# The Deadly Diva3333333333

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FIFTEEN

Carter's juices were up. He didn't wait until morning.

He grabbed a nap, packed the new wardrobe supplied to

him from the closets of AXE's Paris apartment, and went

over the rcx)f to the underground garage in the next building.

There he picked up a silver Mercedes coupe and headed

By driving through the night with only a few coffee stops,

he hit Nice just after dawn. It was a quiet time to arrive in

the city. The water was still swirling in the gutters from the

nighttime street-cleaning crews, and rubber-booted men in

blue coveralls were moving it along with their long brooms.

On the quay, he smelled the scent of roasting coffee from

the kitchens, and there was the friendly clatter of chairs

being set out on the sidewalks in front of the cafés.

For Carter there was something solid about its simplicity.

France would always be France.

It was too early in the morning for the tourists. Even

those who were determined to make every second of their

vacation count were still sitting in the lounges of their hotels,

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NICK CARTER

I

waiting for the American Express to preparing for the

day's exhaustions.

For Carter this was good. If anyone took undue notice

of his movements. he would also be noticing them.

He drove all the way around the quay and parked in the

far end of the horseshoe, Then he casually strolled back to

the café called le Court. Two of the outside tables were

occupied, one by an old man reading his paper and sipping

coffee. At the other table a young American couple pored

over a map, sipped café au laits and kept a wary eye on

two enormous backpacks.

Carter took an inside table.

"Un café, s'il vous platt. "

It was there in seconds. Carter smoked, siprrd, and drank

in the sounds and smells around him. Morning bustle merged

with the ever-present scent of chocolate. Odd, he mused;

nowhere in the south of France could he ever remember the

smell of fish, even in the teeming harbor of Marseilles. All

the cöte smelled of chocolate or the sea.

She breezed in ten minutes in front of the appointed time,

made right for Carter's table, and bussed him on both cheeks

with a wide smile. "Bonjour, mon Cher. Have you missed

"Like a third hand," Carter replied, rising slightly as she

seated herself across the table.

Her name was Latina Cosnolsky. She was Polish, looked

Parisian, and spoke better French than most Frenchmen.

She had been with AXE for many years. Prior to that, she

had toured Eastern Europe as a circus aerialist with her two

brothers, Mono and Cathar.

Together they made quite a team.

Her eyes were pale and her hair was fair. She was tallish,

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THE DEADLY DIVA 141 a trifle too thin, and very graceful with a fluid articulation to her limbs. She wore white, and though full summer hadn't yet arrived, her arms and legs were well tanned. She looked like a schoolgirl on holiday. The appearance was deceiving. Had she not chosen a career as an agent, she would hare made a fortune as a cal burglar. Unlike Carter, Latina ordered an enormous breakfast and, when it came, fell to eating it as though she were a Third World refugee. "Horn is the family?" Carter asked. "Mono is still dying daily of a few hundred assorted diseases. Carbon still can't kap his hands off large-busted young girls." Carter laughed. Mono Cosoolsky was probably the best electronics man in Europe. The other brother, Cather, was equally adept at visual surveillance. He was also a master of disguise, literally a chamelan who could become anyone. "Will we see them soon?" She checked her watch between mouthfuls. 'I think they will probably be driving along the coast road around nine." "And your shopping trip?" "Compkm." Latina said smiling. "Down to the last light bulb." Catter smiled with satisfaction. All the equipment they would need had been acquired and the two men would meet them somewhere on the corniche heading west toward Can-nes after nine.

Olga Siskova replaced the dainty bone-china cup in its saucer and tamed back to the mirror. She anxiously studied her face as she clipped tiny gold loops to her ears. Not too many lines, thanks to expertly applied makeup. All M all, she was still a damned good-looking woman. On the outside.

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On the inside she was a shell, and it was coming home

to her more and more each day. She had even started to

watch her food more carefully. *Ihe pains were frequent

now, almost daily. She knew without seeing a dcx•tor that

she had nurtured an ulcer.

She had been at it too long, this dual life. She had gotten

everything she had ever dreamed of, even more. She was

rich. powerful, still trautiful. But what good would it do

her in the years to come?

They would never let her go; never, And in the last year,

she had started feeling fear for the first time.

And the previous evening, the phone call. The accent

was American, the voice raspy and guttural.

"Mademoiselle Siskova?"

"Yes. "

' 'My name is Dunn. I am with the American State Depart-

ment,"

Her mind whirled and her stomach had erupted until she

thought she would faint.

"Mademoiselle Siskova, my people would like to discuss

a matter of extreme urgency with you.

'SWhat on earth . . . t?"

"We would like your assistance in a delicate matter. It

cannot be discussed over the phone. I wonder if one of our

men could join you for luncheon .

say, tomorrow?"

' 'Well, I don't know, I. .

• It is very important. His name is Carter, Nicholas Carter.

He will explain everything. Thank you very much, Made-

moiselle Siskova. "

Then he had hung up. She had scarcely slept all night,

and now, this morning, her eyes showed it.

What, after all these years, could they want? Not since

her defection and debriefing so long ago had they contacted

her even once. What could they want now?

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There wasn't time to alert Sergei Kostovich. She would

have to see this Carter person and bluff it out by herself.

Could they suspect her? She had been given far too many

assignments in the past year. Too many things could be

traced back to her for mere coincidence if the Americans

or the British started digging too hard.

"Damn, damn, damn!" she hissed aloud.

It was Mrs. Kranz. The woman, for all her age and bulk,

could enter a room like a cat.

"Nothing. I will be having a guest for lunch. Prepare

something light. And. Kranz . . . i'

'*You may take the rest of the day off once the meal is

prepared. I will serve myself. "

"As you wish."

The old woman glided casually from the room with the

breakfast tray. In the hall, she picked up speed appreciably,

heading directly to the quarters over the garage occupied

by Alfred the gardener.

Carter handed her into the car and slid under the wheel.

Minutes later they were out of Nice and cruising along the

coast road west toward Cannes.

He drove slowly, resisting the impulse to get the trip over

with as fast as possible. The Mercedes purred. A couple of

miles short of Antibes, a dark gray van ran up fast on their

rear, blinked its lights, and fell back.

Carter tapped Latina's knee and jerked his thumb toward

the rear. She s-wiveled in the seat, checked, and nodded.

"My dear brothers."

Just beyond Antibes, Carter turned off toward the sea.

At Juan-les-Pins, he darted into the parking lot of the Hotel

Belles Rives. They were already out of the car and walking

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144 NICK CARTER, when the van pulled to a halt several spaces away. As they passed the van, the rear door opened and the two of them darted inside. "Welcome to my little bordello on wheels," Cathar Cos-nolsky said, grinning and extending hW hand. He was tall. wveral inches over stx feet, and with his olive skin, curly dark hair, and perfect white teeth, looked more like a Latin lothario than a Polish defector. "Cathar, good to see you again," Carter said, shaking the man's hand. The other brother, Mono, pulled a set of curtains together behind the front seat and also shook Carter's hand. "Mono, how are you?" "Not well, my friend. It's my chest again, and I am afraid my eyes are going." Carter nodded solemnly, glanced at Latin's impish smile, and suppressed a grin of his own. Where Latina and Cathar were beautiful, their older brother was downright ugly. His body was a foot shorter Nan Cathar's, and his head was too large for his small shoulders. According to Latina, he had been complaining since birth that he was about to die, but he would probably live to be a hundred. Callas opened a bottle of wine, poured four glasses, and they got to work. From somewhere, the trio had obtained a complete plan of the Chateau d'Onnanz, the outbuildings, and the sur-rounding grounds. Latina had already memorized A com-pletely. "How long will it take you?" Carter asked her. "I can wire the entire house, the outer buildings, and the cars in two hours if there is no one there." "Good. Cathar?" "I have a three-person team at my disposal, complete

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THE DEADLY DIVA 145 with cars and motorbikes. We can track her by car or on foot. every move she makes, day or night." "Are they goodT • 'The best," Cathar replied. "They could be in her purse and she wouldn't know it." Carter turned to Mono. "You have everything you need?" The man held his stomach with one hand and gestured to the walls of the van with the other. "With what I have in hem I can hear a cat purr and tell you what it says." Carter had tarried a manila envelope from the Mercedes. Now he opened it and withdrew two eight-by-ten glossy photographs. He handed them to Cathar. • 'Hem am the pic-tures of Horst Fender. How close do you think you can come?" The tall, dark man studied the photos for a full minute and the sheet attached to the back of one of them with Fender's physical statistics. When he looked back up at Carter he was smiling. "Fast three feet, his own mother couldn't tell us apart." "Okay," Carter said nodding, "I'll check in here. The three of you go on into Cannes. Check into the Wagram. ICs small and it would fit the budget of three middle-class tourists." "When do you see her?" Latina asked. "Lunch, today. I won't dump it all on her at once. Until the place is wired and we're set up, I don't want her to

"What's our connection?" Mono asked. Carter thought for a moment. "For meetings, I'll phone for Latina ... uh, it's a grand day for lunch by the sea. All right?" "Fine," she replied. "Where?" "la Coquille. It's in the old town, out of the way." Carter stood, or stooped in the van's narrow confines, and

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1 146 NICK CARTER moved to the door. "Good luck to us all." He retrieved his bag and checked into the Belles Rives. The room was small and subdued, but it was over the dining terrace with a beautiful view of the bay. It took exactly twenty mtes for him to shave, shower, and attire himself as a tourist.inu This left him fifteen minutes to drive up into the hills and the Chliteau d'Orrnann.


SIXTEEN

At the same time, in Paris, Carl Rankin sat in a flat overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. In between sips of wine he checked his watch. The flat was a CIA safe house and it was often used, as it would be used this day, as a meeting place, Carl Rankin was control for an East German agent code-named Spider. Spider was actually Horst Fender. Promptly at noon, Carl Rankin rose, all five feet three inches and 133 pounds of him, and opened the door in answer to three quick knocks. Horst Fender, a dark-haired giant beside his control, darted into the room. -What is going on, Carl? Why the rush?" "A bit of an emergency, Horst. We have a problem that only someone like you can solve. Very important." The taller man's eyes narrowed and his face became ex-tremely serious. "Anything I can do, of course." "You'll have to inform your superiors in the East that you'll be dropping out of sight for a while ... perhaps as much as a week. Can you handle that?"

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"It will be difficult, yes, but I think I can handle it. But

S' There is going to be a defection, a top Moscow agent,

a woman. She has supposedly been in place for years. and

if she is really coming over, she could be extremely valuable

to us."

"I see." Fender gripped the backs of his thighs where

he sat so he wouldn't let his anxiety show.

"We need to make sure the woman isn't lying. There is

always the chance that they may be trying to give her new

life by having her confess her past sins, be accepted by us,

and play the role of double. After all, Horst, you've been

doing the same for us now for years."

"Of course."

Here. Carl Rankin leaned forward and placed his hand

on the other man's knee. He bored his trady eyes into

Fender's.

"Horst, this is so important to us that we are willing to

risk you."

"What?" Fender gasped, color draining from his face.

"Oh, don't worry, my boy. You'll be protected every

step of the way. One of our top people is with her now.

His name is Nick Carter. He'll be setting you up as her

debriefer. We think that, knowing your position, she will

be more candid with you. "

"But surely that's not enough

' Fender sputtered.

' 'Shh, Horst, calm down. In exchange for our protection,

she is giving us the complete list of people in her network,

from her control on up and on down."

"That's . .

that's marvelous," Fender said, hoping the

sweat wasn't breaking out on his face.

Now Carl Rankin laid it on with a trowel. "Horst, I want

the names on that list to be Eyes Only .

. yours. That is,

until you can confirm them in the East. I know that you

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have means over there to do that for us.

"Yes, yes, of course. "

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THE DEADLY DNA

have means over there to do that for us.

"Yes, yes, of course. "

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"Once the names check out, we will start feeding her

information. phony, of course, to feed Moscow. Eventually

we will of course pick up the net."

Fender thought for a moment. "But what if the woman

isn't really coming over? She will expose me as working

for you."

"l told you, Horst, this is worth it. Remember, you'll

be protected at all times. You'll leave for Nice tonight.

Carter will meet you at the airport."

Both men stood, Fender felt confident now. It cxyzed in

the look he gave the little man and in the way he shook

Rankin's hand.

' ' Accomplish this. Horst, and your retirement in the States

is secure."

Fender smiled. Accomplish this, he thought, and I'll be

a colonel in the KGB with my own retirement dacha on the

Black Sea!

He was all smiles as Rankin showed him out the door.

When it was closed and locked, the little man returned to

the bar and reached for a brandy bottle.

' 'Make that two,' • David Hawk said, entering from the

bedroom.

"How did I sound?"

S 'Perfect, as usual. You should have been an actor, Carl.

But did he buy it?"

Rankin bubbled with laughter. "Believe me, Hawk, I

can read the man's mind. He was already counting the rubles

in his pay raise and sewing the colonel's pips on his uniform


SEVENTEEN

Caner was suitably impressed when he turned off the

road into Olga Siskova's estate. Grandeur was not the word.

The sunlight battered the red tile roofs of the huge main

house and five large outbuildings. The stucco sides were

chalk-white. Palm trees were everywhere, along with lush,

meticulously kept lawns.

Carter stopped the Mercedes in a huge cobblestoned court-

yard, got out, and approached the door. ne tolling of bells

inside sounded like high noon at Westminster Abbey.

Olga Siskova herself opened the door. She was impressive

in a figure-fitting slack and sweater outfit. Its blue matched

her eyes and accented her slender height. The striking blond

hair was pulled severely back from her forehead and tied

in a tight bun at the nape of her neck.

"Good afternoon. Mademoiselle Siskova. I am Nick Car-

ter. "

He flipped his credentials case open and her eyes scanned

it briefly. However, Carter had the feeling that she had

digested every word and insignia.

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In English she said, "Welcome to my house." She held

a hand out to him and he brushed his lips across its smooth-

ness. It was ice cold. Her voice was soft and low and very

pleasing. Her English was smooth and easy, but touched

with a little accent of French and her native Russian. "Come

in. please. I have had my cook prepare a luncheon,"

She led him through enormous rooms to an intimate,

terrace-style dining room. Through the glass lay the shim-

mering blue Mediterranean five hundred yards t*low. Carter

could see a well-outfitted dock and a sleek yacht.

A twenty-bedroom house on fifty acres of prime Riviera

property, a garage full of cars, a pool, stables, and a yacht.

Indy, Carter thought, you've come a long way from a

shared one-room flat in Moscow.

S 'Please."

She motioned to a small table with only two chairs facing

the sea. A large platter of shrimp and oysters, some cheese

and bread. a tureen of soup, and two bottles of wine adorned

the table.

"I thought it best to give the servants the afternoon off.

I will serve."

Carter nodded, keeping his face grave. "I think that was

wise."

She flinched a little at that, but covered it well and lifted

the top from the tureen.

Conversation during the meal was spotty, bordering on

the mundane. She displayed some degree of nervousness

but handled it well. Carter felt that she probably handled

everything well. He couldn't help but be aware of a certain

aura that emanated from her, an aura of calm, composed

self-assurance.

He was glad that this composure started to crack a little

over coffee and brandy, when the conversation got around

to the reason for his visit.

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' 'Just what is your function with the State Department,

Mr. Carter""

He shrugged. s 'I help people. You might even say that I

am a specialist at relocating refugees."

She laughed. a sharp, brittle laugh, and plucked acigarette

from a box at her side.

Carter lit it. "I wouldn't think a woman who lives by

her voice would smoke."

"I rarely sing anymore, only a charity recital now and

then. But I am sure you know that."

"Of course. "

*'Come now, let us get to the point. Why, after all these

years. am I honored with a visit from the American State

Department?"

From his pocket Carter took a photograph. Jt was a smaller

copy of the two pictures he had given Cathar Cosnolsky

earlier that day.

"In the past few days, have you seen this man?"

Olga studied the photo. Carter studied her face. He noticed

now that there was a puffiness about the eyes. The mouth

was full and sensuous. but a little tight with worry lines at

the comers.

"No. I don't think I have ever seen that face at all."

'VI think you will, very soon."

She glanced up at him. "l don't like games, Mr. Carter.

Please get to the point."

She was smoking constantly now, taking deep, quick

little puffs that she exhaled abruptly, smoking the unfiltered

cigarette to the nub before stubbing it out irritably.

"The man's name is Horst Fender. He is an East German

agent, but under direct control of Moscow. Most of the time

he operates in the West.' •

She shrugged and out came another cigarette. "How does

that concern me""

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Now Carter chose his words carefully. ' 'It is no secret

that we have many funnels for information in both East

Berlin and Moscow. A few days ago. we leamed that this

man, Horst Fender. had been given a special assignment ...

an assignment of assassination. "

She didn't blink, but the smoke poured from her mouth

and nostrils. "And his target?"

"You, Mademoiselle Siskova. "

Again the brittle laugh. *'Ridiculous! Afterall these years,

Moscow has washed their hands of me. They would be

stupid to resurrect all that now. "

Carter nodded and sighed. "At first we thought the same

thing. But then we checked, and counterchecked. I'm afraid

the order is true, and it came from very high up."

'*But why? If anything happened to me. anything violent,

the finger would point directly at Moscow."

Carter shook his head. "Not really. You see, Fender has

been working for us for some time. We think Moscow may

have found out that he is a double. I think, with your past

training, you can see what this opens up."

He could see by her features and the piercing sapphire

eyes that she was already putting the pieces together. He

elaborated anyway.

"As a double, Fender plays a dangerous game. To stay

alive and useful to us, he must partially satisfy his Soviet

masters. If Moscow saw a way to do away with Fender and

you, and blame us at the same time, it would do them far

more good than harm."

She was shaken now and didn't bother to hide it. "It's

impossible, insane! What am I .

"You are a symbol, mademoiselle. a symbo! of what life

in the West can be for a great talent. Your death, no matter

who does it, would be worth a great deal of propaganda. " '

"Yes," she whispered almost to herself,

"it would.

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Others would think twice about defecting if they thought

that the KGB tmly never forgives or forgets. "

"Exactly," Carter replied. "We would like to give you

protection, at least until we find this Fender.

She stood and paced, stopping now and then to stare

down at the sea. Carter could read the turmoil in her mind,

and kept quiet to let it gestate.

Finally she turned to face him. "I will have to think about

this. "

"I sincerely hope you don't think too long. We have

reason to believe that, if Fender hasn't shown up already,

he soon will."

"I'll give you an answer by noon tomorrow."

Caner stood. "Fine."

Driving back to Cannes, he knew that the bait in the trap

was t*ing nibbled.

And in the big house behind him, Olga Siskova was

already making preparations for an emergency meeting with

Sergei Kostovich. She couldn't use the usual channels. In

an emergency she was to call a florist in Nice and order

one dozen red roses sent to Pierre Sautrain in that city. The

accompanying card was to read, Dearest Pierre, why do

you never call?

There was no Pierre Sautrain. but there was a flat in his

name in the dock area of Nice. "Ihe landlady of the flat

would accept the flowers. It was this woman who would

contact Major Sergei Kostovich.


EIGHTEEN

His name was Boris Zaharchenko. He was attached to

the Soviet embassy in Paris as the foreign political advisor

to the French Communist party. Since the French Com-

munist party had hardly anything to do with real Russian

Communists, Boris had much free time for his real job.

Colonel-General Boris Zaharchenko was KGB control for

over twenty agents in northern Europe, among them Horst

Fender.

Now the impatient man was striding up and down. cursing

under his breath. Normally on this day of the week, at this

time, he would be in Montmartre between the welcoming

thighs of his mistress.

Horst Fender's frantic telephone message had ruined his

aftemoon.

Zaharchenko was short, and stubby , and powerfully built.

He had thick black hair, straight and slick. He had a heavy,

stolid-looking face with a thick, drooping, old-fashioned

mustache, and lively eyes. eyes that were the slightest bit

curved up at the sides, as though there were Mongolian

blood somewhere but not very much of it.

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He looked, at first sight, like a peasant. But there was a

sharpness, too, an autocratic arrogance that somehow

seemed out ofplace and unexpected, and the air ofcompetent

authority was immense. Peasant or not. the moment Zahar-

chenko spoke there was evidence of a shrewd and ruthless

minds an ease of manner that denied his origins.

In the old days he would have been killed off as an upstart,

destroyed because of a competence that was out of keeping

with what would have been called, then, his station. But

now, men like these were needed, men whose minds were

alert but whose hands were callused, with bitten, grimy nails.

The other man stood watching him. He was tall and slim

and cultured, and it seemed that he was trying. successfully,

to hide a very real fear. There was a brooding anger in his

eyes, but his voice was quiet and controlled. and even polite.

"Comrade Colonel-General, I think it is real. I have a

gut feeling that the Americans are actually turning one of

ours. "

Zaharchenko grunted with derision.

'*If there were an

agent such as they say, I am sure I would know of her!"

Horst Fender bit his tongue to keep from replying to this

vodka-sodden peasant who was his superior. He knew that

Zaharchenko survived at all only because of his wife's fam-

ily. Without their intervention the drunken whoremonger

would have long ago been recalled to Moscow. As it was,

he was given only minor agents to control. Horst Fender

was tired of being considered a minor agent, and this was

his chance to get away from Zaharchenko.

"If there is such an agent. and a wide network, it may

be in our means to save them and stop this woman. It would

be a coup for your office, comrade."

The colonel-general stopped his pacing and glared at

Fender's tall figure and darkly handsome face. In his mind

this man was the new breed. and to Zaharchenko the new

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breed were all a bunch of ass-kissing fairies.

But why not? If there was something to all this. he could

easily take the credit for it himself.

' 'All right, Fender. The south of France, you say?"

' 'Yes, sir. I'm leaving at once."

"Very well. When you have anything, I want you to

report back directly to me, no one else. Do you understand?"

' 'Yes, Comrade-General," Fender replied, suppressing

a smile, "directly to you,"

Fender beat a hasty retreat and Zaharchenko mulled over

the entry he should make in the agents' log that went each

day to Moscow Central. He had not gotten where he was

by being straight-forward. His strength was in his cunning.

Gingerly, he picked up a pen. drew a message flimsy

toward him across the desk, and wrote:

Spider on special assignment southern France. No contact

one week. Believe defection involved agent in place. My

office doing extensive research to uncover Same.

There was no need to mention that the Americans had

been involved. It would look much better if it was the

colonel-general himself who had uncovered this traitor.

Boris Zaharchenko looked up at the clock. With a fast

taxi he could still achieve his weekly orgasm.

The adrenaline was pumping through Horst Fender's body

as he took the only exit off the highway. He paid no attention

to the black Citroen that cut off a car behind him to snuggle

against his bumper as he entered the long-term parking area.

He pulled into a vacant slot, grabbed his small bag, and

got out of the car, Only then did he realize that the Citroen

had pulled up directly behind him.

Two men were getting out of the big car. the driver and

a second, bulky man from the rear. They had a look. That

look.

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Fender whirled, meaning to run between the parked cars,

and ran directly into a third man. ne man was smiling, his

arms opened wide as if to embrace Fender. And then he

was embracing him, his arms like a vise, locking Fender's

ams to his sides.

Fender struggled. He could sense the two men from the

Citroen coming up behind him.

He was about to call outs when he felt the sting of a

needle in the side of his neck.

At once his legs became rubbery, and seconds later the

blue sky over Paris went black.

*'He's out. "

"Good. Get him in the Citroen. Don't forget the bag."

"I have his keys. "

"Take his car back to Paris. Park it on any small street.

Lock it and leave the keys in the ashtray."

In less than two minutes. both cars had exited the parking

Ict and were speeding along the expressway toward Paris.


NINETEEN

Carter took the night glasses from his eyes, blinked a few

times, and again trained them on the hillside on which sat

the Chåteau d'Ormanz,

The walkie on the seat him crackled, and Mono's

voice came over loud and clear. "Nick, someonejust

the other garage door."

"I see it," Carter replied. He watched the old car sneak

down the drive without lights. Then the big gates swung

open.

"Nick, it's an old woman."

Carter chuckled. "No, it's her. This is probably how she

moves around so that no one spots her. Cathar?"

s 'I'll take her if she goes left, Nick. You take the right. "

"Check," Carter said. "Is your man on to the servants

in Siskova's Mercedes?"

"Like glue," Cathar answered.

"Latina, are you there?" Carter asked.

"In place," came the woman's voice. s 'I see her."

"She's yours, Nick," Cathar said. ' 'l •II spell you with

my trusty Ford after a mile."

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Carter fired up the rented Renault, waited ten seconds

from the time Olga Siskova passed by , and fell in behind her.

When Olga Siskova •pulled through the gates she noticed

the young woman across the street. She snorted. The woman

was leaning against the wall, large purse dangling from a

long strap at her side, cigarette tilted down from the corner

of her mouth.

From her costume and the way she camed her purse,

Olga knew that she was a "business girl." Her snort of

derision was because, for years, she and her neighbors had

tried to have the police keep such women in the downtown

The taillights had scarcely disappeared when Latina

pUshed off from the wall and sauntered across the street.

She was halfway to the gates when the van came out of the

darkness. It pulled up on the sidewalk and rocked to a halt

just in front of the big iron gates.

Latina didn't pause. Like a cat she stepped from the front

bumper to the hood and onto the roofof the van. She gripped

two of the spikes atop the gate, and her body was a blur as

she somersaulted over. By the time she was slilding down

the other side, the van was already gone, joining in on the

three-vehicle chase.

By the time they had reached the outskirts of Nice, the

van and the two rented cars—Cathar in a Ford Escort and

Carter in the Renault—had all traded places three times

behind Olga Siskova.

Now Cathar in the Ford was behind heron the promenade

with Carter and Mono running parallel on adjacent streets

"She's turning north on De Verdun , • ' Cathar exclaimed.

' 'I'll pick her up at Place Messina," Mono answered.

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The radio was silent, and then Mono's voice came up again.

"She's going east on the Boulevard Jean Jauris and picking

up speed."

Carter quickly consulted the street map of Nice in his

right hand, and pushed the Renault up to the fastest speed

he dared in traffic. At the Place Garibaldi, he double-parked

and barked into the radio, "I'm at Garibaldi."

"Okay," Mono said, "she's heading your way."

A minute later, Carter saw her drive into the square. She

took a complete turn at the roundabout, and slowed.

"Get ready," he said, ' 'she's parking

. she's on foot.

Mono. "

Across the square Carter saw the van pull into an alley

and start its flashers going. Mono appeared and fell in behind

the woman.

Carter jammed a cloth cap on his head and put on a pair

of heavy-lensed glasses. As he walked, he removed his

white jacket, turned it inside out, and pulled it back on.

Now he wore a dark blue jacket.

As he passed Siskovass car he saw Cathar already heading

that way. Soon he would bend over to tie his shoe. When

he stood again, there would be a magnetic beeper under the

fender of the car.

They were on the wide Avenue de la République. It was

swarming with streetwalkers and neon, loud music and soft

entreaties, drifters, pimps, sellers ofpornography, Algerians

shilling for "les exhibition, and a few honest Frenchmen

hurrying to their homes.

The speaker in Carter' s ear shaped like a hearing aid, came

alive with Mono•s voice: "She's stopping at a café."

Carter leaned toward the mike attached to his shirt pocket.

"I see."

There was a bistro across the street. He was about to step

off the curb, when an oily young man tugged at his sleeve,

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you look for company?"

Carter ignored him and moved on. In the bar he took a

stool and ordered a cognac. He had a good view of Siskova

at one of the sidewalk tables, and Mono at an inside table

behind her.

He'd gone through two cognacs and three cigarettes

when the woman suddenly st0(kl, threw some money on the

table, and took off at a brisk pace.

"Nick .

"Yeah."

' 'She got a go-ahead sign , probably from someone passing

on the street."

"Go, Mono," Carter hissed into the tiny mike. "I'm

right behind you. "

Cathar piped in. "Need some help?"

"No," Carter said quickly. "We can't afford to have her

see you yet. Stay in the car in case she grabs a cab."

He hic the street. Mono was about a block in front, and

Siskova a block beyond him.

' 'Monsieur?" Jt was the oily little man again, sliding

along at Carter's elbow.

"Non. "

"I have these two fantastic girls, monsieur . . . both

eighteen, one French, one Algerian. They stage an amazing

performance. You've seen nothing like it. The point, mon-

sieur, is that after it's over, they are both extremely over-

heated, you would say. And they are prepared to do your

bidding. It makes no difference, monsieur—your bidding!

fie entire program, monsieur, for only two hundred

francs."

Carter picked up speed to leave the man behind. He saw

Mono suddenly cross the street, and then he saw why.

Olga Siskova had backtracked. She was heading right for

him at a fairly brisk pace.

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Carter paused until the oily little man caught up with him.

He threw his arm around the other's shoulder and moved

with him until they were in a doorway.

"Young, you say?"

The man smiled, showing missing teeth. "Babies, mon-

sieur. It's a clean house. very secure, absolutely safe. You

won't be disturbed, This French girl, monsieur, you won't

fihd another like her . "

Siskova passed without a glance.

' 'It sounds fascinating," Carter said.

bargain, only two hundred francs."

Mono went by. Carter let the man babble ot. for half a

minute, then he abruptly took off.

"Monsieur!" the man screeched. "I could make it one

hundred and fifty francs!"

"Some other time," Carter growled.

"Monsieur, maybe a boy and two girls? . . . Two boys

and a girl .

They were back at Place Garibaldi. Carter couldn't see

the woman.

g 'She has gone into the church of St. Catherine. I'm going

in. I'll try to get some shots from the gallery."

Carter made it to the Renault, flopped in the front seat,

and lit a cigarette.

She had made a contact. That meant it was going to be

a long night.

Within twenty minutes after dropping into the grounds,

Latina had bugged all the cars in the garage as well as

placing location beepers under a fender of each of them.

The house itself was like a vault, and from the plans she

knew that every door and window on the ground floor was

wired to an alarm, Ihat was why, like a fly, she had gone

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up the side of the house and over the roof. Each of the

dormer windows in the gables was barred.

She flashed a @ight through each of the windows until

she found a room that was obviously empty and unused.

When she found one, dusty and bereft of furniture, she

spread one of her hands to its widest span, measuring the

distance between the bars.

From her bag she took a small lever-jack with rubber

buffers at each end. She held the jack horizontally between

two bars, fit the handle, and started to crank. It was stiff

work, but one of the bars was weaker than the other and it

began to bend.

The weaker bar bent until it touched another bar. It was

held firm there, and the stronger bar began to Even-

tually the two bars were far enough apart for her to slip

through. Like an eel, she slithered Ertween the bars and

tried the window.

"Merde!" she hissed under her breath.

Behind the bars, the window was immovable. Obviously

it hadn't for years, and couldn't be opened

without making a lot of noise.

Latina produced a strong pocket knife and started to cut

and pry away the putty around the lower of the two window-

panes. Within a few minutes the pane was held in place by

only the few small nails that had been under the putty. She

put away the knife and brought out some small pliers. Care-

fully, she extracted all the nails so there would be no chance

of teanng her clothes and leaving a clue.

Then she Bk'keted the pliers and got out the knife again.

using it to pry the pane of glass gently forward until it leaned

against the window bars. Then she put away the knife. Not

once did she put down a After use, every tool was

returned to her bag before another was brought out.

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Then began the delicate task of slanting and tuming the

sheet of glass until she had it nearly vertical, at right angles

to the windowframe. When this was done, she deftly slid

it out between bars.

Carefully, she set the glass aside and returned to the

windows. It was a squeeze, but less than a minute later she

was in the house and moving down to the next level.

She started with Siskova's bedroom. Tiny transmitters

were planted beneath the bed and the vanity. Then she did

a cursory search. As she'd expected, she found nothing.

Then she removed one of the tiny "Cheesebox" bugs

from her bag and moved to the telephone. It was only a

matter of seconds before the instrument was disassembled.

Suddenly, her deft fingers stopped in mid-movement.

' 'Well, well, well."

Inside the phone was a tiny microtransmitter. Carefully,

she pried it up until she could inspect it further.

It was an MS-80. orxrating on one milliwatt of power

with a boost range of only about two hundred yards. The

MS-8() was manufactured in a factory in Kiev in the Soviet

Union, and it was the favorite telephone bug of the KGB.

Without placing the bug she had brought, Latina put the

telephone back together.

She moved on through the house, planting the micro-

transmitters, searching, and going over the telephones. She

found an MS-SO in every telephone except the one in the

cooks's bedroom.

It was clean.

In this one she placed a bug and thoroughly searched the

room.

Nothing.

But in the kitchen. in the false back of a bread box, Latina

found a three-milliwatt receiver and a mini-tape recorder.

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She chuckled. "Spy keeps tabs on spy."

She finished and started back up to the top floor.

g 'Fender. you say?"

S' Yes," Olga replied, keeping her emotions and voice

under control. "Horst Fender."

They were in two of the center pews, both kneeling. their

heads bowed as though in prayer. Now and then Sergei

Kostovich would raise his eyes slightly and frown at her in

the pew in front of him.

"But why, Olga, do you want so much information on

this man?"

" Never mind. Just get it. I want to know his whereabouts,

his current assignment, everything. I also want a photograph,

and I want it as soon as possible."

"l will do what I can."

Suddenly she broke every rule by turning to face him and

placing her hand on his arm.

"Sergei, do this for me. Perhaps it is nothing. If that is

so, I will tell you all about it. We will have a vodka together

and laugh."

Again he glanced up, and was shocked. She had tears in

her eyes. In all the time he had known her, he had never

seen Olga Siskova cry. He didn't know she was even capable

of tears.

"Nick, she's on her way out," Mono said.

g 'I see her," Carter said, sliding down in the seat.

"Still here."

"Get some shots of him coming out. You and Mono stay

on him. I'll take the woman. It's a good bet she's heading

home. "

THE DEADLY DIVA

"Will do."

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"Will do."

169

Carter waited until Olga was in her car and pulling out

before he staned the Renault.

The panes were back and the nails returned. A light film

of putty had been applied, and Latina was jacking the bars

back to their original position, when the receiver in her ear

came alive.

"Latina, Nick. She's coming home. We're on the coast

road about a mile outside Cannes. I'd say you have about

eight minutes. Don't push it. If you're not out, get out."

Feverishly, Latina worked on the last bar. Finally it was

close enough. She rammed the jack into the bag and scooted

across the roof.

Coming down was much harder than going up. Her weight

worked against her rather than acting as a lever for balance.

Twice the heavy vines pulled from the house and she hung

for several seconds on the verge of crashing into the court-

yard. Once she miscalculated the depth of a crevice between

the stones, and slipped a good ten feet before catching a vine.

At last she was on the ground and sprinting around the

house. As she ran across the vast front lawn. darting among

the shrubs and statuary, she could see headlights rising alone

along the narrow road from Cannes.

Winded and panting. she dived into a maze of

just inside the gates as the lights rounded the last curve.

Seconds later the gates, controlled by an electronic device

in the car, swung open.

She glimpsed Siskova's strained face and then the car

was past.

Just as the gates started to close, Latina to roll.

She just made it, both of them banging her hip as they

clanged shut and locked.

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In a crouch, she ran along the walk in the shadow of the

trees. A hundred yards up the road, around the shelter of

the curve, she darted into a cut-out.

The Renault's engine was running. It started moving the

instant her butt was in the passenger seat.

Carter glanced over at her. "Okay?"

Latina grinned. "Yeah. And, oh my. have I got some

stories for you. "


TWENTY

Carter's weary bones told him that outside it was dawn

as Mono Cosnolsky broke yet another bottle ofdevelop-

ing fluid and poured it into the tank,

"How much longer?" he asked,

• ' fiis is the last roll," Mono replied, and snapped the

white light off, bathing them both in the eerie, darkroom red.

Carefully, he threaded the film from the cartridge onto

the developing spool. When the fluid had done its job. he

transferred it to a wire and squeezed it dry with a pair of

felt tongs.

'*How many shots?"

"These are the last six. Cathartook them of the truckdriver

at the stop on the Paris highway."

He waved the strip dry and threaded it through the en-

larger. One by one, he timed out eight-by-ten prints of the

half-dozen shots that had been exposed. He dropped the

sheets into the developer and agitated the fluid until images

began to appear. When they were legible enough, he dropped

them into a stop bath and fixed them.

This done, they ran them through the dryer drum and,

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snapping off the red light, got out of the vane

Carter slipped the last six into a manila folder with all

the others, and walked across the parking lot to a youth on

a motorcycle.

"Pronto." Carter said. s 'I'd like answers by noon."

The young man nodded, kicked his machine to life, and

sailed away.

Carter joined Mono and they entered the hotel. They were

halfway across the lobby when Cathar joined them. Together

they moved up the stairs in silence.

On the third floor, headed toward Latina's room. Cathar

spoke. "The last one. the bakery uuck?"

S' Yeah?" Carter said.

' 'There's a squirt transmitter in the rear. I followed him

down a little lane off the highway after he made the pickup.

I saw the antennae come up out of the roof.

Carter smiled. "Satellite bounce. "

"Probably," Cathar replied. "The little lady is in a big

hurry."

' 'She's got reason to be," Mono chuckled.

They entered the room, Latina had used her feminine

wiles on the night concierge to rustle up a form of breakfast:

hot croissants with butter and marmelade, along with thick

black coffee laced with cream and brandy.

They took their time eating and. in silence, watching the

resort city get ready for another day. People seemed to come

from everywhere ... workmen, taxi drivers. street cleaners.

even a few bikini-clad early risers heading for a good spot

on the beach to bake.

They were on their second cups of coffee when the tele-

phone rang.

"Oui?" Latina nodded several times, uttered a few

"hmmms" and a "yes" or two, and hung up. She turned

to Carter. "They are all covered."

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"All twelve of them?" he replied.

' 'Ihe big and the small," she said.

173

"Okay," he said, rising with a sigh. "We'll see how

tense she gets by this afternoon. Cathar, be ready to go

tonight if she's ready. "

The big man nodded.

Carter headed for the door. "Let's all get some sleep.

Call me at my hotel if anything pops before noon. "

Latina gave him a look as if to say, "You really don't

need to go back to your own hotel . . . . "

Carter avoided it and headed for his car. The invitation

was nice, but the body was, unfortunately, weak.

Olga Siskova lay back on the bed, forcing herselfto relax.

Her eyes were dull and there was a faint smile of derision

on her full red lips.

Again she read Kostovich's one-page rem:rrt and glanced

at the photo to which it was attached:

Subject Horst Fender is one of ours. Works as double

out of West Berlin. Current status, on assignment in south

of France. Mission unknown. "

The text was typed. Along the tx)ttom, Sergei had

scrawled a message in his own hand: ' 'Is there some special

reason you need this information? I sense a problem. Let

me help.

"Help?" Olga said aloud, and set the message and photo

aside. "How can you help, Sergei, when you are part of it!"

Or was he? She couldn't be sure. It could be possible

that Sergei knew nothing of Moscow's plans to kill her.

That would be like them. The left hand never knew what

the right was doing.

She clenched her hands at the back of her neck, so that

her thick blond hair rested on the two pillows with which

she propped up her head.

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It would be difficult, she thought, to give all this up. But

something was better than nothing. And anything was better

than going back to Moscow.

Years before, she had carefully set out to create a third

identity for herself. She had built a background, amassed

all the papers to prove it, and purchased a home in Recife,

Brazil, in that identity's name.

Deep down, she had thought she would never have to

use it, Maybe she still wouldn't. Maybe the Americans were

just to bait her.

For a while she would play the waiting game.

Ihe telephone on her bedside stand rang. "Oui?"

"Mademoiselle Siskova. do you recognize my voice?"

"Yes."

"So far, my people have no new developments. But I

have been instructed to urge you to accept our offer. "

"I am still debating it. It all seems so preposterous .. A"

g 'It is true, I assure you. And the situation is becoming

more dangerous by the hour."

"We shall see."

"Please, mademoiselle, at least allow me to put

around you."

"No, definitely not."

She hung up. For a full moment she stared at the phone.

biting her lip. Then, on impulse, she got a number from

the directory and dialed.

"Bonjour. my name is Marie. Thank you for calling Air

France. How may I help you?"

"I would like flight availability from Paris to Buenos

Aires. please. "

"First class or coach?"

Olga smiled. "First class."

Jn the kitchen, Mrs. Kranz waited until the tape stopped.

Then she wound it and played it back. She scowled as she

listened to the recording. When it finished, she replaced the

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175

false back in the bread box and hurried to her quarters and

her own phone.

Carter replaced the telephone and ran his eyes down the

scrawled list he had just completed.

The net handling Olga Siskova had grown to fourteen.

A team from Paris was already on the scene. They could

be picked up in seconds.

After it had been learned that the cook and the chauffeur/

gardener were KGB watchers and backups, a second team

had been assigned to them. But the cook and the gardener

would escapes slip through the net. That was an integral

part of the plan,

It would quite a haul, Carter mused, quite a haul indeed.

Again he reached for the phone. It was time to go into

Cannes for lunch.

The Killmaster was finishing his second cup of coffee

when Latina, looking every inch the tourist in pink stretch

slacks and a loose overblouse with a scoop neck—a very

scoop neck—slid into the booth.

"All kinds of goodies," she said once the waiter had

deposited coffee and left. "La Siskova checked out Paris-to-

Buenos Aires flights. Mono caught it when the cook used

her phone to report."

"Did she make reservations?" Carter asked.

' 'No, but she got flight times for the next three days."

Carter nodded. "Then she needs just one more little push.

Tell Cathar we go tonight."

Sergei Kostovich was worried. He had worked too long

with Olga Siskova. He knew her quirks and her moods.

Olga was not a nervous woman and she did nothing without

a good reason.

In the past twenty-four hours, she had exercised

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emergency procedures twice. Unheard of. And, to make

matters worse. she had given him no clear reason.

Now Olenin had flown in from Rome and summoned him

to a meeting in the Nice safe house. • 'A matter of grave

importance. Y' he had said. and he had made direct contact.

Kostovich rang the bell and through the glass saw the old

woman approach down the dim hall to open the door.

"l am Monsieur Martine."

The woman nodded. '*Top of the stairs, first door on the

right. He is waiting."

he door had scarcely closed Kostovich when two

men emerged from a shadowed doorway across the street.

From a car a block away, two more hefty tyrs in dark

jackets emerged and walked toward the house. In the rear,

a team of three men were already picking the lock on the

alley

Eight miles away, Jules Piseur emerged from a roadside

café and walked toward his paneled delivery tuck. He was

almost there when two men emerged from the shadows to

block his way.

"Jules Piseur?"

t 'Oui."

One of them opened a small leather wallet and held it in

front of Piseur's eyes.

"André Hubert, S.D.E.C.E. You are under arrest, Mon-

sieur Piseur."

' 'Me? Mon Dieu, for what does the security police want

"For operating as the agent of a foreign government."

All over the Cöte d' Azur that night, similar arrests were

being made.


TWENTY-ONE

Clouds covered the moon like a gray blanket. Even if

they hadn't, it would have been impossible to see the dark-

clad figure dart from tree to tree and shrub to shrub until

the man was at the side door of the garage.

Silently, he opened the door and slipped inside. A light

was on in the apartment above. Like a cat, he went up the

stairs.

The man and woman sat at a table, facing each other over

a bottle of schnapps. At the last second they heard the slight

creak of a hinge as the door opened.

It was not warning enough.

The gardener, Alfred, leaped up, but a blow to the side

of his neck felled him like a tree. The woman started to

scream, but all sound was cut off by iron fingers at the side

of her throat.

The man worked with speed and deftness. He cut pull

cords from the drapes to bind them, and then gagged them

with socks from the man's dresser.

The man, Alfred, was out cold. The woman stared from

the floor, wide-eyed, at the intruder as he crossed to the

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telephone. He placed his body between the phone and the

woman's eyes, He dialed, but before the phone rang he cut

the call off with a finger.

"The servants are secure. Is she ready to go? . .. Good.

VII be waiting at the gate."

He replaced the instrument and, with one last look at the

bound couple, moved down the stairs. From the first car he

took the electronic device that 0Krned the front gates. Out-

side, keeping in the shadows, he darted to a prearranged

spot at the wall surrounding the estate.

'Here," came the reply from the other side ofthe wall.

Cathar Cosnolsky lofted the device over the wall and took

off at a dead run for the house.

Olga Siskova stepped from the tub and patted herself

dry with a huge towel. When her body was powdered and

perfumed, she wrapped a smaller towel around her damp

hair and moved into her bedroom.

A sheer negligee was just whispering down over her body

when a sound in the hall outside her door made her turn.

The name had scarcely escaped her lips when the door

burst inward. Ihrough it came a man dressed all in black.

Olga instantly recognized the face, and leaped over the bed,

clawing at a drawer in her bedside stand where she always

kept the loaded Beretta.

Carter waited until the noise from the bedroom resembled

World War Ill. and then bolted into the room.

It was a shambles.

Olga Siskova, fighting in silent ferocity, was pinned to

the chaise longue by Cathar. The savagery of her struggle

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179

was evidenced by the overturned furniture, the broken vanity

minors and the scattered jars of cosmetics strewn over the

floor.

The couple's heavy breathing filled the room as Cathar's

powerful hands folded around the woman's throat. Warding

off her clawing fingers at his eyes, and avoiding the thrashing

of her legs, he began to apply pressure, making her gag and

gasp for air.

Carter suppressed a smile. Poor Cathar. She was giving

him all he could handle.

Even as he thought this, Siskova managed to slam the

heel of her hand against Cathar's nose. His blood spurted

and she was momentarily free.

Cathar growled in fury. He grasped the woman's hair and

pinioned her head against the cushion. In desperation Sis-

kova rolled from the chaise, pulling him with her. Cathar

grasped her again by the throat, slammed her head against

the floor, and sprawled heavily over her body.

That, Carter thought, should do it,

Unseen by the struggling man and woman, Carter glided

across the floor. Grasping Cathar by an ankle. he swung

the big man aside by the leg. Cathar skidded along the

carpet, plowing through the debris to crash against the wall.

He rolled to his back. a Makarov automatic in his hand.

Carter's own right hand darted under his jacket. Wilhel-

mina bucked once, the sound a mere hiss through the si-

lencer.

The center of Cathar's chest blossomed crimson. The gun

dropped from his hand. He managed to come up on one

knee, and then pitched forward onto his face.

Carter tumed to the woman. She lifted herself to a sitting

position, staring in hatred at the fallen man, ignoring her

own nakedness. Only a few shreds of her negligee remained.

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Most of it had been ripped from her body. Her throat and

breasts were still flushed with the red bruises inflicted by

Cathar's hands.

Suddenly she leaped up. in a flash of ivory legs, and

scooped up a broken jar. Carter grasped her hands, prevent-

ing her from grinding the glass into Catharis neck. She

struggled, and Carter was conscious of the animal scent of

her.

"Dammit, there's no time for that now!" he hissed.

With a last squeal of anger, she dropped the jar. "Bas-

tards! They're all bastards.'"

"l was tailing, but he gave me the slip. When he did, I

headed right here. You were set up, Olga. You have been

for a long time."

"What do you mean?"

Carter grabbed the phone from the floor and ripped it

apart, "See this? If you don't know, it's an MS-80."

Her blue eyes blazed. "KGB."

"You'd better believe it. C'mon."

He tugged her to the kitchen and pulled the bread box

apart to reveal the tape recorder.

"Kranz!" she spat.

"You've probably been under surveillance since the day

you defected. It was just a waiting game until the time was

right. "

He kept the pressure on. He knew she had taken it all.

Now it was just a matter of playing out the string.

Taking her by the hand, he tugged her back up the stairs.

He yanked a blanket from the bed and covered Cathar's

"corpse. "

g 'Get dressed. Pack a small bag, just your jewels and a

few clothes. "

"What are you going to do?"

"Take you to Paris. I can hide you there until we can

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smuggle you out of France and into England. It will take a

few months, but eventually we can get this all straightened

out and you can have your life back. After fouling up this

attempt, I don't think they would dare try again,"

Her whole attitude changed, just as Carter was sure it

would. "Yes, Paris," she murmured. SS That's an excellent

idea."

Twenty minutes later Caner handed her into the Mercedes

and drove through the gates, leaving them open behind them.

The Mercedes had barely passed out of sight when Mono

and Latina darted up the drive and into the house. in the

Latina yanked the blanket from Cathar.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

Cathar stood, smiling even though his face was a mass

of scratches. "It went well."

Latina chuckled. S' You look like hell."

He shrugged. "The bitch was a wildcat."

"Hurry," Mono said. "We must clean this up. There

must be no trace that the woman didn't just dis-

appear. "

The night was warm. The traffic on the highway north

was light. The clouds were clearing away now, revealing a

new moon.

Wind blowing through the open windows of the car

tousled her blond hair as she sat in the passenger seat. The

changing amber and white of passing lights flickered across

her stem, immobile features.

In the last two hours, Carter thought. that face had been

transformed. Oddly, it was no longer beautiful. All the

hatred and bitterness of the betrayal she tmught about was

mirrored in her face.

He lit a cigarette and returned his eyes to the road. She

would dig her own grave now. He had no doubt of it.

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1

I

Horst Fender hurried along the Rue Diane. His steps were

still a little wobbly and his eyes were still not focusing very

well.

He could make no sense out of anything. An hour earlier,

he had awakened on the Paris Metro. One glance at a news-

paper and he knew that he had lost three days of his life.

It was surreal, impossible. But, somehow , it had happened.

Now it was almost dawn and he felt weak, too weak to

report in. He had decided to return to his fiat. There, he

would put it all together before reporting in and possibly

putting his neck in a noose.

His hand was shaking so hard he could scarcely get his

key in the door.

They were waiting, two of them. Their faces and their

clothes told him who they were.

They were not gentle. Without a word, one of them

slammed Fender against the wall and bent his arms painfully

up between his shoulder blades. ne other one went through

his pockets.

•s Were you thinking of taking a trip. Comrade Fender?

For your health, Ikrhaps?"

The man waved an airline ticket in Fender's face. It was

for an Air France flight 10 Buenos Aires that morning. The

ticket was made out in his name.

Attached to it was a folded slip of paper. It was scented.

"What does this mean, Comrade Fender: 'Do not speak

to me on the plane, As per our agreement, I will meet you

at the Café Penguin on Avenida Asencion in two days' time,

noon. There we will conclude the terms of our agreement.

What agreement is that, comrade?"

Fender fought desperately to clear the cobwebs from his

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183

brain. ' 'I don't know. I don't know anything about this. I

swear . "

"And this list of names, comrade. What does it mean?"

"I don't . . e"

The man's fist slammed into the side of Fender's head.

The next thing he realiæd, he was being dragged down

the stairs between the two men.


TWENTY-TWO

There was a concierge's apartment on the ground floor

of the building. Carter rapped on the glass window that

framed the upper half of the front door. Through a patch

Of lace he saw an old man come down the hall in his robe

and slippers. In a moment the door opened.

"I believe you have a room for my wife and me. The

name is Carter."

"Oui. Come in out of the rain." *Ihey stepped into the

foyer and shook the rain from their shoulders. "Spring in

Paris," the old man chuckled, e 'always the sudden storm.

This way."

He led them up two flights of stairs and down a dimly

lit hall. He opened a door and snapped on a light.

' 'The room. of course. has been prepaid."

"Merci, " Carter replied.

The old man shuffled away and Carter shut the door.

'*You'll be safe here until J can make some arrange-

ments."

'J You're leaving?"

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NICK CARTER

He nodded. should be gone only a few hours. Get

some rest. "

He was headed for the door when Olga's voice stopped

him. "Carter . .

"Have you ever heard me sing?"

She had seemed dead on the drive. Now her eyes were

alive again, piercing, as they had been on their first meeting.

For the first time, Carter realizæd her age. lhere was a strain

in her handsome face and a rigidity in her athletic body.

"Yes," he replied, "once. Several years ago, in Milan.

It was Lucia di Lammermoor.

Suddenly she laughed. "My greatest role. Tragedy be-

comes me."

For a brief second, Caner thought she would lean forward

and kiss him. Instead, the light in her eyes drained away

and she turned toward the bed and her bag.

He almost felt sorry for her. But then he remembered the

old woman's face and the bullet-stitched body of the old

man in the rear of the Cherokee.

always thought Lucia was a flawed orrra."

"Yes. Lucia dies offstage."

Carter bounded down the stairs and, turning the collar of

his coat up to ward off the rain, ran for the Mercedes. He

drove five blocks away, parked on a small side street, and

retraced the route on foot.

Horst Fender sat, exhausted, in the chair across from

Colonel-General Boris Zaharchenko. His body was bathed

in sweat and every inch of it ached. •mey had beaten him

with damps rolled-up magazines. That would be so there

would be no visible bruises when they put him on the Aero-

flot flight for Moscow.

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187

They hadn't told him that was what they were going to

do. but he knew that was the case. He had seen it done with

too many others.

Boris Zaharchenko was roaring, his face above his wilted

collar beet red.

"Every one of them, every man and woman on this list,

is now under arrest by French security!"

"Comrade Colonel-General .

Fender whined.

"And you still deny that you passed these names to the

Americans?"

' 'J didn't, I swear!"

Zaharchenko snorted. "You are the worst kind of traitor,

Fender, Do you still deny that you have conspired with

Siskova, her tool?"

never reached the woman .

"You lie, Fender!" the old Russian roared. "You helped

her escape! Bring in the man and woman."

The door opened, and a plump woman in her fifties and

a tall, gaunt man of about the same age entered.

"Frau Kranz ..

"Yes, Comrade Colonel-General?"

s 'Is this the man who attacked and bound you?"

"Yes. Comrade Colonel, I am sure of it."

"And you?" Zaharchenko said to the man.

"There is no doubt of it, Comrade Colonel-General. "

Fender tried to rise from the chair. "I swear, I have

never . . e"

"Silence! Take him away!" When the couple left and

Fender had been dragged from the room, Zaharchenko

turned to his aide. "Everything is prepared at the airport?"

" Yes, Comrade Colonel-General. We are watching every

flight. "

The hall was empty, the old hotel quiet, when Olga Sis-

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kova, in her gray wig and cast-off clothes, emerged from

the room. She located the rear stairs and went down them

without a sound.

It was clear sailing, and within minutes she was in the

rain-soaked alley. She held her pace. steady and slow, as

would a woman of her advanced years. At the mouth of the

alley she turned right, toward a larger boulevard where she

could locate a taxi.

A block away. in a dry doorway, Carter flattened against

the door, his body in shadows, the doorway itself washed

by the sheets of rain.

He watched Siskova cross the street and step into a taxi.

When it pulled away, he walked leisurely to the Mercedes.

There was no hurry. He knew where she was going.

"Your passrx)rt, please."

Olga Siskova handed the woman her passport and smiled

sweetly. The photo was checked, a tag was put on her single

bag. and the passport and ticket were handed back.

"The flight will be boarding in a half hour, Madame

Bonez. Gate Seven."

"Thank you. thank you very much."

"Have a nice flight."

She was halfway across the concourse when she saw

them, a man and a woman. There was no mistaking the

clothes, the look. She had seen the type hundreds of times.

She had grown up with it.

-mey were heading straight for her. their faces grim.

She changed direction.

Two more, a man and a woman, clones of the first pair.

They were hemming her in, moving her.

She turned as if to backtrack. only to find that there were

four of them fanned out behind her, boxing her in.

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They wouldn't dare,

in a crowded airport.

They wouldn't dare.

Would they?

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189

she thought. not in broad daylight

Between two pillars on a walkway high above Air France's

grand concourse, Nick Carter stood, his hair matted wildly

to his head, his hands deep in the pockets of his tan trench

coat.

A cigarette in the comer of his mouth curled smoke up

to mask his hooded eyes as he watched the drama unfolding

below.

It was done perfectly. as if every move had been choreo-

graphed.

That thought brought a smile to his lips.

Just like an opera.

They enclosed her as if their bodies were a funnel through

which she passed. Short of breaking into a run and charging

right through ttwms she had no choice.

At the last second before the first team reached her, she

darted into the only avenue of escaCX left to her, a ladies'

room,

Ihe door was still closing when an old woman in a gray

uniform and a soiled apron came around the comer. The

sea of dark-suited men and husky, tweed-skirted women

parted, and the old woman darted through with her cart

piled high with linens.

Without a pause she hung a sign saying Out of Order on

the door, and pushed the cart inside. Two of the husky

women followed her, one of them already fumbling in her

purse.

Caner lit a fresh cigarette from the butt in his lips.

His imagination could picture the offstage scene.

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1

Surprise. A brief struggle. A quick jab with a hypodermic

needle. Half of the linens would have already been lifted

from the cart.

Her weight would be nothing for the two husky women.

Ihe linens would be replaced.

Carter checked his watch again.

"Now," he whispered.

The cart reappeared.

Two minutes to the second had elapsed.

He rode the escalator down to the main floor and followed

along. just keeping the cart in sight. They went through the

huge Pan Am concourse and along a riding escalator to the

boarding areas of four other airlines.

When he saw the woman pause in front of an elevator,

he himself stopped. Stamped across the doors of the elevator,

in large red letters, were the words STAFF ONLY. When the

doors closed behind the woman and the cart. he turned and

mounted another escalator to the obervation platform above.

At the top of the escalator, he scanned the arrow signs

until he spotted the one he wanted: AEROFLOT.

At a nearby bar, he ordered a brandy. When it came, he

walked to one of the huge windows and settled back on one

of the vinyl-covered lounges.

Below him, a huge white-and-blue Aeroflot jet was being

loaded: passengers to the right side of the plane, freight and

baggage to the left. Casually. he sipped the brandy, watching

the long line of baggage go up the twin conveyor belts into

the gaping hole in the side of the jet.

Then he saw a catering truck back up to the door of the

rear galley. Between the rear of the truck and the plane,

there was only a seven- or eight-inch space. But it was

enough.

He saw two in-flight stewards, the blue, encircled A shin-

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191

ing on their caps, dart past the opening. Both of them had

their arms around a tall woman in a cloth coat.

Above the tumed-up collar of the coat, he saw a flash of

the gray wig.


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ing on their caps, dart past the opening. Both of them had

their arms around a tall woman in a cloth coat.

Above the tumed-up collar of the coat, he saw a flash of

the gray wig.

It was another fifteen minutes before the cargo doors were

closed and sealed, and the passenger jetway motored away

from the plane. When the two hatches on the left side were

secured, the plane began to roll. When the tow wagon had

pushed the big jet completely clear of other planes on either

side and the building, it was disconnected and the jet's

engines roared. By the time Carter had finished the brandy,

it had reached its takeoff position at the end ofthe runway.

He stood and walked toward the escalator On the main

floor. he found a telephone.

"Yes?" the voice said after the first ring.

' 'This is N3," Carter replied. 'The vodka has been picked

up."

"I'll inform Mr. Pause."

Carter walked from the terminal into the rain. Halfway

to the van, he heard the roar of a jet taking off. He looked up.

For a few seconds he watched the big white jet as it curled

toward the general direction of Moscow.

"How did it go?" Latina asked, as Caner climbed into

the van.

"According to the script," Carter replied. ' 'Lucia died

offstage."