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darkened cab for another two minutes. Pedestrians were
nonexistent, auto traffic was light and mostly a block
away.
Locking the van, he replaced the keys under the left
front fender and walked away in the direction of the
dark blue Volvo.
It was all there, in the glove compartment of the
Volvo: passport, identity papers, tickets, and cash. The
passport and identity papers were British and in the
name of Cedric Harland-White. There was no picture,
of course, on the passport, but there was a perfectly
forged seal press and a small lamination device with a
cord that could be used by plugging into the car's
cigarette lighter.
The fact that all the cash was Bulgarian said a lot.
Balistronov, as the Killmaster had suspected, had
planned on getting off the train in Sofia. Once there, he
would probably have gone directly to the local KGB
rezident and gotten his own documents for the trip on
into mother Russia.
Carter drove to the rail station. In the parking lot he
laminated his own photograph onto the passport and
burned Balistronov's. This done, he locked the car with
the keys inside and walked into the station.
In the men's room he mashed the seal under his heel
and threw the pieces as well as the lamination kit into a
trash barrel.
It was 11:35.
On the station's big master board he located the de-
parture track for the Istanbul-Munich express.
The train was on time.
At the head of the tunnel going down to the track, he
stopped at a bank of telephones.
"You have reached the Istanbul exchange of Amal--
gamated Press and Wire Services. At present we have no
representatives on station in Istanbul, but if you .
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Carter waited out the remainder of the recorded
message and spoke at the tone.
"Nightshade has been delivered without problems.
The courier is coming home. "
He killed the connection and redialed.
"Dasek "
"It's me, Zina."
"It's done ... clean."
There was a sigh from the other end of the line, an at-
tempt at speech, and silence.
"Sabat?" Car'ter asked.
"His shoulder and arm were bruised, probably when
he fell. He has stomach cramps and there was some
vomiting, but the physician says that he will be fine."
Carter himself sighed with relief. They had taken the
gamble and won. "How about aftereffects?"
"None that they could tell."
c 'And you gave no one your name?"
"No. They think I was a prostitute he picked up on
the street. "
"Good. You were excellent, Zina. Good-bye."
He hung up without waiting for a reply, and moved
on down to his train.
He would probably never see Zina Talinka again,
and that was how it should be.
In wet operations of this size it was unwise to put the
same team together more than once.
Three hours later, a customs official at the Bulgarian-
Turkish frontier dutifully added the name of Cedric
Harland-White to his list of foreign passengers passing
through the country.
Shortly after the train continued on its way, the list
was sent to officials of the Durzhavna Sigurnost, the
Bulgarian equivalent of the KGB.
Not knowing why, but following the orders of his
Moscow superiors, the head of the DS office trans-
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NICK CARTER
mitted to the KGB that the man, Harland-White, had
passed over the frontier.
Carter would be safely ensconced in a London safe
house before questions began to arise in the Sofia of-
fices of the KGB about the whereabouts of Comrade
Eban Balistronov.
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FIVE
Six months later
Carter leaned back in the seat of the gondola, lit a
cigarette, and drank in the crisp June air of Switzerland.
It had to be the freshest in the world.
The speaker in the gondola's roof crackled and then a
soft, female voice came through on a recording.
"The Grindelwald-Mannlichen gondola cableway is,
with its six-point-two-kilometer length, the longest gon-
dola cableway in Europe. It went operational in De-
cember 1978. Traveling time from the Grindelwald val-
ley station at nine hundred and forty-two meters via
Holenstein, the intermediate station at fifteen hundred
and twenty-nine meters, to the mountain station of the
Mannlichen is about thirty minutes. From the valley
floor to Mannlichen, an altitude of two thousand two
hundred and twenty-two meters, is reached
There was a click and the voice began saying the same
thing in French.
Carter tuned it out and let his eyes drift across the
snow-capped majesty of the Eiger, the Monch, and the
Jungfrau to his left.
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The stiff mountain breeze and the sight of the snow
made him turn up the collar of his windbreaker.
It also made him smile.
Forty-eight hours before, he had been lying on a
sandy beach in Rio, drinking in sun with his body and
other sun-baked, partially clad bodies with his eyes.
It was a working vacation, but little work had been
done in the two weeks he had been there. The mission
had been to contact a Central American diplomat who
had proof of Russian arms shipments to Communist
rebels in several Central American nations still friendly
to the U.S.
After two weeks Carter was pretty sure it was a bust
and the guy hadn't made it out of his country.
Then the call had come from the chief of AXE
himself, David Hawk,
luck?"
c 'It looks that way," Carter had replied. "I think he
bought the farm. Should I come home?"
"Maybe not. Do you remember that woman in
Turkey, Zina Talinka?"
"Sure. Istanbul. We did the Balistronov run to-
gether. "
"That's right. Do you remember the female contact?
The one who fingered Balistronov?"
"l remember the situation. Talinka didn't have an
"She still doesn't, but the woman has passed us
nothing but pure gold. Now it looks as though we may
get even more. "
"She's being transferred back to Moscow and pro-
moted. She wants to continue feeding us. "
'SFrom Moscow?"
"That's right, N3, and she wants a meet on neutral
ground. Talinka says the woman will talk only to you. "
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"I've set up a meet at a farm in Switzerland, above
Mannlichen."
' 'Day after tomorrow. She has instructions and will
meet you there. "
"It could be a trap."
"It could be. You'll have to judge for yourself,"
Hawk had replied. ' 'If it isn't, and she's on the level, it
could be a real coup."
A real coup indeed, Carter thought, grinding out his
cigarette. Someone highly placed in the GRU and in
Moscow Center could be an intelligence dream.
The gondola ground to a halt and Carter stepped out.
The sun gleamed dazzlingly in the rarefied air. On
green patches beyond the station buildings, families
were spreading the contents of lunch baskets on
checkered cloths. Boys and girls in shorts, a few in
lederhosen, tumbled on the slopes.
Carter entered the small restaurant and looked over
the buffet. It was late afternoon but there was still
enough food spread out on the long table to feed an
army of tourists.
There were twenty kinds Of cold sandwiches. Salami
and cheese between slices of freshly baked dark bread
lured him. He also purchased two beers, and went back
inside.
Adjusting the shoulder straps on his backpack, he
took off for open country along the ridge that separated
the Grindelwald and Wengen valleys.
A half-hour hike took him far out of sight of the sta-
tion. A half hour beyond that, there was nothing but
mountains and solitude. The beer had relaxed him. That
and the stillness made him feel separated from himself,
as if in a dream. So much so that he almost missed the
narrow road.
On your toes, kiddo, Carter told himself. You're not
on vacation now.
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NICK CARTER
lane twisted downward through a
checkerboard Of fields. It was even cooler now as dusk
approached. Puffs of dust exploded around his heels.
He could smell and taste it. He also thought he could
smell a storm coming in over the far mountains.
"Hold off for a few hours," he said aloud to the
ominous sky. ' 'She'll be coming this way at night.
That's bad enough."
The road bisected another and began tacking back up
a gentle hillside. It entered a thick stand of trees, wound
like a snake, and then gradually petered out into no
more than a cow path.
Another quarter of a mile and he spotted the farm
buildings in the center of partially cultivated land and
pastures. Through it all raced a creek swollen and noisy
with glacier melt.
A barn with a stone foundation leaned wearily toward
the mountains. It looked as though it were about to lose
its battle with gravity. All the buildings—barn, shed,
stable, and a two-story chalet—were clean and neat
despite having withstood over a hundred years of Alpine
weather.
Even though he knew the place had been checked and
swept clean earlier that day, Carter still checked the out-
buildings first.
Empty, and no signs that anyone had gotten curious.
He climbed the split-log stairway to the chalet porch
and opened the door. Logs were set in the fireplace and
the whole house had a fresh pine scent to it. The
refrigerator was full, and so was the bar.
The telephone had a dial tone. It was also equipped
with a scrambler. The Zurich office of AXE—a stringer
newsroom for Amalgamated—picked up on the first
ring.
"This is Carter. Give me Mellon. "
Seconds later the voice of Amos Mellon, Zurich head
of AXE, came on the line.
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"How goes it, Nick?"
51
"I'm in. The place looks good. Zina Talinka?"
"She arrived about an hour ago. I've got her hoteled
and on hold. "
"Good. You followed instructions up here, didn't
you, Amos?"
"Just like the old man said, Nick . . .
no wires, no
recorders, no cameras. "
' 'Good. Whoever our mysterious lady is, I'm pretty
sure she'd spot them. I'll check in every eight hours. "
"Right. Ciao."
Carter built himself a drink, rescued his favorite girl,
a 9mm Luger named Wilhelmina, from his backpack,
and sat down in the gathering darkness to wait.
He heard the footsteps—boots—long before their
owner was anywhere near the chalet. The wind was
whistling outside now and a misty rain had seeped down
from the mountains.
As the boots climbed the outside stairs, Carter tipped
the lampshade at his side toward the door. He put his
hand on the switch and flipped the Luger's safety off.
The knob turned and the door opened slowly. When
it was wide, Carter flipped on the light.
She was tall, with a statuesque body in a figure-
hugging jump suit. She had a rucksack on her back, and
a silk scarf knotted under her chin hid her hair and the
sides of her face. The sharp, penetrating eyes staring at
Carter were as icy blue as the surrounding mountain
streams.
"Step in. Shut the door," Carter growled.
She did.
"Drop the rucksack on the floor. Kick it over here. s'
She did.
"Who are you?"
She whipped off the scarf. "Bend the shade a bit so I
can see you," she said.
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Carter tipped the shade slightly so the light would fall
across his face.
"Good evening, Mr. Carter. I am Dasha Peshkova
Koneva. Lieutenant Colonel Dasha Koneva."
"You know me by sight?" he asked.
she replied, removing her gloves.
"Of course,"
"Your photograph at Moscow Center in the neighbor's
files is quite a good likeness."
Carter leaned forward and managed a smile as he set
"I doubt if there is room for
the Luger on the floor.
anything under that outfit but you."
"l am not armed. In the rucksack you will find
several papers. I have brought them as an example of
my intentions. Also, I think this picture will erase any
doubts you may have of my sincerity:" She moved to
stand in front of Carter and dropped a three-by-five
snapshot in his lap. "l could use a drink."
Carter nodded toward the bar. - "There's Russian
vodka. "
"Thank you."
He picked up the photograph and studied it. "The
woman is you."
, 'I she said, pouring a glass half full. "Look
' 'Yes It IS,"
more closely at the man. "
He did. "I'll be damned. It's Balistronov."
"His real name was Mikhail Vandrovitch Konev. He
was my husband. Na zdorov'e, Mr. Carter. Cheers."
Outside the chalet the rain was now coming down in
driving sheets. Occasionally there would be a jagged
flash of lightning and then the low, ominous roll of
thunder.
Inside, Dasha Koneva sat staring into the fire, the
drink in her hand forgotten.
"We were married for only two years, and that was
long ago. It was only after the divorce that I learned
what he really did for the neighbors. So, in answer to
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53
your question, no, I didn't divorce him because he was
an assassin. I divorced him because I couldn't stand to
be married to one of them any longer."
"Who do you mean when you say them?"
"He was part of the Communist elite in my country.
Even back then I hated them, but I thought the people
would eventually change what was going on. Now I
know differently. "
Carter watched her set the glass down. She placed her
hands over her face and stared at the fire through the
web of long, graceful fingers.
He guessed she was in her late thirties, maybe forty.
Her hair was long and blond-streaked. She had high
cheekbones, a nose slightly too large, and those huge
cold blue eyes that hadn't warmed one degree since she
had entered the chalet.
She was very tall, almost six feet, and sturdy. Carter
supposed she was the ideal of Russian beauty, like the
Soviet socialist-realist paintings he had seen of sturdy,
raw-boned peasant girls in the fields.
And yet he also sensed a burning sensuality about her
that seemed to emanate in waves each time she looked at
him.
"Well," she said, dropping her hands to ther knees,
"what do you think?"
Carter dropped his eyes to the sheaf of papers on the
floor between them. It had taken him nearly two hours
to read through them. While he had read, she had lit the
fire and done an inspection tour of the chalet.
It was obvious that she was checking to make sure
they had complied with her demand for no recorders or
cameras.
When she had finally returned to the large main room
where Carter sat by the fire, she had said as much.
Now they were down to the bottom line.
The papers were, to use Hawk's expression, pure
gold. They consisted of closely handwritten notes and
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documents. One packet was the entire list of a KGB net
in Greece and Turkey. The other was the next year's
naval plan for submarine surveillance in the Mediterra-
nean Sea.
"I I have no doubts of your sincerity," Carter
shrugged. "Of course, mine isn't the last word. "
"Of course not. Another drink?" Her voice was full
of authority, yet it held almost a soothing, musical qual-
ityw
"Sure."
She plucked the glass from his hand and moved like a
slow-loping deer to the bar.
She looked even more stunning on her feet, with her
startlingly light eyes and her long mane of thick hair.
She had pulled down the zipper of her jump suit several
inches. In the opening, the cleavage between her breasts
was dark and inviting. She obviously wore no bra, and
the friction of the material against her breasts had
teased the nipples into a constant state of erection.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, not really," Carter replied with a slight smile,
accepting the refilled glass. "It's just hard to imagine
you as a lieutenant colonel. "
C' That's understandable. You Americans underes-
timate the Soviet state just as you underestimate
women. "
"Touché," Carter coughed, and grabbed a legal pad.
"Suppose, for the time being, we move the discussion to
you."
Carter nodded. "Background, life, philosophy, if
you will."
"Is all that necessary?" she. asked, stretching out on
the thick rug before the fireplace.
"It will help," he replied, focusing on the legal pad
rather than on her extraordinary figure.
She sipped the vodka and stared again into the fire for
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several moments before she started to speak, at first
with reluctance, then more freely and with obvious emo-
tion.
She had been born in the Kuybyshev district, in the
Volga area, to peasant parents. Her mother had died
from tuberculosis when Dasha was three. Her father
had worked like a mule in a cement factory and, like a
mule, had dropped dead in his traces when Dasha was
nine.
She had attended state schools and showed enough
aptitude and precociousness to receive an invitation
from Moscow upon graduation from secondary school.
There she became a member of Komsomol, and even-
tually a Youth Guard leader.
She graduated with honors from the Military Institute
of Foreign Languages and, at eighteen, joined the Red
Army and attended the military diplomatic academy.
"There I became the mistress of General Igor Valen-
tin. It was Igor who steered me into the GRU and en,
sured my future. It was also through Igor that I first
came into contact with the military and Politburo elite. I
had believed in communism as a salvation for the Rus-
Sian people. These men were not practicing the-com-
munism that I had been taught."
"But you continued with your career even though you
had doubts?" Carter interjected.
"Of course," she replied with a harsh laugh. "I
didn't want to go back to being a peasant. "
"Igor Valentin ...
I recall the name w"
"Khrushchev had him shot.
Dasha went on to relate that, by intelligence and play-
ing politics, she was able to rise in rank and become
senior officer of the Fourth Directorate, the Near East
desk, Chief Intelligence Directorate, General Staff of
the Soviet Army.
"By then I was a major and became a member of the
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elite myself. I became close friends with all the senior
officers of the Moscow military district staff, the Mos-
cow garrison, and the general staff. We lived like kings
while the peasants still died of Tb "
It was then that she had been sent to Istanbul as the
GRU rezident.
"The rest you know." She finished off her vodka and
lay back with her eyes closed.
' 'Not quite. "
Carter had taken furious notes in his own form of
shorthand. Now he quickly read them over. This woman
had connections that American intelligence could only
dream of cracking.
If she could funnel information out of Moscow, it
could alter things for years to come.
"Why, Dasha Peshkova?" he asked simply, his eyes
never leaving hers.
"Why?"
"Why are you betraying your country?"
Her beautifully shaped eyebrows arched sharply. "I
am not betraying my country. I am trying to save it.
believed in the Soviet system and was ready to fight any-
one who spoke against it. I believed that I was fighting
for mother Russia, not Soviet Russia."
Carter smiled. "l heard someone else say those words
once. Lev Sabat."
"Sabat is right. I listened too long to the Soviet upper
classes, and then realized that their praise of the party
and communism was only lip service. Privately they lie,
cheat, deceive, intrigue, inform, even cut each other's
throats in their pursuit of money and power and ad-
vancement for themselves. Secretly they despise every-
thing Soviet, and look down on ordinary people. "
"Then you're saying that communism is a fraud."
"Soviet communism is a fraud. It is a disease gnawing
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at our country from within. Outwardly, I praise our
leaders. Inside, here, I wish them death. When I return
in four days, I will be associating intimately with impor-
tant people—ministers, marshals, generals, even mem-
bers of the Central Committee of the Politburo."
' 'And from them you will glean information that you
will pass on to us."
"Precisely."
Her shoulders were shaking and she was clasping her
hands between her thighs.
Carter glanced toward the window. First rays of a
gloomy dawn were just breaking over the horizon.
He stood and stretched. "It's nearly dawn. Get some
sleep. We'll start in again this afternoon."
Together they climbed the stairs in silence. Carter
opened her bedroom door.
"This one is yours. And don't worry. If you've
covered yourself coming up here, we are both safe. "
' 'Safe?" she said, a tight smile curving her lips.
"What is safe? Are you married, Nicholas Carter?"
"No."
"That is good. In the three days we are alone here, I
think I may want to make love with you. I wouldn't
want you to be cheating on your wife. Good night,
Nicholas Carter. "
He shook his head and walked on down the hall to his
own room.
Carter checked in with Zurich at nine the next morn-
inge At ten-thirty, he met Amos Mellon at the Mann-
lichen station.
"Is she a winner?"
"Odds on, going away," Carter replied, passing the
man a sealed envelope. "This is for Hawk, Eyes Only.
We've got a real hot potato here and if she's for real,
she could get very burned."
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Mellon nodded. ' 'It should be in Washington by to-
night."
"Tell them to get back to me as soon as possible."
"Will do. Do you want a voice confirmation with
Zina Talinka?"
"Yeah," Carter growled. "I'll call in between five
and six this afternoon. "
Dasha Koneva was up and in the kitchen when he
returned to the chalet. There had been a change of
clothing in her rucksack. Now she wore a pair of tight-
fitting Western-style jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair was in
a pony tail.
Carter chuckled. "You look like an American college
student."
"University students look the same the world over,"
she said lightly. "Breakfast? By now, though, I suppose
it's lunch."
"I didn't know Russian lieutenant colonels cooked. "
"Not often for American agents. Sit. "
She had prepared poached eggs, garlic sausage,
cheese, and grilled tomatoes. It was delicious, and
Carter told her so.
"In Moscow I have a nice apartment. It has a large
kitchen, and because I do not have to stand in line for
food, I cook a lot."
They ate the remainder of their lunch in silence.
Afterward, Dasha suggested a walk.
It was clear now, with a brilliant sun. The previous
evening's rain had been snow on the higher peaks, and
now they gleamed whiter than ever.
"You could just defects you know," Carter said out
of the blue as they paused on a rocky incline overlook-
ing Grindelwald valley far below.
' 'What good would that do?" she replied, slipping
her arm through his. "l would not be able to bring out
much more than I have already told you. No, I am Rus-
Sian. There are five generations of my family buried in
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the cemeteries of Kuybyshev. When I die I will be buried
there as well. "
Gently, Carter turned her to him, his hands on her
shoulders. "And what if you're caught? Wouldn't you
try to escape?"
She shrugged. "Perhaps. It would depend."
' 'On what?"
Her lips broke into a smile, the first genuine smile he
had seen. "On how I feel when that time comes. You
have a very nice face, Nicholas Carter. It is attractively
beat up."
Carter matched her smile. "Have you decided if you
want to make love with me or not?"
"Oh, yes,"
she replied, laughing aloud,
"l have
decided. I have just not decided when. "
"I think I like Dasha Peshkova the woman better
than Lieutenant Colonel Kenova."
' 'I don't think your Washington people would
agree. "
He squeezed her tightly and brushed his lips down
across her forehead and nose to end with a light peck on.
her full lips.
"Let's go back to the chalet," she whispered, and,
shrugging from his grasp, took off across the meadow.
Carter caught her on the porch but held her only for
an instant before she disengaged herself with a throaty
laugh and moved into the main room under the chalet's
high, beam-ceilinged roof.
"I must tell you, Nicholas, that for the first time in
my life I feel freedom."
It wasn't exactly what Carter had wanted to hear. She
had gotten to him and he admitted it.
"I make a great toddy ... three parts rum to one part
potion. Want one?" he grinned.
"Yes, I think I do," she said, letting her long legs
carry her the distance of the huge room with a minimum
of strides.
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He watched her move. The lithe form before him was
outrageously female. Every hollow and curve, from the
long legs over the flaring hips and angling up from the
narrow waist, was erotic perfection.
She opened the thick drapes and flung wide the win-
dowed doors. The Alpine air and sun streamed in, fill-
ing the corners of the chalet.
"You'll catch cold," Carter commented as he con-
cocted two cups of toddy.
' 'Nonsense. It is invigorating. Have you ever been to
Siberia
"Yes."
"Then you know. The cold there is biting but it is also
invigorating and cleansing. Y'
Taking the cup from his hand, she threw her long
body across a couch. One slim hand rested on a
tabletop. The other brought the her smiling
lips.
The T-shirt stretched tautly over her breasts. His eyes
floated from her face to take in the lush curves as they
strained against the material.
' 'What are you thinking?"
He coughed and turned to the window. "Whac a
charming little village Grindelwald is."
i 'No, - you weren't. You were thinking about my
breasts."
"You're absolutely -right,"
he admitted, grinning
sheepishly.
This time the laugh was girlish, more carefree as she
slid from the couch and ran her arm through his. "l am
enjoying being a woman. Don't make me stop. "
"You're enjoying making me squirm. "
"Yes, I am," she chuckled, squeezing the side of her
breast against his arm. "Soon, Nicholas. But first we
must talk."
A cloud passed across the sun. It momentarily
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dimmed the warm afternoon glow on the white moun-
tains and put the picturesque little houses of Grindel-
wald in the valley far below them into purple shadow.
It was a long time before she spoke again. And when
she did, she left his side and moved out into the open of
the wooden balcony.
"You have told only your superior in Washington of
my identity?
"Yes. I marked the material so only my boss will see
it. That's how you wanted it."
"Yes, and that is how it must remain. I want only
three people to know of me: yourself, your superior,
and my contact in Moscow. "
Carter took a deep breath. "That may be difficult. "
Her shoulders tensed and then she whirled. The cloud
wasn't outside now. It was inside her, in the icy blue of
her eyes as they bored into his.
"Itc must be so. I want no leaks. The fewer people
who know, the less chance of discovery."
"If you are so afraid, why do this at all, Dasha?"
"Do you think I am afraid?" As she spoke, her voice
lost its low, throaty quality. It rose in pitch and the
words became garbled as they tumbled from her lips. ' 'I
am not afraid. I know that one day they will catch me.
And when they do they will execute me. It is a fact. And
before they do that they will torture me. I have seen it in
the cellars of Moscow Center."
"Then ?"
"I want longevity. I want to fight them as long as I
can. If only three of your people know my identity, I
think it will buy me more time. "
A single tear had squeezed from the corner of her eye.
It traced a path down her cheek flushed with the cool
mountain air.
"When I die, I want to know that I have done all I
could do. "
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A shudder passed through Carter's body that had
nothing to do with the chill wind coming up from the
valley.
"l think they will agree," he murmured, a soft smile
curving his lips.
"Good. And the contact I want in Moscow is the
Talinka woman, the one from Istanbul. "
The smile faded to a thin-lipped grimace on Carter's
face. "You're mad, Dasha Peshkova."
' 'Am I? We've worked well together, and she is a
woman. I think I will be safer with her."
"Dasha, let me—
"No, let me finish," she interrupted, the grainy
harshness back in her voice. "I can get her permits and
visas for the Moscow press corps without my superiors
knowing who authorized them. As a journalist she can
travel legitimately in and out of the country in
emergencies. And, most of all, I have come to trust
her."
"There are things about Zina Talinka you should
know," Carter said. "She is too inexperienced for
anything of this magnitude. She also has doubts about
herself. And, worst of all, I think there is a core of feat
in her that would make her crack under the slightest
pressure. "
"I'll be the judge of that," Dasha replied curtly.
"The Talinka woman is my contact or it is no game. "
"But why? Why do you insist on her as our contact
with you in Moscow?"
Dasha spun away from him, her hands becoming fists
as she leaned her weight on the balcony's wooden rail-
ing.
"You wouldn't understand. "
"Wouldn't 1?"
"Try me."
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They stood like that for many moments. The woman,
her tall body tense, her shoulders quivering, her mane of
hair gleaming in the setting sun. Carter, a pace behind
her, his body slumped, his face contorted with honest
distaste for everything that put him in this position.
Suddenly the air was filled with her laughter. But
there was no mirth in the sound. It was empty and
hollow.
"You wouldn't understand, Nicholas, because you're
a man. And, worse yet, a man like Balistronov was."
Carter turned on his heel and walked back into the
chalet's main room. He moved directly to the phone and
in seconds was speaking to Amos Mellon.
"I have Zina Talinka here for the voice check, Nick."
"We're going one step further, Amos. Put her on the
gondola and get her up here. I'll meet her at the lift sta-
tion."
"Nick, are you nuts?" Mellon gasped. "I thought
you wanted privacy and secrecy!"
"I do, dammit, but now it's got to be a face-to-face
meet. "
"But, Nick ."
"Amos, just do as you're fucking told."
"Yes, sir."
Carter slammed the phone down and headed for the
bar. Halfway there he sensed Dasha's presence in the
doorway.
"It will be all right, Nicholas. "
He turned and stared levelly into her pale blue eyes.
"I sure hope so, lady. It's your goddamned funeral. "
Within a half hour of putting the two women
together, Carter began to see the method to the Russian
woman's madness.
In the year they had worked together in Istanbul, a
bond—a very strong bond—had obviously been forged
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between them. The fact that no meeting had ever taken
place and all business had beeri conducted via clan-
destine telephone calls hadn't hampered the growth of a
trusting friendship.
It began as polite repartee but quickly grew into
•chatty conversation. Dasha Koneva relayed to the other
woman much the same information about herself, her
background, and her reasons for becoming a spy that
she had given Carter.
But there were subtle differences in the telling, em-
phasis put on different things in a different tone of
voice.
After a while Carter felt like a third wheel. He was
fairly sure they didn't even notice his absence when he
put on a heavy sweater and went for a walk.
He headed back up toward the high ridge line, leaning
into the wind, letting it boil his hair and sting his face
and neck.
It's your baby, Nick, Hawk had said. You make the
decisions.
Well, in actual fact, it wasn't up to him. Dasha
Koneva was too big a fish in the espionage pond to let
go. The decisions were hers. What she wanted she would
get because she had all the weight.
But that didn't stop the knot from forming in Car-
ter's gut when he thought of the myriad possible mis-
takes a surface operative like Zina Talinka could make.
The Turkish woman had proven herself on her home
turf where she knew exactly how to operate and could
speak the language.
But it would be a damned sight different over there,
in Moscow, right in the middle of the bear's belly.
It was two hours before he returned to the chalet.
They were in the doorway, saying good-bye, Zina
already bundled up in her knit jacket.
Carter remained standing in the shadows of the trees.
He couldn't hear their words, but in the spill of light
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65
from the great room through the doorway, he could see
their faces.
They were both alive, animated, almost filled with
zeal.
He tried to remember how young he had been when
his face was still filled with that kind of enthusiasm and
his head buzzing with a cause. A long time ago.
Maybe Dasha Koneva was right. Maybe Carter was
just an American Balistronov. Maybe he had lost the
real reason, the zeal, the idea of a cause.
We spy on them, they spy on us. We kill them, they
kill us.
It's just a job.
To him.
But not for Dasha Peshkova Koneva or Zina Talinka.
They parted with an embrace and then a wave and a
smile. Carter met Zina on the edge of the trees.
"I'll walk you back to the cableway station."
"All right. "
It was nearly an hour and they were almost there
before either of them spoke.
"I'll go, you know," she said at last.
"l figured you would."
"Dasha told me that you don't want me to. She said
you don't think I'm capable."
Carter shrugged. "l think you might be the courier. I
just don't think you're seasoned enough to avoid every
mistake. "
"No one avoids every mistake, Nick. "
"On one like this they do, or they don't live."
They were close to the station now. Carter could see
Amos Mellon on the balcony of the second tier watching
them approach.
"l like her," Zina said, "and think I understand
why and what she is doing."
"More so than you understood why and what I was
doing in Istanbul?"
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NICK CARTER
grasping Carter's elbow. "Yes, in a
way. She has made me understand better why we all do
the things we are doing. "
"You mean on our side," Carter replied, lighting a
cigarette.
"Yes."
"Stop and think, Zina. They think they're doing the
right thing on the other side. "
"She doesn't."
"Touché," he said, smiling, dropping the cigarette
after only a few drags. It tasted awful.
"And she says there are many more just like her over
there. They are simply very afraid to do anything about
it, I think she is a woman of great courage and convic-
tion."
"Yeah, she is that."
Mellon joined them.
"Word just came in from Washington. They say the
info is solid. Give the contact a full green light, your
discretion."
Carter chuckled. "My discretion? Jesus." He turned
to Zina. ' 'Do you have a vacation coming?"
'I Yes."
' 'Go back to Istanbul and get your vacation time.
Take it somewhere in the Caribbean. Mellon here will
set it up with Washington to get you secretly into the
States for some added training. "
"Thank you, Nick."
"Don't thank me for putting your head in the lion's
mouth. Thank her."
Carter turned and began the long walk back to the
chalet. Now there were no wheels rolling in his mind. It
was dead. The course was set. He would do what had to
be done to set up the network and then he would be
done with it.
There was a night light on in the great room and the
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rest of the chalet was dark. Carter paused and tapped at
her door.
"Dasha Peshkova i"
"I've made the arrangements for Zina. Washington
says it's a go. "
"I hope, Nicholas, we will do much good. Good
night. "
"Yeah."
Carter spent the next day teaching Dasha the codes,
the use of advanced films and cameras, and safe drop
sites in and around Moscow that had been set up for a
long time but never used.
He also gave her names and places in nearly all the
regions of the Soviet Union beyond Moscow where
there were people who could aid her in an emergency.
"Even in Kuybyshev?"
"Thåt's right, even in your own Volga region. His
name is Ivan Tollpetzka. He's a railway brakeman—
' 'I know. I know his father and his two brothers. "
"Not anymore you don't. They died some time ago in
he gulag. "
"No," she murmured after a moment's pause,
idn't know that.
Over and over they went into each detail. She was a
ood study. Carter had to admire her intelligence as
uch as her beauty and perseverance.
When he wasn't going over details with her, he was on
he phone to Washington through Zurich, setting up the
ntricacies of the net they would establish and getting
ore details to feed her spongelike mind.
By dusk she was swaying with the load. "Enough,
nough!" she cried. "My mind is bursting!"
' 'Not quite. There is one more, very important
etail. "
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"What is that?"
"The ultimate emergency. If you think you are
blown—or Talinka is blown—there is an emergency way
to get word out. And you're to use it for that purpose
only."
"Does Zina also have the same method?"
"She has a method, yes, but not the same one. "
Carter explained.
"Every Sunday and every Thursday, starting in a
month's time, a woman will be with her children in
Gorky Park between three and five. She will always be
sitting on one of the benches along the river, reading.
Her child or children will be playing nearby. Do you
understand?"
'S Yes," Dasha said, and repeated.
"The woman will be reading War and Peace in
French. She will also always be wearing a black onyx
ring with a diamond in its center on the ring finger of
her right hand. If it is on her left hand, she is being
watched, so be sure it is on the right. You will not pay
any attention to the woman, but you will strike up a
conversation with the children. "
"Will there always be more than one child?"
"No. It could be one child—or three. "
"And they will be American?"
'S Yes." Here Carter smiled. "They will be the wives
and children of the embassy staff. Hopefully you will be
operating for many months or years, so they will
change. "
"Do I make the pass to the children?"
"Yes, in Grimickya chocolates, small boxes. Always
carry several so you can pass them out to the other
children as well, before and after. It would be best if
you started doing this as a routine practice when you get
back to Moscow. Needless to say, stay away from our
women and children unless it's the real thing."
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"Let us hope it never is. "
69
"Yeah," Carter growled, meeting her eyes and feel-
ing himself swimming in their blueness,
"let's hope
there never is. "
They sat, staring for a full minute, until Dasha
Koneva leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips with
hers.
"You are very thorough, Nicholas. I thank you for
it. "
"That's my end of it," he murmured. 'J Tomorrow
you leave and you're on your own ...
unless "
"Unless ... ?"
"Unless you want a cutout or a full backup in
Moscow besides Talinka."
' 'No. I want it just as it is."
Carter shrugged. "Very well."
"Is that all?"
"That's it."
"Then," she said, slapping her thighs and standing,
"we will celebrate. "
"We will?"
"Yes, our last night. I will prepare a wonderful Rus-
Sian meal. We will drink wine, and vodka, and dine."
"And then?" Carter asked, unable to keep a smile
from his face at her sudden change of mood.
"And then, Nicholas, you will do the dishes," she
said, curling her lower lip between her teeth in a man-
nerism he had begun to associate with her lighter
moods.
Carter lay in the semidarkness, smoking, a sheet
covering his naked body from the waist down. Beside
him the radio was tuned to a station just over the fron-
tier. A woman was singing a plaintive American love
song in French. It sounded better in French than it ever
had in English.
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Outside, a crisp wind had blown the clouds away and
a stark white moon sent sham daylight slanting through
the partially pulled drapes.
The meal had been truly Russian even though Dasha
had been forced to improvise with what the cupboards
had offered.
Afterward they had washed the dishes together, with
the woman asking offhand questions about Carter's
youth. Instead of answering them, he fielded them with
evasions. He was sure she knew, but it didn't dampen
her spirits or kill her curiosity.
She seemed downright happy.
Only once did Zina Talinka's name come up. They
were sitting before the fire having brandy.
' 'Zina reminds me of a girlhood friend," Dasha had
said. "Probably the only true friend I ever had. She,
too, was an orphan. We were taken to Moscow together
and attended the same schools. She was a lovely girl,
much prettier than I, but not the most intelligent. Do
you know Verkhonoye?"
"Yes," Carter replied.
The Verkhonoye school is located about a hundred
miles from Kazan, near the Tatar Soviet Republic. It is a
desolate area filled with low-lying, jagged hills and bai-
ren plains. Because of its inaccessibility, Verkhonoye is
an ideal location for a spy school that technically
doesn't exist.
But exist it does, for the training of young girls to use
their bodies in service to the state.
"She was only fifteen and knew nothing of Verk-
honoye when a KGB recruiter convinced her that she
should volunteer. I knew what Verkhonoye was, and
did my best to dissuade her. It did no good. "
"She couldn't take the degradation. She hanged
herself."
That had ended the reverie in front of the fire. Shortly
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after that they had both retired.
71
Carter stubbed out his cigarette and started to roll to
his side, when there was a light rap on the door.
"Nicholas may I come in?"
"Of course. "
The door opened and Dasha stepped into the room.
She was totally nude, and the pale white moonlight
made her body ghostly as she moved to the bed.
There was no embarrassment. Her strides were long
and confident, her arms swung free and easily, and she
held her head proudly. She was every inch a woman at
home in her own body.
"You'll catch pneumonia," he said.
"Not if I can share the warmth of your body. "
Carter held up the sheet and she slid in beside him.
She cuddled into his arm and pressed the soft fullness of
her breasts to his side.
From his position he could see the top of her head and
the silk of her hair spilling over his shoulder and throat.
He felt the fluid curve of her back and hip gently with
his hand as she curled and nuzzled against him.
"This is another reason I wanted Zina Talinka to be
my Moscow contact," she whispered.
' 'A woman?" he replied, thinking he already knew
what she was about to say.
"Yes. In Moscow we will be drawn very close. If it
were you in Moscow, for instance, it might be very dif-
ficult to keep a distance between us."
Carter started to reply, but she silenced him with a
finger over his lips. With the fingers of her other hand
she traced the hair on his chest down to his navel and
around where it feathered out over his abdomen.
Then it was her lips tracing the same pattern, until
they found him and all thoughts of Moscow, Zina
Talinka, and of Dasha Koneva being anything but a sen-
suous, desirable woman left his mind.
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He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensations
her fingers and lips were creating in his body. He let her
go on until he knew he could stand it no more.
"Enough," he growled, pulling her upward until his
lips found hers.
"Take me," she moaned, arching her back until her
pelvis found him.
The rest she did with her hands. Carter moaned and
dropped his face to her breasts as he felt her warmth
envelop him.
Then the fury of their desire meshed. Both their
bodies glistened with perspiration even though the air in
the room was cool. Writhing flesh lost all form, and the
room seemed to take on an iridescent red glow that
matched the pure fire of their passion.
Groans came from both their throats somewhere deep
down as the moment of peak excitement arrived and
they met it at the same time.
Slowly their gasps subsided, and the quivering bodies
rolled away from each other in satiation. They lay like
that for some time in the near darkness.
Then he heard her speak. Her voice sounded as if it
were coming from deep in a well.
"We are alike in many ways, you and I, Nicholas. We
must live for the moment because it may always be our
last. "
Carter didn't reply. His mind had already returned to
reality.
As he listened to Dasha Peshkova Koneva's words, he
wondered, hoped, that Zina Talinka was living for the
moment.
Carter turned the collar of his windbreaker high up
around his neck. Smoke curled into his face from the
cigarette dangling from his lips.
Dasha Koneva was almost out of sight down the
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mountain now, Oler gondola just a speck against the
hillside.
It was over. He had set up the net, briefed her, and
they had said good-bye.
"Who knows," he had said, brushing her cheek with
his lips, "we may meet again. "
"I doubt it, and so do you," she had said, a sad smile
curving her sensual lips. "We've had our day and our
night. It would be too dangerous to even think of ever
having another. Good-bye, Nicholas."
Carter had returned her smile with a wry one of his
own, and handed her into the gondola.
They had made love the whole night long, and now
they were able to coolly and calmly walk away from
each other, accepting the fact that it was the only night
they would ever have.
Nature of the business, Carter thought as he walked
to the Grindelwald side of the station and caught the
next gondola down to the valley.
Just the nature of the business.
But for the first time in a long time—longer than he
could remember—he found himself wishing that it
wasn't.
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SIX
The snow lay thick and white across Moscow. It had
stopped falling only an hour before when the clouds had
rolled east toward Asian Russia, leaving a blue-domed
sky above the city.
Dasha Peshkova Koneva, in a heavy fur coat and hat,
with her slacks tucked into sturdy walking boots,
crossed Trubnaya Square and entered the wide, tree-
lined center section of Tsvetnoy Boulevard.
In the old days, before travel was so restricted into the
capital, old ladies would be seen hawking fresh hot-
house flowers on the boulevard. They had brightened a
Sunday afternoon.
But not anymore. Now there were just hordes of pe-
'destrians crowding the walks, thankful to escape their
tiny, cramped apartments after a week-long blizzard
had kept everyone indoors.
Dasha Koneva was grateful for all the people. She
and Zina Talinka would be simply two more attractive
women in a crowd of many.
Dasha was also worried. The message she had picked
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up Friday evening at the drop near the Kremlin's east
wall had sounded frantic.
Zina needed to talk to her in person. A new man had
been sent in from Istanbul to be her assistant. Twice she
had caught him in her office. She wasn't certain that he
had gone through her papers, but there was that chance.
Then, Monday evening after he had been particularly
suspicious, she had followed him.
In a café on Donskaja Square near the Donskoj
monastery, he had met Aleksandr Delenin, head of the
Moscow division of the KGB.
Zina had already alerted Washington that she might
be under suspicion. They had not ordered her out yet,
but she guessed that they soon would.
After two and a half successful years, this would be
good-bye.
It was irrational and stupid security to chance a
meeting like this, and Dasha knew it. But the plea from
Zina had been so strongly worded, and the bond of
friendship and trust between them so great, that she
hadn't the heart to ignore the woman's request.
She was nearing Samotechnaya Square now and the
crowds were thicker. Couples strolled, women sat chat-
ting on benches, and children romped in the snow
beneath stark, leafless trees.
Dasha slowed her pace and squinted her eyes into the
sun's glare. And then she saw the familiar white fur hat
with the dark blue cloth crown.
She was about one hundred yards away when Zina
turned. The dark-haired woman's lower lip was curled
between her teeth and her eyes were wide.
Fear. Even at that distance Dasha could see it con-
torting her friend's features.
She slowed her pace even more, to an ambling walk.
And then she began to spot them. Two women three
benches away from Zina. They chatted, but their eyes
never left the Turkish reporter. A man directly behind
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her, lounging against a tree. It would seem that he was
reading a newspaper, but his eyes constantly lifted to
scan the crowd flowing into the square from the
boulevard.
Dasha stopped at a zakuski cart. One eye surveyed the
tidbits of herring, pickles, and cold meats under the
glass. The other checked beyond the trees to the traffic
lanes.
It didn't take long to spot them: two black Ziv
limousines, one on the north, the other on the south.
Their drivers lounged against the front fenders, but
there were two men in the back seats of both cars.
The neighbors. The KGB. And there was little doubt
that they were watching Zina Talinka.
Dasha pointed to some red salmon caviar. The vendor
spread a liberal portion of it on a slab of black bread
and handed it over. She fumbled in the pocket of her
coat until she found the correct amount and dropped
the coins into the vendor's hand.
Over the bread she looked at Zina. Their eyes met,
spoke, and then the woman bolted.
She ran across the square away from Dasha and
darted into the trees.
It was no match. She had barely covered a half block
when two of the dark-coated men brought her to the
ground. She struggled like a wildcat, clawing, biting,
kicking.
Dasha held her ground, forcing herself to stay calm
and eat her caviar and black bread as the woman's
curses in Turkish and English reached her ears.
The crowd in the square did the same. They all looked
over in curiosity at the two men struggling with the
woman, and thén quickly turned away.
It was unwise to be too curious about the neighbors'
business.
At last one of the men struck Zina in frustration. It
was a smashing blow with the side of his hand to the
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back of the neck. She wilted, and the two men carried
her to one of the waiting Zivs.
Seemingly unconcerned, Dasha Koneva moved to a
nearby bench and sat between two old women. They
had been talking about the latest shortages. The conver-
sation halted abruptly but continued again when the
newcomer joined in with an agreement that it was
criminal the way old people were made to stand in line
for everyday goods.
The limousines had both gone, but two men and two
men had remained, scanning the crowd.
over an hour before Dasha thought it safe to
leave. She walked with her usual steady, sure stride back
to her apartment on Maxim Gorky Embankment.
But inside her heart was pounding and her stomach
churning.
It was obvious what Zina Talinka had done. She had
waited until Dasha had arrived before showing her hand
and bolting. It was the woman's way of telling her con-
tact and friend that it was all over.
She had tried to salvage their net right up to the final
moment. Chances were good that she had not even used
her own method of emergency escape; she had wanted
to make absolutely •ertain that indeed she had been
blown and to warn Dasha.
Also, the woman had chosen Sunday for the meeting.
That meant that the embassy woman would be in Gorky
Park.
Dasha closed her eyes against the vivid, terrifying
images that raced across her brain. They would torture
her, of course. How long would she hold out? And if
she did hold out against brutality on her body, then they
would use drugs. Then there would be no holding out.
In her apartment, Dasha took no time for tears. She
stripped quickly to the skin and then began dressing
again in layers. First she donned a drab, one-color
ensemble of peasant clothing, and over that another.
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Then she re-dressed in her own expensive clothes and
fur coat. Outside, no one would look twice; in Russia,
in winter, everyone looked bulky and bundled up.
This outside layer would be shed by morning.
From behind a section of her bedroom baseboard, she
removed the documents of Gena Anatoleyevna Log.
inova. Loginova had been a peasant woman about
Dashats age from the river town of Toljatti, near
Kuybyshev. She had died in a farming accident two
years earlier, but Dasha had erased that fact from her
record. Since then, almost monthly, Dasha had placed
an item in the worker's file—and in the KGB file—on
Gena Loginova.
In short, Dasha had kept the woman alive.
The papers included an identity card complete with
Dashafs picture, birth certificate, and working card,
along with three filled-out traveling permits with only
the dates blank.
Now she filled the current date on one of those cards
and put everything in her purse.
From a drawer in her desk she removed four small
boxes of Grimickya chocolates. One of them had been
slightly creased with a fingernail.
Inside that box was the microfilm with the message
she had prepared so long ago and hoped that she would
never use.
To: Keepers
From: Weathervane
Re: The Trip
Sunday has come.' The pasha's pride is lost. The
dogs are only barking but the bite should be no
more than 72 hours away.
Joining my family to avoid counting the trees.
The chocolates went into her purse and then she was
ready.
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At the door she paused, looking over the three rooms
that had been hers for nearly twenty years. By Western
standards it wasn't much. By Soviet standards it was
more than adequate for a single person.
To Dasha Peshkova Koneva it had been a palace.
The guards at the Karl Marx Square building barely
glanced at Dasha's identity cards. They knew her, and it
wasn't odd for GRU staff officers to come and go on a
Sunday.
The machinery of intelligence never stops.
In her sixth-floor office, she used first her own access
codes to get into the computer. Then she used the codes
she had stolen long ago to get into the "Most Secret"
KGB file.
In seconds she was scanning the record of Zina
Talinka.
It was neither worse nor better than she had expected:
the woman had been under close surveillance for three
months, intensive for one.
Suspicion had arisen when a recent KGB operative
planted in the offices of the Turkish news service had
lifted incriminating impressions from the second sheet
of a pad on her desk.
This brought a Svan smile to Dasha Koneva's lips.
Two and a half years ago, the American, Nick Carter,
had warned her that Zina had a difficult time memoriz-
ing unless she could do it from the written word.
Then the "current status" file came up. There was a
hastily memoed insert describing the arrest in Samo-
technaya Square. From there she had been taken di-
rectly to Lubyanka Prison.
Dasha typed until the status recommendation came
up. It originated with Aleksandr Delenin himself.
Since Zina Talinka was a foreign national and a
newswoman, it was recommended that the interrogation
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until that avenue became totally ex-
Good, Dasha thought; her guess of a possible sev-
enty-two hours of grace was probably correct.
And then she allowed a tear to roll down her cheek.
BecausesZina was Turkish, maybe it would not go too
badly for her. Maybe she would even survive and be
traded.
Maybe.
Not so for Dasha herself. If caught, she would be tor-
tured until they knew every item she had passed to the
West. Then, in the enclosed courtyard of Lubyanka, she
would be shot.
That in itself did not bother her. Knowing that they
would plug all the leaks and salvage the intelligence she
had so painstakingly passed in over two years did bother
her.
If the Americans couldn't get her out, she would take
herself out. Permanently.
Dasha brought up her own "current status" file. Into
this she entered a speaking engagement and inspection
tour for the next three days at the GRU officers training
school near Minsk.
Since she was a GRU staff officer, there would be no
need to obtain a traveling permit. Her military identity
card would suffice. Only the common people needed
traveling permits.
The last thing she took with her when she left the of-
fice was her military-issue 7.62mm Tokarev automatic
and two spare magazines.
If the peasant Gena Loginova was arrested, Dasha
Koneva had already decided that as many KGB
neighbors as possible would go with her.
She parked her Lada sedan in the visitors' area near
the lake. From there she walked on the winding paths
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through the trees to the Pushkin Skajas the broad
walkway that followed the Moscow River.
At least once a week in all seasons she had come
there, talked to the children, passed out candy, and
mingled with the crowd.
She emerged from the trees at about the center of the
huge stretch of park. As usual, the largest concentration
of children was to her right, across from St. Nicholas
Cathedral.
She turned that way, had gone only a few steps when
a snowsuited boy of about eight was tugging on her
coat.
"Madame, madame ,
"Yes, little one?"
"Did you bring chocolates today?"
Dasha smiled. ' 'Perhaps. Have you been a good stu-
dent?"
"I have, madame, I truly have." The boy nodded
vigorously. "I study hard so that one day I will grow
strong in mind and body to serve our glorious Soviet
state."
And so, even at eight or nine, she thought grimly,
they learn only too well what magic words to use for
gain.
She passed a box to the boy and patted his head. With
a hurried word of thanks, he was off to a bench where
he would devour his treasure.
Dasha continued walking. She passed two lone
women. One was knitting, the other reading. Both of
them glanced up from timeto time at a circle of children
playing tag in the snow.
Dasha paused. The woman who was reading glanced
up, frowning. The book rolled back toward her
stomach.
It was Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, and it was in the
original Russian.
Dasha nodded, gave the woman a typical Muskovite
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grimace that was supposed to pass for a smile, and
walked on.
She had no luck by the time she reached the end of the
park and the Krymskij Bridge.
It was just after four o'clock.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on Carter's
words:
. every Sunday and every Thursday ... be-
tween three and five ... "
Could she possibly have not come today? Could they
have grown lax because there had been no need for
contact in all this time?
She started back, retracing her steps between the two
rows of benches. She had gone only a short way when
she saw a woman emerge from the public rest rooms.
Her long beige leather coat was Western, perhaps
French, and expensive. On her head perched a Russian-
style hat of golden lynx fur. Her gloves were tan suede,
matching her boots and purse.
As she reached one of the benches she pulled a book
from her purse. Just before opening it, she removed her
gloves.
She crossed her legs and held the book on her knee in
such a way that anyone passing could see the dust
jacket.
Dasha only glanced once without slowing her pace.
Then she realized that she hadn't been breathing, and
found herself taking great gulps of air before she felt
faint.
Across the dark dust jacket in bold script had been
written Tolstoi, and just below it, La guerre et lapaix.
Dasha managed to maintain an air of casualness by
leaning against the bench and lighting a cigarette. Her
eyes followed the children playing in the snow, but she
managed quick glances at the woman's hands.
It seemed an eternity until the woman turned the
page.
And then Dasha saw it ... the black onyx ring.lt had
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a large diamond in the center, and it was on her right
hand.
All clear. She wasn't being watched.
But all clear for what?
There were seven small children in a circle playing
tag. Two older boys were wrestling nearby, and a boy of
about ten was throwing snowballs against a concrete
fence near the river.
Which child was hers?
Dasha strained to hear their laughing voices. They
shouted in a jumble of English, French, and Russian,
plus languages she could not pin down.
She chewed her lip and fingered the remaining boxes
of chocolates in her purse. Out of the corner of her eye
she saw the woman look up, directly at her.
"You will not pay any attention to the woman, but
you will strike up a conversation with the children. "
"Hello, you are very pretty."
She was about six years old, with a pert little face
flushed with the cold staring out from a fur-bordered
hood.
"Hello," Dasha replied in Russian, "you are very
pretty as well. What's your name?"
' 'Nina Federkaya. "
"That's a pretty name. Does Nina Federkaya like
chocolates? '
"Oh, yes."
There is a God, Dasha Peshkova thought. Child, you
are sent from heaven!
"Then this is for you."
"Thank you." A mittened hand came out from a
deep pocket and snatched the box.
"Nina e.. " a woman called from nearby.
"Da, Mama?"
"What have you there? Let me see."
The child streaked away holding the box aloft. Like a
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good mother, she inspected it. Satisfied, she nodded and
smiled at Dasha Koneva.
The woman in the beige leather coat had closed her
book and was staring at Dasha.
"George ... ohv George," she called.
"Yes, Mom?"
One of the two young wrestlers got to his feet.
"It's time we were going now."
"But, Mom--
"It's time. Come along. "
The boy turned to his playmate and, in fairly good
Russian, bid him good-bye with a hope that he would
see him again on Thursday.
Bless you, American mother, Dasha thought. for
being so bright.
As the boy passed the bench where she sat, Dasha
touched him on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," she said in English, "I couldn't help
overhearing. George, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I just want to congratulate you on your Russian. It's
quite good."
The boy flushed. "Thanks, but I'm only just starting
to learn. "
"And well you should. Perhaps by knowing each
other's language it will be easier for our two countries to
come together in peace."
"My mother says I'm not to talk politics with
strangers."
Dasha laughed. ' 'But your mother doesn't say you
cannot accept a gift, does she?"
"Well
"Good, then these are for you. Do you have a brother
or Sister?
"A sister, Anita. She couldn't come to the park to-
day. She has a cold."
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"Then give this second box to your mother to take
along home to her."
"Thank you very much."
S' That's all right. Good-bye, George."
"Good-bye. Uh, who shall I tell her gave me the
candy?"
"Just tell her ... a Russian lady,"
' 'George, come along now. "
"Coming, Mom. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
It's done, she thought, watching the two of them
leave the park, The machinery is in motion.
She drove to Minsk and checked into the Army-run
military hotel. Because of her GRU status she would not
be bothered, but, nevertheless, she left word that she
was preparing a speech and wanted no interruptions.
In the room she paused only long enough to shift
essentials to a small, cheap, used bag she had placed in
one of her larger bags.
Outside, in a darkened alley, she discarded her fur
coat and the outer layer of her clothes and tugged on a
cheap wool coat. She burned all her own identification
and discarded the expensive clothes. She knew they
would never be found by the authorities. No trash
picker in his right mind would turn in such valuable
clothing.
She walked to the train station and bought a third-
class ticket to Khar'kov.The train was scheduled to
leave in less than an hour.
In the toilet she made out another of her traveling
permits, this one allowing her to travel from Khar'kov
to Kuybyshev, and waited for the train.
It was nearly midnight when she arrived. She checked
into a workers' hostel near the station and shared a cold
room with six other women.
In the morning she discarded the second layer of
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clothes. Now she drew hardly any attention at all. She
was just another faceless peasant moving like a shadow
among millions of other shadows.
At six the local train departed for Kuybyshev, where
ongoing passengers would board the Trans-Siberian
Railroad. Most of those passengers would be in the
fi!it-class section. Where Dasha sat in the second-class
coach, there were working men and women, soldiers on
leave, or glassy-eyed peasants with their arms wrapped
protectively around their middle where their bottles of
cheap vodka were hidden.
The few times someone spoke to her, Dasha had little
trouble drawing on the dialect and the tonal inflections
of her youth. It was the same with the stewards and con-
ductors, who all doubled as KGB informers. With her
knit gloves on to hide her uncallosed hands, no makeup
on her face, and the threadbare quality of her clothes,
they accepted her as just another of many.
It was nearly dusk when the train pulled into
Kuybyshev at last. For the last hours, as they passed
through fertile snow-covered fields and by familiar
landmarks, Dasha had ridden with her nose pressed
against the window.
This was her Russia, the Russia she remembered as a
child. It had been her only time of innocence.
Free of the station, she walked to the familiar city. By
the time she reached the tiny village of Obersk outside
the city, it was pitch-black.
But here nothing had changed at all. The streets were
still dirt. Acrid smoke still poured from the chimneys of
the tiny, one-room mud-and-wood cottages, and every-
one still walked with his gaze to the ground.
Even drawing on all her memories, it still took an
hour to locate the right street and the right house.
It was larger than the others on Petrov Lane, two
rooms with a roof over the adjoining tool and animal
shed.
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But Ivan Ivanovitch would have a large house. He
was on the railway, a brakeman. His pay was probably
double what the other men in Obersk made.
The shutters were tightly closed, but Dasha could see
the faint, flickering light of a coal-oil lantern through
the cracks.
There was a bell by the door, but she ignored it and
rapped with her knuckles. She listened, and when there
was no sound from within she rapped again.
"Da?" a voice said from behind the door.
"Ivan Ivanovitch Tollpetzka?"
"Da ... who's there?"
$ CA friend in need. "
"All the souls in Obersk are in need. What do you
want?"
"l am a woman from Moscow."
Locks rattled and the door opened wide enough to
reveal the man with a lantern held high above his head.
"Don't you know me, Ivan Ivanovitch? You used to
chase me with your pony when we were children."
Carefully she untied the babushka from under her
chin, removed it, and shook her hair free.
A smile appeared at once on his wide face. "Dasha
. Dasha Peshkova."
"May I come in, Ivan?"
He stepped aside and she moved into the room. It was
small, with the barest of furnishings and a dirt floor.
She had lived in a cottage nearly its twin as a child.
By the time he had closed and locked the door, she
had moved to the table. When he joined her, the smile
had been replaced by a scowl.
He sat and slowly leaned toward her, his heavy brows
meeting in a vee at the bridge of his nose. The dark eyes
were alert and untrusting, and beneath his thick mus-
tache his lips were compressed in a tight line.
6 'I have heard your name many times since you went
from Obersk, Dasha Peshkova. "
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'V Yes," she nodded, "l imagine you have."
89
"They say you are powerful now, an officer in the
military ... even the GRU."
Again she nodded. "I am a lieutenant colonel in a
powerful position in Moscow."
"Then why are you in Obersk, and why are you
dressed like that?"
"Because I also have another name, Ivan Ivan-
ovitch."
"And what might that be?"
"Weathervane."
It took almost a full minute for it to sink in, but when
it did the smile returned larger than ever. From some.
where behind him he found two glasses and a bottle of
vodka.
He spoke as he poured. "l was told that they
had someone very important inside, but I never
dreamed . . e"
"Did they also tell you that one day Weathervane
might come to you?"
"They did." He raised his glass to hers. "Welcome,
Dasha Peshkova. Na zdorov'e."
"And to your health, old friend. "
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SEVEN
Carter built drinks at the bar and glanced at Ginger
Bateman's reflection in the mirror.
She stood at the window, head raised, chin lifted, lips
slightly parted. The room's soft illumination modeled
her body to perfection, highlighting the long curve of
her thighs, the full, rich swell of her hips, the exciting
line of her torso and breasts.
With her hands at her sides, one foot slightly in front
of the other, she personified woman, and classy woman
at that.
But there was a lot more to Ginger Bateman than
beauty. There were brains, responsibility, and power.
As AXE director David Hawk's right hand, Ginger
Bateman swung a lot of weight.
"Thanks for bringing everything over."
She shrugged and moved to the couch. "It's a rush.
Easier for me to drop everything off than for you to
drive to Dupont Circle."
"Everything" was airline tickets to Milan, Italy, and
a false passport and ID. The passport and fake ID were
to be used to escape the country in case the mission went
wet.
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The mission was tricky, not really in Carter's line, but
when the CIA boys had done all they could with no
results, the problem had been handed to AXE.
There were two warring factions, the Diletto and the
Marcosi families. In time, if left alone, they would
probably kill each other off. But time had run out.
The Dilettos were principal suppliers to dope pushers
who were specializing in American military bases all
over the world to sell their product.
Legal means had been employed, as well as govern-
ment pressure, to put a stop to it.
Nothing had worked.
Now State and the Pentagon wanted more extreme
measures taken.
As for Don Giovanni Marcosi, the head of the other
warring family, the same applied.
For years the Marcosis had been front brokers for
Moscow in their sale of arms to Third World countries.
They supplied the conduits for smuggling the arms to
the buyers and laundering the money on the way back to
the Soviet Union.
At first it had been small arms, ammunition, nothing
big. But in the last year the operation had grown to
dangerous proportions. Now they were dealing in tanks,
all kinds of missiles, and even heavier stuff.
Moscow-trained agitators would go into a small coun-
try, get the revolution started, and the Marcosis would
supply the hardware. Several terrorist groups also
benefited, and all without the Kremlin getting its hands
dirty.
Carter moved to the sofa and handed Ginger the
drink. Her breasts filled the front of her dress when she
leaned forward to take it.
The ice shook slightly in the glass. She looked up, saw
the path of his eyes, and smiled. 'You've got a one-
track mind, Nick."
' 'Just being a boy," he chuckled. "You have some
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vacation coming, don't you?" She nodded. "Why not
join me in the south of France when this is over?"
Her eyes clouded and she concentrated on her drink.
"You amaze me. "
'COh? How so?"
"You're always so sure, Nick, that when you go in
you'll always come out.
He sat beside her and brushed her neck with his lips.
"It's like being a driver at the Indy 5m. If the driver
thought he was going to smash up, he'd never go out on
the track."
"We've put a lot of pressure on them, both families."
' 'Yeah."
%'They're probably guessing that we'll be sending
someone."
"Maybe," Carter said. "But I've handled a lot worse
than a bunch of hoods. What time is my plane?"
"Midnight. i'
Carter checked his watch. ' 'It's only seven. How
about dinner with the condemned man?"
She whirled, nearly spilling her drink. "Don't say
that! Don't ever say that, Nick!"
"Ah, the lady cares."
"Of course I care .. e"
He silenced her with his lips. It was a warm kiss, gen-
tle, with feeling.
"Dinner?"
' 'Of course, " she said with a smile. "And since you'll
be heading for the airport afterward, I should be safe
with no rules broken. "
"You, Bateman, are a cruel woman."
The warmth between them was real and solid as they
walked down the front stairs of his restored Georgetown
town house to get his car. He kept his new BMW in a
private garage down the street.
He hit the key and the automatic door opener at the
same time. By the time the door was up, Carter had
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replaced the electronic gadget above the visor and was
backing out.
Years of living on the edge, of accepting the warning
of his instincts, told him. But even then he was a split
second too late.
The BMW was half out the door when a large black
four-door rocked to a halt directly behind it, handily
blocking the driveway.
The Killmaster saw the blur of the driver rolling out
of the sedan as he pushed the gear lever forward and
jammed the accelerator.
The tires screeched and the German car lurched for-
ward.
'SNick, what the hell!" Ginger screamed.
The rest of her words were lost in the crunch of the
car against the rear wall of the garage.
"Out!" Carter yelled. "Get through that side door
over there!
Bateman was trained, not like Carter, but she had
been in the field. She rolled out of the car and hit the ce-
ment in a running crawl.
Carter did the same on the other side, clawing
Wilhelmina from his shoulder riS and thumbing the
safety off.
All hell was breaking loose.
The sedan's driver was draped over the hood, firing in
Carter's direction. The Killmaster got off one shot the
instant he hit the concrete. It screamed wildly off the
hood but made the man duck.
Carter was rolling to get closer to the big car's side
and out of the driver's line of fire, when he heard
shouting to his left, behind some crates just outside the
garage.
"Mimo, there are two of them! A woman!"
Italian.
Carter lay on his back and saw the second shooter. He
was leveling and firing. He got off three shots in
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Bateman's direction before Carter got the Luger up.
The Killmaster got off three that landed in a close pat-
tern on the man's chest.
"Basta!" he bellowed, and whirled toward Carter, a
big .45 in both his hands.
Carter took a millisecond to sight in, and fired. The
slug caught the second shooter dead center in the face,
sending him reeling over the shrubs, spurting blood.
Out of the corner of his eye, Carter could see the first
shooter rolling toward the front of the car. He had
discarded the handgun and was wielding a double-
barreled sawed-off shotgun.
Carter could see the man's intent. He was going to
come around the front fender and fire on the way up.
With the scatter-gun he couldn't miss.
Just as the man came up on one knee, Carter stood,
giving him a perfect target. At the same time, he shifted
the Ituger to his left hand and punched the wall button
with his right.
It was a calculated risk, but the only choice he had.
And it worked.
The sound and motion of the door distracted the
man's attention. The scatter-gun wavered and Carter
dropped to his belly, firing.
The sharp, popping sound of the Luger was lost in the
explosion of the shotgun's twin barrels. But the 9mm
slugs found their target. The scatter shot hit the rear
window and trunk of the BMW.
Carter got to his feet and staggered forward. The
reverberation was ringing in his head, making him
dizzy.
One look told him that he had scored with all four
bullets left in the clip ... one in the gut, two dead center
in the chest, and the fourth had torn off half the man's
head.
Then, through the bells and fog in his head, he heard
a voice Ginger's voice.
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"Nick ... Nick, are you all right?"
"Yeah," he answered, and hit the light switch.
"Nicki I . I'm hit."
He rolled around the car and dropped to his knee
beside her. She was sitting, her back against the inner
door. Her eyes were closed and her head was lolling.
"Where, baby?"
maybe my legs . feels funny
"Arm . . . Side
down there ..
Gently, Carter opened the long coat she was wearing.
"Shit ..
Carter crumpled the empty pack and dropped it
carelessly on the floor. He fumbled change from his
pocket and barely managed to find the slot in the
cigarette machine with his shaky fingers.
He had the same trouble getting the pack open and a
fresh butt to his lips.
The clock read nine-thirty. She had been in surgery
for over an hour.
He had just managed to find the end of the cigarette
with his lighter when David Hawk burst into the waiting
room with another man in tow.
"How is she?"
"Don't know," Carter replied. "She took three
slugs. I don't know exactly where. They were working
on her all the way here in the ambulance. She's in
surgery now. Doc's name is Harris. He says the vital
signs are good. "
"She's a hell of a lady," Hawk growled. "The
bastards!" He dropped his stocky frame onto a vinyl-
upholstered couch and waved his free hand toward the
man who had followed him into the room. "Larry
Peterson, FBI. "
"Nick."
Carter shook the man's extended hand. He was tall
and wiry, with sharp eyes and a small mustache that
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managed to add years to a boyish face.
"What have you got?" Carter asked.
97
All business, Peterson flipped open a notebook and
dropped his voice into a cop's monotone.
' 'Both automatics were old Army-issue Colt forty-
fives. They were stolen about six months ago from a
shipment bound for the smelter. The shotgun was pro-
fessionally doctored. It was stolen from a hardware
store in Dover, Delaware, about three weeks ago. The
Lincoln Town Car was lifted last night from an under-
ground garage in Richmond. "
"Figures," Carter growled. "What about the
sh ooters?
Peterson managed a tight-lipped smile. "There, with
the help of Interpol, we had a little better luck. Both of
them are soldiers in Diletto's mob."
"Out of Italy?" Carter said in disbelief.
"Napoli, to be exact. They came in with phony
passports about a week ago. Names are Mimo Bocetti
and Carmine Diletto. You're lucky, Nick. They're both
aces. Carmine is the old Don's nephew. He only gets the
big jobs. "
"He isn't lucky," Hawk snapped, "he's good."
' 'Yeah," Carter said, his mouth dry. "But not good
enough."
"We've got a blanket out," Peterson said, "in case
there's a backup. But that's not likely. These boys work
alone."
Carter turned to David Hawk. 'Cl'll take the morning
Concorde to Paris and connect to Milan. l'
"Sorry, Nick. "
"Sorry? Hell, I've got even more reason to burn their
butts now!"
Hawk mashed out the remnants of his cigar and
hauled himself to his feet. ' 'Maybe so, but something a
lot bigger has come up. They'll wait. "
Carter moved in close to his superior and lowered his
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voice. "We've known her, you and I, fifteen years.
Nothing can be more important."
"There is, Nick, believe me," Hawk said, then
jammed a fresh cigar between his lips. "Let's take a
walk. Excuse us, Peterson?"
"Sure thing. "
Hawk was silent until they were in the hospital park-
ing lot.
"Weathervane's blown."
"Dasha Koneva?"
"That's right. This came over the scrambler about an
hour ago. "
As Carter read, he put the•real meanings to the coded
phrases before him.
The trip: She was blown and on the run.
Sunday has come: Contact has been made with the
embassy.
The pasha's pride is lost: Zina Talinda has been ar-
rested.
The dogs are only barking: As yet, KGB and GRU of-
ficials didn't know Dasha's identity.
The bite should be no more than 72 hours away: She
was guessing three days before they uncovered her and
started searching in earnest.
Joining my family: She went to Kuybyshev.
A void counting the trees.
The last phrase brought a sad smile to Carter's lips. It
was an old peasant expression dating back to czarist
times. It meant one was on his or her way to Siberia.
"Three days," Hawk said, "before they nail her
down. After that, maybe three more before they turn
the country upside down and find her. "
"Not much time," Carter hissed. "Certainly not
enough to use the regular routes of escape."
' 'That's right," Hawk said, worrying the hell out of
his cigar. "But I want her out. For lots of reasons."
"Such
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"She's probably got tons in her head that she hasn't
passed us. The KGB would love to get her so they could
find out just what she has passed. And, lastly, she's one
of us now, Nick. I'd like the word to get around that we
take care of our own."
"Five or six days? That's one hell of a tall order."
"I know, but I've already done some hard thinking.
Remember Lev Sabat? "
"Of course," Carter said with a nod.
"His escape was pretty spectacular. He never revealed
the route or the way he did it. I'm wondering just how
many close friends Sabat still has in the Soviet Union,
and if he could duplicate that escape. "
"In other words," Carter said, "if we could get in,
Sabat could get us out. "
"That's it," Hawk said. "Of course, I haven't come
up with a way to get the two of you in yet."
"And that's if Sabat would even agree to go."
"Nick. .t'
. It was the FBI agent, Peterson, standing
in the open door of the emergency entrance.
"Yeah?" Carter said quickly, his breath catching
oddly in his throat.
"She's out of surgery. The doctor wants to talk to
you both. "
Dr. Harris was a tall, physically youthful man with
age in his eyes and maturity in his bearded face.
"Mr. Carter . . .
Mr. Hawk. I understand you're
close to the patient."
Hawk nodded.
"Very close," Carter murmured.
"Please sit down."
His voice was noncommittal and his eyes said
nothing. The hand motioning them to the couch was
casual. Carter found himself searching the man's green
surgical gown for blood.
There wasn't any.
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For some inane reason, it made him feel better.
"Miss Bateman was hit three times. One bullet passed
through the fatty part of her thigh. She'll have a scar
and be on crutches for a while from that. The second
bullet creased her left forearm and side. Once again,
nasty scars but nothing irreparable."
"And the third?" Carter asked, not liking the frown
that had suddenly appeared on the doctor's face.
"The bullet entered here, and just missed the upper
. the shoulder blade. That's
portion of the scapula .
why it took so much time in surgery. She came through
it fine."
"How fine?" Carter asked.
"Barring any postoperative complications, I'd say
she'll be out of here in a week or so. Miss Bateman is in
excellent health. She should recover quickly."
"When can we see her?" Hawk asked.
"Probably not for a couple of hours. She's still
sedated and in the recovery room. We'll want to keep
checking when she becomes conscious, and then move
her to a bed."
Carter and Hawk exchanged looks of relief. Suddenly
the situation became awkward. The doctor broke in.
"I've got to get back to work," he said, moving to the
door. "If you need any more information or help, you
can contact the duty nurse at Station A. That's the desk
down the hall on your left."
"Dr. Harris e"
"Thanks, " Carter said.
The man shrugged. "It's my job."
When the door closed behind the doctor, Carter
turned to Hawk. "Let's find a bar. I think I've got an
idea. "
Carter ordered a second drink. When it came he
leaned back and studied Hawk's face, trying to sense
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101
some reaction to the proposal he had spent the last half
hour spelling out.
"lt might work," the head of AXE muttered at last.
"It will work," Carter said. ' 'Marcosi has contacts in
Russia and all the Eastern-block countries. He could get
Sabat and myself in on an arms buying and inspection
tour without batting an eye."
Hawk smiled. "And God knows, what you're offer-
ing him in return would certainly appeal to him."
"That's right. I get Diletto off his back. Then, when
this is over, I drop the bomb that he helped us get
Weathervane out, and both families are out of busi-
ness."
"And we have Weathervane. "
"It'll work. I'll make it work."
Hawk closed his eyes in concentration. Carter felt his
body tense, willing an affirmative answer from the other
man.
"So all you need is Sabat's answer."
"I can be in Istanbul by tomorrow afternoon. "
Hawk lifted his glass to his lips. In one long and
steady swallow he drained it.
"Okay, Nick, it's a go. Only the same rules apply. No
one in our government is to be involved."
"I'll make it strictly gangland style."
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EIGHT
The street had not changed, and neither had the
habits of Lev Sabat. The old man arrived at the same
restaurant at the same evening hour as he had for years.
He had been seated for only a few minutes, just time
to order his first vodka, when he spotted Carter a few
tables away.
His mouth fell. open in surprise but quickly closed
when he saw a barely perceptible nod from the Ameri-
can agent.
They both dined without looking at each other again.
Carter was the first to leave. He waited in the shadows
of a doorway a block away.
When Sabat passed, Carter fell in step beside him.
"You're looking well. "
"As well as can be expected for an old man," Sabat
said and chuckled. "Have you come to save my wrin-
kled old skin again?"
' 'Actually, no. I've come to ask a favor."
"Anything."
"The woman who tipped me the first time, three
years ago, is being hunted by the KGB."
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'"In Russia. I want to go in and get her before they
find her. "
Sabat emitted a growling laugh and came to a halt
facing Carter. "You are indeed a man who loves the im-
possible, aren't you?"
"l don't think it's so impossible. I have a way of get-
ting us in. Can you and your friends get us out?"
• Sabat took a pipe from his pocket and packed it as he
walked on. When smoke was billowing about his head,
he spoke again.
"Surely you must have escape routes, an organization
of your size ."
"We do," Carter replied/ "But none that can be ac-
tivated on such short notice. "
' 'How short?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Good God, that's—
i' We have only five days ... six at the most."
"Where is she?"
"In Kuybyshev, with someone we can trust. But
they'll be looking for her soon."
"Yes, and even as big as Russia is, they will find her.
might be able to activate my routes. Can you put a
message on Voice of America for me?"
"Sabat, 1 can give you anything yoöwant. Will you
Again the man stopped. His eyes, when they met Car-
ter's, were twinkling.
"It would be a joy to tweak their noses on home
ground."
Carter sighed with relief. "Here is a passport and
identity papers. Also an airline ticket. The plane leaves
tomorrow at noon. "
"Ah, Rome?"
"Yes."
Sabat chuckled as he scanned the papers. "Antonio
Garpesi? I am an Italian?"
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"That's how we're getting in," Carter replied.
105
Don Giovanni Marcosi burped and made a wry face
in the bathroom mirror. He swished with an American
mouthwash to rid his mouth of the bitter taste of all the
medications, bromides, and pills he had just consumed.
It was a nightly ritual, just as seeing his doctor was a
twice-weekly ritual. It was all done to keep Don Marcosi
alive as long as possible.
Again he looked in the mirror and sighed, running his
hands over his bulging belly.
"Too much pasta, too much wine, too much work,
too much everything! Giovanni, you're an asshole!"
And then he smiled.
"But you're a rich asshole."
Then he frowned.
"But for how long?"
Don Giovanni Marcosi was fifty-eight years old,
young by modern standards. But he was dying and his
enemies had guessed it.
Don Carlo Diletto wanted the Marcosi rackets. To get
them he had revived an old family vendetta between the
Marcosis and the Dilettos. For a year, they had been
killing each other off systematically. Now, as Don Gio-
vanni Marcosi was dying, he was also losing. And he
was worried. Not for himself, but for his two daughters.
They were spoiled brats, but they were all Marcosi
had in the world. If the feud wasn't settled before his
death, the daughters would have nothing.
Marcosi knew his daughters. They were little better
than beautiful, high-class whores.
' 'Mamma mia," he mumbled, "what will they do if
they don't have my money to live on?"
He padded into the cavernous bedroom. Pausing at a
large bureau, he kissed his dead wife's picture and made
the sign of the cross before a small statue of the Virgin.
Then he looked up.
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"Holy Mother, give me the means and the strength to
strike down that son of a bitch Carlo Diletto and his
brothers. Forgive me!"
He dimmed the lights until the room was barely il-
luminated by a pale glow that emanated from concealed
bulbs in the ceiling.
He dialed the bedside phone. It rang in the gatehouse.
It would also be picked up on the main floor by one of
the five guards who would patrol all night.
"Bed now."
"Si. Sleep well, Don Giovanni."
' 'Grazie."
He replaced the receiver and rolled beneath the
covers. As the sleeping pill he had taken began to take
effect, he heard a rustling at the window, a parting of
the drapes.
The wind, he thought.
But then he remembered that he had closed the wine
dows.
"Don Giovanni Marcosi?t'
He sat bolt upright. The figure was tall, the face in
shadows. The Italian was perfect, the accent Sicilian.
"What the hell 2"
"Don't, Don Giovanni. If that's a gun you reach for,
I will kill you before you have the safety off."
A black-gloved hand emerged from the drapes. The
steel of a stiletto's blade gleamed in the pale light.
Marcosi sweated. As a young man he had been
fearless. He had made his first bones when he was only
thirteen. One had to be fearless to become a Don.
Now he was old and, like all old men facing death, he
was afraid.
"Who are you? How the hell did you ..
"Never mind who I am, Don Giovanni. I am a man
who can do you a great service. I came to make you an
offer."
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Suddenly an envelope swirled through the air and
landed in Marcosi's lap.
"In there are two names, descriptions, everything you
need to contact your Russian friends."
' 'Russian friends? You're crazy .
know you send buyers into Russia and Czech-
oslovakia. I don't want bullshit; I want you to listen.
My friend and I want to fly into Prague tomorrow after-
noon. You will have the path paved and the necessary
visas ready. "
"And what will you do for this?"
"l will give you peace, Don Giovanni."
The pace of Marcosi's heart slowed slightly. This kind
of language he understood.
"Diletto?"
Marcosi laughed. "You have a better army than I?
.. More soldiers? More skilled? Bullshit!"
"Don Giovanni, I got in here, didn't I?"
The heart picked back up and he felt sweat run down
his back into the crack between his naked buttocks.
"Why are you helping me," he stammered, "and not
Diletto?"
"Simple. You have the contacts I need; Diletto
doesn't. Besides, why should Carlo Diietto help me? He
is winning anyway. Personally, I don't care either way.
Both you and Diletto are scum. I don't have to kill you;
you 're already dying. "
The man's words stirred some remnant of Marcosi's
youth. No man alive dared call Don Giovanni Marcosi
scum.
His right hand whipped again toward the bedside
stand. The black-gloved hand came up and the stiletto
thudded into the front of the drawer between Marcosi's
fingers.
"Jesus Christ. "
A sickening odor assailed Marcosi's nostrils, bringing
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on nausea. He didn't have to lift the covers. He knew he
had fouled himself.
"Turn over and put your face in the pillow."
Marcosi did as he was told. One by one, he identified
sounds: footsteps, stiletto pulled from the drawer,
phone line cut.
"I'm leaving now. The instructions and buy-list are in
that envelope. Because of what we need we will have to
go to the factory and testing grounds near Sverdlovsk.
Arrange it. "
"How do I know you will carry out your part of the
bargain?
A deathly chuckle wheezed near his ear. "You will
read it in the morning papers, Don Giovanni. I deliver
very promptly, and I want you to do the same. Have one
of your men deliver the papers I need to the newspaper
kiosk near the front of the opera house tomorrow by
noon. Have him browse the top copy of Italia and slip
them inside. Understood?"
"Understood." Now Marcosi was smiling.
' 'And if they are not there, I'll be back, Don Gio-
vanni. And I'll enter your bedroom the same way I did
tonight."
The smile slipped from the man's face and he felt a
cold sweat cover his whole body.
Don Carlo Diletto dried his body and gazed through
the open door at Sophia's nude body on the bed. She
hadn't moved since they had finished.
He chuckled silently to himself. Perversity was indeed
his middle name. What would the three important men
from New York say if they knew they had been kept
waiting two hours because he, Carlo Dilettot had gotten
a sudden urge to stop by and taste the sweetness of his
mistress's body?
No matter if they did know. He would be the power
soon, and the New York families had realized it. Why
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else had they decided to meet with him instead of the old
fool, Marcosi?
"Sophia?"
He snapped his fingers. "My clothes."
Like a puppy she jumped from the bed, gathered his
clothes, and scurried into the dressing room.
"Grazie. "
She kissed him lightly and returned to the bed. He
watched her. She had a marvelous, tight-buttocked ass
that rippled with each step rather than jiggled. She kept
her body tuned like the engine of an expensive sports
car: always willing, always ready, always able to drive
his body to exalted heights of erotic glee.
She'd better take care of her body, Diletto thought,
because it was all she had. Sophia was the dumbest
woman Carlo Diletco had ever met.
"You are very late." She was back, at his elbow,
reaching to straighten his tie.
"Sl, cata. I know."
"This meeting . . . with the Americans . .
"Si?" Diletto knew exactly what she was leading up
to.
"It will make you lots of money?"
"Lots."
"Enough for a red Ferrari?"
He laughed aloud. "Doesn't your husband ever ques-
tion youabout the expensive toys I give you?"
"Pietro?" She shrugged. "Who cares?"
And if he did care, what could he do about it? the
Don thought. Pietro had a soft, cushy job in Diletto's
organization. He was nearly as stupid as his wife. Pietro
only kept his job because Diletto enjoyed screwing his
wife.
She was tall, but her dark head barely came to Dilet-
to's shoulder. Behind her he surveyed himself in the
mirror. He looked good in custom-tailored English
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suits. They sat well on his imposing frame. Far from his
lean, hungry days as a skinny urchin in Sicily, he was
now a big man. But at fifty, there was not an ounce of
fat on him.
"Sophia?"
Her head lifted and her dark, deep-set eyes radiated
adoration. But was that love? Of course not. He didn't
need love, he needed passion. And Sophia was enough
passion for ten men.
Did she feel passion for her husband?
"Pietro • • e"
"Is he a good lover?"
There was only a moment's hesitation. "He is longer,
but you are fatter."
So much for Sophia's philosophy of love. But then,
Diletto thought, it was a stupid question.
"I'll go now." She nodded and he walked majestic-
ally toward the door.
"Tomorrow night?"
"No, I must spend an evening with my wife. Ciao."
"Ciao."
Diletto exited the apartment and immediately cursed
his brother for not being on watch in the hall.
But then, there was little danger. Don Giovanni Mar-
cosi was a defeated, broken man.
He whistled his way into the elevator and all the way
down to the basement garage.
"Damn." He growled when the elevator doors
opened and he saw their four heads in the limousine.
Preparing a verbal blast in his mind, Diletto walked
rapidly to the car and yanked open the driver's side
door. His brother Sergio tumbled from the seat. His
head made a dull, thudding sound when it struck the ce-
ment.
Diletto had seen enough corpses, made enough of
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them himself, to know death when he saw it. Indeed, he
could even smell it.
"Jesus... all four ."
"Don Carlo Diletto. "
He whirled, his hand sliding under his coat . . . to
nothing. Diletto had quit carrying a piece years before.
That's what his brothers were for.
But his brothers were all dead.
The stiletto went in between the fifth and sixth ribs on
his left side. Don Carlo Diletto was dead the instant its
point found his heart.
The assassin removed the blade, wiped it clean on Di-
letto's five-hundred-dollar Savile Row suit, and moved
quickly toward the garage exit.
He didn't see the white face and the wide, staring eyes
of a young girl three cars away from Don Carlo Dilet-
to's limousine.
He would never know that two hours later the girl
would give an accurate description of all she had seen.
There was no reason to fear, however, because her de-
scription of him would fit many darkly handsome, mus-
tachioed Italian men.
Also, weeks later, the detective in charge of the in-
vestigation threw his hands in the air in frustration.
"File the description with Interpol and forget it. The
bastard did us a favor anyhow. Five dead Dilettos make
less work;"
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NINE
The intelligence on Don Giovanni Marcosi's dealings
with Soviet and Eastern-bloc arms factories was even
better than Carter had hoped. The man had clout.
Their interim visas and transient travel permits were
barely checked by Czech Ruzyne Airport.
Other tourists endured as much as an hour's wait as
their bags were slowly and meticulously gone through.
Carter and Sabat passed through the luggage inspec-
tion in minutes. Their bags were snatched at once by a
young, officious-looking, dark-suited man.
"Antonio Carpesi and Rico Andelli?"
'SDa, " Carter replied in Russian, "I am Rico Andelli.
Signore Carpesi speaks no Russian."
They had agreed on the plane that Carter would do all
the talking. No matter how Lev Sabat tried, he could
not disguise the fact that his Russian was more native
than learned.
'KA welcome relief," the dark-suited man said. "My
Italian is very bad. I am Oleg Sykaya. I will be your
driver. This way, please."
Carter and Sabat fell in step behind him.
Oleg Sykaya looked like he belonged on the Russian
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Olympic tractor-driving team. Beneath the thick, sandy-
colored hair, his face was blocky and square, with a
stubby nose, a muscle-bunched jaw, and a broad,
freckled forehead. Except for the bright, intelligent eyes
and the quick smile, it could have been a field hand's
face, with its tanned features, its tousled, sun-bleached
hair, and its air of elemental vitality and good health.
Carter thought it a shame that Oleg Sykaya would be
dead in twenty-four hours.
The car was a large black Ziv with official Russian
plates.
Once again, Carter felt relief. Marcosi had followed
his instructions to the letter.
Because they would have no business in Moscow,
there would be no need to take an Aeroflot flight from
Prague to the Russian capital. A car and driver would
be much more convenient for their needs.
Driving skillfully through the streets of Prague, the
young man did his best to pump them. Carter countered
his questions with questions.
'"You know the area around Pregov?"
"0h, yes, quite well. "
"Good. And the Sverdlovsk area, once we cross the
"Equally as well," Sykaya replied. "l was born at
Serov. There is really no need to stop at the Czech fac-
tory in PreSov. Our Russian small arms are far superior
to the Czechs'. I think you can get everything you need
at Sverdlovsk."
"We will see," Carter said with a smile.
How interesting, he thought. Deep down, there was
still competition. The Russians would love to outbid
their Czech neighbors for a large arms order.
Their first stop was the KGB offices in Prague on the
Stepanska. The rezident was Yuri Feodor Guskov, and
he was no young and eager Oleg Sykaya.
The eyes were like dark X-ray buttons, cruel and alert
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as he introduced himself and brusquely waved them to
chairs.
"This is most unusual. "
"Our needs are most unusual," Carter replied, light-
ing a cigarette and letting the smoke drift arrogantly
from his nostrils.
"You wish five-day travel permits in the Soviet
"That is correct."
"You should need only two days to inspect the new
Sindor missiles at Sverdlovsk."
"That's true, but we must stop at PreSov for tonight
and part of tomorrow. Also, after Sverdlovsk we would
like some time to holiday in Moscow. My friend Carpesi-
has never visited your glorious Russian capital."
"I see," Guskov said dryly. "As you know, foreign
travelers in the Soviet Union are required to remain on
the Intourist routes and must keep to a strict itinerary.
Carter leaned forward. The smile on his face was as
humorless as the other man's frown.
"Comrade Guskov, I'm sure my buyers wouldn't
mind if I didn't even enter the Soviet Union. I'm sure
that I can make all my purchases right here in Czech-
oslovakia."
There was a good deal of blustering and veiled insults,
but a half hour later they were on their way to Preäov.
Aleksandr Delenin popped an antacid pill into his
mouth—the tenth of the day—and belched. He was
fifty-two years old and he couldn't remember when he
hadn't suffered from stomach trouble.
' 'We cannot wait too much longer to give an explana-
tion to the Turks," he said, scowling at his aide, Piotr
Illyich Nikolsky.
"The woman, Zina Talkina, does not respond to mild
torture. You, yourself, Comrade Colonel, have told us
to go no more harshly without your direct order. "
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"I know, I know," Delenin grunted, hauling himself
to his feet and turning to the window that overlooked
the Lubyanka courtyard.
Why had such a perplexing problem been dumped on
him now? In a few months he would have the promo-
tion that would give him early retirement. Why had such
a high-level spy been detected now?
Damn.
The Talinka woman had obviously been a courier for
nearly two years. Why couldn't the dumb bitch.have
been more careful and not gotten caught for at least
another year?
"How much longer, Comrade Colonel, before you
must inform the Turks of her whereabouts? "
"Two days, three at the most."
"And you have no leads on the spy? "
"Only that he must be highly placed. Of course,
neither the KGB nor the GRU will let me examine their
high-level personnel files to see who has access to what.
Neither of them wants to admit that they may have such
a spy in their midst!"
"Of course."
Aleksandr Delenin turned back to his desk. As he did
so, he caught his reflection in a small wall mirror.
He was big, like a Siberian polar bear whose habitat
was the frozen, icy wasteland. The bear and Delenin had
both been bred in the same place.
He saw his own quick, restless eyes and the tight de-
cisiveness around the mouth and nostrils. The eyes were
red from lack of sleep. The lines seemed to deepen with
each passing hour.
He sighed and slumped into his chair. "I am fifty-
two, Piotr Illyich, and I look and feel seventy."
"It is a very trying case, Comrade Colonel."
"It is that. If we use drugs, we dare not give her back
to the Turks."
"No. She must have an accident."
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Delenin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Be.
hind his eyelids he saw the woman's face and her full,
mature figure. She was beautiful.
But then, all life must eventually end.
"Use the drugs."
"It is best, Comrade Colonel."
"Yes. I suppose it is."
It was evening when they reached PreSov and checked
into a VIP hostel. An hour later Carter joined Oleg
Sykaya for the evening meal.
"Your friend ?"
' 'Not feeling well. He gets carsick easily. I've had
something sent up to his room."
They ordered cabbage soup and beef stroganoff with
fried potatoes.
CSThe Czechs try," Sykaya said, "but they are bar-
barians over a stove.
Carter agreed.
The service, typically, was at a snail's pace. This
suited Carter to a T. They had several shots of vodka
before the meal ever arrived. When it did, it was washed
down with more vodka. When it ended, Carter ordered
a full bottle brought to the table.
No Russian will turn down a good toast or turn away
from a bout of good-natured drinking. Oleg Sykaya was
a true Russian. An accordionist in a corner of the room
aided the effort.
"To Russia."
"To the motherland," Carter toasted, and took the
potent vodka in one swallow.
4 'Narod Russkaya!"
"To the Russian folk."
"Tell me, my friend," Sykaya slurred, ' 'IS Rome as
decadent as I have heard?"
"Probably even more so," Carter said and chuckled.
"Its streets are paved with willing prostitutes. Crime
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and pornography are rampant .. w"
Carter wern on and on. And as he told tales of sexual
perversion and degradation in the West, he kept pour-
ing.
Oleg Sykaya drank in every word Carter said, and
drank up every shot he poured.
By the time they stumbled up to their respective
rooms, Carter was sure the Russian was in no shape to
make a bed check on Sabat.
Lev Sabat, in a floppy hat, a shapeless coat, and a
rumpled suit, fit in easily with the local population as he
made his way through the old, narrow streets of PreSov.
Twice he lost his way and had to backtrack. Finally he
found the landmark ruins of the old Greek cathedral.
One block beyond he found the café.
Even coming from the darkness Outside, Sabat had to
pause in the doorway to let his eyes become accustomed
to the smoky gloom of the café.
Then he saw him sitting at a table in the farthest
corner. He was dressed in workman's clothing—a blue
shirt, heavy denim trousers, and a heavy, fur-collared
jacket.
How like his father he looks, Sabat thought as he
moved directly to the table and sat down.
"Sdrawstwuktjo, Yurlie Timofey."
"Hello to you, Levshenya. It has been many years."
' 'So many that I was afraid you had stopped monitor-
ing for the emergency signal."
"NO, never, old friend of my father. There are many
who use it. "
"l got word of your father's death. I mourned."
The younger man shrugged. "Russian winters are
hard. My father lived seventy-one of them. That is
probably many more than shall survive."
Two glasses had been sitting with a bottle on the
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table. Yurlie Timofey poured, then pushed one toward
the other man.
"Na zdorov'e."
"Na zdorov'e."
They drank, wiped the backs of their hands across
their lips, and leaned their heads closer together.
"You had no trouble crossing the frontier?" Sabat
asked.
"None. I bring bricks and lumber here once a
month."
Sabat nodded. "That is why I asked for you. That,
and your youth. "
"Tell me, what could be so grave to risk your neck
back in the motherland?"
Sabat poured the glasses full again and pitched his
voice to a low, compelling tone. He gave the son of his
old friend every detail of their mission and his plan to
carry it out.
By the time he finished, Yurlie Timofey was shaking
his head and his dark eyes were wide.
"l admire your courage, but I think you and this
American are mad."
Sabat smiled. ' 'Your father and I did far crazier
things in the past. Did you bring a photograph of your-
self? ,
"1 did."
"Good." Sabat seemed to squeeze the other man's
hand. "Here is a KGB identity card in your name. It will
agree with the rest of your own papers. Can you have it
laminated?"
"It should be noproblem. "
"Good. Now, about the other?"
' 'I have a relief driver we can trust. He can take our
truck back."
' 'And can your wife cover for you that long? Three,
perhaps four days?"
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"l would think so. I am so long on the road as it is.
Where will you be going over the frontier?"
"At Chop," Sabat replied. "We are due at the muni-
tions factory outside Presov at nine tomorrow morning.
We should cross the frontier before noon."
"Then you should reach Saratov on the Volga tomor-
row night."
"It's almost seven hundred kilometers ... I'd say by
nine o'clock if we have no trouble.
"That would be perfect. There is a village about ten
kilometers this side of Saratov called Ivanobach."
it on the main road?" Sabat asked.
"Yes. Just before you reach the village, about a kilo-
meter, there is a cement factory on your right. Can you
get your driver to pull in behind that factory?"
Sabat smiled. "I can already feel the need of a piss
coming on. "
"Good. With a KGB car we can drive on into Kuyby-
Shev the same night. "
"I 'feel like a youth again,
Sabat raised his glass.
Yurlie Timofey."
They drank.
"Tell me, Levshenya, after all this time, don't you
miss your homeland?"
There were tears in Lev Sabat's eyes as he nodded.
' 'God, yes, son of my old friend. Why do you think I've
chosen to come back to die?"
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TEN
The flash was so vivid that after it the interior of the
cottage seemed like a cavern. It was quickly followed by
a crash of thunder directly overhead.
' 'That will have struck somewhere," Dasha said
aloud, and threw another small log on the fire. Even
though the cottage was warm she had not been able to
take the chill from her body all morning.
Spending a sleepless night had not helped. She had
been unable to shut her mind off. Questions had
plagued her brain for which there was no way to secure
answers.
Had they broken Zina Talinka? Were they already
searching for her? And, if so, had she been stupid to let
her heart rule her head and come to hide in Kuybyshev?
And the most haunting question of all: Would the
Americans reply?
The next flash and peal were not so near. When it
died out, she heard footsteps outside, sloshing through
the mud toward the cottage.
Quickly she flattened her body into a dark corner and
held the Tokarev before her in both hands.
She heard the three light raps—the signal—before the
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door opened, but still she held her finger tensed on the
trigger of the Tokarev. Only when Ivan Tollpetzka
slipped inside did she relax.
"One of these times, Dasha Peshkova, you will blow
a hole in my fat belly."
There was a forced lightness in his voice, but his face
was a gloomy mask. She lay the pistol on a sideboard
and crossed to help him out of his heavy coat.
"You are soaked. "
"It is the belly of hell out there."
"I've made tea."
Ivan Tollpetzka watched her pour a mug of the
steaming liquid and then join him at the table.
"It is not good, is it."
"No," he replied, letting the steam rise to warm his
face. "There is no word from the Americans. "
"And your rail route out?"
"l've made inquiries. They will not risk it on such
short notice. "
Dasha dropped her head into her hands. "I will not
let them take me back to Moscow."
A heavy but tender hand dropped to her shoulder. ' 'If
there is no word by morning, I will try by myself to take
you north ... to Finland."
The iow laugh that came from Dasha's throat was
hoarse and raspy. "That would truly be *Yicide, Ivan
Ivanovitch."
He shrugged. "So would staying here ... now
Carter felt wretched when he climbed out of bed the
following morning. His tongue was furred, his head
ached, and his stomach was boiling.
A cold-hot-cold shower helped somewhat, so he was
nearly clear-headed by the time he hit the dining room.
Lev Sabat was already there, wolfing down a huge
breakfast.
Carter was alert to notice the other man's barely per-
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ceptible nod as he tapped the small vase of flowers in the
center of the table. Sabat had already located the micro-
phone. The gesture was significant.
Use Italian, Sabat was saying, even though I speak
only a few words.
"Buon giorno," Carter said. "Howe went your eve-
"Eccellente, il mio amico. Eccellente," Sabat replied.
"I slept like a newborn babe. "
Carter could only handle some black bread, cheese,
and coffee.
His head cleared completely and his spirits went up
four full notches when Oleg Sykaya joined him. The
man looked as if he had been dug out of the ground. He
did little more than mumble "Good morning," and
went no further than tea.
Thankfully, Carter had a few minutes alone with
Sabat outside while Sykaya got the car.
In precise, clipped sentences the old man reiterated
the previous night's conversation.
"So far so good," Carter said. "Here he comes."
They arrived at the Pregov munitions factory pre-
cisely on the hour. The ever-present KGB representative
escorted them on the tour along with the Czech man-
ager.
Carter played the game, now and then commenting to
Sabat in Italian. The man's gibberish answers twice
brought a smile to Carter's face. The old man was en-
joying himself.
"You go now to Sverdlovsk?" the KGB man asked as
he walked them back to the car.
"Yes," Carter replied, shaking the man's hand
warmly. "And after this morning I'm sure I'll find
•everything there I need. "
The man was positively jovial as he waved after them.
The proof that their papers were gold came at the
Chop frontier post. They were smartly saluted and
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passed through immediately.
They were ten minutes into Russia, and Sykaya sug-
gested they stop for lunch.
"How long do you think into Saratov?"
The man shrugged. ' 'Nine, maybe ten hours. Why?"
"I think that would be a good place to stop for the
night. "
"Fine. With the KGB identification on the car I can
make it faster if you like."
"No, no need," Carter said. "That looks like a good
place for lunch up there. "
They parked in a small square. The village was no dif-
ferent than any of a thousand others all over the vast ex-'
panse of Russia.
Old women in their babushkas were everywhere,
sweeping the streets with straw brooms. Young, rosy-
cheeked girls carried baskets stocked with potatoes and
bread.
To their left, in front of the largest building, stood a
group of soldiers, automatic weapons slung over their
shoulders.
Inside the small café, Sabat led the way to a table by
the window. As usual,. it was nearly five minutes before
a heavyset, sleepy-eyed woman came their way with tea
and menus. Also as usual, the huge menu was fiction.
Out of thirty or more "Midday Specials," only two
were available.
They left their order to her discretion and Sykaya ex-
cused himself for the toilet.
The Killmaster lit a cigarette and noticed Sabat. The
old man's face was pressed to the glass and his eyes were
watery.
"Anything wrong?" Carter asked in a low voice.
"No," Sabat replied, keeping his gaze on the street
and letting a sad but warm smile crease his lips. ' 'It s
just my Russian soul showing."
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Piotr Illyich Nikolsky burst into his superior's office
without knocking. We have a name, Comrade Colo-
nel!"
3' The drugs worked? "
"Who is it?" Delenin asked, his knuckles white where
his hands gripped the arms of his chair.
"Colonel Dasha Koneva. "
"Damn," Delenin growled, his hand darting to the
telephone.
s 'I have already checked her office. She checked off
the in-duty roster the day before yesterday."
"Her apartment?" Delenin barked, forsaking the
phone for the time being and switching on his desk-top
computer.
"A team is on the way there now."
In seconds Delenin had brought up Dasha Koneva's
duty sheet.
"She is in Minsk, speaking this evening at the officers
candidate school.
Nikolsky was already on the phone. There were three
VIP hotels in Minsk. He found her listed in the second,
and passed the phone to Delenin.
"You have a Colonel Dasha Kovena staying there?"
"Da, she is in room three-oh-seven. But there is a red
'Do not Disturb' on her card. "
' 'This is head of Moscow Security, Colonel Alek-
sandr Delenin. "
The clerk's voice suddenly became alert. "What shall
I do, Comrade Colonel?"
"You have a KGB rezident?"
"Da, two, comrade. They are right here in the
lobby.
"Get them up to Koneva's room at once. I want her
arrested and held. "
"Da, Comrade Colonel, one moment."
Delenin drummed his fingers on the desk. He lit a
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small cigar, and in seconds had a halo of smoke swirling
around his head.
It was nearly fifteen minutes before a new voice came
on the line.
"Comrade Colonel Delenin?"
' 'This is Lieutenant Bashikov, Minsk Center."
"Yes, yes, have you arrested her?"
"No, Comrade Colonel, the room was empty. Her
bags were there, unpacked. Colonel Koneva has been
secluded in her room since her arrival."
"Damnt" Delenin hissed. "Listen, Lieutenant, I
want you to inform Minsk Center to seal off the entire
city. I want that woman found!"
"Da, Comrade Colonel. Wait, my assistant has
found a train stub carbon in the wastepaper basket .. ."
"The destination?"
"Tallinn, Comrade Colonel."
Delenin's eyes shifted to the huge map of Russia on a
nearby wali. "Was there anything else in the waste-
basket?
There was a mumbled conversation on the other end
and Bashikov's voice came back on. "No, Comrade
Colonel, just the carbon slip."
','I see."
' 'Do you still want an alert here?"
"Yes, and report back directly to me!"
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
Delenin dropped the phone back on its cradle and
moved to the map. "They found her bags, but she was
not in the room."
' 'It is late," Nikolsky replied. "Perhaps she has al-
ready left for the school. "
Delenin's brows formed a bushy vee in the center of
his broad forehead and his eyes became slits as he stared
coldly at the map. "I don't think so. I do not think she
has been in Minsk for the past forty-eight hours. They
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found the carbon of a train receipt in a wastebasket."
"To where?"
"North to Tallinn, here on the Baltic. t'
The aide stepped to the map, and immediately sucked
in his breath sharply. "That's directly across from Hel-
sinki. She's heading for Finland!"
Delenin worried his cigar for a full minute. Suddenly
he smiled. "I'm not so sure. I think perhaps our bird
may have flown south to the Black Sea, or perhaps even
to the east. It would fit."
"I'll alert all the posts anyway. "
"Yes, Nikolsky, do that. And get me her complete
dossier . . . background, education, childhood, every-
"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
"And, Nikolsky .. ."
"The Talinka woman. "
'S The accident has been arranged for this evening,
Comrade Colonel, on the Tula road. The Turkish em-
bassy will be notified of her unfortunate demise tomor-
row morning. The 'Most Secret' order is on your desk."
Delenin nodded and waved the man out. With a sigh,
he sat at his desk and picked up a pen.
No matter how hard he tried he could not keep his
hand from shaking as he signed the order for Zina
Talinka's "accidental" death.
"We're getting close to Saratov now," Sykaya
growled from the front seat. "We will stop there."
Both Carter and Sabat had been complaining that
they needed a stop for the last twenty miles. Sykaya had
told them repeatedly, and rightly so, that it was danger-
ous to stop on the narrow road at night.
"There!" Carter suddenly cried. "There is a side
road. Pull off there!"
He had seen the sign two hundred yards back, warn-
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ing drivers of large trucks entering the road from the ce-
ment plant.
"Damn, can't it wait a few more minutes?" Sykaya
asked.
"No," Carter rasped, "my comrade Carpesi is in
pain. Pull in here. You can stop behind that cement
plant."
Cursing, Sykaya wheeled the big car up the narrow
lane. It opened onto a large, well-lit parking area.
'CNo," Carter said, "not here. Over there, in the
shadows." He laughed shortly. "My friend is shy."
"Shit," the driver mumbled, but the Ziv lurched for-
ward.
Near the building in semidarkness, he rocked the car
to a halt and clicked open the automatic door locks.
Carter waited until Lev Sabat had exited the car. The
moment the door closed, extinguishing the light, he
flipped the catch on his belt buckle. The buckle disen-
gaged. He pulled, and three feet of tempered piano wire
slipped from the leather.
"Don't you have to go?" Sykaya asked.
"l can wait," Carter said, leaning forward as he
wound the two ends of the wire garrote around his
gloved hands.
"Well, 1 might as well."
Carter quickly jammed his hands into his lap as the
door opened and the interior of the car was flooded with
light.
He could feel a sudden burst of sweat in the center of
his back as he watched the KGB man disappear into the
shadows.
A million questions seemed to shoot through his mind
in seconds.
Would Lev Sabat's contact, Yurlie Timofey, think
Sykaya was him and show himself?
Would Sykaya spot the van and wonder what it was
doing there at such a late hour?
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Would the KGB man with his suspicious mind won-
der where the plant's night watchman was?
Carter slipped from the car. 'He lit a cigarette and,
leaving it dangling from the corner of his mouth, leaned
casually against the front fender. Carefully he re-
wrapped the garrote and then folded his arms over his
chest with his hands in his armpits.
He didn't have long to wait.
The two of them emerged from the shadows at the
same time, Sabat with a puzzled frown on his face.
"Oleg "
. .. Carter murmured.
"Better check this tire," the Killmaster said, rapping
his heel against the tire. c 'I think it is low."
"I checked everything when we filled with petrol at
the frontier."
Carter shrugged and moved a few steps from the car.
"Suit yourself, but I think it's going flat."
"Very well."
Pulling a penlight from his jacket pocket, Sykaya
dropped to one knee. The light snapped on just as Car-
ter dropped the piano wire over his head.
"What. . .
He was quick. He managed to get two fingers between
his throat and the wire.
But the Killmaster was quicker and much stronger.
He planted a knee in the middle of the man's back and
yanked.
There was a scream that quickly died to a gargle as the
wire bit sharply.
It took only seconds.
"Is he
"Yes, he is," Carter said, dropping the body and
turning to a grinning Sabat.
'S You are efficient, my friend, very efficient." He
turned and whispered into the darkness. "Yurlie, are
you there? Yurlie Timofey!"
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A tall, lean man with heavy, brooding features mate-
rialized from the shadows. He held a Tokarev pistol in
each hand.
"l had him covered all the time he was pissing, but
without a silencer I didn't want to shoot unless I had to.
Nicholas Carter? "
' 'Yes."
"Welcome to Russia. I am your guide, Yurlie Timo-
fey. This one is yours." The man's grin was almost evil
as he handed Carter one of the pistols.
"The van?"
"This way," the big man replied. "Grab that end!"
Together they carried the body around the building.
The van was parked under the overhang of a loading
dock. Carter could barely make out a figure behind the
wheel.
Unceremoniously they dumped the KGB agent's body
into the van and Timofey slammed and locked the rear
doors. He slapped them twice and the engine roared to
life.
Seconds later the van was speeding away.
"His clothes and possessions will be burned. His
body will never be found."
Carter nodded. "Is there a watchman?'"
"Yes, but he's passed out from drink. He is every
night. That is why I chose this place."
"Were you able to get all your identification in
order?"
The man tapped his breast pocket and smiled. "I
always wondered what it felt like to be KGB."
"Do you know the village of Obersk, on the lake of
"l could find it in my sleep."
"Then let's go," Carter said. "That's our next stop! 'i
It had been several hours since the evening meal, and
neither had spoken more than a word or two. In a few
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minutes Ivan Tollpetzka would put on his heavy coat
and fur hat and go out for the last time. He would walk
to the train station and meet his contact.
Then they would know. Were the Americans coming?
If they were not, Dasha Konova had already made up
her mind what to do. She would not wait until dawn and
strike out with Ivan. She had come too far to risk an-
other life to save her own.
She would steal away in the night, alone, if there were
no instructions from the Americans.
"You are pensive, Dasha. Or is it indigestion? I know
my cooking is terrible. "
"Neither, my friend," she said, smiling warmly at the
man sitting across from her. "I am ... thinking about
my childhood. Will you go now?"
"Yes,"
the giant replied, hauling himself from the
chair.
He had barely reached the wall peg where his coat was
hung when they both heard a scratching sound at the
door. It galvanized them as one.
A knife with a long curved blade appeared from no-
where in Tollpetzka's hand. The Tokarev was out of its
hiding place and held steady in both her hands.
"Yes, who is it?"
"It is I, Aleksei Malonovitch," came a whispered
voice from the other side of the door.
g 'I've come to
warn you if it's you they are after. "
"Who?" Tollpetzka hissed.
"KGB, two and a driver in an official car. They have
already crossed the bridge and are headed this way.
They will be here in five, maybe ten minutes at the most.
Do you want help, Ivan Ivanovitch?"
He turned. Dasha shook her head. "I have involved
too many already, " she whispered.
He turned back to the door. "No, Aleksei Malono-
vitch, but I thank you."
"Go with God, Ivan Ivanovitch."
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They heard his footsteps crunching over the light
crust of snow, then silence.
"Can I run?" Dasha murmured.
"No. If they are over the bridge, it is already too late
for that. The box. Quickly, the brooms!"
Both of them grabbed heavy straw brooms and fever-
ishly began sweeping at a section of the dirt floor.
Dasha had been told about the box, but as yet had not
seen or had to use it.
Finally the lid was uncovered and Tollpetzka yanked
it up.
"Quickly, inside! The glass tube there, poke it
through the lid in the opening as I close it. Stop pushing
when you feel the pressure of my finger. I will arrange
the dirt around it. "
She folded herself into a fetal position on her right
side. An average-size or petite woman would have had
no trouble. Dasha had to practically bring her knees up
to her chin to fit.
"Ivan Ivanovitch .. ."
"If this doesn't work, thank you."
He shrugged and chuckled. '61f this doesn't work,
perhaps we'll meet again in the darkness."
She pushed the glass tube through the hole as the lid
came down, and stopped when she felt pressure. Fora
brief second she felt panic as the darkness engulfed her.
And then the hurried sounds from. above occupied her
mind.
She heard the swish of the broom. And then the tiny
shaft of light that had seeped through a crack in the lid
was obliterated.
There was the steady thump of Tollpetzka's big boots
as he packed the earth. And then there was a solid thud
as the heavy table was placed on the floor directly over
her.
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Silence. An eerie, almost deathly otherworldly si-
lence.
What if they didn't even search for her? What if they
just took Ivan Tollpetzka away?
She had prepared herself to die, but not to be buried
alive. She would never be able to lift the heavy lid, the
dirt, and the table.
She could hear her own breathing, and stopped.
Could they hear it above?
Her lungs felt as though they were about to explode.
She had to breathe.
How long had it been? It must be much more than ten
minutes.
Were they above her? What were they doing?
And then she heard it.
The table was being dragged away. The brooms, she
heard the brooms. And something else ....
Digging. They were using something else to dig away
the dirt.
Dasha began breathing heavily through the tube as
she flipped the safety off the Tokarev and aimed the
pistol at the lid.
She heard a scraping sound. The lid was being lifted.
The light streamed into her eyes and for a millisecond
she blinked.
In that instant a strong hand gripped her wrist. She
started to fire, but stopped just as she heard Ivan Toll-
petzka's voice.
"It's all right, Dasha, it's all right! The Ameri-
cans
She blinked her eyes open and the face materialized
above hers.
"Na zdorov'e, Dasha Peshkova. You'll hurt my ego
no end if you don't remember. The name is Carter ...
Nick Carter."
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ELEVEN
"Her car was found at the train station in Minsk,
Comrade Colonel. "
Aleksandr Delenin looked up from the mound of
papers and computer printouts that lay across his desk.
For the last four hours he had been piecing the days
of Dasha Koneva's life together like the parts of a puz-
zle. In the last half hour a pattern had emerged.
The woman had been clever in her espionage ac-
tivities. Extremely clever. Had not Zina Talinka made
her fatal error, it might have been another two years
before they would have discovered the spy on their very
doorstep.
With the shrewd mind and the experience of a learned
detective, Delenin had discovered a great deal of fact,
and made more assumptions.
The loss of the assassin, Balistronov, in Turkey had
been the beginning. The man had once been Koneva's
husband. From his reports and memos it was obvious
that Balistronov had—probably because of their past re-
lationship—told her more thanhe should have.
The pattern of leaks continued in Turkey, and then in
the USSR itself after her return to Moscow.
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Since that time she had almost been tripped up twice.
But both times she had cleverly switched the blame to
someone else. In both cases, that someone had disap-
peared or taken his own life.
"The train station and airports?" Delenin asked.
"Covered completely," Piotr Illyich Nikolsky re-
plied. "And every attendant and conductor on every
train has been alerted."
Delenin rubbed his temples and commanded yet more
from his weary brain.
"If she is moving, she is sure to be spotted," he said.
"If she has gone to ground, she must have help."
"We have set up checkpoints on all roads out of Mos-
cow. There is no way—
"Ahi Piotr Illyich, do you think she went to Minsk
only to return to Moscow?"
"Perhaps, Comrade Colonel, to throw us—
"No,'t Delenin growled, moving to the huge wall
map. "She is not in a large city. I feel it. If she is mov-
ingi she is heading east or south. If she is stationary, she
is somewhere among the peasants who are too busy with
their own lives to notice her. What does our region head
in Kuybyshev say?"
"Nothing. The city has been searched practically
house by house. Informers have been interrogated and
all known dissidents have also been brought in for ques-
tioning. "
"What about here, this village?"
Nikolsky squinted his eyes to see the tiny dot on the
map across the lake from Kuybyshev. ' 'Obersk?"
"I assume the Kuybyshev rezident—
"Never assume anything, Nikolsky! The woman
spent her childhood in Obersk."
"But, Comrade Colonel, so many years ago—"
"Do not assume! I want the village searched and
every man, woman, and child in it interrogated."
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"Da, Comrade Colonel. "
137
Nikolsky moved toward the door shaking his head,
his forehead wrinkled in a perplexed frown. His supe-
rior saw it and stopped him.
"Nikolsky . . e"
' 'Comrade Colonel? "
"You are Russian, are you not, down to the last bit of
blood in your body?"
' 'Of course. "
"If you were dying, Piotr Illyich, what would you like
to see before death claimed you?"
"The plains of Irkutsk, with the summer snows on
the mountains of Mongolia in the distance. i'
"You grew up in Irkutsk, didn't you?"
"Da, Comrade Colonel," he replied, the frown dis-
appearing.
"Dasha Koneva is trying to leave mother Russia.
When she does, a little of her soul will die at the parting.
Search the village of Obersk„ Piotr Illyichi and do it
In two hours it would be dawn. But now, as they
slipped from the cottage, the darkness was Stygian.
They moved in single file through the narrow streets,
with Tollpetzka leading the way. At the car he halted,
turning to the woman.
"They will come, Dasha Peshkova, as sure as the sun
will soon rise. But as sure as it will set again, they will
learn nothing. "
"Bless you, Ivan Ivanovitch," Dasha replied, and
kissed the giant on both cheeks.
And then they were in the Ziv, flying around the lake
and back to the main highway. that would&ke them
north and east toward Sverdlovsk.
"At first light we'll have to move you to the trunk,
Dasha," Carter said. "We've made a makeshift bed for
you. "
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