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By the time Tony Polteri crossed the Tiber the second
time into the Trastevere section of Rome, he was sure he
wasn't being followed. Even if he were followed up to that
point, losing a tail in the tiny, winding back streets of Tras-
tevere would be simple.
He parked in a narrow alley and walked the few remain-
ing blocks to the square in front of the Church of St.
Maria.
Night had descended on the city, but in the narrow
streets running off the piazza, streetlamps, neon signs,
glaring automobile headlights, and blazing outdoor restau-
rants frustrated the darkness.
In the middle of all of it, staying in the shadows as he•
made his way around the piazza, Polteri felt isolated.
He had always felt isolated from what he thought was
most people's reality—nine-to-five workdays and clothes
for the kids and a mortgaged house in the suburbs and bills
for the new car. Polteri existed in a shadow world, with
fear his constant companion and himself his only ally. But
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in an odd way Polteri also felt isolated from this shadow
world, aloof from it, as if he didn't really belong, as if he
were an observer, not a participant.
He was successful, and because of his success he felt
apart. But now the diamond-tough edge of reality was slic-
ing into this illusion, breaking it up. He was a participant,
all right. And soon he might die the way many did—in a
gutter with a bullet in his brain, alone—not remembered,
because he was never really known.
He saw her immediately. Sister Gianna of St. Maria of
the Holy Martyrs. She was kneeling in prayer before a
statue of the Virgin.
Out of boyhood habit rather than conviction, Polteri
crossed himself as he passed through the center aisle and
slipped into a pew directly behind her to wait.
Despite the coarse cloth habit and the wimple that cov-
ered all but her starkly white face, she was still quite beau-
tiful, with strong Latin features and wide-set dark eyes.
Even after all the years, it was still hard for Polteri to
see her as Sister Gianna instead of Joanna Santoni, the
prettiest senior at St. Catherine's.
He had been in his first year of law school when they
met and fell in love. They couldn't marry; there just wasn't
enough money. For two years they suffered, grabbing time
together whenever they could. And then the worst thing
that could happen, happened. Joanna Santoni, the pride of
her family, the most devout girl in her parish, got pregnant.
Joanna Santoni, whose two brothers were priests and who,
as a child, had thought of becoming a nun, was going to
have a child, and she was unmarried.
Her mother had a nervous breakdown. Her two brothers
shook their heads, and her father went to the local don in
Providence for help in killing Tony Polteri.
Polteri and Joanna bought a simple gold band and, even
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though both of them knew the marriage was doomed,
eloped. They told no one, and went about their lives as
before. The child—a daughter—was born with a defective
heart. Joanna named her Antonia, after Tony. The baby
lived barely a year.
"It's our punishment, Tony," Joanna had said. "We'll
live with it for the rest of our lives."
At the death of their granddaughter, Joanna told her par-
ents about her marriage. Her father pulled strings and ob-
tained an annulment. Joanna Santoni entered a convent and
Tony Polteri went to Vietnam.
Suddenly she seemed to sense his presence. She crossed
herself and backed away from the Virgin.
"Hello, Tony. It's been months."
"I've been busy." He kissed her on both cheeks.
"Let's go out into the courtyard. I want a cigarette."
"That's permitted?" he asked.
She smiled. "Everything is permitted now, even giving
ourselves cancer. You don't look good, Tony."
He shrugged. "I've been under a bit of a strain."
"My brother wrote. He said the flowers on Antonia's
grave were beautiful. "
Polteri snorted. "With all the money I send that old thief
Rosselli, they should be."
They sat on a stone bench that curved around a foun-
tain. He lit two cigarettes and handed her one of them.
"Just like in the movies, huh?" She looked at him and
smiled.
"Yeah, kid, here's to you." They both laughed and then
fell silent for a moment, Polteri putting his thoughts to-
gether. "I'm going to have to go away."
"For long?"
He nodded. "A very long time."
She looked away, 'TII miss our lunches."
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He laid his hand on hers where it rested between them
on the bench. "Is that all?"
"No. The years have mellowed everything, Tony. We're
as close as two friends can be, you know that."
'SI know." He withdrew a thick envelope from his inside
jacket pocket and set it in her lap.
"What's this?"
"Business."
Her dark eyebrows came together as she hefted the en-
velope. She didn't know what Tony did. She assumed his
business was very successful since over the years he had
given nearly a million dollars to her order's children's hos-
pital fund.
"But what should I do with it?"
"Joanna .. i" He paused. It was the first time in years he
had called her Joanna.
"I'm going to write you every month. The letters will
come from a lawyer in Geneva. His name and address are
there on the envelope. If a month goes by and you don't
receive a letter from me, I want you to take that envelope
to that lawyer."
Her eyes clouded. "Tony, you're in trouble, aren't you."
He mashed out his cigarette and field-stripped it. "Let's
just say I could be."
"Can I help? You've done so much ..
"You can help by doing exactly as I say. You will, won't
you?"
"Of course I will."
He stood and tugged her to her feet.
"I've got to go
now.
He kissed her cheek, and then something made him
brush his lips over hers. "My God, I'm perverse."
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"How so?" she said, smiling, a tear squeezing from the
corner of her eye and running down her cheek.
"I always wanted to kiss a nun. Good-bye, Joanna." He
moved away, but stopped when she spoke again.
s 'Tony, when did you make your last confession?"
He paused, then shrugged. "Don't remember."
She moved to him and pressed something into his hand.
"Go to confession, Tony," she whispered.
When he turned she was hurrying away across the court-
yard, her head bowed.
He opened his hand. She had given him a rosary, and
dangling from it, next to the cross, was a plain gold ring.
Polteri's second destination that night—and his last call
in Rome—was near the Piazza Venezia. It had once been
an elegant old palazzo. Now it looked like a huge pile of
dark stone alongside the more modern business district that
had grown up around it.
Shunning the ancient elevator that rarely worked, Pol-
teri walked up the five flights of stairs to the top floor. He
dropped the brass knocker twice and waited in the drafty
hallway, smelling the dampness and the sharp tang of garlic
in the air. Light footsteps sounded inside the apartment and
the door was opened quickly.
The girl who opened the door looked to be in her middle
twenties. She wore a blue denim short-sleeved shirt that
was much too big for her everywhere but around the
breasts, and a pair of white shorts that appeared to be glued
into place, She stood no taller than five two or three, her
long black hair tied back into a ponytail that reached down
almost to the inside of her knees. Her shapely limbs were
tanned to a creamy mocha.
Her face was beautiful. High forehead and straight nose,
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the end of which flared into delicately winged nostrils. Jet-
black eyes which, round and clear, looked as if they could
shift from iceberg cold to sun-hot lava with the snap of a
finger. Eyes which, as Polteri made contact with them now,
stirred feelings in his groin that he knew he had no busi-
ness feeling at the present moment.
"Come in quickly," she said in a husky, petulant voice.
Polteri slid through the opening into the foyer of the
apartment. She closed and locked the door behind him.
"This is foolish, very dangerous," she whispered sharply
"I know," he replied, "but it couldn't be helped. There
was no time to set up a meet anywhere else."
"This way," she said with a sigh.
He followed her into a long salon whose windows
looked out onto the elaborate, starkly white war memorial
of Victor Emmanuel II. The memorial faced the Piazza
Venezia, where Italians had once gathered to hear Musso-
lini's trumpetings. Beyond it stretched the Roman Forum,
and then the incredible bulk of the Coliseum, glowing
under its barrage of electric lights.
"Would you like a drink0"
Her nervousness at his being in the flat told him she
didn't mean it.
"No, there isn't time. I have a great deal to do. Benja-
min Rivkin is going to talk."
Her eyes opened wide and her hand instinctively
reached for a cigarette. Polteri lit it and one for himself.
He noticed that his hand holding the lighter trembled
slightly. Bad sign.
"How do you know?"
"As investigator of the shuttle ring that brought Rivkin
and the other spies in, I was notified. A memo was sent to
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my office in Vienna this morning. I got it through the of-
fice here in Rome."
"How do you know they have turned Rivkin?" she
asked, puffing nervously on the cigarette.
"He specifically asked for a top agent familiar with Eu-
rope. My guess is he's going to give some of my people—
the ones he knows—in exchange for something."
"That's ridiculous. In two, not more than three weeks,
Rivkin will be back home, in Russia. The trade is being
worked out right now."
Polteri crushed out his cigarette and smiled. "I know. I
think that's what he's going to trade for. I think Rivkin
wants to stay in the United States."
Her face flushed, as he knew it would. No true Russian
and party member wanted to admit that one of his
comrades didn't want to return to blessed Mother Russia.
She began to pace.
"How did you bring Rivkin in?"
"Vienna, of course. Then he was moved to Madrid, on
to Paris, and then through London where he was handed
over to your people."
Polteri waited in silence while she paced the floor,
lighting one cigarette from the tip of another, and glancing
at him every moment or so.
"So Rivkin can name three of your people?"
Polteri nodded. "Rev Babbas in Madrid, Saul Charpek
in Paris, and Norman Evron in London. If they get those
three, they'll get the other four as well. And, of course,
one of the seven will break down and lead them to me."
She stopped her pacing and stared straight into his eyes.
"We cannot let that happen,"
Tony Polteri stood and strolled across to the terrace that
overlooked the heart of ancient Rome. It was beautiful at
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night, its pillars and broken statuary bathed in spotlights
and thrown into pale relief by moonlight.
And the cats. He couldn't see them, of course, but they
would be there, hundreds of them prowling for food, mov-
ing insolently through the night. Polteri had often gone out
and fed them.
He had often fancied himself as one of them.
He would miss Rome, and her. He would miss Vienna
and his trips to Budapest and Vela. He would miss Europe,
and his women.
Hell, he would even miss the cats.
She was at his side, her fingers on his arm. "Porchov
will handle it. He always has."
Polteri shook his head. "Not this time. The agent
they're sending to see Rivkin is Nick Carter. He's a bull-
dog. He won't give up. They were getting close anyway.
With Carter on it, it will only be a matter of time."
"No one man can stop an operation as large as this."
"This one can. You don't know Carter. I do." He placed
his hands on her shoulders. "We had a good nine-year run.
We made one hell of a lot of money. It's over."
"I'm afraid so," he replied, starting for the door.
"Tony, wait. Let me call Porchov. Talk to him."
'VToo late, luv."
"Tony, stop right there."
He turned, and just shook his head when he saw the
silenced Beretta in her hand. "I wondered just whose side
you would be on when it came down to the nitty-gritty."
"l have no choice."
"Then I'll give you one," Polteri replied. "When I set
this whole thing up nine years ago, Porchov insisted on no
records, no lists of those I brought across, legal or illegal. I
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agreed. Well, I lied. There is a master list. Every name is
on it. Still think you'll shoot me? I don't think Porchov
would like that."
He waited until she lowered the gun to her side, and
then threw her a kiss as he went out the door.
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Two
The grilled, narrow windows of the special interview
room at Leavenworth let in very little of the Kansas sun.
Nick Carter let his eyes roam around the room without
moving his head. There would be a camera somewhere,
and at least two microphones. It was common procedure at
all federal prisons to photograph and tape any and all inter-
rogations. In the case of a convicted spy like Benjamin
Rivkin, it was an absolute must.
But there were reservations about the photos and tapes.
AXE chief David Hawk had laid down the ground rules
that morning in Washington before Carter had left.
"For now, Nick, your eyes only and your ears only.
Confiscate the video and the sound tapes right after you
talk to him. M16 and the Mossad are already aware that
Rivkin wants some kind of a deal. If there is any kind of
leak, I want to know our trump cards before Israel and our
U.K. brethren do."
Carter heard footsteps on the steel plate in the corridor,
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and turned toward the door in anticipation. He was looking
fonvard to meeting this man.
Rivkin was a Russian Jew, born in Moscow. Early on,
he had been a committed Zionist, speaking out against the
Soviet government. He was one of the most outspoken
among the refuseniks, and for this had spent a year in the
Chistopol prison in the Urals, and another year in a Siber-
ian gulag. Finally he had been retried and exiled into the
Jewish refugee program.
What, Carter wondered, had the Kremlin offered him—
or threatened him with—that had made him spy for them
after he got to the West?
The door opened and Benjamin Rivkin shuffled
through. He was a short, gray man, unobtrusive and retir-
ing in nature. He seemed to blend into the room, the city,
and the world around him. Only his eyes, alert and specu-
lative, indicated the intelligence behind the monochromatic
facade. Now his round face wore an expression of a man
who has discovered that the total does not equal the sum of
the parts. In his quiet, almost colorless voice, he intro-
duced himself and offered his hand.
"I will not ask for your credentials. I assume you have
them or you wouldn't be in here now. And if they were
forged and you were an Israeli assassin, I would already be
dead. "
Carter couldn't suppress a smile. "Shall we get down to
business?"
"No," Rivkin said.
What
"I assume this room is wired?"
Carter hesitated and then nodded. "It is."
"Then I insist we talk somewhere else, in the open, the
countryside."
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"That's highly irregular. "
"So is what I have to tell you."
"I could wear a wire," Carter replied.
"You could, but I will search you."
"You're asking for a lot, Rivkin."
"I know."
Carter left him in the interrogation room and went to the
warden's office. He made a call to Washington to obtain
the proper permission and requisition an unmarked prison-
vane An hour later they were driving through the rolling
farmland of Kansas, with two plainclothes guards in the
front seat.
"This looks like a good spot," Carter said, and they
stopped.
Carter left his coat and his shoulder holster rig with his
9mm Luger with one of the guards.
"You sure you don't want this?" the guard asked,
dumbfounded.
Carter shook his head. "Some farmer might get the
wrong idea if he saw it. And, besides, if I can't run a man
like Rivkin down, I'd better pack it in."
The guard shrugged. "Up to you. Just remember, if you
get out of our sight, he's all your baby:"
Carter held his hands straight out from his sides so Riv-
kin could pat him down. He found nothing.
"You are an honest man, Carter."
"Sometimes," the Killmaster replied, "when it serves
my purpose. Shall we walk?"
They climbed over a low chain link fence into a recently
plowed field, and began to walk in adjoining furrows. The
sky was on fire with a blue brilliance that was almost
blinding. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky.
Rivkin took a deep breath of the crisp, fresh air heavily
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laden with the tang of a recent light snowfall. "It is indeed
a beautiful country. "
"It is," Carter said. "We'd like to keep it that way."
Rivkin chuckled. "I sincerely hope you do, believe me.
The bureaucrats are negotiating a trade for me, aren't
Carter nodded. "It's my understanding that they are very
near to reaching an agreement."
Rivkin stopped and faced Carter. "I don't want to go
back. "
Carter kept a straight face. Hawk had already guessed
that Rivkin wanted to turn. The question was, did he have
anything to offer in return for asylum and a new identity in
the United States? Carter asked him as much.
Rivkin sighed. "Truthfully, not enough for a fine house,
a car, and sufficient funds to live out my days in luxury.
But I don't need that."
"What do you need?" Carter asked.
"A new identity, a social security card, driver's license,
a birth certificate, and a few hundred dollars."
"That might be done. Where would you want to go?"
"Eugene, Oregon. I met a woman about a year ago, a
Canadian. She owns a small liquor store there. We would
like to get married. I can rather fancy myself as a liquor
store clerk for the rest of my life. After all, I'm rather an
expert on vodka."
"We didn't know about her," Carter said.
"They don't either. I was very careful."
Carter lit a cigarette and broke up a clod of dirt with his
toe. "You would be under spot-check surveillance for a
year, perhaps two."
"As long as they're discreet."
"You could never get a passport," Carter said, "never
leave the country."
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NICK CARTER
'SAh, you think that would be a problem? That's the last
thing I would want to do."
"Okay," Carter said, "what have you got?"
Rivkin started walking again. He shoved his hands
deeply into his trouser pockets and screwed his face into a
mask of concentration. Carter moved beside him. in si-
lence. He didn't want to rush the man. Through the inter-
rogation, the trial, and since, Rivkin had said nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Almost anything Carter learned from him now would bé
useful.
"I'll start when I came over. I suppose your people are
wondering how that was accomplished."
"Very much so, especially considering your record as a
refusenik and the number of fellow Jews you helped con-
vince the government over there to release."
Suddenly Rivkin laughed aloud. "That is the brilliance,
the sheer genius of the entire operation. We Russians have
patience. I worked on the cover for six years before I left
Russia. As you know, I even spent two years in prison."
"And you were eventually released into the Jewish refu-
gee program. What did they hold over you, Rivkin, or
what did they promise you—a Jew—to work for them
when you got into the West?"
Rivkin turned and faced him squarely. "Nothing, Carter.
They didn't have to. You see, my real name is not Benja-
min Rivkin. It's Boris Bablenkov. And I am not a Jew."
Scowling, chewing the butt of an unlit cigar to a shred,
David Hawk listened intently as Carter reiterated practi-
cally verbatim the Killmaster's interview with Benjamin
Rivkin né Boris Bablenkov. A tape recorder in the AXE
chief's desk was rolling. The tape would be transcribed the
moment the meeting was over, but from the scowl on
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Hawk's face Carter knew he would be moving before the
last word was put on paper.
At last Carter took a break and Hawk filled the pause
with a groan. "So there was a pipeline to get field agents
into the States."
Carter nodded. "And into most of the other NATO
countries as well. From what Rivkin said, it's so well or-
ganized that young Russian agents take years to establish
their Jewish backgrounds before coming over."
"Then," Hawk said, "they are built up when they arrive
so there will be no hint of anything shady when they take
their final post."
Carter nodded. "In Rivkin's case, he was shuttled to this
Rev Babbas in Madrid. There, he established himself as a
bookkeeper with the Babbas company. After a certain
riod of time, he accepted a better job offer from one Saul
Charpek in Paris. His association with Charpek gave him
an in with international banking circles. From there it was
on to London, where, with the help of Norman Evron he
formed his own investment counseling firm
Hawk jumped in. "And then it was an easy matter to
make the jump to the United States, where, in the guise of
foreign investment in real estate he bought land close to
every military installation we have."
"And," Carter added, "built a lot of low-cost housing
for military personnel. It's impossible to guess how much
information he acquired through the relationships he
made."
"My God," Hawk growled, "he could be the tip of the
iceberg."
"He probably is," Carter said. "Rivkin believes that it's
been going on for nine or ten years. It's hard to say how
many agents they have put in place. He only had three
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names, but he's sure they have at least one man in every
country in Europe as part of the chain."
Hawk discarded the soaked cigar and readied another
one. "And Rivkin seemed to think that they weren't Mos-
cow controlled?"
"That was the impression he got. It's an independent
organization. Moscow foots the bills, of course, and pays
well for every agent settled in place."
There was a light rap on the door and Hawk's second-
in-command, Ginger Bateman, moved briskly and busi=
nesslike into the room. "I've got background on the three
of them, but it's short and very sketchy."
"Let's hear it," Hawk said.
"All three of them are refugees. Charpek and Evron
came out of Russia, Rev Babbas out of Poland."
"How long ago?" Carter asked.
"Eleven years," Bateman replied. "l ran everything we
had on them through the computer. Nothing links them
together, even knowing one another. But there is one
screaming similarity. Babbas was in the restaurant business
in Madrid, and failing. Saul Charpek emigrated to Israel
and was eventually asked to leave. Evidently he was a bit
of a con man and an embarrassment. Norman Evron owned
a small bookmaking operation in Brighton. He got hit
pretty hard, couldn't satisfy all his clients, and lost his
license. Now comes the similarity. About ten years ago,
each of them started his own firm. Rev Babbas in clothing
manufacturing, primarily military uniforms. Saul Charpek
went into the arms business, and Evron started his invest-
ment banking business in London. All of them were heav-
ily capitalized and became quite successful. Since then
they have been model citizens."
Hawk and Carter exchanged a long, knowing look.
Carter spoke. "Moscow."
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"I think we can infer that," Hawk said. "But if Rivkin's
right and they are free-lancers, then there must be some
control. One person or group of persons is guiding the
agents to them for placement and money collection and
disbursement."
Bateman jumped back in. "I've instructed our people in
London, Paris, and Madrid to dig some more on the three
of them. Should I have them put under surveillance?"
"No," Hawk said, s snot yet. We don't want to tip them
yet. This ring has been on the burner for a couple of years.
Didn't the CIA have a man on it?"
Bateman nodded. "Tony Polteri in Vienna. So far, he
hasn't come up with anything concrete."
"But he must have something," Hawk said. "Fax what
we have to him, and alert him that N3 is on his way. We'll
work together on it. All right with you, Nick?"
Carter nodded. "What about Rivkin?"
"I've already got the go-ahead. They'll transfer him to-
morrow night. Bateman ."
"Yes, sir?"
"Get Nick a flight to Vienna tonight. Also, get a list of
every Jewish refugee agency operating in Vienna, even the
private ones. None of them may be involved, but they'll
have to be checked."
"Right away. Anything else?"
"That's it," Hawk said, and turned to Carter. "Nip this
fast, Nick. And get records. If they've been at it nine or ten
years, God only knows how many like Rivkin they've put
in place."
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The rusted, hand-painted sign illuminated by a bare yel-
low bulb read Trattoria Bellini. There were several motor-
bikes and three cars in front when she parked.
Walking from the car to the door, she looked different
than she had in the flat with Polteri, more like the streets of
Rome. She wore a long black leather coat over a white
sweater and loose black skirt. A pair of knee-high black
boots completed the costume.
The trattoria was the restaurant, bar, and meeting place
for the farmers of the area. A half dozen of them, sturdy,
red-faced men in black woollen suits and mud-caked boots,
sat at wooden tables with bottles of wine before them,
puffing on pipes and listening to a frail, bearded old man
who was playing a violin. The room was warm, and
smelled of strong tobacco, garlic and stewing tomatoes. It
was the natural place to stop for a rest between Florence
and Rome, They had used it before to meet.
She spotted Maxim Porchov at a small table along the
rear wall. With his wide peasant face, his dark mustache,
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and his unruly hair, Porchov was not unlike the other men
in the room. Only the cut of his suit and the shine on his
shoes set him apart.
He stood when she reached the table and kissed both her
cheeks. "My dear, ravishing as usual." His Italian was
flawless, with a slight Tuscan accent.
"Thank you. You made excellent time."
There was a carafe of wine on the table, and two
glasses. He poured. "I flew out of Vienna and drove down
from Florence."
To anyone in the place, they would appear to be an old
man and his young mistress stealing a short time together.
Quite understandable, and commendable in Italy.
She sipped her wine and lowered her voice. "You found
him?"
Porchov nodded. "He is in Venice. I have an entire team
on him. When the opportunity presents itself, they will
pick him up."
"What if he doesn't give you the list?"
The Russian smiled. "My dear, once we have him in a
quiet place, we'll get the list, never fear."
"What of the net?"
"It's difficult to say. Of course, the three Rivkin names
will have to be eliminated. We are taking pains, of course,
to salvage the other four. But the most important thing is to
keep the agents we have in place. For that we need Pol-
teri's list. If it should fall into the wrong hands.. ." He
shrugged and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
"Will there be a problem for you, in Vienna?"
"There could always be a problem. But in the case of
Benjamin Rivkin, we might be lucky. He was handed over
directly to Rev Babbas and taken to Madrid. It is unlikely
that Rivkin even knows of my existence. No, the only per-
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son who could harm me is Polteri himself, and that will be
taken care of soon."
"What about Rivkin?" she asked. "He is a traitor."
"Our friends in the United States are returning a favor
for letting their shipments of precious white powder pass
safely through Cambodia and Vietnam. I am sure the qual-
ity of their work will be extraordinary, as usual. More
She shook her head, placing a palm over her glass. "I
should continue in Rome?"
"Of course. Your position is far too valuable in many
areas. But you could be of some assistance in Paris. Char-
pek could prove troublesome if he is on guard, and femi-
nine beauty is his weakness."
"I understand," she said with a smile. "I have a small
bag in the back of the car."
"Excellent," Porchov said, rubbing his hands together.
"Now, shall we dine?"
The train droned north out of Venice into the foothills of
the Dolomites. To the right, the ringing blue of the Adriatic
became shallow, opague. Along the reef there was a strag-
gle of fishing villages. In their little bays, fishing boats
bobbed at anchor, each one decorated on the bow with an
eye or a star to ward off evil.
As the train turned inland and began to climb, Tony
Polteri gave up trying to see out of the grimy windows and
glanced at his watch.
It was six, a half hour before the dining car would open
for dinner. He would have just enough time to shave and
change his shirt.
He peeled off the shirt he had slept in the night before in
the seedy seamen's hotel, and stuffed it into the trash con-
tainer. Then he lathered his face.
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As he began to shave the right side of his face, he went
over what he must do in the next few hours. First he would
contact Eula Steforski, and tell her that the underground
railroad she had been running for so long was over. He
owed her that much. After all, without her starting the
operation and working so tirelessly for the legitimate part
of it, Polteri wouldn't have been able to pull off his end of
the operation, And since she had worked so long for little
more than expenses, he might even give her a little extra
money to relocate. That is, if Maxim Porchov would let
her.
The first thing in the morning he would clean out the
local bank account and safe-deposit box in Vienna, and
then drive over the frontier into Switzerland. Once he had
transferred the contents of the Swiss accounts into bearer
bonds, he would fly to Uruguay. He already had the go-
ahead from General Eduardo Pelodez. Of course, it had
cost one million dollars, but that was a small price to pay
for a lifetime of safety.
Polteri was just about to shift the razor to the left side of
his face, when there was a knock on the compartment door.
"Pardon, signore. I have declaration cards for the fron-
tier."
Polteri put down the razor and crossed to the door. The
lock had barely clicked when it burst open, smashing his
forehead. There was a blur of movement and a fist drove
into his belly, sending him reeling backward into the bunk.
He gasped for air and opened his eyes.
There were two of them. One was young but bald. He
had thick, curly black eyebrows and a hooked nose pitted
with oily pores. This one held a silenced automatic, its
ugly snout creasing the skin between Polteri's eyes.
Polteri heard a click and rolled his eyes to the second
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man. He was even bigger than the first one, with a bull
neck and a simian overhang shading vacant black eyes,
The blade in his hand was about eight inches long, and he
handled it like a street fighter: low, underhanded, the hilt
braced against the heel of his hand, the thumb positioned
for leverage.
Baldy spoke. "We have come for your list."
"List?" Polteri said, darting his eyes from one man to
the other.
"My friend's name is Glenno. He is an expert with the
knife, so good he can peel off your skin in layers. The
list."
Polteri jerked his elbows upward in a swift, economical
thrust. The wrists they struck were rock-hard, but the
elbows were harder. There were twin moans of pain and
surprise.
Simultaneously, he flicked his foot at the outside of a
wrist. The bone-hard edge of the foot grated against
Glenno's wristbone. The knife went skittering across the
carpet. He stooped to pick it up. Polteri caught him under
the chin with his knee.
By that time, Baldy had recovered. He grabbed Polteri's
wrist and pulled it toward him. Polteri didn't resist. He
pushed in the direction of the pull, adding his strength to
the man's. At the point where Baldy's arm wouldn't bend
back any further, Polteri put his other hand lightly above
the other's elbow. He had the wrist trapped by that time,
having whipped a big hand around in an acrobat's grip.
Baldy's arm broke at the elbow with a sharp crack.
He screamed. Polteri kicked him in the crotch. Baldy
fell to the floor in agony, and Polteri spun to locate
Glenno, the knife wielder.
Glenno's blade had sailed under the bunk, but he had
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grabbed Baldy's heavy automatic by the silencer and was
swinging it with all his might.
There was no way Polteri could avoid the blow. It hit
him in the center of the forehead and he dropped like a
rock.
Glenno turned to his comrade. "Pietro, are you all
"Bastard, he broke my arm! And, oh God, my balls ..
Glenno was not the brains of the pair. For a full five
minutes he knelt helpless on his knees by his friend waiting
to be told what to do.
Finally Pietro was able to speak. "Water, get me some
water. "
The hulk moved to the basin and came back with a
paper cup of water. Pietro drank it greedily and handed it
back.
"Fill it again and throw it in the bastard's face. Wake
him up!"
"Si, Pietro, sj,"
Glenno did what he was told. When that didn't work, he
did it two more times. When he started slapping Polteri's
face and still nothing happened, it began to dawn on him.
"Pietro ."
"I think I hit him too hard."
"What did you say?"
"l think he's dead." Glenno crossed himself.
Pietro crawled to Polteri and checked his pulse. "Idiota!
Stupido!"
"Pietro, I-I'm sorry.. g"
"Shut up, let me think!"
Pietro thought quickly, forcing the pain out of his mind.
There would be hell to pay for this. The best thing would
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be to make it an accident, he thought. But in the mean-
time...
"Glenno, help me search ... everything, his clothes, his
wallet, the compartment.. ."
"Si, si."
"Look for a list of names, or maybe a code list of
numbers."
They took the bag, the wallet, the clothes, and the com-
partment apart. They wrote down everything that looked
like a list or had been written in Polteri's hand. Then they
put everything back just the way they found it.
"Now we dress him."
'SWhat for?"
"Because he's going to have an accident. He's going to
fall off the train. "
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FOUR
According to his ticket, Carter had fifty-five minutes at
Heathrow to catch his British Airways connection to
Vienna. He need not have worried. BA flight 729 was
three hours late taking off.
To make matters worse, economy class on the flight was
completely booked. The only seat Ginger Bateman had
been able to get him was in first class. He would have
preferred one of the cheaper seats: economy class was
anonymous. First class passengers were much more con-
spicuous, particularly on smaller aircraft.
Eight passengers besides Carter sat forward of the
pleated partition, separated from the common herd. One
was a handsome, high-nosed, querulous old lady sur-
rounded by an aura of wealth who traveled with an animal
of some kind in a pet carrier she kept on the seat at her
side. The box whined from time to time and was com-
forted, or had its wishes relayed to a stewardess by its
owner in a clipped British voice that commanded attention.
Two others were, Japanese, an unobtrusive middle-aged
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couple who said "Prease" and "Sank you" to the stewardess
when she paid them any attention. Another, younger cou-
ple, Americans, were newlyweds by the look of things; in
love, they drowned in each other's eyes, oblivious of what
went on around them. They traveled on a pink cloud of
their own, cut off from the world.
The last pair was an odd couple, two men who were
obviously not traveling together. One of them was a very
large man, inches over six feet and wide in proportion, not
fat, but huge, and loud. He was also very drunk. His seat-
mate was a small, dark man with a neatly trimmed mus-
tache who was obviously uncomfortable.
The seat beside Carter was empty, but not for long.
When they had reached cruising altitude, the dark little
man stood and moved back to Carter.
"Excuse me.. ."
"i hope you won't mind, but I wonder if I might change
seats. I am really not equipped to ride for several hours in
the company of that buffoon."
Carter smiled. "Sure, sit down."
"Thank you, thank you very much." The man slid into
the seat and offered his hand. "Justin Feinberg. I'm
Israeli."
"Nick Carter, American. "
The two very blond and very pretty flight attendants
began to serve lunch. Five minutes into it, Justin Feinberg
started to chatter.
"I lived in New York for years. Did a lot of business
with Tel Aviv. I was gone so much my wife suggested we
move there."
"Is that right?" Carter said, forcing down some wilted
lettuce.
"I'm in farm machinery. You?"
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"Government," Carter said, "State Department. I shuf-
fle papers."
Two more bites and coffee to kill the taste.
"I'm staying at the Imperial," Feinberg said. "Always
stay at the Imperial when I'm in Vienna. You?"
Carter's antennae were starting up. "I didn't make reser-
vations. It was a short-notice trip."
"Really? That could be a disaster this time of year.
Wagner lived there, you know, at the Imperial, so he could
be near the opera. "
"I didn't know that." Carter pushed the meal away and
concentrated on the coffee.
S 'Give me a ring there if you can't find anything. I've an
in with the concierge."
"I'll do that."
Feinberg kept up that chatter until the food trays were
taken away, and then excused himself. The man could be
harmless, just making conversation with a fellow traveler.
But the questions were a little too pointed.
Carter hit the rest rooms and then darted into the for-
ward galley where the prettier of the two blondes was
doing a quick cleanup. It was she who had taken his brief-
case containing his 9mm Luger, some spare clips and the
stiletto he affectionately called Hugo. The way she had
written out the receipt told him that she was not a little
thrilled by big bad men who ran around the world with
guns.
"Excuse me
"Yes, Mr. Carter?"
"You've already seen my credentials."
"Oh, yes, sir."
"l wonder if you would do me a favor. "
"I can try"
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"My new seatmate. Do you have his name and national-
She reached for a clipboard hanging behind her and a
carefully manicured nail went down the passenger list.
"Mr. Justin Feinberg. He's an Israeli."
"And the slightly inebriated gentleman in the front seat
where Feinberg was sitting originally?"
She went back to the list. "Aaron Horowitz. "
"And his passport?"
"He's also an Israeli."
Some pressure on Carter's side brought him out of his
nap, and as he tried to ease this pressure he realized that
someone was nudging him gently. The smiling face of Jus-
tin Feinberg was bent toward him when he opened his
eyes, and as he sat up and started to yawn his companion
gestured to the lighted sign that instructed the passengers to
fasten their seat belts.
"Oh. Thanks."
"lt seemed best to wake you," Feinberg said. "You had
a good nap."
"I guess I must have," Carter grunted.
"Perhaps we could share a cab into the city together?"
"I don't think so," Carter said. "I have someone meet-
ing me."
Conversation ceased as the plane touched down and
taxied toward the terminal. As soon as the jetway was at-
tached, the line of people that had squeezed into the aisle
surged forward, Feinberg among them.
Carter smiled. Whoever the man was, he wanted to
make sure he and his hefty pal got in place for a tail before
Carter got through Customs and Immigration.
Near the tail end of the line, Carter stood and moved
along the aisle. The blonde had his briefcase ready. He
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went through VIP customs, and found Hans Meyer waiting
for him.
Meyer was a bandy-legged man with a thick, powerful
torso that didn't match the legs. His arms were posts and
his head was neckless sitting right on his shoulders.
His cover was as a driver for the American embassy in
Vienna. As such, he was in a perfect position to keep score
on all sides of the game.
"Herr Nick, good to see you."
"Hans, a long time. Where's the car?"
"Aisle four, blue section, three cars in.
Opel."
"Got a camera in it?"
"Always."
It's a blue
S'Get it. I want a shot of the little one over there with the
mustache. Also whoever he teams up with."
"You got it. I'll meet you at the car."
Meyer scooted away. As soon as Carter got his bag, he
took a long walk through the airport and found the car: He
tossed his bag in the rear and sat smoking until Meyer
arrived fifteen minutes later.
"The little guy made contact with a tall, skinny guy in a
Citroen. You had a big chunky one trailing you through the
airport to the car. Then he joined the other two in the Ci-
troén."
"You get the pictures?" Carter asked.
Meyer tapped the Nikon hanging around his neck. "All
three are down for posterity."
"Let's go."
Meyer crawled in and drove like the native he was from
the parking lot, honking everybody out of the way.
"Have you been briefed?" Carter asked.
Meyer nodded. "Bateman gave it to me on the
scrambler phone last night. "
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"What about Polteri?"
"Checked his office this morning. He was due in yester-
day morning from Rome. He's not there yet. Secretary says
not to worry, he does it all the time. Where to first?"
"Bonlavik still around?"
"Oh, yeah, same stomping grounds. But he's not very
active anymore. Hell, the guy must be close to eighty."
"All of that," Carter said, "but he's a walking encyclo-
pedia on everyone coming over and how they made it for
the last twenty-five years."
"He is that," Meyer agreed, nodding. "You want to hunt
him up?"
"Yeah, but just drop me inside the Ring. I'll walk. You
get rid of my bag and get that film developed. When you
do, run it through Washington with the names Justin Fein-
berg and Aaron Horowitz. "
Carter nodded. "Hit our Mossad file. My guess is that's
where you'll find 'em."
"What do we do about them now?" Carter turned the
rearview mirror his way. "Six cars back," Meyer said, "not
pushing it, just keeping their distance."
Carter spotted the Citroén in the mirror. "Got 'em.
Where have you got me staying?"
"Pension Poston, inside the Ring on Ulborstrasse. The
room number is seven. Here's the key."
"Okay. Take the Ringstrasse to the opera house and hit
that alley that leads around behind the Bristol."
Meyer smiled. "I know it."
"I'll dive out there, see Bonlavik, and meet you at the
pension in a couple of hours."
"Ja, ja, mein Herr, and away we go!"
Meyer tromped it and the little Opel leaped ahead.
Traffic increased as they entered the city, leaving the
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highway to roll down cobbled streets between gray stone
buildings that stretched in rows like parallel walls. The
ornate facades of equal height were broken from time to
time by domes atop circular corner turrets, chimneys, and
occasional mansard roofs.
At the Danube Meyer swung back onto the Ringstrasse
and really floored the little car. They darted like a blue gnat
in the heavy traffic, and by the time they reached the opera
house, Meyer had a full block on the Citroén.
The tires screamed as he hit the alley and turned in
behind the opera house. A hundred yards farther on, he hit
another right and then an immediate left, which brought
them through the maze of alleys to the rear of the Bristol
Hotel.
Directly across from the rear of the stately old hotel was
the parking garage. Behind its entrance were four huge
garbage dumpsters.
Meyer didn't stop at the dumpsters, he just slowed.
"See you," Carter said, and rolled out of the car. He
kept rolling right between two of the dumpsters and sat,
leaning against the wall.
He counted twenty before the Citroén screamed by, then
lit a cigarette and strolled across the alley into the rear of
the Bristol. He went on through the lobby to the cabstand
in front of the hotel.
"The Tuchlauben," Carter told the driver, "no hurry."
Carter's destination was an auto repair garage on a cob-
bled street about two blocks from the Danube. By the time
he reached it, the temperature had dropped considerably
and there was the feel of snow in the air.
It was an old cement-block building, with a roll-up door
barely wide enough to admit an automobile. There was a
street door next to that one, and above him, on the sec-
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ond—the top—story, were three paint-blackened windows
with wire grilles. There were no signs in front and no lights
glowing inside or anywhere else along the street. In the
rear there were rickety wooden stairs leading to the second
floor. Carter took them.
He hadn't seen Emil Bonlavik for nearly five years, but
he knew the old man would help him.
In the old days, before and during the Nazi occupation
of Hungary, Bonlavik had been a resistance fighter and a
Communist organizer. Then, after the Reds took over after
the war, he had broken with them. He had faced the bitter
truth that he had squandered years of energy and devotion
in a cause rigged by power-hungry mini-dictators.
But he had stayed in Hungary to help others escape.
Then, when it became too hot over there, he himself had
escaped and continued to help others flee to the West.
About five years ago, he had tried his last coup, and
failed. Riddled with bullets and nearly dead, Carter had
gotten him
Carter rapped on the door at the top of the stairs, and a
series of coughs that became words answered him.
"Who is it?" a voice asked in German.
'SAn old friend."
"l have no friends."
"Nick Carter. "
The door opened.
Emil Bonlavik had aged, but in spite of it he was still
upright and slender. His hair was still full but it was snow-
white now, as was the spade-shaped beard. The contrast to
his dark, weatherbeaten face made him seem still strong
and decisive. But there was no strength in his gray, short-
sighted eyes, only a weak bewilderment and amiability.
"I do believe it is you."
"It is," Carter replied.
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"l suppose I'm glad to see you. Come in."
Carter hid his surprise and followed the old man into the
room. It was small, cluttered with manuscripts, books, and
correspondence. The scant furniture was threadbare. A
coal fire glowed hotly in a grate.
Bonlavik slumped into a deep chair. "A long time."
Carter nodded. "Five years."
"After so long a time you come to see me? It must be
business. I am retired."
"I know," Carter said, producing a bottle of slivovitz.
"I've come to pick your brains."
"My brain has withered with age. There is a glass there.
None for me. My stomach."
Carter took his time getting the glass. Something foul
was eating the old man. This was far from the greeting he
had expected. He poured, slipped out of his coat, and took
a hard-backed chair across from Bonlavik.
"Emil, I thought we were friends." The thin shoulders
shrugged. "You want to tell me something?" Carter asked,
Bonlavik thought it over and then leaned forward with
his elbows on his knees. "We were betrayed that night."
Carter downed a good swallow of his drink and nodded,
"I know. "
"But do you know who betrayed us?"
"No."
"One of yours."
"What?" Carter said, his spine tightening up.
"It is true. One of your people passed the word. That
was how they knew the time and the place where we would
be crossing."
Bonlavik sighed and slumped back in his chair. "That I
do not know. For a couple of years I tried to find out.
Nothing, except whispers. And do you know what the
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whispers were, all of them? 'The American.' That's all I
ever heard, 'the American.' Do you remember Erik Sla-
"Yes."
"And the Krauses, Helga and Stern?"
"I remember," Carter said. "They were my contacts
once."
"Killed, murdered, and their bodies never found. Do
you know why? Because 'the American' wanted the busi- .
ness."
"Business?" Carter exclaimed. "It was never a business,
bringing people out!"
Bonlavik cackled with scorn. "It is now. When Slavitz
and the Krauses were killed, word filtered back to me: stop
asking questions or I would be next. I quit and became a
hermit. The hell with you all."
Carter sighed and returned to the bottle. "Emil, I need
your help."
"I can't help anyone anymore. I have become a cow-
ard."
"Emil, someone is smuggling Jewish refugees out. One
out of every ten or so is a phony, a Russian spy. They are
placing them in the West, and doing a damn good job of
it. "
The old man's eyes came alive for a moment. "How
10
Carter shrugged. "Don't know, could be years,"
"The American," he mumbled.
Carter knelt by the old man's chair. "Emil, if it is an
American, I want him. You know everybody here and over
there who is moving people. Here's a list. Is it complete?"
For a few seconds Bonlavik shied away from the paper.
Then his old curiosity took over and he snatched it from
Carter's hand. Quickly he scanned it, and then went back
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over it slowly, pointing at names with a bony finger as he
spoke.
"Dead dead. , . no longer in Vienna... dead.. , in
prison ... working through Prague now.. ."
Caner listened until the end of the page was reached.
By then a pattern seemed to be establishing itself. "Is that
all
"All that I know about. There could be others. Some on
this list are still operating in a small way. None on the level
you're talking about."
"Could you find out?" Caner asked.
Another sigh and Bonlavik closed his eyes. "You ask a
lot, my friend."
"I know, but it could be the most important thing you've
ever accomplished, Emil. There must be some record of
who they have brought over, a list of names. If we can get
that list.. i"
The old, watery eyes opened and turned on Carter.
"And the American? Would you go after the American who
betrayed us?"
Carter nodded. "If there is one,"
"Oh, there is one, my friend, I assure you. All right, I'll
see what I can do."
The Killmaster looked around the shabby quarters.
From a roll in his pocket he peeled off several bills and
placed them on the table near the door.
"Expenses."
The old man said nothing. He didn't even look up as
Carter left.
The pension was ancient, deep inside the Ring. It had
once been a rich merchant's town house that now had been
cut up into separate rooms.
Carter entered the reception area, a small affair with
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dim lights and stiff, brocade-covered chairs. In the gloom
he saw the dark wood of the reception desk. Behind it was
a small, prissy man wearing wire-rimmed glasses.
He looked up with a frown and Carter let the key swing
from one finger as he headed for the stairs. The man said
and did nothing. It was a good bet the pension was used
quite often by Hans Meyer for just this sort of thing.
The room was old-world, high-ceilinged and comfort-
able, with a private bath. His bag and briefcase were on the
bed.
He looked longingly at the big quilt-covered bed, and
forced himself to strip and head for the shower. A half hour
later, shaved, showered, and fifty percent refreshed, he
was buttoning a clean shirt, when there was a knock on the
door.
"It's me."
Carter opened the door a crack and Hans Meyer's bulk
slipped into the room. He looked around, spotted the flask
Carter always carried sitting on the dresser, and headed for
it.
The Killmaster threaded a tie through his collar. "What
have you got?"
' Their passports are legit, but Justin Feinberg and
Aaron Horowitz aren't listed in our files as Mossad agents
or operatives."
' They could be part-timers," Carter offered.
Meyer downed his two fingers of scotch and poured
another. "They could be, but I doubt it. If our Israeli
comrades were going to put someone on you, they would
send seasoned pros. They know you."
"Good point. What else?"
"The third man, the hulk driving the Citroen .. ."
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"Name's Otto Franz. He's an East German, slipped into
the West about four years ago. His passport was revoked
about a year ago. Interpol has a want on him for question-
ing in a double homicide."
Carter pulled the knot of his tie tight and turned from
the mirror. ' 'An East German involved in a double murder
and two Israeli Jews. That's an interesting combination."
"Ja, isn't it," Meyer said dryly.
Carter sensed that there was more. "You've got that
look, Hans."
"Call it disgust."
"Lay it on me," Carter replied.
"Word came into the embassy from a police prefect up
in the mountains about an hour ago. Tony Polteri. He fell
off a train just the other side of the Italian frontier and
brained himself."
Carter's lips set in a thin line. "Sure he did."
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FIVE
The bar of the Paris Lotti was cozy, with a high ceiling
and muted lighting. It was paneled in dark polished wood,
and the floor was wood of the same color. Oriental rugs
were scattered about, and the chairs, arranged around low
tables, were upholstered in soft colors.
Saul Charpek strolled casually into the bar, glanced
around, and moved toward a stool at the far end away from
the door. He ordered an American-style martini, drank it
quickly, and ordered another.
Even at a casual glance Saul Charpek was the kind of
man people noticed immediately and said nice things
about. He was tall, extremely handsome, with clear brown
eyes, a strong jaw, and wavy black hair curling over his
collar. Combine his looks with a conservative taste in
clothes, a well-modulated, cultured voice, and here was
the perfect picture of the successful cosmopolitan man.
But as of four o'clock that afternoon, he was no longer
Saul Charpek. He had registered at the Lotti with a pass-
port bearing an Italian name and an address in Caracas.
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The thought of it made him ill. The false passport and
other papers had been obtained years before in case the
operation ended, In that time he had invested money and
bought property in Venezuela for the day he might need
them.
He had returned to his office that afternoon from a long,
very profitable business luncheon, to find the letter. The
return postmark read Venice, which meant nothing. The
Personal—Urgent scrawled across the bottom of the enve-
lope meant a great deal, as had the sheet of paper with the
words, ALL IS LOST.
They said it all. Polteri had said that one day it might
come, and Charpek had, for years, scanned each day's mail
with trepidation. But when it never did come for so long,
he had almost forgotten about it.
Then it had come, the code words that meant the gravy
train was over: run, lose yourself, hide and stay alive.
He hadn't even returned to his flat. He had gone directly
to his bank and withdrawn all but a few hundred francs
from his running account and gotten the false papers from
his safe-deposit box. Then he had bought a bag and filled it
with enough clothes and accessories for the trip, and
checked into the Hotel Lotti.
He was booked on a 7:40 flight in the morning,
Charpek sighed and looked around the room. He would
miss Paris, the food, the ambience, the theater, the women
—most of all the beautiful, chic Parisian women. He
would miss them most of all.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a new
girl, dark and long-limbed, dressed in a tightly belted
trench coat that emphasized her fine legs and narrow waist.
She had very nice eyes, and a wide smile that she lavished
upon him as she passed. He smiled back, let his eyes flick
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NICK CARTER
quickly over her body, and observed that she was alone.
That was significant.
Should he make a move, ask her to join him for a drink?
It would be a disgrace to spend his last night in Paris in a
lonely bed,
She shrugged out of the trenchcoat. Beneath it she wore
a low-cut black cocktail dress that molded her full breasts.
Her drink came. As she sipped it, their eyes met again.
They were gentle, friendly, sensual.
He looked around, She seemed to be alone—what tre-
mendous luck. Or was it? Another trap? He squinted at her
critically. If this was a trap, he could have a hell of a lot of
fun falling into it.
He waited until her glass was nearly empty before mov-
ing down the bar. "May I buy you a drink?"
Her smile was demure. "You are very kind."
He ordered for her, and they left the bar for a corner
table, with high-backed leather chairs. Her dress rustled as
she walked, and a slit up the side gave a glimpse of a sleek
thigh.
When they were seated, she gave him a beautiful smile.
She was a veiy feminine girl. Her eyes were large, and
very brown; her lips were large, her teeth even and bril-
liantly white. Her face was a perfect oval, framed by very
long, jet-black hair.
Charpek introduced himself with his new name and told
her he was an attorney, in Paris for just the night. She said
she was an airline stewardess with a one-night layover. It
was a pointed reply, and Charpek turned on all his charm
as he raised his glass in a toast.
A half hour later they moved toward the lobby. There
was a large blond man seated by the elevators. For a brief
instant Charpek met his eyes, and then the big man looked
away.
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It was slightly unnerving, that exchange of glances, but
the woman was willing on his arm, soft and warm, and his
thoughts were elsewhere.
"I have some brandy. Would you like a nightcap?"
"That would be nice," she replied, dropping her coat
across a chair and moving to the door that connected his
room to the one next door.
"What are you doing?"
"An old habit," she said with a little laugh. "Just check-
ing to make sure the door is locked. I don't like to be
disturbed."
She perched on the side of the bed as he handed her the
snifter of brandy. Sipping at the heady liquid, she leaned
back on one elbow. The gown parted at the neckline. He
saw the •rise of one creamy breast, round and full at the
end.
"I like a man who comes immediately to the point," she
murmured.
"Do you?" he said, setting his glass aside and following
the slit of her skirt with his finger. "With only one night it
would be silly for us to engage in subtleties."
"I quite agree."
She sat up, moved toward him, and her eyes turned to
fire as her lips came against his mouth, warm, soft. He felt
her press against him, her tongue moving out with quick,
darting invitation, then suddenly drawing back. She
paused, then moved from him. In her eyes was no amuse-
ment, no cool toying appraisal, only a dark, deep hunger.
He reached out, into the neck of the gown, his fingers
moving across her left breast, feeling the soft warmth. The
gown parted, a small zippered opening becoming wider,
deeper.
His hands reached up to pull the gown away from her,
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NICK CARTER
and he felt her tremble under his touch. Her breasts came
out of the gown, pear-shaped, pink tips standing out
sharply, anticipatory. Her arms encircled his neck, pulling
him forward, his face into her breasts, His mouth found the
erect pink-brown tips, drew on them.
"Oh, God, oh, oh, please, please," he heard her mur-
mur, and in the murmur there was urgency, a whispered
fierceness.
His mouth stayed on her breasts, moving from one to.
the other, pulling on them, drawing their creamy softness
up. She writhed under him, the dress disappearing. Her
hands pulled at his trousers, pushing them down to the
floor. She pulled him onto her, rubbing her soft belly
against him, reveling in the touch of flesh against flesh.
He felt the clawing heat of her body as her leg moved
over his and her hand drifted down his stomach.
Then she rolled on top of him. She put her mouth over
his and moaned into it. The noise she made was loud and
artificial, and it sent a warning through him like an electric
shock. Above the sound of her moan he heard the click of
the door, and he knew he had been betrayed.
He lurched up from the waist, trying to push her off.
But her arms slipped around him and locked behind him.
Her legs were intertwined with his, pinning him to the bed.
He thrashed to the left, then to the right, but she held him
as though her life depended on it.
He looked beyond her disheveled hair and saw two men
slipping around the edge of the half-opened door as silently
as shadows.
He rolled himself, with her still holding him, to his left,
and then off the bed. He landed on top of her and she
gasped, stunned, her arms falling away from him. He
reached up to the night table, but her hands clawed crazily
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at his arm, hampering it. At last his fingers curled around
the back edge of the dresser.
At that moment he felt a jarring kick on his arm that left
it numb. Then the muzzle of a gun was pressed deep into
the back of his neck, pushing his face into the carpet.
A voice, cool and calm, said, "Freeze. It's all over."
He lay motionless on the woman, his breath rasping into
her hair. His hand slid down the leg of the night table,
empty.
"Yes," he said. "It's all over."
Dressed, the woman strolled casually out the front door
of the hotel.
They took Charpek out the rear exit into an alley: There
he was shoved roughly into a battered old Renault. The
half-full bottle of brandy was shoved into his hands,
"Drink it," the big blond man said. "All of it."
The old woman lived on Rue Lepont. It was a dark
street that ran above the cemetery in Montmartre. She was
only a block from her flat when she saw the two drunks
staggering on the opposite side of the street.
Later, she told the police that the car was dark. It was
old and battered, but she didn't know the make or model.
She knew very little about cars, and besides, all she could
really remember was the man's broken, twisted body flying
past her as she screamed.
The dead man was listed in the morgue from the name
on his passport. A telegram was Sent to the Caracas ad-
dress, but no reply was ever received.
An autopsy revealed the man was very drunk when he
staggered in front of the car.
It was listed as a hit and run. The case was closed.
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Madrid's Plaza de Toros was full, even on the sunny
side. A low buzz of anticipation came from the huge crowd
as the matador strutted toward the bull, his long, curved
sword holding the muleta out to his right side.
The youth sitting in his shirt-sleeves did not buzz with
the crowd. His eyes, which were black and very bright and
intense, were fixed on the couple in the box just across the
aisle below him.
The man was of medium height and squat figure, dark-.
skinned, heavy-featured, with small brown eyes set under
heavy brows. His clothes were expensive and conservative;
a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie.
His name was Rev Babbas, and besides owning the gi-
gantic company that manufactured all the uniforms for the
Spanish military, he sponsored young bullfighters. It was
his hobby and he loved it.
The woman beside him was his current mistress, Es-
trella Diego. She had been a dancer until she took up with
Babbas. She was not a beautiful woman. Her face was
plain, square, brown, with a rather wide short nose, wide
mouth with a heavy lower lip, heavy eyebrows that she did
not pluck, and large shining brown eyes. Her hair was
black, parted in the center and curled down over the nape
of her neck.
It was her body, however, that caught the eye and, hav-
ing caught it, held it. It was rich and full like a grape at
harvest time. The blood seemed to push against the smooth
browned skin, stretching it taut like a full wineskin. She
was wearing a simple black dress whose wide vee neckline
was cut down from almost bare shoulders to the deep hol-
low between her breasts. Her arms were bare, browned,
and round.
Now and then she would turn sideways to speak to
Babbas. When she did, the young man above and behind
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her could see far down the deep front of her dress. His thin
lips parted in a cold smile, startling in one so young.
The man and woman were seated directly over the cal-
lejon, the narrow passageway between the grandstand and
the barrera, where the bullfighters stood waiting their turn
at the bull. As the young man toyed with a large amethyst
ring on his left hand, he gauged the distance from Rev
Babbas to the next aisle.
As the matador passed the bull with a swirl of the rose-
colored cape, the crowd roared olé in time with his move-
ments, the o- long and drawn out, beginning as the
matador started his pass with the cape, and the -lé, more
staccato and crescendo, punctuating the maneuver: Four
times the matador passed the black bull, alternating from
left to right. But the young man did not join in the olés. He
was waiting for the next charge and for the matador to take
the bull.
In the ring the matador swung out the scarlet cloth and
steadied the sword over his left arm. The man's body was
ramrod straight, his arms stiff, as he watched the bull
gather itself, pull its forefeet together and lift its tassled
tail.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Then the head lowered and the bull charged, its hooves
making thunder on the gray-tan sand of the arena.
The kill was swift, clean, the sword entering to the hilt.
The bull staggered twice and toppled.
The trumpets blared and the orchestra took up the
theme. The entire bullring came to its feet, shouting as the
triumphant matador made his tour of the arena.
The young man was already moving. With his thumb he
flicked a catch on the band of the amethyst ring. A one-
inch needle shot out from the center of the stone
As he passed the couple, he raised his hands in applause
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NICK CARTER
as everyone else was doing. Directly behind Babbas, he
struck the back of the man's neck and kept on moving.
Rev Babbas cursed and slapped the side of his neck.
The woman turned. "Rev, what is it?"
"Damn bee, I suppose."
By the time Rev Babbas fell into the callejon and Es-
trella Diego started screaming, the young man was in the
parking lot.
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SIX
Joey "The Inventor" Bordolo left the flight from Detroit
and moved with the crowd through Kansas City Interna-
tional Airport.
At six feet three, wiry and slim, Joey towered above the
stolid crowd. With a thatch of unruly blond hair that had
just missed being red, and a wide, humorous mouth, he
was unmistakably American. Already, in his late twenties,
there were faint lines about his mouth and eyes that indi-
cated the ebb and flow of his ready grin. People liked him.
He seemed always poised to go out and meet life, to savor
and enjoy it. He generated a human warmth. Once he had
smiled at them they were unaware that he was not hand-
some.
Only the very perceptive noticed the unsmiling intensity
of his blue eyes or the way his lips could purse into a thin
line when he was concentrating.
Joey Bordolo had worked hard all his life to keep his
all-American image and play down his Sicilian parentage.
The effort had served him well. He was probably the only
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made button man in America that didn't have an FBI rap
sheet under his name.
Only a very few men, mostly high-ranking dons, knew
the reason for Joey's nickname, "The Inventor." He had
gotten it because of the ingenious variety of tools and
methods he had used to kill people.
Bordolo strolled on by the baggage claim area and en-
tered a glass-enclosed telephone booth. He dialed the
number from memory.
S'Yeah?"
"Joey, from Detroit."
"Take a taxi into town, the Sea of Naples restaurant.
Tell the headwaiter your first name, and walk through the
kitchen to the rear exit like you own the joint."
"Got it."
"We'll pick you up in the alley."
"Right."
There was a click at the other end of the line.
Bordolo stood outside the telephone booth and lit a ciga-
rette. No one was paying him any undue attention. Casu-
ally, he leafed through the Yellow Pages until he found the
listing for the Sea of Naples restaurant. Making a mental
note of the address, he flipped to the city map in the rear of
the book.
He found the street and the correct hundred block, and
then found a large intersection six blocks away.
In the taxi he said, "Franklin and Fifth, please. The
corner'll be fine."
"Yer first time in Kansas City?"
"Yes, it is."
"What's your line?"
"I'm in extermination."
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The cabbie laughed. "Ya mean yer like the Orkin man?
Bugs?"
"Something like that, yes," Bordolo said, smiling.
It was early, and except for a couple drinking at the bar,
the dimly lit restaurant was deserted. Bordolo murmured
his first name only to the headwaiter, who casually indi-
cated the swinging doors into the kitchen and continued to
study a reservation list.
After the noise, light, and heat of the kitchen, the alley
was a jet-black well of silence. He stood against the wall of
the restaurant, his senses straining. His eyes were just be-
ginning to make out dim shapes in the dark, when a hand
gripped his upper arm. He was drawn soundlessly toward a
battered black sedan. He got into the back seat and the
door closed behind him.
His guide had disappeared into the darkness.
The driver, a silhouette against the faint light at the end
of the alley, started the car and, with the lights off, coasted
rapidly down an incline toward a commercial street. They
turned into the street with a roar as the parking lights
winked on and the motor accelerated powerfully.
The car took a tortuous route through a confusing maze
of streets and braked to a stop before a series of shuttered
storefronts. Above the fronts rose ornate five-story apart-
ment facades, semi-elliptical bulwarks extending as far as
the eye could see in the dim streetlights.
A figure stepped out from the shadow of a building.
"Come this way. "
They entered the dank, close atmosphere of a narrow
stairway leading to an upper floor as the sedan pulled away
from the curb with a clashing of gears, leaving a blue-gray
cloud of exhaust fumes hanging wraithlike in the air.
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NICK CARTER
Bordolo followed the figure up the creaking stairs to a
landing. Everywhere in the air he could smell grease and
machine oil.
A door was unlocked and pushed open before him.
"He's waitin'."
The room was a small machine shop. There were work-
benches, metal lathes, vises, and a whole wall of tools
hanging in neat, precise order.
A short, chunky man in an expensive dark blue pinstripe
hauled his bulk from a battered sofa and crossed the room.
He had a scarlet face and a bull neck that strained the collar
of his shirt. His thick black hair sprouted from his head
like pile on a carpet. Everything about him was big and
thick, even his hands. They could have belonged to a
bricklayer or a carpenter.
Bordolo nodded. "The Inventor."
"Sal." They shook hands. "Everything you said you'd
need is here. Anything else is below in the garage."
"Our man?"
"They're bringin' him up from Leavenworth by car in
the mornin'. Should get here around eleven. They've
rented rooms at the Days Inn across from the airport.
Here's a floor plan. They got rooms 304, 306, and 308. I
attached a pitcher of yer boy to the floor plan. Better burn
it."
"I will," Bordolo replied. "You found a place?"
"Yeah. Whore works the airport. Name's Lola, good-
lookin' redhead, big tits. I already set ya up with her fer
midnight. She thinks it's an all-nighter, five hundred
bucks. It's paid. She got a condo at the Airways, sixth
floor, C. No problem, good sight lines. Can you get yer
shit together by midnight?"
"Shouldn't be a problem. Got my pieces?"
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HELL-BOUND EXPRESS
"Over here. "
Bordolo followed him to a workbench where everything
he had requested had been carefully laid out. He took it all
in with one glance.
"Fine. And the uniform?"
"Over here," Sal replied. "We made you a captain,
American Airlines. There's one a them regulation bags the
pilots carry. "
"Looks good," Bordolo said.
"Okay, my man will be downstairs to drive ya to the
whore's when yer ready."
Bordolo held out his hand. "Sal."
"Joey. See ya."
The door had barely closed behind the chunky man
when Joey stripped to the waist and went to work.
On the workbench was a Lee Enfield .303 rifle, a •.38
Colt Cobra pistol, some aluminum tubing, and a box of
.303 shells.
He clamped the Enfield into the bench vise and picked
up a hacksaw. Taking his time, he cut through the steel
barrel and wooden stock just behind the breech. The butt,
trigger mechanism, and magazine fell to the floor, where
Joey left them. Some grunt would clean up the debris after
he was gone.
He cut off the rear sight and filed it smooth. Then he
filed the front sight smooth and carefully cleaned and oiled
the barrel.
This done, he put the Colt in the vise and sawed off the
short barrel. The cylinder came out, leaving the grip with
two prongs where the cylinder had rested, the hammer and
the trigger mechanism. When the butt was unscrewed, he
removed the grips, leaving only the frame. In this he
drilled two holes just below the hammer, and paused for a
smoke.
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He inhaled the whole cigarette in just a few deep drags,
field-stripped it, and flushed it down an open commode in
the corner of the shop.
From the aluminum stock he fashioned a rod butt with a
spring-back T-bar at one end. The other end he split into a
fork and drilled holes to match those on the pistol frame.
Two flathead bolts held it securely in place. He stopped to
survey the product so far.
He now had a shoulder-butt extension to a pistol-firing
mechanism that would attach to a high-bore rifle barrel.
Broken back down, it would be so many pieces of steel and
aluminum junk. In one piece, it could be carried inside his
pants leg without a chance of detection.
To each end of the upper prong of the pistol section he
riveted a snap clamp. To the rifle barrel, he brazed two
clips, When they cooled, he put the whole together.
Eventually an ordinary child's spyglass available in any
dime store would be fitted over the rear of the barrel. He
had the spyglass, already rigged with cross hairs, in his
small carryon bag.
Next, Bordolo opened the box of .303 shells and in-
spected them with satisfaction. They were lead, unjack-
eted, illegal for law enforcement and—under the Hague
Convention—outlawed for civilized warfare.
Geneva allowed its subscribers to drop flaming jellied
gasoline or white phosphorus or bombs on their enemies,
but they could not be shot with a lead bullet. The slugs had
a tendency to mushroom. Instead of passing through a
body, they tended to tear up what they hit.
Joey Bordolo was not technically at war with anybody,
and he was far from civilized, so he fired lead bullets with-
out cupro-nickel jackets.
Bordolo dropped three of the slugs into his pocket and
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broke the rifle back down, storing the pieces inside his
clothes in specially sewn pockets.
With a last look around, he swung the airline pilot's
uniform over his shoulder, picked up his flight bag, and
went below to find his driver.
The woman who opened the door was a striking redhead
with a voluptuous, hourglass figure. She wore a powder-
blue quilted silk jacket and a pair of loose blue trousers that
could have been pajamas.
"Well, well, well, they didn't tell me it was gonna be
Mr. America. You Joey?"
"I am."
"Come on in, honey. "
Bordolo moved past her and walked directly to the win-
dow overlooking the street. He counted the windows up
and over. Not bad, but a little too much of an angle.
He turned. "Bedroom?"
"Right in there," she said, and giggled. "Wanna drink
S'A drink would be fine."
"What's your poison?"
"Sherry."
She roared with laughter. "Sure, I keep some around for
my faggot friends."
The bedroom window was just right, the angle perfect.
He sighted along his arm and over his finger, and nodded
to himself. The target would be in the center room.
He hung the uniform in the closet and opened his bag.
From it he took a thin pair of black driving gloves and
slipped them on.
"Here you go, champ."
Bordolo took the small glass of sherry and sat on a sofa
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facing the bed. Lola, with a beer, lounged on the bed.
"I like that," she said.
"What is that?" he asked, sipping.
"No rush. You paid for all night, you take all night. I
like that."
She leaned on her arm. The bed jacket she had been
holding around her was unfastened. It fell open, exposing
the fullness of a voluptuous bare breast sagging slightly
with its own weight. If she was conscious of the exposure,
there was absolutely no indication of it in her calm expres-
sion.
Bordolo slitted his eyes and smiled.
Lola smiled back and patted the bed beside her. "Why
don't you lay down here and get comfy, honey?"
"I'm fine. Do you have an alarm clock?"
"Sure thing." She nodded toward a clock-radio on the
bedside stand.
"Would you set it for nine o'clock, please?"
She rolled off the bed and fiddled with the timer on the
radio. Then she turned. "Bed now, honey?" She lifted her
arms and ran her long fingers like combs through the di-
sheveled mass of red hair. Her coat swung open and Bor-
dolo stared pointedly at the nipples of her breasts.
Obviously medically enhanced, they stood out like two
missile nose cones.
When he didn't reply, she moved to him and dropped to
her knees. "You want to be coaxed a little, is that it,
Bordolo smiled and set down his empty glass.
Lola unfastened his belt and ran his zipper down. When
her hand brought him into the open, he put his own hand
on the back of her neck.
"Okay, lover, whatever your little heart desires. You
paid for the works."
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She didn't resist as he pushed her head down into his
lap. His other hand came down in a short, violent chop
across the back of her neck.
Lola died silently.
Bordolo pushed her to the floor and undressed. He lay
across the bed and was asleep in seconds.
Joey Bordolo awakened when the clock radio clicked,
just before the speaker would erupt with raucous music.
His hand darted out and shut the machine off.
He lay still for several moments, tensing and relaxing,
his eyes focusing on a small dot in the ceiling that could
only be seen in his mind.
Fully awake, he rolled from the bed and carefully
smoothed out the depression where he had slept. Without a
glance at the grotesque, seminude body on the floor, he
took the small flight bag into the bathroom.
He removed the gloves and carefully shaved. When his
teeth were scrubbed he wiped the room down and pulled
the gloves back on.
Back in the bedroom, he assembled the rifle, raised the
window, and pulled the drapes until there was an eight-inch
gap. When the makeshift sight was attached, he sighted in
on all three of the windows across the street, paying partic-
ular attention to the center room.
Satisfied, he leaned the rifle against the sill, set out the
three bullets in a perfect line, and moved into the kitchen.
He made himself a solid breakfast of eggs, bacon, sliced
tomatoes, and toast. He washed it all down with a glass of
orange juice and a half-quart of milk. By then the coffee
was ready.
Bordolo studiously watched the national news on televi-
Sion as he smoked one cigarette and drank two cups of
coffee. He always måde it a point to start each day with the
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news. He liked to keep up with things. Knowing where
people were in the world often helped with his work.
When the news was over, he cleaned the kitchen, put-
ting everything back in its place.
In the bedroom, he pulled on a pair of lightweight
slacks and a short-sleeved sport shirt. Over that he dressed
in a white dress shirt, a black tie, and the uniform trousers.
The uniform jacket and the bag, open, were set on the bed
in readiness.
He pulled a straight-backed chair up to the window and
slipped a shell into the chamber of the rifle. Traffic on the
street below was heavy, noisy with the departure and ar-
rival of airport traffic.
It was a twenty-minute wait before he saw activity in
the rooms across the street. The door to the center room
opened and two men entered. They checked the room, the
bath, even under the bed, and one of them motioned at the
door.
The target moved into the room, looked around, and
dropped his bag at the foot of the bed. There was no
chance for a mistake. Bordolo had memorized every line of
the man's features.
The three men conferred and then the two agents moved
through the connecting doors to the other rooms. The target
was alone. He removed his jacket, draped it across a chair,
and stretched out on the bed.
Perfect, Joey Bordolo thought, and checked his watch.
Not over one minute.
Exactly sixty minutes later the airport van swung in
from the street and parked in its assigned space. Passengers
flowed from the van into the lobby of the hotel.
Bordolo brought the butt of the rifle up to his shoulder
and peered through the sight. The face of the man on the
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bed was slightly blurred, yet clear enough for him to take
When the barrel of the rifle was steady on the sill, he
glanced back down to the parking area and the van. Pas-
sengers were starting to emerge from the lobby and move
toward the van.
His eye returned to the sight. The target's head was
centered in the two cross hairs. Bordolo took a deep
breath, let it out slowly, and applied a low, steady pressure
on the trigger.
He saw the window shatter first, and then the man's
head blow apart as though it were a tomato smashed
against the wall.
All was a single movement now. Bordolo pocketed the
two extra bullets. They were not needed. By the time he
reached the bed, the rifle was broken down. The pieces,
other than the barrel, were dumped on top of his folded
sports jacket. The barrel was shoved down into his belt.
Five seconds later, wearing the uniform jacket, the cap
on his head, Joey Bordolo was going out the door. At the
end of the hall he dropped the barrel down the garbage
chute and listened as it clanked between floors and jammed
in one of the bends. It would stay there for days until trash
built up behind it.
He went down the stairs to the basement garage and
exited by a side door. The rest of the rifle was deposited in
a dumpster without pausing a step.
Across the street, the van was nearly loaded.
"Room for one more?" Bordolo called, flashing the
driver a wide smile.
"Sure enough. "
He sat in the rear seat. By the time he exited the van he
had shoved the two extra slugs down into the crack be-
tween the back and bottom of the seat.
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In a rest room he peeled out of the uniform and put on
the sports jacket. The uniform went into the bag and the
bag went into the rest room trash container.
As he left the rest room, Bordolo patted the pocket of
the sports jacket. In the pocket was a ticket to Hawaii, with
a return to Seattle.
Joey's mother lived in Seattle. He would spend a few
days with her before booking a flight back to Detroit.
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SEVEN
It was dark by the time they made it through the Brenner
Pass and hit Sterzing, the first good-sized town in Italy.
' 'The railroad line crisscrosses the A-13 several times
through here," Meyer said. "Want to stop for coffee and a
sandwich?"
"How much longer to Fortezza?" Carter asked.
"About sixteen kilometers."
"Let's push on," Carter said, leaning forward and using
his glove to clear the windshield where the Opel's defroster
had given up.
Outside the car the snow was granular and the tiny crys-
tals of ice reflected the light from the moon. It looked as if
someone had scattered a thousand diamonds over the white
expanse.
"Think this will get worse?"
Meyer shrugged. "It's winter. We're about ten thousand
feet up. It's anybody's guess."
Carter lit a cigarette and dropped back into his own
thoughts. Polteri had fallen from the Venice-to-Vienna ex-
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press. The body had been found by a hunter in the snow
about three kilometers outside the mountain village of For-
tezza. According to the local prefect of police, the body
had been in the snow for about twenty-four hours. It was
lucky that it had not been there until spring.
He rolled the window down a few inches to flip the
cigarette out. The wind was like ice. The snow was getting
worse. Through the windshield it looked like the loneliest
road in the world, a winding white ditch edged into the •
mountains.
The embankments of ice and snow were twice as high
as a man's head, and the icy roadway was narrow. Carter
was glad they didn't have an American car. The Opel
bumped and slid, but it maintained its headway up the
steepest grades. At various places, great sidings had been
dug out of the banks, presumably so that one car could pull
over, and another, coming in the opposite direction, might
get by.
"Here we are," Meyer said, slowing the car to a crawl.
And they were. The village had come out of the misty
snow like Brigadoon. Meyer followed the directions he had
received by phone, and minutes later they pulled up in
front of a fine old white stone building. A small brass
plaque at the entrance was the only sign.
"Tell you what, my friend," Meyer said, curling his col-
lar up around his ears. "I don't think we'll be going back
over that pass tonight."
They entered a large room with a heavily polished red
tile floor: A man in a tight-fitting steel-gray uniform rose
from a bronze-mounted desk that was probably two
hundred years old and bore all the scars.
"I'm Meyer, he's Carter, We're from the embassy in
Vienna. Anthony Polteri."
"Yes, sir, the prefect has been expecting you. This
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way." They followed him to the second floor and down a
narrow hallway. "One moment." They waited. There was a
low hum of conversation from behind the door and the man
reappeared. "You may go in."
The office was old and ragged but it looked lived in by
its owner. There was a scarred wooden desk, a couch,
eight or nine gray metal folding chairs with padded seats,
two telephones, and a green metal filing cabinet whose
drawers were doubly secured by a built-in combination
lock and a metal bar that ran through their handles and
fastened at the top by a huge padlock.
"Gentlemen, I am Fastoni, District Prefect of Police.
Have seats."
Fastoni was big, with a powerful body and severe, un-
compromising features. He had a café-au-lait complexion
and thin hair that was more straight than wavy. His eyes
seemed warm and good-humored even though he greeted
them with a sour smile.
"Which of you is Carter?"
"I am," the Killmaster said. "And you may speak Italian
if you prefer. Both I and Signor Meyer are fluent."
"Good," Fastoni grunted, and continued to speak as he
opened the file cabinet behind him. "I thought I had a sui-
cide or a major accident on my hands, until I found out that
the man was a diplomat and attached to your embassy in
Vienna. When that happened, I decided to hold off sending
everything down to Milan. I was a detective in Rome for
twelve years. I learned there that in cases such as this it is
better to work together."
Fastoni turned and dropped a plastic bag on the desk
between Meyer and Carter. "Signor Polteri's personal ef-
fects, those we took off the body, Two suitcases and a
briefcase are being held by the railroad authorities in
Vienna."
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"We appreciate your discretion, signore," Meyer said.
"Have you determined the cause of death?" Carter
asked,
"I have it here in medical mumbo-jumbo. In layman's
terms, the front of his skull was bashed in. There were
many trees in the area where he fell from the train. I sup-
Fastoni left it at that with a
pose we could assume ."
very Italian shrug.
"You suppose ... ?" Carter said.
Fastoni sighed. 'Gentlemen, may we be blunt with each
"Of course," replied both of them in unison.
"The railroad people in Vienna went through Polteri's
luggage. In a false bottom they found twenty thousand
American dollars in cash, a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight
with a two-inch barrel, and a Beretta nine-millimeter auto-
matic. The Beretta, by the way, was fitted with a silencer.
That alone would make me think that Signor Polteri was a
very strange diplomat. Don't you agree?"
Meyer and Carter exchanged looks. Carter spoke. "Pol-
teri was CIA."
Fastoni smiled. "I thought as much. Now let me be even
more frank, because I want you to handle this and take it
off my hands. Here in this small mountain prefect, we are
not equipped. "
"Equipped for what?" Meyer asked.
"Murder. When you view the body, you will see that
exactly half of Signor Polteri's face is freshly shaven.
Men do not shave half their faces and then jump off
trains. Men do not shave half their faces and dress com-
pletely, even put on a topcoat, and go out and acciden-
tally fall off trains."
"No," Carter said dryly, "they don't. Anything else?"
"Yes. The wound was very clean. Our doctor up here is
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not an expert, but he thinks it was caused by a single,
powerful, straightforward blow."
"By a blunt instrument," Meyer said, "not a tree."
Fastoni reached beneath his jacket and came out with a
Walther PI 9mm Parabellum. He flipped it so that he was
holding it by the barrel, with the heavy butt facing the two
men. "When you see the body, I think you'll agree the
blunt instrument could have been something like this."
"Thank you, signore," Carter said.
Fastoni stood. "I'll get the keys to the freezer."
He left, and the two men attacked the plastic bag.
The first was a list of the smaller plastic bags. The vic-
tim's pockets had yielded lint and dust of a nondefinitive
nature. The cuffless trousers had a little bit more. A couple
of seeds that had not been identified, and a film of dust
trapped in the vacuum bag.
The shoes, too, had been delicately cleaned and the
scrapings of each packaged. The label from inside the coat
was from a well-known Viennese tailor.
Meyer whistled. "l knew old Tony lived well, but my,
my."
"How's that?" Carter said.
"This tailor's a bit of a crackpot, kind of semiretired,
doesn't give a damn if he works or not. Considers every
garment he makes a sort of offspring. He charges anywhere
from eight hundred to a grand for a suit."
It was Carter's turn to whistle. He went through the rest
of the contents. There was a parking ticket from Rome
dated noon, two days before. A Rolex watch that brought
another whistle from Meyer. A handful of lire change and a
money clip containing about three hundred dollars in lire
and Austrian schillings. There was also a wallet and a car-
rental receipt. Polteci had rented a Porsche in Rome and
dropped it off in Venice. Also, a key ring with three keys:
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one to a house or apartment, and two car keys.
"Bugger did go first class, didn't he?" Meyer ex-
claimed.
Carter shrugged. "Not unusual. With as many years as
Polteri had in, he probably figured he was due a few perks
from the expense account."
The wallet had the usual assortment of credit cards,
along with Polteri's cover ID. There were no bills in the
money fold. Like so many wallets, this one had a so-called
"secret compartment," a flap of leather that lifted out.
Carter could feel that there was nothing in the compart-
ment, but when he ran his hand along the flat surface he
felt ridges. He curled a nail under the flap and pulled it out.
Worked crudely into the leather with an engraving tool
was a number: CS 981 440215 ALC.
"Ring any bells?" Carter said, holding it higher so
Meyer could get a good look.
S'Oh, yeah. The CS probably stands for Credit Suisse.
I'd say it's a bank account number."
Before the two men could discuss the find further, the
prefect reentered the room. "The local doctor who acts as
our medical examiner, coroner, and just about everything
else is still here. He'll give you a look at Polteri's body and
then we can sign the papers."
Meyer and Carter followed the Italian into the basement
of the building. A young man who looked tired or slightly
hungover—or both—awaited them in a room that served
as a bare-bones laboratory. Fastoni introduced the man as
Dr. Sodi.
The freezer was just that: a good-sized walk-in meat
locker that had been converted to a mini-morgue, There
were two stainless steel tables side by side with walking
room between them. Only one was occupied.
Sodi pulled the coarse sheet down the body.
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Carter scanned the wound and then the face. The promi-
nent nose and eyebrows marked a narrow face that was
already losing its strong characteristics. The gaping lips,
which had never been full, now looked like a razor slash
through the gray flesh.
"Well?" Fastoni asked.
Both men nodded. Meyer spoke. "It's Anthony Polteri."
"Doctor," Carter said, 'Swhat were the causes of these
bruises on the chest and shoulders?"
"Hard to say," came the reply, "but they were made
seconds before the blow that killed him. They were pretty
severe, as you can see, but there wasn't enough time be-
tween the moment they were inflicted and the death blow
for the blood to congeal close to the skin."
Carter and Meyer didn't have to exchange words or take
note of the look from Fastoni. Tony Polteri had been in
some kind of a physical fight just before he was killed.
"I've seen enough," Carter said.
Sodi turned to his boss. "Can I wax him up for ship-
"Don't see why not," Fastoni replied, and all of them
moved back into the lab room.
Sodi closed the freezer door and turned, one hand dig-
ging into the pocket of his green smock. 'This should go
with his personal effects. It was around his neck." He
opened his hand to reveal a rosary.
Meyer took it by two fingers, lifting it until it swung
free in the air. "Around his neck?"
The doctor shrugged. "I know,"
Fastoni took the rosary. "I'll put it with the rest of his
effects."
As they walked back to Fastoni's office, Carter asked
Meyer, "What's the big deal with the rosary?"
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The other man glanced at him. "You're not Catholic, are
you."
"No," Carter replied.
"No Catholic would wear a rosary around his neck. It's
akin to sacrilege. A chain with a cross, yes, but no rosary."
In Fastoni's office, they signed the necessary papers and
Carter filled in the embassy check for the cost of shipping
the body. It would go to Vienna first and then on to Amer-
ica as soon as instructions were received from the next of'
kin.
"You want the personal effects to go in the box with the
body?" Fastoni asked.
"No," Carter replied. "We'll take them."
'There is one more thing," the prefect said. "There was
a call a few hours ago from Rome, a woman who claims
she was Polteri's fiancée. She requested a claim on the
body for burial in case there was no next of kin."
Carter turned to Meyer. "You know anything about a
fiancée?"
Meyer shook his head. "But there could have been one.
Tony was pretty closemouthed about his personal life."
"You get a name and address?" Carter asked.
Fastoni passed it over: Isobel Rivoli, Chipardi 12, Roma
5074.
"I'll check it out," Carter said.
There was no question of going back over the Brenner
Pass until morning. The prefect made a phone call and got
them into a pension just a few blocks from the police sta-
tion.
They retrieved their luggage from the car, left it where it
was parked, and carried the bags to the pension.
A wave of warm air, rich with the mingled odors of
cooking food, beer, and wine engulfed them in the small
lobby. They weren't surprised that the owner was German,
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dressed in a green Tyrolean suit with carved bone orna-
ments on the lapels.
They checked in and handed their bags over to the son
who carried them up to the rooms. Carter and Meyer en-
tered a small, smoky dining room. A buxom blond waitress
led them to a table set in a bow of leaded windows,
They ordered from a very complete menu, and remained
silent until two huge steins of beer were placed in front of
them.
"You think he uncovered something in Rome?" Meyer
asked.
"Could be," Carter said, nodding. "The secretary at the
embassy said he was in Rome when the word on Rivkin
came in. Maybe that sparked something he was working on
and somebody came out of a hole."
"Out of a hole to kill him," Meyer hissed.
A second round of beer and the wurst and red cabbage
arrived. They ate in silence. Finally Meyer spoke. "What
do you suppose he was doing with a Swiss account?"
"It could be the job," Carter offered.
"Yeah, it could be. Or it could be skimming,"
Carter didn't comment on that. "What about the fian-
Meyer shrugged. "l'd be surprised if she was, in reality,
a fiancée. Tony had a lot of women. He enjoyed them, all
of them. Also, he apparently never got over some old love
of his. He got a little glued one night and told me he would
never get married."
Carter cut very carefully into a piece of wurst and
forked it into his mouth. "Talk to me about the rosary."
Meyer laughed. "Wearing a rosary around his neck
would be the kind of thumb-your-nose-at-the-church thing
that Tony would do. He considered all religion in general a
sham, and the Catholic Church in particular a ripoff."
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"Then what was he doing with a rosary?"
"Who knows?" Meyer replied. "Maybe making a per-
sonal statement to himself by wearing it around his neck."
"That's a little farfetched."
"Herr Carter?" It was the blonde.
"You have a call from the United States. My father says
you can take it in his office."
"Thank you."
She led the way and closed the door behind him.
"Carter here. "
"Nick, it's Ginger. Can you hear me? This is a lousy
connection."
S 'We've got a snowstorm here. Go ahead, I can hear you
well enough."
"I hope you're sitting down. They got Rivkin in Kansas
City."
"A professional hit. The shooter got away clean. A rifle
from across the street. Blew his head off."
"Jesus," Carter groaned.
"And that's not all. Rev Babbas is dead in Madrid."
Carter's knuckles went white on the phone. "They're
moving fast, aren't they? Tony Polteri didn't have an acci-
dent. He was killed."
"Any line at all?"
"Nothing definite so far. Listen, I want you to get on the
horn to Langley. Check out a Credit Suisse account in
Geneva. The number is 981 440215 ALC. See if it's a
Company slush account. Also, get in touch with Joe Crifasi
on one Isobel Rivoli, address Twelve Chipardi, Rome."
"Will do. Anything else?"
"Yeah. The other two men that Rivkin named ...
"Charpek and Evron."
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"Right. Have them put under close surveillance. I'll call
you as soon as we get back to Vienna." He hung up and lit
a cigarette.
Benjamin Rivkin had lit one hell of a fire under some-
one, Carter wondered, as he headed back toward the dining
room, how many more people were going to get burned
before he could put it out.
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EIGHT
Norman Evron entered Liverpool from the north. In no
time he left behind the fashionable residential and commer-
Cial areas for the grim streets of the Dockland section. He
drove along a row of sooty, decaying buildings and stopped
in front of a two-story structure of crumbling brick.
He climbed a dark, narrow flight of stairs to a grimy
room over an empty store. The single window was covered
by a black shade tacked to the windowframe. The furniture
consisted of a canvas cot, a couple of broken chairs, and
two stained mattresses on the floor. Plywood partitions
more or less closed off a gas range and sink in one corner
and a toilet in another. The place smelled of rotted food
and human waste.
The man who awaited him in the room wore a short-
sleeved shirt and a pair of faded dungarees. Dark hair
curled from the neck of the shirt, and both of his powerful
arms were covered with tattoos. He was peering through a
crack in the black shade and smoking a pipe when Evron
entered.
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His name was Simon Ellsworth, and he was the skipper
of a fishing boat called the Fat Cat.
"Thank you for meeting me, Simon. "
The man shrugged. "Ya've made me a pretty penny over
the years. I've moved a lot of people and goods for ya, and
ya always paid well. Where will ya be goin'?"
"Ireland," Evron replied. "I've a place to hole up there
for a few months, and then South America. "
"Sounds serious. Coppers?"
Evron shook his head. "Worse. How much do you
"For what ya've asked, fifteen hundred quid should do
it. "
"Done," Evron said, counting the money and handing it
over. "When can we sail?"
"Just after dark. This place is a shithole but you'll be
safe here."
"It will do fine."
As soon as Ellsworth left, Evron took a shower in the
hall bathroom and fell across one of the mattresses on the
floor. His dreams were full of the two men who had arrived
at his flat in London. They had told him they were from
Polteri. Tony needed to see him at once.
Evron knew it was crap. He had not had a face-to-face
meeting with Tony Polteri in nine years. It was one of the
man's cardinal rules: nothing should ever connect them.
Evron knew everything was over from the way they
escorted him down to their car. He was positive when he
bolted and they came after him with drawn, silenced auto-
matics. He had gotten away in the narrow streets, but it
was only a matter of time. They would hunt until they
found him.
But Norman Evron had listened wisely to Tony Polteri:
"Always be ready to run. If it ever goes up in smoke, it
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will go up fast. And there's a good chance it will be both
sides after us."
Most of his money was out of the country. He had a
half-dozen ways set up constantly to get out himself, and
he kept a spare bag with clothes and cash in a locker at
Paddington Station at all times. After making a phone call
to Ellsworth, Evron had picked up the bag and taken a cab
to Stratford. There, he switched plates on two cars and
drove one of them to Manchester, where he did it again
before driving on to Liverpool.
It was dark when he awoke. He washed and shaved with
a razor from his coat pocket. When he was dressed again,
he took all the cash from the bag and stuffed it into his
pockets.
A slight breeze stirred as he strode down the narrow
sidewalk toward a lighted main thoroughfare at the foot of
a curving slope, A taxi ride took him across the city to a
small tobacco shop. He glanced at the dull metal shutters
drawn down and locked over its windows, and rang a bell
set in the frame of a door opening onto a staircase landing
leading to an upper story.
After several peals of the bell, he heard footsteps de-
scending the staircase. There was a silence followed by the
click of a heavy lock. The door opened a few inches, re-
strained by a length of chain. A short, stocky man with
squinting eyes peered out at Evron, breathing asthmatic-
ally. "Yes?"
Evron handed him a hundred-pound note with the upper
right corner turned down.
"Just a moment." The man unfastened the chain and
opened the door. "Up the stairs, please. The room to the
left at the top."
Evron walked up the stairs and entered a small, overfur-
nished room. It was heavy with the stale smell of cooking
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and tobacco smoke. The man, breathing hard, entered the
room behind him and shut the door. He did not invite
Evron to sit down. His eyes, revealed in the lamplight,
were a watery blue. They appraised Evron shrewdly.
"I believe you called from London."
"Yes."
"You have a passport now?"
"Yes. U.K."
"Good. Please."
Evron handed the passport over. The man inspected it
briefly. "Good. What nationality do you wish?"
"Canadian."
"Morris Fuller."
"Occupation?"
"Carpenter. "
"Address?"
"One-eleven Queens Drive, Toronto."
"Date and place of birth?"
"Vancouver, April 2, 1940."
"You wish a travel history in it?"
"No. Just bring me into Ireland as of yesterday."
The man took some notes on Evron's appearance. He
nodded toward a corner of the room where a camera stood
on a tripod between two unlighted floodlamps. "Come over
here. I shall take your picture."
When he finished, he immediately went to work. "It
shall be about two hours."
"I'll wait."
The man nodded. "There is coffee and brandy there in
the kitchen."
Exactly two hours later, the man entered the kitchen and
placed a new Canadian passport on the table in front of
Evron.
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"That will be two thousand pounds." Evron paid and the
man moved toward the door. "I shall show you out."
They descended to the street level. The cool, fresh night
air swirled about them on the lower landing as the man
opened the unchained and unbolted door.
"Good-bye," he said softly.
Evron edged by him and disappeared into a cottonlike
mist that had risen from the harbor and was now silently
enveloping the city.
They were running in a smooth sea about two miles
south of the Isle of Man on a westerly course that would
eventually take them into Dundalk Bay on Ireland's east
coast.
It was nearly two-thirty in the morning when the trawler
passed their bow and slid on into the mist. Fifteen minutes
later they heard a powerful engine off somewhere in the
darkness.
"What's that?" Evron asked.
"Hard to say," Ellsworth replied, "but it's a lot of
power."
"I think it's them," Evron said nervously.
"The ones who are after me. "
Somewhere ahead a light burst dazzlingly in the dark-
ness. A big searchbeam probed across the water toward the
Fat Cat. It swung starboard and then came back on the
stern. The roar of the engine got louder.
"Can you outrun them?" Evron asked.
"No way. That's a power cruiser."
"That trawler that crossed our bow earlier ... was it
Russian?"
Ellsworth shrugged. "Could have been."
"Then it's them!"
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"Shit." Ellsworth went below and came back with what
looked like an elephant gun. "Can you handle this?"
"I think so," Evron replied.
"Then get the light. We'll try to lose them in the fog."
Evron went out on deck with the rifle. A faint offshore
wind was blowing. The sea was flat and calm. The light
grew bigger, brighter. He worked the rifle bolt, drew the
butt of the stock against his shoulder, took a breath and
held it, and fired. The rifle roared. It had a kick like a
drunken mule.
The light splintered, fragmented, and was gone.
The Fat Cat's engine sprang to life. Ellsworth shouted
something. They turned fast and Evron almost pitched
overboard. Then they were running straight. Evron re-
turned to the cockpit. Ellsworth was pleased with himself.
He was chuckling.
"You knew how to use it, all right," he said.
And then a big fat moon peeped out from behind a bank
of clouds.
Seconds later there was a chattering, bursting roar be-
hind them. Evron whirled to stare out the open door of the
cockpit. Ellsworth began to curse.
They had a machine gun, and they were using it, tracer
bullets and all. The tracers made quick leaping arcs low
across the water. Too far to port, and then closer, and then
on target.
Ellsworth cut the engine a second time. "Christ, we
can't mess with that," he grumbled.
They were drifting. The machine gun's busy chattering
roar stopped. So did the other boat's engine. Evron could
see it in the moonlight as it drifted up. Two men with
AK-47 assault rifles were in the bow as it nudged the aft
port side of the Fat Cat.
"Walk aft with your hands where we can see them!"
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Ellsworth obediently put his hands up and left the cock-
pit. Evron hung back, the rifle at his side. He couldn't see
the two men's faces, but he was sure he recognized the
voices. They were the same two who had come for him in
London.
"You! Move!"
Evron moved aft slowly, but he didn't raise his hands.
"What do you want?" Ellsworth shouted.
One of the rifles went off. Evron dived for the deck as
the bullets thudded into Ellsworth's body. He danced
wildly backward, crashing against the cockpit bulkhead.
He actually made it to his feet once. The tracers found him
again. They stitched into his neck and head. Glass shat-
tered behind him. He went down a second time.
The night was suddenly silent, except for the lapping of
water against the hull. Since diving for the deck, Evron
hadn't moved, The other boat drifted closer. He could hear
voices, and they weren't shouting.
"Evron, Norman Evron, stand up where we can see
you! This is foolish! We want to take you to safety..
The Kalashnikov barked again.
Wood splintered all around him. Evron told himself as
soon as the machine gun stopped he would get up and dive
overboard and stay under as long as he could, swimming,
and then surface for air and then go under again and swim
again.
But first there was thefear. He could smell it in the
stench of cordite, they were that close. He could taste it in
his mouth. He could feel it on the deck planking, wet with
Ellsworth's blood. He could feel it too whenever wood
splinters flew close to his face or against it.
He could stand it no longer. He stood, leaving the rifle
on the deck, and raised his hands.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot me!"
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"Turn around, keep your hands in the air."
Evron turned. He heard them come aboard.
Then there was another sound, a sharp crack.
But Norman Evron didn't hear that last sound. By that
time, the bullet had entered the back of his head, smashing
the occipital bone and burying itself deep in his cerebel-
lum. He felt a momentary twinge of pain, and was pitched
forward onto the deck. His face smashed down hard break-
ing the bones of his nose and jaw. Blood flowed out.
The two men, neatly dressed in sport clothes, viewed
the fallen body with satisfaction. One turned to the other.
"Drag them below. Tie them securely to something solid.
We'll scuttle it."
A half hour later, the Fat Cat settled on the bottom of
the Irish Sea.
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NINE
It was midafternoon when they arrived back in Vienna.
Carter dropped Meyer at the airport. He would be just in
time to grab a flight to Geneva. No matter what the situa-
tion was concerning the Swiss account number, Carter
wanted all the information on it he could get. Meyer knew
a way to bring a little pressure.
From the airport, Carter drove directly to the embassy
and searched out Elaine Dermott, the woman who handled
all of Polteri's in-house business and served as his liaison
with Langley.
Carter hadn't met her before, and he was a little sur-
prised. She was young for the job, a sultry-eyed brunette
with a pretty face and an hourglass figure partially covered
with a yellow sweater she hadn't washed in Woolite and a
short black skirt.
"Here are all the papers. The body is coming in by rail
sometime tonight." Carter knew he sounded brusque, but
he didn't have time to be anything else. "Did you contact
any next of kin?"
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She swallowed before she answered and her eyes were
getting teary. "He had no one."
"Then get instructions from Langley. You handle it."
"I will."
"What about his place?"
"I had it sealed, as Mr. Meyer requested. The personal
belongings were picked up from the railroad station. They
are locked in the basement storage room. "
'Good, I'll take a look at them. As soon as possible, I
want Polteri's records, his travel vouchers, slush expenses,
a list of his contacts, everything."
She looked up, startled. The eyes still watered but they
didn't look dead anymore. Now they were appraising
Carter as if he had just crawled out from under a rock.
"What on earth do you need all that for?"
"Because Tony's dead and he didn't fall off that train."
He heard her gasp, but he was already halfway out the
door. He made his way to the ComCenter and put a scram-
ble call through to Washington. Ginger Bateman picked up
her private line on the first ring.
"It's me. What have you got?"
"Langley has no record of the Credit Suisse number you
gave me. It's not part of their slush."
"Hans Meyer will be at the Du Midi in Geneva. Pass
that on to him, will you?"
"Sure. Next item. Crifasi is on the Rivoli woman in
Rome. Now, for the bad news. Saul Charpek has disap-
peared. His secretary said he didn't show up at his office
this moming, and his housekeeper hasn't seen him for two
days, Ditto for Norman Evron in London. We've got peo-
ple hunting, but so far nothing."
"Have them stay on it. When you hear from Crifasi,
have him pass on to Elaine Dermott here at the embassy."
Carter hung up and headed for the basement. He spent
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the next hour going through Polteri's bags. He found noth-
ing of any great interest beyond the fact that the two suits
he found bore the same label as the one the man had been
wearing when he died.
He made tracks back to Elaine Dermott and found her in
a little better shape.
"I'm sorry. Was he really killed?"
"He sure was. Do you know of anything he was work-
ing on where someone would want him out of the way?"
"No, We've been really very quiet for quite a while. It
will take me at least a couple of days to get all the material
together that you want."
"Do the best you can. Did Tony have a house here in
Vienna, or an apartment?"
"He just moved into a new apartment about six months
ago. Here's the address."
"We have a man there?"
"Yes, a clerk from the embassy. His name is Tom Lin-
caid."
Carter headed for the door, then stopped, knowing he
had to ask. "Elaine, how long have you been here?"
"Just over a year. It's my first overseas assignment."
"And how long have you been having an affair with
Tony Polteri?"
She went red, clear to the tips of her ears, but with a
deep breath and a good swallow, she managed to control it.
"It wasn't really an affair, just a now-and-then thing. "
"How long?"
"About six months. It started when he moved into the
new apartment. I helped him choose the furniture."
"Do me another favor," Carter said. "Keep your eve-
nings free for the next few days. I might need to pick your
brain, and we might as well do it over dinner."
He opted for a cab instead of the Opel, and gave the
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driver Polteri's address. It was five stories, old but com-
pletely renovated, in a posh section of the Kartner Ring.
The lobby was a lot of old wood, highly polished, with
a big crystal chandelier illuminating it. There was an old-
style cage elevator that worked so well Carter guessed it
was a new replica of an old model.
There were five flats in the five-story building, all
floor-throughs. Carter stepped off on the top floor into a
small alcove and rang the bell.
A speaker box by the door squawked. "Who is it?"
"Nick Carter."
Locks clicked, chains dropped, and the door opened.
The guy behind it was young and nervous, with dark
hornrims and a perfectly tailored Brooks Brothers three-
piece in dark pinstripes. He was in his early thirties, but he
had aging Foreign Service written all over him.
"Tom Lincaid?"
"Yes, sir, could I see your ID?"
Carter flipped it open, handed it over, and walked
across a floor of gleaming inlaid parquet. He went through
an air-conditioned living room where the curtains were
drawn. The place seemed spotless, the woodwork and tiles
polished and shiny. Carter could only glimpse the furni-
ture. It seemed heavy and ornate and somber, even to the
crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling.
"Been in Vienna long?" he asked.
"Just over three years," Lincaid said, handing Carter
back his credentials case.
s This is a pretty good neighborhood, isn't it?"
Lincaid chuckled. "You can say that again."
"I thought so." Carter nodded toward the phone. "Has
that rung since you've been here?"
"Several times. There's an answering machine in the
bedroom. I let it take the messages on tape."
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"Why don't you go grab some early dinner. I'm going
to look around."
"I'd appreciate it. I've been holed up here for nearly
twenty-four hours."
Lincaid slipped out the door and Carter wandered into a
bar and game room where the wall facing the street was
mostly glass with a view clear to the Danube.
There were two bedrooms, guest and master, both as
well appointed as the two rooms he'd already passed
through. A desk was in the corner of the master bedroom
in front of a large window.
Carter started on it.
Polteri's last bank statement showed five thousand and
change in schillings. The average balance over six state-
ments was about that figure. There were no letters or cor-
respondence of any kind. In the middle drawer, Carter
found a small address book. Most of the names in it were
female, now and then a business number in the States or
Rome or Vienna: tailors, liquor stores, restaurants, florists,
etc.
He noted that there was an Isobel with a Rome number.
He was about to pocket it for later referral, when his eye
hit on a name different than the others: Susan Safely: Every
woman's name in the book was put in with just the first
name and a number.
Carter went to the phone. First he ran the tape on the
machine back to the beginning and let it play.
— Hang up.
— Hang up.
— Tony, love, it's Daphne. Surprise, surprise, I have a
twenty-four-hour
layover. I'm at the Inter-Continental.
Call, let's play!
— Hang up.
— Tony, Olga. You're a beast. Two divine weekends at
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the Szabadsag and then you don't call me for three months,
Please, let's get together!
The tape ran silent.
Carter flipped through the address book and found an
Olga. He dialed*ind waited five rings before an accented
voice more whiskey than soda breathed into the phone on
the other end.
"Ja, this is Olga. Who is this?"
Carter killed the connection and frowned at the phone.
The voice was the same as Olga on the tape. The Szabad-
sag was one of the top hotels in Budapest. And Tony had
spent two weekends there with this woman,
He flipped over to the page with the Susan Safely
number and dialed. He was four digits into the number and
there was a click, then a buzz, and the line went back to
dial tone.
He tried it again, with the same result, and dialed the
operator.
"Operator assistance. "
"Yes, I'm having trouble getting a connection. The
number I need is one-three-one, one-four, two-six."
"That is not a Vienna number, sir. In fact, there is no
one-three-one prefix in Austria. What is your party's
"Safely, Susan Safely."
"One moment. "
Carter fumbled a cigarette to his lips and lit it.
"That name is not listed in the Vienna area, sir."
'Thank you. "
He hung up and went on the hunt. It took him nearly
twenty minutes, but he found the safe beneath an aquarium
tank with hidden rollers in the guest room.
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The combination—Susan Safely's mythical telephone
number—worked.
Inside, he found bricks of nearly new one-hundred-
dollar bills. They totaled nearly twenty-five thousand.
There was also a bank passbook in the name of Vela Cheb-
secki. The first deposit date was seven years ago. With
subsequent deposits and accrued interest, there was a little
over a quarter of a million dollars in the account.
Carter whistled to himself, made a mental note of the
address, and slipped it into his pocket with Polteri's ad-
dress book.
He almost missed the wallet in the back. It was a dupli-
cate of the one Polteri had been carrying on the train. It
was empty, but embossed under the bill compartment flap
was the same Credit Suisse number.
The last item in the safe was a thin scrapbook. It proved
to be a sketchbook of Polteri's life. There were photo-
graphs of him in a high school football uniform, at college
fraternity parties, in the army in Vietnam, and several shots
that appeared to be of a wedding. Polteri stood beside a
beautiful dark-haired girl. With them was a sour-faced
clergyman.
Carter slipped the spare wallet into his pocket, replaced
the book and the money, and relocked the safe. He went
through the game room with precision, the living room,
and then entered the kitchen.
The swinging doors into the kitchen had scarcely
flapped together behind him when an overwhelming smell
hit him. He couldn't place it, but it was powerful. Holding
his nose, he made a cursory search and headed back to the
bar.
He had three fingers of scotch poured and was searching
for an ice cube when the phone rang once, clicked, and
from the bedroom he could hear Tony Polteri's voice.
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"Hello, this is Tony. I'm not in right now to talk to you,
but if you will leave your name and number after the tone,
I will return your call ..
Carter was standing over the phone by the time the tone
ended.
"Mr. Carter, this is Elaine Dermott. If you're still there,
would you—
"I'm here, Elaine, what is it?"
"A man called here a few minutes ago asking for you.
He wouldn't leave a name."
"But he left a number?" Carter asked.
"Yes, he said he would be there for twenty minutes. If I
couldn't get in touch with you in that time, you were to call
the same number again at ten o'clock tonight. "
'"Was his English accented?"
"Yes, very heavy, but I couldn't place it."
"What's the number he gave you?"
She reeled it off and Carter jotted it down. Then he
reached into his pocket and retrieved the passbook.
"Elaine, does the name Vela Chebsecki mean anything to
you? ,
"Uh no, I don't think so. No, I'm sure of it. I'd
remember a name like that for sure."
"What about One-one-five Brandstrasse, Three-B?"
There was a long silence. "Elaine?"
"Yes ... yes, I know that address. That's Tony's old
apartment. "
"I see. Listen, Elaine, I know it means extra time, but
can you work late on those records? What I really need are
the vouchers on travel."
"I'll do the best I can. Where can I reach you if I finish
He gave her the name and number of the pension and
told her to use Meyer's name when she asked for him.
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"Do you want them tonight if I can get them?"
"It would help."
"I'll do my best."
Carter hung up and dialed the number she had given
him. It barely tinkled when it was picked up and he heard
Emil Bonlavik's gravelly voice.
"It's me," Carter said.
"I have some names, and by nine tonight I may have
another."
"Are you safe?" Carter asked.
"So far, but people still don't want to talk. Can you
meet me?"
"Where and when?"
"There is a small café named Sappo's on the road to
Schönbrunn. It's frequented by the workers at the palace.
Ten o'clock?"
"I'll be there."
Carter hung up, downed his drink, and headed for the
kitchen to rinse out the glass. Then he remembered the
smell and left the glass on the bar.
Lincaid returned as he headed for the door.
"Hi. Success?"
"Hard to say," Carter replied, slapping the swinging
doors into the kitchen. "Who died in there?"
"Oh, yeah," Lincaid said, coughing. "That's my fault. I
just moved in when they said I would have to stay here
with no relief. So I ate here."
"Yeah?"
"There's a lot of cheese and some Chinese in the gar-
bage disposal. I found out too late that it was on the blink."
He shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "I've been trying to
clean it out by hand, but my fist is too big. Seems like no
matter how much I spray, it still smells .. ."
Carter laughed, patted the younger man on the shoulder,
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and moved on through the door. The elevator opened on
the lobby floor when it hit him. He held the door in con-
centration.
New apartment,
New appliances.
Everything in the kitchen and bathrooms hardly used.
Carter hit the button for five, and when the door
opened, disregarded the bell and pounded on the door of
the flat.
"Yes?"
"Lincaid, it's me again, Carter. Open up."
When the door opened, Carter elbowed past the man
and, paying no attention now to the smell, darted into the
kitchen. He crouched in front of the sink and yanked the
cabinet doors open.
"What's up?"
Carter had the doors open and was sliding under the
sink on his back. "Turn the unit on, but not the water."
Lincaid did. There was a steady whirring sound, but
Carter couldn't hear the low rumble in the pipes going
through the floor into the sewage system.
"Now turn the water on."
Lincaid did, and the only difference in sound that Carter
could detect was the gurgling of water in a straight shot
through the pipes.
"What are you doing?" Lincaid asked curiously.
"Look around, find me a toolbox or a set of screw-
drivers. My guess is they're close by in one of those
drawers. "
Seconds later, Lincaid knelt beside him unrolling a
chamois pouch. "All kinds, little to big."
Carter undid the two clips holding the housing rings and
exposed fouc screws. He went to work with the screw-
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driver, and moments later started lowering the housing it-
self.
It was down only a few inches when Carter saw what
Polteri had done. A baffle had been soldered onto the
mouth of the pipe leading into the chewing knives of the
disposal. A bypass pipe had been screwed into the area
over the baffle, so that water could drain out but not enter
the interior of the disposal itself.
It took only a few more minutes for Carter to get inside
the release area of the disposal. There, in an oilskin pouch,
he found a safe-deposit box key and a passport for George
Nathan Coxe. The Coxe passport had Tony Polteri's photo-
graph on it. Also in the pouch was yet another duplicate
leather engraving of the same Swiss bank account number
Carter had found in Polteri's wallet.
"Geez, what the hell does this mean?" Lincaid ex-
claimed.
"For the moment it means nothing," Carter growled.
He got a plastic bag from a drawer and deposited in it
everything he had found in Polteri's apartment. Then he
handed it to Lincaid.
"I'm leaving," he said. "Ten minutes after I walk out
that door, call the embassy. Order a limo and two men. I
want both men armed. Take that bag to the embassy and
put it in Polteri's office safe. No one sees what's in it. You
got that?"
"I got it."
"I hope you do," Carter said, "because if I hear you
didn't do it exactly the way I told you to, I'll have your
balls in a vise tomorrow. Now lock up behind me."
In the hallway, Carter bypassed the elevator and took
the stairs all the way to the basement. By the rear door he
found boxes of garbage waiting to be taken out in the
morning.
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It took only a matter of minutes to rig himself up a
small, suitable-looking package from the cartons and let
himself into the alley.
Within two blocks of clearing the mouth of the alley, he
knew he'd pulled them off Lincaid and had them breathing
down his back.
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He entered the tiny reception area and sat down on a
stool behind the counter. His eyes were quick and alert as
they roamed the darkening street outside the window. A
cigarette appeared in his mouth without any apparent mo-
tion of his hand or shoulders. He snapped a match on his
thumbnail and lit the cigarette.
He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs behind him, but
he didn't turn and the expression on his face remained the
same. He continued to stare motionless at the street beyond
the plate glass window, smoking,
A large woman with gray hair and sad eyes entered
from the rear room, carrying a vase filled with flowers.
She set the vase down on the counter and leaned over it,
her huge breasts spilling across the wood.
"What is it, Stefan? What is troubling you?" She
breathed thickly as she spoke.
"Nothing," he murmured, crushing out the cigarette, "it
is nothing. "
"Would you like a cup of coffee, tea?"
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"No, dammit," he hissed, and immediately felt sorry for
it. He reached across the counter and patted her arm. "l am
sorry, Eula."
"Is it because we haven't heard from Herr Polteri?"
He nodded. "That is part of it." The telephone at his
elbow rang and he grabbed it at once. "Pension Prater. "
"I'm in, at the Bahnhof. Can we meet?" The female
voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes."
"Fifteen minutes," he replied, and hung up.
The old woman's eyes were wide and she was smiling.
"Herr Polteri?"
"Yes," he lied. "I'm going to the roof. Make sure none
of our guests decides to take the air."
"I will, Stefan," she replied, squeezing his arm.
Involuntarily, he cringed.
It is time it ended, he thought. Eight years has been
long enough, too long. In the last year he had cringed
every time she had touched him.
She shuffled behind him up to the locked trapdoor that
led out onto the roof. He unlocked it, climbed through, and
cringed again at the smile on her aged, wrinkled face as he
closed and locked the door from his side.
He walked over seven roofs to the end of the block, and
repeated the same process that let him into the top floor of
a building of flats. Other than some radio music from one
of the flats on the floor below, it was quiet. There were two
apartments on the floor. He went to the one marked "A"
and rapped twice, paused, and rapped twice again.
The door was opened by a shrunken man with a huge
bald head. His face was anemic and thin. He wore stained
canvas trousers, a dirty shirt that had once been white, and
worn boots.
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"Have a beer somewhere. Come back in two hours," the
visitor growled.
Without a word the man drew on a shabby coat and left.
Maxim Porchov took a key from his pocket and moved
across the studio. The floor was uncarpeted and dirty, lit-
tered with an accumulation of cigarette ashes and butts.
There were canvases hung on almost every inch of wall
space. An easel stood back from the front windows with a
half-finished portrait on it.
Porchov opened the door of a storage closet. The inside
was large, the hangers hung with expensive suits and ca-
sual wear. Twenty pairs of shoes filled a rack on the floor,
and sitting beside them were traveling bags of good leather
in assorted sizes. In a comer was a small refrigerator.
He opened it and removed two chilled glasses, a bottle
of chilled Russian vodka, and red caviar. From a humidor
atop a dresser he took a hand-rolled Havana cigar and went
back into the studio.
When the cigar was burning to his satisfaction, he
poured some vodka and settled back in a rocking chair to
wait.
The taxi came to a stop and she paid the driver, tipping
him three times the amount necessary.
"You will return in one hour?"
"Ja, Fräulein. One hour."
She stepped from the cab and stood as it pulled away.
When it was out of sight, she set off walking with a long,
almost masculine stride that swung her well-cut skirt to and
fro about her equally well-cut legs. Under her right arm she
carried, as though in contrast to the smartness of her cloth-
ing, a bulging and unsightly dispatch case. It was a vast
affair of polished morocco leather, abounding in handles,
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zip fasteners, and extraneous pockets. It bore a small
leather label on which had been neatly tooled in gold the
name Anthony Polteri.
She pushed open the door of the comer building and
climbed the dingy stairway to the fifth floor. She knocked
twice, paused, knocked twice again, and the door opened
just long enough for her to slip inside.
Porchov kissed her on both cheeks, took her coat, and
motioned to a chair.
"Some vodka?"
"Please. It's freezing outside."
He chuckled. "You have been too long in sunny Italy."
They toasted each other and drank, both of them taking
the whole of the glass in one swallow.
"The American agent, Carter, has arrived," Porchov
said.
"He went to Fortezza?"
"Yes," Porchov said, nodding, "and probably made ar-
rangements for the body. Our people lost them in the
mountains because of a storm. Their car slipped off the
road. "
"Damn," she hissed.
"'No matter. I doubt if Polteri had the list on his person
when he left Venice. Carter and a man named Hans Meyer
were picked up coming back through the Brenner Pass.
Meyer flew to Geneva. Our people are watching Carter
here. They have instructions to do what they can."
"And if they don't?"
Porchov spread his arms. "We must rely on you."
"What about Polteri's flat here in Vienna?"
Porchov made a sour face. "They put a young clerk up
there before we could get to it."
"They had nearly •two days!" she erupted.
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"I know, I know, but we had to move cautiously and I
didn't have enough people until yesterday."
She narrowed her eyes and looked deeply into his. "You
haven't told Moscow about the existence of the list."
He took a deep drag on the cigar and exhaled it slowly.
"No, I haven't. I think, my dear, that Tony outfoxed us
both. The less Moscow knows, the safer we are at this
point."
She grimaced. "As the Americans say, one's ass must be
covered at all times."
"Exactly. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, you're right," she said. "If those stupid idiots
hadn't killed him "
'SA costly mistake, but one we have to live with. There
is always the chance that he was bluffing."
"No," she said, pouring again, filling both glasses, "I
don't think so. I think I got to know him well enough. He
was telling the truth. There is a list."
"Then, my dear, we must find it. What about the brief-
"I've gone over everything in it three times. There is
nothing that would lead us directly to where he's put it. I
did find this, however."
Porchov took the envelope. Inside was a one-page let-
ter, in German. He read it quickly and then checked the
front of the envelope. It was blank.
"Dearest Vela," he mused. "It's obviously more than a
love letter."
She nodded. "I think he's telling her that the operation
is over, that it's time for her to get out. Whoever Vela is,
she is probably his contact in Budapest, the person who
sets up the refugees to come over."
"Damn the man," Porchov hissed. "He covered himself
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at all times. We were lucky, through the years, to get the
names of his seven stations on this side."
"Charpek was smooth in Paris."
He nodded. "I know. It was good work. Babbas and
Evron were also taken care of as well."
"But we've lost the other four."
"Yes," Porchov grunted, "I am afraid the net is fin-
ished."
"Except for that damned list."
"Yes, the list. We'll hold off on this Vela for the time
being. If I make a move in Budapest, a report of the re-
quest will be sent to Moscow. They will want answers.
We'll see what happens in the next twenty-four hours. It
may be that our Mr. Carter will do most of it for us."
"What should I do?"
"Go back to Rome. Leave the briefcase with me. I'll go
over everything again to make sure you missed nothing."
"What if Carter finds out about you and Eula?"
Porchov shrugged. "He probably will. That old fool,
Bonlavik, has been asking questions. We're innocent. If he
finds the connections, we'll insist we were just being
used."
The woman stood. Porchov helped her into her coat and
again kissed her on both cheeks.
"At least," she said, "Moscow cannot say we weren't
successful while we were running."
"We were the most successful. But that would be a
shambles if the Americans get the list."
She pulled the collar up around her ears and moved to
the door. "And if they do, and we can't get it away from
them "
Porchov smiled. t'l can only say that I am much too old
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and you are much too young to spend the rest of our lives
in a gulag."
It was even colder when she reached the street, but be-
neath her clothes she could feel perspiration streaming
down her back.
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It was a bad move. Carter had wrongly assumed that
there were only the two of them. He could hear their foot-
steps moving up on him fast now. He was several blocks
from Polteri's building. It was time to brace them.
He ducked into am even smaller, darker street and
speeded up, looking for a place to make a stand.
That was his bad move. There was a third, probably the
German, Otto Franz. Evidently he had gotten in front of
Carter and set up his own ambush. Carter was passing a
darkened doorway when he sensed rather than saw move-
ment. He tried to roll out of the way, when he was felled
by a tremendous crushing blow on the back of his neck.
The blow didn't knock him out. It wasn't the kind of
blow that knocks a man out. The knockout strikes some
part of the skull, the bony box shielding not too efficiently
the body's central switchboard and motor controls. A lesser
force landing on the back of the neck, when it doesn't
break the spinal cord, stuns the man who takes it. It hurts
him, drains his strength, drops him to his knees, leaves
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him physically weakened but conscious of being hit.
In a daze Carter heard the other two come up fast.
"You didn't kill him?" In German.
"Nein."
"What is that?"
"A box."
"Give it here."
Carter was on his hands and knees, shaking his head to
clear away the haze, trying to locate Franz in the misty
dark without being too obvious about looking for him. At
the edge of his vision he thought he could make out a pair
of very large feet.
Behind him, the other two were jabbering in a language
.Carter recognized but could not understand well, Hebrew.
From their tone they must have already ripped the parcel
open and found only worthless newspapers.
"What is it?" Franz asked in German.
"Nothing. Search his pockets."
Franz moved forward. Still dully shaking his head,
Caner gathered his legs laboriously under him and came up
out of the crouch in a rush.
Franz was on the alert. Carter's charge failed to knock
him off his feet. But he took a solid butt from Carter's head
when he jumped for what he thought would be Carter's
exposed back. The blow equalized things between them.
Carter sensed at once that the man had no weapon. His
tools were his hands, his feet, his knees, and the hard bone
and gristle of his elbows.
For this reason Carter didn't even think of bringing his
stiletto into play. He wanted one or all three of them alive.
If he could take Franz, he was pretty sure that subduing the
other two would be a piece of cake.
After the first rocking smash in the mouth from Caner's
head, the Killmaster could not find Franz's face with a
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telling punch. The man was fast for his squat, powerful
body.
Even if the German had given him a chance to use the
advantages of greater reach and height, there was not
enough light in the dripping darkness to aim a blow at
arm's length.
Franz kept boring in to use his squat strength on Carter's
body. He was powerful, solid on his feet, unflinching and
merciless. Carter, doing his best to return pain for pain and
hurt for hurt, fought savagely. Hang on, tie him up, lean on
him, ride it out. He crushed Franz's toes beneath his heels.
The German, half a head shorter, responded by banging his
rocklike skull repeatedly into Carter's face. Neither man
said a word, or uttered a sound not wrenched from him by
the ferocity of their battle.
But they must have created some noise. The shrill of a
blown whistle at the head of the alley where they fought
preceded by seconds the approach of a bobbing halo of
hazy light through the swirling snow. In the instant, Franz
and the other two were gone.
In a piece of light from the flash, Carter saw a uniform.
"Are you all right?" the policeman asked.
Carter spat some blood and nodded. "A lip, my nose,
and some bruises. I'll live."
"Did you get a look at them? Did they get anything?"
"Never saw their faces." Carter went through the ritual
of patting his pockets. "No, they didn't get anything."
The policeman took a walkie-talkie from his belt. "I'll
get you an ambulance, mein Herr."
"No, no, that's all right. Just a cab."
"But, mein Herr, you can't go anywhere looking like
that." He flashed his light over Carter's bloody shirt, "And
I'll have to have your name."
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Carter gave him his ID. "If you'll get me a cab I can
make it to the embassy."
The policeman's face changed at once when he saw
Carter's credentials. "You are sure you don't want to make
a complaint?"
"What good would it do? We couldn't identify them."
"Right. I'll get you a cab."
The man was probably relieved. It didn't look good for
diplomats to get beaten up on the streets of his city. If
Carter didn't want to make a case out of it, it just made his
job that much easier:
From the pain getting out of the cab, Carter knew the
German had done a pretty good job on him. The marine
guard got very antsy when he checked Carter's ID.
"You want a doctor, sir?"
"No, just point me to the elevator."
Elaine Dermott was much cooler than he would have
guessed. She took one look at him, sat him down, and
went to work.
Between them they got his sodden coat off, and the
bloody shirt beneath it. She brought cold water, warm
water, towels, disinfectant, and bandages. While he held
cold compresses to the wounds of his face, she sponged his
torso clean and wiped him dry. Afterward she bandaged
what needed bandaging. The marks on his body wouldn't
begin to show for hours, no bones were broken, and he
needed no patchwork from the neck down. His face had
suffered most of the visible damage: a bad cut over each
cheekbone, another at the corner of his mouth, another
splitting an eyebrow. One ear was puffed, and several teeth
in the front of his mouth were loose.
Franz's most disfiguring blows had been hard elbow
smashes to the side of the head, hard butts in the face. It
was luck that the smash on the bridge of the nose had been
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high enough not to break it. Or was it only luck? Too much
about the man's attack still required explanation.
When his nose had stopped bleeding and he could
breathe easily by not breathing too deeply, he said, "You're
not interested in what happened?"
"Of course, but I figure if you want to tell me, you
will," she replied calmly.
Carter smiled. It hurt. She was one hell of a lot cooler
than he'd thought.
She was putting a bandage over his eyebrow. He could
not look up to see her face. "How are you coming with the
records?"
"Another couple of hours, give or take, and I should
have it all."
She finished with the eyebrow and began on the torn
cheek. He still couldn't lift his head to see her expression.
When the ear had been cleansed and bandaged, she stood
back and surveyed her handiwork. A scowl furrowed her
brow.
"That ought to be stitched. I've pulled it together with a
piece of tape, but you should see a doctor about it in the
morning."
"We'll see," Carter said, and checked his pants. They
weren't too bad. The shirt and jacket were beyond repair.
"Think you can rustle me up some clothes?"
She nodded and started on the other cheek. "You and
Tony are about the same size. He kept some extra clothes
here in the office."
Her hands were gentle on his face. She held his head
against her bosom, and he could feel her small unconfined
breasts rise and fall with her breathing. He resisted a sud-
den strong urge to put his arms around her body and pull
her to him.
"What's the matter?"
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"Nothing," he said.
"You jumped. Did I hurt you?"
"No," he chuckled, "you're turning me on."
"Jesus," she groaned, and cleaned up the debris.
A few minutes later she brought him a fresh shirt, a tie,
and a jacket. Carter dressed. She had been right. The fit
was almost perfect.
"l noticed something when Lincaid came back tonight."
Carter's face froze. "I told him to put that stuff right
into the safe."
"He did. It's the inventory from the apartment."
"What about it?"
"Tony had an expensive leather briefcase. It's not here
in the office or in the inventory."
"And it's not with the bags in the basement?" Carter
asked.
"No."
"Do you think he had it with him in Rome?"
"Yes."
"That means that whoever killed him probably has it.
Do you think there was anything in it that was vital?"
She shrugged. "I doubt it. He rarely took anything clas-
sified out of the office. Usually the only stuff he carried in
the briefcase was personal."
"Like what?"
She shrugged again. "His investments, his deals."
There was something in her tone sarcasm, cynicism.
"I hear something in your voice, Elaine. You didn't think
too much of Polteri, did you?"
"He was a nice guy and, I think, one hell of a business-
man."
"And an agent?"
Her eyes came up and met Carter's. "He was a business-
man."
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"l see." Carter left it at that and headed for the door.
"Are you going back to the pension?"
"Not directly," he replied. "I've still got to see someone
tonight."
As he went down in the elevator, Carter wondered just
where Tony Polteri got the money to make all his invest-
ments.
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They sat in a narrow booth against the far rear wall of
the café. Bonlavik ordered a Benedictine. Carter went for
coffee.
They both glanced around the room with its carefully
preserved aura of Franz Josef. The tourists who packed the
place during the day would drink it in with oohs and ahhs.
The nighttime customers paid no attention. They saw it
every day in their work on the vast grounds of Schönbrunn.
An elderly waiter brought their drinks. When he was
gone, Bonlavik turned to Carter. "You ran into a door?
Several doors?"
"A buzz saw."
"I don't understand 'buzz saw.' "
"He was shorter than I," Carter said, "but his hands
were like teeth."
The old man sighed. 'Then it has started. They have a
good thing. Nick. They don't want to give it up."
"Explain 'a good thing,' " Carter said, stirring sugar into
his coffee.
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"You have the Jewish Relief and Refugee agency here in
Vienna. It is sponsored by Israel and, to a degree, the
Western powers. You also have a strong lobby among
Western nations that oversees all refugees who want to
leave the Iron Curtain countries."
"Yes," Carter said, nodding, "and those are all legal
agencies. The ones you helped get out were the ones who
couldn't get out legally. They had to be smuggled over and
then fed into pipelines across Europe."
Bonlavik took out the list Carter had given him, and
smoothed it on the table. "As you can see, I have drawn a
line through every individual name and organization on
your list."
"And you've added names."
"I'll get to those, All of these people, myself included,
got people out because we felt it was our duty. We survived
with contributions. Sometimes your intelligence agencies
gave us sums of magnitude, when they were interested in
someone."
Carter didn't think he liked the way this was going. "Go
on."
"That isn't true anymore. Now, if anyone wants out,
they pay and they pay a lot."
Carter scanned the names Bonlavik had carefully
penned in at the bottom of the list:
--— Boris Weiner, magazine publisher, film maker, shop-
keeper.
— Eula and Stefan Steforski, innkeepers.
-—-- Olga Sonderchek, hotel and nightclub owner.
"An odd bunch," Carter murmured.
"Isn't it? I know nothing about them. I learned their
names from friends I still have on the other side. I do know
they all have one thing in common: if they help anyone,
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they get well paid for it. And right now, Nick, these people
have cornered the market."
Carter could tell from the disgusted expression on Bon-
lavik's face what the old man thought of these people.
"Tell me, Emil, are any of these people connected with
the American?"
A shrug. "Perhaps one, perhaps all of them. Or perhaps
none of them. Perhaps our mercenary American has his.
own underground railroad,"
The hawklike lines of Carter's deeply tanned face tight-
ened as he tried to put it all together. Olga Sonderchek was
probably the Olga in Polteri's address book. Carter would
start with her, first thing in the morning.
In the meantime, he had a definite feeling of unease, a
feeling that Emil Bonlavik was in danger. But before he
could say anything, the old man was speaking again.
"There is one more name, Anton Robchek."
"What about him?" Carter asked.
"He was a Czech who emigrated to Budapest. I worked
with him for a while years ago. At one time, he was the
best, They called him 'the mole.' He could get anyone out.
If he couldn't get them out over the frontiers to the West,
he would take them out to the East. It was even said that
once he took two people from Prague clear across Russia
and over the Baltic to Yugoslavia. He was an artist and a
genius at forging papers. But even without papers he could
still get people out."
"Where is he now?" Carter asked.
"He went to Paris, to study. I heard that he had achieved
a small measure of fame for portrait work. But the boule-
vards of Paris and the cognac sapped his strength and his
skill. I thought he was dead."
"But he isn't?"
Bonlavik shook his head. "He came back about three
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years ago. The last address anyone had on him from the
other side was a residential hotel here in Vienna, the Karl-
stadt."
"You think he might be forging papers again for one of
these?" Carter tapped the inked names at the bottom of the
list.
"Let me put it this way. The word from over there is that
if these people bring you over and put you into the pipe-
line, you can disappear without a trace."
"Is this Anton Robchek's work that good?"
"Better."
Carter folded the list and slipped it into his jacket
pocket. From another pocket he took a thick roll of bills,
divided it in half, and pushed them into Bonlavik's hand
under the table.
"You must have a friend somewhere, Emil."
Bonlavik smiled. "There is an old woman in Innsbruck.
There is no sex anymore, but she loves the way I scratch
her back. "
"Go scratch, Emil, until this is all over. If you re-
member anything else, leave word for me at the embassy."
Carter left the smoky café and walked into the snowy
night. There was a cab right in front of the door but he
ignored it. He had already been suckered once that night.
Three blocks farther on, he saw a young man and
woman getting out of another cab. He crawled into the
back as soon as they had paid, and gave the driver the
name of his pension.
Nearly into the city on the autobahn, he leaned forward
over the seat. "Do you know the Hotel Karlstadt?"
"Ja.
' 'How far is it from the address I just gave you?"
"Oh, ten, maybe twelve blocks."
"Take me there instead."
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His face and body ached like hell and his head hurt, but
he wanted to get everything he could out of every waking
hour.
The Hotel Karlstadt was near the Danube in one of the
oldest surviving sections of Vienna. It wasn't one of the
areas where new money had crept in for renovation.
Carter entered the lobby, a long, narrow affair of dim
lights and faded brocade chairs. In the dim light he could
barely see the dark wood of the reception desk and the
clerk behind it.
"We have no vacancies, mein Herr." The clerk was a
gaunt young man with steel-rimmed spectacles and sparse,
jet-black hair.
"I'm not looking for a room," Carter said. "I'm looking
for an old friend by the name of Anton Robchek. He's an
artist."
The clerk ran his slender finger down a list of current
tenants. "No one here by that name."
"Do you keep any kind of a file on your previous resi-
"If they were here any length of time, yes. One mo-
ment." The young man was old before his time. He sham-
bled, stoop-shouldered, to a wooden file, searched, and
came back with a folder. "Herr Robchek came to Vienna
from Paris, correct?"
"Yes," Carter said, nodding, "that's right. "
"He was with us for a little over a year, off and on.
According to this, he was out of town for weeks at a time.
And then he was gone, vanished. No forwarding address.
We still have some of his things in a storage locker. We are
holding it for unpaid rent."
"So you have no idea how I could reach him? There's
no mention of a relative or friend?"
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"None."
"Thanks," Carter said, dropping a few schillings on the
counter, "I'll just have to find him some other way."
Carter was near the door when a voice came out of the
darkness. "Mein Herr." He turned and saw a very old,
very beefy man with a great crest of white hair and pale
gray, rheumy eyes. He stood with a slight lean, as though
his feet had difficulty supporting him.
"Yes?" Carter said, moving into the shadows toward the
man.
"You are an American. What would an American be
wanting with Anton Robchek?"
"I'm an old friend. Do you know him?"
"You are not a friend, mein Herr. Anton hates Ameri-
cans. He blames them for not helping Dubcek during the
Prague Spring, when the Russian tanks came."
Carter hesitated and then took a stab. 'S You're right, I
don't know the man. But I have reason to believe he is in
serious trouble, and I think I can help him."
The man studied Carter intently for a long moment.
"Like Anton, I am Czech. I, too, dislike Americans. But I
think, over the years, they have done more good than
harm. I was with Anton the day before he disappeared. A
man had come to see him that morning. I never saw the
man, but he put the fear of God in Anton. He also let it slip
that the man was Russian. He left later that night and he
never came back."
"Do you have any ideas?"
"Do you mean, is Anton dead? I don't know. But if he
is alive, and in Vienna, there is one place you may find
him. "
Something clicked in the back of the Killmaster's mind.
"The Café Prague?"'
The old man smiled and nodded. "It is the only place in
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Vienna that a Czech can get a decent meal. Anton and I
used to go there often. When we couldn't pay, the owner
would take one of Anton's paintings."
"You've never gone there looking for him?" Carter
asked.
The old man shrugged. "Nostalgia gives me heartburn. I
never go to the Café Prague anymore."
Carter unwound two large schilling bills from his roll
and held them out to the man. The watery gray eyes looked
down at them, then up at Carter, and he shook his head.
"Ah, you Americans. It is not always your money we
want."
The old man turned and shuffled down the lobby toward
the stairs.
It was only a twelve-block walk from the Hotel Karl-
stadt to the pension, but halfway there Carter wished he
could spot a cab. He was feeling the effects of the earlier
encounter, and his body was suddenly wracked with fa-
tigue. He managed to make it, and hauled himself up the
stairs.
When he hit the second-floor landing, a door to his right
opened and the owner's head popped out, "You have a
guest, a woman. She is from your embassy. I let her in."
That was all. The head was gone.
Carter groaned up the rest of the flights and lobbed his
hand against the door. "It's me."
It opened and Elaine stepped back with a gasp. "Mr.
Carter.. ."
'Think we could make it Nick by now? What's wrong?"
"You lost your tan ... you're white as a sheet and you're
listing to port ..
"I'm lucky to be moving at all. A whiskey and a hot
bath and I'll be my old self. Whatever that means."
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She hesitated, and then moved toward the bathroom.
Carter upended a flask from his bag over a glass and swal-
lowed half of it.
He tried to peel out of his jacket and groaned aloud. She
was back. "You want some help?"
He grinned. "You've seen me half-naked, you might as
well see the rest." He finished the whiskey in the glass.
She flushed slightly. s 'I grew up with four brothers, and
Tony Polteri wasn't the first man I went to bed with."
By the time he had gotten out of his clothes, with her
help, the alcohol was beginning to anesthetize the aches
and pains.
He carried the flask into the bathroom. The bathwater
was hot enough to make coffee with, but after a time he
could stand it and slid down until it was up to his neck. He
expelled his breath in a long sigh of blessed relief.
"Hey."
"Let's talk. Bring a notebook."
She brought her whole briefcase and set it, open, on the
floor by the tub. Then she took a pencil and steno pad and,
giggling, sat on the commode.
Carter grinned and nodded. "Crazy business, ain't it?
You should see when I call a big conference fills a
whole hot tub. There's a slip of paper in the inside pocket
of my jacket, four names in ink at the bottom. Get me all
you can on them first thing in the morning. Concentrate on
Olga."
"Are they in Vienna?"
"I think so," he said, and took a hit from the flask.
"Then it should be easy."
"We have anybody reliable working in Budapest?"
She held out her hand and rocked it from side to side.
"Lightweights, but they can handle simple stuff."
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"See what you can get on a woman named Vela Cheb-
secki."
"Any particulars?"
Carter shrugged. "There was a bank passbook in Tony's
safe in her name. The balance was close to a quarter mil,
American green."
The pencil paused and her eyes came up to meet his.
"Tony was shady, wasn't he."
"I think so," Carter admitted. "Question is, how shady
. and with whose money. Dig into his personal finances.
That pad of his cost a bundle. He owned a Porsche, and
rented them when he didn't have his own car. His watch
was a gold Rolex, and he liked thousand-dollar suits. None
of that fits."
"I'll do what I can. You've got a nice body."
It jarred him, but only for a second. "So do you."
They both laughed. "What else?"
"What kind of a lover was Polteri?" The pad slipped
from her lap to the floor. "I'm not a voyeur," Carter said,
"it's strictly business."
She folded her hands and took a couple of minutes to
examine them, the ceiling, and Carter. "He was abstract."
"How so?"
"It was as if he was there physically but not mentally.
His equipment worked but his mind was somewhere else.
He was proficient but not really interested."
"As if it were all part of the job?"
She thought about this for a second, and then nodded.
"That's why it never worked between us. I felt like he was
doing me a favor. "
"I think I know what you mean. Meyer and Tony were
boozing it up one night. Our boy got a little in his cups and
confided to Hans that he had an old flame. I found a scrap-
book in Tony's safe. There were some wedding pictures in
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it. Did Tony ever mention that he was married?"
"Not to me. I can check his file."
"Do that, and read between the lines. What about the
Elaine dived into the briefcase and came out with a
computer printout, a very thick computer printout. Carter
started at the beginning and went through it page by page.
"How far does this go back?"
"All the way from when he took over the station, twelve
years. I had to get special permission to tap into the master
at L.angley."
"Interesting pattern. The first two years he takes two
trips outside his area jurisdiction. Then, suddenly, he's
bopping all over the place—Paris, London, Madrid, Brus-
sels, Zurich, Geneva ... you name it."
Carter scanned it again.
"And there's not a single trip on here to Budapest."
She shrugged. "People in our line of work aren't exactly
welcome over there."
"Except I know for a fact that Tony made at least two
trips recently to Budapest, and he probably made a lot
more."
"I can check Hungarian Intourist. They might give me
something."
"Do that," Carter said. "Check under the name George
Nathan Coxe, and narrow it down to the Szabadsag Hotel."
"Any suggestions as to cover?"
"Yeah, tell 'em you're Coxe's secretary. Make a reser-
vation for a week's booking, and tell them you want the
same room as he had last time. Then, when you've got 'em
hooked, get his former charges. Tell 'em it's a tax thing.
They'll understand that."
"Why George Nathan Coxe?" Carter told her and her
face fell. "My God, what was he involved in?"
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"Not enough to pin down yet," Carter said, groaning
himself to his feet and reaching for a towel. "But I think it
was pretty heavy,"
Elaine gathered her briefcase and eyed the flask. "Mind
if I pour a drink? I could use it."
"Help yourself."
She grabbed the flask and headed for the other room.
Carter dried his body and examined his face in the mirror,
The cut above his eyebrow was the worst. He would have
to get a stitch or two in the morning.
He returned to the bedroom. Elaine was just finishing
her drink. When she heard him, she set the glass down and
turned to face him.
"My turn."
"Your turn?" he said quizzically.
"For the shower."
She pulled the gold sweater up over her firm bare
breasts and wrestled her arms out of the sleeves. She
kicked off the short fur boots, unzipped her jeans, and
peeled them down over her lithe thighs and long legs.
Carter continued to watch her pensively. From her disinter-
ested, dispassionate expression and her mechanical move-
ments, she was not thinking in terms of a provocative
striptease. She was simply a girl taking off her clothes as
though there wasn't a man in the room, before going to
When she was down to a pair of lace panties just large
enough to cover her pubic hair, she headed for the
bathroom.
Carter lay on the bed wondering if she had a toothbrush
in her purse. He heard the shower stop and her movements
as she dried her body.
Back in the room, she crawled into the bed without a
word and reached across him to turn out the light. Then she
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lay for a time passively, unresponsive. A blast of wind
rattled the shutters and a sudden, violent shiver ran through
her body.
"Who makes the first move?" she asked.
"You," he replied. "I'm the walking wounded."
Her hand slid down across his belly until she found the
lie. "Bullshit."
She rolled to her side and buried her face in his
shoulder: Carter could feel the soft pressure of her breasts,
and thighs, and her leg gently forcing its way between his.
Polteri was forgotten.
Her lips were opened, sweet, entreating, inviting, and
then demanding. Her body trembled as his hand moved to
find one velvety firm breast.
She rolled, pushed him back, came over to lie half on
top of him. Then she traced erotic paths with her tongue,
feverishly deliberate, across his chest, down over his hard-
muscled frame, down, down, finally halting to cry out in
sounds of pure pleasure.
Her hands curled on his chest, dug into his flesh,
scraped along his ribs, and she was consumed with desire,
devouring, insatiable.
Finally, cupping his hand over her face, he pulled her to
his lips and then moved downward, finding the fullness of
her breasts with his mouth, then rolling her back, moving
to come onto her soft warmth. She arched her back, rose
with him, stretching her neck backward to offer more than
mere flesh could offer, give more than mere desire could
give.
He stayed with her, brought her close to the trembling
brink, listened to her pleading sounds, then pulled her back
and stroked the senses again, bringing her closer and closer
each time until she was truly in a world within worlds, that
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ultimate place where she alone could dwell if only for a
few, fervid moments.
Suddenly, he felt her hands tighten against him and the
scream rose from her throat, whispered at first, then full,
echoing from the depths of her to hang in midair, begging,
then trailing off to a whimpered protest of passion's tem-
poral intransigence.
She sank down into the bed, clutching him to her until
at last she released him to lay beside her, cradling her
breast with his hand. She lay unmoving until finally she
stirred, turned, her lips pressing into his chest. She stayed
that way, as if waiting, gathering new hunger, and then her
hands began to move down his body. He started to turn to
her and she pressed him back.
"Lie still," she murmured. "Let me have you as I want,
my own feast, now."
He lay back and her hands stroked him gently. She
moved her body against his, rubbing with feline sensuous-
ness. He lay with eyes half-closed and she did delicious
things, soft-flame things, and there was more than simple
hunger in her touch as he felt the depths of tenderness and
gratitude.
But finally he felt her begin to quiver once more, her
body responding to her own ecstasies, the cup of desire
overflowing. He turned, pulled her to him, searched out
her waiting wannth, and took her once again, this time
matching her own gentleness, moving up a path of sweet
wildness to the top.
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Carter heard the alarm and then felt her move to turn it
off. Through slitted eyes, he watched her rise, on one
elbow first, then swing herself from the bed to stand on
long slender legs, long hair trailing down her back.
Regally she stretched and moved toward the bathroom.
At the door she paused. "I know you're awake."
"Good for you," he said, letting his eyes pop open.
"Will that old man bring up coffee and croissants?"
"His wife will," Carter said.
"Then call her. We've got a busy day."
She disappeared and Carter reached for the phone. He
ordered, and lay there staring at the ceiling and listening to
Elaine hum off-key in the shower.
It took only a minute for him to make up his mind. He
moved across the room, unlocked the door, and joined her
in the shower.
She didn't look surprised. "You've got a black eye."
"Fortunes of war," he said with a grin, and wrapped her
in his arms as he moved her against the wall.
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"Oh, my," she whispered. "Oh, my, my."
Her breasts were soft points pressing into his chest as he
raised her legs. They slid around his hips.
"Are you always like this in the morning?" she moaned
huskily into his neck.
"Only after being beat up the night before. It adds to my
macho image."
Her lips moved lightly along his collarbone, her tongue
drawing delicate patterns on his skin. She paused, pressing
herself hard against him, opening herself.
He entered her easily. She moaned and lifted a firm
breast to his lips. Carter opened his mouth, took it gently,
and she gasped and became electric at once. Her muscles
tightened in tiny spasms until she was writhing and coiling
against him.
"Do you think we'll drown?" she gasped as the water
poured over them.
"No chance. We're turning it to steam."
She started to laugh but it turned into a moan of encour-
agement as he thrust harder.
"Oh, yes, yes, oh, God, yes." He heard her little cries
as he moved into the dark warmth of her and her hips thrust
toward him. She cried out in a long sigh of ecstasy. He
stayed with her as she quivered with successive spasms,
each one finding its own climax.
He moved with her, holding her back, slowing her fe-
verish thrustings as impatience and ecstasy fought in her
every urgent gasp.
"Oh, God, yes, Nick," she breathed, the urgency hold-
ing her voice now. He quickened his body with hers, faster
and faster. "Nick!" She pulled the word from her, almost
alarm in it, and he stayed his own thrustings for a moment
and heard her of protest. He came to her again and
suddenly she rose, flat belly heaving as the cry tore from
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her throat to echo in the tiny room, a cry of victory and
defeat.
He flowed with her in the moment of timelessness as
she quivered, a marvelous prolongation of the senses, until
finally she was still, panting against him.
"I hope it takes a long time," she said finally.
"To find out what Tony was into. Say, about a year."
Like any good Austrian innkeeper, the Frau had sneaked
into the room and left their breakfast without a sound. Over
the juice, coffee, and croissants, they outlined the day.
"Is there a doctor on standby at the embassy?"
'There will be if I call."
"Then call," Carter said.
They dressed and hit the street. Carter still didn't feel
like fighting Vienna traffic inside the Ring in the Opel, so
they cabbed to the embassy.
The doctor, a dapper figure in an excellently tailored
dark suit that made him look more like a trial lawyer than a
physician, was waiting.
"You look like hell," he said in German.
"I was protecting a lady's honor," Carter quipped.
The doctor chuckled. "l hope you got laid."
He poked and prodded and took some X-rays. While
they were being developed, he stitched the slit above
Carter's eye. The pictures came back showing no broken
bones, and an hour later Carter took the elevator to Pol-
teri's old office.
Elaine looked up as he entered. "Hans Meyer called.
He'll be on the four-thirty-two from Geneva."
"Say anything?"
"Dynamite, bloody-dynamite. His words. Said he would
tell you when he arrived. He'll call from the airport."
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"When he calls, tell him I'll meet him at the Café
Prague at seven. Anything on the names?'
"Just one so far." She whistled. "Boris Weiner. Boy, is
he a winner to take some stock on,"
"What do you mean?"
"Your friend's notation ... magazine publisher, film
maker, shopkeeper?"
"Yeah?" Carter said.
"The magazines are pornography, the worst kind. Thé
films are quadruple-X rated, and the shops he owns are sex
supermarkets. My source calls him the Austrian king of
pornography. "
"Any police record?"
"Lots of indictments, no convictions. It's rumored that a
lot of cribs in North Africa are occupied by yweet young
things he has supplied. Ugh."
"Takes all kinds," Carter growled. "Got an address and
phone?" Elaine handed him a slip of paper with just the
tips of two fingers. s 'Open the safe and get out that plastic
bag, will you?"
Carter noted the number on the paper and dialed. The
voice that answered was barely a whisper.
"Herr Boris Weiner, bitte."
"Ja, das ist Weiner. "
"Herr Weiner, my name is Carter. I represent a distribu-
tion company in New York. We have been alerted to the
quality of your work, particularly your film work, here in
Austria."
"Ja?" Noncommittal.
"We have over five hundred outlets in the States, and
we need product very badly ... special product, if you
know what I mean."
"l see. We would have to discuss this in person."
"Of course," Carter said. "I have an afternoon flight
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out. I wonder if I could meet with you right away?"
"I am afraid that would be impossible. I have—
"Herr Weiner, I am talking in the neighborhood of all
your Old titles, perhaps a half million or more units a
month. "
"I do most of my business on this level from my house."
"I understand," Carter said. "Shall we say an hour?"
"That would be fine. The address is—
"I have it. An hour, Herr Weiner."
Carter hung up. Elaine was staring at him open-
mouthed. "What do you know about pornography?"
'That it's boring," he said with a shrug. "But product is
product, no matter what it is."
Elaine had the plastic bag open on her desk. Carter dug
into it and retrieved the Vela Chebsecki savings passbook,
the George Nathan Coxe passport, and the safe-deposit box
key.
"You can put it back. I'll call in every hour or so."
"Nick .. 4"
"Was last night a one-nighter?"
He smiled. "I hope not."
*Ihe discreet brass plate beside the thick oaken door
read BORIS WEINER. The building was four stories, post-
war, and in a top-drawer neighborhood across from Es-
terhazy Park.
The door lock buzzed, he entered, and as there was
nowhere else to go, he climbed the narrow, red-carpeted
stairs. At the top, a young black man, in a powder-blue
uniform a size too small for his broad shoulders and bulg-
ing biceps, blocked the way.
"Your name, mein Hem"
"Carter. I think I have an appointment." He got a wel-
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coming smile full of perfect, pearl-white teeth and a mo-
tion to follow.
The man led him along a corridor toward the rear of the
building, and opened a door padded with real leather.
Carter walked into a large, high-ceilinged room full of soft
light, soft furniture, and a subtle blend of perfume, in-
cense, and Turkish tobacco.
For a moment he thought he was alone, but a short,
chubby man materialized from an oversize armchair and
minced his way across the room.
"Herr Carter, a pleasure to meet you, a great pleasure."
"Herr Weiner." Carter shook the limp, slightly damp
hand, and resisted the impulse to wipe his palm on his
trousers.
"Sit, sit, please. A drink9"
"Beer, perhaps."
Weiner snapped his fingers. "Nadu, a beer for our guest.
My usual."
The black glided toward a bar in the far wall, and
Weiner settled into a sofa across from Carter.
Carter wasn't sure what he had expected the king of
Austrian pornography to be, but it wasn't this.
Weiner was wearing a fitted, knee-length housecoat that
looked as if it had been made out of a Chinese mandarin's
coat, and if the heavy gold embroidery was the real thing,
he would need a bank vault instead of a closet to keep it in.
Under it, he had on black silk slacks and his small feet
were encased in black leather pumps. His round face was
as smooth as a baby's, and had the same pinkish glow. And
it was only the receding hairline that gave away his age.
The drinks were set before them and the black took up a
parade rest position by the door.
"Your health, mein Herr."
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"Na zdorov'e," Carter responded, and slurped the beer
like a longshoreman.
Weiner's big, doelike brown eyes blinked at the Russian
but he managed a smile as he sipped something red and
syrupy from a long-stemmed glass. When he set it down,
he rubbed his pudgy little hands together. "Now, just what
is it you're particularly interested in?"
"The young women you buy out of Iron Curtain coun-
tries and sell—probably at a huge profit—to North Afri-
can brothels."
The cupid's-bow lips slitted into a razor-sharp line and
the big eyes got very narrow: "Who are you?"
"I told you, Nick Carter."
"I'm afraid, Herr Carter, I'll have to ask you to leave."
"I'm afraid not. Who is your contact, Weiner? Who do
you
The little man snapped his fingers. "Nadu."
The young black moved forward, sure of himself.
Carter stood slowly, his hands up, palms out. "I don't
want any trouble."
Nadu relaxed. The heel of Carter's hand caught him
flush on the nose. Flesh and bone spread across his features
like soft jelly and blood covered the bottom half of his
face. He staggered back but didn't go down.
"Kill him, Nadu."
"You shouldn't have said that, little man."
The black hadn't cried out in pain; he hadn't even
whimpered. He just smiled through the blood, and a
switchblade popped open in his hand with a metallic click.
Nadu feinted quickly, a step forward and a slashing pass
with the knife, then a step back. Carter remained motion-
less, and he chuckled dryly. The laugh stirred the black's
anger, and anger made, him incautious. He lunged forward,
and Carter leaned backward. The man followed, but he
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didn't keep his feet under himself. He stretched too far
with the glinting knife, and allowed himself to become un-
balanced. It made him slower, and diminished the span
over which he could move the knife.
And the fight was over.
Carter gripped Nadu's right wrist with a quick move-
ment, and kicked. His toe dug into the black's crotch, lift-
ing his feet three inches off the floor. His mouth opened
wide and his features twisted in agony. The scream had
barely started bubbling from his throat when Carter's left
struck, the knuckles twisting and bursting the lips open
against the teeth.
Nadu's head snapped back, the scream choking off, and
he staggered backward, falling heavily to the floor, clutch-
ing his crotch. Carter took two quick steps forward and
lifted his right foot. He put his weight on his right heel and
twisted it as he brought it down and dug it into the man's
guts.
Nadu snapped up to a sitting position, vomit spewing
from his mouth. Carter took a step back and kicked him in
the face, Vomit and blood spattered as Carter's toe con-
nected, and Nadu slammed back down to a prone position,
his head cracking loudly against the floor. Carter took a
step forward and stamped his foot down into the man's
face. Cartilage and bone crunched under his shoe as he put
his weight on it and twisted it. Nadu rolled onto his side,
doubled up and jerking convulsively as he vomited,
choked, and moaned weakly.
Sweat was rolling down Carter's face and breaking out
on his body from the brief, furious exertion, and he was
breathing heavily. He wiped his shoe on the man's shirt and
looked at Weiner. The man's bottom jaw was headed for
his navel, and he looked as if he were about to faint.
Carter's hands itched to squeeze that fat neck, to
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squeeze the truth out of him like toothpaste out of a tube.
"Who's your contact, Weiner?"
"I quit, I swear it! I don't do it anymore!" the little man
squeaked.
Carter moved forward quickly and sank his fist into
Weiner's fat stomach. He doubled over, gagging, and
Carter seized his head and brought it down hard while he
brought up his knee. Weiner slumped to the floor, moan-
ing.
' That's not what I asked."
"All right, all right. Mein Gott, don't hit me again! I
was getting my girls out of Hamburg and Amsterdam.
About two years ago I got a telephone call from a man .. ."
"His name."
"I don't know, I swear it! He said the government in
Prague and Budapest wanted to get rid of some undesir-
ables, prostitutes. He could set it up. All I had to do was
handle the brokering with my North African clients. "
Carter felt sick to his stomach. "What did you pay?"
"Five thousand American for each one. That included
new papers."
"Why did you quit?" Weiner's face flushed and he bit
his lower lip. Carter yanked him forward by his lapels.
'One of the girls, in Tripoli. She was taping pillow talk.
Her customers were army officers. She was some kind of
spy. Two Libyans came and warned me to get out of the
business. To make their point, they bombed one of my
shops. The next time a call came, I turned the man down."
"The man on the phone, did he speak German?"
"Yes, but with a heavy accent."
"What kind of accent?"
"American."
"Did you ever meet him in person?"
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"Never," Weiner blubbered. "Everything was done by
telephone. The payment was cash, a drop, usually a box at
the opera."
Carter turned his face so Weiner couldn't see the look of
disgust that had crept into it. "Do you know a woman
named Olga Sonderchek?"
"Only by name. She runs a nightclub here in Vienna.
That's where Nadu picked up the girls after they came
over. "
Carter moved to the door. He spoke without looking at
the other man. "You're still alive, Weiner. If I ever hear
that you're back in the slavery business, I'll be back."
He hit the street and walked until he found a café. Forti-
fied with two shots of whiskey, he called the embassy and
was patched right through to Elaine Dermott. She gave him
the info on Olga and the Steforski couple.
"Anything from Rome?"
"Not yet," she replied. "I've got the dates on the Sza-
badsag Hotel in Budapest."
"Shoot."
"George Nathan Coxe stayed there eight times in the
last two years. That's as far back as their records go. Six
times he was alone. Twice he rented two rooms. I couldn't
get the name on the other room."
"Never mind," Carter growled, "l know it. Later."
He hailed a cab with the whiskey boiling in his stom-
ach. Every minute now he was peeling another layer off
Tony Polteri's life. And each new layer smelled a little
worse than the last.
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FOURTEEN
Cabarets in the daytime were like hookers without their
makeup and push-up bras: a little drab and saggy.
Der Club Famos was no different, dark and dingy, its
hanging vines of plastic flowers looking particularly hol-
low over chairs and tables pushed into the center of the
floor as an elderly man swept around them with an equally
elderly broom.
Carter took in the room in one quick glance, saw two
arched doorways hung with full-length curtains, one lead-
ing to the left, the other the right. An open door in the back
revealed a small kitchen. The bar took up the right wall
near a small stage. A fat man wearing a blue, open-necked
shirt with suspenders hanging down over his trousers sat at
a table sorting money. His eyes, looking smaller than they
actually were in the folds of his face, fastened themselves
on Carter.
'SOIga?" Carter said, stepping into the cabaret, moving
more quickly now.
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"She's not here now. We're closed," the fat man said.
"Come back later."
"Business, tell her I'm here. Weiner sent me."
That stopped him for a second. "I'll call Weiner."
"You do that."
The fat man stepped through one of the curtains. Carter
went through the other one. There was a narrow, carpeted
stairway leading up to a door on the second floor. He
started up.
"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
The fat man started up, Carter came down, feet first. He
jammed both heels into the man's face and blood spurted as
he staggered back. Carter landed solid on his left foot and
drop-kicked his right one right into the fat belly.
It was almost unfair. Carter could see already that the
man really had no guts for a fight. He simply stood there,
huge fists flailing the air without causing damage. Another
crack on the lips broke front teeth and wrung out a panicky
call for help as blood cascaded down his chin. It became
even easier to evade his wild haymaker blows. Another
unanswered cry for assistance gave Carter assurance.
He was bringing one up from the floor that would put
the man out for good, when a voice from above stopped
him.
"Mein Gott, enough! You'll kill the poor bastard. You're
good. Want a job?"
Carter let the momentum of his swing spin him around.
He looked up to see a woman at least six feet tall. She
had an air of haute couture about her even in the middle of
the morning. Golden hair was piled carefully on her head.
She wore a conservative green dress that seemed to shim-
mer over her lissome, full-breasted body.
"You've got to be Olga."
"Ja," she said with a nod. "And you?"
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"Nick Carter."
"Your German is good but you're not German or Aus-
trian."
"American. "
"What do you want?"
"Information," he said.
"You with the police or Interpol?"
"No, but I've got clout."
She moved down the steps closer to him and glanced at
the gasping fat man on the floor. "I can see that."
She was on the same step as Carter now and their eyes
were on a level. In the good planes of her tanned face there
was neither great beauty nor superficial prettiness. Carter
saw a dark-eyed directness, enough to charm and make
him forget the too-wide mouth and the nose that was per-
haps a shade too arched.
"My apartment is next door, in the hotel. We can talk
there."
She led him out the curtain and through the one the fat
man had gone through initially. Through a door they
stepped into a lobby that had an air of faded grandeur and
better days. The gilt on the high-scrolled ceiling was peel-
ing, and the carpeting on the winding staircase leading out
of the narrow lobby was worn down to the cords. The
furniture was massive and lumpy, the upholstery bulged in
all the wrong places, and there was an aura of decay in the
stained woodwork, the clear-glass light bulbs in the dusty
chandeliers, and the gap-toothed railing on the mezzanine
above the archaic reception desk.
"This must have been something once," Carter mused.
"I don't own it, I lease," she said, and shrugged.
"There's no entrance to the hotel from the street."
"That's because we only accept customers who spend a
little time in the club first."
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Then it hit Carter. "A whorehouse?"
She gave him a sharp look. "Don't be so crude. A place
of discreet assignations, please. In here."
He followed her into a living room. It was high-
ceilinged, with sculptured gilt paneling, French period fur-
niture, and everything but the table and cabinet tops was
covered in decorated satin. Olga didn't sit, nor did she ask
Carter to. She leaned against a mirrored fireplace mantel,
and he went over to a window and gazed down into the
street.
"Get it out," she said, "and then be on your way."
"Very well. You made two trips to Budapest with Tony
Polteri. Why?"
She laughed. "I don't know any Tony Polteri."
"Bullshit." Carter flipped open his ID and shoved it in
her face. "Polteri's dead. While he was alive he ran a
smuggling ring bringing people in from the East. What did
you have to do with it?"
Color drained from her face and she began to shake
visibly. For a moment Carter thought she would topple to
the floor. Instead, she managed to stagger to a chair and
sit. "Tony's dead?"
"Very. Somebody bashed his head in and tossed him off
the Venice-to-Vienna train."
"Mein Gott. "
Carter couldn't believe it. She was actually crying. And
he was pretty sure they weren't crocodile tears.
"Talk to me, Olga."
She blubbered a little more and then poured it out.
She had worked for Tony in Warsaw years before. She
had been a prostitute, and added to her income by passing
information. About six years before, she had been caught.
Tony Polteri had gotten her to Budapest and from there to
Vienna.
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In Vienna, he had set her up in this business. The night-
club and the hotel both belonged to Tony under another
name.
"He was a hell of a good man," she said, finally gather-
ing her emotions under control. "He helped a lot of peo-
pie."
'Oh?" Carter said.
She nodded. "People who wanted out. He brought out
hundreds of people. We used the hotel here as kind of a
way station until they could move on."
"A profitable way station. "
Olga shrugged. "The money I made out of the place,
my half, Tony made me keep. His half went back to help-
ing more people get out."
Carter lit a cigarette and studied her. His gut was telling
him that she really believed what she was saying.
s 'He made a lot of trips to Budapest on his own. Twice
he took you with him. Why?"
She looked up at him, her gaze steady. "I wanted to see
my daughter."
Carter blinked. "Your daughter?"
She nodded. "She handled everything in the East for
us."
"By sus,' " Carter said, "you mean you and Tony?"
"Yes."
"Who else worked with you over here?"
"No one."
"You don't know Eula and Stefan Steforski?"
"No. I've never heard of them."
"The people you helped. Did you keep a list of names?"
"No," she replied, "I never knew their names."
"Did Tony?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. He said it was better if
they just disappeared into a new life."
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"Have you ever heard of a man called Anton Robchek?"
Again he believed her. But it fit. Polteri was playing
straight with this one to keep the daughter in line, to keep
the other end of the tunnel open and running smoothly.
Chances were that the daughter also assumed that she was
helping Polteri help her fellow man.
"What's your daughter's name, Olga?"
"Vela. Her name is Vela Chebsecki."
The Pension Prater was a small, old-fashioned hostel on
a narrow street near the Ring.
Carter pushed open the door, activating a small bell with
a throaty ring, a miniature version of the bells that hung on
cows when they're turned loose in the Swiss mountains in
summer.
A heavy, gray-haired woman with a pleasant, seamed
face and sad eyes came through a curtain behind the desk.
"Guten tag."
"Guten tag. Frau Steforski?"
"Ja."
Carter opened his credentials case and laid it on the tall
desk in front of her. "My name is Nick Carter. I'm with the
American State Department. I'd like to ask you a few ques-
tions."
Her wide eyes grew even wider. "But why me?"
"It's about Tony Polteri."
The face sagged and the eyes grew watery. "I know
nothing. I—
"I think you do, Frau Steforski. Is there somewhere we
can speak privately?"
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Ja," she
said, resignation in her voice. "In here."
Their private quarters were drab and shabby Faded
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drapes dropped from the window rod, the walls were
cracked and discolored, the furniture battered and scuffed,
and the carpet worn.
If this woman and her husband were getting rich, Carter
thought, they didn't spend it.
"Would you like anything, some coffee?" she offered.
Carter shook his head. "Nothing, thank you. Only in-
formation."
The woman sighed and perched nervously on the edge
of a chair with her hands in her lap. "So, your government
has discovered what we do."
"I'm afraid so," he said, keeping his face a stony mask.
She looked at him pleadingly. "You must not stop it.
Tony works so hard, we all do. It is good what we do, to
give people their freedom."
Carter slid into a chair near her: "Suppose you tell me
the whole story, Frau Steforski," he said gently,
It was fairly simple. It had started about twelve years
earlier. She had gotten her brother out, and then his wife
and children. Then there were other friends.
One day Polteri had come to her and asked her if she
would allow him to use her contacts to get a man named
Stefan Steforski out of Hungary. She had agreed.
Stefan had stayed with her for nearly a year, He had
worked with Polteri, and they had aided others to escape.
Eventually she and Steforski had married. The three of
them had streamlined the operation, and since then they
had helped hundreds escape from behind the Iron Curtain.
Carter listened intently. "To your knowledge," he asked
when she had finished, "was there anyone else involved
with Tony over here?"
"No, I don't think so. There was only the woman in
Budapest who would hide them until they could be brought
over."
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"Do you know her name?"
"No. Tony said it was better that we did not know."
A door opened and a short, stocky man with a beard and
unruly black hair stepped into the room. He took one long
look at Carter and moved to the woman's side. "Eula, what
She told him in quick, clipped sentences and introduced
Carter. Stefan Steforski sighed and slumped on the arm of
his wife's chair.
"We have done nothing wrong," he said.
"How much were you paid for each person you brought
out?" Carter asked.
They both looked up in alarm. "Paid?" the man said,
taken aback. "We were paid nothing, ever. Sometimes
Tony would give us small sums. He said they were private
donations to help others."
"Did either of you keep a list of the people you helped?"
SSNo, never," Eula said.
"No, we never did," the husband added.
"Did Tony?"
"l don't think so," she replied. "He often said it was
better to let the people simply go their way without a past."
Carter began to feel as if he were hearing a broken
record. "Herr Steforski, do you know anything of Polteri
keeping a list?"
The man shrugged. "He might have. He never told me.
"Because," Carter said, "whether you knew it or not,
you were smuggling Russian spies over along with the le-
gitimate refugees. "
They both erupted at once, soundly denying it. Carter
got them calmed down and told them enough to give them
some doubts.
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"It's impossible," the woman protested. "I'll ask Tony
myself. I know he'll deny it."
"He can't," Carter said calmly. "Tony Polteri's dead."
They were both properly shocked. Try as he might,
Carter couldn't read anything into their reactions that he
didn't think should be there.
He asked about the dead man in Madrid, Rev Babbas,
and wanted to know if Tony ever mentioned Saul Charpek
or Norman Evron.
Negative.
"How about Isobel Rivoli?"
"Yes," the man said. "He did mention that name. I think
he said he was thinking about marrying her. "
"He said that?" Carter asked.
Steforski nodded. "Yes. I think they were very close.
What will happen now, to us?"
Carter stood. "Nothing that I can see, You've broken no
laws. But I might want to ask you a few more questions in
the future."
"Of course," they both replied.
The man shook Carter's hand and the woman, tears
streaming down her cheeks, walked him to the front door.
"When did it happen ... with Tony?" Carter told her,
and she started, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Oh, no,
that couldn't.. u"
"Is something wrong, Frau Steforski?"
She seemed about to say something, then shook her
head. "No ... no, nothing. Good day, Herr Carter."
But there was something wrong. He could sense it, even
see it in her eyes and the sudden frown on her face.
"Frau Steforski, if you remember something else, you
can reach me at the embassy." He slipped a card into her
hand with the embassy number on it.
"Yes, of course. Good day."
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The door slammed and through the glass pane Carter
could see her plump figure scurrying through the curtain
inside.
Herr Herman Neusman, head of the Ringstrasse branch
of the Bundesbank, had a bald brown skull and a round
brown face that would sag even more as he grew older. He
was also an officious, pompous ass. Seated with his age-
spotted hands clasped over his temples, he looked like a
man on the verge of despair.
"Herr Neusman, you have seen my credentials. I have
shown you that I am in possession of the safe-deposit box
key and George Nathan Coxe's passport. You have talked
with officials of the embassy and they have confirmed that
Herr Coxe is deceased and I am handling everything. Herr
Neusman, what more do you need?"
The man's head came up, his watery eyes staring at his
tormentor through thick, tortoiseshell-framed glasses.
just isn't done. The order must come through Herr Coxe's
heirs and some Austrian authority."
Calmly, Carter stood and moved around the desk. He
planted one cheek on the edge of it and leaned his face
close to the other man's. He spoke in a low monotone.
"Herr Neusman, I don't have time to go through all that
bureaucratic bullshit, Listen closely. Coxe was the cover
name for one of our agents. He is dead. Someone bashed
his head in. I mean to find out who did it. Whatever is in
that box may help me. Understand?"
"I still cannot—
"Your ass, you can't. Because if you don't, some very
bad boys are going to drop around tonight with a pound of
plastique explosive and blow your bank to hell to get what
I want."
"You wouldn't dare
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"I didn'tsay me. I won't know anything about it. Now,
why don't you march your fat ass into that vault."
The man spit and sputtered a lot, but he marched. When
Carter was alone with the box in a small room, he opened
the lid.
It contained only one thing: a passport from Uruguay.
The name on it was Juan Hernando Morales. The photo-
graph was Tony Polteri.
Carefully folded in the passport was a letter of agree-
ment between Anthony Polteri and the head of the Depart-
ment of Customs and Immigration in Uruguay, General
Eduardo Pelodez. The letter stated that for the sum of one
million American dollars, Anthony Polteri could gain citi-
zenship in Uruguay under the name Juan Hernando Mo-
rales.
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The Café Prague was in a workingman's neighborhood
of two- and three-story tenements. Violins and concertinas,
gypsy music, poured from practically every door and win-
dow on the block.
Inside the café a few naked bulbs shed a thin light
through a fog of smoke. The low room was filled with
sound, disembodied voices talking against each other.
From the bar side, a guitar played and a plaintive voice
sang about unrequited love.
The men all wore dark beards and rough clothes. The
women had scarves on their heads that framed seamed,
chalk-white faces. The median age was sixty, and all of
them looked as if they didn't really know where they were.
Carter chose a table in the quieter, restaurant side, and
ordered slivovitz, a potent plum brandy. He told the huge,
bearded waiter that someone was joining him and they
would order together.
When his drink came, he cased the room. In this crowd
it would be next to impossible to spot Anton Robchek from
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Bonlavik's description, but there was always the chance
that he might get lucky.
He was halfway through the brandy when he spotted
Hans Meyer bursting through the doorway. The man took a
few moments for his eyes to adjust to the smoke and gloom
before spotting Carter.
There was little doubt from Meyer's excited state that he
had struck gold. By the time he slipped into the opposite
chair he had already pulled a fist of three-by-five cards
from his pocket.
"You look like you just robbed Fort Knox," Carter said,
signaling the waiter and spinning his finger between them
for a round.
"I just found Fort Knox," Meyer announced with a grin,
glancing around as the waiter brought their drinks. "Why
this place?"
"I'll tell you later. What have you got?"
"The account is fat, somewhere between four and five
million dollars. I even got a list of the method of deposits,
the payouts, and the string of companies to keep it legal. "
Carter smiled. "I thought Swiss accounts were top se-
cret."
"Human frailty," Meyer said, patting his breast pocket.
"l got a little black book of it. Even Swiss bank clerks
aren't immune."
Carter leaned forward with his elbows on the table.
"Five million is a lot to hide."
"It's a Netherlands Antilles company with absentee
ownership with a trustee in the Cayman Islands. A Swiss
lawyer acted on behalf of the real owner for all the deal-
ings. He acted through a fiduciary account to create an-
other company in Geneva through an anonymous holding
at Credit Suisse. "
Carter's lips formed a silent whistle. "So the interest
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profit on the funds could be constantly rolled over into new
investments and make more money."
"That's it. All very neat."
"And almost impossible to nail down the real owner of
the account."
Grinning from ear to ear, Meyer flipped his cards. "But
I found out who it was. You see, there were almost three
hundred deposits to the account, but only three payouts."
"I'm listening," Carter said, leaning forward.
"l traced the biggest one to another account. It's set up
in some Latin American general's name."
It was Carter's turn to smile. ' 'The amount was an even
million, and the general's name was Eduardo Pelodez."
Meyer's mouth dropped. 'SYeah, How ... ?"
"I found this in Polteri's safe-deposit box here in
Vienna." He opened the passport and pushed it across the
table.
Meyer's eyes took on a cloudy look and his face fell
apart. "Jesus Christ, the guy stank all to hell."
Carter went through what he had uncovered about the
scam, and added what he could guess. By the time he had
finished, Hans Meyer was a wreck. He had shifted from
the brandy to straight whiskey and, now, sat with his head
in his hands rubbing his temples.
"Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit," he groaned.
"I know. It ain't pretty."
"You know, Nick, I wasn't exactly chummy with Tony.
Hell, nobody was. He wasn't that friendly a guy. But I
liked him, I really liked him."
"It would seem that just about everybody liked him,"
Carter said, "and trusted him. That was the secret to a lot
of his success."
"Oh shit," Meyer groaned again.
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"Elaine Dermott is going over every scrap in the com-
puters and the written files at the embassy. In the last seven
years or so, Polteri turned over a ton of information and
several people, About two percent of it, at the most, was
worth a damn."
"The Russians were working with him?"
"It sure as hell looks that way. But from the amount of
money, it looks to me like he was an independent contrac-
tor. He set the deal up and used people."
"Even this Weiner character," Meyer growled. "Jesus,
white slavery."
"Evidently, Tony had two sides, dark and darkest. He
saw a way to pick up change from Weiner, and took it."
"What about this Olga Sonderchek and the Steforski
couple? Can you believe them?"
Carter shrugged, "So far I have no reason not to. On the
surface it appears that Polteri was playing them all like a
harp. They honestly didn't know what he was really up
to."
Meyer sighed. "Well, I guess you never know. What
"For you, Budapest. I want you to take this Olga Son-
derchek with you."
"The daughter, what's her name?"
"Vela Chebsecki. Bleed her, Hans. Get everything you
can, and don't leave until you're sure you've got it all and
she's telling you the truth."
Meyer snapped his fingers. "Other than Polteri, she was
the only one who handled everyone he brought over."
"Right. She just might have made a list of names, de-
scriptions. Something."
"Then you think there is a list?"
"I don't know," Carter replied with a sigh. "But I'll tell
you this. Tony Polteri had this engineered down to the last
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detail, his He might have worked with the Rus-
sians, but I doubt if he trusted them."
"Insurance?" Meyer said.
"You got it."
"Then why would they kill him?"
"Good question," Carter said, "and right, except for the
existence of a list, that's the big mystery."
"I'll leave first thing in the morning for Budapest.
You
"So far we seem to have nailed everybody down except
this friend in Rome. Joe Crifasi called Elaine. He's got her
pegged. I fly to Rome tomorrow afternoon."
They had ordered husa with sauerkraut and dumplings.
It was hardly touched when they stood to leave. During the
conversation both of them had lost their appetites.
"Where are you headed now?" Carter asked when they
hit the street.
"Back to the embassy, cab."
"Drop me off on the way. And, Hans, starting tomorrow
night, have a man on this place every night through the
dinner hour. "
"Robchek?"
"Yeah. I doubt we'll have any luck, but he could be a
coup if we got our hands on him."
In the cab, halfway between the Café Prague and the
embassy, Meyer let out another low groan.
"What is it?" Carter asked.
"Just remembered what you said about Polteri having
two sides, dark and darkest."
"He must have had a little bit of a third, lighter side."
"Because the other two payouts on that Swiss account?
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They were good-sized, both nearly half a million each, to
some Catholic kids' charity in Rome. "
"Maybe that goes along with the rosary we found."
"Like he hated his own guts so much for what he was
doing that he suddenly found religion?"
Carter shrugged. "It takes all kinds."
A bar of light from the cracked door fell across the
space between the twin beds. In one of them, Stefan Ste-
forski breathed easily In the other, his wife rolled from
side to side in sleeplessness.
Finally she sat up and swung her feet to the floor.
"Stefan Stefan?"
"Yes, yes, what is it?" he groaned irritably when she'd
roused him.
"Do you think we have actually smuggled Russian spies
into the West?"
"For God's sake, Eula, go to sleep."
"Do you?"
"Of course not. Herr Polteri was a U.S. government
agent. Why would he smuggle enemies of his country into
the West?"
"I don't know." She sat pensively for several moments,
picking absently at the long, heavy nightgown that covered
her legs clear to the ankles. "Stefan . ?"
"What is it now?"
"Do you have another woman, a mistress?"
He rolled over, anger suffusing his face. Suddenly it
turned to laughter. "A mistress? At my age? Woman, are
you out of your mind?"
"l realize that there has never been a great deal between
us. We were just an old man and an old woman thrown
together..
"Eula, be sensible."
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"You have an apartment in the corner building, don't
you? I saw you come out of there once, all dressed. It was
when you were going on one of your trips."
Now he was sweating, his mind racing. "Yes, Eula, I do
have an apartment there. That is where I meet our con-
tacts."
"Like Herr Polteri?"
"Yes. "
"I thought you met them on the roof."
"Sometimes," he hissed, "Sometimes I meet them on
the roof. Sometimes in the apartment."
"Where do you go on all your trips, Stefan?"
"For God's sake, woman, you know where I go! I do
errands for Herr Polteri. Now go to sleep. It's Fräulein
Posener's late day tomorrow. I have to get up early."
Eula lay back on her bed. She was about to ask him
another question, but she could sense the violent anger in
his voice.
She asked the question in her mind: Stefan, why did you
lie to me the other night? You didn't go on the roof or to
the apartment to meet Tony Polteri. According to Herr
Carter, Herr Polteri had already been dead for three days.
And on the night he was killed, Stefan, you were on one of
your trips.
She lay quiet for nearly an hour, until she was sure the
breathing was deep and normal from the other bed. Then
she soundlessly slipped from the bed and moved across the
room and out the door:
She found the card on the desk in the office. In the
moonlight coming through the small window, she read the
number and dialed.
A bored night duty officer's voice answered. "American
embassy, Sergeant Parker speaking."
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"Ja, my name is Eula Steforski. I want to leave a mes-
sage for—
The phone was yanked from her hand and slammed
back down onto its cradle. She tried to turn, but a heavy
arm came around her neck.
Suddenly she was gasping for air. A knee was jammed
painfully into her lower back. She tried to scream but no
sound would come.
And then she couldn't breathe at all.
Her last thoughts just before her spine at the base of her
neck cracked were: Why, Stefan? Why do you help them all
these years? Who are you, Stefan?
Breathing heavily, General Maxim Porchov dragged the
heavy body into the hall and paused. There was only one
room occupied for the night, a woman and her young son.
They were on the very top floor. There was little chance
that they had heard a thing.
He opened the door to the cellar and, grunting with the
effort, managed to struggle the old woman down the stairs.
It took him nearly an hour to pry the floorboards up in
the storeroom and dig a shallow grave. A half hour after
that, the grave was covered and the floorboards replaced,
with old food cartons over the spot.
Back in the office, he dialed the phone and a sleepy
female voice answered on the fifth ring.
"Fräulein Posener, I am sorry to awaken you at such an
hour. "
"Herr Steforski?"
"We have a little emergency here."
"What has happened?"
"A good friend of ours in Salzburg, he has had a heart
attack."
"Oh, no.. ."
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"Ja, ja, a terrible thing. •Eula and I must go at once,
tonight. I wonder if you would mind coming in early to-
"No, no, of course I wouldn't mind. How long will you
"I imagine at least a week. Perhaps you should move in,
take one of the rooms for that time."
"Don't worry, mein Herr, I will take care of every-
thing."
"Danke, Fräulein, danke."
He hung up and dashed back to their quarters. He care-
fully packed himself a bag and another for his dead wife.
Then he made his way to the roof.
Carter had rolled and tossed for nearly an hour before he
had finally fallen asleep. The sound of the door opening
gently awakened him. He didn't move anything but one
eyelid.
He smelled the perfume even before she stepped into the
pool of moonlight sifting through the curtains. "How did
you get in here?"
"You gave me a set of keys this morning, don't you
remember?"
"I do now," he said groggily.
She began to undress, talking all the while. "I saw Hans
before I left the embassy."
"He told me everything." She kicked her shoes off and
pulled her dress up over her head. "God, Tony was a bas-
"He was that."
The dress landed in a chair and she turned to him in
overflowing bra and white nylon panties.
"I'm almost
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through his personal stuff, bank account here in Vienna,
letters ..
"Anything?" Carter asked, feeling sleep start to claim
him again.
"A few charities in the States, lots of flowers on a regu-
lar basis. I suppose they're for old girl friends." Her hair
loosened to her shoulders and her breasts burst free as the
bra came away. "By the way, Tony was married once."
"Yeah, it was annulled. I've got the FBI doing some
checking." She slid the panties down to her ankles, kicked
them off, and crawled into the bed, cuddling her naked
body to his.
"Hey, wanna fool around?"
Carter was sound asleep.
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SIXTEEN
The day was crisp and bright. Sunlight in Rome is
golden, and now it glinted off the mustard-colored walls of
the old buildings they passed from the airport into the city.
Another fifteen minutes of swirling through growling
motorcycles and honking cars, and the taxi was on the Via
del Corso. Two blocks farther and Carter leaned forward.
"This is fine."
He paid the driver and, clutching his small overnight
bag, trudged up the slight incline to the café. With a sigh
he dropped into one of the chairs at an outside table. A
white-jacketed waiter instantly appeared.
"Campari."
"Si, signore, at once." The waiter returned with the
drink and placed it before Carter with a small paper nap-
kin. Carter took a guidebook from his pocket and pre-
tended to study it as he sipped his drink.
It was four-thirty.
At five o'clock, Joe Crifasi, AXE liaison in Rome,
dropped into the chair beside him.
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"You're late," Carter said without looking up. "I'll
never get any sightseeing done at this rate."
Crifasi yawned. ' 'The fucking traffic is worse than Los
Angeles. What's that?"
"Campari."
"Ugh. Bring me one of those," he said to the waiter who
had appeared at his side. "What's the scoop on Tony Pol-
t eri
"He's dead. "
"I know that, for crissakes."
"He was also dirty."
"Oh no,"
"Oh yes." Carter told him everything he had been able
to learn up to that point.
"My God," Crifasi growled. "And Polteri was behind it
all
"Looks that way," Carter said. "How often did you see
him when he was in Rome?"
Crifasi shrugged. "Never,"
'Nuf said," Carter replied. "Evidently this Isobel Ri-
voli was his connection down here. What have you got on
"I'm glad you're sitting down," Crifasi said.
"Because she's a Mossad agent."
Crifasi had a dark green Lancia sedan. They drove out
of the crowded city, across a narrow bridge spanning the
Tiber, and onto the highway lined with pine trees leading
to Ostia and the Tyrrhenian Sea. The farther they went, the
posher the area.
Carter commented. "This Isobel Rivoli must make a
buck or two."
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Crifasi never took his eyes off the road. "She's more
than just a singer in the Café Med."
"How much more?"
"She owns the Café Med. It's all there, in the file."
The Killmaster opened the manila folder. The file was
thin, two typed pages, no picture.
Isobel Rivoli was orginally Isobel Gedalia. She was the
daughter of Zeb and Hannah Gedalia, born in Minsk. The
father was a professor of languages at the University in
Minsk, and a closet Zionist. The entire family had been
arrested when Isobel was about twelve, and shipped off to
a Siberian village.
They became nonpersons for three years, and then a
fairly powerful Jewish merchant banker in Rome had
started a major lobbying campaign to have them released.
Eventually the mother and daughter were released through
the Jewish refugee program in Vienna. They moved on to
Tel Aviv. A year later, the mother, Hannah, was killed in
an automobile accident.
Isobel Gedalia, now seventeen, had exhibited consider-
able musical talent. She applied for an apprentice position
at the Milan opera, and got it.
"Who was the merchant banker in Rome who helped get
them out?" Carter asked.
"His name is Morris Epstein," Crifasi replied. "He
probably had something to do with Isobel getting into La
Scala. "
"Where is he now?"
"He died about two years ago."
"Anything in depth on him?" Carter asked.
"Very little. He was rich, made most of his money in
brokering oil. He had a lot of connections with rich
Greeks, shipping. He also had a lengthy record of donating
to Zionist causes. He lived simply for a rich man, no fam-
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ily. When he died, most of his money went to Jewish refu-
gee and relief funds."
"Any reason to believe he wasn't straight?"
"None that I could find," Crifasi replied. "There's the
Café Med."
Carter noted the area and the address as they passed,
and scanned the last sheet of the file.
Isobel never made it in opera. She started working as a
pop singer in Rome and acquired somewhat of a following.
Five years earlier she had married Enrico Rivoli, a man
thirty-five years her senior. He had lasted eighteen months.
All his holdings—including the Café Med—had gone to
Isobel.
' 'There's damn little in here about her and Mossad,"
Carter murmured.
Crifasi shrugged. "That's because I found out damn lit-
tle. I called in an old IOU from their station head in
Athens, but he was tight-lipped."
"But she is for real?"
"According to him. Where and how she was recruited, I
don't know. What she's done for them in the past, I don't
know. What she's into now, I don't know. "
"But you're sure she's legit?" Carter pressed.
"She's legit. Not on the payroll, but she wouldn't need
the money. There's her building."
It was eight stories with a lot of marble in front and a
doorman in gaudy livery. It adjoined a taller building on
the left and an alley on the right.
"She owns the whole building," Crifasi said, "and lives
in the penthouse, eighth floor."
Carter whistled. If she was working with Polteri, he
thought, she could probably afford all this. "How much did
her husband leave her?"
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"Lots," Crifasi replied. "More than she could ever
spend,"
"So much for that theory."
"Never mind. I've seen enough."
Crifasi made a U-turn and headed back toward the
center of the city. Still on the outskirts, he cut off onto a
small road that climbed into the hills. Minutes later he
turned into a cobbled drive between a pair of marble gates.
"What's this?" Carter asked.
"Your abode. The owner's a friend, on business in New
York. I didn't think you'd want to use the regular places or
a hotel."
"Good thinking."
The villa was a small, exquisite, miniature duplicate of
a Roman palazzo. During the years, the red brick had
weathered to a soft ochre and the fluted marble columns of
the portico extending along the front were a luminous
pearl-gray:
"Nice," Carter said dryly, dropping his bag in the enor-
mous master bedroom.
"For safety's sake, the servants are on holiday while
you're here. The bar is stocked, and I'll leave the Lancia
for you. There's a Fiat in the garage I can use."
"Does the phone work?"
Crifasi nodded. "Yeah, and it was checked this morn-
ing. I've got a lot going down in the next couple of days,
but if you get in a bind, call me."
"Shouldn't be necessary," Carter said. "Joe .
"The owner ... male or female?"
Crifasi grinned. "Need you ask?"
He left and Carter called Vienna. Elaine Dermott was
gone for the day. There were no messages for him from
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Meyer. He called Elaine's apartment and there was no an-
swer.
He
unpacked, showered, and shaved. Then, with a
drink,
he moved to the front windows and checked the
area.
Nothing.
He hadn't spotted them in Vienna, but his sixth sense
had told him that every move he made had been noted.
That same sense had told him that they had dropped him
at the airport and not bothered to pick him up again in
Rome.
He paged through a telephone book and dialed.
"Café Med."
"I'd like to make a reservation for dinner tonight. One."
"Si, signore. The time?"
"What time are the shows?"
"At ten and midnight. "
"Ten will be fine," Caner said, and gave his name.
He hung up and stretched across the vast bed, his mind
clicking through what he had learned.
Isobel Rivoli fit the pattern of Polteri's imports. But she
had come over before Polteri was really set up in business.
Also, the Mossad made damn few mistakes. If she was
an agent, they would have checked everything down to the
last detail.
Still, every agency in the world makes a mistake now
and then.
Look at Tony Polteri.
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SEVENTEEN
The Café Med was big and top-drawer. The marquee
announced a complete "Parisian floor show," and featured
Isobel Rivoli. Inside, the lights were dim, the furnishings
in a motif of the sea, and, from the cover, the prices stiff.
Wide lengths of fishnet hung from open beams with star-
fish attached. The måitre d' was in a tux.
"Good evening, signore. You have a reservation?"
"Carter, one."
He turned Carter over to a petite hostess bulging out of
an abbreviated sailor suit. "This way. Please watch your
step. It's dim until you get used to the lighting."
Carter followed the hostess's surefooted stride to a pri-
vate booth with more fishnet. Two waiters materialized at
once. He ordered a Chivas to start, seafood ravioli, a veal
dish, and a bottle of good red.
His entree arrived just as the show started. The dinner
was excellent, the show even better, with top-grade per-
formers and new acts. The nudes were very nude and very
lovely.
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Just as coffee and brandy arrived, a pinspot came up on
the stage and Isobel Rivoli stepped into it.
She was good right from the first lyric out of her mouth.
The song was lilting Italian, about a girl who fed the pi-
geons on the Spanish Steps, grew up, found true love, lost
it, and fed some more pigeons.
Isobel Rivoli actually made you believe it.
Her beauty helped. She had deep black liquid eyes that
looked at each man as though she were his and only his.
Her very long hair, which had been brushed until it
gleamed like satin, was parted in the center and hung
loosely down her back almost to her knees. Her skin was
silken smooth. The sheer white peasant blouse was cut
deeply, revealing the top of her perfectly rounded breasts,
which rose enticingly as she sang. Her waist was slim,
encircled by a wide leather belt above a black skirt that
revealed her slightly full hips. The slit on the right side
exposed her exquisitely shaped legs. The movement of her
body became feline.
When she finished, the applause was tumultuous. She
tossed her mane of ebony hair and laughed, parting the
extraordinary red sculptured lips.
Applause brought her back for an encore. It was a med-
ley in French, Spanish, and English. By the time she fin-
ished, Carter was sure that one aspect of Isobel Rivoli's
cover was not phony: her talent.
He paid and headed for the parking lot. The show was
close to an hour long, with her segment nearly half. He
guessed that she wouldn't leave the club much before two
in the morning.
More than enough time.
He circled the block twice, In the lobby, the night door-
man lounged with a newspaper. The street was quiet,
He parked three blocks away and strolled back casually,
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finally slipping into the inky blackness of a doorway he
had spotted earlier from the car.
As far as Carter could see there were no lights on in the
penthouse. Isobel Rivoli didn't have houseguests.
He returned to the car and pulled off his coat and jacket
as he climbed into the back. Off came his shoes, to be
replaced by black sneakers. A black turtleneck over his
black slacks completed the outfit. A short steel jimmy and
pair of wire cutters went into his back pocket, and he slid
the Luger into his belt under the turtleneck.
He walked quickly around the block and approached the
apartment building from the rear. The lock on the back
door required several tense minutes to jimmy. He closed
the door, and as the lock was opened inside with a knob, he
locked it. He ran silently along the passage to the entrance
to the stairs and climbed the eight flights at a slow, steady
pace to conserve his wind.
At the top landing, a narrow concrete stairway led to the
roof. It required another lengthy period of time to unlock
the iron door at the top, and he wondered if he was losing
his touch.
He climbed out onto the roof and breathed deeply of the
cool night air, and surveyed the lights of the Eternal City
spread out like a carpet of jewels.
There was a waist-high parapet buit along the edge of
the center section of the roof, and eight feet below it, the
terrace. Carter leaned down and searched the top fronds of
the potted palms screening the wall, and smiled grimly.
Five strands of barbed wire were fastened to iron bars
sticking straight out from the wall a couple of feet below
him. He snipped the wires close to a bar and bent the loose
ends back. He dropped lightly onto the tiles of the terrace.
The floor-to-ceiling picture windows along the front
were closed, but as the drapes were not drawn, he could
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make out the vague outline of living room furniture in the
darkness. Carefully, avoiding the collection of iron chairs
and tables and the containers for the collection of plants
scattered about the terrace, he made his way around to the
side.
There was a pair of French doors and beyond them, a
row of ordinary windows. There wasn't a glimmer of light
from any of them,
The French doors were bolted inside, and after a quick
inspection with the flashlight, Carter left them. The fasten-
ings were solid, and in the complete silence the noise he
would make opening them with the jimmy would surely be
heard.
He checked each window along the side and the last one
was open a few inches. He pulled it out farther, climbed
over the sill onto a kitchen table, and dropped to the floor
like a cat. Isobel, he was thinking, was careless. Or else
there was nothing in her apartment worth stealing.
He had to use the flashlight momentarily in the short
corridor that led into the large vestibule. To the left was the
main entrance to the apartment, and beyond, an open arch
into the living room.
Moving quickly, he lifted a corner of each of the three
modern paintings and saw nothing that resembled a wall
safe. The drawer in the desk contained writing paper and a
collection of ballpoints. The ornate Florentine leather letter
folder on the top was empty, and the two antique silver
boxes contained nothing of interest. He straightened up and
looked around.
What was it?
And then it hit him. There was nothing personal in the
room ... no photographs, no letters in the desk, not even
an address book, It was a transient room used for stopovers
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rather than permanent living. Even the furnishings were
decorative rather than utilitarian.
He moved on to the bedroom. He started with the top
drawers of the dresser. They revealed little other than the
fact that Isobel Rivoli liked expensive, sexy lingerie and
lots of sweaters. The closet was a hodgepodge of designer
gowns and dresses and well-worn jeans. As in any
woman's closet, the floor was lined with shoes. But the
only pair that looked used was a pair of Reebok running
shoes.
Proving nothing, Carter thought, except that she liked to
relax at home.
He hit the second bedroom next, and again came up
empty; the den the same, almost. In a shallow drawer be-
hind the bar beneath some towels, he found a chrome-
plated .38 revolver. Not exactly a lady's gun, unless the
lady knew what she was doing.
He removed the shells, dropped them into his pocket,
and replaced the gun.
The last room was the kitchen. Standing in the center;
leaning against a huge butcher-block table, he remembered
and smiled.
The water sounded the same through the taps, with or
without the disposal being turned on. A knife served as a
screwdriver, and in minutes he had the main housing of the
garbage disposal dropped and open.
"Well, well," he said aloud. "I wonder who took lessons
from whom."
Inside, in watertight packages, he found twenty thou-
sand American dollars in tight rolls, and four passports.
The passports were in four different names and nationali-
ties: French, German, American, and Austrian. Isobel Ri-
voli's photograph was on all of them.
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But the most interesting thing about them was the fact
that they were all authentic.
Carter got out his notebook and pen. He copied down
all the entry and exit stamps from each of them and then
put everything back.
When he was done, he went back into the den and fixed
himself a drink. Then, taking the bottle with him, he went
into the living room and sat down to wait.
Hans Meyer sat on a bench in Lido Park, nervously
smoking, his eyes scanning the people moving down the
broad walks. Then he saw her, standing in the shadows
about twenty yards away, staring openly at him.
Her eyes darted to the people on the other benches and
then grew wide as two uniformed policemen passed. Sud-
denly she moved farther into the shadows.
Meyer looked away, as if his gaze would frighten her.
The two uniforms exited the park, and out of the corner of
his eye Meyer saw her begin a casual stroll in his direction.
During her leisurely journey, she made frequent stops to
glance over her shoulden
Come on, come on! , Meyer thought.
When she finally arived at a spot directly across from
him, she looked carefully to her right and to her left like a
child about to cross a dangerous intersection, and then
walked toward him. Meyer did not move from his position
on the bench but merely raised his eyes to watch her as she
approached. Her eyes, never seeming to rest in one place,
darted about the area like frightened birds. She sat at the
other end of his bench but didn't yet look in his direction.
Meyer looked directly at her, then he was sure of it. She
was a younger version of her mother, somewhere in her
late twenties, and very attractive.
She wore a long scarf wrapped once around her throat,
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and her coat was open to reveal a white wool sweater that
clung to her body. When she saw his eyes linger over the
heavy roundness of her breasts, she closed the coat with
one hand, while with the other she pushed a long strand of
blond hair away from her face. When she moved her head
her long, golden hair tumbled in a cascade across her
shoulders.
"Herr Meyer?" Her voice was small, barely a whisper.
"Yes. You saw your mother?"
A nod. "She came to my flat. It is true, is Tony dead?"
"He's dead, killed."
Her eyes closed and her body seemed to go Suddenly
boneless, "Thank God, then it's over. "
"You want to tell me about it?"
"Yes. I believe I have a great deal of information that
will be of interest to you."
She stood and started across the park. Meyer followed
her a few blocks past the exit and into a cellar café. He
joined her at a table in the rear and they both ordered cofr
fee.
Meyer tried an opening gambit. "How long have you
known?"
"For about two years," she replied. "I recognized a
man. I had at first seen him when I was a little girl. He was
a StB, security police officer in Prague. He led a team
against a group of student dissidents. I could never forget
how he beat them. And then I was helping him get to the
West as a Jewish refugee. It was ludicrous."
"You told Tony?"
"Yes, He said if I didn't keep my mouth shut he would
turn me in and have my mother killed."
Meyer sipped his coffee and stared directly into her
eyes. "Suppose you tell me the whole story."
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She talked for almost an hour. Meyer digested it all and
just nodded, until a name came up.
"Wait a minute. What was that name?"
"Anton. Anytime there was an emergency or a delay, I
was to contact Anton. I was never given a last name. "
"In Vienna. The number was six-oh-one-five-one-one."
"Any other special instructions?"
"Yes. I was never to give Anton my real name, only a
code name, Helena."
"l don't know."
But Meyer knew Polteri never wanted the left hand to
know what the right hand was doing. "Did he ever mention
any other names?"
"No, none."
"Vela, did you know that there is an account in your
name in Vienna, a savings account with a great deal of
money in it?"
To his surprise she threw back her head and laughed.
She laughed so hard that tears ran down her cheeks. When
she noticed that others were looking at them, she managed
to get herself under control.
S'He said that he was going to do that, but I thought it
was only his guilt for what he tried to do with me."
Meyer leaned across the table. "What was that?"
Her face flushed slightly and her eyes wavered. "He
tried to rape me."
"He raped you?" Meyer gasped, about to blurt out that
PoJteri was already sleeping with her mother, but managing
to hold his tongue.
"No, he didn't rape me but he tried. He stopped
when I told him that I had never been with a man. At first
he didn't believe me. Then I told him why."
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Meyer cocked an eyebrow. It was hard for him to be-
lieve as well, "Why?"
"Because, Herr Meyer, I was a nun. I left the Catholic
Church because of what was happening to it in my country,
But I never renounced my vows."
Pieces were slowly coming together in Meyer's mind.
"What happened then? I mean, what did he do?"
Vela shrugged. "He stopped pawing me. It was like he
was in shock. He started crying. He said the only woman
he had ever loved was a nun."
Meyer grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up.
"C'mon!"
"Where are we going?"
"To Vienna. I'm taking both you and your mother
over. "
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She was cool, almost blasé, when she stepped through
the door and saw him sitting in the pool of light from a
single lamp.
He gave her an easy smile and raised his glass. "Can I
fix you a drink?"
"Rum with soda. And a twist of lime with lots of ice."
She shrugged out of her coat. She wore a white blouse
and a long, hip-hugging black skirt very similar to what
she had worn onstage.
Carter moved into the den and behind the bar. As he
made the drinks, his eyes wandered up to the mirror.
He saw her hands working at a clip in her hair, then
there was a jet-black shower as it cascaded down around
her shoulders. She tossed it loose with a shake of her head
and her hands moved to her blouse.
He turned and set her drink on the bar. "Rum, soda,
lime, lots of ice."
'Thanks."
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Slowly she unbuttoned the white blouse. With slow de-
liberateness she let it fall from her shoulders to the floor.
The white halfrcup bra beneath it seemed like an intrusion,
out of place, a barrier to beauty. She left it on and un-
hooked the skirt. It fell to the floor in a puddle at her feet.
She stood sipping her drink in opaque, high-cut panties
that matched the bra and accented full thighs tapering to
lovely calves.
"Is that for my benefit?" Carter asked dryly.
"It was," she said, gathering the blouse and skirt. "But
since it isn't having any effect, I'll get into something com-
fortable."
She disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared al-
most immediately belting a frilly peignoir around her that
accented rather than hid. She took the stool beside him and
tossed a leather credentials case onto the bar.
"l was wondering when you were going to get around to
me."
"You weren't really that important until this afternoon."
He checked the Ministry of Defence and Israeli Special
Security cards, held them up to the light, and handed them
back to her. "Want to see mine?"
"Not necessary. I suppose you've got everything on
Polteri by now?"
"Enough," Carter said, "to know he smelled."
"He stunk," She crossed around the bar to fix her own
second drink. "I'm surprised, really. When you heard
about a fiancée in Rome, I thought you would come run-
ning."
"What good would it have done me?"
She shrugged. "Maybe it's better you found out about
him on your own, since he was one of yours."
Carter ignored the dig. "Where do you fit in?"
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She downed half the glass. "I sure as hell wasn't his
fiancée."
"But you were sleeping with him?"
"Of course. I was his lay in Rome. He had 'em all over
the world. Tel Aviv has had suspicions for about five years.
Polteri's name popped up about three years ago. I was told
to cultivate him."
"And you did. "
"I did. And got enough to hang him."
Carter let his eyes stray, but only a little, never far
enough not to catch the meaning in her voice as she spoke.
"Why didn't you? Hang him, I mean."
"The list. "
Now it was his turn. He pushed his glass across the bar
and she poured. "Then there is a list."
"Oh, yes. He told me about it himself. Do you know
Porchov?"
Carter frowned. "No,"
"General Maxim Porchov. He was Tony's watchdog. He
was also the one who set it up from the other side, gave the
word to Tony when a ringer was being put in with the real
refugees. He was also Tony's paymaster."
"Ever meet him?"
She shook her head. "No, but I saw him and Tony to-
gether once, here in Rome."
"Let's get back to Tony telling you about the list,"
"It was here in Rome. He said Rivkin was going to talk.
He was going to run, but he wasn't worried because he had
the list. "
"Why would he tell you this?"
She shrugged. "I think because, in his own rotten way,
he did care for me.a little bit. I told him the truth, who I
was, who I worked for. I told him to give us the list and
Israel would give him a new identity, hide him."
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"And he said s?"
"He laughed and told me to go to hell."
"And the Russians got him," Carter growled.
"No, they didn't. We did."
Carter switched to plain soda. It was time to get his
head clear.
"Your people killed Polteri?"
"Yes," she said, nodding, "but it was an accident. The
whole idea was to get him off the Vienna train. He was to
be brought back to Rome and then smuggled to Israel. He
put up a fight and he got hit too hard."
Carter rubbed his eyes. "So there's a list, but you don't
know where it is?"
"No, and obviously you don't either. I suggest we work
together. If we pool information, we might find the clue."
Carter thought about this, and grinned. "I've got more
access than you. I think I could get it anyway."
"Oh?" Her grin was bigger than his. "I wouldn't be too
sure. Just about everything you find out, we findout soon
after."
Carter bristled but he held it in check.
A tattletale in Washington? It wouldn't be the first time
an Israeli spy was uncovered.
Elaine Dermott? Possible.
Hans Meyer? Maybe. He was Jewish. But
"Well?" she said.
"Let me think it over, get all my ducks in a row. Will
you be here in the morning?"
She moved around the bar and in between his knees.
She must have applied perfume when she changed into the
peignoir. The strong, musky scent filled his nostrils. She
shrugged a shapely shoulder and the negligee slipped
down, exposing a full breast.
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"Why don't you be here in the morning?" she mur-
mured.
"Ducks, remember? And I've got to make some calls."
"That means you're close. I'll give you another hint."
What
"Tony didn't come to Rome that night to see me like he
usually did."
"To drop off the list?" Carter said.
She nodded her head and shook her body. With a whis-
per of silk on smooth flesh, the negligee slid to the floor.
She ran her hands over the curve of her stomach and up
under her breasts and cupped them, forcing the dark nip-
ples to stand out prominently while she bent her head and
studied him.
"I've told you more than I should. I think it's time you
reciprocated,"
Her sensual body was a study of exciting contrasts: the
cascade of black hair and the full red lips, the dark areolas
of her swelling breasts, the narrow waist and the gentle
curve of her stomach. And below it, the dark soft, tightly
curled hair separating the satin cushions of her ivory-hued
thighs.
"Call you first thing in the morning," Carter said, and
got out of there while he still could.
"Yes?" She stopped abruptly at the marine guard's desk,
her eyes searching for his name tag. "What is it, Sergeant
"Just finishing my log from last night. I guess they
couldn't get you today."
"I was out or in the communications room all day. "
"Yeah, well, I got a loony call last night, and there was
a name, and when there's a name, we have to check
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knowledge of it with every department head, and since Mr.
Polteri—
"Yes, yes, Parker„ what is it?" she said impatiently. She
had gotten everything from Langley and the FBI. Now she
just needed to check one more thing in Polteri's personal
checkbook. She had been a fool for not bringing it with her
from the office.
"Well, the call came in from a woman. She sounded reål
upset. The name was Eula Steforski—
That was as far as the sergeant got. Elaine Dermott was
already out the door and running for her car.
Carter drove until he found a late-night café with a tele-
phone. He dialed and a sleepy voice answered on the fifth
ring.
"Sara, Nick Carter."
"Jesus Christ."
"No, Nick Carter. Sara, I need to see you."
"It's three o'clock in the morning."
"Sara, it's pressing business."
"l hate your guts. Renaldo's, near the Spanish Steps.
They're open all night."
She hung up and Carter headed for the Lancia.
Sara Geller was an Israeli. She was with an attorney
with Amnesty International in Rome. She was also a deep
cover agent for Mossad. Outside of Israel, there were
maybe six people who knew all. Carter was one of them.
Joe Crifasi had done his best, but he couldn't push the
very top-echelon private buttons that Sara Geller could
push.
Elaine slowed her car and then stopped half a block
from the Pension Prater: There were three police cars
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in front of the building, their lights flashing.
As she walked forward, she slipped her credentials case
from her purse.
"I'm sorry, no one behind the line."
She showed the young, uniformed officer her ID. "We
got word an American was in trouble here. What's hap-
He shook his head. "No American I know of. The
housekeeper's dog raised hell in the basement while she
was getting fresh cleaning supplies. They found a body in a
shallow grave."
"Oh, dear. Who was it?"
"The innkeeper's wife, they tell me."
"God, how terrible. Do they know who did it? Buried
her, I mean."
The young policeman shrugged. "We can't find the hus-
band. You want me to ask about your American?"
"No, no, I'm sure it's all right."
Elaine hurried away. A few steps from her car, a man
came out of the shadows and grabbed her elbow She was
about to scream and bash him at the same time, when she
saw that it was Hans Meyer. "You bastard, you scared the
hell out of me!" she cried.
"Sorry. What's all that about?"
She told him quickly about the phone call and what she
had learned from the Austrian police officer.
"Figures," Meyer growled.
"How so?"
"I got a phone number from Vela Chebsecki. Checked
it out for an address when I got back over about an hour
ago. It's that building on the corner. I already paid a
visit. "
"And?" Elaine said.
"I found the painter forger, whatever."
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"Anton Robchek?"
'S Yeah. His throat's been slit."
"Stefan Steforski," she said. "Very neat. And he's prob-
ably in Rome by now. "
"Why Rome?"
"Because that's where Nick is. And if my information is
right, that's where Polteri's list is ... if there is one."
Quickly she explained everything she had learned so far
and as much of the puzzle as she had put together.
Meyer's mind put the rest of it together from what he
had learned in Budapest. "I cabbed here. C'mon, we'll
take your car and call Rome from Polteri's apartment!"
Carter parked the Lancia and walked the remaining two
blocks. Renaldo's was an all-night café inhabited after
midnight almost entirely by locals. Between the bar and the
tables, there were about a dozen men, night workers,
drinking and talking in low tones.
Carter got an espresso to help him wake up, and took a
table.
It was exactly five minutes later that Sara Geller entered
the café. She stood for a moment glancing over the room,
then apparently noticed Carter for the first time. The table
next to him was vacant. As she started to move toward it,
Carter gently shook his head.
She paused and turned back to the bar. She bought some
telephone tokens and exited the café. Carter waited a cou-
ple of minutes and followed. He turned right toward the
steps, and after a block he heard the click of her heels fall
in behind him.
They walked up on the dark sidewalk and stopped in the
shadow of the Egyptian obelisk at the top of the Spanish
Steps. The broad, graceful steps flowed down to the boat-
shaped Bernini fountain in the middle of Piazza di Spagna.
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Glowing softly, dotted with church domes, the city spread
before them in the moonlight.
Carter moved into the shadows and Sara Geller joined
him. "This had better be important," she murmured icily.
"It is," he said. "It may be dynamite."
He slipped the file that Crifasi had given him on Isobel
Rivoli into Sara's hands and explained what he wanted.
"I don't know her," Geller said, "but I know about her.
She's definitely an operative. I don't think she's handled
anything big, but I know she has passed some good stuff in
the past."
"l want more than that," Carter growled. "I want you to
push very high buttons in Tel Aviv, and do it very quietly."
He went on to tell her why.
Suddenly Sara Geller was alert, her eyes slitted in con-
centration. "If you're right, some very big heads could
roll."
"That's the idea."
Carter heard a car door slam and the sound of a man's
heels on the sidewalk below. He glanced down the street
and saw a short, wide figure coming in their direction. The
man spat a cigarette from his mouth, and the flaming tip
drew a vivid parabola against the darkness. The car he had
left was a dark Mercedes. It was empty,
"Recognize that guy?"
She peeked. "No."
"I'm probably paranoid."
At the base of the steps, the man turned away from them
into a doorway.
"How soon do you need all this?"
"Yesterday," Carter said.
She sighed. "It will mean getting an awful lot of people
out of bed."
"It's worth it, Sara, believe me. Now go down the other
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side to the Via Condotti. I'll check your back."
She slipped away and Carter eyeballed her all the way
to her car. He watched until her taillights had disappeared.
When he was sure no one had fallen in behind her, he
moved back down the steps himself.
In front and to his left he saw the man from the Mer-
cedes in the doorway. Carter unbuttoned his coat and slid
his hand inside until his fingers were touching the Luger.
He heard the soft padding of footsteps behind him, a•nd
slowed his pace.
Two so far, he thought. Fair odds.
He was still a good four blocks from his car. If he ran,
would they shoot? He doubted it.
The street was deserted. A taxi was slowly cruising the
other side of the street, his way. Carter didn't want a con-
frontation now. If he could get to the taxi he could lose
them fast and double back to the Lancia.
The footsteps behind him speeded up. At the same time,
the one in front stepped out of the doorway. He was big,
swarthy, definitely Italian. He held his hands far out to his
sides.
"Carter, could we talk?"
The Killmaster's arm moved, but a second too late. The
one in the back dropped his elbow before the Luger cleared
his belt. Carter sidestepped and jammed down hard on the
man's foot as he swung past.
The movement was enough to shake the Luger loose,
and it clattered on the sidewalk. Before Carter could re-
trieve it, they both came in swinging.
Carter kicked one of them in the groin, hard. The man
doubled up with a bellow. But Carter got a fast one-two in
the stomach and face from the other one, and was slammed
back against the brick wall. The man followed up, but
Carter short-jabbed him, forcing him away.
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The one Carter had kicked was back up. He saw then
that the man had one arm in a sling. He used it, grabbing
the broken wing and spinning him into his comrade.
The taxi had pulled up a block away, the driver settling
back for a snooze. Carter ran for it. The rear door was
locked. He yanked the front open.
"Move fast and you make money."
The driver's face came around, grinning, and Carter
recognized him at once from the flight to Vienna: Justin
Feinberg.
Carter started to back out, but he was too late. Two
more of them came up on his rear from a doorway. It was a
setup right from the start. The two Italians were the
decoys. He guessed that Aaron Horowitz and Otto Franz
were the ones behind him.
"Don't do anything foolish," Feinberg said.
Carter glanced down at the automatic six inches from
his stomach and felt the prod of another gun in the small of
his back.
The rear door swung open. The man behind shoved him
toward it and Carter decided he couldn't argue with two
guns. He bent down to get into the car and felt the bite of a
hypo in his thigh. He made the seat and his vision went out
of focus.
His last conscious reflection was the strong, lingering
aroma of a very distinctive perfume.
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The buzzing of the phone barely penetrated Joe Crifasi's
sleep. An awareness that it was a buzz and not a ring fi-
nally got through and he stirred. A buzz meant the private,
hotline number.
He forced himself through the layers of darkness as if he
were heavily drugged. One eye opened and rolled toward
the clock.
Nine-thirty.
Three hours' sleep. No wonder he felt like hell.
He opened the cabinet by the bed and groped for the
phone. "Yeah."
"Joe Crifasi?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Elaine Dermott, in Vienna. I've been calling the
number that Nick gave the embassy for hours."
"Nick's a busy man," Crifasi said, trying to support
himself on one elbow. All he wanted to do was fall back
against the pillow and go to sleep.
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"I had to raise hell in Washington to get this number.
Are you awake?"
"No," Crifasi groaned. 'SI wound up a big one last night,
two months' work. And I'm bushed."
"Well, get unbushed," the woman barked. "I've got it."
"What have you got?"
"I think Hans Meyer and I have figured out where Pol-
teri parked his insurance ... the list."
"Just a minute." Crifasi staggered into the bathroom and
turned on the shower, ice cold. He put his head under it for
a full minute, then grabbed a towel and returned to the
phone. "I'm back."
"Okay, here are the pieces. You've got to get them to
Nick. Tony Polteri was married. I found out the dates, but
the civil records have disappeared from the courthouse in
Providence, Rhode Island. The marriage was evidently an-
nulled. "
"So what, he was married," Crifasi replied, trying to
focus.
"Listen. There's a florist in Providence, Rosselli's. Four
times a year for the last twenty-odd years, Tony Polteri sent
a check to Rosselli to put flowers on a child's grave. You
got that?"
"I got it. "
"The child was Antonia Polteri. We got the mother's
name from the child's birth record. Her maiden name was
Joanna Santoni. I won't go into it now, but Meyer thinks
Joanna Santoni may have become a nun, and there's a good
chance she's in Rome. "
"What makes you think that?"
"Because, of all the other quirky things Tony Polteri
did, he donated almost a million dollars to the children's
hospital fund of St. Maria of the Holy Martyrs."
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know the church," Crifasi said. "It's in Trastevere."
"Have you got a connection in the Vatican?"
Crifasi paused. "I do, but I don't like to use him more
than I have to."
"Believe me," Elaine replied, "this is important enough,
And when you find out, get it to Nick as soon as you can."
The line went dead. Crifasi went to the other phone. He
had to dial four numbers before he got his man.
"Father Dionno, it's Joe Crifasi."
"Oh dear:"
"No big deal, Father, just a little favor."
The other man laughed. "They are all little favors. Did
you do your Easter service?"
"l even made confession, Father."
"It's a sin to lie, Joseph, especially to a priest. What do
you need?"
"Joanna Santoni. She's a nun now, maybe at St. Maria's
in Trastevere."
"Is your number the same?"
"It is."
"I'll get back to you."
Crifasi shaved in the shower and then stood under ice-
cold water for five minutes. By the time he was dressed
and had put two cups of coffee in his belly, he thought he
could cope.
He called his secretary at Amalgamated Press and Wire
Service's Rome office. There were no messages from
Carter. Still using the hotline phone to keep the other one
open, he called the villa. No answer.
He drank more coffee and paced.
It was almost two hours later when the phone rang.
"Joseph?"
"Yes, Father?"
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"Sister Gianna. She's been with the order here in Rome
at St. Maria's for nearly eight years."
"Thank you, Father."
Crifasi hung up the phone and stared out the window. It
had started to rain.
Now all he had to do was locate Carter.
He awakened to pain, bone-wracking, skin-burning
pain. And yet there was that psychological ease that comes
to one when he awakens after a serious operation and
knows that he's still alive, that the worst is over.
But slowly, as the red haze lifted from his brain, Carter
knew it wasn't over.
The stock question: Where am I?
Then he remembered. He didn't know.
He had come awake strapped to a chair in a cozy room
that belonged to a farmhouse. Around him there were the
two Italians and Otto Franz. The Italian with the sling on
his arm had asked the questions. Carter had given them
vague answers.
Then before the next questions, Otto had gone to work
with his fists, expertly.
That thought brought up the next stock question: How
He was lying on a bed. Thoughtfully, they had placed
him on his side so he wouldn't choke to death on his own
blood.
He moved, a little and then a little more, and then took
stock.
His face was hamburger, he could feel that. The nose
probably broken, and one eye puffed shut. His back, most
likely the kidneys, had caught hell, and a few of his ribs
were in bad shape. All•four limbs seemed to be working, if
he could get his motor center to make them move.
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There was a table of plain dark wood next to him, and
between his eyes and the table was a small area of white
cloth, most of it too close to get into focus. It was hard to
get even the table into focus because only his right eye was
open.
He raised his left arm carefully and swung it toward the
table, and the hand floated into his vision as a large,
slightly blurred object that moved on and struck the table,
although he did not feel it, and something clattered to the
floor.
The area beyond the table grew lighter as a door opened
behind him and cast its light on the far wall. Instinctively,
he drew his left arm close to protect his face.
It was good old Justin Feinberg, as cute and roly-poly as
he had been on the airplane and in the taxi.
"Good, you're awake."
"I—I .. ." He couldn't speak. His mouth was dry.
"Are you in any pain?"
"Yes." The word was whispered, a secret. "Could I—
have—some water?" But his lips would not close over the
v and the m and it sounded like a comic dialect, "hab sub
water: "
"Sure." Feinberg disappeared. It was not worth moving
to see where he had gone. Immediately, as far as Carter
knew, Feinberg was back. He held a glass to Carter's
mouth, cradling his head. Even though he tipped the glass
very slightly, some of the water slopped out over Carter's
chin and he smiled crookedly, foolishly. "Sorry."
"No problem," Feinberg replied offhandedly.
Carter forced his voice to work. "You're so fucking so-
licitous. Are you really Jewish?"
The man sighed. "No, I'm East German. My comrade
and I—
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"Yes. We were brought over to help as the operation
grew."
"The Italians?"
"Pietro and Glenno? They are local help." His gaze
turned on Carter, and it was anything but solicitous.
"Look, Carter," he hissed, "we want the list. We know it
exists and we know you know where it is."
"I don't."
He was ignored. "We are all in the same game. Why
don't you just tell us? After all, it's your man who was the
traitor. You give us the list without any copies being made,
we don't expose Polteri. He dies a hero, and you live."
S' You won't kill me," Carter said. "Too many repercus-
sions. "
Feinberg chortled. "Sadly, you're right. Well?"
"Fuck you."
Feinberg stood and moved to the door. "Otto, we start
again."
The two Italians and the huge German pried Carter off
the bed and half carried, half dragged him down a hallway.
This was a different room, in a basement with brick
walls. Carter saw Stefan Steforski sitting behind a plain
wooden table on which was an ashtray and a gooseneck
lamp with an oversize reflector and powerful bulb.
The lamp was turned off. Facing the table and three feet
back was a wooden stool, the only other piece of furniture
in the cellar room. Steforski told Carter to sit down and got
out a package of cigarettes. He didn't offer one.
"Obviously, Carter, you have a great deal of tolerance to
pain."
"It's probably because I'm brain dead."
"Do you know who •I am?"
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"Porchov?" Carter replied.
The man nodded. "I don't want to kill you, Carter. Ob-
viously it would cause problems, the eye-for-an-eye crap
your people love so much. There are chemicals, however. "
The Killmaster managed a smile through his cracked,
bleeding lips. "Bullshit. If you had chemicals—and some-
one who could properly administer them—it would al-
ready have been done."
A sharp stinging blow under the ear cut off Carter's
voice. He managed to retain his seat on the stool, and
while he rubbed his neck, glanced at Otto's hand, expect-
ing to see knuckle dusters. His knuckles were bare.
Porchov interpreted the glance correctly. "Otto has bro-
ken tougher men than you."
"Were they all sitting down?"
Otto swung again, and even though Carter was expect-
ing it, the blow managed to knock him off the stool. He got
to his knees and Otto kicked him in the stomach. Carter
doubled up and Otto was about to kick him in the face
when Porchov called him off. After a time, Carter crawled
back onto the stool.
"He will maim you for life." Porchov's voice was com-
pletely dispassionate. "If he doesn't kill you. Where is the
"You're stupid, Porchov. I really don't know."
"We have covered everyone," the Russian said. "The
woman in Budapest, Polteri's people in Vienna, his mis-
tress here in Rome, Rivoli. None of them has made a
move. Only you, Carter, had access to Polteri's privacy."
"You're right," Carter gasped, "and it's a blank."
Porchov switched on the lamp and adjusted the goose-
neck until the powerful beam was directly on Carter's face.
Carter screwed up his eyes, hoping they would become
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accustomed to the glare, but all he could see when he
opened them again was a hazy blue outline. He concen-
trated on thinking up a story Porchov would buy, but the
permeating body odor of the gorilla standing at his
shoulder was not thought-stimulating. He glanced up. The
beam was adjusted to cut him off at the neck.
"You can walk out of here on your own feet. You can
crawl out, or you can be carried out. It's up to you. Where
is the list?"
"Vienna," Carter cracked. "The safe-deposit box."
Porchov stood, disgust on his face. "You opened that
safe-deposit box two days ago. If you had found the list,
you wouldn't be in Rome."
He moved to a set of stairs, light coming from the top,
and stopped. The two East German phonies flanked him.
"Pietro, Glenno, keep working on him. Otto, I don't
want him to die, but I want it painful "
They had barely disappeared up the stairs when Otto
started in again.
It didn't take long for Carter to force himself into black-
ness.
Maxim Porchov tapped the table impatiently as the
phone rang.
"He is a fool, or he really doesn't know," Porchov said.
"Then I should go ahead?"
"Yes. He is in the cellar. The Italians and Otto will be
the only ones here."
"And they are expendable."
"Of course," Porchov replied. "Crifasi?"
"He's been moving a lot. I think he has something."
"How long?" Porcbov asked.
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"An hour at the most, if I can convince him."
"You can, and will. We'll be ready."
Porchov dropped the phone back to its cradle and mo-
tioned the other two men to follow him as he walked from
the house toward the black Mercedes.
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TWENTY
Joe Crifasi paced his flat, a beer in one hand and a cigar
in the other. He had done everything he could up to this
point, and so far no Carter.
The Lancia he had reported to the police as stolen, He
had two men, long-hair hippie types, loitering around St.
Maria with orders to observe but not move. With every-
thing else that was constantly going on in Rome, that was
all the bodies he could spare, especially until he got word
from Carter on a next move.
AXE was specific about that. When a field agent with
an "N" designation was in your area, he was the boss.
Don't move too far without his word moving you fanher.
The fact that he couldn't find Carter didn't surprise him.
The man had more contacts and more holes to crawl into
than a Chinese puzzle.
He was about to pop another beer when his doorbell
rang, making him almost jump out of his skin.
He drew the Beretta and, holding it to his side, checked
the peephole. He knew her at once, the sweater exposing
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the round smoothness of her breasts, the long dark glisten-
ing hair, and the large jet-black eyes; Isobel Rivoli.
'SYes?"
"Joseph Crifasi?"
"Who wants to know?"
"You know goddamn well who I am. Open the door."
He did, and she swept by him and turned, hands on her
flared hips. "They have Carter."
"Who has Carter?" Crifasi replied, fingering the Ber-
etta.
"Maxim Porchov. He is in a farmhouse about an hour
north of Rome. "
"You're sure?"
"Positive. There are three of them. I spotted them when
they picked him up. I followed them, but I thought it better
to get help,"
Crifasi shrugged into his coat. "Are you armed?"
She smiled. "I have two Uzis and five flash grenades in
the trunk of my car."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
His eyelids seemed to be glued together and it was a
monumental effort to pry them apart. His mouth was so dry
that he could hardly swallow.
And he was mad, as angry as he had ever been in his
life, because after the last senseless beating from Otto he
had realized.
There was no reason for it. Porchov had been going
through the motions. He hadn't expected to get anything
out of Carter. The Russian was going to find another way
to the list.
And the personnel. With an operation of this size, and
the value of Polteri's list, Porchov would have brought an
army into play to get it.
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Instead, he had two local goons who had asked ques-
tions by rote, and a beefy German whose age was probably
higher than his IQ.
Porchov, Carter thought, was running scared. Why? Be-
cause Moscow didn't know that the brilliant net they had
established was coming apart.
Painfully, he looked around. He was back in the same
cellar His hands were handcuffed over a pipe lead-
ing down from the ceiling and disappearing into the fur-
nace about ten feet in front of him.
He managed to twist his wrist around enough to check
his watch. It had been almost twenty-four hours since they
had picked him up. By now Crifasi would be wondering.
Sara Geller would have the info he wanted and be wonder-
ing why he hadn't called.
And Meyer. Surely Hans would be back from Budapest.
He and Elaine would have compared notes.
Above him, the cellar door was open. He could hear
them talking while they ate.
Bastards, he thought, taking a snack break in between
bouts of beating the shit out of me!
He propped his back against the wall and alternately
thought about how he could break the pipe and tried not to
think how stupid he had been.
It was then that all hell broke loose upstairs.
The rain got heavier the farther north they drove from
Rome. In another hour, maybe less, dawn would break.
Joe Crifasi hunched his shoulders, his eyes intent on the
road, a cigar between his teeth. The ashes dribbled down
the front of his jacket with the bouncing of the car.
Beside him, Isobel Rivoli checked and rechecked the
Uzis, Now and then she would look up and grunt a change
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of direction. That's about all the conversation that had
passed between them since leaving the city.
"There, that next right, and kill your lights."
Crifasi turned, killed the lights, and idled down. "How
"It's about a mile over those hills. Park under those
trees."
The sound of the engine had barely died when they were
both moving overland. Minutes later, they topped a småll
rise.
"That's it," she whispered.
The farmhouse was built with the stones from the fields
surrounding it, and mortared together with cracking ce-
ment. It was set on about two acres of land, and com-
pletely surrounded by a high wall of mortared stones
topped with tiles.
"How do you want to do it?" she asked.
The windows on the upper floor were shuttered. The
only light was on the first floor, about midway between the
front and rear.
Crifasi shrugged. "You've been here before. You call
it. "
"I'll take the front," she said, "you come in from the
rear. What time do you have?"
"Exactly fifteen to the hour."
She nodded. "We go on the hour "
Without another word, she moved soundlessly away, to
the right, and Crifasi moved to the left. He jogged along a
creek, crossed on some rocks, and came up behind the
wall.
He chose a section of the wall hidden under the bough
of a tree and used the rocks to go up and over. The garden
on the other side was overgrown and neglected. Dwarf fig
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and olive trees gave him good cover right up to the rear of
the house.
Twenty feet from the lighted windows he crouched and
checked his watch.
Three minutes to go.
But Isobel Rivoli hadn't waited.
The flash from one of the grenades blew the window
out, and then Crifasi heard the chatter of her Uzi.
He sprinted forward and dived through the shattered
window. He tucked, rolled, and came up on one knee.
What he saw almost made him lose what dinner he had
eaten.
Isobel Rivoli stood in the kitchen doorway, methodi-
cally pumping slugs from the Uzi into the three men.
The sudden silence from above gave Carter a tense mo-
ment, Then he saw Crifasi on the stairs, and right behind
him Isobel Rivoli.
"Jesus, my man, they sure did a number on you," Cri-
fasi said.
'They did that," Carter murmured, his slitted eyes
studying the woman's face.
She broke first. "The keys to the handcuffs must be on
one of them."
She darted back up the stairs. Crifasi started to check
Carter's condition.
"Elaine Dermott called from Vienna. She thinks she's
figured it out."
'The list is in Rome," Carter said.
Crifasi nodded. He started to speak, but she was coming
back down the stairs.
"I've got the key."
They got Carter down from the pipe.
"You going to make it?" she asked.
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"Yeah, I'll make it. Where are we?"
Crifasi told him as Carter staggered to his feet.
"Okay, let's get out of here before the neighbors get too
curious."
With Crifasi's help they made it up the stairs. In the
kitchen, Carter spotted his Luger and the stiletto on the
table. He shoved them into his belt and followed the other
two outside.
The cool night air did wonders to clear his head. As
they walked the mile or so to the car, Crifasi gave Carter a
rundown on the telephone call from Vienna.
Isobel walked between them. "You mean he used a
nun?" she said, then snorted. "That would be just like
Tony. "
They were nearly to the car now. Suddenly, Carter
stumbled. It was a natural reaction for the woman to throw
out her arms to steady him.
Only the Killmaster didn't fall. He whirled and brought
his fist up from the deck, burying it to the wrist in Isobel
Rivoli's stomach.
She gasped for air and folded like an accordion. Carter
chopped her on the side of the neck and she was out.
Crifasi just gaped. "You know what you're doing?"
"I don't have proof positive," Carter growled, "but as
soon as we find a phone I might. If I'm wrong, she isn't
hurt much. Let's get her in the car."
Sara Geller answered on the first ring.
"It's me," Carter said. "What have you got?"
"Lots. It took some digging and arm twisting, but right
now two very important people in Tel Aviv are talking their
heads off,"
"Talk to me," Carter hissed.
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"Your hunch was right. The daughter died right after the
family was sent into exile."
"And this one took her place?"
"Yes. The mother stayed in line to keep her husband
alive. Chances are she had the 'auto accident' when word
reached Tel Aviv that her husband was dead. Jesus, Nick,
they've managed to get five people in that we've learned
about so far."
"Don't feel bad," Carter said. "There are a lot more all
over the place."
"My friends would very much like to ask this little lady
a lot of questions."
Carter smiled. "Sara, I think it's only fair that you get
some reward for all your help. We're on the Milan highway
about four miles out, a gas station."
"I have help," she said. "We'll be there in twenty min-
utes."
Carter hung up and returned to the car. Isobel Rivoli
was in the back seat, like a statue, her dark eyes glaring
pure hatred at him through the window.
Carter got in beside her. "It was a lot of things. They
should have trained you as much as they brainwashed you.
But then you were awfully young when you started,
weren't you? There wasn't time for the finer points."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your ass you don't," Carter said with a harsh laugh.
"Good old Stefan—or should I say Porchov—did every-
thing he could to steer me toward the 'fiancée' in Rome.
Then you tell me the fiancée bit was just to get me here.
You two should have gotten your stories straight. And your
perfume. My God, woman, how long did you sit in that
cab they used to haul me out here? You stunk it up so bad I
couldn't miss it. There's a lot more, but it's not worth
going into now. Did Polteri know about you?"
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She shrugged. "Yes. It was a break when they assigned
me to work with him to investigate the refugee smuggling
ring."
"I'll bet it was," Carter hissed. "You both just fed Tel
Aviv and Washington tons of disinformation. Where's Por-
Cho V
Silence.
Carter reached forward. He wrapped the fingers of his
left hand around her throat and squeezed.
"The Israelis very much want to talk to you. You have
two choices ... talk to them and swallow a jail sentence in
Haifa.. .or die, now."
There was fear in her eyes but she remained silent.
He squeezed, harder and harder. She began to gasp and
claw at his arm.
"What ... what do you want?"
"What happens to the two flunkies when you get the
"Porchov will kill them. He wants no witnesses to what
has happened. "
"His screw-up, you mean." Carter dragged her from the
car. "Come on, you're making a phone call."
It's a fiat we used as a safe house when we moved them
through Rome. Porchov could also meet Tony there if a
meeting or payoff was needed. It's near the Coliseum.
She had said it, and then laughed.
The last time I saw Tony was in that flat.
Now Isobel was on her way to Tel Aviv and Carter was
on the roof of the flat. He dropped down to an old, rusted
fire escape and went to work taping the bedroom window.
Seconds later he had a windowpane taped thickly, and
when a hard gust of wind hit, he rapped the glass sharply
The glass cracked and he lifted out the shattered section,
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carefully worked loose the rest, then stuck his hand
through and unlocked the window. A moment later he
stood inside the bedroom.
He went to the closed door and listened. He eased the
door open and found a carpeted hallway. Light oozed
through another door at the end of the hall.
Porchov stood at the window, a glass in his hand, gaz-
ing down at the street.
Carter moved silently into the room, the silenced Luger
cocked. "Porchov."
The man whirled, the glass dropping from his hand
when he recognized Carter.
"She won't be coming, Porchov."
The man's face was falling apart, but he managed to
speak. "What do you plan for me?"
Carter shrugged. "Make a phone call, give you back to
them. "
Porchov nodded. "That would figure." He started to-
ward a sideboard a few feet to his left. "There's a revolver
in the top drawer.. ."
Carter waited until the man's fingers were tugging out
the drawer before he fired.
There was a dull popping sound, and a look of sheer
amazement distorted Porchov's face. His mouth opened but
no cry came. He staggered back against the wall, and still
gasping, his knees buckling beneath him, he fell forward.
Carter stood over him. His eyes were open and he was
still breathing.
Carter moved the snout of the silencer within six inches
of his forehead and fired again.
The rain had stopped. The sun was out but there was a
brisk breeze blowing off the mountains.
Carter waited on a bench by the fountain. He stood
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when he saw her emerge from the side door of the church.
She was radiant, very beautiful, with her full lips curled
in a tiny smile.
"Mr. Carter, I am Sister Gianna. It's about Tony, isn't
He reached out and took her two slender hands in his.
"Yes, Sister. It's about Tony."
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AN ALL-NEW SPY THRILLER!
Agent N3
battles
the ultimate
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weapon!
KILLMASTER #215
The Samurai Kill
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