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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
PLOT FOR TRE FOURTH REICH
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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
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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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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-
PLOT FOR THE FOURTH RETCH
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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.