THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-
tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-
lisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An Ace Charter Original.
"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast
Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-
fice.
First Ace Charter Printing July 1981
Published simultaneously in Canada
Manufactured in the United States of America
2468097531
****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******
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THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-
tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-
lisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An Ace Charter Original.
"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast
Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-
fice.
First Ace Charter Printing July 1981
Published simultaneously in Canada
Manufactured in the United States of America
2468097531
****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******
(6 of 260)
110%
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-
tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-
lisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An Ace Charter Original.
"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast
Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-
fice.
First Ace Charter Printing July 1981
Published simultaneously in Canada
Manufactured in the United States of America
2468097531
****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******
(6 of 260)
110%
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-
tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-
lisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An Ace Charter Original.
"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast
Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-
fice.
First Ace Charter Printing July 1981
Published simultaneously in Canada
Manufactured in the United States of America
2468097531
****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******
(6 of 260)
110%
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-
tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-
lisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An Ace Charter Original.
"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast
Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-
fice.
First Ace Charter Printing July 1981
Published simultaneously in Canada
Manufactured in the United States of America
2468097531
PROLOGUE
"Dusan, you have not let me down. They told
me you would refuse to come."
"It's our country I intend not to let down, Josip.
Your bureaucrats and lackeys tell me it is urgent. "
"You are bitter, Dusan. I put you into prison.
You were always loyal, but you strutted around
like a little tin god rubbing our noses in our fail-
ings. If the Stalinists had won, they would have de-
stroyed both you and our freedom."
"They won when you won, my marshal."
' 'For fifty years I have kept our nation strong,
independent—
"And what have you achieved? You are as bad
as they are. Only the face is different ... What do
you want?"
"l ask that you bury your bitterness and act to
save our country. I don't ask your forgiveness."
"Save our country? It's always been your coun-
try. I thought my marshal had already saved his
country."
"Dusan, listen to me. A conspiracy has reached
into the highest circles. They will seize power when
I die. There is a timetable—sabotage, civil unrest,
bloody riots between our many nationalities.
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Chaos. The Red Army will roll over our borders
and—"
"That is fantasy. Your mind is going, Josip.
They would love an excuse to invade us. They have
never forgiven you for taking Yugoslavia out of the
Eastern bloc. But for the moment they have no ex-
cuse."
"They will be invited."
"By whom? No one wants them."
"Do you know Deijer?"
"One of your hand-picked successors?"
"He is one."
"Impossible! Even we dissidents would have a
hard time believing him a traitor."
"Let me explain. He is not KGB, he is a 'con-
trolled one.' There are others at the highest levels.
KGB has used them to place agents everywhere, in
OZNA, the army, the Party They will as-
sassinate the honest patriots and call in the Red
Army to restore order."
"Josip, if you had fought the Stalinists openly,
fairly, this would not have happened. They had no
mass support. You drove them underground with
your phony trials and purges. But I can't believe
Deijer—
"Blackmail."
"Proof, Dusan, proof they collaborated with the
Nazis. The Stalinist group CRML found out a few
years after I threw out the Russians. They've been
working with the KGB to blackmail them for
years."
"Josip, are you sure? How do you know?"
"Eduard."
"Surely not!"
' 'He was one, too, I'm afraid. But he confessed
3
to me. Copies of the documents are still buried in
the mountains. The Nazis had a secret intelligence
post there. Eduard gave me a map. You must get
these papers and publish them. You are the only
one who I can be sure is not one of them. It is up
to you. Gatheryour friends and fight. I will not live
to see the week begin again. "
"I am old, too, Josip. walk strangely. Your
guards laughed when the legs they broke were set
wrong. They also broke my hands. . . .
And my
wife? What about Maria?"
"That wasn't my doing."
"You had her murdered as a warning."
"They exceeded their orders. They were pun-
ished very severely. "
"Did it bring her back! You only made more
widows. Josip, I know you. You do not love our
country as much as your reputation. You will ap-
pear a fool if the Red Army crushes us after you
die. "
"They will kill you and your friends, Dusan."
"I can always flee to the West."
"You won't do that. I know you, Dusan. Here is
a complete pardon. Here is the map. If you do this
I will issue a statement endorsing you and your
friends and commending our country into your
hands."
"Josip, I love our country, but spare me your
phony promises. "
"Dusan, for once be practical! Alone, you and
your intellectual friends have little chance."
"Practical?"
' 'You have Western contacts. Use them. When
the time comes, eliminate them or throw them
out."
"I have no such contacts."
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NICK CARTER
f' You will have to bring them in. Just ask for
'Western technicians.' They'll know what you
mean."
"But I don't know anyone!"
"Go see Andrej. He works for them."
"One standard for your son-in-law, but all oth-
ers are shot."
"Bah! You will never understand, Dusan. You
are a worthless, useless, stiff-backed idealist. Yot
have no practicality."
"It's this useless, worthless idealist you are ask-
ing to save your country."
"Dusan, the Red Army will destroy everything.
The Americans will do anything to keep them from
having Mediterranean ports. Don't try and prove
how hardheaded you are.
"Remember in the mountains when we fought
side by side? You were the one I always had in
mind as my successor. But you are stubborn. If we
don't get help. . . Promise me, Dusan, promise me
I will make my statement."
"We are both old, my marshal. Maybe . . . I am
tired. My idealism runs cooler. It has faded with
time just as . . . I fear I shall be joining you before
the year—
"Your answer, Dusan, your answer!"
"You are answered, Josip."
5
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CHAPTER 1
It was one of those spring days when Washing-
ton looks like the most beautiful city on earth.
There aren't many. It takes a lot of beauty to
overwhelm the odor of power and money that per-
vades the city like an unfragrant fog. It would be
my luck to spend this particular day indoors at
AXE headquarters on Dupont Circle.
It was a day of being poked and prodded, a day
of medical tests to see if the body still functioned,
psychological tests to see if the brain still had its
gearing. It was a day of forms and questionnaires,
arguments about expenses with accountants who
had never even seen the wrong end of a .22, a day
of requisitions and vouchers. They checked every-
thing thoroughly, but what worried them most was
the shoulder and the brain.
I've seen a lot of men take a bullet, and that day
it had been my turn—a .38 slug at point-blank
range in the right shoulder. Nick Carter, AXE
Killmaster, had taken a slug in Nairobi. My life
was never in danger, but my work was. It took four
operations to get that shoulder up to Killmaster
specifications.
They sent me to the doctor in Houston, the one
6
5
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NICK CARTER
who patches up potentates and dictators. He told
me AXE's finest doctors were butchers, but the guy
truly had magic fingers. I watched the operation
from a mirror he had rigged up. The Houston doc-
tor had greasy glasses, and even through his hospi-
tal gown he reeked of expensive Havana cigars. His
idea of operating-room chatter was tales of his sex-
ual conquests. He liked butterball blondes with big
breasts. It didn't take away from his work one bit.
When he got through, the shoulder worked.
They were also worried about the brain. At AXE
they don't call it going nuts, they call it crossing the
line. They are always afraid that one of us might
begin to enjoy the work too much and go into
private practice. Going into private practice hap-
pened in Nairobi, but it wasn't me. I tool: a bullet
from a "friend." *Ihe shrinks thought I'd go nuts
over that. They've never been in the field. If I go
nuts it will be because I have had to put up with
one shrink too many.
I was happier than hell when they finally ushered
me into Hawk's office late in the afternoon. Theo-
retically, it's the managing editor's office of the
Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. But what
my boss, David Hawk, actually does is manage
AXE. There's only one man in the country he re-
ports to.
I wondered what was up. I had "accidentally"
run into one of my language instructors in the
hallway. We just "happened" to strike up a con-
versation in Serbo-Croatian. I figured I was headed
for Yugoslavia, and that didn't seem so bad. Yugo-
slavia has a secret police, OZNA, but compared to
• KGB they are almost sweethearts. Besides, I liked
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
7
7
Yugoslavia. I even liked the marshal, who was not
a bad tyrant as tyrants went. Also, if there is any
language I speak absolutely like a native in four or
five dialects, it is Serbo-Croatian.
Hawk wasn't home. They told me he would be
with me in a•minute. That wasn't like him, but the
office was the same. Everything was exactly where
I remembered it. Even the chair I sat in felt the
same. The office smelled, not faintly, of Hawk's
cheap cigars.-l took out one of my gold mono-
grammed cigarettes and lit up. I hadn't been smok-
ing much lately. Slows the recovery.
When Hawk came in, he looked as wiry and
tough as ever. And I thought then, as I have often
thought: I have never seen a man his age keep him-
self in better shape. But if he looked the same, his
manner was different. Hawk was definitely upset.
He paced back and forth behind his desk like a
father expecting quintuplets. I had seen him wor-
ried during an operation when everything was
going wrong, but I had never seen him this way
before an operation had even begun. He said noth-
ing for a couple of minutes. Then he stopped be-
hind his desk and looked at me coldly.
"Okay, N3, stand up." I got up but I was un-
easy.
"Let's see Hugo." There was some embarrass-
ment in his voice.
Hugo is my stiletto. With a flick of my wrist
Hugo slid out of his sheath on my left arm and into
my hand. As a bonus I pulled back my coat and
showed him Wilhelmina, my 9mm luger, tucked
under my left armpit. I didn't show him Pierre, the
small gas bomb taped to my thigh. But not because
I was shy. I knew why he had asked about Hugo.
8
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NICK CARTER
Hawk figured I could fool the doctors but knew I
would never carry Hugo where I couldn't reach
him quickly, even in AXE's office.
"Okay, N3, sit down." Hawk sat down, too, but
on the edge of his chair, like a kid watching an ad*
venture movie. "You're too damn patriotic for
your own good, N3. I can't send you on this one
with a clipped wing." He paused a minute. "Have
you heard of Dusan Ankevic?"
Ankevic was the Yugoslav dissident who had
once been the marshal's right-hand man. He had
broken with the old man in 1950 over the lack of
human rights, and had been in and out of the
marshal's prisons ever since.
"Yes, sir," I said. "Even read one of his books
once."
"I suppose you're as impressed with this guy as
everyone else. Don't see it myself. Damn plaster
saint, although
Hawk gestured to a cable,
which he placed on his desk.
"Well, he is tough," I said. "They broke his
hands so he couldn't write. He kept writing. Broke
his legs, killed his wife. But I don't think—
"You're going to say they never broke Ankevic.
Am I right?" Hawk interrupted.
I started to reply, but Hawk began again. "He is
a pacifist, right? You seem to know a lot about
him, N3."
"Well, not absolutely nonviolent, but he certain-
ly wouldn't have anything to do with the likes of
us."
Hawk permitted himself a grin, but only for a
moment.
"He just has. He approached a CIA contact in
Belgrade a few days ago and said he needs the help
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
9
9
"That surprises me, sir. He is as rigid about
keeping Yugoslavia out of the hands of the East or
West as the marshal. Are they sure it was actually
Ankevic?"
' 'Ihe Coripäny's contact has known him per-
sonally for years. Ankevic went to the CIA."
"It still surprises me, sir."
"It surprises everyone, N3. It surprises the
Man." My ears pricked up at the mention of the
Man; they're supposed to. It tells me how high up
the matter has gone.
Hawk went on. "Ankevic couldn't just want out,
since he could easily leave. They would be glad to
be rid of him. The answer is obvious, or so they tell
me. The old boy wants to settle a few scores. He
wants somebody killed. What else could 'Western
technician' mean? He doesn't want a computer
programmer, for Christ's sake!"
"That doesn't sound like him, sir."
"Actually, I agree with you, N3. But the bright
boys can't think of anything else. But there is
something else. About a week ago he had a secret
meeting with the Fox."
' 'The marshal, sir?"
"Yes."
"As stubborn as both men are, it's hard to believe
they got together just to talk about old times. That
meeting cost them both a lot of pride."
"l think you're right. " He paused for several sec-
onds and looked at his cable again. "I am con-
vinced something ominous has happened. You see,
I have been watching the Fox closely. As long as
the Fox wasn't worried about what happened when
he kicked off, neither was I. Nick, about ten days
NICK CARTER
10
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NICK CARTER
ago, very suddenly, the Fox got worried. I won't go
into the details, but it looked for a while like he had
another purge up his sleeve. Then suddenly he
stopped dead in his tracks, like he knew his plans
wouldn't work. For two long days he did nothing.
Then he called Ankevic and set up the meeting. He
must have learned something so dangerous to Yu-
goslavia that he was forced to call his oldest and
most bitter enemy for help. That's my analysis. The
damn thing is I'm also convinced the Company
had the meeting bugged and is holding out on us."
"Why would they do that, sir?"
"I'll explain in a minute, N3. But maybe some
background on the conflict would help.
"I have followed the Fox's career for years. He is
the last of the great ones from World War II.
Churchill, Roosevelt, De Gaulle, Stalin—they're
all dead. Only the Fox remains. Now he's on his
death bed. There is a lot of talk about resistance
movements, but the Fox's partisans were the best.
They killed more Nazis than the rest of the re-
sistance groups put together. Why, the Fox tied
down twelve crack German divisions in Yugo-
slavia. But, hell, you know most of this."
He started pacing back and forth, his hands
clasped behind his back.
I did, but I listened respectfully as Hawk
warmed to his subject. I knew what the Fox meant
to him. He had stood up for the Fox years ago
when it wasn't popular. The Company had even
tried to label him a Commie sympathizer and it
had almost cost him his career. But Hawk didn't
know I knew the story. Besides, I respect the fact
that Hawk explains things to his men. Some of the
bright boys treat us like dogs; we're supposed to
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
11
12
chomp whoever they point at and not ask ques-
tions.
Hawk lit up a new cigar and began puffing away
with obvious satisfaction. "The Fox is a Commie,
of course, Put he's a patriotic Commie. By 1948 he
was fed Stalin and the Red Army, so he
kicked them out. They have never, never forgiven
him. Now that he's about to kick off, it's the Sovi-
ets' big chance to undo everything the Fox did to
them and also gain ports in the Mediterranean.
The whole balance of power in Europe would shift
in their favor.
"There has been a battle in government for years
about how we should deal with the Fox. I took one
side, the Company the other. I have always re-
spected the Fox, even •though he's a Commie. I
have always argued that we should leave him
alone. How these fools in the Company think they
can teach the Fox any tricks, I don't know. It's like
a bunch of damn grasshoppers deciding they can
teach a lion to roar. Why, the Fox has kicked more
KGB personnel in the ass than all the Western in-
telligence agencies pot together. The idiots never
understood the Fox. Everyone admires Ankevic; it
would be hypocritical for the head of the AXE to
admire him too. Hell, the Fox is the one I admire.
"Anyway, I argued that we should leave the
Fox's succession to the Fox. Keep our paws off.
And, N3, the Man sided with me."
"Sounds like a fairy-tale ending," I said.
"That's just it. It didn't end there. The Company
wanted this one. bad, but he gave it to us. Bad
blood. The Company says we're an anachronism.
They want us either cut back or brought under
their wing. They implied we were a bunch of thugs.
NICK CARTER
12
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NICK CARTER
Hell, at least when we kill somebody we get the
right person. You know they tried to kill Ankevic
themselves years ago and blamed it on the Fox.
Claimed the Fox was going to have him murdered
anyway. Killed some poor slob in the Yugoslav
foreign office by mistake. Damn it, Nick, they get
more people killed in one of their stupid coups
than we've murdered in thirty years.
"l'm way out on a limb on this one, N3. The
Man is generous but unforgiving. If the Red Army
comes rolling into Yugoslavia after I convinced
him to leave well enough alone, it will be the end of
AXE. The Company is just waiting for our number
to be up. One thing is certain. You're not going to
get any help on this one. The Company is going to
play hardball. Stay away from Company per-
sonnel. In fact, stay away from AXE personnel.
You're going in there solo and you're going in
there blind. I'll give you a couple of names and
numbers, but that's it."
"l understand," I said.
"I thought you would, N3, which is why I've
chosen you. It looks like a tough one."
The feud with the Company didn't surprise me
all that much. There is no man in the world I ad-
mire more than David Hawk. He is a great leader.
But put him in a committee meeting and he turns
into an animal. It's kill or be killed. He has no
more mercy for the CIA than for the KGB. If they
make a mistake he rubs their noses in it. Hawk has
made enemies.
"Why not send in a dozen agents?" I asked.
"That's just it. The Man himself has spoken. A
direct order. Ankevic asked for only one man. We
send only one man. We must show respect. The
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
13
13
14
Man thinks that plaster puffball is the next best
thing to cream cheese. You know how he gets
about this human rights stuff. It's a damn ob-
session with him. No, Nick, you're it."
"I can handle it."
"You're walking into a killing ground. It's not
just OZNA and KGB. There is a secret Stalinist
group, CRML. And there's a bunch of neo-Nazis
who call themselves the Blood of Croatia. We have
unconfirmed reports they are planning to as-
sassinate dissidents and liberals. Oh, one last thing.
The Fox wouldn't have gone to Ankevic unless he
had just one shot. That's all you'll have, N3, one
shot. Fail, and Yugoslavia goes."
"I have a friend in the Company, sir. Perhaps I
could get a copy—"
"l don't want to know about it, N3. That's up to
you."
Hawk got up and went to his safe. In a minute he
was back, file in hand. He handed me the file and
an airline ticket. The file didn't have much in it,
background and details of the meeting. There were
photos of Ankevic. He looked as impressive as the
biography made him sound: lean, ascetic face;
high, broad forehead; chiseled mouth. The later
photos showed the pain. He had been hurt in the
Fox's prisons, hurt badly. The details of the meet-
ing were very bad; obviously they were amateurs. I
didn't complain. I leave complaining to accoun-
tants.
I gave Hawk back the file and kept the ticket. I
was leaving for Belgrade that evening. Hawk
walked around in front of his desk. He stood less
than a foot from me.
"You know not to get taken alive, N3; you have
NICK CARTER
14
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NICK CARTER
your capsule for that. On this mission, though, you
can't afford to be taken dead either. The Man
doesn't want these dissidents discredited. I prom-
ised him it wouldn't happen." He took a small ob-
ject in his hand, a bomb only slightly larger than
Pierre. "If it looks like the end of the line, take this
in both hands and hold it up to your face." He
showed me how to use it.
"Anti-identification grenade?"
"Yeah," he said grimly. No fingerprints, no den-
tal work. It's powerful. Probably won't be any-
thing left of you bigger than an eyeball. But it's
best to use it the right way."
"I won't hesitate."
"Good. I want you to use this thing even if
you're in a room filled with schoolchildren. " Hawk
then casually dropped the bomb into my lap and
walked back behind his desk.
"What will you call this one?" he said.
"Waldo, I think, sir. I use him to shoot the
whole wad."
"Sounds good. One more thing. Apparently
Ankevic has this thing against smoking. Brother
died of lung cancer. Took a long time going. Can
you give it up for the duration?"
"l did it when I took a bullet in the lung."
"Good. Many men would die for their country
but wouldn't give up their smoking habit for it."
He reached out his hand. "Good luck, N3."
"I'll keep the Fox's handiwork together," I said
as I left. But he was already lost in thought and
didn't appear to hear me.
CHAPTER 2
I made my way out of AXE offices as quickly as
I could. To the staff these offices are a kind of
home—familiar, reassuring, secure. To me they are
just rooms. I have never been behind most of the
closed doors. Most of the faces are new, sleek, self-
satisfied. Only the security checks are exactly as
they have always been.
The world outside looked great, green and new,
yet mellow in the late-afternoon light. But right
then I had a phone call to make, quickly. *Ihat I
walked three blocks to a drugstore pay phone be-
fore doing so is a tribute to those new faces at AXE
headquarters. I called Jerry Goldstein, a friend
who worked for the Company. Jerry worked just
four blocks from AXE. I had never met him there.
Jerry and I traded information. It's not strictly
Kosher, but then both Jerry and I preferred staying
alive to playing by the rules.
Luckily, Jerry was in. I told him what I needed.
He wasn't sure he could get it, but wanted me to
meet him right away anyway. He was worried. He
wouldn't say why, even though his phone had a
scrambler on it. He said something about my not
getting mad about the money they said I owed on
16
15
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NICK CARTER
the car. I didn't owe any money. I said thanks and
hung up. In the movies everything is always clear;
for a Killmaster it seldom is. I didn't know how far
the Company would go.
Most people have no idea how sleazy it gets a
few blocks from the White House. We were to meet
a dozen blocks east and north at a porno theater.
The neighborhood is bad. But there are a lot of
middle-class guys on the street because of all the
action that goes on. It was a nice day. I decided to
walk over. Besides, I couldn't take my car, not with
the Company being involved. AXE would take
care of the car after I was out of town. I cut across
town feeling pretty good.
When I arrived at the theater Jerry wasn't there.
took my usual seat and waited. nere was much
huffing and puffing up on the screen, and the ac-
tors looked like they might be enjoying it. As far as
I could see, they might as well have been sawing
wood. I waited. The next film was no better. And
the color quality was worse. Jerry had still not
shown. That wasn't like him. I slipped out the side
exit to the vacant lot in back of the theater that we
use as a back-up spot. I had a bad feeling. Friend
Jerry was there, all right, lying face down. His
whole back was becoming one red stain. I reached
down and touched him. He was still warm, but
there was no pulse. His pistol was gone and so was
his wallet. I checked his suit pockets; there were
no papers. Things don't work out like in the
movies.
I walked down the block and phoned the cops.
It was safest now to stay on foots I walked over
to the Capitol building, then turned and walked
down the mall toward the Washington Monument.
The trees were just as green and pretty as before
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
17
17
Jerry got blown away. I had about half an hour
until AXE agents dropped me a "secure" car
aiound the block from the State Department, the
area they call foggy bottom.
I stopped on the grassy knoll at the base of the
Washington& Monument. I thought of the kind of
patriotism Jerry represented. I paused a moment,
then walked down the hill to Constitution Avenue.
Patriotism leads you to strange places. I waited for
the stop light. It's always hard to get across Con-
stitution Avenue at rush hour, even for a Kill-
master.
A few minutes later, I reached the car, parked
just where it was supposed to be, across Twenty-
first Street and Virginia Avenue. There are many
degrees of secure cars and this was the most secure
AXE had. It was an old 1969 Chevy Malibu,
picked to be inconspicuous. L started to walk
around to the driver's side. On the way I glanced at
the hood. I didn't bother getting in. Every once in
a while the Company surprises you. I still don't
know if they killed Jerry, but this was a message to
AXE, loud and clear. The car was shot up and use-
less.
I looked around. There was nothing to see. I
started walking. A couple of blocks away I tossed
the useless key into a street drain. I headed for the
subway, hoping this was the last surprise of my
Washington stay. I don't like subways, but they're
easier for losing people than a taxi. As subways go,
Washington's is not bad, more like San Francisco's
BART than like New York's ugly system.
I walked out of the station and into a brief thun-
derstorm. By the time I had walked two blocks my
jacket and shoes had been washed clean and the
rain had stopped.
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NICK CARTER
Her name was Roberta Ann Fixx. The name
doesn't fit, which is why everybody calls her Straw-
berry. She is sweet, succulent like her name, but
there is another reason for long,
strawberry-blond hair. Her skin is as white and
translucent as a painted Madonna's, but freckled
lightly like some delicate bird's egg. She is what the
French call une femme honnéte—an honest wom-
an—and I respect her for it. She works as a secre-
tary during the day for some do-gooder outfit that
pays worse than the Feds. With her beautiful ass
and her long, strawberry-blond hair she could earn
a thousand dollars a night on the diplomatic party
circuit; but that's not her style. Truckers are her
style, truckers and, although she doesn't know it,
Killmasters.
She lives only a few blocks from where I got off
the subway, across from Rock Creek Park. You
can believe how I hurried. My hands were shaking
by the time I reached the door. Strawberry is so
beautiful that men have died before she got around
to slipping off her panties. I had a problem though:
I was running late. We had time for dinner but not
for loving.
We had a long-standing reservation to Washing-
ton's fine French restaurant San Souci, only a
block from the White House. Strawberry had been
looking forward to eating there "forever." We had
to hurry.
I was an hour late, and she was not ready. Wom-
en are never ready. She looked gorgeous. All she
had on was a short slip with matching pale-blue
panties, like you see in those expensive lingerie ads.
I explained we had to hurry, I had a plane to catch.
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
19
19
No time for loving, only for Sans Souci. She had
wanted to go there a long time. "Forget it," she
said. She smiled. Sometimes when she smiles I
think she has ten thousand teeth, all beautiful. She
plopped down on the end of her pale-blue silk quilt
on her bed ahd crossed her legs underneath her.
She motioned me over. I said we would have to
hurry. She said, "Don't worry." That was all she
said in the next two hours that bears repeating.
She undid my belt and gently brushed her long,
tapered fingers across the fly of my pants. She
tossed back her long, strawberry-blond hair and
looked up at me. Her eyes were ten shades bluer
than her panties. She unzipped my pants and ran
two fingers along the bulge in my briefs. I could see
the window, reflected in the mirror above her head.
I saw a double reflection; the stars were rising high
in the east and so was Nick Carter. I saw her lovely
pink tongue between her beautiful teeth. Like Sans -
Souci her appetizers were as delicious as the main
courses.
Strawberry likes her loving the way she likes her
work: hard, fast, and efficient. She likes to turn out
page after page. Now there are only so many pages
a man, any man, can turn out in two hours, but I
was sure I broke the record. Afterward, she drove
me to Dulles International, which was really sweet
because that little honey looked tired.
On the plane I slept deeply; I always do on
planes. Something about the movement, the hum
of the engines relaxes me. But something about
Strawberry's movement had relaxed me, too.
CHAPTER 3
I have logged more hours than most pilots; I en-
joy flying. The next day, two hours out of Belgrade
watching the French landscape near Paris slide by
forty-thousand feet below, I could not have felt
better. I had just finished a great meal, almost
equal to the one I missed at Sans Souci. After the
-last of the Chåteau Lafite 1974, a great Bordeaux,
but a modest vintage so the accountants wouldn't
raise eyebrows, I smoked my last cigarette and
checked my passport.
I was traveling as a Belgian businessman,
French-speaking, though I speak Flemish well
enough. I like traveling on a Belgian passport. Ev-
eryone has heard of Belgium, and nobody has any-
thing against it. Some of the most troublesome
people in the world—police, border guards, cus-
toms officials—aren't exactly sure where it is. My
cover was that of a textile importer looking into
possible deals with Yugoslav mills. It gave me an
excuse to be almost anywhere in the country.
Yugoslavia is a country of mountains, rugged
highlands, and spectacular coasts. There are fifteen
different ethnic groups, all of them industrious and
intelligent, but they have also been killing each oth-
20
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
21
21
er off for the last two thousand years. Balkan na-
tionalism makes the Hatfields and McCoys sound
like a do-gooder's bedtime story.
Serbs and Croats are the two largest ethnic
groups. Both speak the same language, but the
Serbs call it'SZrbo-Croatian and use the Cyrillic
alphabet, while the Croats call it Croat-Serbian
and use the Roman script. They can't even agree
what to call their language or what alphabet to use.
Most of the other thirteen groups hate the lan-
guage, whatever it's called, however it's written.
They were still murdering each other even after
the Nazis and Italians invaded and occupied their
country. They spent more time killing each other
than they did occupiers—except the Fox. But the
tension was still there. The KGB and their Stalinist
allies CRML in Yugoslavia knew it, and when the
Fox went, they'd use it to try and pull the country
apart.
There was another aspect to the problem. The
Fox got rid of Stalin's boys in 1948, years before
old Krush eased them out in the Soviet Union.
And he wasn't gentle in the way he did it. The Fox
out-Stalined Stalin. But according to Ankevic and
•others, Stalin's boys just went underground and re-
grouped, where they remained waiting, still dream-
ing Uncle Joe's dreams. Everything set them off:
dissidents, detente . . . they had been pushing for
years to nuke the Red Chinese. Yugoslavia could
have been their magic play. A big victory there and
maybe they could get back in power in the Soviet
Union. It wouldn't be easy. 'Ihese guys had killed
a few million of their own loyal citizens. Your aver-
age Russkie, even if he was a dedicated Commie,
was not anxious to have them back in power.
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NICK CARTER
I never understood why the big boys didn't put
together a deal and cut them off. If the diplomats
didn't work things out, sooner or later the hot wa-
ter would boil over. Anyway, until they got around
to it, there would be a lot of extra work for AXE.
It's easy for me to sit back after a meal, smoke
my cigarette, and mull things over like a Belgian
businessman whose most fearful expectation in
Yugoslavia might be a case of indigestion. But the
younger guys can't seem to do it. They can't enjoy
life, can't sit back, relax, and be Killmasters too.
It's never been a problem for me. It's not that I
don't see danger coming, but my attitude is dif-
ferent, like that of the men who make a living run-
ning whitewater rapids. One of them summed it up
for me. He said, "I watch for it. I'm always respect-
ful and I don't move a muscle until the first waye .
slams into the boat." Now as we approached Bel-
grade, I could almost see death coming, dancing
like a black bull in a field of red tulips.
From the air Belgrade looked as pretty as I'd re-
membered, almost serene in the white afternoon
light. Belgrade means "white city" in Serbo-Croa-
tian, and from the air that day it looked positively
glistening. You would never know it was a capital
in crisis. No evidence remained that one day during
World War II, in a single raid, German bombers
killed twenty-five thousand people before lunch.
Belgrade is a lovely city of broad avenues and
tree-lined streets, nineteenth-century architecture
and color—but the airport is modern, white, and
cavernous. And Yugoslavia is a colorful country.
People dress in bright colors, not your usual Com-
mie drab.
I was only mildly disguised, a little gray in the
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
23
23
hair, a small mustache tinged with more gray. The
suit was Belgian, and so was the luggage. I was sure
prised when I walked into the terminal and found
the place filled with guards with carbines instead of
the usual relaxed security. For a minute I thought
they had disioitered my cover, but I took my place
in the custom lines without incident. It soon be-
came clear they weren't looking for me in particu-
lar. Yet I could sense someone behind this. Sending
OZNA my name and occupation would be too
simple. Besides, a simple tipoff might be traced
back to them. Hawk would like nothing better than
to catch them pulling that one. If I knew him, he
would already be setting traps for the Company be-
fore I had left D.C. No, whatever had been leaked
was ambiguous and indirect. It would be designed
to result in my "accidental" capture.
I examined the customs men as carefully as I
could. I was looking for telltale signs. Unfortunate-
ly I found them. Not one had a pot belly, and their
eyes were wrong. The eyes should have been dull
and worn out from a life spent going through other
people's underwear. These men were sharp, alert. I
noticed the bulging biceps under the uniforms. I
had an OZNA problem.
They might have a Killmaster problem. Then
again, they might not—this was a lousy place for a
match. The guards with carbines were some dis-
tance away—for carbines an effective distance. The
nearest guard was a supervisor with a pistol on his
belt, sitting at a desk twenty feet behind the check-
ers. A long way. Even so, I only had a pistol and
they had carbines. The more I added it up the
worse it looked. I did have Hugo. But Hugo meant
hostages, which doesn't work in Communist
24
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NICK CARTER
countries like it does in the USA. Your hostage
gets a medal but he also dies.
They might not have found Wilhelmina, but I
had to make a judgement. My judgement was that
they would find her. If I waited my turn to see if my
judgement was right, I'd be standing right where
the system was designed to be most effective—--deal-
ing with someone like me. There is an old trick.
Most agents don't like using it because it concludes
in a violent finale for somebody—although it's not
always clear who.
I decided not to wait. I stood as straight as I
could. I'm tall anyway. And I marched up to the
nearest customs inspector as authoritatively as I
could.
I tried standing closer to him than he'd be cozy
with. I also tried to stand over him, which wasn't
easy. Yugoslavs run big. "UBNA," I said in my
best Serbo-Croatian. "Let's go." UBNA was the
new official name for OZNA, which supposedly
had reformed itself. Party officials and grade-A
morons use it, but no one else.
"Let's go to the office," I said. He looked at me
completely confused. "Come on," I said harshly.
"Do you want me to stand on the customs line like
a tourist?" The other customs men looked at me in
amazement. Someone pushed a button. I didn't see
it pushed, of course, but two big goons suddenly
appeared from nowhere. They engaged in a bit of
chitchat with the customs men. They didn't neces-
sarily believe I was OZNA, but they didn't know
who I was. Yugoslavia is an authoritarian country
even if a relatively mild one. They didn't ask ques-
tions. If this was some joke, they'd settle with me
later the hard way. Clearly, I was a problem for
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
25
25
While they were still getting their act together I
tossed one goon my suitcase and shoved my
passport into the other's hand as snappily as I
could. Then we started off, a goon on either side.
Before we crossed the big room we picked up two
more, one in front, one in back. The guy behind me
was a monster; I threw him my carry-on bag. He
caught it in both hands and whisked it away. He
wasn't exactly strong on the brains side. We
trooped across the customs area with carbined
guards eyeing us, to an innocuous-looking cor-
ridor. We turned down the hallway. A uniformed
guard was sitting at a high desk a few feet down the
corridor, just far enough out of sight so he
wouldn't be seen by tourists going through cus-
toms. OZNA's lair. The OZNA men visibly re-
laxed; this was their turf. The hallway turned sharp
ly. We walked past a dozen closed doors. They
seemed to be taking me to a gray one at the end of
the corridor. were certainly suspicious of me,
but the last thing they suspected was an attack.
In my business, you learn that the element of
surprise is sixty percent of success. Not one of them
was going to make it to that doorway. Going one
on four required a bit of strategy as well as brawn.
Lefty moved well but was smaller than the others;
he was the first target. Fronty was last; the way I
figured it, it would take him some time to turn
around. I kicked sideways, straight into Lefty's
knee. While I was tilted to my right side in the kick
position, I reached down, around my suitcase,
which Righty was carrying in his left hand,
grabbed his ankle, and lifted, dumping him head
first into the wall.
26
26
I glanced at Lefty. He was where I thought he
would be, down on one knee—but far from out. I
brought my right arm across my body to the left,
then swung my elbow back into his ear as hard as
I could. 'Ihere was a reassuring pop. *lhe guy on
my right was scrambling to his feet. He should at
least have been stunned.
Either I had got the angle wrong or Yugoslav
walls are substandard for head-knocking. Fronty
had turned to face me. Suddenly I was in trouble.
As they say in the Marines, I reprioritized my
targets. Righty got a roundhouse kick to the side of
his head as I turned to face Fronty. I saw Righty's
neck jerk but didn't have time to watch the lights
go out for him. Fronty was in fighting position—
fists up, feet spread wide. I watched his eyes and
pushed four or five straight karate punches at him
quick as I could. I didn't expect to connect with
anything important, and I didn't. But it got him
into position. I threw a punch with my right, high
and outside. I brought the arm sideways to just the
right spot on the side of his head.
Lefty, the tough little bastard, was trying to lift
himself up. And there was Backy! He was lumber-
ing at me, swinging a piece of my luggage one goon
had dropped, but I was turned wrong. He swung
the luggage. I ducked and turned on my left foot. I
pushed my right foot into Lefty's face as I went by
but not hard enough to do much damage because I
had to keep my balance.
It was easy enough to duck Backy's swing, but
my balance was such that, standing only on my left
foot and still turning, there wasn't much I could do
in the way of offense except push until I got my
balance back. There was a lot of Backy to push, so
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
27
27
I pretty much wasted my time. I knew he wouldn't
be doing anything intelligent with his hands, so I
made an awful grimace at him and waved my arms.
The poor bastard looked startled. I threw a punch
at his faæ, which of course the stupid bastard
blocked wittNerrific efficiency. Then I kicked him
in the groin with my left foot. His whole face
twisted up, his eyes crossed, his mind started slid-
ing to the floor. His body followed, doubling over.
I interlaced my fingers and brought both hands
down behind his neck by way of encouragement.
The big bozo hit the floor like a turned-over
jukebox. I hoped he wasn't planning to have kids.
No sooner was Backy down when I felt a pain in
my right side just below the ribs. I was almost
pushed off my feet. Lefty had hit me with a karate
chop before he even got to his feet. It hurt. It was
the first blow any of them had managed to land. I
began to wonder how good a fighter Lefty was; the
little bastard was tough, that was for sure. It was
hard to tell exactly how tough, though, since he'd
been taken off guard. I gave him a kick with my
right foot. I aimed for his head, but he blocked it
with a raised arm. He didn't see the left foot com-
ing, roundhouse and instep first across the bridge
of his nose, until it was too late.
He dropped to all fours, he was hurting. But he
lunged for me one more time. I had him. The kick
was as hard as I could deliver. I placed it at the
base of his skull and used my right foot. He was
gone. I wondered for a moment whether Lefty
would see morning light. But J looked again, and
his neck just seemed to be broken. That was okay
by me. I'd just as soon not have a guy like Lefty up
and around while I was visiting Yugoslavia.
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NICK CARTER
I picked up my passport, brushed off my suit,
and straightened my tie; then I gathered my lug-
gage. Luggage in hand, I walked back the way I
had come. The guard was still at his desk. I guess
he hadn't heard anything over the din of the termi-
nal. I gave him my twenty-dollar smile, walked up,
and socked him behind the temple.
It's certain death to run in a situation like this. I
hadn't used Hugo for the same reason. Hugo is
quick and deadly, but there would have been buck-
ets of blood and the time saved using him would
have been lost cleaning up before I left the termi-
nal. You can't walk by a bunch of guys with
carbines when you're covered with blood. You can
kill with a stiletto so there is only a drop of blood,
but you can't do it with four guys.
I sauntered into the main part of the terminal
and headed for the exit, taking my time. I say saun-
tered, but I sauntered with restraint—showing off
can be a dangerous habit.
I had reservations for the Metropol, Belgrade's
magnificent old hotel. Now I couldn't go there. It
was too much of a risk. The sunlight splashed in
my eyes as I walked out of the terminal and hailed
a taxi. I gave him the address of a small hotel with
no doorman. There was a telephone booth across
from it. I would call the special number Hawk had
given me from there. I wondered if the safe-house
keeper I'd be calling would be as beautiful as the
last one I'd stayed with.
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CHAPTER IV
'As the taxi honked its way through the con-
gested streets, I leaned back and watched Belgrade
slide by. I didn't make conversation, I wanted to be
as forgettable as possible. But it's not easy. Experi-
ence has shown me I'm not a forgettable guy.
Yugoslavia doesn't look like your average Com-
munist country. Not only do the people dress
brightly and seem affluent, but they actually look
happy.
Belgrade was as bustling as I had remembered,
but I noticed a certain melancholy in the air. I
didn't realize what it was until the driver turned up
his radio to listen to the hourly bulletin on the
Fox's health. Suddenly, I noticed the people in the
streets standing clustered around anyone with a ra-
dio. When the announcement ended, people scat-
tered again, without speaking, just giving each oth-
er a nod before going about their business.
We arrived at the hotel with an unnecessary
screech. I was thrown toward the front of the car.
The driver turned around and gave me a friendly
grin, so I just handed him his money. He looked
downcast when gave him Yugoslav notes. Most
of the drivers who operate out of the airport report
30
29
30
+ 110%
NICK CARTER
to OZNA, but they like hard currency anyway.
They have to fink to keep their jobs, but most
could care less. The system isn't really efficient.
Still, I waited until he pulled away to walk over to
the phone. I called the safe-house keeper.
I didn't know much about her. She wasn't the
usual manager but one of Hawk's specials. She was
supposed to be able to handle "emergencies," if
you know what I mean.
"Hello, Rosa, this is cousin Dmitri," I said, us-
ing a Serbian dialect.
"Yes, Dmitri, how are you?"
"Fine, fine. I just got in from Sarajevo." That
meant I needed a place to stay.
"Good, you're coming over."
"l had hotel reservations but .
Now she
knew something had happened.
"No, no, you must come. I was going to the
country but . . e" She was asking if I wanted her to
go. She sounded sweet, and I was feeling lonely. I
thought about it, but what I said was, ' 'No, go.
ahead and don't stay on my account." She gave me
a number where she could be reached, and I said,
"Give my love to your mother. " It was the affirma-
tion code. "Father" would have meant the exact
opposite.
I hailed another cab and was let off at a huge
concrete housing project. I suppose it was chosen
for the anonymity it offered, but I also thought it
offered a good dose of galloping alienation. When
the Commies get around to building something it's
even worse than the stuff in the West. The paint
was already peeling off what seemed like a fairly
new building.
The key was under a pretty little woven
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
31
31
doormat. The apartment was bright and cheery in
a feminine sort of way—white walls, bright cur-
tains, macramé hangings, pieces of Yugoslav folk
art set about. I looked around carefully, checked
the closet and drawers; sometimes a safe house be-
comes unsafé. What I did find was that she was a
well-proportioned lady; I could tell from the
clothes and the lingerie.
I plopped my luggage on the big bed, threw off
my clothes and took a shower. I dried myself and
unpacked Wilhelmina and put her together. Then I
got the holster from its hiding place in the base of
the suitcase. I know a guy who died because he
went through Soviet customs with a beautifully dis-
guised pistol and holster stuck between some un-
derwear. I checked Wilhelmina as carefully as a sky
diver checks his parachute—my life depends on
her. In a few minutes she was in her holster, ready
for a ride.
I was tired. I could feel it coming over me. I
leaned back on Rosa's white chenille bedspread
planning some sweet dreams, but I had to get up
and double-check the door. Rosa turned out to
have good locks. Then, this naked Killmaster got
forty winks. I dreamed about the missing Rosa and
remembered the girl in Nairobi whose very long
legs seemed to pour from her like a magic water-
fall. She had been like the beginning of time---dark,
hot, endlessly moving.
He had left her a mess. I guess he wanted that
information about me badly. It was a slow, sloppy
kill. That, I can't forgive. It is the kind of kill that
makes even a Killmaster wake up from his dreams
and sit bolt upright. But there was no one to be
angry with. Wilhelmina had found her way into his
32
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NICK CARTER
heart 'when his .38 slug found its way into my
shoulder.
My shoulder ached when I woke up. I guess I
had been sleeping wrong. I dressed and thought
about the dangerous, sloppy meeting coming up.
They were amateurs, that was for sure. An open-air
café. Amateurs love to meet at open-air cafés. I
don't know why. Maybe they think they can out-
run bullets. I've seen so many men die in open-air
cafés it's like passing a cemetery every time I see
one. I like dark, crowded basement restaurants
with several exits. With a gun, or even better, a
small bomb, you can cause real chaos, enough to
actually cover an escape. Besides, unless your op-
position is expertly trained they are going to shoot
badly in the dark.
I walked there at about three o'clock. The res-
taurant itself didn't look half bad—wrought-iron
tables, folded pink umbrellas. Maybe Ankevic
picked this place because it looked pretty. There
were ten tables outside, about the right number to
give you some cover and still let you keep track of
the other patrons. The bay-windowed building
across the street was something else again. It
looked like it was designed by a moonlighting
sniper.
The table I wanted was taken by an old man and
a girl. I liked the one set back, where the street
opened up into a square. There was a little bit of
awning over it, and I liked being only three feet
from the corner of the building. I decided to have
a look around. The buildings were old, eighteenth
and nineteenth century from the look of them. The
streets were still cobblestoned. There are few old
buildings in Belgrade; the city has been destroyed
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
33
33
so many times. I walked out into the square. It felt
almost like Venice, except newer. The great old
buildings around the square with their fancy Vic-
torian balconies and elaborate grillwork looked
like they were built by a different class of people
from those Whö presently occupy Yugoslavia. I
suppose in a way that's true. The aristocrats and
wealthy bourgeoisie who once lived here might still
be doing so if they had been less greedy and a little
more patriotic.
When I returned, the old man and girl were still
seated at the table. I couldn't tell whether they were.
lovers or father and daughter, but whatever they
were, they were about to leave. I saw the waiter
bring the check over. I walked across the street to
the tiny newsstand near the corner. I noticed a few
out-of-date issues of Sports Illustrated and then I
bought the Belgrade and Zagreb papers, one in the
Roman alphabet, the other in Cyrillic. The couple
got up from the table. I paused a minute, then
walked over and sat down.
I spread the papers in front of me. The waiter
appeared quickly, acting as professional as he
looked in black pants and white shirt. I ordered
coffee and pastry and looked over the papers. Sud-
denly, I noticed the bay windows across the street.
Very bad. If someone had wanted to set me up for
a shoot they couldn't have picked a better spot.
Had I been dealing with professionals I would have
known immediately what this location meant and
aborted the meeting on sight. As it was I just didn't
know. I had to play this one out.
The coffee and pastry tasted good, but the longer
I waited the more I got worried. Fifteen minutes
late. When I get worried, I get watchful, and as my
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NICK CARTER
fellow café sitters seemed harmless I concentrated
on the passersby.
I watched the eyes and the strides. Appearances
are so completely deceiving. It has become trite to
get blown away by a harmless-looking little old
lady. There are three kinds of eyes that really look
at the world: tourist eyes, innocent and excited as a
child's; poet's eyes, drinking in everything; and
cops' or hunters' eyes. Thieves have them too, and
CIA, KGB, and AXE men. As for the rest, most
people never look at the world, and you can see
that in their eyes, too. Like a cat following a spar-
row, I try to spot the watchful eyes before they spot
me.
I glanced at my watch. Ankevic was now a half
an hour late. I would have broken off the ren-
dezvous, but that meant starting everything from
the ground up. So I continued to watch the pedes-
trians. Forty-five minutes passed and Ankevic had
still not shown. My feelings about the meeting
had turned totally sour. Then something hap-
pened.
The first time she walked by she stood out, but I
didn't realize why. She was beautiful—long, blond
hair, shapely legs, and all the rest—but a dozen
beautiful women had passed by. She kept walking.
Five minutes later she was back. Then I realized
why I noticed her: she had the wrong kind of eyes.
She was very nervous, but she stopped and looked
around.
I shifted my weight. I liked the tug of
Wilhelmina under my armpit. I slipped my foot
over against the base of the table so I could give it
a flying push if necessary. I noticed the American
couple to my right. If the lead started to fly, they
would eat more than their sliced cucumbers. The
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
35
35
blond girl examined everyone at the tables, then
turned and bolted off. Whoever she was, she was
damned obvious. I got ready. You'd have to be a
professional to understand why I had gotten so fa-
talistic, so quickly. I liked being alive. I unbuttoned
my jacket—2sirictly unprofessional—but it would
be a little quicker.
She came by again, looking even more serious. I
stared at her and when she just looked at me blank-
ly, I motioned her over with my eyes. What the
hell, I had nothing to lose.
She hurried over, clutching her purse, her breasts
bobbing gently, her three-inch heels clicking on the
cobblestones.
"Don't I know you from Skopje?" she said in
Serbo-Croatian. It was the code.
"I'm from Zagreb, but I lived in Skopje for five
years," I replied.
We went through the rest of it, all of it sounding
particularly ridiculous as a way to start a conversa-
tion with a woman. Just as she sat down, so deli-
cately on the edge of the chair that you would have
thought she had just been spanked, the waiter
sprinted over with the menu. She glanced at it
quickly and ordered a whole meal. I decided to do
the same and ordered a dinner, too. We made
chitchat until the waiter walked away. After he left,
she kept on talking nonsense. Incredible! She was
going to talk about the weather at a rendezvous.
Her fluster was beginning to turn to snootiness, so
I decided to bring the conversation to a higher
plane.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"His daughter, of course."
"Katrina? You don't look like your photo-
graph."
NICK CARTER
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NICK CARTER
"The picture has the wrong face," she said, giv-
ing me a big smile.
"Your name Ankevic is odd for a Yugoslav."
"My father's father was of Greek extraction, but
our family has lived in Yugoslavia many gener-
I went through her file in my mind and
ations."
switched to Macedonian, then Slovak, both of
which she was supposed to speak and, it turned
out, she did.
"Where is your father?" I asked.
"Ah, so now you believe me! You're the Western
technician my father sent for?" she whispered loud-
ly in English.
"Speak Serbo-Croatian," I said. "Only lovers
can whisper without attracting attention."
"l don't know why my father wanted you, a
Jesse James," she said in English. The American
couple a few feet away pricked up their ears. I
looked up at the windows.
Since she was possibly the last woman I would
ever see, I decided to take a closer look at her face.
She was more extraordinary-looking than I had
first noticed. The blond hair, of course, but she had
beautiful green eyes and cheekbones as high as an
Indian's. She was also a healthy-sized lady.
There was a tiny scar on the right side of her
nose. Most men would have looked at that face for
a week and not noticed it. A tomboy accident? I
didn't ask, of course. She was beautiful and she
didn't like me.
"We don't need you, Jesse James. Why don't
you go back where you came from?" she said. I
took all this quietly, but she wag beginning to an-
noy me.
"Would your father have asked for our help if he
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
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37
didn't need it?" I said. "I'm risking my life coming
here. It's a serious matter."
I didn't tell her I'd
risked my life about ten thousand times before.
"We don't need a Western technician. You're
scared. Have *You got a gun? I want to see your gun.
I want to see yöur gun right now," she demanded
in English. I would have dearly loved to slap her
across her beautiful face, but I don't hit women.
"You're acting like a spoiled child. Would your
father be proud of this performance? There is an
American couple sitting right over there," I said in
Serbo-Croatian.
"Maybe I'd better go," she said in Serbo-Croa-
tian. I could tell by the way she said it, that she had
said this many times, to many men.
I didn't budge. I wouldn't break off the meeting
myself, but if she was determined to abort it, there
wasn't much I could do.
She started to stand, but then sat back down.
Now we both knew each other's limits. She was
willing to drive me off but unwilling to take the
blame for breaking off the meeting herself.
"When do I see your father?" I asked.
"You don't."
"Are you trying to abort this meeting? Is that
what you want? More importantly, is that what
your father wants? If so, why are you here at all?"
I figured I'd nail her with the last point.
"You won't see my father. He is in the hospital.
Intensive care. He was hit by a truck last night, Mr.
Jesse James. "
"Can he speak?"
"He is in critical condition."
"Maybe we better go." I started to motion the
waiter over.
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NICK CARTER
"No, eat your lunch, Jesse James, my tail is cov-
ered good," she said in English.
"Your tail is covered very prettily, honey, but I
think you mean your trail is covered. I hope you've
done that better than everything else I've seen you
do or we're both dead."
S 'Don't be afraid, Mr. Jesse James. I'll protect
you from OZNA, even if you are afraid to show me
your gun."
"You make jokes about OZNA after what they
did to your mother and your father? You are
playing a child's game," I said in mock disgust. Ac-
tually, I liked the fact she could joke about OZNA.
It showed the lady had guts. She probably had a
little automatic in her purse she figured she could
hold off a whole army with.
"We believe in free speech and democracy, like
your father. That's why he asked for us," I said. I
didn't tell her, of course, that the Company had
tried to kill her father at least twice, once in the
Fifties in order to discredit the Fox, and once in the
Sixties when he opposed us on Vietnam and cost us
a lot of liberal support.
She looked dazed. The thing about her father
was beginning to get to her. I said: "If you think
what happened to your father was an accident,
you're wrong."
It started around the eyes. The muscles began to
tighten, then tears. She was crying. I motioned the
waiter over and looked at him for understanding.
The big tip helped to bring it to his face. I scooped
her up and off we headed. We got about halfway
across the square when she started sobbing loudly.
I handed her my handkerchief. It was time to ask
some questions.
THE DUBROVNIK MASSA
39
"Sometimes. He gets lost. He forgets what is
happening. Mostly he sleeps . . . I'm afraid he is
dying. "
"How closely_is he guarded?"
"Very closely. You'll never get in to see him."
"By the police? OZNA?"
"OZNA, maybe, what does it matter?"
"It matters a lot, to your father. Maybe we can
get him out."
"No, no, you don't understand. He works with
the Fox now." I took in my breath at this one.
Hawk had it figured right. That's why I like work-
ing for the man.
"They killed him, they finally killed him, after all
these years," she said. She was starting to break
down again. I had to stop her. We needed to get as
inconspicuous as possible. I put my arm around
her.
"Easy, honey," I said. "He's not dead yet. Your
old man is as tough as nails, you know that. Prison
couldn't kill him." I held her for a while as we
walked. "Do you know why he asked for us? Did
he ask you to carry on his project?" I asked as deli-
cately as I could, but she remained silent. "l think
he needed our help very badly," I went on.
"Where are we going?" she said at last. "I have
a place."
"You understand if they hit your father, you
shouldn't go back to your apartment."
"No, no I'm not an idiot. We can go to my
friends. Don't be afraid, Jesse James. You'll be
safe. OZNA would trade you for one of the Fox's
boys.
I decided to let that one pass. We began the
40
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NICK CARTER
usual procedures to eliminate being followed. She
was, surprisingly, very good at it. I asked her how
so and she said, "All this nonsense—that's why I
was late. We have lived with OZNA a long time."
I thought maybe I'd underestimated her, but I
wasn't sure. I had never seen anything more un-
professional in my life than that little scene at the
restaurant.
"I live in Zagreb most of the year. This apart-
ment is someone's that I don't think they are aware
I know of."
"Good," I said, doubtfully.
Finally we came to a central hill in the old sec-
tion of town. Old buildings everywhere but no fan-
cy neighborhood this. It was a slum when it was
built in the nineteenth century—tenements and in-
dustrial buildings.
"What do you do in Zagreb?" I asked.
"Dance, I design dances. I'm a choreographer."
"No, I don't have the build for it." She looked
down at her big breasts. "Folk dances."
"I like folk dances," I lied. "Maybe I've seen
your group."
"Zagreb Folk Ensemble."
"No, I can't say that I have." I told her about
one or two groups I liked a lot. Actually, I'd only
read about them.
"Are you of Yugoslav extraction?"
"No," I said, pleased that my Serbo-Croatian
might have had her fooled..
' 'Here we are," she said. It was an old building,
maybe turn of the century. It was very dark. The
ancient marble stairs were worn by too many feet.
The walls were missing chunks of plaster. We
THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE
41
41
walked up four flights—there was no elevaior.
"Nice place," I said uneasily.
"There are many artist studios here. It's only one
more flight," she said. The landing was lit by a sin-
gle tiny yellow light bulb that couldn't have been
more than watts. There was a white powder
on the floor.
"Marble dust," she said, when I looked down at
it. "He is a sculptor."
She put the key in the door and turned the lock.
She started to open the door but stopped. "Wait,"
she said. "Something is wrong. " Wilhelmina was in
my hand. I edged over to the door and nudged it
open with the gun.
"Good night, Mr. Jesse James," she said sudden-
ly. And all my lights went out.
CHAPTER V
I lay sprawled on the floor with a terrible pain
in the back of my neck. It occurred to me that I had
forgotten something important about Katrina; she
was very much her father's daughter. And while
the Fox was the toughest and cleverest around,
Katrina's father would be a good bet for second
place. I should have thought of this a little sooner.
My neck and head still hurt, but after a minute or
two my vision began to clear. I lifted my head a
couple of aching inches and looked around. I was
lying on the bare wooden floor of a large white
room. I could hear furniture being moved some-
where off on my right. Katrina was sitting on a
brown table about twelve feet directly in front of
me dangling her beautiful long legs over the edge
provocatively. I could have gotten a hard feeling
just looking where I was looking, but it wouldn't
have been an appropriate response under the cir-
cumstances.
She was holding Wilhelmina in her hand and
looking down the barrel.
"It's a 9mm. Very nasty," she said to the unseen
furniture mover. She noticed I was awake and
moved the gun so it pointed at me.
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