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  CHAPTER ONE
  A beam of late-morning sunlight sliced through the
  dusty skylight and glinted with the brightness of a mag-
  nesium flare off the polished steel hilt of the saber. An
  old trick, sure—it was supposed to blind me. It did. I
  jumped quick as a cat to the left and landed in a
  spring-crouch position with my own long blade pointed
  up and ready.
  Even before my feet hit the floor, I heard a nasty
  swish as my opponent's sword made a dotted line
  through the air where my neck had been a second be-
  fore.
  "Hey!" I said, very loudly. It might have sounded
  like a yelp of protest. We weren't supposed to be play-
  ing for keeps.
  I backed up—a long way back, if you want to know
  the truth. That's strictly bad form in competition fenc-
  ing, where the object is to stay within a lunge's reach
  of your opponent. Then Chris Howard blew the silver
  whistle he wore on a chain around his neck and
  stepped between us. My kill-happy adversary lowered
  the point of her sword to the ground and tore her mask
  off in a hurry.
  Chris had a big grin on his ugly face as he squattéd
  down to have a look at me to make sure there was no
  damage. "Dammit, Nick," he said, "I'll bet that's not
  the first woman who's been aching for the chance to do
  that to you." Then I was grinning too.
  The whole thing had started two weeks before with
  a phone call from my boss, David Hawk, in Washing-
  ton. I was at AXE's New York City Operations HQ on
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  en was gnnntng too.
  a o you.
  The whole thing had started two weeks before with
  a phone call from my boss, David Hawk, in Washing-
  ton. I was at AXE's New York City Operations HQ on
  16
  15
  NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
  Columbus Circle at the time, going through a two-foot
  stack of old files. They wanted me to double-check the
  information in them before it was all fed into a shiny
  new computer that would print out dossiers for us as
  they were needed, cross-filing and retrieving a lot of
  relevant data currently scattered under too many differ-
  ent headings. Hawk's call had come in late in the after-
  noon over the scrambler phone, but the resident agent
  in charge must have been warned about it beforehand.
  "Take it easy," he said. "This one's low priority."
  If i had known how low, I would never have picked
  up the phone. After a brief exchange of pleasantries,
  Hawk got right down to business and explained in
  careful detail what he expected me to do.
  "Just tell me one thing," were my first words.
  "Which one of the bright boys in the office thought this
  crazy scheme up?"
  "Never mind," Hawk answered, a little huffily. "l
  approved it." There was a pause at his end while he
  held a match to one of his smelly cigars and puffed
  away. "A little exercise won't do you any harm," he
  went on. "We can't have your dissolute life-style letting
  you go soft op us."
  My unspoken response was, "Balls to you," but
  when I opened my mouth it came out as, "If you say
  so, sir." Something in my tone of voice must have
  given me away.
  "Okay, N3, Ill level with you." He sounded more
  amused than annoyed now. "You know that AXE is a
  top-secret outfit and all, but in many ways we're abso-
  lutely no different from any other government agency.
  Which means we work on a budget."
  That was true enough. I didn't know much about ex-
  actly how AXF fit in with the machinery of Uncle
  Sam's bureaucracy. Officially, only the President and
  certain selected members of the National Security
  Council were authorized to know exactly what we were
  up to, and most of the time they preferred to look the
  other way. We had liaison personnel too with the FBI
  
  
  
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  PLOT FOR THE FOURTH RETCH
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  iments consisted of doing the strong-arm work to pull
  *heir cookies out of the oven. But where the money
  ±omes from and how it's accounted for to the taxpayers
  Swas something I had never been briefed on.
  "All in all," Hawk said, "we've had a pretty quiet
  year. Maybe not so quiet for you and a couple other of
  our top men in the field, but compared to some others
  could think of, things have been fairly smooth for us.
  The Russians don't want to spoil détente by getting in-
  Volved in any provocation that could backfire on them,
  land the Chinese seem to be having troubles at home. It
  n't last, of course, and that's where the hitch comes
  Any government agency that ends up with money
  eft over in the till at the end of the year is rewarded
  y having their budget cut for the next year."
  I was beginning to catch on. "So this Physical Con-
  itioning and Combat Training Department was
  cooked up as a convenient way to spend a lot of money
  in a hurry so you can plead empty pockets to whoever
  ands out the green stuff."
  "Basically, that's it," Hawk replied, "though I
  Wouldn't tell you this on an open line."
  I was about to ask Hawk why he couldn't have just
  floated a big pay raise for everyone, but thought better
  pf it. I admired the old boy's caginess and reluctantly
  agreed that it was necessary that agent participation be
  mandatory. He gave me some more details about the
  Setup and suggested that report the next morning to
  the Hudson Street address they had fixed up as a sort
  Of summer camp for secret agents.
  Actually, it wasn't as bad as I had thought it would
  I was surprised and glad to find that they had put
  ris Howard in charge. Chris was an old buddy. He'd
  en a damned good agent, under consideration for
  romotion to Killmaster status, until a burst of auto-
  tic fire from a Russian AKM assault rifle tore off
  e right arm he was using to lower himself from a
  rgo-loading winch in Varna dockyards, Bulgaria, He
  eemed pleased to get away from paperwork and proud
  f the facility he supervised and had helped design.
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  NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
  It was in an old warehouse building a few blocks u
  town from the World Trade Center complex. Th
  cover looked all right to me; trucks rolled up to th
  
  
  
  
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  NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER
  It was in an old warehouse building a few blocks u
  town from the World Trade Center complex. Th
  cover looked all right to me; trucks rolled up to th
  loading platform in back regularly, and a bored-lookin
  work crew was moving bulky crates and carto
  around on hand trolleys. They had knocked the floo
  out from between the two upper stories to install
  navy training tank filled with murky water wher
  agents could practice the tricky and underappreciate
  art of underwater close combat. Thin hard mats fo
  judo and aikido bouts were scattered close to the walls
  In the middle of the floor space was something like a
  circus ring strewn with sawdust where I was going t
  work out with the sabers. That's where I met th
  young lady who came very close to lopping my hea
  off with one of them.
  "Nick, this is Miss Boyer," Chris said. No first
  name, no familiarity. "She's going to give you a
  pointers about waggling these things around. She'
  good. So good you're not going to believe it."
  She smiled at the compliment. Miss Boyer was ta!
  and leggy, with long russet-colored hair fastened bef
  hind her head in twin pony tails. The light tunic-and.
  tights outfit she was wearing didn't leave much of he
  body a secret. Aside from her more obvious delights t
  the eye, I didn't overlook her businesslike right arm.
  was taught and rippled with fine muscles like a tennil
  pro's. If saber fencing was really her kick, she certainl)
  was keeping in good practice. So much the better.
  She gave me a cool, superior look, sizing me up
  There was nothing friendly or very feminine in hei
  voice when she said simply, "Let's get started then."
  The first ten days were all instruction. I had ha
  some experience with the épée before, but these heavy
  badly balanced cutting tools were new to me. I didn'
  particularly like them and doubted that I would eve
  have a chance to use them in a for-real encounter. Thi
  idea, in any case, was to develop general skill anc
  coordination with a deliberately unfamiliar weapon.
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  my line of work there's no telling who or what you'll
  find yourself up against next week.
  
  
  
  
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  my line of work there's no telling who or what you'll
  find yourself up against next week.
  She was as fast, lithe, and ferocious as a panther.
  Clumsily slashing away like Basil Rathbone going after
  Errol Flynn atop the castle battlements, I was hardly a
  match for her at all. As I got used to the sword and
  switched more and more to the offensive, I still felt
  sure that she was playing a game with me, effortlessly
  parrying my awkward lunges but decling to follow up
  with an easy riposte. I had no trouble imagining the
  tight little smile of satisfaction hidden beneath her
  mask when she finally decided that I had been given
  enough leash and began a flurry of blinding attacks en
  ft?che, drawing me out with spectacular feints that wore
  t through my guard in minutes.
  Each of us was bundled up in lightweight mesh body
  armor strong enough to flatten a small-caliber bullet.
  This was a brand-new AXE gimmick dreamed up by
  the boys in the Special Effects department. We were
  testing it out for them using real, unblunted sabers,
  British light-cavalry issue, circa 1880. Even with the
  flexible armor on, the smarting impact of her slashes
  left black-and-blue marks across my ribs and shoul-
  ders.
  That morning's bout had been long and arduous. I
  was sweating like a pig inside my long-sleeved plastron
  and knew that she •must be just as uncomfortable in
  hers. I was playing well, stubbornly refusing to yield
  ground to her onslaught. decided to try out a new
  tactic. Feigning carelessness, slackening my pace, and
  missing a couple of easy stop-hits, I let her think I was
  tiring out, my arm going stiff. Immediately she ad-
  vanced to attack, and I checked her lunge with an
  abrupt prise de fer, an envelopment of the weak part of
  her blade that nearly caught her off-balance. She
  slithered out of that one okay, but I think the clever-
  ness of what I had almost got away with shook her up
  a little. When she snapped back on guard, I could see
  she was hellbent on teaching me a lesson.
  Our blades clanged savagely together. She closed in
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  MCK CARTER: KTLLMASTER
  on my left and swung in a wide overhand arc from
  forehead level downward. I caught it on the flat of my
  
  
  
  
  
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  NICK CARTER: KTLLMASTER
  on my left and swung in a wide overhand arc from
  forehead level downward. I caught it on the flat of my
  blade, blocking with all my strength, nearly knocking
  the saber from her hand. The speed of her recovery
  must have caused her to wrench her arm socket pain-
  fully, but she did it; and in a second the blade was low
  again, and she had caught the sunlight on her hilt and
  angled it right in my eyes.
  I jumped; she missed; the game was over.
  So there I was on the floor, waiting for my breath to
  come back. Chris helped me get back to my feet. She
  came over to me then, with moisture showing in the
  corners of her eyes.
  "Please, I'm sorry," she said. The voice was a
  little girl's. "I didn't mean that. I might have killed
  you. I—I don't know why .. ."
  I said, "Forget it. That's the kind of thing I'm used
  to. Jf you hadn't missed it would have served me
  right."
  Chris held the discarded headpiece to his chest with
  his good arm, looking carefully along the bottom.
  ' 'There's a good inch and a half here where the chain
  mail hangs loose so you can turn your neck. If the edge
  of the Hade was coming straight on, parallel with
  the floor, I guess you'd get it for sure. Far enough in to
  sever an artery, anyway."
  "Send it back to the mad scientists in Washington
  and have them redesign it and get it right. They can fix
  up a higher collar or something to cover it."
  The penitent Miss Boyer was looking at me as if she
  wanted to say something but didn't know whether she
  should. I grinned and said, ' 'Okay, it's over now. We'll
  try it again tomorrow with the blunted edges. Let's
  have a shower, and then how about coming out to!
  lunch with me?"
  In the two weeks we had known each other, there/
  hadn't been much time for socializing. Nor had she aps
  peared anxious to extend our acquaintance outside ot
  working hours. I had let it drop. Actually, my free time
  was taken up with a young lady I knew, a dancer wh
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  had a minor part in the major off-Broadway hit of the
  
  
  
  
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  had a minor part in the major off-Broadway hit of the
  season.
  My invitation brightened Miss Boyer up. "That
  would be fine," she said, but she didn't sound quite
  sure it would be. could be ready in half an hour."
  But later, when I came out of the shower, I saw
  Chris waiting to intercept me. "Something's come in
  for you. Better give the offce a call."
  I dressed quickly and dialed the number of Amalga-
  mated Press and Wire Services from a pay phone in
  the canteen area. The phone was answered by a female
  voice that I couldn't quite place.
  "Oh, Mr. Carter. I have a message for you. Mr.
  Merlin is in town and would like you to join him for
  lunch if you possibly can."
  A merlin, in case you don't happen to know, is a
  kind of hawk.
  "I'll be glad to. Where will he be? The usual place?"
  "No, sir. He said .. ."
  She hesitated for a few
  onds as if checking. "He said the beanery. At one-
  thirty."
  I looked down at my watch. It was ten after already.
  "Right. I'm on my way over there right now."
  I put the phone back on its cradle and went over to
  the lockers to dig out my jacket. On my way out I said,
  "Tell Miss Boyer I said sorry, and I'll be in touch later
  -on."
  Chris nodded. He knew better than to ask useless
  questions.
  Marcel d'Aulignac would probably be very upset to
  find out that in plain-talk code, his transplanted bistro,
  Le Muguet, was called simply "the beanery." The des-
  ignation came from Marcel's justly renowned specialty
  of the house, the famous cassoulet of white beans,
  pork, goose, mutton, and vegetables from his native
  Toulouse. Hawk was generally a straight steak-and-po-
  tatoes man, like myself, but there was more than the
  food to recommend Marcel's place to us. Marcel had
  served in the clandestine directorate of the Resistance
  during World War II and had worked with Hawk on
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  NICK CARTER: KILT-MASTER
  
  
  ГЛАВА ПЕРВАЯ
  
  Луч позднего утреннего солнца прорезал запыленный световой фонарь на крыше и сверкнул на полированной стальной гарде сабли яркостью магниевой вспышки. Старый трюк, конечно — меня попытались ослепить. И это сработало. Я прыгнул влево, быстро как кошка, и приземлился в низкой стойке, направив свой длинный клинок вверх.
  
  Еще до того, как мои ноги коснулись пола, я услышал свист — клинок противника прочертил в воздухе пунктирную линию там, где секунду назад была моя шея.
  
  — Эй! — крикнул я во весь голос. Это прозвучало как вопль протеста. Мы не должны были сражаться насмерть.
  
  Я отступил — и отступил далеко, если честно. В спортивном фехтовании это считается дурным тоном: там нужно оставаться на расстоянии выпада. Крис Ховард дунул в серебряный свисток на цепочке и встал между нами. Моя кровожадная противница опустила острие сабли и поспешно сорвала маску.
  
  На уродливом лице Криса сияла широкая ухмылка, пока он приседал рядом, проверяя, цел ли я. — Черт возьми, Ник, — сказал он. — Готов поспорить, это не первая женщина, которая мечтает проделать с тобой такое. Тут уж и я заулыбался.
  
  Все началось две недели назад со звонка моего босса, Дэвида Хоука, из Вашингтона. В то время я находился в штаб-квартире оперативного управления AXE в Нью-Йорке на площади Колумбуса, разгребая двухфутовую стопку старых досье. Им нужно было, чтобы я перепроверил информацию, прежде чем её скормят новенькому блестящему компьютеру.
  
  — Полегче, — сказал Хоук по зашифрованной линии. — У этого задания низкий приоритет.
  
  Если бы я знал, насколько «низкий», я бы вообще не брал трубку. Хоук объяснил, чего он от меня хочет. — Скажите только одно, — были мои первые слова. — Кому из умников в офисе пришла в голову эта безумная затея? — Неважно, — фыркнул Хоук. — Я её одобрил. Немного упражнений тебе не повредит. Мы не можем позволить, чтобы твой распутный образ жизни размягчил тебя.
  
  Моим невысказанным ответом было «Пошел ты», но вслух я выдавил: «Как скажете, сэр».
  
  Хоук признался: AXE — сверхсекретная организация, но бюджет у нас не резиновый. Год выдался спокойным: русские не хотят портить разрядку (détente), у китайцев проблемы дома. А в госучреждениях правило такое: если к концу года в кассе остаются деньги, на следующий год бюджет сократят.
  
  — Так значит, этот «Департамент физической подготовки и боевой выучки» был придуман просто как способ быстро потратить кучу денег? — догадался я. — В основном, да, — ответил Хоук.
  
  Так я оказался в старом складском здании неподалеку от Всемирного торгового центра. Там оборудовали тренировочный лагерь для секретных агентов. Руководил им мой старый друг Крис Ховард. Крис был отличным агентом, кандидатом в «Киллмейстеры», пока пуля из русского АКМ в Болгарии не оторвала ему правую руку.
  
  Там, среди матов для дзюдо и бассейнов для подводного боя, я и встретил молодую леди, которая едва не снесла мне голову саблей.
  
  — Ник, это мисс Бойер, — представил её Крис. — Она преподаст тебе пару уроков обращения с этими железками. Она хороша. Настолько, что ты не поверишь.
  
  Мисс Бойер была длинноногой, с рыжевато-коричневыми волосами, собранными в два хвоста. Её облегающий костюм не скрывал достоинств фигуры, но я сразу заметил её правую руку — мускулистую, как у профи-теннисиста. Она была быстрой и свирепой, как пантера. Мы тренировались на настоящих, незатупленных саблях британской кавалерии образца 1880 года, используя новую гибкую броню от AXE. Даже через неё удары оставляли на моих ребрах черные и синие следы.
  
  В то утро она едва не перерезала мне артерию, когда солнечный зайчик от гарды ослепил меня. Крис заметил, что в сетчатой защите есть зазор в полтора дюйма, куда вполне мог пройти клинок.
  
  — Извини, — прошептала мисс Бойер, когда всё закончилось. У неё был голос маленькой девочки. — Я могла убить тебя. Не знаю, что на меня нашло.
  
  Я пригласил её на ланч. Она согласилась, но когда я вышел из душа, Крис сообщил: «Для тебя кое-что пришло. Позвони в офис».
  
  Я набрал номер прикрытия AXE («Amalgamated Press»). — Мистер Картер, — ответила секретарша. — Мистер Мерлин в городе и приглашает вас на ланч.
  
  (Мерлин — это вид сокола, или дербник; своего рода «ястреб». Кодовое имя Хоука).
  
  Ланч был назначен в «Beanery» (в переводе «забегаловка» или «бобовая») — так мы называли ресторанчик «Le Muguet», где Марсель, бывший герой Сопротивления, готовил потрясающее рагу из бобов.
  
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