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NICK
KILLMASTER
The Execution
Exchange
CHARTER BOOKS, NEW YORK
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PROLOGUE
The cool night air smelled of smoke, expensive liquor, and
power. Senators, congressmen, and Cabinet members ex-
changed pleasantries with disenchanted wives and hungry
lobbyists in the manicured backyard of a red-brick George-
town mansion. (kcasionally there was a real conversation.
"Defense's stench is rising to the rafters, Mark, " said the
man smoking the long cheroot. His eyes roamed the crowd,
stopping now and then to assess a particularly beautiful
aspiring Washington hostess. "You 've really done it. MXS,
AWACS recon jets, and that blasted secret Krobel gas. I'm
surprised the Israelis will put up with it, even if it is to correct
the mistakes in Beirut. "
' 'Gentlemen?" lie waiter in white tie and tails held up the
silver tray with two drinks.
"It's a matter of logistics, " the secretary of defense said
mildly. He took the long-stemmed martini glass from the tray
and gazed at the clear liquid. He'd learned to survive in
Washington by speaking and acting slowly. It made him
aprRar thoughtful.
"Logistics, bah! " said the man with the cigar. He drank
the Old Fashioned in a gulp, then put it back on the tray.
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PROLOGUE
The cool night air smelled of smoke, expensive liquor, and
power. Senators, congressmen, and Cabinet members ex-
changed pleasantries with disenchanted wives and hungry
lobbyists in the manicured backyard of a red-brick George-
town mansion. (kcasionally there was a real conversation.
"Defense's stench is rising to the rafters, Mark, " said the
man smoking the long cheroot. His eyes roamed the crowd,
stopping now and then to assess a particularly beautiful
aspiring Washington hostess. "You 've really done it. MXS,
AWACS recon jets, and that blasted secret Krobel gas. I'm
surprised the Israelis will put up with it, even if it is to correct
the mistakes in Beirut. "
' 'Gentlemen?" lie waiter in white tie and tails held up the
silver tray with two drinks.
"It's a matter of logistics, " the secretary of defense said
mildly. He took the long-stemmed martini glass from the tray
and gazed at the clear liquid. He'd learned to survive in
Washington by speaking and acting slowly. It made him
aprRar thoughtful.
"Logistics, bah! " said the man with the cigar. He drank
the Old Fashioned in a gulp, then put it back on the tray.
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"Your brother-in-law's plastics firm will make at least a
million in the next month on your Beirut orders! 's
The secretary of defense's face paled. He drank deeply
from his martini and waved away the waiter before he heard
more.
"Malcolm . . . you won't print .
A broad smile spread across the rem)rter's face.
' 'You can bet on it, " he said and smoked his cheroot with
pleasure. "Every last dirty detail .
The reporter stopped, staring at the peculiar expression on
the secretary's face.
The older man swayed. His martini glass smashed onto the
bricked patio. He tore at the stiff collar at his throat and
collapsed gasping beside the glass.
The reporter's shout for help stilled the gaiety in that
corner of the patio. While solemn-faced partygoers crowded
around the dying secretary of defense, the waiter in white tie
and tails handed his silver tray to a startled guest and hurried
into the mansiom
As the waiter walked, he pulled a sheet of folded stationery
from his inside pocket and smoothed it against his chest.
Quickly, efficiently, knowing as a waiter he wouldn't
questioned at this exclusive private party, he tacked it to the
outside of the massive front door. He smiled triumphantly.
The timing had been perfect. He slipped off into the starry
night.
Four of the five men wore dark three-piece suits and shined
wing-tip shoes. "Ihe fifth man—the Vice-President of the
United States—wore crisp trousers, an open-necked white
shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and alligator loafers. His
marketing people had advised him that this casual attire told
voters he was a hard worker but approachable, a man to be
trusted with a problem. His trademark clothes had been
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convincing voters to elect him to various offices for twenty-
four years. It didn't seem to matter that he was also good at
his job. He 'd learned that it was enough for him that he cared.
Now he sat in a high-backed chair in a Washington, D.C.,
hotel conference room facing the four businessmen in their
regimental dark suits. Three filled the long sofa, and the
fourth had taken up a nearby chair. The ashtrays were full.
Empty beer and soda cans overflowed the plastic wastebas-
ket. Outside, beyond the drawn blinds, heavy nighttime
traffic droned.
' 'You owe us, " the Vice-President said patiently again as
if explaining to stubborn children. "You owe us plenty for
that last tax cut. You're raking in the dough. Now it's dues
time. The boss wants the strike over before Congress opens,
before the opposition pushes through a tough prolabor bill. "
The three businessmen on the sofa growled and muttered
to one another while the fourth businessman in the nearby
chair watched. At last he nodded thoughtfully.
' VGO take a leak, Jeff, " he told the Vice-President.
want to talk to the boys. Maybe we can work something
out. "
"Right. "
The Vice-President stood and hitched his trousers. He 'd
risen to power through the back rooms of Chicago and
Washington. He knew when victory was on the horizon.
President would be pleased.
As the businessmen watched silently, the Vice-President
strode into the hallway where his aides and Secret Service
protectors waited. He nodded briskly to reassure them, then
walked down the comdor toward the john.
The masked man was waiting behind the stairwell door.
Abruptly he stepped to the edge of the comdor.
The Vice-President recoiled.
The assassin opened fire.
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The Vice-President went down, a Secret Service man on
top of him. Instantly other Secret Service men fired in return.
They had no choice.
The assassin fell , his chest ripped into a pulpy mass, blcxxi
splattering onto the white hallway walls.
"Christ!" the Vice-President shouted, ' 'Who is he?"
Doors along the corridor burst open in the sudden quiet.
The Vice-President's aides rushed to him. He stood, un-
harmed but bloody from the wounded arm of the Secret
Service man who'd saved his life.
'Anything on him?" the Vice-President asked, his voice
shaking.
One of the Secret Service men kneeling beside the assassin
took a heavy, high-quality piece of rag bond stationery from
the assassin's hip pocket. He unfolded it and read.
"I think this may be useful, sir."
He handed it to the Vice-President.
As the helicopter landed under the star-studded sky, the
President and the national security adviser stared down at the
small, well-lit pad. Between the circle of lights and the
perimeter of mountain firs, shadows of Secret Service men
stood unmoving and alert, rifles over their arms. It was the
massive security customary for all presidents, even at this
top-secret, isolated retreat.
'No telephones, " the national security adviser murmured
in awe. "No crazies, reporters, or angry taxpayers."
The President laughed.
'Getting to you, Richard? Well, we 'II get some work done
here. You can only commune with nature so long. "
The helicopter blades singing overhead, the two govem-
ment officials and their aides jumped onto the pad and were
escorted by the watchful Secret Service to waiting Jeeps.
The asphalt-covered road wound up and around the moun-
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tain. The Jeep's headlights swept the dark, shadowy trees at
each curve.
"Is that fence electrified?" the national security adviser
asked curiously as their Jeep sped past.
"And patrolled, " the President said. biggest chal-
lenge around here is to take a walk alone. "
The road grew bumpy, the left side washed out. A bar-
ricade warned vehicles away where the road was being re-
paired during the day.
As the stars twinkled through the waving tree branches, the
two men sat in grateful, tired silence, happily depending on
the expert driver who pushed the Jeep on up the steep moun-
tainside.
A tree had fallen across the road. It was a big fir that
completely blocked passage. The lead Jeep skidded to a stop.
Walkie-talkies crackled.
The President 's Jeep stopped instantly, and Secret Service
men pulled the President and national security adviser out of
the Jeep and hustled them into the dense trees. The security
professionals, in well-rehearsed routine, spread out away
from the road to avoid bombs or snipers in case the tree were
the opening salvo of an ambush.
As three men crept back to check around the downed fir,
the rest of the Secret Service moved the President and adviser
continually through the trees, circling, never stopping long
enough to give a rifleman a steady target.
Under most situations, the evasion techniques would have
been highly successful.
Gunfire suddenly ripped through the trees.
The national security adviser was blasted forward, his
spine shattered, his cheerful face stretched in death 's honor.
Two of the Secret Service men grabbed the President and
threw him under a nearby Jeep. Others dropped to their
knees, looking for targets. Whoever the attackers were, they
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had known exactly what the Secret Service would do. Des-
perate, the Secret Service shot blindly at the branches where
they thought they'd seen fire.
It was enough. Two bodies fell from branches. Shots from
both sides revertxrated in the forest.
In five minutes, the battle was over. The stench of cordite
bumed the President's nostrils. He crawled out from under
the Jeep. Four of his men had been wounded. Besides the two
assassins who'd fallen from the branches, two more were
dead. One was shot by the President's men, the other a
suicide from some poison, not a mark on him.
The President surveyed the bloody scene and saw the lxxiy
of the national security adviser. As he rushed to him, four
Secret Service men discovered printed documents nailed to
trees. They snatched them off, studied them briefly, then——
shaken——took them to the President.
Even at midnight, officers and servicemen filled the long,
cool Pentagon cortidors. They camed papers or rifles, walk-
ing briskly as they routinely fulfilled their jobs. The tired
ones were coming off duty. Others with spring in their steps
were on their way to relieve their posts. lhe Pentagon never
slept, but tonight the big complex seemed insomniac. nere
was too much activity. Something big was going on. Some-
thing big, temfying, and highly secret.
Inside a soundproof, electronically safe conference room,
coffee percolated quietly in an alcove. Five somber men and
women stood in a semicircle around a portable magnetic
bulletin board, On the board were displayed the six docu-
ments from the assassinations and attempted assassinations
that had happene
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poisonous substances. They had analyzed the printing inks,
researched the typefaces, and computerized the arrange-
ments of words.
' 'Nothing! said the tall thin man with a scar down his left
cheek. Fear and worry mixed in his cultured voice. "So
ordinary
. so common that even the paper could have
been bought at any corner stationery store. "
"What about area printers?" said a woman. She had
graying hair styled in a fluffy crown. At other times she wore
the glossy hair saucily, proud of the color that age had
earned. But tonight the hair seemed limp, lifeless, as if her
comprehension of the recent violence had sapped her life
force. "Aren't there any blips in the typeface we can track to
one panicular machine?"
"It's laser printed," the man with the scar said simply.
"In Washington, any decent-size office is going to have a
word processor and laser printer. Perfect reproduction. "
' 'You have to hand it to them, " mused another man as he
stroked his beard with trembling fingers. "They've put a lot
of detailed work into the design. IRgal judgments. "
"Not legal. Congress would have to bring them first.
ney 're judgments that find the President, Vice-President,
secretary of defense, and national security adviser guilty of
crimes against the world!" said the woman. She stalked
toward the coffeepot, an empty cup in her hand. *'They only
appear legal. What gall! Guilty!"
"Which terrorist gang?" muttered a second woman, her
hands clasped behind her back. She intently studied the
documents as if by sheer will she could force them to answer
her questions. "Which country?"
There was a loud thud on the door.
"Yes?" said the man with the scar.
The door opened, and the Vice-President strode in. He
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wore a rumpled suit jacket over his traditional white shirt. His
face was pale. Flecks of blood had dned in his white-templed
hair.
' 'What do you have?" he asked, taking the cup of coffee
the woman at the urn poured for him.
As the security experts talked, the coffee cooled in his
hand. When they 'd finished, he put down the cup and picked
up the red phone on the conference table. There was no
device for dialing. Ihe telephone connected directly to the
President.
' 'Yes, sir, " the Vice-President said and related what he 'd
leamed. "Not much information. The assassins were highly
trained and experienced, but unknown to any agents we have
contacts with in the world. No clues, sir. "
*Ihe Vice-President listened grimly. At last he laid the
receiver in the cradle and looked up at the worried group
surrounding him
'The President says to get Hawk. He 'II know what to do. "
ONE
Admirers call Budapest the Little Paris on the Danube.
From ancient Buda's castled hills on the river's west bank to
the more contemporary Pest's wide boulevards on the east,
native Hungarians and impressed tourists daily crossed and
recrossed Budapest's eight graceful bridges to visit govern-
ment offices, restaurants, concert halls, coffeehouses,
cabarets, and casinos. The locations were not merely attrac-
tive, but exuded as much worldly charm as the best of other
European capitals.
Nick Carter reflected on this as he drove a taxi through
Pest's boulevards of wom paving stones, following his
quarry—a dangerous double agent whose recent discovery
would, AXE hoped, result soon in his capture or at least death
before he did any more harm.
Twilight spread inky fingers thick into the sky. A dying
ruby haze hung on the horizon. And in the old street
alongside Carter, cars built in East Germany, Poland,
Romania, and the Soviet Union competed with Czecho-
slovak streetcars and Hungarian buses for noisy, smoke-
belching space on the Great Hungarian Plain. The Warsaw
Pact nation was rooted to the past with her architectural and
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historical treasures while the present bustled importantly in
her streets.
ne double agent drove a small blue Russian Lada. He
turned corners and waited at traffic lights, apparently a law-
abiding citizen. Carter, N3 with America's ultra-secret
agency AXE, pursued expertly in his AXE-supplied taxicab.
He attracted no attention. In his open-necked white shirt and
faded Levi's he was just another moonlighting Hungarian,
one of the vast hidden economy of workers making do in a
communist nation. His only difference was the intensity of
his cool, flinty eyes. They constantly moved. He missed
nothing. His life and mission depended on it.
A panel tmck with vegetables painted on the side pulled in
front of Caner. Quickly the American agent looked past it,
As Caner suspected, the double agent 's Lada, ahead in the
next lane, swerved. The small blue car shot down a narrow
side street in escape.
Instantly Carter pressed the accelerator, and his yellow
taxi cut into the lane.
The panel truck speeded up, angling sharply in front of
Carter, trying to force him to the curb.
Vehicles on the boulevard honked.
Carter rammed his bumper into the side of the panel truck.
The side street was just ahead.
The truck bounced, scraped, then steadied. It wove back
and forth, blocking two lanes to stop Caner's pursuit.
Drivers honked and stuck their heads out their windows to
yell insults.
Carter stuck his head out too. He yelled like the others. But
in his hand was Wilhelmina, his perfectly bored 9mm Luger.
In the noise and confusion, he shot twice. The panel truck's
rear tires exploded. No one noticed.
The truck lumbered slowly on, the remains of its tires
slapping the paving stones.
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Caner once more pressed the taxi 's accelerator. He skill-
fully sliprrd between the lanes of traffic. The honking and
Hungarian insults increased.
The panel truck tried to swerve.
But Carter burst past the laboring vehicle, around a
Porsche, and down the busy side street where the quarry's
Lada had disappeard.
Lighted businesses lined the narrow, one-block-long
street. People walked briskly on the sidewalks, carrying
packages and loaves of bread. lhere was no sign of the Lada.
Carter sped on, weaving among the vehicles, the panel
truck growing smaller in his rearview mirror as it gamely
tried to pursue.
Suddenly the blue Lada darted out of the traffic ahead. It
angled right and disappeared.
Carter's sharp eyes followed the movement. Had the car
gone down an alley?
He pushed the taxi on, watching the glass-fronted stores,
offices, and blank apartments that for-ned a solid wall to the
end of the block. No alleyway.
Then he saw it. "Ihe enormous flat door of a downtown
mechanic 's garage. If open, the entrance would be ample for
the small Lada to race in and skid to a stop.
Carter pulled the steering wheel left and parked toward the
end of the block. The quarry—and those who protected
him—had identified the taxi. But perhaps they still hadn't
identified Carter.
He got out and put on a black jacket of cheap fabric worn
shiny with age. With the jeans, he was dressed like the other
modern Hungarian males around him. The uniform varied
with plaid shirts and sneakers, but the basics were still West-
em jeans and Eastern jacket. The communists didn 't approve
of the mix , but the crushed Hungarian revolution in 1956 had
eventually reaped a few liberties.
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"Numbcr Fourteen J6zsefhegyi Street on Rose Hill, " the
deep Hungarian voice told Caner.
"Sorry," Carter said, turning toward the man. 'Off
duty. "
The man lcx)ked up, his hand on the taxi's back door
handle.
'Only a shon run, the tall, rangy man said. "Double the
fare. "
' 'Maybe later, " Carter said, watching the man curiously.
He 'd given an address in the most fashionable
in Budapest. He could be an artist or government
official, or he could be an agent with a transparent cover.
The man had a long, boneless face, expressionless as if he
had no thoughts. He nodded slowly. Another idea occurred to
Carter. Maybe somebody wanted Carter to know the tall man
was an agent.
"I understand," the man said and walked away.
Carter watched, already delayed perhaps too long. At last
the man disappeared. No one was taking particular notice of
Carter. He strode across the street to the three-story garage. A
wind off the Danube whipped at his jacket.
No lights showed at the garage. On one side of the building
was a bright, customer-filled hat and glove store. On the
other was a butcher shop with pink hams and sausages hang-
ing in the window. Between the butcher shop and the garage
was a steep, dark stairway. A closed pedestrian door was
between that and the massive garage door. There was no
sound from inside the garage.
He looked up and down the street, then tried the pedestrian
door into the garage. The knob turned.
His other hand on the Luger under his jacket, he opened the
door a crack. Faint light showed distantly within.
Again he checked for watchful eyes on the street around
him, then he drew the Luger and slipped into the garage, flat
against the wall.
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The blue I adn was parked about fifteen feet inside the
door. It was empty. A naked bulb glowed an invitation at the
end of the long, two-story room. It illuminated a double-
doored elevator. Shadowy cars and motorcycles were parked
at angles against the wall, waiting for their repairs to be
finished by invisible garagemen. *Ihe air smelled of grease,
gas, and emptiness.
The hairs on the back of Carter's neck stood.
He knew it was a trap, but he had to go on. He had an
assignment to fulfill.
On silent cat feet, he crept around the perimeter of the
room.
A grease gun fell clattering to the concrete floor.
He froze, looking down at the tool. It was and
had been left on the workbench uncleaned. Either the
mechanic was sloppy, or he was in a big hurry.
Carter resumed his quiet approach. Outside traffic sounds
were muffled and distant. A chill hung in the high-ceilinged
empty room.
At last he reached the elevator. There was no inside stair-
case. No other way to go up or down. Or was there?
Suddenly he understood.
He pressed the lever that would call the cage down. The
men waiting atx»ve expected Carter to get on. They would be
ready for him on the third floor with guns and saps, and he
didn't want them to get restless. Not yet.
He ran softly back across the garage floor, past the work-
benches and cars. He slipped out the pedestrian door to the
sidewalk and stood motionless in traffic-made shadows that
wavered against the garage's wall.
Soon he heard what he 'd expected: the liberated footsteps
of a man who thought he'd lost his tail.
The double agent.
Carter blended deep into the shadows at the side of the
garage's big fiat door.
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The quarry stepped lightly from the outside staircase onto
the sidewalk. He glanced casually around, his gaze sweeping
the busy night. He reached inside his jacket.
Carter's grip tightened on his Luger, but the double agent
drew out only a pack of Bulgarian cigarettes.
He reflected on the double agent's stupidity as the man
cupped his hands around a match and lit the cigarette. In the
process, he illuminated his rough, spoiled face long enough
for anyone along the congested street to memorize it. lhe
man had seen too many spy movies and romanticized his
work.
The quarry blew out the match and flicked it down to the
sidewalk. He turned abruptly, dismissing the safe but unin-
teresting street, and strode away.
Keeping to the shadows, using the remarkable training and
intellect that had kept him alive and made him the top
Killmaster, Carter followed. By the relaxed shoulders of his
quarry, the American agent knew the other man was now
convinced his tail had been lured upstairs to the garage 's
offices and eliminated. He was safe, and proud of the clever
subterfuge that had killed his pursuer.
The quarry walked a quarter mile, weaving in and out of
crowds, crossing thronged streets, passing offices, busines-
ses, and restaurants exuding the spicy smells of pig livers,
paprika, brown bread, fried cutlets, sausages, pickles, and
törkoly, a traditional Hungarian brandy made from the skins
of grapes after they 'd been crushed for wine.
The Hungarian regularly checked his watch. He walked
faster. His seasoned gaze roamed the horizon.
At last the double agent reached the wide Danube, its wet
smell fresh in the air. Caner followed closely now. The river
was black and deep in the closing night. Excursion boats at
the landing docks were strung with small sparkling lights.
Gypsy violins sang haunting melodies. A great shiny tourist
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bus from Austria drove up to one dock and unloaded tourists
in evening dress for an expensive dinner.
The quarry continued on, heedless. He was late. He'd
abandoned his Lada for the safety of his feet. Several times he
almost broke into a run as he crossed the bridge into Buda.
Now he was womed. Whoever he was meeting was impor-
. or terrifying.
tant . .
The soaring, graceful figure at the top of the liberation
monument came into view against the starry sky. The double
agent climbed Gellért Hill two steps at a time, and Carter
followed.
Here the eleventh-century Venetian missionary Bishop
Gellért was martyred. Carter considered this. Now the hill
was a verdant park overlooking the city. and at the top was
the Citadel, a hotel, wine cellar, café, and the statue com-
memorating the Soviet troops' victory over the Germans in
1945. Because of that success, Budapest had been liberated,
turned communist, and was now after thirty years slowly,
inexorably moving toward the profit motive and private own-
ership. From martyrdom to a glimmer of freedom after eight
hundred years of servitude to other nations. Carter shook his
head sadly.
The double agent paused at a stone wall. Carter turned his
back, pretending to study the monument. Beyond it, beauti-
ful nighttime Budapest spread in a festival of twinkling
lights.
From the comers of his eyes, he watched the double agent
carefully take in the few nighttime sightseers.
Satisfied, the double agent vaulted the stone wall and
disappeared in the shadows of tall, overhanging trees.
Quickly Carter strode along the wall. Satisfied that the
position was good, he too leaped over into the small forest.
From tree to tree, he closed in on low, whispered voices.
There were two men, and one of them he recognized from
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the voice tape he 'd heard in a secret AXE briefing room three
days ago. It was definitely his quarry, the double agent.
He held his Luger, felt the balance, and circled closer to
the voices.
They weren 't speaking Hungarian.
At last Carter saw them, two average-size figures in fil-
tered starlight at arm's length from one another. The double
agent was rubbing his palms nervously along his pants, and
now Caner knew why. He smiled.
The language was Romanian.
And the other man was General Carol Romanescu, chief of
the Romanian secret police and vx»werful member of the
Romanian Politburo. Causing his displeasure was enough to
make any man sweat.
Suddenly a third figure leaped down silently from a tree.
Carter raced forward.
The figure fell on Romanescu.
Before the Romanian could roll away, tEfore Caner could
get there, the figure's hand shot up. A knife's long blade
glinted briefly. fie sharp steel plunged deep into Romanes-
cu's heart.
TWO
The killer was dressed all in black. He'd been waiting in
the tree 's branches for the meeting between the double agent
and the leader of the Romanian secret B)lice. But waiting to
kill only Carol Romanescu.
Nick Caner lunged down the incline.
Frantic, the Hungarian double agent searched Romanes-
cu 's jacket pockets for the information he 'd just turned over.
The killer, his face hidden in shadows, calmly pulled out
his knife from Romanescu 's chest. His assignment was over.
He turned away.
Caner threw himself at the two.
The killer bolted.
The Hungarian double agent jumped up, papers clutched
in one hand, a Walther aimed at Carter's heart in the other.
' 'Killmaster!" the Hungarian growled, surprised. "Lousy
Killmaster. You're dead! "
"You always were a wishful thinker, J6zsef. "
Two bullets rang out from the Walther.
One bullet whistled past Carter, just missing his ear. Ihe
second went where aimed—into the double agent's papers.
The sheaf explcxied into a falling ball of flame and ash just as
Caner hit Jözsef's midsection. The papers had been chemi-
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cally treated for quick disposal the wrong eyes saw
them.
Jözsef gasped for air, then jammed a knife at Carter.
Carter swiveled, kicking the knife. Too late to help the
dead Romanescu, it landed in the crook of the Romanian
leader's arm, blade pointed toward the stars.
In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew through the
night. A good citizen had reported the gunshots on Gellélt
Hill.
"Give up, J6zsef. You can buy your life with informa-
tion. "
"You cheap Westemers! You'd min my standard of liv-
ing."
The double agent quickly aimed the Walther.
But before he could fire, Caner slapped it from his hand
and sent a slashing puncb to his jaw.
The Hungarian 's face stretched with surprise and fear as he
helplessly crashed back through the air. As if he 'd practiced
for hours, he landed perfectly on top of the dead Romanian.
The knife blade that was balanced against Romanescu
sliced neatly between the double agent's back ribs. It
punctured his heart. He grunted and his eyes snapped open.
"Nem!" he shouted. "No!"
The eyes froze open. Death's glaze quickly set in.
The police sirens close upon him, Carter raced off after the
killer in black.
It was the man in the white shirt and dark sports jacket who
was tying the black sweater around his neck that attracted
Carter's attention. lhe man was strolling across the shadowy
plaza on Gellért Hill, the sweater hanging down his back
from his shoulders while he knotted the limp arms low under
his chin. When the man reached the railing, he stopped,
grasped it with both hands, and then leaned forward like any
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19
eager tourist to soak up the diamondlike glow of
beautiful Budapest at night.
He seemed not to notice the sirens.
Carter smiled. The killer. A thrifty, confident killer who
couldn 't throw even his disguise away—a good black swea-
ter big enough when worn to hide a white shirt and the
standard Hungarian jacket.
The AXE agent turned, whistled soundlessly, and stared
offover another railing at the black Danube while he watched
in his peripheral vision the figure of the killer.
The killer was delaying—either trying to figure out
whether anyone had spotted him, or waiting to meet a con-
tact.
Below, police cars with revolving red lights screeched to a
halt.
Ahead of Caner. the full moon spread its silvery light in a
path down the center of the Danube. Carter watched the
expanding ripples until at last the killer turned and sauntered
away down the steps. The man was wary, so Carter waited
until he was almost out of sight.
As policemen ran up the steps, their guns drawn, the AXE
agent descended.
The killer glanced up and down the street, then walked
quickly to a green Renault parked at the curb near the police
cars. He unlocked the door, got in, and started the motor.
Carter had yet to get a look at his face. There was something
disturbingly familiar about his walk.
The American agent watched for a taxi, but the evening
streets were at last quieting, citizens and tourists gone to
homes and hotels searching for dinners and rest.
Carter could take the killer now, could break the window
and shove the Luger in the killer's face, but he wanted to
know why the man had killed Romanescu and not the double
agent as well. Had he only wanted to kill? He hadn't been
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NICK CARTER
after the papers. Carter needed to follow the killer, to get
infomation for Hawk.
Still some distance away, the American agent circled the
Hungarian police cars and the officer left to guard them. He
slouched. then ran toward the Renault.
As the green sedan took off, Carter stepped onto the back
bumper, wrapped his muscled hands over the chrome, and
crouched for the ride.
The sedan journeyed through the streets of medieval Buda
and into Pest. Other drivers' mouths fell open. Sometimes
they pointed and honked. But the killer kept on, his puzzled
face occasionally turning from side to side. People don 't see
'*hat they can't conceive.
The killer slowed the vehicle. A rococo hotel filled the
block. Carter hopped off the bumper and walked to a
magazine stand next to a granite wall still pocked by gunfire
from the unsuccessful 1956 revolt.
As the killer parked, the AXE agent bought a Soviet
newspaper. Four Russian divisions were stationed in Hun-
gary. Like soldiers all over the world, they wanted to know
what they were missing at home.
Carter turned, and saw the edge of the black sweater
disappear inside the double doors of the massive hotel. He
counted to ten, then followed.
The hotel's foyer was three stories high, glittering with
gold leaf, painted with pastel colors. People walked softly
down the wide staircases, their voices in awe by the
unusual aura of privilege and wealth. The distinct classes that
made wealth and privilege not only possible but inevitable in
Hungary had been destroyed by the Soviets after they litEr-
ated the nation in 1945. Instead, the communists substituted
communal guilt. Landowners were called pretentious
ants, and intellectuals were vultures serving
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after the papers. Carter needed to follow the killer, to get
infomation for Hawk.
Still some distance away, the American agent circled the
Hungarian police cars and the officer left to guard them. He
slouched. then ran toward the Renault.
As the green sedan took off, Carter stepped onto the back
bumper, wrapped his muscled hands over the chrome, and
crouched for the ride.
The sedan journeyed through the streets of medieval Buda
and into Pest. Other drivers' mouths fell open. Sometimes
they pointed and honked. But the killer kept on, his puzzled
face occasionally turning from side to side. People don 't see
'*hat they can't conceive.
The killer slowed the vehicle. A rococo hotel filled the
block. Carter hopped off the bumper and walked to a
magazine stand next to a granite wall still pocked by gunfire
from the unsuccessful 1956 revolt.
As the killer parked, the AXE agent bought a Soviet
newspaper. Four Russian divisions were stationed in Hun-
gary. Like soldiers all over the world, they wanted to know
what they were missing at home.
Carter turned, and saw the edge of the black sweater
disappear inside the double doors of the massive hotel. He
counted to ten, then followed.
The hotel's foyer was three stories high, glittering with
gold leaf, painted with pastel colors. People walked softly
down the wide staircases, their voices in awe by the
unusual aura of privilege and wealth. The distinct classes that
made wealth and privilege not only possible but inevitable in
Hungary had been destroyed by the Soviets after they litEr-
ated the nation in 1945. Instead, the communists substituted
communal guilt. Landowners were called pretentious
ants, and intellectuals were vultures serving
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NICK CARTER
'Who is this man?" boomed the authoritative voice of the
Hungarian head chef. "Get him out of here! I won 't have my
dinners ruined! "
"Pardon," said Carter as he weaved past the gleaming
counters and mounds of fresh vegetables. ' 'A friend. I'm
looking for a friend. Did a stranger come in?"
' 'Only you! " thundered the incensed head chef.
Carter's eyes never stopped moving. The chef was lying.
The killer in black had nowhere else to go. He had to have
come into the kitchen. The angry, suspicious faces of the
chefs and their assistants followed Carter as he at last exited
through a door at the back.
He stopped and listened. He was in a long, quiet concrete
comidor lined with boxes of kitchen supplies. The din of the
kitchen was him. A parking lot waited ahead at the
end of the cotTidor.
He padded forward, his ears prickling.
Then he heard the sound.
Leather on cement.
He dropped, rolling forward out the door.
A flash of white shirt and black jacket hurtled past.
The smells of exhaust and rubber stank in the air. Car
motors turned over. Wheels squealed. A busy parking gar-
age.
He leaped to his feet and turned, fists raised.
The two men looked deep into one another's eyes and
years passed in shock waves between them.
' 'Why did you kill Romanescu?" Carter said softly.
"I never suspected it was you .
Sir David Sutton gasped. The deep lines on his face
twisted. He grabbed his chest and started to collapse.
Carter caught him and carried him behind an old Mercedes
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limousine. He laid his former comrade gently on the con-
crete, wadded the sweater, and slipped it under his head.
He checked the older man 's pulse. It was faint and uneven.
The breathing was shallow. The closed eyelids were almost
translucent.
Age and illness had changed Sutton radically in the ten
years since Carter had last seen him, and he had difficulty
connecting this sick man with the robust agent he'd worked
with and known well. A British hero from World War II,
Victoria Cross, the kind of man you wanted beside you on a
dangerous mission. And just ten years ago they'd shared
several missions.
' 'Sony, old boy. " Sir David opened his eyes. "Doesn't
hurt a bit now. " He smiled. "Nice chase. Wish I could play it
to the end. nie old ticker, you know. Knew it'd fail me just
when I needed it. "
"Rest, David. I'll get an ambulance. "
'Too late, lad. Tell Andrea for me. No blasted strangers. "
Sir David Sutton sighed and closed his eyes. His lungs
expelled a last blast of air.
Carter stayed quietly beside him, memories floating
through his mind. At last he squeezed the dead man 's shoul-
der, and walked away.
The telephone number was secret. It led to a contact who
passed Carter on to another who again passed Caner on. At
last he was given the number he needed. It was a number that
changed once or twice a day.
"Sir David Sutton?" the disembodied voice said cheer-
fully in a crisp Oxbridge accent. "I 'II get his file. You Yanks
worry t(X) much. M15 never loses one of its own. "
Carter waited in a dark telephone booth, the bulb un-
screwed. Farm trucks rumbled past on the way to the Great
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NICK CARTER
Market Hall of downtown Pest. The tmcks were heaped with
produce, fresh eggs, milk, and cheese---evidence that Hun-
gary's new economic mechanism was working. The new
rules decentralized planning and control , allowed supply and
demand to function naturally, and pennitted individuals to
again accumulate wealth. It was a new face for communism,
and was gaining increasing success.
"I've found him," the distant voice said. "Sir David
Sutton. Retired 1980 because of cardiopulmonary problems.
Bad heart, don't you know. "
' 'And recently?"
"Haven 't the foggiest. If he 's out there, he's not on a job
for us. '
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THREE
Three blocks away in the café section of Pest, Nick Car-
ter's practiced gaze once again took in the animated on-the-
towners, bright tourists, and drab Hungarians with a few
extra fonnts looking for a lively time. One precaution any
AXE agent leamed early in his or her career was never to stay
too long in one place. By the time the agent eams a Killmaster
rating, it's an unconscious response.
Satisfied he was drawing no unusual attention, Caner
strolled to a different telephone. He had another call to make,
and he wasn't longing to make it.
"N3," David Hawk's voice growled in the distance.
' 'I 've been waiting. Did you get Jözsef and the contact? Is the
contraband safe?"
Carter knew he was going to disappoint his boss. He told
the brilliant head of AXE what had happened on Gellért Hill
and in the parking lot behind the old hotel.
"J6zsef Pau and Carol Romanescu, ' ' Hawk rumbled from
Washington. Tiere was an edge to his voice, the same edge
of worry that had followed Carter from Gellért to the cold
telephone here on the Pest street. "Didn't know Jözsef had
gone that high up. What the hell was Sutton doing there?"
"Wish 1 knew. "
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NICK CARTER
' 'If he'd lived, would he have told you?"
"Only if he'd wanted. And he had the time before he
died. "
"Damned stubborn man, that Sutton. "
"Yes, sir. A gcxxi agent. "
"That, among other things, is what mthers me," Hawk
said.
"I checked with MIS," Caner said. "According to their
records, Sutton retired in 1980 because of a weak heart. "
"I'd heard that, yes. So he was on his own. "
"Or with someone else. Working for them or leading
them. "
"Did you find any ' '—Hawk •s voice hesitated—
•ser. .
papeiS, documents there, N3? Legal-appearing documents?
Attached to Romanescu •s body, or maybe nailed to trees?"
s 'The contraband—the papers Jözsef gave to Romanescu
when they met—burned to ash, " Caner said, puzzled. "He
ignited the papers with a gunshot. Those were the only
documents. Should there have been others?"
In Washington, Hawk was strangely silent. He was con-
sidering something, perhaps whether to give Carter certain
information. Ultrasecret AXE gave out information only on a
need-to-know basis. As he patiently waited, Caner's
thoughts retumed to the Hungarian revolution and to the
sweeping amnesty in 1963 that had at last freed many an-
ticommunists and other captives from the revolution. Forever
changed by pain and disillusionment, they returned to com-
munist Hunganan life. The wounds from the 1956 revolution
ran deep through the Hungarian soul, cutting it as the Danube
sliced Buda from Pest. Caner reflected on this as he tried to
unravel the meaning of the three men 's meeting—Hungarian
J6zsef Pau, Romanian Carol Romanescu, and Englishman
Sir David Suttory—and perhaps even their deaths.
At last Hawk cleared his throat. There was a sudden snap,
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27
and Carter recognized the sound of his chief's butane lighter.
Hawk was lighting one of his ever present foul-smelling
cigars. A man of impeccable taste in all else, his humanity
showed in his preference for cheap, temble cigars. In far-off
Washington, Hawk let out a noisy blast of cigar smoke.
S There was an attempt last night on the President 's life, "
Hawk said.
"And the Vice-President's. The secretary of defense and
the national secunty adviser were tx»th killed. "
'The background check on the killers shows no connec-
tion at all. One was a Mafia hit man, another a former Green
Beret turned mercenary. The others were a Soviet officer
who deserted in Afghanistan, a retired Israeli female spy
supposedly on vacation in the United States, and a former
peacenik from that sixties commune in Findhorn, Scotland. "
' 'But there was a connection. " Carter could feel it in his
bones. ' 'Ihes it have to do with the dcruments you were
asking me about?"
'The assassination attempts were accompanied by legal-
looking death warrants. Pinned to trees, on one assassin's
body, and on the front door of the Georgetown home where
the secretary of defense was poisoned. " Hawk's voice was
cold as ice. He wasn't just worried; he was deeply afraid.
This conspiracy had earthshaking implications if it were as
international as it appeared. "Each paper named the specific
government official indicted, announced he'd been found
guilty, and sentenced him to death for crimes against the
world. "
Carter and Hawk fell silent, each deep in thought.
Crimes against the world reverberated in Carter's mind. In
1968, twelve years after the brave Hungarian revolt, Russia
invaded Czechoslovakia to put down a liberal uprising. Hun-
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NICK CARTER
gary, its dreams of independence less important than its fear
of another Soviet reprisal, sent its army, too. Hungary had
learned its lesson well. It was better to win than to lose, and
the illusion of freedom came with too high a price. It was easy
to say that Hungary had been wrong, but if Hungary had
refused, giant Russia would have retaliated.
"Crimes against the world," Carter repeated somberly
"Hell! What does it mean this time?"
"That, of course, is what we have to discover. "
"You think Romanescu might have been a victim of this
group? That means Sutton---"
"It does indeed. And the that Jözsef burned to
protect himself might have contained the death warrant. If'
Sutton were a conspirator, he'd have left it on the txxjy. "
Carter looked out at the festive Pest night. Couples strolled
up the boulevard hand in hand, laughing, sharing secrets. A
group of giggling girls huddled in masses of long hair,
hunched shoulders, and budding adolescence as they swung
headlong down the sidewalk toward a café or youth center.
Parents pushed a baby carriage, the tall thin man straight withi
pride, the woman holding his arm as if he were the only real
man in the world. Budapest was just another average city
beautiful and old, yes .
but populated as were all
others with ordinary people who deserved better. Hungary ,
the country that had survived years of oppression, ruled for
centuries by others with little sympathy but much greed, had
turned its back on itself in 1968 when it'd helped its latest
conqueror invade sister Czechoslovakia. How could a nation
move forward into liberty and peace if its people wouldn't
lead?
'II go to London then," Carter said. "See Andrea. "
'The widow," Hawk said, expelling a blast of cigar
smoke far away. "She was M15 t(X). "
"Your memory is excellent, sir. "
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"Almost as go(xl as yours, N3. " Hawk cleared his throat
after the unaccustomed compliment. "I'll have other people
checking elsewhere. Report to me quickly. "
' 'I understand.
Carter hung up the phone and walked into the teeming,
music-filled Hungarian night.
London 's enormous Heathrow Airport had three terminals to
serve its nearly eight million residents and thronging tourists.
Handling most of the international traffic to England, the
airport shuttled travelers to and from their destinations in the
remarkable. cheerfully efficient English way. Airline buses
ran to downtown London every fifteen or twenty minutes.
Trains amved and left every four minutes during peak
periods and every eight to ten minutes at other times. And rail
service to Reading, Woking, and Watford Junction stations
was available hourly.
Carrying a simple leather briefcase, dressed in a Bonn
three-piece business suit, Carter strcxle through the brightly
lit tenninal, past airline counters and car rental desks, among
the crowds of passengers and dreamers, the bobbies and
pickpockets, the exhausted arrivals and excited departing, all
moving, milling, searching for signs to where they were
going or only hoped to be going, even to a restroom. The
staleness of nervous sweat and overworked air conditioning
tainted everything.
He pushed outside, eager for air. He breathed deeply of the
fresh London morning. Thin sunrise pinks and yellows
glowed on the other side of a pale yellow smog. It was a
minor smog, nothing like the famous pea-soupers of the
1950s, the ones that for decades had killed people prone to
lung problems and shielded crazed murderers like Jack the
Ripper. lhen U)ndon's clean-air laws had gone into effect,
and the mists off the 'Ihames to glow with clear light,
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NICK CARTER
not with bituminous coal particles and carbons. Unfoflu-
nately, national laws weren't that effective in detemng
homicidal criminals, and international laws were even less
effective restraining nations hungry for territory, wealth, and
increased power.
Carter sighed. Mankind's greatest enemy was himself.
The AXE agent hailed a taxi and gave the driver Andrea and
David Sutton 's address in Soho in London 's West End. He
got in the black cab and slammed the door.
In the brash, neon quarter of Soho where London's foreign
restaurants clustered in greatest number, Carter paid off the
Indian driver with the dour face. The man counted the money
carefully, then looked at Caner.
"Keep the change, Caner said.
The driver snapped his fingers shut in a sudden display of
violent energy. The face didn't smile. but the muscles had
relaxed into interest.
Before the driver started a conversation, Carter picked up
his briefcase, nodded an acknowledgment of the cabbie's
thanks, got out. and—slapping bumpers in the heavy morn-
ing traffic—--dodged across the street to the restaurant called
the Trojan Horse.
Inside, small statues mcxleled after Phidias' and Prax-
iteles' works stood displayed in arched alcoves. A mural
of the Parthenon was painted across the back wall. Candles
waited to be lit at tables where fresh linen tablecloths were
stacked. A cleaning crew of three swept and dusted, prepar-
ing for the evening's diners.
'We don 't serve breakfast or lunch. " lhe man was swar-
thy and square. He spoke with a mixed accent, English and
Greek.
"Lady Sutton, please. " Caner took the gold cigarette case
from his inside jacket pocket.
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"She's asleep, sir. We open at six tonight."
"She'll want to see me now. "
31
Carter offered one of his monogrammed cigarettes to the
man, but he shook his head, his gaze moving uneasily around
the rcx»rn after the cleaning crew. Carter lit his cigarette. The
man was a fusser. No one who worked under him would ever
do a good enough job, but the jobs that were done under his
supervision would be more than good enough for any
employer.
"Do yourself a favor, " Carter said and handed him the
gold case and a twenty-pound note. "Keep the money and
take her the case. She'll recognize it. I have information
about Sir David. "
The man looked at the case, then at Carter's face. He took
the money first, then turned on his heel to make the delivery.
He'd be fast. He didn't want to leave his crew too long.
Carter smoked, enjoying the smoothness of the custom-
blended tobaccos. He relaxed, suddenly aware how close he
was to exhaustion. The chases through Budapest, watching
David Sutton die, the disturbing information from Hawk, and
then the late-night flight to Heathrow. Death and faithless-
ness were all part of the job, but sometimes even the best, the
most experienced agent reached saturation.
"She says to come up, " the crew boss told Carter, sur-
prised. "She says you 'II understand. "
Carter put out his cigarette in a silver ashtray and listened
to the man's directions, ignoring the curious eyes, the sus-
picious tone of voice. Alone, he strode across the dining
room, doubled back to the closed-off waiting area at the front
of the restaurant near the bar, and then through a side door
that opened onto a spiral staircase.
'Nick! How wonderful, ' ' she called down, a shimmering
blue silk robe wrapped around her as if it were thick enough
to hold off the chill London air. "But I didn't expect you.
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What an odd hour!"
' 'Next time I 'II make an appointment, " he said and smiled
up at her as he climbed the fragile staircase.
"l couldn't come down. "
"Not dressed yet, " he said. "No reason you should "
"Coffee? Black?"
"You remembered. "
' 'How could I forget. "
He followed her across a sunny foyer hung with ferns and
ivies and into a bedroom so large that it was probably the
same size as the dining room below. There were only the two
rooms, and a bath on the far side. The walls were eggshell
white, the floor hardwood parquet with rag rugs in the old
English style on either side of the bed and then a large one
beneath a piecrust coffee table tk•tween the two overstuffed
sofas.
The bedclothes had been thrown back. The indentation
from her sleep formed a shallow, round recess. She handed
him the cigarette case, smiled briefly , avoiding his eyes, then
went to the fireplace.
' 'Cold, isn 't it?" she said and knelt. "For this time of
year. "
She struck a match, turned on the gas, and the flames
licked high over dry logs. She added another, still kneeling,
her bottom round and small beneath the negligee.
"You 'II have tea?" he asked.
"Of course. Homer is bringing a tray. Coffee and tea. "
She stood again, her back to him. She squared her shoul-
ders and turned. She looked at him.
She had large gray eyes and rich brown hair. Ihe chiseled
cheekbones were high, the nose straight and slightly turned
up at the end. Her face had a deep glow as if from some
internal, unquenchable fire. With no makeup, her hair
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tousled, and the softness of sleep clinging like perfume, she
was a walking invitation for sex. She was almost forty now,
the skin trginning to line around the eyes and furrow be-
tween the brows, but for her, life always would just be
staring.
From the time Caner had known her, she 'd been direct and
honest, and now she looked at him unflinchingly as if to say
she'd done what she'd had to do. A decade ago she'd left
Caner and mamed David Sutton, twenty years her senior,
because Caner could never marry anyone either on paper or
in fact. Because she 'd loved Carter with a painful awareness
of the necessary limitations of his commitment. Because
Carter had cared for her too much to lie to her. And so she'd
taken herself out of competition. She 'd escaped in the tradi-
tional woman's way. Marriage to another. She hadn't seen
Caner since.
'You 're even more beautiful than I remembered, ' ' he told
her.
She sat on a sofa, crossed her ankles, and slipped them
neatly back under her. Her legs had the long, graceful curves
of a model's.
"Homer will bring breakfast, tcx). Only toast and jam, I
expect. The chef doesn 't like to take time out from creating
tonight's feast. I hope you understand. "
She hoped he understood that he 'd been invited up to visit,
for nothing more, and that if he 'd called at a more reasonable
time they would have had their visit downstairs at one of the
best tables or, if too crowded, then up there at the coffee table
with the Grecian screen pulled across to hide her waiting bed.
'81 understand," he said.
"Did David send you? Homer said you came about
David. "
' 'David's dead, Andrea. I'm sorry," he said kindly. He
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NICK CARTER
didn't know any other way than the directness she herself
practiced. In the long run, it was kinder. No false hopes. "He
died in Budapest. "
Her face went ashen with shock. Her gaze wandered
around the room as if looking for something to fasten onto, an
anchor, an explanation.
"You 're sure?" she said at last.
g 'I was with him. "
Two silent tears ran down her face.
Carter.
"Please sit down," she said. "I'd
happened. "
She looked
like to know
up at
what
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FOUR
In the flat above her exclusive Greek restaurant in Soho,
Lady Andrea Sutton sat quietly on the sofa, hands folded in
her lap, and listened without speaking as Nick Cafler talked.
After the news he 'd brought her, he needed to lead up slowly
to the questions he wanted answered.
Homer amved with breakfast and left it covered on the
coffee table as Carter described the meeting on Gellért Hill,
the killing of Carol Romanescu, the drive through Budapest
to the old hotel in Pest, and finally Sir David 's heart attack.
"I 'm sorry, " he said when he'd finished. "He was a fine
man to work with. "
"We had some good times, didn't we. "
She lifted covers from the plates on the tray on the coffee
table before her. The delicious aromas of coffee, tea, toast,
muffins, fruit jams, and marmalade mixed with the hot smell
of the fire.
' 'I hope you 're hungry, " she said and poured him coffee.
She was putting off the inevitable—talking about her hus-
band of ten years. Talking of what he'd meant and not meant
. and she him. Her
to her, and whether he had loved her . .
movements were slow and deliberate, as if she were outside
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NICK CARTER
herself, obsewing a shell of herself perform the little niceties
of life.
' 'Actually," Caner said, ' 'I'm starved."
He took the coffee and drank as she spread strawt*rry jam
on a slice of toast. She laid the toast on a bone china plate and
handed it to him.
"What about yourself?" he said.
She looked at the simple focxi on the tray, then up at him
with wide gray eyes.
"Have some tea, " he suggested.
"Yes. Of course. "
She poured milk in a cup, laid the silver strainer over it,
and tipped the teapot until the cup was full. She covered the
teapot with a quilted cozy and put the strainer on a plate to
drip. She poured in a spoonful of sugar, picked up the cup,
and drank.
"Do you remember that time in Cairo?" he said.
She looked up over the cup.
"David in the bar, " he went on. *'What was it called?"
"The Nubian Oar."
' 's it. " He smiled at her. Nubian Oar. And the
veil dancer. She danced for David----came right up to him and
started dropping her veils. You were laughing. Such a funny
expression he had on his face. Not greed or lust at all. More
like a five-year-old with a full cookie jar and a nanny lurking
in the comer. "
' 'And you were in the back rcx)m," she said. "Waiting. "
' 'When the last veil came down, you both jumped under
the table. "
" 'And poison darts shot out from her hips. Would 've killed
us both. David yanked herdown by the ankles while you shot
her across the room. "
'That's right, " he said. "All hell broke loose. Saboteurs,
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37
informers, police. You got the micrÜt from her navel while
David and I were occupied. "
s They shot you in the arm. David was limping from a
knife wound to the thigh. " Her face was animated, almost
rosy with the past, her voice breathless. "Somehow we got
away. "
•Naguib was waiting on the Nile with the motorboat, " he
said, smiling. "It was a long mission, three months. A lot can
happen in three months," he said quietly.
She closed her eyes, sipped tea.
"A lot," she murmured.
Carter ate the toast, drained the coffee, ate muffins and
more toast, while she cradled her cup and occasionally drank
ne room had a warm southern exposure, the small-paned
windows shiny clean, the sky bright and Wedgwood blue
above the smog line. Wrens hopped along the ledge. In the
fireplace, the flames crackled.
"I loved him in a rather nice way," she said at last. "He
didn't mind that it wasn't a consuming passion. " She set
down her cup. "He said he'd had enough of that to last a
lifetime. " She hesitated, her hand poised in front of her, her
he was
face taut with emotion. "We did things together.
decent .
' Tears spread down
. very dear .
. tome. .
her cheeks. "No, no. " She waved Carter away.
Still, he sat beside her and pulled her close. She gave in to
weep helplessly into his shoulder. She shuddered with sobs.
He handed her tissues, and she blew her nose and cried again.
He stroked her hair as she wept. He remembered their
times together, the softness of her flesh, the insistence of her
demands, the triumph in her cries afterward. The exhaustion
of the last few days fell from him. Just her presence refreshed
him. But he had a mission to do for Hawk, and that came
first.
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NICK CARTER
. asked you to tell me yourself, didn't he," she
said, snuffling into a tissue. "If you were there, he'd want
you to be the one. "
"You and he must have been very close to have known
what he'd want."
"He had ideals. Principles. David was special , admirable,
in his own right. "
"But he wasn't with M15 any longer. "
"Not that I know of. "
She sighed, her head resting on his shoulder, warm against
his throat. She smelled of tea roses.
' 'M15 says he wasn't working for them," he said.
"Oh?"
' 'Then why did he kill Romanescu?"
"David didn't tell me everything. "
"There was more?"
He drew back and looked questioningly into the soft gray
eyes. He took the damp tissue from her hand, wiped the
tear-streaked face, patted the eyes, then held it to her nose.
"Blow," he ordered.
Obediently, she blew into the tissue.
Tenderness welled inside him. He kissed her.
She gave a little gasp, went rigid.
He moved away.
' 'Another cup of tea," he said, "while you tell me what
David had been doing with his time. "
Following her ritual, he poured tea and then coffee for
himself.
She watched him, the soft eyes disturbed, puzzled by a
new inner turmoil. Or an old turmoil insistent on recognition.
' 'I assume even a busy restaurant wasn 't enough to occupy
David's inquisitive mind," he prompted.
"The restaurant's mine,"
she said simply. "l needed
something to do after .
after .
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"After you left the service. "
39
She nodded, but the answer was incomplete. After she left
the service, yes, but also after her affair with Carter. She'd
needed a bridge back to ordinary life.
S SDavid came and went, she said. • 'He helped with the
accounts hete. Sometimes he went up to our place in
Cumbria—it was his place, really. "
"Isolated and rugged there. "
"Peaceful was the way David put it. Only nature to con-
tend with. "
She pushed herself from the sofa and stood up, a high-
class, high-strung filly with a case of nerves. She strode to the
window, twisting her fingers. She peeled the dr4E back to
the casing, and sunlight streamed through the almost translu-
cent fabric of her robe. Her curves were outlined sharp and
inviting in a haze of glistening blue. She turned slowly, her
nipples stiff silhouetted points. Unaware, she studied him as
she continued.
"I don 't know exactly what he did with his time. Cricket
matches occasionally, Lord's or the Oval. When he was
restless, he'd drink at the club. During the day we'd tour
antique shops for pieces to take to the house in Cumbria.
When I could get away we 'd go to the theater, see friends, all
the normal things people do. "
"Did he talk going back to work?"
' The service? I'm not sure. He was ambivalent when they
discharged him. Pan of him was angry and depressed. He
was too young, still had too much he wanted to do. He'd look
around and see misery and greed and mismanagement of evil
proportions. It made him feel crazy sometimes, I think, to see
so much wrong going unchanged. "
"We all despise that. "
' 'We do, " she agreed. She let the drape fall from her hand.
Her negligee swayed. "That's what attracts us to the work in
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NICK CARTER
the first place, those of us who do it for a reason other than
thrills, money, or some stupid idea of glamorous adven-
ture. "
She walked back across the room. She glanced at the t*d,
averted her eyes, then sat on the other sofa across from
Caner.
"You said he was ambivalent, " he said.
s 'The other part of him wanted to quit. "
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, intense in her ex-
planation. But she also leaned because she wanted to
closer to Carter, only the flimsy security of a coffee table a
buffer against her growing recognition that she still wanted
him, that out of pain carne human need. She dipped her heal,
then looked up, eyes glowing, unknowingly calling him. He
felt her power pulling, pulling.
' 'He was tired of it all," she continued, "tired of the
wounds and exhaustion and never, never being able to do
enough. So many problems, so few solutions. And I think he
didn 't like the changes he saw in courts around the world. He
didn 't like the ease with which criminals seemed to be getting
off. It made the job seem pointless. Why should he care so
much that he constantly put his life on the line when the vast
majority of the earth's citizens were allowing their legal
systems to free lawbreakers, rapists, and murderers?"
"He asked questions that all of us ask. "
"Then you see, " she said, smiling, the gray eyes probing
his face for answers to questions she didn 't want to ask.
Denial was easier than the truth. "He was a practical man, an
ethical man, yet what could he do?"
"Kill Carol Romanescu. "
"Quite. 'Ihe head of the Romanian secret police and
member of the Politburo. A powerful man, evil, his job was
to be evil. "
"A man with a wife and four children. For all David knew,
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THE EXECUTION EXCHANGE
41
he might have working for us. A mole. Ultrasecret. In
any case, the killing was unauthorized. Murder. "
' 'But Romanescu! Look how treacherous he was! Torture,
killing!
' 'Are you telling me that to get him David turned rogue? A
She sighed, exasperated.
' SNick. I've told you everything I can think of to help.
How could I have known exactly what was in David 's mind?
You say you saw him kill Romanescu. I don't question you.
But how do I know you're telling me the truth? How do I
know you haven 't turned yourself, gone over? Maybe you
killed Romanescu and David. '
She stood up, trembling with thoughts .
. torn, fighting
growing rage at death, the unknown, and where her unruly,
shocked needs were driving her.
He arose, stood next to her, and casually took out his
cigarette case. The smell of tea roses on her alabaster skin
swelled in his head. He remembered the sight and feel of her
hot, thighs as he came down between them. His
hands trembled, and he was sharply aware of that deep recess
where all men store the primitive maleness that even civiliza-
tion can't completely erase. He wanted her. Now.
He forced himself to light a cigarette.
"Or, may&, David 's still alive. " She clenched her hands.
' 'Maybe this is all a trick! A nightmare! Maybe the KGB 's
sent you to kill me, too"'
She lunged, weeping, and beat her fists against his chest.
He put out his cigarette.
"What have you done with David?" she cried.
He held her shoulders, shaking her, as she bruised his
flesh.
"Andrea! Stop it!"
"l hate you! Hate you!"
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NICK CARTER
He grabbed her fists and crushed them in a tight knot
against him.
She spat in his face.
He slapped hers.
Shocked, they stared naked truth into one another's eyes.
The years evaporated. He picked her up.
She moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck. She
kissed his throat, cheek, ear.
Desire shot urgent and demanding through his veins. Car-
rying her, he hurried across the room toward the bed.
She tore at his necktie. He stood her on the beds ran his
hands up over the svelte curves, capturing the breasts, the
nipples. His thumbs on the nipples.
She gasped.
He ripped the flimsy robe as he pulled it open. Her breasts
swung. Beneath, the alabaster skin converged on the triangle
of warrn brown female hair.
She glanced down at herself, surprised. She looked up.
Her eyes blazed into his. He caught his breath. She pulled at
his belt, zipper. pants, and he watched her, his breathing
ragged, until at last the room 's chill air struck his belly and
legs.
He caught her, threw her down onto the bed, he moved
once more between those smooth, hot legs. 'Ihey rocked
together, concentrating as if the world had stopped for them,
until the explosions began and their shouts filled the room
and the universe.
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FIVE
Droning motors, punctuated occasionally by horns and
shouts, seemed distant as if from another planet rather than
being just t*low the Soho apartment atx»ve the Greek restau-
rant. The big bedroom was quiet, filled with thoughts and the
heady smell of good sex.
Andrea Sutton curled over and around Nick Carter, her
skin warm and damp, her fingers spread now in open accep-
tance . . . and ownership
on his chest. Guile and lies
were gone, destroyed by the reality of the past.
'I suppose somewhere I knew , ' ' she murmured, almost to
herself.
"Knew that I still wanted you. "
He smiled.
"l never stopped wanting you," he said.
"You never started, " she retorted.
"Oh, that."
She laughed, a small laugh on herself tinged with the
bitterness of self-betrayal.
she agreed. "You never told me otherwise.
'That,"
You're too honest, or is there such a thing as being too
honest? There were times when I would 've liked you to lie
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NICK CARTER
even a little, say that we'd live together forever and ever,
make a life suited to both of us, commitment, 'til death do us
part. "
He pressed her tightly to him, a sharp pain of regret
piercing his heart.
"I'm sorry," he said. s 'The way I live .
. I've already
made a commitment, but it's to my work. "
"You 're married to your work. "
"I don't want a divorce. "
She leaned back, smiling at him with understanding.
"Once I thought I could never leave the service either,"
she said. "It 's funny, now that I Of course I could
leave. I did. And you could too. It has nothing to do with
what one can and can't do. That's the lie we tell ourselves.
We make choices, and your choice was to stay. Andrea vs.
AXE. You chose AXE. " There was no recrimination in her
voice, only in herself for not being more
desirable, more more .
necessary.
' 'Maybe I didn 't have a choice, " he said thoughtfully as he
stroked her cheek. "We're the summation of our experi-
ences, or so psychologists tell us, and how they 've affected
our basic genetic material. Maybe my account totals Kilimas-
ter, no options, just as yours totals flexibility, several op-
tions. Neither of us is more right or wrong. It's just the way
we are, and there was nothing you could have done, nothing
more you could have been, nothing—absolutely nothing——
that would have made it possible for me to live my life
differently, unless I were to allow my living to become
meaningless. "
'The premier Killmaster. The best. No exceptions. "
"I don't think about it that way. "
' 'If you did, you couldn 't do it. You 'd be distracted from
devoting yourself to it. "
He smiled now, caught in her earnestness.
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45
"Don't me too much," he said. "It dcrsn't be-
come you. You were damned yourself. "
"That was a long time ago. "
She sighed, and the perfume of her tea rose scent seemed to
swirl in the air with her warrn breath. He at her face,
seeing the fine cobwebbing of age lines at the sides of her
eyes and across her forehead. Once again tenderness mixed
with desire welled inside him.
"l rememt*r clearly how good you were," he told her.
"An excellent agent. "
She smiled, her gray eyes alight. She kissed him, and the
playful kiss turned serious with intent. Her lips grew hot,
yielding. He crushed her to him, wanting to draw her inside
where she'd never hurt again, where he'd have her forever.
Her tongue darted between his lips, explored his teeth, the
roof of his mouth. He bent her head back, trailing his lips
along her jawline to her ear. She dug her fingers into his
shoulders and moaned. His hean beat into his head, throb-
bing energy, need
They rolled across the bed, feinting, playing, panting,
until he captured her and she greedily spread her legs open to
receive him.
"Look how high the sun is, " she remarked, gazing from the
bed across to the small-paned windows. '"Ihe moming must
be half gone. "
Her rich brown hair lay in damp ringlets around her face.
He touched a curl, felt the hair smooth and slick.
"Do you have to go?" he said.
6' Yes. But I won't."
She sat up abmptly and threw the blankets from the bed.
And as goose bumps rose on his skin from the chiH London
air, she kissed him from neck to toes and back again, joyous
laughter bubbling between them.
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NICK CARTER
"Enough!" he cried at last.
'Torture?' ' she said and pulled the covers tight over them.
"The kind I like, " he said , smiling at the woman who had
once almost stolen his heart with her own devotion to duty
and to him. But love wasn't enough.
She shivered.
' 'To think David is dead, " she murmured wonderingly. 'I
shall miss him. Such a cheerful chap. We had good years. "
She rested her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms
around her. "He would have understood this. " She nexided
as if to include the bed and all that had gone before in the last
few hours. "An affirmation of life somehow. "
"He would want you to go on. Find new happinesses. s'
'41 suppose he would, " she said slowly.
' 'And David's legacy," he said. "It's time to talk about
that. "
"Legacy? 9that legacy?"
' 'What had he done since he left the service?"
"I told you. As far as I can tell, nothing significant. " A
small hint of hurt, perhaps suspicion, crept into her voice.
"It would be David's legacy," he soothed her. "David
wouldn 't leave the world without willing something of him-
self, something he cared about, to go on after him. 's
She looked at him, now openly suspicious.
' •David couldn 't have changed all that much in ten years, ' '
he pressed. "It would be useless to try to convince me he
had. "
She was silent, studying him and his words with confu-
sion.
"I wouldn't even know where to look, " she said at last.
She closed her eyes and sank back against his arm. "If it's a
legacy, he'd have written it down. I don 't know anything
about special wills to the world. We each had regular wills, of
course, but they deal only with money and property. I inherit
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47
all his, just as he would've inherited mine. No children,
except for David 's from that earlier marriagg. The boy will be
a baronet now. Imagine that. Sir Kern Sutton, but he has a
trust
As she talked on in her quiet voice, Carter's mind traveled
back through the years. With her in his arms, ten years ago
was yesterday. and he rememtx•red clearly the vibrant,
idealistic David. Saw him sitting at hotel desks, in train and
jet seats, on waiting room benches, and in office chairs, with
a notebook before him and a fountain Fkn in his hand.
"Haiku!" Carter said.
"What?" she said, startled from her reverie.
"Haiku. Unrhymed Japanese verse. wmere are his
notebooks0 ' '
She knew instantly what he meant, but she hesitated.
don't know," she said slowly. "They're probably
personal .
. intimate. .
. I don 't think he'd have wanted
anyone to see them . .
' •Of course they are, But we 're not interested in that, only
in what they can tell us about Romanescu and what else
David might have been doing. Maybe he never told you. He
used to hide in his poetry anything he had to keep but didn 't
want found. It was a reliable, secret method. He could have
still been using it. "
She closed her eyes, worry momentarily crossing her face.
She seemed to steel herself. She opened her eyes.
' 'Very well. Come along. "
She started to pull away.
' 'Wait, " he said. He drew her back and looked solemnly at
her. "Not that way. " He kissed her. holding her tense
resistance against his warmth. "I care about you. It's not just
my work. " His lips searched her shoulder, throat, the hollow
between her breasts, and she sighed, the muscles relaxing.
'S You were very important to me. You still are. "