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ONE
Three Years Ago
The big jet banked over the Sea of Marmara and
began its glide path over Istanbul. The minarets glit-
tered and the old Ottoman city shimmered in crisp
winter temperatures beneath a cloudless sky.
In the rear of the first-class section Nick Carter
surveyed his four fellow passengers from behind the
nearly black lenses of his glasses. He did so by moving
his eyes only, keeping his head stationary.
The reason?
Nick Carter, AXE Killmaster was traveling on
the passport Of a nonexistent German industrialist from
Frankfurt named Horst Keller.
And Herr Horst Keller was blind.
"Herr Keller, let me get your seat belt."
Carter smiled through the shag of the false gray
beard. "Thank you so much," he replied in heavily ac-
cented English.
The flight attendant snapped his seat belt and laid an
understanding hand on his shoulder. "We have a
ground attendant waiting to take you to baggage
claim."
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NICK CARTER
"That won't be necessary. I just have my briefcase.
This is just a short business trip. I'll be taking the eve-
ning flight back to Frankfurt. "
g 'Very well
"But your attendant could see me through customs
and to the taxi stands. "
' 'Of course. "
She gave his shoulder a final squeeze and moved up
the aisle tosee to the other passengers.
Carter leaned back with a sigh, fingering the white
cane between his legs and dropping his other hand on
the briefcase. Both would be discarded soon, as had the
accouterments of the previous cover that had taken him
from Washington to Mexico City and on to Germany.
He was tired. It had been two days of solid traveling
with very little time in between flights.
But he hoped there would be a soft bed and a good
night's sleep awaiting him in Istanbul.
He would need at least some rest before carrying out
the last leg of his assignment: terminating Eban
Balistronov.
Customs gave the papers and the two books in braille
a cursory glance and closed the briefcase.
"You won't be staying long in Turkey, Herr Keller?"
"Just a few hours, business."
"l wish you success. Next. "
The young female attendant took Carter's elbow.
"This way to the taxis, Herr Keller."
If he had been traveling under his own passport,
Carter would have accepted the driver's fare and been
on his way. But Herr Keller would bargain.
It took almost five minutes to come to an agreement,
and then they were hurtling through the maze around
Yesilkoy Airport and onto the elevated highway toward
the city.
His destination was the arch leading to the Topkapi
Palace.
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NICK CARTER
"That won't be necessary. I just have my briefcase.
This is just a short business trip. I'll be taking the eve-
ning flight back to Frankfurt. "
g 'Very well
"But your attendant could see me through customs
and to the taxi stands. "
' 'Of course. "
She gave his shoulder a final squeeze and moved up
the aisle tosee to the other passengers.
Carter leaned back with a sigh, fingering the white
cane between his legs and dropping his other hand on
the briefcase. Both would be discarded soon, as had the
accouterments of the previous cover that had taken him
from Washington to Mexico City and on to Germany.
He was tired. It had been two days of solid traveling
with very little time in between flights.
But he hoped there would be a soft bed and a good
night's sleep awaiting him in Istanbul.
He would need at least some rest before carrying out
the last leg of his assignment: terminating Eban
Balistronov.
Customs gave the papers and the two books in braille
a cursory glance and closed the briefcase.
"You won't be staying long in Turkey, Herr Keller?"
"Just a few hours, business."
"l wish you success. Next. "
The young female attendant took Carter's elbow.
"This way to the taxis, Herr Keller."
If he had been traveling under his own passport,
Carter would have accepted the driver's fare and been
on his way. But Herr Keller would bargain.
It took almost five minutes to come to an agreement,
and then they were hurtling through the maze around
Yesilkoy Airport and onto the elevated highway toward
the city.
His destination was the arch leading to the Topkapi
Palace.
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3
As the driver threaded his way through the long lines
of traffic, Carter adjusted the right lens of his dark
glasses. By turning the lens slightly it became a mirror.
From the airport to the palace he scanned the road-
way behind them in the makeshift rearview mirror.
Twice he saw cars moving with the same cavalier at-
titude toward life and limb as his own, but both of them
sped past and disappeared.
The chances were one in a thousand that he would
have a tail, but years as the top executioner for super-
secret AXE had made Carter sensitive to everything,
even the slightest detail.
"Topkapi."
Carter tipped the driver a reasonable sum and stepped
gingerly from the cab. "Can you tell me which way is
the entrance?"
The driver mumbled a reply. Carter turned his collar
up against the brisk cold and tapped his way up the long
flight of stone steps.
"A tour has just started, sir. It will be one hour until
there is another. "
"Is there somewhere I can wait?" Carter asked,
already knowing the answer.
"Of course. Just inside and to your right. "
The Killmaster purchased a ticket for the full tour and
followed the man's directions. Twice more in the huge,
marbled hall he asked directions. At last he was seated
in the empty waiting room. It would be a good half hour
before the room would be filling up in preparation for
the next tour.
He waited five minutes before moving to the extreme
rear of the room and passing through a door marked
Baylor.
As he expected, the cavernous men's rest room was
deserted.
In seconds he had doused his head with water and
darted into one of the booths. Quickly he removed his
black pants and suit jacket. When they were inside out,
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NICK CARTER
he put them on again and removed the lining that had
been Velcroed to the light tan interior.
The lining went into the briefcase and a beige tie was
withdrawn to replace the dark blue he wore. Secreted
between the outer layer and the lining of his heavy top-
coat was a tan trench coat. He removed the lighter gar-
ment and folded the heavier into the bag.
He used a small packet of tissues to dry his hair and
remove the last of the gray. The false beard and
mustache went into the toilet and the residue of spirit
gum was removed with the rest of the tissue.
When the change was complete he took a small
penknife from his pocket and stood on the commode.
There were six screws in the air-conditioning vent above
the commode. It took approximately a minute apiece to
get them out, and half again as long to replace them
after he shoved the briefcase behind the vent.
With maintenance in the state it was in Turkey, it
would most likely be two months before it was dis-
covered. Perhaps longer.
He then - removed Horst Keller's false German
passport and fanned it out above the water. It was con-
structed of flash paper. One touch of the flame from his
lighter and it disintegrated. What ash was left he
dropped into the bowl and flushed away.
Then he lit a cigarette, sat down, and waited.
His timing was almost perfect.
Approximately twenty minutes before the tour was to
start, the rest room became crowded.
The men's voices chattered and grumbled in at least a
half-dozen languages. Most of the talk centered around
the wonders of the Topkapi Palace they were about to
see: the Chinese porcelains; the magnificent gold- and
silver-threaded robes of the Ottoman sultans; and the
priceless jewels of the treasury, including the dream of
every world-class thief—the eighty-eight-carat Topkapi
Diamond.
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5
A few men muttered that they would rather be drink-
ing or wandering on the fringes of the Grand Bazaar in
search of the consummate belly dancer.
When the traffic seemed to be at a peak, the Kill-
master stepped from the booth.
The urinals were all occupied and there were four men
spread across the long row of washbasins. Carter edged
in between them. No one paid him the slightest atten-
tion.
A few strokes with a comb and his dark hair was in
place. Carefully he' studied his clean-shaven face in the
mirror. 7 There was one tiny bit of dried spirit gum
beneath his chin. He plucked it off and returned to the
waiting area.
He estimated seventy souls—men, women, and chil-
dren—were sitting or milling around, waiting for the
tour. If all went according to plan, there would be that
many or more just across the hall in ten or so minutes
finishing the previous tour.
At two minutes before blast off, a uniformed woman
stepped into the waiting room and asked for everyone's
attention in three different languages. She was very
dark, with sharp features, coal-black hair and eyes to
match. Her smile drooped at the corners and her voice
was weary as she recited by rote the explanation of the
tour.
Seconds later they were filing through a turnstile into
the huge hallway that would take them into the center of
the palace.
Carter averted his face as he hit the turnstile and
passed his ticket chit to Droopy Smile. He meshed with
the crowd as they moved down the hall to the first
gigantic tapestry.
Coming at them from the other direction was the
horde of the previous tour. A clone of Droopy Smile
was at their head explaining the tapestries on the op-
posite wall.
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NICK CARTER
The two groups came together, separated by sections
of velvet rope.
"This is the famous Argev Tapestry. It depicts the
reign of Suliman .. ."
"This is the last viewing spot of the tour, ladies and
gentlemen. It is a work of the Byzantine period. You
will notice the fine gold thread "
"You will follow me, please, this way to the inner
palace and the vault room ..
"Thank you so much for your attention. The exit
turnstile is right this way .. e"
Nimbly, Carter unhooked one of the sections of rope,
stepped through, and slid it back in place. He was at the
very rear of the departing group but managed to shuffle
his way almost to the center by the time they reached the
exit. The guide was there accepting smiles and tips.
Carter pressed a fifty-lira note into her palm and
beamed. "Wonderful tour, mademoiselle, absolutely
fascinating, " he gushed in French.
"Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup. "
Outside, he descended the steps between two British
grande-dame types in heavy tweeds and sensible shoes.
"It's almost unbelievable, the wealth those chaps
were able to accumulate back then, wasn't it, ladies?"
"Quite astonishing, really," one replied. "Before
taxes, of course, anything was possible. "
"And did you see the jewels? Dear God ..
Carter nodded, smiled, and patted their shoulders as
if they were both his great aunts. But his eyes worked
everywhere.
Nothing.
Horst Keller was gone and Nick Carter, Killmaster,
was in Istanbul, clean.
The apartment was in the old-town section of
KomKapi on Asker. Carter paid off the third cab since
leaving the elderly ladies on the steps of the Topkapi
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Palace, and stepped into the street.
7
The bite in the air was more severe now, but it didn't
seem to affect the swarming crowds of screaming
children, barking dogs, and women hurrying home with
mesh grocery bags and baskets slung from their
shoulders.
Carter took a last check up and down the street.
When he was sure, he darted into the vestibule of
number 18 and climbed to the third floor.
The stairs were wooden and worn. The hallway was
laid with tile that had seen better days ten yeqrs before.
Surprisingly, it was clean and smelled far better than the
street outside.
There were two keys on the ring he had received in
Washington. He found 3B and rapped lightly on the
door.
No answer, but that was as it should be. She was a
working woman, a journalist, with many friends in the
Turkish government. She had also been a free-lance
CIA control in Turkey for the last five years.
Carter popped the first lock and then the second. He
swung the door open.
No answer.
He walked in and closed the door, snapping both
locks in the process.
The apartment—light and furnished in modern, fem-
inine style—consisted of three rooms and a bath. It was
neat and clean. The whole was permeated by a faint in-
censelike aroma that was elusively vague and provoca-
tive.
It was also cold. But then, in Turkey, that was nor-
mal. The heating system was probably ancient and
turned on only when the occupant was home.
He checked all three rooms and found the phone.
"You have reached the Istanbul exchange of Amal-
gamated Press and Wire Services. At present we have no
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NICK CARTER
representatives on station in Istanbul, but if you will
leave your message at the sound of the tone, it will be
automatically relayed to the nearest active Amalga-
mated office.. e"
Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, the worldwide
cover for AXE, had recently run into a meat grinder in
Turkey. At the time it was thought best that all offices
be closed down rather than risk being blown.
Carter waited for the tone and then spoke. "This is
Nightshade. The bird is in the roost."
He hung up and searched for a bottle. The only thing
he could find was a half-full quart of Turkish vodka. He
poured the best part of a glass and found the bathroom.
When all the coffee and various other liquids from
the flight were gone, he returned to the living room.
He had barely flopped on the sofa when a key scraped
in the door.
Carter jerked to a sitting position, all senses on full
alert.
It was the first time he had thought of it since leaving
Washington. He didn't have a weapon. He was in Istan-
bul cold. It was that kind of mission.
What if the hand turning the key didn't belong to
Zina Talinka?
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TWO
When she opened the door and saw Carter sitting on
her sofa, she at first merely stared, her mouth open in
an unconsciously sexy expression.
"You look startled. "
"l know."
"You knew I'd be here."
"I know. It's just ."
"What?"
The tiny smile at the corners of her lips grew grim.
"It's just that seeing you made me remember what
you're here to do."
Their eyes met in a long moment of silence. It was
Carter who looked away first, and then back as she
moved toward the kitchen.
He studied her as she unloaded groceries from a
woven hemp basket.
She was about thirty-one or thirty-two now, and as
appealing as he remembered her from a couple of years
before, the last time they had worked together.
Her figure was trim and smartly encased in the latest
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NICK CARTER
fashion. She still wore her dark hair in a shoulder-length
style. It had a soft, natural gloss and was very beautiful.
Her features were classic, and the color of her skin was
just dark enough to be exotically glamorous.
Carter moved to her shoulder, replenishing his glass
from the bottle on the counter.
"l brought whiskey," she said, not looking at him.
'WThis will do . . .
for now. You don't approve, do
you."
She shrugged. 4 'My approval or disapproval doesn't
make any difference. "
"Maybe it does to me, Zina. I gave you your first
field training, remember?"
He couldn't see her face, but he saw her shoulders
tense. There was another moment of silence, and then
she turned.
"l imagine you're tired, and hungry."
He nodded. "A little."
"Shower. I'll have dinner ready by the time you've
finished."
"And after dinner ... we'll go over it."
"Yes," she whispered, and turned back to busy
herself at the counter. "After."
In the shower Carter turned the water from hot to
cold and back again. There was something in her eyes,
her manner, that bothered him. He thought it was in-
decision, and that was bad. Being indecisive when
you're about to kill a man might give that man an edge
to kill you.
He dried his body, shaved quickly, and, not thinking,
stepped back into the bedroom.
He hadn't heard her. She was there, in the midst of
changing.
She didn't gasp. She didn't cry out. She didn't even
register much surprise. She merely stared.
He had caught her in only panties, her white bra
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CROSSFIRE RED
11
dangling from a hand at her side. She made no move to
cover her breasts—softly rounded, not very large but
ample, crowned by rose-beige nipples. Her waist was
small, her thighs pleasingly full' Her panties were sheer
nylon, their white contrasting excitingly with her dark
skin.
"Sorry."
She shrugged. "We'll be cooped up here together for
two days. It's inevitable. Dinner is ready. "
She dressed without another word and Carter did the
same.
The meal was delicious. It was also interesting. In-
stead of Turkish dishes, Zina had purchased all the in-
gredients of a first-class Russian meal.
As an appetizer there was salmon caviar covered with
sour cream, along with black bread layered with kuas
kissel, a liquid jam made of cranberries. The entree was
herring with potatoes. The dessert was a honey cake
filled with pistachio nuts.
Carter wondered if it wasn't Zina's version of a wake
for the Russian who was about to be terminated. But
beyond congratulating her on the preparation, he said
nothing.
Later, with brandys they faced each other over the
small table strewn with notes and maps. Carter scowled
at the notes; Zina knew better than to ever write
anything down. But, once again, for the time being he
said nothing.
"This morning a Soviet freighter, the Talnoye, passed
through the Bosporus. "
"Eban Balistronov is on board."
"Yes. The ship will dock here—at Gallipoli—before
going on through the Dardanelles into the Aegean. "
"And that's where Balistronov is getting off?"
She nodded. ' 'A Bulgarian who was sent in some
weeks ago will take Balistronov's place aboard the
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NICK CARTER
Talnoye to satisfy the head count for customs. "
Carter thought for a moment. "Why not just pick a
Soviet ship that docks right here at Istanbul?"
"The customs people here in Istanbul are much
stricter. At Gallipoli they are more careless, and also, if
there is some problem, they can be bribed. "
'WI see," Carter replied, lighting a cigarette. "Go
on."
"He will take a local train to Tekirdai tomorrow
morning. There he will change to the express from
Athens. If there are no problems, he will arrive in Istan-
bul around three tomorrow afternoon."
' 'Who is his target?"
"I found that out early this morning. His name is Lev
Sabat, a refugee from the Ukraine. "
know of him." Carter nodded, and leaned back
into the sofa. He found a crack in the ceiling plaster and
concentrated on it to recall what he knew of Lev Sabat.
The man was Ukrainian. Five years before, he and
two of his closest friends had pulled off a hair-raising
escape, the details of which Sabat had never divulged.
He had come to Ankara and eventually to Istanbul,
where he had become a prime mover and shaker in the
constantly smoldering exiled Ukrainian nationalist
movement. Besides lecturing all over Europe on the evils
of Russian-style communism, Sabat had personally
become a one-man symbol of Ukrainian resistance. It
was also well known that the man had often come to the
aid of several Western intelligence agencies.
Yes, Carter thought, Lev Sabat had definitely become
a major itch on the big Russian bear's behind, one that
the KGB would definitely like to scratch and cancel.
"Are you asleep?"
' 'No, just getting Sabat in perspective. Did your
source have any timetable for the hit?"
"No, only a copy of the day-by-day, hour-by-hour
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13
timetable of Sabat's movements that will be supplied to
Balistronov when he arrives."
Carter accepted the sheet of single-spaced typing and
let his eyes devour it. As he read, he threw more ques-
tions at Zina Talinka.
"Tell me about your source."
"l have sent a full report to Langley."
"I know that," he replied, chain-lighting another
cigarette with his free hand.
"You smoke far too much."
Carter glanced up briefly. "When I go, it won't be
cigarettes that kill me. Now, tell me about your source. I
want to hear it from your own lips. "
There was a deep sigh from across the table and then
she began.
"I was contacted at a party at the French embassy
about six months ago."
"How?"
"A note was slipped into my purse. I never saw it
done. It told me to dial a certain number at a certain
time the following day. I did. It was a woman's voice."
"How old a woman?"
"I don't know—it was impossible to tell."
"Russian?"
"l don't know that, either. She spoke excellent
French but with a slight accent. I couldn't pinpoint the
accent. "
"What did she give you?"
' 'Not much that first time. Two, Jews were coming
out through Bulgaria. They would need help at the fron-
tier. Could I help them? I did."
"Without questioning if it was a setup?"
"I covered myself. After that first time I received a
message or a phone call at my office at least once a
week. The information got better and better. Two weeks
ago she told me that Balistronov was being sent into
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Istanbul to assassinate someone very important."
"Did you try for personal contact?" Carter asked.
"Yes. She refused. She told me the arrangement that
we had was quite good enough. "
"You insisted?"
"Yes, but she was adamant. I did the usual checking,
going through the list of Soviet embassy personnel and
their wives, as well as all the known undercovers we
have even the most tenuous files on. Again, nothing
substantial. Truthfully, Nick, I have come up with only
two hints. '
"And those are?"
"From the quality of information she has been pass-
ing, I would say that she is much higher up on the scale
than a clerk or secretary. Also, for the same reason, she
must have access to the embassy diplomatic pouch."
"What else?"
"One of her comments during the original informa-
tion on Balistronov. She said, 'The neighbors are send-
ing in one of their top men, Balistronov.' "
This brought Carter's head up with a snap. "GRU?"
"That was my guess. "
The GRU—or the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye
Upravlenie—is the chief intelligence directorate of the
general staff of the Red Army. While the GRU is not as
far-reaching or as powerful as the KGB, its top mem-
bers still have access to valuable intelligence material.
In Soviet intelligence parlance, GRU staff always
refer to their KGB counterparts as 'Sour neighbors. "
"If she is high enough, she could be valuable. Very
valuable. "
"l think so," Zina replied.
' 'If she's not trying to set up something like a disin-
formation channel e."
Carter scanned the Sabat report one more time,
dropped it, and moved to the French doors. He opened
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them and stepped out onto the balcony.
15
The night sky had clouded over and the mist threat-
ened rain. The air was still biting cold and Carter won-
dered if it wouldn't turn to snow by morning.
No matter. Turkish trains weren't inhibited by any
kind of weather. Balistronov would arrive on time.
Even though the apartment was only on the third
floor, because the building was on a hill, he could see
almost to the Golden Horn over the blackened rooftops.
Unconsciously, as the smoke from thousands of
chimneys filled his nostrils, Carter surveyed the city
with the paper he had just read in his mind.
Lev Sabat lived in the Sematya district near the
Yedikule Surlari, the Palace of Seven Towers.
Abruptly he turned and reentered the living room,
closing the doors behind him. Zina still sat at the table,
shivering from the blast of cold air.
' 'According to that report, Sabat frequents one or all
of three different places during the day: his office, the
propaganda print shop owned by the Ukrainian move-
ment, or his club."
Zina nodded, her eyes wide, knowing that the darker,
more cunning and devious side of Carter the agent had
now taken over.
"According to that, his daylight movements are
almost impossible to predict. On top of it, he doesn't
drive; he always travels by public transportation."
She looked puzzled. "So?"
' 'Depending on Balistronov's time limit and the
method he plans to use, I think the hit will be made at or
near Sabat's home. When is your next contact?"
"Tomorrow at noon. With each contact she gives me
a new time and number. I believe she wants to know if
you are in place. Also, she said this morning that she
would fill me in on anything else she learns about the
operation. "
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NICK CARTER
Carter was shrugging into his trench coat. "Tell her I
need two pieces of information. I need to know the
timetable and route of Balistronov's escape, and his
means of termination. "
"The means?" she asked, and gulped.
"The KGB likes its kills to look like accidents. I
doubt if Balistronov will blow Sabat away with a sawed-
off shotgun. I'll be late. Don't wait up."
" You're going out?"
' 'I'm going to inform Lev Sabat that the powers that
be in Moscow have finally decided to kill him. "
Lev Sabat lived in a flat, gray building in a block of
many flat, gray buildings. It looked more like a prison
in its cinder-block starkness than middle-class housing.
Carter guessed from the rest of the area that it was no
more than a few years old, but already neglect and the
effects of shoddy construction had set in.
He took more than an hour casing the neighborhood
and the building itself. He also made sure from the
onset that there were no other watchers.
The streets for blocks around were deserted because
of the cold. Carter saw only a fewvehicles, and all of
these were hurriedly intent on getting their passengers to
their warm destinations.
As the Killmaster headed back toward Sabat's build-
ing, he encountered a stooped old man pushing a four-
wheeled cart. On the cart was a large white barrel and
cleaning equipment, such as brooms and shovels.
A street sweeper, Carter thought. Poor guy, out
working on a night like this.
On the street opposite Sabat's building he stood in the
shadow of a doorway for the length of a cigarette, scan-
ning the traffic.
At last he crossed the street and let himself into the
first-floor vestibule. The stairs were filthy with garbage
and tossed-out furniture beneath them. To Carter's
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right were mailboxes. Sabat lived in apartment 8. The
old fool obviously was all guts or no brains. He cared
little or nothing for security, even going so far as to
place his own name on his mailbox.
Carter climbed to the fourth floor. There were two
apartments to a floor. Since the door to his left bore a
number 7, he guessed the one to his right was 8. The
metal number had long since fallen off, leaving only its
outline in the door's peeling paint.
He knocked. It was almost a full minute before he
heard shuffling steps and a voice that uttered a guttural
growl that could hardly be construed as a word, let
alone a greeting.
Carter replied in English. "Are you Lev Sabat?"
'C Yes."
"l am a friend."
A chuckle. "Is that so? I have few friends, and none
that I know speak English."
The Killmaster leaned closer to the crack in the door
and spoke in little more than a whisper. "We have a
mutual friend. Sir Lloyd Mackey."
In response to the mention of Sir Lloyd, head of M16
for the eastern Mediterranean, locks began to click.
Lev Sabat had aged a lot since the last picture of him
Carter had seen. He was not much more than five foot
seven, with a broad torso and shoulders and a thick,
bull neck. The body still looked in good shape, but the
face was a map of lines and the eyes looked weary.
"And how is Sir Lloyd?"
"Fine, the last time I saw him, which was nearly a
year ago. 'i
"And his lovely bride?"
Carter smiled. "Anne Mackey died almost five years
ago, Sabat. And if that's your way of clearing me, it's
ridiculous. I'm sure Moscow knows also that she's
dead. "
There was a flash of life in his eyes and a bit of a smile
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NICK CARTER
as he stepped aside. "Come in. "
Carter did and offered his credentials without being
asked. Sabat took them with his left hand, keeping his
right in the pocket of the torn and faded robe he wore.
When he checked the ID and handed it back, he pulled
an old Webley cannon from the pocket of the robe.
"Do you know how to fire that?" Carter asked.
"Not very well, I'm afraid." The smile was real now.
"My war has been fought with words. Am I on loan
from the British to the Americans now?"
'CNO, not really," Carter replied. "I'm here because I
think I can save your life."
The eyebrows went up and the eyes widened. "Well,
well, I must say that's an admirable use for your talents.
Let's talk. Raki?"
"Do you have anything else?"
"No."
"Then raki it is."
The two men talked for nearly an hour. At the end of
that time, much to Carter's surprise, Sabat looked ten
years younger. There was color in his cheeks and fire
had returned to his eyes.
' 'I'm getting to the bastards," he said with glee.
"Why else would they risk arousing world opinion by
killing me if I weren't?"
"As far as getting to them with your speeches and
your writing, I'm sure you are. If you weren't, you
wouldn't be railed at so much by the Communist press.
As far as your death arousing world opinion, I think
not."
'CHOW SO?"
"l think it will look, to the world, like an accident.
They have a hundred ways. "
Sabat shrugged, the massive shoulders rising and
staying up. "Then what do we do?"
' 'Depending on how he plans to do it, I want to use
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CROSSFIRE RED
you as bait. I want Balistronov."
19
"Ah, then you are a man of action. That's good."
Here Sabat paused, hefting his bulky body to his feet.
He paced the small one-room apartment from wall to
wall for a full five minutes before stopping to face Car-
ter once again. "1 know of Balistronov. He has killed
many of my comrades in exile, not to mention others.
He is a man whose time to die is long overdue. "
"Then you'll do it?"
"Of course I will do it! I only wish it would come
down to firing the shot that kills him myself."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. "
Carter told him that a woman would be contacting
him in the next twenty-four hours to fill in the holes as
best they could.
"And what happens, Carter, if we can't fill in the
. if you don't discover the whole of this man's
holes .
assassination plot? "
The Killmaster hesitated for what seemed a very long
time before replying. "Then we abort. We get you to
safety somewhere in the country, perhaps out of Turkey
for a while.
Suddenly the man's wide Slavic features broke into a
huge grin and there was genuine amusement and merri-
ment in his eyes.
"Would I be assuming correctly, Carter, that your
dominant reason for being in Istanbul is not to save my
wrinkled old skin but to eliminate this Balistronov?'"
Carter chewed his lip and let his eyes roam around the
disarray of the one-room flat. Sabat was no fool, and it
was obvious now that his lack of security, his reason for
not hiding under an alias, was pure guts. By doing so he
was throwing his existence in Moscow's face.
At last the Killmaster nodded. "Your assumption
would be correct. I only learned today that you were the
target."
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NICK CARTER
"Then I must also assume that, if they sent you to
eliminate a master assassin, you are quite as talented in
this rather unique vocation as he is."
Carter met the other man's level stare and a smile
creased his own face. "l think that's another valid as-
sumption."
"Then let's not think about me taking any trips in the
near future. "
The mist had turned to a light snow by the time Carter
hit the pavement again. He checked the perimeter and
again found it clean of any watchers. To be on the safe
side, he walked for over an hour in an ever-widening
circle away from Sabat's building.
Again he ran into the stooped figure of the old street
sweeper. The man wore no uniform, just well used but
heavy, durable clothing in layers against the cold.
Carter's Turkish was rusty, but something made him
stop and strike up a conversation with the old man.
"It is the devil's job you do on such a night, old
man."
A shruE, the watery eyes focusing on the cigarette in
Carter's lips as he lit it. The Killmaster handed over the
pack.
"Keep them."
"Many thanks." He lit up and shoved the pack into a
large side pocket of his coat.
' 'It is the right time to
clean the streets, late, when they are empty."
The germ of an idea began rolling around in the back
of Carter's mind. He couldn't pinpoint it, but its
existence made him ask the old man more questions.
"You always work at night?"
"Always."
"And always in this same area?"
Another shrug. "Sometimes here, sometimes there."
He waved a thick arm toward the rest of the city in
general. "The people discard their shit everywhere in
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21
the city. There is no pattern to the scatter or the
cleanup."
"Good night, old man."
' 'Good night."
"Stay warm."
Another shrug. Carter had already been dismissed
from the old man's mind as he lowered his broom back
to the pavement.
Two blocks along, on a busier street, Carter hailed an
ancient taxi.
It was nearly three in the morning before he let
himself into Zina Talinka's apartment. There was a
single five-watt bulb burning for a night light. The heat
had probably been turned off for the night at around
eleven or twelve. It was cold as hell and the sofa had not
been made up into a bed.
Probably my punishment, Carter thought, stretching
out and tucking his coat around himself for a blanket.
He had barely settled in before he sensed her presence
and then opened one eye to see her in the bedroom door-
way. She was wearing a loose Mother Hubbard-type
nightgown of cotton flannel that covered her completely
from throat to ankles.
"They shut the heat off at midnight. "
"l gathered that."
"l didn't mean for you to sleep out here. The bed is
warm. and large enough for both of us. "
Abruptly she disappeared. Carter wasn't about to
quibble. The room was like a refrigerator.
She lay with her back to him as he stripped to his
underwear and slipped in beside her. Between her body
heat and the huge down quilt, the bed was toasty.
"Did you see him? Sabat?"
"Yes. He thinks stopping Balistronov is worth any
cost. He's agreed to be the bait."
There was a long, tense silence between them before
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NICK CARTEW
Zina spoke again. "Then it would be petty of me not to
help you all I can. But when it's over I'm telling
Washington I'm through. "
In the darkness Carter nodded to himself. "Perhaps
that would be for the best."
He squeezed her shoulder and felt her body tense.
As he dozed off he thought there might as well be a
bundling board between them.
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THREE
Carter spent the next day pacing the apartment like a
caged animal. He smoked, drank coffee, napped fit-
fully, and paced some more.
There were no file photos Of Balistronov, not even a
description. So much depended, then, on identifying
him after, rather than before, the attempt. And to pro-
tect Sabati they would have to know the killer's method.
It was late afternoon, false dusk, when Zina's key
sounded in the lock.
Carter was on her the moment she stepped into the
entryway. He wrested the food basket from her arms
and took it into the kitchen. By the time he returned, she
had removed her coat and jacket. Carter guided her to
the sofa.
"Talk to me. You made contact. i'
"Yes. Balistronov is in. She told me he made contact
only by phone. Evidently that is what he always does, so
she still has no idea what he looks like."
Carter sighed. • 'I imagine only two or three people,
very high up in the KGB, know what he looks like or
who he really is. That's part of his magic. Go on!"
' 'Her instructions came from Moscow in this morn-
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ing's pouch,
Borrow ends at 10:04 PM O
NICK CARTER
along with false credentials, traveling
papers, and the order to supply a car that could not be
traced. She said that in the pouch there was' '—she
hesitated, her brows furrowing--"there was also ... "
"The tube and eight capsules. She didn't explain. She
said you would know what that meant. "
Carter sat back with a deep sigh. He could feel half
the day's tension seeping from his body.
"Yeah. Oh, yeah, I know just what that means.
They've used it before, quite a few times. "
"I don't understand. "
"The tube will be Balistronov's method." Here
Carter leaned forward until his face was only inches
from Zina's. "We got one once from a Bulgarian hit
man in London. We caught him after he had just killed
an exiled writer from Sofia. "
Zina's hands came together in her lap to keep them
from shaking. "With a tube?"
"It's about six inches long, weighs about seven or
eight ounces, and it's made from aluminum. Hermet-
ically sealed inside the tube is a plastic ampule contain-
ing a liquid poison. The liquid becomes gaseous when
the tube is fired directly into the victim's face from short
range, probably no more than a foot, maybe a little
more. The victim breathes the vapors in, and the arteries
carrying blood to the brain are paralyzed. "
Carter paused, lighting a cigarette and letting that
much sink in. When he was sure it had, he continued.
"Death is usually within two or three minutes. Long
before an autopsy can be performed, the effect of the
poison will wear off and leave no traces. As far as any
physician can tell, the victim died of a thrombosis—a
stroke.
"Oh, my God."
"And you still think it's immoral of me to terminate
Balistronov?" Carter dragged deeply on his cigarette
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25
and went on without giving her a chance to reply. 6' The
eight capsules are to safeguard the tube's user against
inhaling any of the poison gas himself. If taken a few
hours before, his own arteries will enlarge to permit an
unimpeded flow of blood to the brain. He may pass out
momentarily and be 111, but he won't die."
Zina Talinka's face was stark white now. Her hand,
trembling, moved to her purse and extracted a small rec-
tangular box.
"This was delivered this afternoon to my office. "
Carter opened the box. Inside were four yellow
gelatin capsules resting on a bed of cotton.
"Jesus, our mystery lady is two steps ahead of us all
the way. What were her instructions?"
"She was to make first-class sleeper accommodations
on the Istanbul-Munich express and deliver the tickets
along with everything else tonight at a dead drop. "
"She wouldn't say."
Carter grunted. "That's probably so I can't stake out
the drop and get an ID on her as well as Balistronov.
Besides being smart, our lady is very cautious. When
does he leave?"
"Tomorrow night, midnight."
Again Carter leaned back, this time with an even
greater sigh and a solemn grin of satisfaction.
"Bingo, we've got it, got it all. Balistronov is prob-
ably planning the hit for sometime tomorrow night. I'd
say between eight and eleven. When it's done, he'll get
rid of the tube and head straight for the train station. "
He stood and began to pace. In his mind he went over
the route of the express. From Istanbul it was nonstop
to Sofia, Bulgaria. From there it went on to Belgrade,
Zagreb, Salzburg, and into Munich.
' 'Did she give you the name on his false documents,
and how far the tickets went?"
"Yes, I have it right here." Again her hand went to
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NICK CARTER
her purse and withdrew a slip of paper. Carter snatched
it from her.
"One day, Zina Talinka, writing things down like this
will be the death of you.
The name on Balistronov's traveling papers and
passport was Cedric Harland-White, and the ticket was
first class all the way to Munich.
Clever, Carther thought. British. And chances were a
hundred to one that Balistronov would step off the train
in Sofia or Belgrade and disappear back into the Soviet
Union. The Brit, Harland-White, would simply disap-
pear as well. Any questions asked the authoritiés would
zero in on an apparent Englishman.
"What are these numbers?"
"The license number of the car. It will be a dark blue
Volvo sedan, an older model."
Carter memorized everything on the paper in seconds
and burned it in an ashtray.
"Do you want to eat?"
"No." Carter grabbed his coat.
' 'I've got to think
and do a little preparation. "
Before Zina could say a word he was gone.
He walked for over an hour through the tiny streets of
the old town. Slowly but surely, all the pieces began to
fall into place and a complete plan began to form in his
mind.
Across from the Marmara embankment he went into
a small bar and ordered raki. For another hour he
sipped the powerful liquor and stared at his own image
in the cracked mirror behind the bar.
Finally he had it all except a way to get close enough
to Balistronov. After another glass of raki, he even had
that figured out and settled 'on. He remembered the old
street sweeper and the cart he had been pushing with the
large barrel attached to it.
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27
It was time to make the call. He found a pay phone in
the darkened rear of the bar, dropped in several coins,
and dialed the number they had given him in
Washington.
"I'd like to speak to the Tradesman," Carter replied
in German.
"Who wants him?"
' 'Nightshade. "
"This is the Tradesman. I was warned to expect your
call. What will you need?"
' 'A Beretta, dulled finish. It must be silenced, with a
full magazine, the bullets hollow-tipped and dipped in
cyanide. "
' 'That will be no problem. What else?"
"A van. In the back of it a street sweeper's cart, com-
plete, brooms and everything. Will that be any prob-
"It will take a few hours. When will you need this?"
"Tomorrow evening, around seven."
"It will be done. What else?"
"That will do. I'll want the van parked on Yedikule
Court near the Seven Towers."
"It will be there."
"When I am finished I will park it in the same place.
The garbage will be in the barrel. I trust it can be dis-
posed of. "
' 'No problem."
"What is the number there?"
Carter gave it to him.
"I'll call back in five minutes. "
The Killmaster disconnected and returned to the bar.
He ordered a fresh glass of raki and walked back to a
table near the phone. When it rang he waved at the bar-
man and took it himself, "Yes."
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"Who is this?"
Borrow ends at 10:04 PM O
NICK CARTER
Carter recognized the same voice from the previous
call. "Nightshade."
"The van will be white, a Yugoslavian Slotsky,. li-
cense number fourteen-twelve-fourteen. The keys will
be under the left front fender, on the tire. The fee will be
ten thousand American."
"I will inform the proper people yet this evening. "
"Danke. Auf Wiedersehen, Nightshade."
"Auf Wiedersehen, Tradesman."
Carter took a taxi to the Grand Bazaar. Over half the
thousand or so shops were still open and, despite the
cold, doing a flourishing business.
In the poorer section he found a used clothing shop.
He bought a well-used, heavy, dark cloth jacket, hip
length, and a muffler and woolen cap. To this he added
a pair of scuffed workman's boots and a pair of heavy
dark gloves.
A half hour later he was back in the apartment. Zina
was making coffee.
"l couldn't sleep. "
"Good. I've got a lot of instructions to give you and
I'm not going to write them down, so get your memory
cap on. "
She almost barked at him in reply, but thought better
of it. Instead she poured two cups of strong Turkish
coffee and sat across from him at the table.
"Tomorrow morning, at around ten, I want you to go
to Sabat's office. I've already told him to be there. Your
excuse is an interview. You'll take the capsules with you
and explain everything to him. "
Shock flooded Zina's face. "You're going to let it
happen? You're going to let Balistronov—
"Be quiet," Carter snapped, "and listen! I want you
to stay with him all day. That shouldn't be hard with the
excuse of an interview. That will be around six. Since
Sabat has proven himself to be a creature of habit, I told
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29
him to stick to his routine. He will go out to eat at
around eight-thirty and return home at about ten."
"And that's .. e"
"That's right. All you have to do is be in the area.
But, dammit, stay out of sight. And even if you spot
Balistronov, for God's sake leave him alone!"
"Where where will you c?"
"Never mind," Carter. groWled. "That's all been ar-
ranged."
They prepared a snack together and ate in silence.
When they were done they cleaned up in tandem. In the
process of putting away the last of the dishes, Zina sud-
denly began laughing out loud.
- "Are you losing control?" Carter asked, his eyes nar-
rowing as he stared at her.
' 'No, no, I don't think so. It's just that all this
domesticity seems so incongruous!"
"Not really," he replied with a shrug. "There are two
sides to everything. Maybe you should think about your
other side, what results from the information you pass.
Also, ask yourself why this woman, probably a Russian,
is betraying- her country and asking for nothing in
return."
They undressed in the dark and slipped into the bed
with only the dim glimmer from an outside streetlamp
bouncing off the bedroom ceiling.
Side by side they lay in silence for many moments. At
last Zina spoke.
"Once I knew a man, a Yugoslav, who killed for
money. "
Beside her, Carter shrugged. "Sometimes it's as good
as any other reason. "
"I don't believe you mean that. Do you?"
It was several seconds before he replied. "No," he
sighed. "Not really."
"I knew, when I first met you, what you were. I
guess, now, it's more real."
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NICK CARTER
Carter rolled his head to the side. The bounced light
from the ceiling fell across part of her face. She was
wide-eyed, staring, and he guessed internalizing,
weighing the lives of Sabat and Balistronov.
Suddenly he felt like telling her the truth, that killing
was only a small part of his life and his job. He felt like
illuminating the real world of shadows to Zina Talinka,
a world she had been on the fringe of for so many years
but whose inner core she had never really seen.
But he didn't.
"Balistronov isnit the first. He won't be the last," he
murmured.
Zina sighed deeply. "I guess reasonable solutions on
this level don't always work. I think killing Balistronov
is extreme, too extreme. But what he plans to do is
worse, so I must go along with what you do. "
Carter should have left it at that. He should have set-
tled back and kept his mouth shut. But somehow he
couldn't. He felt that he should tell her how he felt in-
side, how people like her shouldn't accept people like
him even though she was going to help him.
"Don't change your beliefs, Zina. What I'm going to
do isn't heroic, adventuresome, or honorable. It's living
with constant fear and thinking one day that it's all
over. But I'll do it when the time comes. "
"l know you will."
Carter continued as if he hadn't heard her, as if he
were talking to himself now, reasoning with himself.
"Killing people isn't the triumph of good over evil
that we see in the movies or on the little square box,
when the guy with the black hat clutches his middle and
does a perfectly executed pirouette before falling to the
strains of accompanying music.
' 'No, Zina, it's trying to stay calm and do what I do
best
blow the top of a man's head off until you can
see his brains. It's being stiff with fear, then blasting
away at some poor bastard who might or might not
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31
know who you are or why you blew his head away.
"It's not walking tall over the bodies afterward; it's
falling all over yourself in an effort to get rid of any-
thing that would put you on the scene, and get away be-
fore the authorities or any friends of the dead make you
dead as well.
"It's not even a feeling of satisfaction, because when
they're dead they look small, useless, and helpless.
Their blood smells bad while it's drying, especially if
you've had to shoot them up bad, and they usually lose
control over their bowels at the last second."
Carter thought she would be sick by the time he
finished. He almost hoped she would be.
But she wasn't.
In the dim light her face was unchanged, as if it had
been sculpted from a superb piece of olive-hued marble.
Carter lay back and shut his eyes. Moments later he
felt her move, and shortly after that she cuddled her
body into the crook of his arm.
Somehow she had wriggled out of her nightgown.
Now her naked flesh felt warm against his skin.
"Then why do you do it?" she murmured, her warm
lips against his ear.
"Why? They tell me someone has to do it. I'm good
at it. I'm a survivor. And I've found out that, once you
start, it's damned hard to stop. They don't let you."
"They won't let me, either. I can see that now. "
Carter didn't reply.
Suddenly she was pressing her lips to his and Carter
was responding. He felt the sweet tingle of her breasts as
they pressed his chest. As the tension of anticipation
mounted, he took her in his arms and met her arching
body with his.
He dropped his lips from hers and buried his face in
her breasts as he felt her hands run through his hair and
gently' caress the back of his neck.
Carter wanted to ask her if she was sure, but he
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NICK CARTER
couldn't. It was too late for that.
The surge of desire had gripped him as if every nerve
end in his body were raw.
He kissed her again and rolled her gently beneath
him. Her hand, like a feather, found and guided him.
She moaned and then whimpered as she enveloped
him and urged him, with her hands on his taut buttocks,
to move.
Carter felt himself shudder as he plummeted to the
depths of her and she responded with the same animal
abandon,
As quickly as it had begun it was over, with both of
them trembling against each other as their passion sub-
sided.
"Nick . ,
"I've changed my mind. "
"I'm not quitting the Agency."
He accepted this comment with the same stoic silence
he had accepted her previous, highly emotional, resolve
to resign.
But at that moment he couldn't know how drastically
Zina Talinka's decision would one day affect so many
people's lives.
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FOUR
Carter left the apartment just after dusk. He wore his
suit and trench coat, and carried the workman's clothes
in Zina's woven hemp grocery basket.
The KumKapi section, like the Sematya section where
Sabat's building was located, was on the Sea of Mar-
mara side of the Istanbul peninsula. Still being overly
cautious, the Killmaster hailed a cab several blocks from
the apartment and directed the driver to the Sultan
Selim Camii.
From there he walked the short distance to the em-
bankment of the Golden Horn. Once there, he ambled,
pausing now and then to check his rear and the area just
above him on the elevated walkway.
It was cold, and although there were dark clouds
scudding across the sliver of a moon, there was no hint
of rain.
The river traffic on the Horn was heavy. Steady and
blinking lights bespoke fishing boats, ferries, power
rigs, and an occasional freighter sailing down the strait.
Beyond the far hills of Istanbul and behind him, the
soaring minarets framed a tranquil beauty.
But the scene didn't captivate Carter. His eyes took in
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FOUR
Carter left the apartment just after dusk. He wore his
suit and trench coat, and carried the workman's clothes
in Zina's woven hemp grocery basket.
The KumKapi section, like the Sematya section where
Sabat's building was located, was on the Sea of Mar-
mara side of the Istanbul peninsula. Still being overly
cautious, the Killmaster hailed a cab several blocks from
the apartment and directed the driver to the Sultan
Selim Camii.
From there he walked the short distance to the em-
bankment of the Golden Horn. Once there, he ambled,
pausing now and then to check his rear and the area just
above him on the elevated walkway.
It was cold, and although there were dark clouds
scudding across the sliver of a moon, there was no hint
of rain.
The river traffic on the Horn was heavy. Steady and
blinking lights bespoke fishing boats, ferries, power
rigs, and an occasional freighter sailing down the strait.
Beyond the far hills of Istanbul and behind him, the
soaring minarets framed a tranquil beauty.
But the scene didn't captivate Carter. His eyes took in
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NICK CARTER
all they saw as he walked, and only relaxed when he was
sure that all was safe.
It was a few minutes before seven. He walked up to
the top of the embankment and hailed a cab just off the
Caddesi. By using the wide expressway that ringed the
whole city, it was less than ten minutes until they
reached the off ramp that led down into Yedikule Court
and the Palace of the Seven Towers.
Carter paid the cabbie and waited until the taxi had
disappeared before walking around the huge old turrets
and wall to the parking lot.
He spotted the white Slotsky van in an end slot near
the gate. The hood was still warm. Barely bending and
not pausing in his stride, he snatched the keys from
beneath the fender.
"Good man, Tradesman," he murmured as he
unlocked the rear doors and leaped inside.
The cart, trash barrel, and cleaning equipment were
there. Inside the barrel he found the Beretta. Just as he
had requested, it had been sprayed to remove the steel
gloss. The serial number and manufacturing code and
year had also been filed away from the butt and under
the barrel.
He released the magazine. It was full. And a check of
one of the slugs confirmed his other request: it had been
carefully drilled and his nostrils detected just the
slightest aroma of almonds.
He shed his trench coat and pulled the workman's
jacket over his suit jacket. The boots were a shade tight,
but hopefully he wouldn't be in them long enough for
them to become really uncomfortable.
When he was ready, he placed the silencer and the
automatic in the big side pockets of the dark jacket and
crawled over the seat.
It was seven-thirty when he drove out of the parking
lot. He took narrow side streets to Lev Sabat's building,
and drove slowly past. Two blocks away he made a right
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turn. One block farther on, he made another right turn.
He would do this in ever-widening circles until he had
circled outward from the building for twenty blocks.
Then he would make the same circles back inward.
On one of them he knew he would spot the car that
had been supplied to Balistronov.
Zina Talinka knew she was right in her decision by the
time she let Lev Sabat out of her car at his apartment.
She had spent the entire day with him and found him
not only a wise man but, in her opinion, a good one.
He had been full of stories about his youth and the
country he loved. He was sad to be in exile, but glad that
he could fight in his own way against those he called the
rapists of his people.
"l was born a peasant," he had told her, "and only a
lad when the Revolution came. They would free the
peasants, I thought. Then as I grew and learned, I knew
that we had only exchanged a czar for a Politburo of
czars. The peasant was still under the heel in his wooden
dirt-floor hut, and nothing would change."
Now, as she drove back to the old town and her own
apartment, Zina felt a strange sort of elation. She was a
part of what Lev Sabat was doing, and she was also a
part—no matter how small—of destroying the man who
would destroy the old Ukrainian.
At home she changed into a dark blouse and tight
jeans. Around her waist she buckled a wide studded belt
that she had bought that morning. On her feet went
spike-heeled boots.
Twenty minutes in front of a mirror changed her
from a serious career woman to a punk rocker with
high, teased hair and makeup that appeared as though it
had been applied with a trowel. A waist-length black
leather jacket completed the costume.
On the street she walked until she found a taxi.
"Do you know the discotheque Cadahay?"
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The driver nodded, grunted something, and lurched
from the curb.
The Cadahay was two blocks from Sabat's apart-
mente It was on the third floor and at a slight bend in the
street. From the window table she had reserved by
phone late the previous evening, she could see Sabat's
building and anyone who entered or left it.
He was tall, with dark hair only slightly graying at the
temples. His face was as angular as his body was lean.
His eyes, as well as the slight downturn of his lips, gave
his features a rather bored expression.
The whole on first glance was distinguished, and on
closer inspection seemed "British" distinguished. The
suit, in fact, was British—Hawkes of Savile Row—and
the shoes were Bond Street, Loranges. The shirt, the tie,
and the gold cuff links were Addison, Bond Street.
No one would mistake him for anything other than a
proper English gentleman as he parked the dark blue
Volvo sedan, locked it, and pocketed the keys in the
light tan Burberry topcoat.
He folded the newspaper under his arm and strolled
off toward the Suliman, an excellent little restaurant on
the Koca Mustapha Caddesi that had a fine alternate
menu of Russian dishes.
The Suliman was exactly a six-block walk from Lev
Sabat's building, and it was where the Ukrainian had
eaten his dinner each night for the last two years.
Lev Sabat was surprised that his hands weren't
clammy as he counted out the bills onto the table for his
meal. He was even more surprised at the way he had
been able to eat the light buffet meal of salmon, caviar,
and heavy black bread. He had even had a second, then
a third glass of vodka to wash it down.
And his stomach wasn't even queasy.
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37
Courage, he thought with satisfaction. He had
courage.
But in truth, Sabat knew that his courage came from
the fact that he had won. They wanted him dead. He
had become too much of a thorn in their sides. Even if
the capsules didn't work against the gas when it came,
he was happy.
They wanted him dead. The bastards were afraid of
him, and if he did die, the article illuminating the cir-
cumstances of his death would be printed. He had al-
ready written it and mailed it with instructions.
Outside the restaurant, Lev Sabat turned toward his
building.
It would be a fifteen-minute walk, and then the mo-
mentof truth.
Carter spotted the car on the incoming third swing of
circles. He drove by it, went on for three blocks, and
turned around to make the ID positive.
It was the dark blue Volvo sedan.
Two blocks farther on there was a narrow, one-way
alley. He turned into it, drove through, and parked on
the street.
Minutes later he was pushing the barrel cart back
down the alley, with the muffler wrapped around his
face, his collar turned up, and his shoulders sagging as if
they carried the entire weight of the working man's
world.
The tall, distinguished man left the restaurant seconds
after Sabat. He trailed the Ukrainian at a distance until
he was sure that the man was not deviating from his
regular route, and then stepped up his pace as he cut
over to a parallel street.
Now he walked with a purpose, taking long strides,
his usually bored eyes alert, darting everywhere. The
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newspaper was still clutched under his left arm.
Inside it, near his armpit, was the tube.
He reached the alley at the rear of Sabat's building a
full five minutes before the other man turned into the
block in front of the building. Other than a scavenging
cat and a sleeping derelict, the alley was deserted.
A lockpick opened the rear entrance. Inside he paused
in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust and tuning his
ears to any sign of life.
From somewhere above he heard a radio in one of the
apartments, from another the dull drone of conversa-
tion from a television station.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallway
was lit by a low-watt bulb. He unscrewed it and moved
on up to the third floor. There he moved into the com-
munal bathroom and locked the door behind him.
It wouldn't be a long wait.
Carter had been wrong. From her table by the win-
dow, Zina Talinka had not taken her eyes off the front
of Sabat's building for more than a second at a time.
She had seen only Sabat exit. In the time he had been
gone, only an old woman and two young boys had
entered. Now she saw the old Ukrainian walking up to
the door.
Had something warned Balistronov off? Would he
change his rail reservations and do it tomorrow night?
. or the next?
God, she thought, gathering her purse and the check,
I can 't go through all of this a second time!
He heard the door slam three floors below and, like a
cat, emerged from the lavatory. He discarded the
newspaper and held the tube along the palm of his right
hand, his index finger straight along the top of the
release plunger. In his left hand he held a penlight.
The footsteps were clear now, the steady thump,
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39
thump, thump as they climbed the stairs. Then the shuf-
fling gait as they moved along the second-floor hallway.
How simple it is, he thought, when the planning is
done well.
He moved to the stairs and heard the old man grum-
bling to himself about the missing hall light.
Then he saw him making the turn, stepping on the
first step.
He waited until Sabat was halfway up, and then he
started down. He had only taken two steps when Sabat
stopped, his hand on the railing, his head tilted up, his
eyes probably straining into the darkness.
The killer was only three feet from Sabat when he
snapped on the penlight and focused it on the old man's
face.
My God, he's smiling!
"Good evening, Mr. Balistronov . . . if that's your
real name. "
He knows! The traitorous son ofa bitch knows!
For an instant fear froze his finger. The first fear he
had ever felt in his life.
And then the instincts of the killing machine he was
took over. He depressed the plunger, saw the white
vapor cloud in front of Sabat's face, and noted the
gasping intake of breath.
It was also instinct that made him move on down the
stairs and out into the street.
He knew. The bastard knew! But how? Was he
blown?
Should he return to the car? He had to. He had left
his escape documents and his tickets in the glove com-
partment. That was usual procedure.
But Sabat had known.
Betrayed, somehow betrayed!
But he walked on in the direction of the car. Routine
had ruled his life It would save him now ... somehow.
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Zina saw the tall man just in time to melt into the
darkness of a doorway.
In the same instant, she had been trained well enough
to know that it was a mistake. The sudden movement, if
he saw it, would alert him. She should have ducked her
head and walked on, passed him as if he meant nothing
to her.
He must be Balistronov: the look, the dress. But how
had he gotten into the building without her seeing him?
She remembered Carter's words: "If he spots you, or
you think you spot him, do nothing, say nothing. Don't
follow him, don't even look at him. And, for God's
sake, don't do anything to tip him. "
She hadn't breathed in seconds. It felt as though her
chest would explode. She could see him clearly now. He
would pass within a few feet of her. Light from the
streetlight fell across his face.
It wasn't Balistronov. It couldn't be. He didn't look
Russian. He looked British. He looked like a banker.
He...
He was looking right at her. His eyes were intense,
almost wild.
It was him.
His step faltered.
Zina unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse
and stepped out.
"Do you look for a date tonight?"
she asked in
Turkish, falling in stride beside him.
His eyes bored into and through her. "I don't speak
Turkish. "
"Ah, English?" she said, shifting language. "You
want date tonight?"
"No."
She rubbed her left breast against his arm. "l am
young and not too expensive. 't
Suddenly his arm came up like a striking snake. His
fingers found her throat and lifted her whole body until
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her toes were barely touching the pavement.
"Leave me alone, slut. "
41
Then he released her as quickly as he had grabbed
her, and stomped off.
Behind him, Zina rubbed her throat and struggled for
air. He was as strong as a bull and his grip had been like
-iron.-
But she smiled. Instinct told her that he was rattled.
Something had unnerved him.
She hoped that Balistronov's being shaken would
make it easier for Carter. Looking into the Russian's
eyes, she was sure she had glimpsed the Devil himself.
When he was out of sight, she turned and ran toward
Sabat's building as fast as her high-heeled boots would
carry her.
Two false alarms: an old man with a briefcase, and a
young stud out on the prowl. Both of them looked as
though they were heading for the car.
But the old man had crossed the street and gotten into
the only other car on the block, a dilapidated Escort.
The young stud had dropped a crumpled cigarette
pack at Carter's feet and, with a jeering laugh, strolled
on.
Carter pushed the straw broom listlessly about three
hundred feet from the Volvo. He had begun checking
his watch every minute or so a half hour earlier.
Now it was nearly ten-thirty. Sabat would have fin-
ished his dinner and returned home. And if Balistronov
had been waiting
He scooped the minuscule pile of papers he had
gathered into the barrel and dropped the broom handle
into its holder.
Then he heard the footsteps. He didn't look up; he
just turned the cart around and began pushing it back
toward the Volvo.
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When he was thirty feet from the car, he chanced a
quick glance. The man was about six-one, lean, well
dressed, and intent. He was about the same distance
from the car as Carter, but he was moving fast.
Then the Killmaster heard it, the unmistakable sound
of keys jingling in the man's hand.
The silencer had already been screwed into the barrel
of the Beretta. It rested nose-down in the lathe slot be-
tween the broom and the shovel covered with old rags.
The safety was off and a shell had been jacked into the
chamber.
He checked the street. The block they were in was
empty. Two blocks down, a pair of lovers were embrac-
ing in a doorway. Carter could barely make out the
boy's arms sliding under the girl's coat. They were
oblivious to their surroundings, and should cause no
problem. Somewhere on another street he heard the
squeal of brakes. From somewhere behind one of the
dark, curtained windows came the vague sounds of
screeching Indian music.
Ten feet now and the tall man was unlocking the door
on the driver's side.
Carter couldn't miss, not at this distance. But even if
he didn't hit a vital spot—head, neck, heart, gut—it
wouldn't matter.
The cyanide would make up the difference.
Carter kept pushing the cart with his left hand, the
right moving toward the butt of the Beretta.
The hand moved in a deliberate, smooth, fluid mo-
tion. The fingers curled around the gun.
Balistronov had barely glanced at Carter. Now he was
sliding under the wheel.
Suddenly, at the last second, the survival instinct, the
honed awareness of the hunter who had become the
hunted filled his brain.
He whirled, saw the long snout of the silencer, and
lurched to his feet. He was tensing his body for a last
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lunge to save his life when Carter fired.
43
The Killmaster pumped three of the powerful death-
tipped slugs into the Russian's body. One would have
been enough; three made sure of a more instant death, a
death without a lot of messy blood.
When the heart stops, the blood-pumping process
stops with it.
Balistronov managed to keep his feet for a full three
seconds before he fell back into the crack between the
door and the car.
The Killmaster's next moves were mechanical,
thought out many times to the nth degree in the last half
hour.
He ran the top of the trash barrel in Balistronov's
middle, grasped him by the back of the neck, and
pulled. The body went headfirst into the barrel and Car-
ter stuffed the legs down out of sight.
All in one movement he dropped the lid, plucked the
keys from the ignition, and backed the cart away far
enough to lock and slam the door.
In less than two minutes from the time Balistronov hit
the car, Carter was pushing his dead body down the
alley in the garbage barrel.
In the back of the van he hauled the body half out of
its resting place and frisked it.
He found exactly what he had expected to find,
nothing more than a small roll of Turkish lire. Some-
where between Sabat's building and the Volvo, Balis-
tronov had disposed of the tube. In the heel of the right
shoe he found a Moscow-issued Warsaw Pact traveling
pass good for thirty days, and a passport photo.
The Killmaster peeled off his top layer of clothes and
dropped them and the Beretta into the barrel. The boots
joined the rest, and he slipped his feet into his own
shoes.
The drive back to the parking lot adjoining the Palace
of the Seven Towers took five minutes. He waited in the
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