# The Execution Exchange 2

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NICK CARTER

"That's comforting. " There was laughter in her voice.

He looked up. She was laughing at herself.

"If I'm not careful, I'll do it to myself again," she said.

' 'Come on, lazytx)nes. If I stay here any longer I 'II convince

myself to fall in love with you. Get up. We'll find David 's

notebooks. "

Naked, she picked up the blue negligee from the

holding it up to admire the long rip. She laughed again,

breasts bouncing, and tossed it toward a wicker wastebasket.

It landed in a cloud of pale blue on the flcx)r.

"I'll buy you another, " he said as he dropped it into the

wastebasket and picked up his pants. "Something that will

drive me really mad next time. "

They both laughed, prolonging the closeness of the

lovemaking, as they showered and dressed, always watching

one another. He once again put on the Bonn suit, and she

dressed in carnel-colored slacks and a café-au-lait sweater

that made her rich brown hair glint with new, inviting life full

of promise.

There were three notebooks, simple, thick, spiral notebooks

that any child would carry to school. None was dated, the

handwriting the same in all three. Two were filled with verses

and notes for verses, and one contained mentions of the

Nubian Oar bar in Cairo. Quickly Carter discarded those two

books.

The third notebook's pages were also crammed with jot-

tings, but the last quarter of it was empty. Carter staned from

the back.

Storm and hail for good

do rain on Pest's Eger U. , or

life does come from death.


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And before that was:

Repair and damage,

persistent attempts at change

the mechanic loses.

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ne garage on the Eger U. in Pest came instantly to Carter's

mind. A short, one-block-long street with only one garage for

repairing automobiles—and hiding those being followed.

"What d(ES it mean?" Andrea said, puzzled.

c 'I don't know yet. "

Caner read silently to himself the third poem:

Stars, infinity

remorseless mortality

evolves on Gellért.

lhe first mention of Romanescu—killed by David on Gelléit

Hill.

' 'Well, " she said, c 'as much as I loved and respected him,

I must say he was a terrible poet. "

"Do you mind if I take this notetxx)k?"

"Actually, I do mind. If it's his, I want it. At least for a

while, until I have time to make some decisions. ' ' She

at him, and smiled a smile that asked his understanding.

"You'll want to read through it yourself, " he said. "No

doubt he talks about you, his feelings for you. "

I suppose it's silly now that he's dead

"If he does .

but I would like to know. "

'Of course. " He carried the notebook to an upright desk

and took out his pen. "I'll copy what I need. Watch, if you

like."


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NICK CARTER

"I'll watch you," she said. "Just you. "

They walked down the fragile circular staircase. It was a little

past noon, and the air was filled with the spicy Greek smells

of dolmades, minced meat and rice rolled up in cabbage

leaves, souvlakia , vegetables and meats roasted on a spit, and

moussaka, a casserole of eggplant, ground lamb, and white

sauce. Talk, laughter, and Greek folk music filtered through

the door at the bottom of the staircase.

On the bottom step she stopped and looked back up at

him.

"I forgot," she said, wortied. "Oh, well. Nothing to

done. You 'II just have to meet them. "

"Who? What?"

"Come along and be a good chap. "

She opened the door and the full range of the restaurant 's

aromas and sounds interßified to party level. Suddenly he

knew what she was talking about.

"I thought you were closed for lunch," he said.

"We have special clubs we allow to have lunches here

occasionally. It brings new customers to the dinner busi-

ness. "

They retraced his steps through the restaurant, empty ex-

cept for a single, long table in the middle of the largest room.

The other tables had been pushed back against the walls so

the long central table with the men—Carter counted

eleven—talking, laughing, drinking retsina and aretsinoto

wines, and eating Greek food, could be served properly.

Three waiters hovered near the dc»r to the kitchen. The

restaurant prided itself on food and service.

"Andrea!" the patrons called out, welcoming her while

glancing curiously behind her at Carter.

As she and Caner moved past the table, the men congratu-

lated her on the excellent food and wine, the ambience, and


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her personal beauty. She handled the compliments gra-

ciously, until one asked about David.

She stoplMi, stared, and at last answered.

"He's dead, I'm afraid. 'i

Stunned silence filled the room. A waiter at the door

wheeled and rm into the clattering kitchen. Instantly there

was silence from there, too.

Caner recognized faces in the exclusive club. Mr. Justice

Paul Stone. Cabinet minister Bertie Allen. William Reid,

M.P. Lord Nathan Fackler, owner of Brookland Motors.

Others less familiar, but important, and some distinguished.

*What happened?" Justice Stone asked for all of them.

died in Budapest. His heart at last. " She didn 't look

at them. s 'Our friend Nick just brought me the news. '

"Budapeqt?" echoed one. "What was he doing in

Budapest? I thought he'd gone to Cumbria.

' 'Probably some secret action of the P.M. •s,"

said

another. s * Yvmat about it, Bertie? Know anything?"

Bertie Allen shook his gray head.

"Not a bloody thing," he said. "Doubt it'd filter down

from Ten Downing, you know. "

"We'll have a memorial service for the old boy, " Justice

Stone said. "Would that be all right, Andrea? nie club

organizing a service?"

Thank you, Paul, " Andrea murmured. "Anything you 'd

like. I'm sure David would have felt honored. "

She took Carter's arrn, and he knew she wanted to leave,

didn 't want to face more questions, more sympathetic looks,

more compassion. In the beginning, sympathy was a burden.

'$1 have a plane to catch," Carter told the men. ney 'd

already broken into clusters to discuss David Sutton 's death

and the most appropriate memorial. "Andrea?"

Grateful, she escorted him out into the hall and then into

the foyer.


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NICK CARTER

"Sorry," she breathed.

g lhere was no way around them. "

"I'll wait out here a bit until they settle down. MaytE I can

sneak past later. "

He held her chin and looked at her. She smiled wanly.

' 'I'll miss you," he said.

"But not enough. "

"Sorry."

"No need to be. I 'm grown up. 9"here do you go next?"

•Heathrow. "

• •Then you are flying on. " She bit her lower lip. "Will I

sce you again?"

"Of course. " He smiled.

"l owe you a nightgown. "


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SIX

Like a lady in a white lace dress, Paris seemed always on

the verge ofa party. With its rococo architecture, frilly trees,

vast gardens, wide boulevards, and inviting sidewalk cafés

and flower vendors, the three million residents of the City of

Lights put up with sky-high rents, poor telephone connec-

tions, and abominable traffic snarls t:ecause ce soir—

tonight—or certainly dreams of

love and laughter would be fulfilled.

As Nick Carter strode toward the next address in David

Sutton's haiku lines, he considered the Parisians bustling

around him. •me men , cigarettes dangling from the corners of

their mouths, hands dug deep into mxkets, eyed the women.

"Ihe women, with haughty heads held high, watched the men

through eyelashes thickened with mascara. Old and young,

they carried an air of irresistible cynicism and hope. In Paris,

even for those who knew better, all things were possible.

It made Carter smile. Soon, they seemed to be saying, fine

wines from Burgundy would flow in a river as endless as the

Seine. Students at the Sorbonne would abandon their books

for a hands-on study of life. Painters and writers would leave

their Montmartre attics to gather at Deux Magots on the

Boulevard St.-Germain to honor the ghosts of Picasso,

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Hemingway, and Safire. Businessmen and plumtrrs, car

builders and beauticians, international bankers and whores

would rally in a convulsion of theatrical fun as honest as any

of the other lies told about romantic Paris and its promise of

never-ending happiness.

Caner was one of them. With his narrow tie, wide-collared

artist's shirt, and threadbare brown suit he strcxie along the

Rue de Jardin, smiling, enjoying the exuberant energy

around him. It gave added spring to his step, and of

success for this difficult, puzzling mission.

On the flight from London, he'd memorized the haikus

from David Sutton's notebook, and then destroyed his

copies. His memory was as reliable, and certainly much more

secure.

Now he was almost at what he hoped was the correct

destination hidden in the next haiku:

Fashion clicks its heels

as 23 models prance

through Paris's garden street.

Above the black enameled door at 23 Rue de Jardin---Garden

Street—the dignified, gold-leafed sign—-Emmanuel St.

Croix—told Carter he was right. In the single window, a

plastic mannequin with arched brows stocxl in

readiness, a hand extended, as she displayed a flowing black

silk and tulle evening gown.

Caner opened the door.

"Please come in and rest," a female voice said im-

mediately in French. "Monsieur and madame are out, but

they will return scx)n."

A long sofa and clusters of chairs ran along the perimeter

of the simple white room. Inexpensive but elegant tables,

lamps, and ashtrays waited for prospective, dress-buying


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customers. Emmanuel St. Croix was a small, select house of

fashionable eveningwear, and everyone but the store 's

mechanical greeting service was out.

Carter walked across the empty room, past other manne-

quins mcxieling more gowns, to a door at the back. He opened

it onto piles of colorful fabrics and trims, half-clothed dres-

sers' dummies, and a long table with scissors, threads, pat-

tern papers, and pins. Again, no people. Instantly the

mechanical recording spoke.

S 'Please retum to the foyer, " it said sternly. "Our automa-

tic guard systems will ring if you try to carry out any of our

creations. "

Caner closed the door. Quickly, efficiently, he searched

the room, beneath the bolts of cloth, behind boxes of trim and

accessories, among flats of samples. He went through the

area thoroughly, paying attention to even the smallest nee-

dles. Nothing. It was just what it looked like on the

surface—a working design room.

He opened the door again.

' 'Please return to the foyer, " the voice repeated sternly,

obviously tnggered by a toggle on the door hinge. "Our

automatic guard systems will ring if you try to carry out any

of our creations. '

Caner searched the white waiting room, but again he

found nothing unusual. With a sweep of his gaze, he took it in

one last time—the stark walls, the simple, elegant

furniture—then he opened the front

"Please come in and rest, " the woman's voice invited

again. ' 'Monsieur and madame are out, but they will return

soon. "

He closed the door grimly and once more joined the poten-

tial on Rue de Jardin.

The fashion world was as untrusting as ever. But now

instead of thin-lipped, undernourished women and muscle-


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bound homosexuals to guard the design secrets, mcxiern

technology was in charge.

Why had David Sutton descritkd the Emmanuel St. Croix

shop? A joke, perhaps? David had liked his jokes. Or .

had someone warned them Caner was coming?

Making the transatlantic call was actually faster and less

trouble than phoning from Paris's Left to Right Bank. Even

in a rich metropolis, life was a series of priorities.

When Carter made the connection, it was 10 A M. in

Washington, and the busyness of the day sounded in Hauk 's

brusque greeting. Caner made his report.

"So that garage in Budapest was described in Sutton 's

haiku, " Hawk said thoughtfully and a noisy gust of

cigar smoke. "But you found nothing at the Rue de Jardin

address. Could be a decoy. Could be a drop. Could be just

about anything. "

"Or nothing. "

' 'Hmmm. "

Carter listened to the distant, absentminded puffing. Ihe

AXE chief's computerlike mind was digesting Carter's in-

formation, sorting and filing it, then matching it with infor-

mation from other agents.

"l don 't like it," Hawk said at last. "Damn. No way to tell

whether there's a connection to the assassinations here. And

we're still working to find any other lead. Checking other

terrorist groups. Fanatical organizations. So far, no one's

stepped forward to claim resÆx)nsibility. Everything's too

quiet. The calm before a bloodletting. They're well or-

ganized, smart, and informed. To pull offthose synchronized

attacks, they had to be. Their potential is appalling. "

"Perhaps losing five of their people in the Washington

assassination attempts slowed them down. "

' 'Perhaps. " Hawk sounded doubtful. "I want real


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answers. No more speculation. I trust you 're off to check out

the next haiku clue?"

'*The Netherlands, sir. '

"Make it fast, N3. Very fast. "

Vibrant red, yellow, pink, orange, and ivory tulips spread in

row after row of color across the rich North Sea countryside.

The early spring air was chill, the sharp smell of sea salt a

pleasant reminder of the expanse of ocean over the horizon.

Like most of the Dutch in the coastal bulb-growing region

nonh and south of Haarlem, Caner pedaled a fat-tired bike on

the dirt road, passing parents with children in bike camers

cradling arms full of tulips to present to their schoolteachers.

Despite increased mechanization and the billion-dollar

growth of agribusiness, Holland's bulb growing was still

primarily a small, family-operated industry. More than

eighty VErcent of the farms in the area were a dozen acres or

less, and each family member pitched in for spring flower

tending and cutting, summer harvesting, and autumn plant-

ing.

Carter watched the beauty of the countryside and felt the

welcome sweat of pedaling a long distance on the flat land.

Here and there workers were out, surveying the flowers,

some already cutting off blooms to force the plants' energies

into the bulbs.

He pedaled on, seeing fewer and fewer people. At last his

destination appeared off in the distance.

The farm was fifteen miles off the main highway, a cluster

of neat whitewashed buildings at the end of a straight road. It

would be an ideal hideout. An ordinary fann like any other,

and in an excellent location for identifying intruders—flat

land covered with low flowers. Anything taller than three feet

stood out like a skyscraper.

He pedaled slowly now, as if having trouble. He twisted


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the front wheel back and forth, fighting a nonexistent flat.

He shook his head, disgusted, and jumped off the bike in

the shade of one of the few trees. He took a handkerchief

from his back pocket, wiped his face, and gazed in imtation

around him as if by simply demanding it, help would amve.

Of course, no one did, and he was pleased. But he kicked

the bike and slumped against the tree trunk. He looked ahead.

The land was empty of people, and the farm 's buildings were

clustered so tightly together that he couldn't see anyone

there. But that didn't mean that they couldn't see him.

Impatient again, he looked around, scratched his head,

then studied the tall tree. He would climb it and watch for

help.

He jumped, hooked a hand over a branch, and with a brief

intake of breath pulled himself up into the thick leaves. Once

stabilized on a branch, he reached inside his jacket and took

out collapsible, powerful binoculars. For a moment he sa-

vored the security of the feel of his Luger in the small of his

back, then he adjusted the binoculars.

The farm came into focus, and he smiled a cold smile full

of knowledge. At last he'd found something worthwhile.

There were seven buildings. A farmhouse, a bam, and five

qmaller buildings. The five smaller buildings appeared to be

three-walled shelters with roofs. The walls facing the court-

yards were open. And in the center of the counyard—he

adjusted his binoculars to be sure—two men were practicing

maneuvers with small submachine guns. Ingrams. Ihey

feinted, aimed, and shot at dummies swinging like dead men

from poles in the yard. The open buildings were obviously

sound absorbers. He could see only the results of the bullets'

impact—the wildly dancing dummies. lhe sounds were dise

tant snaps, like the snap of a dry tree branch. Not particularly

noticeable in a land of wind and birds.

He watched the men long enough to determine that they


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weren 't self-taught. They were good. Professionally trained.

And they hadn 't learned their skills for road shows or exhibi-

tions. ney knew how to kill, and they thrilled to it.

He replaced the binoculars under his shirt and jumped

down from the tree. It was time to go after more information.

He worked beside his bike, taking off the tire, patching the

imaginary hole. then putting the tire back on. At last, wiping

his face and hands on his handkerchief, he resumed the

bicycle ride that would apparently, innocently, take him

beyond the farm.

He pedaled past a green field in which black and white

cows feasted on a mound of tulip blossoms cut and donated

by their bulb-growing owner, while on the other side of the

road, rows and rows of spectacular red tulips jauntily waved

their crimson heads. After four hundred years of Dutch bulb

culture, the fanners knew precisely when to plant, cut, and

harvest the hybrids and descendants of the species brought

originally from the mountainsides of central Asia,

As he rcxie across the bridge over a low canal, he glanced

expertly around but saw no one.

He pitched off the bicycle.

Dragged it into the ditch.

Crawled along the sloping banks toward the farm build-

ings.

Birds sang, cows lowed, and multihued tulips stretched far

into the distance. The air was dank with the smell of mud and

water. Counting steps, he topped the canal bank close to the

farm.

He took out his Luger, balanced it, and dashed over the

open, grassy land.

Stopped. Pressed close to the back of the barn. He heard

only the songs of birds and the soft rustle of the wind. No

cracks from the acoustically muffled Ingrams. No talking.

No running. Nothing.


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He slipped toward the edge of the whitewashed building.

Peered around it at the courtyard. He saw no one.

Pressed flat against the building, his extraordinary senses

ready to react to any sight or sound, the Luger aimed in front

of him, he moved quickly toward the yard.

Now with the whole yard in view from his post at the

barn 's corner, he saw that no one was there. One dummy still

swayed, its bcxly riddled with holes. The men and the In-

grams had gone.

Either someone had seen him, or they 'd been wamed by an

undetectable electronic system. In either case, they'd after

him.

Splinters burst into his face, the bullet lodged three inches

from his ear.

Instantly he ducked, firing in return at a moving shadow

that darted behind one of the acoustical sheds.

He pursued, slipping along the barn, dashing toward the

shed.

A bullet bit into the din at his feet.

He crouched and fired at a lanky man with a patch over one

eye.

The man sped away, a .45 automatic in his hand. He'd

been one of the men with the Ingrams, but the submachine

guns were meant for other kinds of battles. If there was only

one opponent, a .45 was fairer. They were killers, but their

pride gave them their own set of ethics.

He fired again as the man with the patch

behind another shed. Had he imagined it, or had the man

suddenly lost his balance as if hit in the leg?

He raced after, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He

was being watched.

Suddenly he spun on his heel.

Clicked his stiletto Hugo into his hand.


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Hurled it across fifteen feet to lodge through another man 's

sleeve into the house's wall.

Pinned, the man yanked at his am.

Carter tore across the distance.

The man saw him. Raised his .45, aimed.

Caner slashed it from his hand txfore he could

"Killmaster! " the man shouted in English as if in warning

to someone else.

Carter grabbed the man 's jacket and jerked him once. 'Ihe

arm carne free. He was a small man with the knotted muscles

of a weight lifter. But the muscles were excessive for the

agility of close fighting. Still, he lifted his arrns and easily

broke Carter's hold with the snap of his forearms.

Caner didn 't wait to argue. He bashed a fist into the weight

lifter's jaw.

Astonished, the weight lifter stopped. He shook his head

as if to clear it. But it was too late. His eyes rolled up into his

head. Like a sack of potatoes he collapsed against the house.

Caner picked up the stiletto and slipped it back into the

chamois case on his forearm. He turned, alert for signs of the

second man.

Carefully, listening, watching, he moved around to the

front of the house that looked out on the courtyard.

There he saw it. A shadow that moved far across the yard,

a slow movement of stealth. It seemed to compress into a

ball.

Carter returned to the farmhouse 's wall where the weight

lifter still lay unconscious. He didn't even moan.

Carter glanced at him. Then, with the silence and speed of

a predatory jungle cat, he raced around the perimeter of the

seven buildings.

Even a Killmaster gets a break occasionally. The man with

the eye patch squatted at the side of a shed, his gaze glued to


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the house where Carter had been. He was waiting for Caner

to give him a target.

Blood from one of Caner's bullets spread in a pool on the

man 's pants leg. He was the compact shadow , and he hadn't

moved since Carter had spotted him. He wasn 't particularly

bright, but he would have information. Carter allowed him-

self a short smile of anticipation. Information at last.

He stepped silently to the man's back and stuck his Luger

in the man's ear.

' 'Let's talk," Carter said in English.

The man went rigid. He flung an arm around, trying to

catch Caner off balance.

Carter kicked the arm. And in one smooth movement, he

leaned over, shoved the man down on his back, and pressed

the Luger to his aquiline nose. There as no way the man was

going to try any more tricks. Carter sat on his chest and made

himself comfortable.

"Let's talk," Caner repeated.

The eye that wasn't hidden behind a patch stared in fear.

The man licked dry lips.

Carter repeated the order in German.

The man breathed heavily, trying to figure a way to resist.

"Now! " Carter said, pushing the Luger hard against the

nose.

The face explcxled. Blood, flesh, and cartilage sprayed

into the air.

Carter hadn't fired. Someone else had killed the man.

Someone with a long-distance, powerful rifle of high accu-

racy, aiming from the house.

The ground shook.

A fireball erupted where the house had been.

Carter jumped back.


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The barn exploded, then the shed next to it. Wood, heat,

and smoke filled the air.

Carter tore away from the area as the sheds blasted to bits

one by one until only smoke, debris. and the stillness of death

lay on the fenile Dutch plaim

The hideout was gone, and the men who had been its

inhabitants were dead. Either the weight lifter Carter had

knocked out next to the house had recovered long enough to

push the switch, or a third person had done it. Like the

captured assassin in Washington, D.C., who had killed him-

self, the men here had been willing martyrs to a cause.

Would-be martyrs were vicious adversanes. They had

already promised their lives. Their deaths were the expected

and desired fulfillment of their contracts. Caner needed to

move immediately to the destination in the next haiku.


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SEVEN

The house Nick Carter was looking for was on Hamburg •s

Schäferkampsallee, not far from the Jewish community

center. He parked the small Mercedes 180 he'd rented in

Haarlem, took out his briefcase, and walked down the street.

In the short noontime shadows of the bright spring sun-

shine, young Jewish boys in skullcaps played kickball along

an alley while their sisters watched, giggling modestly be-

hind their hands. Across the street, four men with prayer

shawls sat on a porch, talking Talmud and drinking glasses of

tea brought by a quiet woman whose hair was hidden beneath

the traditional dark scarf.

As Caner strolled along the street, he remembered that in

1933 there were twenty-five thousand Jews living in Ham-

burg. About half of them emigrated as the Nazis rose to

power. The rest were sent to concentration camps. Most died

there. Now , less than two thousand Jews lived in Hamburg, a

mixed lot, mostly refugees from Eastern Europe, but they

lived with a peace and freedom unimaginable in Germany

before the Nazi horror.

Carter swung his briefcase, a prosExrous realtor or insur-

ance broker, a skullcap snug to his head as if it belonged

there, and strode up the front walk of the modest house whose


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address had been in David Sutton's next haiku.

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The four men across the street briefly studied Carter, then

returned with vigor to their Talmudic argument. They would

have been teen-agers when they were sent to Auschwitz or

Bergen-Belsen. 'Ihey had survived and raised families of

their own, scarred and strengthened by their unasked-for

heritage. The human soul was limitless.

As Carter walked, he took out a set of skeleton keys,

holding them tight in his hand where they couldn 't be seen.

Ihe house appeared deserted. He knocked at the door. When

no one answered, he tested the keys until the right one at last

turned.

He glanced once over his shoulder before he opened the

door. The kickball game continued in the alleyway. The

discussion reached new animation on the porch. He opened

the door and went in.

The house had txen stripped bare. He walked through the

empty rooms. Only the faint, stale odor of old cigarettes

remained. It was a small house, well tended. No dust, dirt, or

trash had tren left to ruin the welcome of the next

inhabitants---or to inform the curious of who had lived there

and where they'd gone.

They 'd done a thorough job. Still, Carter checked floors,

walls, ceilings, windowsills, wall vents, electrical outlets,

furnace, medicine cabinet, kitchen cupboards. He found

nothing.

He walked slowly through the rooms, thinking, imagining

himself living in the two-bedroom house, rising in the mom-

all the little usual acts that in the

ing, eating, working .

end, by their habitual ordinariness, give character to a life

and, to the keen observer, tell more than a person might wish.

He smiled wryly. Of course.

He walked back into the kitchen, to the hole in the wall

where a phone had been connected.


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He found the spot his eyes had passed over and dismiqsed

twenty minutes ago. Only with thinking did it become impor-

tant.

It was a tiny spot next to where the telephone had been.

There a steel wool pad had scrubbed the wall Ss shiny paint

into dullness. Someone had talked on the phone and written a

note to himself on the wall, then erased it.

Carter opened the briefcase and took out a narrow bottle.

Using the brush attached to the cap, he dotted on the SFmial

AXE chemical. Slowly a word appeared, faint but readable:

Lübeck. He worked on the next line. Too much chemical,

and the writing would disappear altogether. Too little, and it

would remain illegible.

At last, numbers and letters began to appear. It was an

address.

The birthplace of Thomas Mann and the legendary setting of

his first novel, Buddenbrooks, Lübeck is a shin-sleeves-

and-muscle city of more than two hundred thousand people.

Downtown architectural monuments housing modern indus-

try, busy docks on the Baltic Sea, and hilly forests and

meadows yielding rich resources testify to the hearty, beer-

saluting, hard-working laborers, anisans, and businessmen

who made Lübeck another of modern West Germany's con-

tributions to practical prosperity.

Carter drove north along the old streets, past the brick

buildings dating from medieval times, toward the address on

the outskirts of the former capital of the Hanseatic League.

He was almost out of gas. The drive from Hamburg nonh to

Lübeck had been only thirty miles, but then he'd been low

when he'd left that afternoon.

He stopped at a gas station, asked the attendant to fill the

tank, and walked toward the rest rcx»rn.

And stopped. Stared at the headlines on the array of news-


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papers outside the office. He dropped a coin in a slot, picked

up the Berliner Zeitung, and turned to an inside page of

international news.

Quickly he read the short articles. Fanatical PLO leader

Ali al-Assad had been murdered late yesterday in Damascus;

Israeli guemllas were suspected. Self-declared Emperor

Jomuro Momonatumbo of Namibia, called the Baby-Killer

by his people, had assassinated in his vacation palace on

the South Atlantic. A subsequent military coup had already

replaced him with a colonel who was alleged to have five

hundred wives.

Carter snapped the paper closed, folded it under his arm,

and walked to a telephone booth.

"What do you have?" Hawk wasted no words as soon as he

heard Carter's voice.

Carter described briefly the explosive deaths in Holland,

the deserted house in Hamburg, and the address he'd at last

found written there.

"Lübeck, eh?"

In far-off Washington, the AXE chief's butane lighter

snapped, and he dragged noisily on a new cigar.

"It appears promising. No one could know I have it. "

"Best lead we 've had so far, " Hawk said sourly. "Damn.

It's not enough!"

"The assassins are exceptionally good," Carter agreed.

C SCareful, and willing to give their lives for their cause. Did

you get anything on the Assad and Momonatumbo killings? ' '

"You saw that?" Hawk 's voice allowed itself a note of

pleasure in Caner's reliably quick intelligence. "Yes. Death

warrants were left on both men. The same type as those we

found here. "

The two men were silent as they worried over the implica-

tions.


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S 'More evidence of an international conspiracy, " Carter

said at last.

"Unfortunately true. We didn't learn about the new war-

rants until this moming. Both countries tried to keep them

quiet. But our vuvle are persistent. "

' 'Anything about Romanescu's killing?"

"No one's claimed responsibility, if that's what you

mean. And no death warrant has amved in Bucharest.

Neither the Hungarian or Romanian authorities have con-

nected Sutton to it, and we see no in informing them at

this point. "

'Sutton could have been investigating the conspiracy, or

he could have been a member of it," Carter said thought-

fully.

"Exactly, N3. And it doesn 't much matter right now with

both men dead. "

"The information is what counts. "

"Where will they kill next?" Hawk said, his gravelly

voice rising. "Who are they, and why? They missed twice

here in the United States. They'll again. Get to that

address, N3. We must stop them! "

The old house rose stark and somber high above the Baltic.

Carter caught glimpses of it through the forest of firs that

blanketed the mountainside as he drove up the winding road.

It was a tall narrow house with a tower and sharply pitched

roof. The white walls were weathered to the color of sun-

bleached bones. The bottom half of the house and the walls

around the windows were decorated with a crosshatching of

dark, stained timbers.

As he drew closer, he could see the style was heavy

fifteenth-century Hessian architecture, but that the more

modern builder had added telephone wires, a television an-


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tenna, and a cement drive with striped posts to mark the way

up the steep hill during a bad snowstorm.

Caner drove up with his window down, enjoying the cold

crisp smells of wind and pine. The late afternoon shadows

were long and black , wavering across the drive with the wind

as it blew through the trees.

His briefcase and a dignified homburg were tBide him on

the front seat. Ihe skullcap was gone. He still wore the

expensive, tailored Bonn business suit. As he pulled to a stop

beside a mud-spattered Jeep at the top of the house 's drive, he

felt his personality change subtly to help play the part of the

new character he was already developing.

A Killmaster had not only skills in guns, knives, and

bombs. He was also-—and often more importantly—a master

of deception. Infonnation was easier to obtain from the living

than it was from the dead.

Carter took out a small device from the briefcase and

concealed it against his palm. He stepped out of the Mer-

cedes, closed the and listened. *Ihe thrilling music of

Beethoven's Fifth Symphony drifted from the Hessian

house. He smiled, let the music swell in his head, a welcome

. a warning. .

respite but also .

. somehow

He walked toward the scrubbed front steps, and as he rang

the bell, he noted the bright red spring geraniums on either

side in raked planters, and the spectacular one-hundred-

eighty-degree panorama of the green valley and glistening

sea below. lhe house was not only costly and remote, its

beauty was also carefully tended to.

The man who opened the door was about sixty, pale, with

the stooped, rounded shoulders of one who lived in books.

He didn't look like an assassin. But he was alive . . . and

unsuspecting. Carter smiled. Beethoven's symphony spread


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through the doorway and into the crisp air.

'Jan Marburg from Michelstadt, ' ' Carter announced him-

self in flawless German. He rotated the secret device against

his palm and smiled a self-assured businessman's smile.

' 'My father is an architect. He designed this house in 1952 for

the Van Landaus. Our firm is buying up one or two prime

examples from each and pay ing a damned good price ,

if I say so myself. It's Hessian, you see, like the architecture

in Michelstadt—

"Come back in the morning," the man said, peering up

over half glasses. His watery blue eyes were distracted.

S 'Come back in the moming. " He had a fine-featured small

face, thick curly white hair, and nervous hands that missed

their accustomed book. At his sides, the fingers twitched and

pulled at the woolly trousers. "Beethoven! Beethoven!"

He glanced back into the dark tRhind him as if to make

certain the music he heard was indeed his, and Carter sliPFui

the device against the door lock.

"Will you be here in the moming?" Carter wanted to

know. "I can assure you, you won 't disappointed. The

money is excellent. "

The nervous hands moved into the air in front of the little

man. He flicked them at Carter as if he were an annoying

moth.

"Tomorrow! " he insisted, then stepped back and slam-

med the door.

Carter smiled, tumed on his heel, and-—the strains of the

symphony 's third movement sweet to his ears—strode to his

car.

Once again down the drive and temporarily hidden from the

house's view, Carter parked the Mercedes off the road in a

stand of aromatic pine. He stripped off the businessman 's suit

and put on a black jump suit. He slipped his 9mm Luger


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Wilhelmina into the holster under his shirt on his left side,

restrapped his stiletto Hugo to his wrist. and adjusted Pierre,

his gas bomb, on his inner thigh.

He moved silently away from the car and up the green

mountainside. Birds sang. Insects chirruped. The sun hung

orange and soft on the horizon.

He climbed on , aware of the sun , the direction of the road 's

switchbacks. the growing strains of Beethoven 's Fifth, until

at last the tall house loomed like a giant bird of prey directly

above. He took out his Luger.

He angled to the right, coming in toward the house from

the west on a brick walk. He paused at windows and saw

rooms full of dark, heavy fumiture but no people. He moved

on until he reached the front door.

He pushed the handle. The door swung quietly open, and

he caught the device as it dropped. It had kept the door open

even though apparently locked.

He walked into the dim foyer and the full range of the

Fifth's last movement. Even the house's timbers seemed to

vibrate with the German composer's rich, soaring music.

Carter crept from room to room, past the stereo system in

the living room, the musty draperies, flocked wallpapers,

bookcases, framed oval portraits, antique cut glass and crys-

tal of another time until at last he found what he 'd only hoped

for.

A door at the end of the foyer hallway, and the small man 's

voice coming faintly from the other side, drowned by the

music.

Carter took out a small cup of specially produced sound-

conducting materials created by AXE scientists. He put it

against the door and laid his ear on its cool surface.

The man's voice was instantly clear.

' 'Very good, sixteen, " he said in English. ' 'Keep along

the same line. " There was a pause. "Twelve, your transport


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is ready in Ankara," he went on in French. His voice was

assured. His disguise as a distracted scholar hid an efficient,

dedicated mind that showed strong in his clipped tones.

"Fifteen," he said in German, ' 'the target has changed

schedule and will not leave Moscow until the twelfth. Re-

group and await further instructions. Another pause. "Suc-

cess on Damascus road," he continued in English again,

' 'but unit has been rendered inoperative. There 's some cause

for alarm. We're closely monitoring the situation. " Another

pause, and this time there was a shuffling of papers. 'Zambia

success remains quiet," he said in German again. s 'Don 't

move. Contact is being arranged. "

Carter had heard enough. He pointed Wilhelmina.

He turned the knob, slammed the door

The man jerked up his head. He had been sitting hunched

over a computerized radio system, sheaves of notes in his

hands. His eyes widened in surprise as he stared at Carter and

then at the Luger.

6' 'Ihat 's the end of today 's communications, " Carter said

in English. "I'll take those."

He picked the notes from the man 's hands. The scholarly

man 's fingers twitched, pulled at the front of his cotton shirt.

"You're back," he said as if informing himself.

"We'll begin at the beginning, " Caner said. "What's the

name of your organization?"

The man 's watery blue eyes narrowed. He started to smile.

Carter grabbed his jaw, pried the teeth apart.

' 'No you don 't! No bitting down on B)ison embedded in

your teeth! You'll live longer, and we'll get to the bottom of

The man struggled, swinging a hand awkwardly up toward

the AXE agent's face.

Caner shook his head and ducked.


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The hand swung by, landed on the man's neck, and

scratched vigorously.

' 'Dammit!" late, Carter understcxxi. He clapped the

man's hand away.

The man gasrni, then went limp in the chair.

trickled from the skin on his neck. Before Carter's fast

reflexes could catch him, he was dead.

Carter lowered the small man to the floor just as Beeth-

oven 's Fifth crashed to a climactic, ringing end. He heard the

great finale without thinking about it, his attention riveted to

the dead man, to the lost information. He'd have to do a

thorough search of the house.

The pain was sudden. A blow to the back of the head. He

was still leaning over when it struck.

It wasn 't the first time he 'd been hit like that, and in the last

fragments of his consciousness, he hoped it wouldn 't be the

last.

Then the cold blackness engulfed him, threw him into a

void of sham pain. He waded through the delirium of a

transitory death.


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The room was ice cold. It was night. Carter sensed the

darkness. He had no evidence other than the cold. clammy

feel of the air and the suggestion within him of empty, lost

hours.

As he regained consciousness, he kept his eyes closed and

his head dangling low. He was gagged and tied to what felt

like a straight-backed chair. The ropes were tight. They cut

into his flesh with a professional authority that said he'd

never escape. His hands and feet were numb. He was chilled,

even though his jump suit was made of special heat-retaining

fabric. The rag in his mouth tasted faintly of motor oil. His

head vx»unded dully with the tenacity of a toothache.

The pain was great, but he told himself it was unimportant.

What mattered was that he'd failed. The bitter taste of his

momentary lack of attention turned to bile. The radio man

had killed himself, and then Carter had been knocked out and

captured. Neither should have happened.

He must recoup his losses and gain some advantage from

the present situation.

He listened to voices that droned in a language he couldn 't


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recognize, the syllables indistinct, muffled by distance or

walls.

He raised his head and opened his eyes.

"He 's awake! "

The man called in English toward the only door in the

windowless room. His speech had the musical cadence of a

Canadian. He sat across from Caner on another straight-

backed chair, a Russian AK-47 standing upright and ready

between his legs. He'd been reading the Romanian com-

munist party daily Scinteia.

He dropped the paper under his chair, reached across, and

pulled out Carter's gag. About twenty-five years old, he had

a smooth, lineless face and angry eyes.

The door opened. He glanced at it, then gazed at Caner.

His eyes flashed.

"Bucharest claims one of their Politburo members was

deliberately assassinated a couple of days ago," he told

Carter. "You wouldn 't happen to have been in Budapest

then, Gellért Hill?"

An older man and a young woman with a stunning,

sculptured face entered the small, icy room. They were

bundled like Andy in heavy coats, pants, and boots. The man

carried an AK-47, and the woman had a Walther.

"Who are you?"

The old man, too, spoke to Carter in English, but his

accent was Slavic, perhaps Polish. He was bald with a fringe

of gray hair that had been trimmed neatly over his ears. His

skin was pink, flushed with the cold, and his eyes burned as if

on a quest.

"l assume you heard me swearing, " Carter said. 'That 's

why the English. "

The older man 's eyes blinked slowly in appreciation of

Carter's deduction. During stress, ninety-nine times out of a


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hundred, a person cursed in his native language.

"Very good," the man said. "What's your name?"

' 'No need to stand on formality, " Carter said, smiling. His

lips were stiff from the cold. "I don't insist. Go ahead.

Introduce yourselves. "

The young man lifted his AK-47 to his eye. He aimed it at

Carter.

The older man pushed his jacket sleeve up his arm irrita-

bly. His authoritative tones had stopped the young, impetu-

ous man. A glance of frustration escaped Andy's outraged

eyes. The older man rubbed his arm, pulled his sleeve down,

and frowned.

' 'Jurgen."

The woman crooked her finger, and the older man leaned

toward her. She whispered in his ear. He nodded.

"Of course, Annette. " He looked again at Carter. "AAhy

did you kill Heinrich?"

'Heinrich?"

'The man in the radio room. "

Carter watched the woman called Annette as she waited for

his answer, and suddenly his capture made sense.

"You're not with them, " Carter decided.

"Who?"

She had bright, intelligent eyes, but there was an emotion-

less quality of disinterest or too-early jading.

"He killed himself, " Caner told her.

She watched him a moment, then nodded. She wasn't

disinterested. She was jaded. Life had taught her lessons she

hadn't wanted to learn. But once known, they couldn't be

forgotten, and her illusions were forever destroyed. The

knowledge made her unhappy but powerful. She was the

leader of the trio.


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"A capsule on the teeth?" she said, speaking with the

clean accent of the American Midwest.

"Something different. Never seen it tkfore. "

"The scrape on the neck then, 's she said. "Must have been

embedded next to the jugular. The poison would go directly

into the blcxxistream. "

"Instant death," Caner agreed.

Her coid blue eyes considered him. Her features had once

been soft, but life had focused them into a haunting sharp-

ness. She was in her late twenties, a curly-haired blonde, a

few tendrils dangling invitingly from beneath a black knit

cap.

"You ire one of the terrorists, " she accused.

' 'A murderer. Why do you kill prominent leaders?"

He laughed.

' 'So that's what you think. "

*'Can you prove any different?" she asked scornfully.

' 'We 're on the same trail, hunting the same killers," he

said. "At first, I thought you were with them too. My name's

Nick Carter, CIA. "

He gave her his cover identification and numbers. With a

simple telephone call, anyone with connections could sub-

stantiate that he was a certified, honorable member of the

U.S. international intelligence agency.

Annette pursed her lips, then nodded briskly at Andy and

the older man. They left to make the call, and she sat in

Andy's chair. She balanced the Walther over her arm, wary

and distant.

"Been in the business long?" Carter said conversation-

ally.

She stared coldly, expressionlessly, at him.

' 'If you're going to do this kind of work, " he said, "you


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need to maintain a certain sense of humor. "

She looked through him as if he didn't exist.

He repressed a smile.

'The other kids won't play with you, '9 he wamed. g The

teachers will complain. "

"Do all CIA men carry so much equipment?" she asked

abruptly. "A bomb, knife, and Mercedes?"

Her expression didn •t change. If she knew she had a sense

of humor, she wasn't admitting it.

"Just what the job calls for, he said. "How about you

Now she stared at him directly, dismayed. He had her

attention.

"How did—"

"l know?" he finished. ' 'Not t(X) difficult. You three are

different nationalities, and Israel is homeland to the Jews of

the world. And then, your older friend has a habit .

. in

poker, we'd call it a tell. I had another friend once who did

the same thing. He unconsciously rubs the number tatooed on

the inside of his arm. The one he got in one of Hitler's death

camps. It reminds him of who he is, and that he survived for a

reason. "

"Very clever, Killmaster. "

It was Carter's turn to be surprised, and he allowed himself

a rueful smile.

"How long have you known?"

' 'Long enough. You confirmed it when you gave your

name and that phony CIA cover. "

"Then how about taking these ropes off?"

"You'll have to tough it out. " She offered no apology.

'61 'II wait until the phony cover—and your actual

whereabouts—are confirmed. Wouldn 't want to make a mis-

take at this point. "


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She almost smiled, pleased, then resumed her cool watch-

fulness.

"Have a nice trip from Jerusalem?" he went on. "How are

Qaim Herzog, Menachem Begin, Meir Kahane .

. all the

boy

She didn't move.

"l assume you're on assignment for the Israeli secret

service, although with those Russian AK-47s, it does make

me suspicious. Do you hunt Nazis, t(X)?"

No response.

'"What the hell kind of Jewish name is Annette?"

She bristled.

"I'm French and American, too!"

"Oh, " he said and grinned.

The time passed slowly. There was no sound in the small

room except for an occasional creak of her chair as she

crossed her legs or adjusted her weight. Outside, a mountain

wind moaned through the fir trees.

Inside, their breaths made steamy clouds in the air. It was

cold enough now that breathing was painful. A cold spring

night in the mountains. Carter's head was better, though , and

his disposition was improving.

When at last heavy footsteps sounded outside, stamped, a

door opened and closed, and when the door to Carter's room

opened, he was bored and ready for action.

' 'Jurgen?" she said, looking at the older man.

"It's as he said," Jurgen replied.

His burning eyes moved from Annette 's face to Caner's.

There was almost a smile on the somber face, a smile of

anticipation. Now they could get to work.

"Very well. Untie him, Andy. We'll go now."

The young man unknotted Carter's ropes.

C 'Which one of yours did they kill?" Caner asked.


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"Daniel Gaban. "

"The former prime minister," Carter said thoughtfully.

"l read he had a heart attack. "

"It was a bomb attack," Jurgen said bitterly. "While he

was having breakfast. Gaban was a great patriot. "

Carter stood up and rubbed his legs and arms to restore

circulation.

"A violent anti-Arab fire-eater, " Carter corrected.

"A savior! " Jurgen stepped forward, his hands white on

his AK-47, his face flushed. "A leader in the Irgun!"

Annette gripped his arm. His buming eyes glared at her.

She shook her head and yanked on the arm. His face

back to sanity.

"His death started you on the Caner continued.

"We surtounded the assassin, s' Annette said, ' 'but txfore

we could close in, he shot himself in the head and died. He'd

left a death paper on the gate, similar to a paper left at another

death site earlier that week. We never found out who killed

the first man, but this time we were able to discover where the

assassin lived. He'd been careful to have no identification on

him. and he was a foreigner—a Czech—so not known by our

usual sources. We circulated his photo, and a teen-ager from

one of our youth groups remembered seeing him at a market.

He was having trouble figuring out shekels. We traced him

back to a rented room. He 'd lived Spartanly, but we found the

Lübeck address concealed in his papers. "

' 'And then you found me, 's Carter said. "Is it safe to go

back to the house?"

' 'Jurgen?" Annette said.

"Marsha says no one has amved. "

"Then we go, " the Israeli leader said.

The quartet moved through the door and into the rustic

living room of a mountain cabin. Andy handed Carter his

Luger, stiletto, and gas bomb, and they went out into the cold


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starry night. They walked single file down a steep trail lit

only by moonlight. The cabin quickly disappeared behind

them, swallowed by the thick firs. The wind was dying, the

trees swaying in a quiet dance. Below and off in the distance,

occasional car lights sparkled through the trees.

After atx:jut a hundred yards, they came to a clearing. The

Mercedes and a Ford Pinto waited. As Caner pulled a heavy

coat from the trunk, Annette and Jurgen got into the Mer-

cedes, and Andy into the little Pinto. Warming quickly, the

American agent sat in the driver's seat, turned on the heat and

motor, and drove out of the clearing. Andy followed in the

Pinto.

Annette directed Carter to drive back up the mountain and

across a saddle ridge.

"You 've been here a while,"

he observed as the car

wound along the road.

' 'A week, " she said. ' 'From the cabin we could watch the

house. No one except Heinrich carne or went. He puttered in

the garden, shopped in Lübeck. We could even see him

dusting that awful old furniture through the windows. "

"Was the house his?"

"ln his name, at least. "

"Did you talk to him?"

"Jurgen did. "

'He talked about geraniums and Proust, ' ' Jurgen offered.

In the rearview mirror, Caner could cee the former con-

centration camp victim shrug.

"l invited him to have a beer with me, and when the check

came he wanted to pay it. WThat kind of murderer is that? I

didn 't think he had a damned thing to do with assassinating

Gaban until he killed himself. And then we saw all that radio

equipment. "

' 'He knew a lot, " Carter said, and he the orders

he heard Heinrich giving over the radio.


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"Merde!" Annette swore softly. 'Ihe papers!"

' 'Marsha took them," Jurgen reassured her. • SThey've

already gone to Haifa. "

"Anything on them?" Caner asked, remembering that

once he'd held Heinrich 's sheaf of notes in his own hands.

"Our code specialists think they were simply personal

notes to himself. Agents' numbers and locations. No names.

No addresses. No actual events listed. We're testing paper

and ink, and our cipher experts are going over them tcx:). It's

an intriguing problem. "

' 'But without much hope, ' ' Caner said, catching a flash of

Jurgen's hot eyes.

"Unfortunately true," the Israeli agent agreed.

At last, Andy trailing in the Pinto, they drove up the steep

drive to the Hessian house. A tall regal woman stepped from

the shadows, an M-16 over her shoulder, a walkie-talkie in

her gloved hand.

"Anything, Marsha?" Jurgen asked.

"Very quiet, " the woman said. "Not even the telephone

rang. "

"Good. Sit in the Mercedes. Get warm. "

The four other agents moved into the dark house and,

by room, beginning with the radio room, searched through

the bookcases, closets, cupboards, sideboards, tables, desks.

They worked for four hours. There was much clutter but little

information. It was as if the people who had lived in the house

over the years had decided to leave only impersonal litter as

their contribution to the house's character. There were no

letters or cards, no diaries, no thank-you notes, no lovingly

collected names, telephone numbers, or addresses.

But in the radio room there was a metal wastepaper basket

whose bottom was covered with an inch of ashes. The scho-

larly Heinrich must have committed to memory whatever

information he had needed, and then burned incriminating


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messages, addresses, and names. It was a tedious system, but

secure. Panicularly if you had a poison capsule buried next to

your jugular.

•We don 't even know their organization 's name!" Andy

said at last in exasperation.

Annette studied Caner as they stood in the foyer.

"It was a good try," he said, smiling, and extended a

hand.

She it, her grip strong, and looked directly into his

eyes. For a moment he felt the heat of her sexuality. It made

him catch his breath.

Quickly she withdrew behind her aloof curtain.

"Where will you go?" she Maid.

"Don't worry," he said, "I don 't know anything more

than you do. You can waste one of your personnel if you like.

Have me followed. "

"Maybe 1 will, "

she said and frowned.

He laughed.

"Lady, " he said, "I'm glad we're on the same side. "

' CAre we?" she said.

He laughed again and walked out the door.

"Sorry, Marsha, " he said and opened the Mercedes's

door. ' 'My tum."

The aristocratic woman bowed her head in acceptance, and

slid across the seat and out the door. She disappeared like a

willowy wraith into the shadows of the tall pines.

Carter started the big Mercedes, listened to the smooth

motor a moment, then drove back down the drive.

This time he had to find a better place to park, a place

where no one could see the car.


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Nick Carter piled pine branches thick over the Mercedes to

prevent the chrome and glass from reflecting light when

caught in the headlights of a car. Above him, the stars

twinkled and the cold wind rustled through the mountain's

treetops.

Once satisfied the Mercedes was well hidden , he struck off

back up the mountain, climbing over the rough terrain with

only the moon to guide him. Small invisible scurried

through the duff. Far off, an animal snarled and another

chattered nervously.

The house was as he Sd left it, dark and imposing. He stood

quietly under a fir and listened. At last he heard the soft

footsteps of the sentry Marsha. She was behind the drive

now.

Carter skirted the house and carne in silently at the back.

He slipped up to the back door, used his set of keys, and

entered the black house. He tumed on a narrow-beamed

flashlight for a fraction of a second. Once he was certain

where he was, he turned the beam off and moved through the

kitchen, past the counters, appliances, table, and chairs, and

to the hall.

He felt the flocked paper with his hand and followed the


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hallway, counting doors. The house creaked with the wind.

Somewhere a shutter banged.

At last he opened the door to the radio room, closed it, and

tumed on the light. It was a windowless room, cramped,

shiny with computerized equipment.

He walked directly to the radio sender and picked it up.

There was nothing on the table below, but taped to the

underside of the sender was a photograph.

When Caner had first seen the white edge of the photo

earlier during the search with the Israelis, he hadn 't known

what it bordered. But it was hidden, so he'd known it was

important. He'd wanted to see it alone before he decided

what to do. Now he looked at the picture with growing

excitement.

In the photo were David Sutton, the scholarly man Hein-

rich, a third man who looked Slavic, v»ssibly Russian, and a

fourth man wearing a tuxedo.

The Englishman Sutton had his arm draped over the Slav 's

shoulder in an act of camaraderie. ne four men were sitting

at a table in what looked like a sleazy, crowded salcx)n. The

print of the scene was wrinkled, the photographic paper

showing white where the photo had been crumpled and then

smoothed flat again. It looked about a year old, a treasure that

even the dedicated, safety-conscious Heinrich couldn 't sac-

rifice. In the end, it was the emotions that mattered to all

humans.

The sound was small, wood scraping against wood.

Carter hit the light switch, stepped behind the door, and

slid the photo inside his jacket.

He waited.

The fcx»tsteps crept down the hall , stopped as if to think or

listen, then disappeared.

He waited longer, sweat on his forehead.

At last he opened the door. And smiled


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The footsteps had disappeared because they had gone

inside another room and the person had closed the door. A

faint line of gray light showed beneath the door, not enough

light for it to be a rcxjm 's light, but instead a small flashlight.

He moved quietly across the room taking out Wilhelmina.

He turned the knob, then slammed open the

She whirled around.

It was Annette. A knife glinted in one hand. The flashlight

glowed in the other.

"You!" she breathed.

"Delighted to see you again," he said.

She swung the flashlight and closed in with the knife.

He kicked the flashlight from her hand, ducking the knife.

The flashlight skidded across the room and crashed against

a table.

"Good commando training, he observed from the dark

shadows.

She spun on her heel and slammed the light switch. lhe

room blazed with light. It would glow through the windows

and alert the sentry, but the way Annette had been sneaking

around, she didn't want anyone to know she was back.

' 'What about Marsha?"

"Marsha's gone. "

She circled him. backing, one step at a time, her cold blue

eyes never leaving his.

'You sent her away, " he said. ' 'Worried someone in your

group is a traitor?"

"You should have left when you had the chance. "

' 'Look , Annette, " he said, exasperation starting to grow,

' 'I'm the one with the gun."

e 'I'm not dead yet. "

She lunged, cold eyes alight. lhe violence—the actual

doing of something concrete at last—-excited her. Passivity

was boring, numbing, and she was overdue from her long

watch and keeping the others in line.


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She was unstoppable by most standards.

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He grinned, and sidestepped. Grabbed the shoulder that

was aimed to knock him flat. Caught her thigh with the top of

his foot. Spun her.

But she expected it. A damned good commando.

She angled the spin directly into his legs. A mass of

whirling energy. Ikstroyed his balance.

He toppled. But came down on her.

The knife lashed up.

He knocked the knife into a spin across the room.

She glared, angry and frustrated. Sweat moist and shining

covered her forehead.

He yanked off the cap. She didn 't try to stop him. Blond

curls showered to her shoulders.

He looked directly into her deep blue eyes and saw the

iciness of distance, the heat of passion.

With the VX)int of her pink tongue, she licked lips suddenly

gone dry.

She had a beautiful face, haughty, intelligent. The skin

was smooth, rosy with exertion. She smelled of excitement

and spice-scented soap.

He wanted her, felt the desire for this arrogant, beautiful

woman charge him heavy with need.

He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, under the

curls. He pulled her forward. He wanted her, and he knew

she wanted him.

Her lips were inches from his.

Her breath fresh, hot. The lips paned.

Her head arched back below his, the lips open. breathing.

The Israeli woman 's eyes flashed with memories. Resist-

ing not him, but herself. Fingernails lashed up to scratch his

face.

Quick as a cobra, he caught the hand and pushed her down

flat to the carpet.

She moaned. The hand opened as if it had a will of its own.


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Moved up his chest, kneading.

' 'You bastard!" she suddenly cried, her face flushed,

violent with acknowledgment of her own need.

She tore at the zipper of his jump suit. He smelled the

leather of her boots, and pulled them offt

She watched him with blazing eyes. panting. sweating,

now begging with small animal sounds.

Himself naked, he undressed her in a frenzy. She

his hips and pulled him toward her. He shoved into her, and

they rocked on the carpet, shouting their explosions, tied

together for that moment in eternity.

Afterward, she turned on the room 's heater. He put Mahler's

Fifth Symphony on the stereo. They pulled cushions from

chairs and sofas onto the floor and lay on them without

touching one another, still strangers, perhaps even personal

enemies. united only by intimacy of the flesh. Gustav

Mahler's philosophical, physical music swelled in the air.

The sex was a momentary aberration, her eyes seemed to

say to him. Seldom did she decide to indulge, but when she

did it was because of fleeting need. He shouldn 't take it as

anything more than that. Lust.

They smoked. the smoke and steam from their breaths and

bodies mingling in the room 's warming air. They inhaled and

exhaled silently. studying one another with the same suspi-

cions, but now also with the memory of the resentment once

between them.

She had a beautiful body , long and lean. He could see part

of it still, partially hidden beneath the trousers she'd draped

over her.

He flicked up her shirt.

They both gazed at her round breast, the soft pink nipple

hardening in the still cold room. She seemed curious, as if the

breast weren 't her own. He touched the end of the nipple, the

tiny hard mass beneath the velvet skin.


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He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She

bit her lower lip. still gazing at the breast. mesmerized. Now

there was no doubt the breast and nipple were hers. A flush

spread across her cheeks.

"Where is it?" he asked.

She gave a little gasp as his fingers gently kneaded the

nipple higher, sharper. tenser.

"What you came back for, he said.

"I don't know . . . what you .

"Of course you do. "

He watched her pupils dilate into the blue irises, He flicked

up the other half of her shirt. The other breast's nipple was

already erect. He touched it. It throbbed under his finger. He

rolled that nipple, too.

Her lips swelled thick with desire. She lifted languid arms.

He ducked. The arrns, suddenly sharp weapons, lashed at

him.

"You're a son of a bitch!"

He laughed.

Her eyes were not amused. "You found something! " she

accused. 'S You wouldn't have bothered with me otherwise.

You wouldn 't have thought that I was after something too!

"Too simple, my dear, " he said.

He wanted her again, the need throbbing between his legs,

pounding in his head.

He whipped the trousers from her body, searched the

pockets, then threw them across the room. He tipped the tall

leather boots over and felt inside. He searched her jacket

pockets, then the lining. He stnpped off her blouse but found

nothing in the light fabric.

Nude, she lay there, watching him. A magnet of flesh and

hypnotic desire. And she knew it. Liked it. Wanted the

torment and fulfillment.

He tossed the blouse aside.


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She reared up, nipped his shoulder, and flowed against his

chest, the nipples against his skin, teasing.

He held her chin, their lips close. their breath steaming

between them.

"We're on the same side," he said, "unless you've

turned. Unless you 're a double agent.

"I trust no one. "

"You can't win without trusting.

"I'm alive. "

' 'That's not always a measure of success. '

"I'll find the terrorists myself. s'

"Will you?" he said, then he lifted the chin and crushed

his mouth down on hers.

Her lips parted. Her tongue dared eagerly between his

teeth, exploring. She melted against him, honey and sweat,

and he rolled her over. Mounted her, a giant stallion and a

wild mare, rocking and bucking until they fought to an

explosive victory framed in music and lust,

"Tell me, Ice Princess," Carter said as they once more lay

smoking on the living room flcx»r of the Hessian house, closer

but still not touching, "where do you live in Israel?"

She inhaled deeply, enjoying the flavor of one of Carter's

specially made cigarettes.

"Ice Princess, eh?" she said, a controlled smile on her

lips.

With her pale blond beauty and light blue eyes against the

deep colors of the richly patterned Oriental carpet, she could

be a sculpture in ice. And except for sex, her personality, too,

with its distance, aloofness, and suspicion was glacier cold.

"Do you mind?" he said, inhaling, catching with the

smoke the vibrant, dark chords of Mahler's symphony.

Her eyes flickered with silent amusement.

"Jerusalem," she said. "Our holiest of cities, center for


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three of the world •s major religions. Yvhile I was growing up

in Omaha, my parents told me stories about Jerusalem. How

we would go there one day, pray at the Western Wall. s'

Caner nodded thoughtfully. "One of the most ancient

places in Jerusalem. The remains from the outer wall of the

Second Temple that Jesus knew. Built by Herod, burned by

the Romans in 70 A.D. "

"The legendary Killmaster memory," she said. "Of

course, you 're right. The Western Wall. But my parents died

in an automobile accident, and I was alone. I .

. I grew up

fast. Then I immigrated to Jerusalem by myself. "

' 'In Hebrew, it •s Ir Hakodesh. In Arabic, Al-Quds. And to

English Chnstians, it's Jerusalem. If you stayed, you must

have found what you wanted there. "

She nodded, gazing at the wood-beamed ceiling as if it

were the Mediterranean and she could easily see across it.

'Even the names for the city are beautiful,"

she said.

"They make me think of the harmony of a dozen languages,

the pungent aroma of Turkish coffee, the sight of black-robed

Franciscan monks, Russian Orthodox nuns, Armenian

priests, and Moslem cadis all walking together in peace. '

s 'But Jerusalem has a history of war. "

She arched her brows, still not looking at him. Her naked

body glowed in the room's bright lamplight.

"All wars—all fighting—must stop," she said quietly.

' 'I've dedicated my life to that. Do you know that when

General Allenby went to Jerusalem to accept Turkey's sur-

render at the end of World War One, he got off his horse at

Jaffa Gate and walked into Jerusalem on foot like any other

pilgrim? He could have ridden in as a conqueror. You see,

that's what Jerusalem could mean to all of us, of any faith.

Peaceful coexistence. Respect for different ideas and cul-

tures. Respect for lessons of the past. Jerusalem is so very

small, any healthy person can walk around the Old City in an


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hour. Despite its size, which you'd think would only lead to

increased tensions. it's truly an ecumenical city. Meuzzin

ring out five times a day to call Moslems to prayer. On

Sundays. hundreds of Christian church bells ring, too. We

have three sabbaths. Friday for Moslems, Friday mghts and

Saturdays for us Jews, and Sundays for Christians. Yet we do

business with one another, live together, pass each other on

the street—different religions, different countries, different

beliefs. I think we are quite amazing. Jerusalem. "

"Bombs," Carter said. "Terrorist activities. Kahane's

vow to kick every Arab out of Israel. The PLO- How do you

explain that?"

"l don 't, " she said, putting out her cigarette and looking

at last across to him. "l try to stop it.

Her skin was still flushed and rosy from sex, but the face

and eyes were once again distant and cold. She held herself

back. Any cause carried to extremes could open the door for a

person to dive headlong into madness, as sometimes Jurgen

helplessly did, and Andy might soon with his angry eyes.

People who made commitments to life faced frustrations that

those who just walked through, put in their time, didn't

bother to think, consider, or care, would never face. Now

Caner understood her iciness. It made work and survival

possible for her.

He stood, walked to his clothes, and got out the photo-

graph he'd found in the radio room.

'You won 't decide for yourself—can 't, really, " he said,

' 'so I'll decide for you. "

He handed her the print. She took it, still gazing question-

ingly at him.

"We'll work together for the time being," he told her,

' 'until we need to go our own ways, or the job is completed. ' '

She didn't answer. Instead, she agreed by studying the

photograph. After a while she got up to walk gracefully to the


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stereo. Next to an ashtray, slid beneath the heavy tumtable,

was a matchbook. She brought it to him and put it in his hand.

•I hid it when we were searching, ' • she explained simply.

She sat beside him again, her naked arm against his. He

smelled her womanly scent. Mahler's haunting symphony

started its fifth and final movement. Together the two agents

studied the clues.

The matchbook was from Werner Hall in Prenzlauer Berg,

East Berlin. A large hawk with raised wings decorated the

cover. Instantly Carter focused on the photo of the four men

in the sleazy club. He laughed. She looked more closely,

seeing it too. She shook her head.

The table around which the four men were gathered con-

tained three ashtrays, two full of cigarette butts. The third

was clean, not yet used. On it was the same hawk as on the

matchbook.

Now Carter knew where Sir David Sutton and his three

friends—or his three closely watched enemies—had been

when the photograph was taken. East Berlin, capital of the

German Democratic Republic, behind the Berlin Wall.


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In just twenty-four hours in August 1961, Russian and

German communists built a hundred-mile-long wall around

the entire city of West Berlin, isolating it a hundred miles

from the protection of West Germany, encircling its people

with shock and a resignation that even today occasionally

burst into homicidal anger among both East and West Berlin-

ers.

Nick Carter thought about this as he and the Israeli agent

Annette Burden walked down a quiet street in East Berlin 's

working-class district of Prenzlauer Berg. Called the svan-

tifascist protective bameö by the East, the prisonlike Berlin

Wall's defenses included floodlights, trip alarms, barbed

wire, long upturned spikes, electric fences, trained attack

dogs, and concrete guard towers manned by

Grenztruppen—armed border troops—at firing-range inter-

vals.

The "referendum of the feet" that frightened the com-

munists into building the deadly wall—-three million people

had fled the East, about half of them through West Berlin-—

had now decreased. Now only twelve a month tried to es-

cape. Some still succeeded. A new generation had grown to

adulthood with the familiar gray wall in their backyard. And

as life in East Germany improved, those living under the


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yoke of communism found the shackles less burdensome, the

benefits increasing, and a dangerous, uncertain escape far too

great to risk.

Caner and Annette walked side by side, hands in pockets

in the chilly spring evening. The air was acrid with the smoke

of brown coal. At the corner ahead, a policeman standing

duty in a yellow pool of lamplight shifted his weight. His

jackboot scraped the grit-covered sidewalk. Pedestrians

strolled by him, their clothes drab, out-of-date, but neatly

pressed. They nodded politely. Children walked with them,

respectful, well mannered, in a divided city proudly twenty-

five years behind its flashy, gaudy, uppity, sister city West

Berlin.

' 'Another bl(kk," Annette observed quietly, her long,

lanky stride certain beside Carteös.

Carter nodded down the street.

' 'You can see the sign now, " he said. "Under the street

light. Werner Hall. "

Their passage into the city had been uneventful, the Quad-

ripartite Agreement of 1971 , excellent passports supplied by

AXE, and their remarkable acting skills smoothing the few

suspicions of the armed border guards who had been in-

structed to welcome visitors who came to spend money in a

communist nation poor by Western standards.

Nick Caner considered the city—and the natiory-—he had

entered. It was all part of the careful preparatory work that

kept him alive and brought him his legendary high success

rate.

There were few signs. in this old-fashioned, mixed com-

mercial and residential area that they were walking through,

of East Berlin 's reputation as the most prosperous city in

Eastern Europe. The city had grown and rebuilt itself from a

1945 low point when more than half of all its apartments were

destroyed and a billion cubic feet of rubble clogged its


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streets. Now shiny highrises, chrome-and-glass apartments,

and the spacious Alexanderplatz plaza for trade and tourism

highlighted what the city 's communist neighbors regarded as

the Paris of the East.

The working-class street that Carter and Annette strolled

through displayed little evidence of this progress. A relic

largely unchanged since World War II, the old, shabby

neighborhood of tall brick apartment houses and age-

thickened, gnarled trees was still scarred by the wounds of

the war's bombing.

Trash lay in a heap behind a parked car. Above, a woman

stood at a lighted window, a Strauss waltz playing the cor-

nices and concrete ledge around her blasted away forty years

ago in an Allied bombing raid. The government was strug-

gling with housing, the worst being taken care of first, as it

focused on a 1990 goal of three hundred thousand new and

renovated apartments. As always, hope was the carrot dang-

led in front of the slow-moving donkey.

Carter and Annette walked on down the sidewalk, paused

at the corner, and smiled at the young police officer who

looked right through them, well aware of the importance of a

police state. They moved on, two hard-working East Berlin-

ers out for an innocent night 's entertainment at Werner Hall.

They followed the sign 's painted arrow that pointed down

a steep sidewalk staircase that smelled pungently of mold and

ale. The bright, cheerful sounds of laughter, talk, and ex-

perily played polka music resounded in the narrow passage-

way.

'Of course it 's better for me than it is for the Bulgarians, "

the man inside the door was saying as Carter and Annette

entered. The polka music and laughter were instantly louder.

"I 'm a German, " he went on. "We East Germans, we have

it good. "

' 'Two," Carter told him.


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The man looked briefly at him but studied Annette. He was

a big man with broad, heavy shoulders. He opened and

closed his hands absentmindedly, the meaty muscles on his

arms bulging beneath a light cotton shirt. He was the

bouncer. and he liked the work.

He raised one of the hands and snapped the fingers, his

eyes never leaving Annette. Carter felt her move restlessly

beside him. He put an arm over her shoulder and pulled her

roughly to him. The bouncer blinked. He might be slow, but

even he could figure that out.

' 'Stupid Poles, " he continued to his friend over the lively

music. The friend wore a soft brown felt hat perched on the

back of his head. "Why do they want to strike? When you 're

a worker, you've got to work. s'

A sweating, buxom waitress came toward them carrying a

fistful of in one hand and an order pad in the other.

' 'Two?" she said and walked off without waiting for an

answer.

As the agents followed the heavyset waitress, Carter heard

the reply from the man wearing the soft felt hat.

' 'Their standard of living is going backward in Poland, "

he said thoughtfully, explaining it to the bouncer and to

himself. "Nothing like the progress here. "

"Ignorance, " Annette fumed in a low voice next to Car-

ter's ear as they sat at a round wooden table next to a pillar.

The waitress plopped the four beers on a nearby table, the

foam sloshing up the sides of the big mugs then settling down

into tall heads without spilling a drop.

Carter put a cautionary hand on Annette 's arm, looked up

at the waitress, and ordered two beers.

'Ignorance, ' ' Annette went on, glaring at the overworked

waitress's back as she bustled away. "It's the best defense

any government has. Fool the people, and you 've got carte

blanche to do whatever you like! "


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