had stopped only
briefly for a few moments in a heavily wooded area at
about noon.
Maxim Davidovitch had given them only five minutes
to stretch and relieve themselves before they were hus-
tled back into the rear of the truck.
"Where are we?" Carter had asked.
"Akt'ubinsk. It is about halfway, but the worst part
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is yet to come, over the mountains. The roads are very
bad."
He hadn't been kidding. Their tiny cubbyhole under
the massive load of constantly shifting furniture had
proved precarious if not downright dangerous as the
truck rocked and jolted.
For the last two hours all three of them had spent
nearly every minute making sure they were not crushed.
Carter's legs felt as though they would never
straighten out again, and he was dying for a cigarette.
Even though he could not see their faces, he could sense
that the other two felt the same way.
Finally they rocked and bucked to a stop, and seconds
later there was a light rap on the thin metal siding of the
truck's body.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes," Carter replied.
"We are in Sagiz. I will get food and tea here. About
six kilometers out of the town there is a rest area. I will
stop there. Have you found the clothes?"
"Yes," Carter said. Three bundles of peasant cloth-
ing, the kind normally worn in the lower Volga area,
had been deposited in their cubbyhole earlier. "But
there is not enough room to change."
"Then you can do it in the trees when I stop. Be very
They were conscious of each other's breathing in the
small space. Eventually the truck's engine roared to life
and they were on their way again.
In the darkness each of them gripped a bundle and
waited.
Even before the truck stopped, Carter was leading
them through the narrow crawl space toward the rear
doors. When they opened, it took several seconds for
their eyes to adjust to the light even though it was a
gloomy, gray day.
They were in a small clearing. Carter could see the
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narrow lane Maxim Davidovitch had taken from the
highway. Now and then he could hear a car or truck
hum past.
"We can't take time to eat in the open. Just stretch
and dress. You'll have to eat in the truck while we
move. "
"No problem, " Carter said, already getting out of his
clothes.
"Madame, there is a rest hut over there if you want
privacy."
"It isn't necessary," Dasha replied, pulling her peas-
ant blouse over her head.
They were still changing, Carter just pulling up the
baggy peasant trousers and tying a sash for a belt, when
a man appeared on a bicycle from a tiny lane in the
trees.
They all froze. The man wore a heavy brown uniform
with red army epaulets on the shoulders.
"Area patrol," Maxim hissed. "Keep dressing. .1'11
handle it. "
Maxim waved at the man and smiled broadly as he
walked across the clearing.
"Good afternoon, comrade. My family and I are tak-
ing furniture south. Do you know the weather around
Baku . . ?"
Carter could sense that the soldier wasn't buying it.
His knuckles grew white on the handlebars and his eyes
narrowed as they darted from Maxim to the three half-
dressed people and back again.
Carter could almost see the question arise in those
eyes: Why do these fools ride in the back of a stuffy
truck with furniture that could crush them at any mo-
ment?
Maxim guessed also that his jovialness wasn't getting
across. Just as the soldier pulled his service pistol from
its holster, the praying mantis leaped.
He grabbed the man's wrist and brought it down hard
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across the handlebars. The soldier yelped in pain and
the pistol fell to the ground.
It sounded as if the wrist were broken, but that didn't
take the fight from him. As Maxim reached for his
throat, the man parried with the bicycle and darted to-
ward the path.
Carter was sprinting across the clearing as Maxim
grabbed the pistol and came up on one knee.
"No, Maxim, no!" Carter cried. "Don't fire! There
is liable to be someone else close by!"
The Russian agreed by shoving the pistol into his coat
pocket and darting after the man, Carter crashing
through the trees close behind him.
Maxim hit the path first, but Carter wasn't far
behind. The soldier didn't look back but kept running
straight away, running as if possessed, running as if he
could get away from himself.
They ran, Maxim all out, Carter pacing himself. If
Maxim caught him right away, fine. If not, if it went
into a long run, Carter would take him.
It did not go long.
Because of his long legs, Maxim ran in great bounds,
almost leaps. He was gaining two yards for every one of
the soldier's.
And then he was there. Maxim dropped him by
throwing his body across the fleeing man's knees.
But if he thought merely bringing the man down was
enough, he was mistaken.
With a strangled scream, an animal sound from his
throat, he counterattacked Maxim. Biting, hitting,
clawing, and kicking, the soldier was savage and over-
whelming.
They were up, then down and rolling. So much so
that Car'ter could not get a clear blow. And Maxim was
getting the worst of it.
Suddenly the soldier came up with a wild and lucky
punch that caught Maxim off guard. The blow landed
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dead-center gut, and Maxim went down gasping for air.
To Carter's surprise, the soldier didn't bolt and run.
It was one-on-one now, and the man obviously felt he
had more than an even chance.
He whirled and rushed, head low, both forearms hor-
izontal, fists only six inches or so apart.
There was no opening for a chop, and Carter knew he
would break a few of his own knuckles if he went for the
jaw or head. Consequently, he took the rush like a
wrestler, turning his body to the side as the other man
charged.
His left fist was shooting into a punch as Carter
turned and grabbed the wrist with his left hand. At the
same time, he threw his right shoulder into the side of
the man's head. The soldier stumbled but hung on like a
leech, dragging Carter with him as he went down.
Both of them fell into a patch of ground cover. It was
thistle weed, and the pain was immediate as Carter felt
the needlelike thorns rip at his face, head, and shoul-
ders.
The soldier, his left wrist still locked in Carter's left
hand, tried a high, wild right directed at the Killmaster's
face. Carter crashed into him with his shoulder again,
and they rolled farther into the needles. Carter was on
the bottom, and the pain of the stinging barbs was so in-
tense that for a moment it broke his concentration.
The soldier broke the hold and knocked Carter off
him with a short, solid right that hammered into his
already painfully aching face.
The Russian didn't know it, but it was that punch that
lost him the fight.
The knuckles of his one good hand broke.
Carter went backward, shoulders flat, knees high.
The Russian was on his feet, jumping for the Killmaster,
both heels aiming for his chest.
As the heavy boots came down, Carter was twisting.
One missed completely and the other scraped across his
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ribs, throwing the man off-balance. Carter grabbed the
ankle and twisted sharply as he rolled his body to the
side with the ankle beneath him. The Killmaster's shoul-
der came down hard on the man's shin.
It cracked, and there was a howl of pain.
To Carter's amazement, as they both came up the
man crouched, still ready to do battle with a broken
right ankle and two useless hands.
But still he came in, hard and fast, one hand grabbing
Carter's hair. He tried to bring the heel of his other
hand up under Carter's chin.
It was futile.
Carter smashed him away with rights and lefts to the
body, the man's fingers vainly trying to pull hair as he
fell back.
With a cry of pain and anger, he charged in again. As
they closed, his right knee came up hard and Carter fell
back, bringing his left knee up and catching the man's
right leg between shin and kneecap.
Carter could see his beet-red face in front of him.
And then his head went back like a football at the end of
a dropkick as Carter's knee forced his right leg high
against his body. As he went over, Carter brought his
left foot up hard but missed the killing kick.
But in midair, Carter managed to change direction.
He came down with both of his boots firmly in the
man's midsection. Finishing the fall, he curled his right
arm around the man's neck. The Russian continued to
struggle, but the movement only aided the Killmaster's
intent.
He curled and tucked the inner part of his right arm
over the man's windpipe, ground his knee into the small
of his back, and used the fulcrum of his left arm with his
left palm against the back of the man's head.
He strained, twisted, and then yanked.
The crack of the man's spine was like an echoing rifle
shot in the forest's stillness.
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Carter dropped the body and staggered to a tree. He
leaned against the rough bark and wiped blood from his
face. When his eyes focused, he saw Maxim lurching
toward him.
"Hurry!" the man said. "We must go!"
"Can't " Carter panted. "Not yet ."
"We must. Where there is one, there are always
two."
"No, dammit," Carter growled. "We've got to bury
him."
They argued for another few minutes, until Carter
staggered overt picked the man's legs from the ground,
and began dragging the lifeless form into the trees.
Eventually, with a groan, Maxim followed.
They had no tools. After five minutes Carter knew
that Maxim had been right. The ground was frozen,
hard as a rock.
Finally, the best they could do was a very shallow hole
and a mound of leaves over the body.
Jogging back to the truck, every bone in his body
aching, his face still bleeding profusely, Carter hoped
that it would be at least a few hours before they found
the body.
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THIRTEEN
Yurlie Timofey had already passed two roadblocks by
the time he approached another just before the city of
Kazan.
So easily had he been passed through the first two, the
KGB barely looking at the papers of one of their own,
that he was lulled into a sense of false security.
With a hearty ' 'Good afternoon," he passed his iden-
tification and traveling papers over to the uniformed
guard.
The man was dour-faced, which was usual. But he
was also curt and gruff. That was .unusual, since Timo-
fey's identification marked him obviously as the guard's
superior in rank by some degrees.
"One moment, comrade. You will wait in the car,
please."
Yurlie Timofey's antennae signaling danger went up
at once. The man had moved into the tiny guardhouse.
He was talking over the papers with two other men,
both in civilian clothes, both obviously KGB.
Every few seconds one of the men would look up at
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Timofey with a questioning scowl.
He was blown. He was almost sure of it.
Without registering anything in his manner or on his
face, he let his eyes dart around the roadblock.
Before him were two wooden barriers. A single guard
stood at one end of the barriers ready to raise or lower
them by hand. Three more guards idled at the other
side, their AK-47s slung carelessly over their shoulders.
About forty yards beyond the barriers were two
vehicles, a dull gray sedan and a personnel carrier with a
large-caliber machine gun mounted on the roof of the
cab.
Yurlie Timofey had just the 7.62 Tokarev for fire-
power, but he had the Ziv. If he crashed through with-
out being riddled, neither of the two vehicles could
come close to the big Ziv for speed.
The three men emerged from the guardhouse and
started toward the Ziv. Timofey slid the Tokarev from
its holster under his armpit and transferred it to his left
hand. At his side beneath the level of the door and by
his leg it could not be seen.
One of the two KGB men broke off and headed
around to the other side of the car.
Timofey spoke when the guard and the other KGB
man were still more than ten feet away.
"Something wrong? "
the guard replied.
"It's nothing, just routine,"
"Would you step from the car, comrade?"
Timofey kept his left foot on the brake, tight, and
tickled the accelerator with the toe of his right shoe as he
pulled the gear lever down into drive.
"Should I pull the car to the side?"
"That won't be necessary e"
The first KGB man was directly in front of the right
fender.
Yurlie Timofey went into every motion at once. He
brought the Tokarev up firing. Two slugs slammed into
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the guard, sending him reeling. At the same instant, he
floored the accelerator.
The right fender and bumper struck the first KGB
man and sent him flying. The car caught up with him
and pinned his body between it and the barriers as the
big front of the Ziv splintered them.
As he smashed through, Timofey continued to fire
out the window. Two of the three soldiers fell and the
third dropped by instinct. That soldier was already roll-
ing his rifle around to fire when he hit the ground.
Yurlie Timofey was through the barriers, but a burst
from the AK-47 shattered the Ziv's rear window. The
slugs whined past his head and exited through the wind-
shield.
Normally such a burst would have blown out the win-
dow. But because some of their force was blunted by the
thick rear glass, the windshield was only shattered, mak-
ing it impossible for Timofey to see.
For a brief second he lost control, but he kept his foot
on the floor. The heavy car rocked and began to slide.
Too late he saw the sedan coming up.
He tried but couldn't avoid the car completely. The
side of the Ziv collided with the gray sedan in a scream-
ing, ear-splitting crunch of metal.
Timofey pulled the gear lever into low-drive, and
again floored the gas pedal.
The rear tires burned rubber until smoke from them
formed a halo around the car.
He was moving, but very slowly ...
And then he realized that the left rear of the Ziv was
still connected to the sedan. He was moving down the
road, but he was dragging the other car with him.
And then he saw it. The personnel carrier was coming
up on his right. There were two men, the driver and a
second man in the catbird seat behind the machine gun.
Yurlie Timofey did everything but pray as he jammed
harder with his foot and urged the big car to go faster.
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Another forty yards and he saw that it was useless. He
couldn't unhinge the sedan and he couldn't outdistance
the personnel carrier.
He shifted the Tokarev to his right, took the wheel
with his left, and slowed slightly.
It took the driver of the personnel carrier only a
second to draw abreast. When he did, Timofey fired
wildly, directing his shots at the image in the side win-
dow.
When he saw the man's head explode and then disap-
pear, he hit the brakes hard.
The personnel carrier careened wildly on down the
road, and Timofey went out the passenger side of the
Ziv.
It was a hundred yards to the trees.
He had taken only a few steps when AK-47 slugs
began chipping asphalt around his flying feet.
Fifty yards ... only fifty more yards to the trees.
But he didn't make it. Somehow he knew he
wouldn't.
The first slug caught him in the side, spinning him.
Then he caught two more, one high in the left shoulder
and one in the leg.
Like a wounded crane, he stood on one leg and
brought the Tokarev up in both hands. He aimed and
fired at the crouching soldiers by the guardhouse.
The hammer clicked on empty.
Another volley ended it.
The helicopter came down gently in the parking lot of
the Sverdlovsk arms factory. Before the rotors even
stopped turning, Delenin was on the ground running
toward the waiting men.
He was bone-tired and bleary, but this, the first solid
break they had found, had served to send new adren-
aline surging through his body.
By the time he reached the men he had already tugged
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his KGB identification from his wallet. "l am Alek-
sandr Delenin, Moscow Center. "
"Yes, Comrade Colonel, we got your message. "
"A few hours ago, just outside of Kazan, a man was
discovered with forged papers in a KGB limousine. He
was shot before he could be interrogated. From his trav-
eling papers we think he was here sometime yesterday."
The two officials looked quizzically at each other for
a moment, and then one of them clapped his hands to-
gether.
"The two Italians were in a black Ziv limousine with
KGB plates!"
"Italians? What Italians?"
"Two arms buyers, Comrade Colonel," the man re-
plied, consulting his ever-present note pad. ' 'Names,
Antonio Carpesi and Rico Andelli. "
"I assure you, Comrade Colonel," offered the sec-
ond official, "their papers were genuine and completely
in order."
"l am sure they were," Delenin replied dryly. "Did
you see a woman?"
"Woman? No, there was no woman with them. Just
the two Italians and the driver. We didn't speak to the
driver. "
"Were your monitors on?"
"0f course. As you know, we tape all meetings, espe-
cially those with foreigners."
"I want that tape at once, and I'll need a car and
driver to take me to Sverdlovsk KGB. "
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
The two men scurried away and Delenin stalked back
to the helicopter.
"Get me Nikolsky on the radio!"
Two minutes later he was handed the hand micro-
phone.
"Nikolsky? Delenin. Have you found anything else in
the
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"Not a thing, but we have an identification on the
driver. His name was Yurlie Timofey. He was a truck-
driver working out of Kiev. What about you?"
' 'He was driving two Italians. Supposedly they were
arms buyers. "
"And the woman?"
' 'She wasn't with them."
"We found several blankets in the trunk. Perhaps she
was hiding in there."
"l don't think so," Delenin replied. "They were at
the factory for over five hours. That would have been a
long time without coming up for air."
"Are you coming back to Kuybyshev?"
"Not just yet. I'm going to the KGB offices here. I'll
get back to you." He handed the microphone back to
the pilot. "Don't stray far from the machine. When I go
I'll want to go fast."
Delenin turned and walked back to the car. The two
officials were waiting anxiously beside it, one holding a
cassette.
"Here is the tape, Comrade Colonel. "
"Thank you. Call Sverdlovsk Center and alert them I
am coming. "
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
It took nearly an hour, even in the privileged center
lanes, to get into and across the city to KGB head-
quarters.
He was met practically at the front door by a tall,
heavyset man with dark circles under his eyes and
rumpled saltand pepper hair. He wore a shapeless gray
suit, and the collar of his shirt was smudged.
It was, Delenin thought, the uniform of anonymity.
' 'I am Captain Dmitri Chertoff, Comrade Colonel. I
am at your service. "
"I'll need an office with both phone and radio that I
can use. "
"Right this way, Comrade Colonel."
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"Have this tape transmitted immediately to Moscow
Center. I want identification on everyone on that tape.
And I want emergency priority on it. Anyone there gives
you any shit, call me."
"Da, Comrade Colonel. Right in here."
"Also, I want your registry lists of all hostels, hotels,
and inns in the area for the last two days."
"Da," the man said, nodding vigorously. ' 'Would
the colonel care for some vodka?"
"No, coffee, black . . . and lots of it. Get moving,
Captain!"
Maxim Davidovitch dropped them off between two
villages on a deserted section of the beach. Darkness
had fallen shortly before their arrival, and it had
clouded over even more. By the time they had walked a
short distance, it started to rain.
"Ah, this is good," Lev Sabat murmured. "Fewer
fools will be venturing out."
"Where are we?" Dasha asked.
"About a mile from the Caspian Sea," Sabat replied.
"Soon you will smell it. About four miles back there is
Astrakhan. Over there is the Black Sea and Turkey.
Watch your step—there are bogs here that will swallow
you whole. "
The old man was like a sure-footed cat even though
the darkness was like an inky blanket. Carter com-
mented on it.
"l took my holiday for many years right here. That's
how I met old Grechko. And you must remember," he
added with a cackle, "l came this way once before to
Turkey. "
Another fifteen minutes and he held up his arms to
halt them.
They were on the edge of a grove of scrub trees.
Carter couldn't see the water, but he could smell it.
"What is it?"
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"We're there," Sabat said, pointing.
And then Carter saw it, in the sand about eighty yards
from where they stood.
It was a dilapidated one-story shack. It looked more
like a stable than a house. From its general appearance
it looked as if it had been deserted for many years. The
roof was intact but didn't appear as though it would
stay that way for long, and marsh grass was growing up
through the boards of a rickety porch.
"There are no lights," Carter said.
s 'No matter. He is there, somewhere in the darkness,
watching and waiting."
"For us?" Dasha asked.
' 'Yes, for us. Or for the KGB, if we had been caught
already and interrogated. "
Sabat put his fingers to his 'lips and emitted a low
whistle. There were a few seconds of silence, and then a
whistle in reply.
"Come along!"
They were about ten yards from the house when a
voice speaking in the harsh Georgian dialect halted them
from behind.
"Stop right there! Keep your hands away from your
sides and turn slowly around!"
They did as they were told. A penlight played over
Carter and Dasha, and then came to rest on Lev Sabat's
face.
"We meet again, old friend."
"Grechko! " Sabat cried.
The two men embraced and kissed, then they em-
braced again.
"Come quickly, inside. I have some zakuski ready
with vodka. You must put something in your bellies be-
fore you start the long night's work."
The Georgian led the way across the porch and into
the house. Carter heard a bar drop into place and then
the room came alive with candlelight.
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On a low table, strips of vegetables, cheese, and meat
ere laid out along with a bottle of vodka.
"Welcome to my home. "
Grechko was huge, -filling the room and dwarfing the
hree of them. His white, damply curling hair was wildly
isheveled and his heavy jowls were bristling with
everal days' growth of beard. He was dressed in a well-
orn leather jacket, a grimy T-shirt, and faded wool
ants stuffed into rubber boots.
The bear embraced each of them, and all four fell to
heir knees beside the table.
"Forgive me if everything smells of fish. After so
any years it gets on everything I touch. "
"Tell us, Grechko, my dear friend. Were you able to
ake the arrangements?"
"The torch and all the other tools you need are in my
iSh wagon. It is parked near the boathouse nearby."
"Wonderful."
S'I have made arrangements to deliver a batch of free
iSh as a sample of my quality to a small restaurant near
he yards tonight. If we are stopped, that is my excuse.
"And most importantly," Sabat said, "the cars. Are
there?
"They are there, as always," Grechko replied, and
hen roared with laughter. "I have brought a certain rail
uard many glasses of vodka to make sure. They were
nspected and sealed at three o'clock this afternoon.
hey will be on their way to Damascus at six o'clock in
he morning."
"And we," Carter said, raising his glass, ' 'will be on
he way to Turkey. Na zdorov'e. "
It took an hour for the reports to come back from
oscow. When they did,' Aleksandr Delenin had to read
hem twice before they sank in.
' 'Unbelievable. My God, it is unbelievable!"
"What is it, Comrade Colonel?"
Delenin ignored the captain and barked into the radio
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for Nikolsky, who had set up a command post on the
Moscow highway.
"Da, I am here, Comrade Colonel."
"The two Italians .. g"
"One is a defector, Lev Sabat. He is the man Balis-
tronov lost his life going after. "
"Yes."
"That would make a connection perhaps with Dasha
Koneva. "
don't think there is any 'perhaps' about it. The
other so-called Italian's real identity is unbelievable."
"Yes, Comrade Colonel?"
"It is an American agent by the name of Carter."
"Shit."
"Yes, Piotr Illyich, there is an American agent run-
ning around the Soviet Union as if he owned it with a
Ukrainian defector and a Russian spy! "
The silence that fell between the two of them was
pregnant with meaning. They didn't have to voice it.
If they let an American get in and out of Russia, and
lost Dasha Peshkova Koneva in the bargain, it would be
their collective asses.
After a long moment Delenin spoke again.
"They didn't stay in any public place here. That
means they had help, a private home or apartment.
Keep filling me in with reports, Nikolsky. I am going to
search this area for anyone who might have seen that car
in the last few days. It is all we have left now."
"Da. Comrade Colonel, it is all .. e"
"Comrade Colonel .. e"
"In a moment, Captain. "
"Colonel, I think this may be important. It is very
odd."
"Damn. One moment, Nikolsky. What is it, Cap-
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A piece of paper was slipped into Delenin's hand. The
meaning of it hit him at once.
Murder is an almost unheard-of occurrence in the
Soviet Union. The murder of a soldier an impossibility.
"In what sector did they find the body?"
"I have marked the coordinates here on this map,
Comrade Colonel.
Delenin took one look and began barking into the
phone.
"Nikolsky, they are heading south, toward Turkey.
Commandeer a helicopter and meet me as soon as you
can in Tbilisi. "
"Da, right away, Colonel. "
Delenin slammed the microphone down and grabbed
his coat. His last order to the captain as he stormed
toward the door was shouted over his shoulder.
"Get through to Moscow Center.r want everything
they have and every suspicion they ever had about Lev
Sabat sent to me in Tbilisi, and I want it there by the
time I arrive!"
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The Astrakhan rail center was divided into two huge
sections on each side of the main switching yard. On one
side were the loading docks and short tracks with cars
waiting to be loaded. On the other were the huge, cav-
ernous maintenance shops and steel warehouse sheds.
It was the warehouse side they wanted.
They were passing around the switching yard now.
Through the stained rear windows of the van Carter
could see the immense yard crisscrossed by lines of
bright lights. Two switching engines were noisily gather-
ing cars from the loading docks as a mother hen gathers
her chicks.
"Bless them," Sabat murmured at his shoulder.
"That will be our train they are putting together. "
"Not long now," Grechko said from the front.
"Remember, the soldiers inside the fence make their
rounds every half hour, so you've only got eighteen
minutes to get into warehouse number three."
Sabat looked at Carter.
"Don't worry," the Killmaster said, grinning. "I
haven't seen a lock yet, even Russian, that I can't pick
in thirty seconds."
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"Here we go!"
Suddenly the van veered to the left and halted. The
gears ground slightly and then they were in reverse. Just
as quickly they halted again.
Carter and Dasha had been ready, crouched at the
rear doors, their hands clutching the handles. The mo-
ment the van stopped they jumped out, tugging a ladder
behind them. As they pulled, Sabat withdrew the exten-
sion.
When it was free of the van, the woman went up, with
Carter and the old man right behind her. Lithely she
swung over the top and curled her fingers and the toes
of her boots into the chain link.
Half sliding, half falling, they hit the ground on the
other side. Grechko had already slid the ladder back
together and into the vane When the doors were secured,
he turned.
"I go now to deliver my fish. Good luck, old friend."
"And to yout Grechko."
They were off, running in a low crouch over the rails
and ties. It was about fifty yards across an open
switching space to the first warehouse. They made it,
with the old man falling only once with the weight of the
equipment strapped to his back.
"Are you all right?"
"'A scraped knee," Sabat replied. "What is a scraped
Carter checked his watch. They had used up four
minutes.
"Come on!"
They moved in the shadows of the huge domed
warehouses. Every now and then Carter leaned outward
to look up and check a number designation above the
tall, wide doors.
' 'There it is," he said at last. "Number three."
"The workers' entrance is in the rear. This way!"
They moved down the center of a pair of tracks,
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carefully stepping on each tie rather than between them
and risk popping an ankle.
At the corner they all came to an abrupt halt. Just a
few feet away, at the rear of the warehouse, they heard
voices.
Carter, motioning them to silence, dropped onto his
belly and inched to the edge Of the building. With his
cheek practically scraping the ground he moved his head
far enough out to see.
Four soldiers lounged against the wall, talking and
smoking. From their manner, Carter guessed they
wouldn't be there long. They had probably just slipped
away from their duty posts long enough to grab a
smoke.
Carter knew that the real spit-and-polish soldiers that
goose-stepped through Red Square every May Day
would not be detailed to the train yards at Astrakhan.
These four were just kids, conscripts from the vast
countryside, putting in their time.
Using hand signals, Carter motioned the other two
back. They retreated until they were in hiding under a
large concrete loading ramp.
In a low whisper Carter told them the problem.
"But what if they don't go away?" Dasha asked.
"They will ... I just hope it's soon."
Suddenly, from the gates in front of another ware-
house, there was a blinding beam of light and the sound
of a diesel starting up.
Instinctively, all three of them flattened out. And just
in time.
From around the corner came the four soldiers on
the run. They passed so close that Carter could have
reached out and touched their boots.
"They were probably supposed to be on that gate
when it was opened. "
Sabat nodded. "We can make it now if we stay low
and close to the building. "
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"Then let's go!" Carter hissed.
Practically as one, they rounded the corner and felt
their way along the dark wall until they found a door.
Carter took a penlight from the kit at his belt and passed
it to Dasha.
"Here, shield it with both your body and your
hands."
She did, narrowing the already thin beam down until
it illuminated only the lock and Carter's feverishly
working hands.
"Hurry," Sabat urged, "we only have just over a
"Almost," Carter replied, and then felt the lock give.
"Got it! Inside! "
The three of them darted inside and Carter locked the
door behind him.
"Give me the light," Sabat said.
Dasha handed him the penlight, and then gasped as
he shined it up around the huge front doors and the win-
dows.
"There is no cause for alarm. The place is sealed
tight. No light can escape because none can enter. They
want no peering eyes outside to know what they are
loading inside. "
Then he flashed the light down the length of the three
boxcars.. Even in its tiny beam Carter could see the
heavy, gilded seals on the boxcar doors.
"These must be the ones," he said.
"Those are indeed the ones," Sabat said, nodding.
Carter unslung the tanks and torch pack from his
back. "Let's get to work!"
As usual, the bureaucratic red tape and general
laziness in Moscow both disgusted and angered Alek-
sandr Delenin.
Within twenty minutes after his arrival he had alerted
every outpost along the Turkish frontier. Just in case,
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although he guessed they would never try anything so
dangerous, he had also alerted the patrol boats in Rus-
Sian waters of the Caspian Sea.
This had been done by one-thirty in the morning.
It took nearly two hours more to have pictures of the
three fugitives run off and sent out to all the posts.
But what really infuriated Delenin was the fact that it
was five o'clock in the morning before the report came
in from Moscow on Lev Sabat.
He had gone over it twice when Piotr Illyich Nikolsky
joined him at last.
"Sorry, they sent the copter to the wrong place."
"Typical," Delenin grunted. "Thank God Khrush-
chev didn't get his way. How in hell could we ever run
the whole world?"
"What's this?"
"Report on Sabat," Delenin replied, tossing it across
the desk. "Go over it, will you, and wake me in a half
hour. I haven't been able to make heads nor tails out of
it."
Delenin stumbled to a cot that had been brought into
the hastily readied office. Without even removing his
shoes he tumbled onto it and was sound asleep in
seconds.
At the desk, Nikolsky pored over the Sabat report.
He had read it clear through three times before he
realized that something was either missing or had never
been inserted in the first place.
How did Lev Sabat execute his defection from the
Soviet Union?
Carter had already burned a round hole two and a
half feet in diameter through the first layer of steel plate
in the belly of the boxcar. Now he shut off the torch and
directed Dasha to shine the light back to the array of
tools on the floor.
"You mean there's more?" she asked incredulously.
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Carter nodded. "These are specially built cars. They
have two layers of steel plate all the way around, even
the doors and roof. "
He took the lubricant gun and again motioned for her
to shine the light back up. He would cut the second layer
with a diamond-and-bronze-bladed saw. This was the
tricky part. The saw was almost totally silent, but if he
hit one of the connector bolts, which were made of iron,
the whine would be heard all the way to Moscow.
He found four bolts and liberally loaded them with
grease, then he called to Sabat who was prowling the
walls and marking time until the guard/watchman's
next round.
"Yes," came the voice from the darkness some
distance away.
"I'm ready to cut through the second sheet."
"Go! You should have at least fifteen minutes!"
Carter smiled to himself. With this baby it shouldn't
take more than five. Nevertheless, tension kneaded his
chest as he adjusted the power on the battery pack and
plugged in the saw.
He was cutting straight away from the side doors of
the boxcar, about three feet in. If the car had been
loaded normally, that would be the open space. The
loaders would fill both ends of the car and then work
their way from the opposite sides up to the door, leaving
a space for the men on the other end to start their work.
At least that was what he and Sabat hoped. This was
the reason Carter was using the saw instead of a torch.
If he cut through and hit crates instead of open air, the
torch would start a fire in the boxcar that might blow
it—and them—all to hell.
"Put the beam right there. Got it?"
"Yes," Dasha whispered.
"Now, when I start, just keep moving it an inch or so
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in front of the blade. I'll actually be following you, so
watch yourself. "
"I'll do my best."
Just before he hoisted the saw, he painted a layer of
the oozy lubricant all over the base.
"That should do it," he breathed. "Here we go."
He flipped the blade up and switched on the saw.
There was little more than a hum in his ear as he ad-
justed the saw-butt to his shoulder.
The first insertion was clean, the blade going through
the steel like a hot knife through butter. Then he was
cutting in a smooth arc, the blade like a razor.
"Look out, here it comes!"
Carter nudged her away with his shoulder and rolled
free himself.
They were barely out of the way when the inner plate
fell with a resounding thud to the concrete floor.
"Lev ... ?"
' 'It's all right, no sound from outside. Are we ready
' 'Yeah, come along!"
Sabat quickly joined them. Together they hoisted
Dasha through the hole with the light.
"Lots of room," she said. "It's only half loaded, big
crates. "
"Good. Give Lev a hand."
When the old man was up through the hole, Carter
passed up the torch, saw, tools, and the canvas they had
been wrapped up in. The last things through were the
two circles of steel Carter had cut from the belly.
Then he hoisted himself up.
"0kay, you two rig the canvas over the hole. I'll drill
some peepholes in the sides up near the roof."
They worked as quickly, efficiently, and as quietly as
possible.
Carter scrambled up over the crates. With a drill and
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the battery pack he drilled ten tiny holes all along both
sides of the car. Between them they would be able to
watch every move on the outside.
When he was done, he dropped back to the floor and
inspected their handiwork with the tarp.
"Good, just make sure you don't step on it and go
through!"
"What time is it?" Dasha asked.
l' Ten minutes until six," Sabat replied with a
chuckle. "Hell, we had nine minutes to spare."
With the rucksacks, they made themselves makeshift
beds for the two-hour journey to the Turkish frontier.
They had barely settled in when they heard the roar
and clang of the huge double doors opening. Seconds
later they heard a powerful diesel, its roar filling the
warehouse outside the boxcar.
Carter scrambled atop one of the crates. "They're
hooking up."
"My God," Dasha gasped, her voice quaking in the
darkness. "It's unbelievable."
"What is, my dear?" Sabat asked.
"We're going to make it. We're actually going to
And then there was a tremendous jolt that knocked
them from their feet.
And then they were moving.
Forward.
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FIFTEEN
Five men had been brought in and a bank of twenty
phones had been hooked up. It was nearly eight o'clock
now, and the phones were ringing constantly.
It was as Aleksandr Delenin had ordered. Every out-
post, even in the middle of a vacant field along the
Turkish frontier, was calling the central Tbilisi com-
mand every fifteen minutes. They had a net from the
Black Sea to the Caspian Sea that a mouse couldn't slip
through.
At least that is what the head of Tbilisi Center had
told Delenin.
"Not even a mouse," Delenin mumbled to himself as
he Watched the men at the phones. "If that is true, why
do I have this aching feeling in my bowels that we have
already lost them?"
"Comrade Colonel .. 4"
"Yes?" Delenin replied, rushing to the man who had
called.
"A report from Kutaisi near the Black Sea. i'
"Yes, yes?"
"A man and a woman were found in the back of a
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lorry hidden in a pile of beets. The border guards almost
missed them, but they are under arrest. "
Delenin's heart went clear up into his throat.
A break. Oh God, if it is, I promise I'll light a candle
even if I don 't believe in you.
"Get descriptions on both of them at once. "
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
Delenin paced, chewing on his cigar until the man
called him again.
"I'm sorry, Comrade Colonel. The man matches the
description of the American, but he has a wooden leg.
Also, the woman is over sixty, his mother."
Delenin's heart went back to his gut. He waved the
man away.
"What do you want done with them, Comrade Colo-
"Done with them?" Delenin roared. "Hell, let them
go, throw them back. They are little fish too small for
He stormed away, only to crash into Nikolsky at the
door.
' 'Comrade Colonel s"
"What is it?" he snapped.
"Let's goin here where it is quieter."
Delenin allowed himself to be led into a smaller of-
fice. When the door was closed, shutting out the racket
in the larger one, Nikolsky turned to him with a beam-
ing grin on his face.
"I think I've got it."
"Got what?"
"How they are planning to do it. As you know, I got
what Moscow had on Lev Sabat's escape route when he
went over before. "
"Yes, I know," Delenin growled, "but you said it
was all conjecture, no substance, and, God knows, no
real facts."
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183
"Yes, Colonel, that's what I said, and it's true. But
for the last .two hours I've been down in the computer
room doing an item scan on everything that happened in
the USSR or our satellites for a three-day period on
both sides of Sabat's conjectured departure. "
"And ?"
"Nothing. "
"Nothing?" Delenin roared. "Then why the hell are
you bothering me with all this if—
"But I did find this, by trial and error
Delenin snatched the paper from his aide's hand and
scanned it. He looked up at last with a deep scowl on his
face. "What does a train blowing up in the Erzurum
yards in Turkey have to do with Sabat?"
"It happened the afternoon of the departure ... if, at
least, we have the date right. And, Colonel, it wasn't an
entire train, it was only one car. "
"One car of three, sealed in Astrakhan and not
opened until they were in Damascus. "
Slowly it all sank in. When it did, Delenin literally
dived for the phone. He had to make four calls, scream-
ing all the while to get the trainmaster in Astrakhan.
He screamed questions at the man, listened, and
screamed again. Finally he slammed the phone down
and, white-faced, whirled on his aide.
C' Those shipments are still -being sent to Damascus
twice a week. They put a trio of cars together this morn-
ing in Astrakhan. What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty."
Delenin's face got whiter. "They were due to arrive in
Tbilisi at eight o'clock. "
"And Russian trains," Nikolsky intoned, ' 'are never
late."
"I don't like it," Sabat said, kneading his hands
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together in his lap, his eye straining at one of the
peepholes.
All three of them were sitting atop crates, their eyes
watching the activity in the yards. The three boxcars had
been shuttled to a short track. In front of them, three
hundred yards away, were the barriers. And just beyond
them, Turkey.
"What's wrong?" Dasha asked from the opposite
side of the car.
'II can feel, sense it," Sabat said. "Something isn't
right. No, dammit, I know something isn't right. We've
been sitting on this short track for twenty minutes. By
now they should have dropped the second set of
wheels. "
"Lev." It was Carter from the front of the car.
"Yes?"
"Get up here and take a look at this."
Sabat crawled along the crates until he was at the
Killmaster's side. "What is it?"
"Bad news, I think. Use that hole there."
Sabat ground his eye to the hole. "Holy Mother of
God."
"Is it what I think it is?" Carter asked carefully.
"It is. That's our train. They've sidetracked us, and
the train we're supposed to be attached to is going over
the frontier without us. "
"That could mean only one thing," Carter said
tightly. "They're onto us."
' 'Perhaps not. Perhaps they are just not letting
anything out of the country without a final inspection.
That would at least give us a little time."
"Nick, Nick!" Dasha cried.
"What is it?" Carter said, scrambling over the crates
to join her.
"Soldiers, lots of soldiers, there by the main terminal
building."
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185
Carter looked. There were six large personnel car-
riers. They had pulled up close to the yard fence and
troops were pouring out the back of them.
Even as the Killmaster watched, the troops started
falling in. They were all heavily armed, and, unlike the
boy soldiers in Astrakhan, these men looked like part of
a crack outfit.
"Nick .. ." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"That man . . .
the one on the back of that truck
shouting and waving his hands?"
"Yeah?"
"I know him. Even from such a great distance there is
no mistaking him. "
"'Who is it?"
"His name is Aleksandr Delenin. He's a colonel and
is head of KGB, Moscow Security. There is only one
reason he would be in Tbilisi. "
Carter groaned. "Us. "
"Yes, " Dasha replied, "us. I'm afraid they have us."
"No," Sabat cried, "not yet they don't have us!
Shine that light over here!"
The old man jumped to the floor of the boxcar and
started ripping the top off one of the crates.
"I want to make this as clear as possible. The second
and third cars are filled with arms and explosives. Do
not fire unless you see them and have a clean shot. Do
you all understand?"
Delenin paused, letting his eyes sweep over the ranked
men.
"We will surround all three cars. I myself will try to
talk them out with the bull horn. Major?"
"Da, Comrade Colonel."
"Move them out!"
"Da, Comrade Colonel."
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Delenin dropped from the tailgate of the truck and
was quickly joined by Nikolsky.
"And what happens if I am wrong, Colonel—if they
are not in the boxcars?"
"Then, Piotr Illyich, we had better find a way to get
to Turkey ourselves."
"You're mad, old man."
"No," Sabat chuckled with glee, "I am quite sane.
Now show me again. I just flip this, press the trigger,
and it fires. Is that correct?"
Carter nodded.
The crates in one end of the boxcar had been filled
with light 7.62 machine guns and ammunition.
They had already pulled out three and assembled
them before Sabat had let them in on his whole plan.
There was a booster engine on a turntable about one
hundred yards from where they were. It was aligned
with the incoming track from the Turkish frontier. If
Carter and Dasha could reach that engine and take it
over, they might be able to crash through the barriers
into Turkey.
"'I'll go out first on the blind side. I should be able to
make the switching tower. From up there I can keep
them away from this boxcar long enough for you to get
clear."
Carter hated what he was hearing, but he had to hand
it to the old man.
It just might work.
"You know, Lev, they'll go for you in the tower
first."
The old man's grin grew wider. "That's what they are
supposed to do."
"But they won't even try to take you alive if you're
firing at them!" Dasha cried.
"My dear," Sabat said softly, "I have done all I can
do in Turkey anyway. "
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Then he turned to Carter.
187
"You must have suspected why I told you I would
come along. I have missed my homeland for a long time
now."
Carter exchanged glances with the woman. No words
were needed.
It was the old man's choice.
He nodded at Sabat, then clasped him hard.
Carter watched him run in a zigzag pattern around
the cars. When he was at the door of the tower, Carter
breathed again.
"He's there. "
"They are fanning out, getting ready to surround the
cars," Dasha replied.
Carter dropped to the floor.
They had found two crates filled with Gelemax plas-
tique explosive. Together they had jammed them
against the doors, and Carter had rigged a detonator
and a makeshift timer.
Together they crouched by the hole. Carter had one
finger of his left hand on the timer release.
' 'When you hear the first shot, go!"
She nodded.
"This thing is set for one minute, if I guesstimated
right. If Sabat's firing doesn't hold them up long
enough, this should. "
The last word was barely out of his mouth when they
heard the chatter of a machine gun. It was quickly
followed by answering fire and chaotic shouting.
"Go!" Carter barked, and pushed Dasha through the
hole. He lifted his finger from the timer. 'SBIow, baby,
blow. "
Then he dropped through himself. She was already
twenty yards ahead of him, running like a deer. Carter
cleared the edge of the boxcar and dashed behind
another. He ran low and darted his eyes from the tower
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to the soldiers, all scrambling for cover.
So far so good, he thought.
Sabat was a wildman in the tower. From the sound of
it, there had been only a few seconds' pause in the long
bursts of firing. That would have been to change mag-
azines,
The old man had learned a lot about a machine gun in
a brief three-minute lesson.
Carter caught up with Dasha and urged her to even
greater speed.
"Why haven't they seen us?" she gasped.
"Because they're too damned busy saving their own
asses," Carter replied. "Faster!"
They were still about eighty yards from the rumbling
diesel engine when, suddenly, the firing ceased from the
tower.
"0h, my God," Dasha cried, pulling up.
Carter kept going, yanking her by the elbow.
"But he's dead
"l know that, and so do they!" Carter shouted in her
face. ' 'So let's get our butts out of here! That's what
he's dead for! "
Carter leaped into the cab of the diesel without
touching a single step as she scrambled up behind him:
A startled engineer was frozen against the other side of
the cab.
"What's your name!" Carter barked.
. r . Ibelka."
' 'All right, Comrade Ibelka," Carter growled, shov-
ing the snout of the submachine gun into the man's
throat, ' 'you have two choices. Move this son of a bitch,
or die. "
. there is nowhere to go. The fron-
"But . . . But
tier ..
"Exactly, " Carter hissed. "That's where we're going.
He had barely shouted the command when bullets
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189
started careening off the engine like whining bees.
"Nick!" Dasha shouted. "They've seen us!"
' 'No shit. Start -firing back. You! Move this god-
damned thing!"
The man's hand shakily moved toward what Carter
assumed was the throttle. When he touched it and the
engine began to groan, Carter lurched forward. He
closed his own hand over the man's and shoved for-
ward. The big diesel lurched ahead like a scorched cat.
"Now keep it that way," Carter shouted, "or I'll turn
around and blow your fucking head off!"
Dasha was returning the fire. Carter joined her and
opened up with his own machine gun. They had the ad-
vantage of good cover, plus they were moving.
"Keep firing, dammit!"
"I can't!" she replied. "It's jammed!"
"Then stick it in his face and get more poop out of
this goddamned thing!"
He leaned out of the cab as he rammed a new
magazine into the gun. There were about thirty soldiers
trying to keep pace with the engine and darting along
the cars parallel to their path.
The guards at the frontier itself had seen what was
happening. They had also started to open fire.
To their left he saw two men cranking up a tanker
truck. It was easy to figure out their intent. They meant
to head them off and ram the diesel. But Carter could
see that it was no good.
They were highballing now, and only fifty yards from
the frontier. Already the guards had dropped their guns
and were scrambling to get out of the way.
"Duck and hang on!" Carter cried as he grasped
Dasha by the waist and pulled her to the floor.
Seconds later, the wooden barriers splintered around
them and they hurtled over the thirty yards of no-man's-
land and shattered the barriers on the Turkish side.
Carter pulled himself to his feet and turned to the
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Russian engineer. ' 'Okay, comrade, you can stop this
thing now."
Slowly they rolled to a halt.
Carter turned to see Dasha staring back down the
track. The plastique had detonated and flames soared
into the sky.
He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her to
his body.
"Welcome to Turkey," he said.
"Was it worth it?" she asked, tears rolling down both
her cheeks. "Was what I did, and what I still have in my
head, worth all this?"
It is, Carter thought, it's worth every bit of it.
But he didn't say it out loud. He just held her more
tightly.
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