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  CK
  CARTER@
  Killmaster Spy Chiller
  PLOT FOR THE
  FOURTH REICH
  AWARD
  BOOKS
  
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  PROLOGUE
  Buenos Aires
  Pat Finley stood in front of the old-fashioned dormer
  window, listening.
  His ears strained to make out the distant rumble of
  thunder over the dense, rain-soaked grasslands west of
  the city. Then it stopped, to be replaced by the dull,
  steady spatter of icy rain tearing down at the cobble-
  stone pavement two stories below him.
  Useless to try seeing anything outside. The rain was
  coming down too heavily now, the street too poorly lit.
  A volley of droplets thumped hard against the window
  and finished the last lap of their race to earth coursing
  like veins down the reflections of the two men silhouet-
  ted darkly on the steamed-up glass. With a quiet grunt
  of disappointment, Finley let the heavy curtain swish
  back into place.
  "It's getting pretty filthy out there now," he said.
  The other man nodded. "But we really can't hang
  around here much longer. Really." He drained the
  bubble glass of brandy in his hand and took a deep
  breath to cool his throat. "Jorge will be wanting to
  close up the bar, anyway. It's getting on close to
  eleven."
  Finley studied his watch for a moment, as if to con-
  sider the matter. "I suppose you're right," he said at
  last.
  He was only being polite. The bar would stay open
  for another hour, at least—maybe longer if he asked
  them. He owed the Press Club staff one favor already
  for allowing him and Ross to use this musty former
  
  
  
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  NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
  parlor for their talk. Ross had wanted to keep it pri-
  vate. Now it seemed he was just as determined to leave
  the place, rain or no rain.
  No reason why he shouldn't. Everything was settled
  between them. Still, Finley wanted to find out a few
  more things this evening. The trouble was, most of
  them were absolutely none of his business.
  About the girl, for one thing. She was sitting quietly
  in a leather armchair pulled up close by the fireplace,
  the lower half of her face glazed in a vague, absent smile
  but with her eyes wide-open and alert, tracking Ross's
  nervous movements around the room with a look close
  to hero worship; Poor, frightened little bitch, Finley
  thought. She hardly says a word, doesn't really know
  where she is or what's happening to her. But Ross had
  been smart to bring her along. It was the girl that con-
  vinced him, in the end, to give Ross the go-ahead for
  the dangerous project he had proposed.
  Had Finley made the right decision? In the tense,
  competitive international news business, there's never
  any way of telling until you see the results on your
  desk. During his eight years as Regional Bureau Chief
  for Argentina and Uruguay, Finley had seen a lot of
  shakier decisions pay off in banner, front-page head-
  lines for his agency. And Ross was a good man, an ex-
  perienced news-getter. Young, but not as young as the
  mop of shaggy hair, round, rimless glasses, and thick
  moustache were supposed to make him look. He could
  be trusted.
  It was time to go. Ross placed his empty glass on
  the fireplace mantel and turned to the girl. "If we wait
  any longer, we might as well plan on swimming back to
  the hotel," he told her.
  She got up slowly out of the chair and smoothed a
  couple of wrinkles out of her coarse linen dress. Still
  not saying a word.
  Finley did not mind the opportunity for a final look.
  She was a smallish girl but nicely proportioned; her
  breasts were rounded and ample but not too heavy.
  The dark copper hue of her skin revealed a more or
  
  
  
  
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  She was a smallish girl but nicely proportioned; her
  breasts were rounded and ample but not too heavy.
  The dark copper hue of her skin revealed a more or
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  less typical Caribbean pedigree: Indian and Spanish,
  mixed in wet-martini proportions, with what it used to
  be polite to call a touch of the old tarbrush evident in
  the high cheekbones and wide, smooth lips tinted pale
  coral. Altogether, Finley decided, the racial combina-
  tion gave a nice effect. You'd never find it this far
  south in the hemisphere. Argentina had never needed
  slaves in colonial times and their last Indian had been
  killed off sometime around the end of the last century.
  Together, the three ambled down the carpeted stairs
  and emerged in a long, windowless corridor where the
  faded wallpaper looked about as old as the building it-
  self. A door Off to the right led to the main club area
  and bar. Manuel, on night door duty in the foyer,
  banded Ross and the girl their coats from a large ce-
  darwood closet.
  Finley held out his hand. "How soon can figure on
  hearing from you?"
  "Soon. I don't know. I'll get in touch with Fitch in
  Amsterdam, and he'll pass the word along. Thanks
  again for the tip. I'll probably be filing the story
  through him as well, when the time comes. A direct
  contact from Spain to here might be asking for trou-
  ble."
  "All right. That's up to you." Abruptly, he remem-
  bered the girl, whom Ross was helping with her coat,
  and groped for something to say to her. Something
  nice. "My pleasure meeting you, miss," he began
  weakly. "I hope everything .9'
  She managed a thin, nervous smile. "Thank you,"
  she half-whispered. Like a little child. For Christ's
  sake, thought Finley, all evening yotdd think I was go-
  ing to eat her or something!
  Arms locked together, Ross and the girl made a
  quick dash to the shelter of a nearby delicatessen door-
  way, rain whipping at their faces all the way. The win-
  ter wind off the pampa gave it the force of an explod-
  ing charge of buckshot. Behind them, Finley called,
  "Give me a call from the airport tomorrow!"
  It took them five minutes to get as far as the next
  
  
  
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  She was a smallish girl but nicely proportioned; her
  breasts were rounded and ample but not too heavy.
  The dark copper hue of her skin revealed a more or
  PLOT FOR TRE FOURTH REICH
  9
  less typical Caribbean pedigree: Indian and Spanish,
  mixed in wet-martini proportions, with what it used to
  be polite to call a touch of the old tarbrush evident in
  the high cheekbones and wide, smooth lips tinted pale
  coral. Altogether, Finley decided, the racial combina-
  tion gave a nice effect. You'd never find it this far
  south in the hemisphere. Argentina had never needed
  slaves in colonial times and their last Indian had been
  killed off sometime around the end of the last century.
  Together, the three ambled down the carpeted stairs
  and emerged in a long, windowless corridor where the
  faded wallpaper looked about as old as the building it-
  self. A door Off to the right led to the main club area
  and bar. Manuel, on night door duty in the foyer,
  banded Ross and the girl their coats from a large ce-
  darwood closet.
  Finley held out his hand. "How soon can figure on
  hearing from you?"
  "Soon. I don't know. I'll get in touch with Fitch in
  Amsterdam, and he'll pass the word along. Thanks
  again for the tip. I'll probably be filing the story
  through him as well, when the time comes. A direct
  contact from Spain to here might be asking for trou-
  ble."
  "All right. That's up to you." Abruptly, he remem-
  bered the girl, whom Ross was helping with her coat,
  and groped for something to say to her. Something
  nice. "My pleasure meeting you, miss," he began
  weakly. "I hope everything .9'
  She managed a thin, nervous smile. "Thank you,"
  she half-whispered. Like a little child. For Christ's
  sake, thought Finley, all evening yotdd think I was go-
  ing to eat her or something!
  Arms locked together, Ross and the girl made a
  quick dash to the shelter of a nearby delicatessen door-
  way, rain whipping at their faces all the way. The win-
  ter wind off the pampa gave it the force of an explod-
  ing charge of buckshot. Behind them, Finley called,
  "Give me a call from the airport tomorrow!"
  It took them five minutes to get as far as the next
  
  
  
  
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  ter wind off the pampa gave it the force of an explod-
  ing charge of buckshot. Behind them, Finley called,
  "Give me a call from the airport tomorrow!"
  It took them five minutes to get as far as the next
  10
  NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
  corner and another ten to find a vacant cab. After Ross
  had given the driver the name of their hotel, the Fiat
  sedan sloshed through a curbside puddle in a sharp,
  unsignaled swerve to the left that brought them into a
  maze of twisting side streets. Minutes later, a narrow
  alley running under a stone arcade connecting two sev-
  enteenth-century buildings opened on to the broad Di-
  agonal Norte, the main artery linking the city proper
  with its sprawling network of suburbs. They sped on
  past the floodlit facade of the archbishop's palace fac-
  ing the Plaza de Mayo, near the center of town.
  Ross seemed to recognize the landmark. It seemed,
  too, that the somehow familiar surroundings put him
  more visibly at ease. Not the girl. Huddled silently in
  the back seat, sitting apart from her companion and
  unaware of his presence, she stared at some point in
  space with dark brown eyes.
  Ross edged closer and let his arm fall loosely around
  her shoulder. The girl was startled but tried to cover it
  up.
  "Easy," he told her. "I'm sorry I had to put you
  through that. It wasn't very pleasant for you, I know,
  telling a complete stranger all the dirty details about
  that man and what he did to you."
  She drew a long breath. "You said already that it
  was necessary." There was a trace of an accent in ber
  English, but it seemed like an improvement on the lan-
  guage.
  "It was necessary. We needed the name of the con-
  tact man in Amsterdam, we needed Finley to get the
  details to him on the Telex so he'll expect us, and"—
  he paused—"we needed the money. Now we've got
  them."
  "He asked a lot of questions." Her voice was ac-
  casing.
  "Sure he did. He's a professional journalist, just like
  am, and he knows how to dig deep. It's the same as
  lawyers—were both interested in the facts. Nothing
  personal about it. It's just our business."
  The taxicab drew up in front of the chrome-and-
  
  
  
  
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  our bUSiness.
  The taxicab drew up in front of the chrome-and-
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  glass-sheathed modern hotel. The girl ran under the
  protruding red awning that all the new hotels retained
  as an indication of class and waited while Ross paid
  the driver from a crumpled mixture of change and
  hundred-peso notes in his pocket.
  Jn the elevator going up to their room, the girl was
  the first to speak. "Do you really think this man Finley
  can be trusted?"
  "Oh, he can be trusted, all right. I worked for him
  long enough. He wants to play it cautious, though,
  wanting to pass what we've got on to the Americans or
  the Bogotå police before breaking the story. They
  couldn't do anything. Nobody could. Steyer would be
  tipped off beforehand, and all his men would be clean.
  The bastard could be out on bail the next morning, and
  he'd know for sure we were the ones who set him up."
  "Not us. He'd know it was me." A slight shudder
  ran through her body.
  Fumbling in his coat for the room key, Ross sensed
  the fear that she could no longer contain. "We're in
  this together, remember? And we'll both come out of it
  all right."
  Inside, he switched on the lights and slung his drip-
  ping overcoat onto the back of a chair. He sat down on
  the edge of the bed and pulled open the •drawer of the
  night table, taking out a fresh pack of cigarettes.
  A single thought ran through his mind, over and
  over again. It was far from the first time he had found
  himself thinking it. There's nothing to worry about any
  more. Headlines were the one thing that could be used
  against Steyer, the one thing for which he had no de-
  fense. Exposing his network of hatchet men and couri-
  ers would destroy their cloak of respectability and goad
  the authorities into moving against the top men. No
  bribes, this time. If Steyer got off, everyone would
  know why.
  He shot a quick glance at the lightweight typewriter
  zipped in its canvas traveling case by the dressing table
  and felt eager to get the job started. That part would
  have to wait, though.
  
  
  
  
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  zippe In its canvas trave ng case y thedress ng a e
  and felt eager to get the job started. That part would
  have to wait, though.
  12
  MCK CARTER: KILLMASTER
  Already they'd covered three thousand miles in a
  beeline by car and plane down the continent, and they
  weren't out of danger yet. How much would Steyer
  guess when he found out the girl was missing? No mat-
  ter; tomorrow afternoon they'd be on the Iberia flight
  to Madrid, direct, with a refueling stop in the Azores.
  Steyer's network was immense, but it did not reach
  across the ocean to Europe, thank God. Then they'd
  go by car to a little fishing village on the Costa Blanca,
  where he could get in touch with the agency's Amster-
  dam bUreau and file the story in safety. Satisfied, he
  kicked off his shoes and smoothed down the pillows
  behind him.
  Then he knew that something was wrong. Something
  where? The prickly sensation of fear covered the
  room like a blanket.
  The girl stood silent and motionless in the bathroom
  doonvay, looking inside. He had been only vaguely
  aware that she was going in there. Without turning
  around, she shuffled backward into the room.
  A man followed her. Tallish and broad shouldered,
  he followed the girl into the room with heavy, confi-
  dent steps. In his right hand was a strange, long-
  muzzled pistol trained carefully on the girl's belly.
  There was no expression at all on his face.
  The body reacts, muscle fibers contract and tighten,
  the throat goes dry, adrenalin is rushed into the blood-
  stream an eternity of seconds before the mind can take
  the situation in, evaluate, and coordinate a response.
  Do something! the body says. Move now!
  Ross moved. There was a sharp metallic snap fol-
  lowed by a noise like the popping of a champagne
  cork, and Ross, halfway to a standing position,
  tumbled backward on the bed, arms outflung and
  flailing weakly for a few seconds on the coverlet. A
  gurgled choke of breath drawn agonizingly into his
  lungs came from between his lips an instant later. Con-
  scious only of the searing pain in his chest, he squinted
  at the ceiling in mute incomprehension as the shapes
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  s ups an unstantra
  scious only of the searing pain in his chest, he squinted
  at the ceiling in mute incomprehension as the shapes
  PLOT FOR THE FOURTH REICH
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  and colors of the world around him blurred and faded
  into blackness.
  The gunman cocked the barrel of the air pistol and
  strung it back on the girl in a single practiced motion.
  Softly, with the faintest note of apology in his voice, he
  said, hope I haven't spoiled any plans of yours."
  
  
  
  ПРОЛОГ
  Буэнос-Айрес
  
  Пат Финли стоял у старомодного слухового окна, прислушиваясь.
  
  Он напрягал слух, пытаясь различить далекие раскаты грома над густыми, промокшими от дождя пастбищами к западу от города. Затем гром стих, и его сменил глухой, мерный стук ледяного дождя, обрушивающегося на булыжную мостовую двумя этажами ниже.
  
  Пытаться что-то разглядеть снаружи было бесполезно. Дождь лил слишком сильно, а улица была освещена слишком скудно. Залп капель с силой ударил в окно и завершил свой бег к земле, стекая, словно вены, по отражениям двух мужчин, чей темный силуэт застыл на запотевшем стекле. С тихим разочарованным ворчанием Финли задернул тяжелую штору.
  
  — Там снаружи становится совсем паршиво, — сказал он.
  
  Второй мужчина кивнул. — Но мы действительно не можем больше здесь задерживаться. Правда. — Он осушил бокал бренди и глубоко вдохнул, чтобы охладить горло. — Хорхе в любом случае захочет закрыть бар. Уже около одиннадцати.
  
  Финли взглянул на часы, словно обдумывая это. — Полагаю, вы правы, — сказал он наконец.
  
  Он просто проявлял вежливость. Бар оставался бы открытым еще как минимум час, а если бы он попросил, то и дольше. Он и так был в долгу перед персоналом Пресс-клуба за то, что они позволили ему и Россу использовать эту пыльную бывшую гостиную для разговора. Росс хотел конфиденциальности. Теперь же казалось, что он полон решимости уйти, невзирая на ливень.
  
  Причин оставаться не было. Всё было улажено. И всё же Финли хотелось выяснить этим вечером еще кое-что. Проблема была в том, что большинство этих вещей его абсолютно не касались.
  
  Например, что это за девушка. Она тихо сидела в кожаном кресле у камина; на нижней половине ее лица застыла смутная, отсутствующая улыбка, но глаза были широко открыты и насторожены — она следила за нервными перемещениями Росса по комнате с видом, близким к идолопоклонству. «Бедная напуганная сучка», — подумал Финли. Она почти не говорит ни слова, толком не понимает, где находится и что с ней происходит. Но Росс поступил мудро, взяв её с собой. Именно девушка в конечном итоге убедила Финли дать Россу «зеленый свет» на тот опасный проект, который он предложил.
  
  Правильное ли решение принял Финли? В напряженном, конкурентном бизнесе международных новостей никогда нельзя сказать наверняка, пока не увидишь результат на своем столе. За восемь лет работы руководителем регионального бюро по Аргентине и Уругваю Финли видел, как и куда более сомнительные решения приносили его агентству громкие заголовки на первых полосах. А Росс был хорошим парнем, опытным добытчиком новостей. Молодым, но не настолько, как должен был казаться из-за копны лохматых волос, круглых очков без оправы и густых усов. Ему можно было доверять.
  
  Пришло время уходить. Росс поставил пустой бокал на каминную полку и повернулся к девушке: — Если мы промедлим еще немного, нам придется добираться до отеля вплавь.
  
  Она медленно поднялась с кресла и разгладила пару складок на своем платье из грубого льна. По-прежнему ни слова.
  
  Финли не упустил возможности бросить на нее последний взгляд. Она была невысокой, но ладно скроенной; грудь округлая и полная, но не слишком тяжелая. Темно-медный оттенок кожи выдавал типичную карибскую родословную: смесь индейской и испанской крови в пропорциях «мокрого мартини», с тем, что раньше вежливо называли «каплей дегтя» (прим.: намек на африканские корни), заметной в высоких скулах и широких мягких губах кораллового цвета. В целом, решил Финли, это расовое сочетание давало приятный эффект. Так далеко на юге полушария такого не встретишь. В колониальные времена Аргентина не нуждалась в рабах, а их последний индеец был истреблен где-то в конце прошлого века.
  
  Вместе они спустились по устланной коврами лестнице и вышли в длинный коридор без окон, где выцветшие обои выглядели ровесниками самого здания. Дверь справа вела в основную зону клуба и бар. Мануэль, дежуривший ночью в фойе, подал Россу и девушке их пальто из большого кедрового шкафа.
  
  Финли протянул руку. — Как скоро мне ждать вестей от вас?
  
  — Скоро. Не знаю. Я свяжусь с Фитчем в Амстердаме, а он передаст информацию. Еще раз спасибо за наводку. Вероятно, я буду передавать материал тоже через него, когда придет время. Прямой контакт из Испании сюда может навлечь неприятности.
  
  — Хорошо. Это на ваше усмотрение. — Внезапно он вспомнил о девушке, которой Росс помогал надеть пальто, и попытался подобрать слова. Что-нибудь приятное. — Рад был познакомиться с вами, мисс, — начал он слабо. — Надеюсь, всё...
  
  Она выдавила тонкую, нервную улыбку. — Спасибо, — полушепотом ответила она. Как маленький ребенок. «Ради Христа, — подумал Финли, — весь вечер можно было подумать, что я собираюсь её съесть!»
  
  Сцепив руки, Росс и девушка быстро добежали до укрытия в дверях соседней кулинарии, пока дождь хлестал их по лицам. Зимний ветер с пампы придавал каплям силу разрывающегося заряда дроби. Позади них Финли крикнул: — Позвони мне завтра из аэропорта!
   Им потребовалось пять минут, чтобы добраться до угла, и еще десять, чтобы найти свободное такси.
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