# The Andropov File

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

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Three on one, and the odds

are just right

They came for him, all three at once, the one

on the right the closest.

Carter caught him flush in the face with the

bottle and rolled away from a roundhouse right

thrown from his left. Just as Carter hit the

ground the baseball bat came down across his

back. He was already rolling so when it hit it

wasn't a killing blow.

Carter made it to his feet with Number One

coming on strong, his big paws opening and

closing in anticipation.

One hand went for Caner's throat. It was a

decoy. When the Killmaster went for the huge

fist, the other hand crashed into his ribs.

He knew something was broken or cracked

even as he smashed back into the car . . .

Carter nailed him two good ones in the kneecap

with his right boot and brought both fists into

his face.


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ONE

Moscow, February 1984

From the window of her apartment on Leninsky

Prospekt, Angelina Galadin gazed out through the

semidarkness at early-morning Moscow. Snow had been

falling all night and it was still coming down in tiny,

shimmering flakes.

Shivering, Angelina wrapped her robe more tightly

around her and narrowed her eyes. Fourteen blocks

away she could barely see the two massive, ornate,

semicircular buildings that rose like monoliths. One of

those housed the wire service where Angelina worked.

And, on that morning, as she had every morning for the

past two years, she would have to walk to work.

But only for a few more weeks. Then she would


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1

NICK CARTER

return to the warmth of her beloved Spain. She had en-

joyed her years in Moscow as cultural affairs editor for

the service, but she was going to enjoy being a wife and

mother more.

Still shivering, she entered the tiny bath and

showered. Finished, she took a terry-cloth robe and

dried her long, taut body. As she did so, her gaze

wandered to the full-length mirror on the door and she

giggled with delight. She hadn't yet told Luis that she

was pregnant; it had only been confirmed a few weeks

earlier and she'd decided she would wait until she saw

him. She wanted to see his face when she told him: such

announcements should not be made on the telephone,

she felt.

She hoped a six-month baby would not be too embar-

rassing to her small-town, conservative, religious par-

ents. She was sure her fiancé would be ecstatic at the

news and they would be married as soon as she returned

home.

At that moment, Angelina Galadin was the happiest

woman in the world.

How could this beautiful, dark-haired Spanish

woman from the village of Cordona possibly suspect

that in two hours she would be dead?

Even as big and as powerful as the black Chaika

limousine was, the chauffeur had trouble navigating it

over the narrow lane in the heavy snow. He cursed to

himself, low enough that his superior in the rear would

not hear.

The chauffeur, a low-ranking KGB officer, had no

idea why every morning for the past week they had

driven from the warmth of Moscow into the forests of

Valentinovka. There must be something big afoot.

Perhaps at last they were planning to invade Western

Europe?


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Europe?

THE ANDROPOV FILE

"Itek .. ."

"Yes, sir?"

"Can you go no faster?"

g 'Faster, yes, Comrade General faster."

3

For the next five minutes he pushed the big car up to a

dangerous speed on the slick road. Then, when he was

sure the general had fallen back into his own deep

thoughts, he slowed back to a crawl.

It is I who will get shot, Comrade General, if I wrap

this lumbering piece of shit around a tree!

The uniformed man in the rear of the Chaika was

General Ivor Yuryevich Shalin, and the last thing on his

mind was war or the weather, or the well-being of his

chauffeur.

General Shalin was thinking about the many years it

had taken to amass the power he now held, and what he

must do to hold on to that power.

The car lurched to a halt in front of a massive wooden

gate between two stone pillars. A uniformed sentry

stepped from a tiny warming house and approached the

car. He spoke hurriedly to the driver and leaned for-

ward to shine a powerful light on Shalin in the rear seat.

Immediately, he snapped to attention and saluted.

Shalin returned the salute and the gates swung open.

Beyond the gate the lane turned into a wide avenue. It

was bordered on each side by tall, majestic trees. At the

end of the avenue, lights blazed in the sprawling, two-

story dacha. It was dark green with lighter green trim

and shutters, and nearly every window of its twenty

rooms was bright.

How different was the opulence of this country house

from the drab blocks of apartment buildings populated

by the masses in Moscow.

But then it was bound to be more opulent. The dacha

was the residence of the most powerful man in the

Soviet Union: the former head of the KGB, and now the


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Soviet Union: the former head of the KGB, and now the

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NICK CARTER

Chairman of the Politburo, Yuri Vladimirovich An-

dropov.

The Chaika stopped between a Zil and a Volga KGB-

licensed sedan. The door was immediately opened by a

shivering soldier, and Shalin stepped out. The front

door of the dacha was also opened for Shalin, and he

stepped into a large center hall, the floor of which was

dotted with priceless Oriental rugs, the wood of its walls

polished to a sheen.

On the right was a lavishly furnished parlor illumi-

nated by an enormous chandelier.

In the room were twenty or more men, some in uni-

form, most in civilian clothes—Savile Row suits tailored

in London.

Shalin returned their nods and mounted a wide stair-

case with dark red carpeting and a wide, carved teak

banister. At the top he opened one of two tall double

doors and entered a brightly lit anteroom.

Two junior officers came to attention. A trio of doc-

tors rose from high-backed chairs and quickly ap-

proached Shalin. He noticed that all three of them

appeared shaken.

"Comrade General." said the taller of the three, "he

is very angry. He has been asking for you all morning."

"The storm is getting heavier. It was hell getting out

Of Moscow."

"You are to go right in," growled another of the doc-

tors.

One of the uniformed men opened the door. Shalin

shucked his uniform greatcoat, passed it to the soldier,

and entered.

It was an enormous room, with fifteen-foot-high ceil-

ings, book-lined walls, and a large fireplace in which a

huge log was burning. Placed at strategic intervals

around an enormous bed were easy chairs, sofas, and

several marble-topped tables.


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roun an enormous

were easy chairs. sofas, and

several marble-topped tables.

THE ANDROPOV HLE

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A heavy-bodied nurse with a prunelike face stood as

Shalin approached the bed. She leaned over the figure

occupying it, spoke a few whispered words, and quickly

departed.

When the door closed behind her, the figure spoke.

"Comrade General Shalin. ' '

He stepped forward as the white head managed to roll

its sunken eyes in his direction. "Yes, Comrade Chair-

man."

"l have made my decision."

"Yes."

g 'I see no need to retain the files ." Shalin started

to object, but an upraised, bony hand stopped him.

' 'They have served their purpose. I have been an in-

fluence on the party and on my country because of

them."

How well I know, thought Shalin. Wasn't it I, start-

ing out as a young KGB lieutenant, who did all the

dirty work to amass them?

"Power will shift without upheaval. I have made sure

of everything."

You have made sure of nothing, Yuri Vladimirovich.

Even now they are jockeying downstairs along with

others in Moscow for the power you think you have

passed on so easily.

' 'As for you, my old friend, I have taken pains to en-

sure your safety and your continued place in the scheme

of things."

You only think you have, Yuri. Your corpse will

barely be cold before the jackals will gather to devour

me.

' 'Give me your key and the magnetic card, Ivor

Yuryevich. I will have the box brought to us when the

time comes and destroy the roll of microfilm. It is the

best way ... now

' 'You are sure, Comrade Chairman? "


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best way ... now

' 'You are sure, Comrade Chairman? "

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NICK CARTER

"Positive. Only now, near death, do I fully realize

what harm that microfilm could reap. Too many heads

would fall should all that information slip into hands

unable to wield, with discretion, the power it carries. S'

The two men's eyes met and held. The inference was

clear. The dying man was telling his old cohort—liter-

ally his partner in crime and potential blackmail—that

he. Shalin, was the wrong man to hold such power.

Andropov had been, even in the days before becom-

ing head of the world's largest and most powerful in-

telligence organization, an astute political strategist as

well as a survivor.

As he gained power within the KGB, he forgot noth-

ing and used everything. When he became head of the

agency, he catered to those above him in power while,

all the while, recording definitively their foibles and

their mistakes.

These vast records held by a man with vast power

proved their worth when Brezhnev gave up the ghost

and the jockeying for real power began.

Shalin chewed his inner lip, trying to make his mind

work, trying to conjure up excuses not to pass over his

share of the power he had helped create.

"Comrade General .

Keeping his face expressionless, the general withdrew

a gold chain from beneath his tunic. From it he took a

key, and placed it in the shaking hand.

"The card, Ivor Yuryevich."

From his wallet Shalin took a plain white card with

magnetic wires embedded in its face and placed it over

the key. The white head came up, the eyes blinked and

focused on his hand, and then the fingers closed over

key and card.

"Tired now. old friend, very tired. I must rest. I •ill

call for you when my strength is better, and we will have

the box brought to us."


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call for you when my strength is better. and we will have

the box brought to us."

THE ANDROPOV FILE

"Of course, Comrade Chairman."

7

Shalin retreated two paces, bowed slightly, and left

the room. The nurse immediately took his place, and

Shalin motioned to the chief physician.

"Tell me, Comrade Doctor," Shalin asked in prac-

tically a whisper, "how long? "

g 'I am sorry, Comrade General, but I am not al-

"Damn you for the pompous zhopa you are, man.

The Chairman has given me a delicate piece of state

business which must be timed perfectly. I must know!"

The chief physician bridled. He was the most re-

spected physician in all Russia and the private doctor to

the Chairman himself. He was not used to anyone call-

ing him an ass.

But the gruff intensity in Shalin's voice warned him

not to push his position. The eyes boring into him also

warned him. Shalin's look was menacingly dangerous,

ominous.

The doctor knew the man, Shalin, knew that he had

come up through the ranks with the former KGB chief.

He also knew that Shalin had carried out more than one

assassination for his superior, and probably a great

many more on his own.

"Well?" Shalin demanded.

"He has a few days ... three at the most."

"You could be mistaken," Shalin replied. "He looks

bad ... as though it could happen within the hour."

The doctor shook his head. "Not likely. His vital

signs are still fairly strong. It is a slow, insidious thing."

. two or three days?"

"You're sure

A shrug. "As sure as I can be."

' 'Does he know?"

' 'Not really. J see no reason to predict the time of a

man's death to his face."

There was a trace of a smile on Shalin's lips. g 'Good,


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' 'Not really. I see no reason to predict the ume o a

man's death to his face."

There was a trace of a smile on Shalin's lips. ' 'Good,

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NICK CARTER

very good. Make sure that he rests comfortably."

Without waiting for a response, Shalin left the ante-

room. But instead of turning right toward the front

staircase that would lead him down to the others, he

turned left. At the end of the hall he entered a study.

Without turning on a light, he moved to a bookcase and

felt until he found a hidden button.

A section of the bookcase swung silently open on

well-oiled hinges. Behind it was a steep flight of stairs.

An overhead light had come on automatically. At the

foot of the stairs was a solid steel door with a small slit

where the knob and keyhole would normally be.

Again Shalin fished in his wallet, and withdrew a

card. He gritted his teeth, swearing to himself that he

would personally strangle the young technician who had

duplicated the card if the copy didn't work.

It did.

The door rolled soundlessly open. Behind it were the

secret files and papers of the dying man upstairs.

Shalin knew just which box would be unlocked by the

duplicate key. He had accompanied his superior nearly

two months before, when they had both descended these

stairs and put the roll of microfilm to rest, supposedly

for the last time.

Here is a second key and card, Ivor Yuryevich. We

have achieved our goals, but with these you will be my

insurance policy.

And now, Shalin thought, turning the key and open.

ing the drawer, I will have the insurance policy—and all

the power it holds—all to myself.

Inside the drawer was a black box. It took a combina

tion of the card and the key to open the box.

Comrade General Shalin pocketed the roll of micro-

film and locked everything back up.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Chaika, urging

his chauffeur to drive faster back to Moscow.


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film and locked everything back up.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Chaika, urging

his chauffeur to drive faster back to Moscow.

THE ANDROPOV FILE

9

Andrei Charnovich was dreaming. It was definitely

ne of his better dreams. There was a girl in it who

ooked like his childhood sweetheart, only now she was

II grown up and beautiful.

She was naked, on a bed, and she was motioning An-

drei to join her. His feet were leaden; he couldn't make

them move fast enough. When they began to move at

last, the telephone ruined the dream.

Then he rolled over in the bed and his hand struck his

wife's large, flabby rump.

That, and the shrill telephone. brought him wide

awake. He reached across the mountain of his wife's

body and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Charnovich?"

The caller spoke in a low, confidential tone. 'S This

morning, Charnovich, we will again have need of your

taxi service. "

"A special fare?"

'iDa. "

"Where?"

The caller gave him the route, and Charnovich

memorized it as the familiar voice spoke.

"How soon?"

"Her light is on now. I would imagine another thirty

minutes."

"I will be there."

Charnovich yawned, replaced the phone, and swung

his thin legs over the edge of the bed. As usual, he

yelped when his feet hit the icy floor. As he stood to

strip off his pajamas, his wife's muffled voice came

from under the quilt.

"What is it?"

"A special fare."


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IS WI e s mu fledvoi

strip off his pajamas,

from under the quilt.

"What is it?"

"A special fare."

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NICK CARTER

"At this hour? You've only been home three hours!"

"Shut up, woman. I must work long and hard. How

else could you afford to eat so much and live in a private

apartment?"

Charnovich dressed and went out into the cold,

snowy dawn, whistling to himself.

He let the Volga warm up a couple Of minutes and

then backed into the street. He paid no attention to the

dark automobile parked inconspicuously at the curb a

half block away. Nor did he pay any attention when the

parked car pulled away from the curb without head-

lights and swung in behind him.

But he knew they were there. Later, they would be his

witnesses.

Andrei Charnovich didn't get his fat salary, his pri-

vate apartment, and many other perks for just driving

his cab.

He got all those things by having accidents.

Angelina Galadin stepped from her apartment house

and bent her head into the wind and snow. Even though

it was a wide thoroughfare, Leninsky Prospekt was free

of pedestrians and there was very little auto traffic. Part

Of this was because of the early hour in this section of

the city. A second reason was the awful weather.

Every native in Moscow would be late to work this

morning. And if Angelina Galadin were Russian, going

to a Russian job from which she couldn't be fired, she,

too, would probably be late.

But she wasn't, so she pulled the fur collar of her coat

higher around her head and trudged onward.

She took a shortcut through a narrow alley, and

turned left on Makarenko Ulica. It was a long four

blocks to Zukovsk, where she would turn right.

The snow was deep, nearly to the top of her boots,

making her thankful again that in a short time she


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THE ANDROPOV FILE

ould be in her beloved sunny, warm Spain.

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She was nearly at the corner of Zukovski when she

eard the roaring engine behind her. For a second she

aid no attention.

Then, as it grew louder and seemed to be bearing

irectly at her, she turned.

She saw the two headlights heading straight for her.

She screamed.

And the last thing she saw before she was hurled,

ifeless. through the air was the flickering TAXI sign in

yrillic letters on the roof.

The Malagav on Gorki Street is famous all over Mos-

cow for its spicy Georgian food. It is the favorite restau-

rant of high-ranking party members and the military

who can afford it. Because of the status of its clientele,

the Malagav also sports attentive, jovial waiters, as op-

posed to the usual sullen Moscow restaurant help.

General Ivor Shalin was recognized the moment he

walked into the foyer. The headwaiter made the usual

fuss, and at the general's command led him to a table

already occupied by Gregor Leventov.

Leventov was a short, fat, balding man with a florid

face dominated by a potatolike nose. Leventov was a

KGB colonel, and worldwide liaison for the Soviet na-

tional airline, Aeroflot.

It was because of his position with Aeroflot that

Shalin had long ago brought him into the scheme. No

one would question Leventov's orders about what went

on an airplane, or when. He himself also had unlimited

—and unquestioned—travel abroad at any time.

"Good day, Ivor Yuryevich.'j

"Gregor," Shalin said with a nod, seating himself

and carefully studying the other man.

Leventov's right hand, as he poured vodka for both

Of them, shook noticeably. as did his left using a hand-

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NICK CARTER

kerchief to mop the constant sweat from his face.

"How much of this have you had, Gregor?" Shalin


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NICK CARTER

kerchief to mop the constant sweat from his face.

"How much of this have you had, Gregor?" Shalin

asked once the headwaiter had left.

' 'A few glasses,"

the man admitted, and smiled

lamely. "l am Russian."

"Today is February eighth, my dear Gregor. Let it be

a day of triumph and not a day of drunkenness."

Shalin's tone was like ice. Leventov feared the KGB

general, but on this day, in light of what they were

doing, he feared his own fear much more. He set the

glass of vodka down without drinking.

Shalin sipped. ' 'Two perhaps three days."

' 'Damn, we must move very quickly."

'iWe will," Shalin replied. "I have the film."

The man's eyes gleamed. "Where?"

"Here." Shalin leaned forward with his right arm

under the table and dropped the small package in th

other man's lap.

"Oh, my God."

"We don't believe in God, Gregor. Put it in your

pocket and stop sweating."

Gregor Leventov couldn't stop sweating. Nor could

he stop his hand from shaking as he slipped the fate of

half the high-ranking leaders of the Soviet Union int

his pocket.

Shalin had told him—only partially, he was sure

what the roll of microfilm contained. But even tha

much was enough to rock the very core of the Politburo

for the next ten years.

"That is our future, Gregor . . . yours, Gusenko's

and mine. With the contents of that file we will have the

power behind the thrones. Guard it carefully." Shalin

paused, leaning forward. When he spoke again, it was

in an even lower voice. "The Spanish woman?"

"Taken care of, a few hours ago. It was declared a

THE ANDROPOV FILE

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accident, even a possible suicide. The body is in the


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THE ANDROPOV FILE

accident, even a possible suicide.

public morgue in Kalitnikovskaja."

"And the taxi driver?"

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The body is in the

"The shock of the accident brought on a heart attack.

He will be buried quietly."

"Good. Nikolai Gusenko has been informed?"

"I will accompany the body to Paris. Gusenko will

take it from there to Madrid and turn it over to the

family."

Shalin chuckled and lifted his glass. ' 'And our little

insurance policy will be in the vault. Na zdorovje,

Gregor. It is a new day."

In the kitchen. a waiter made a note in a small book

that he had observed Comrade Gregor Leventov and

Comrade General Shalin lunching together that day.

Jt was routine. Observation and filing boring reports

were part of his second job ... that of a watcher for the

KGB.

The four aides were amazed. For as long as they had

served the Chairman, spent time in the dacha, they had

not known of the existence of the secret vault.

They took the black box and returned to the Chair-

man's bedi fearing yet another outburst of wrath. An

hour before, his condition had taken a rapid turn for the

worse. Yet, when it had happened, he had somehow

summoned the strength for one last act.

Just minutes before, he had sent for General Shalin.

When he was told that the general couldn't be found in

the dacha and it was presumed that he had returned to

Moscow, the room had erupted.

Shortly after that they had been given a card and a

key and the instructions they were now carrying out.

"Comrade Chairman, the box you requested."

The dying man applied the card and key himself.

When he opened the lid his face regained much of its

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NICK CARTER

former color, only to fade quickly to a sickly, greenish


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NICK CARTER

former color, only to fade quickly to a sickly, greenish

white.

He ordered everyone from the room except the

highest-ranking members. To them he told the story.

And his last utterance before sinking back on the

pillow was, Get it back and ... kill Shalin!"


TWO

Milan, February 1984

The taxi wound its way north from the Piazza del

Duomo to the Piazza della Scala. At last the cab

stopped near the alley running between La Scala itself

and the building housing the museum next door.

"As far as I can go, signore. The stage door is down

there."

' 'Grazie, " Nick Carter replied, paid him with a lib-

eral tip, and stepped from the cab.

Just before he moved down the alley, he glanced at

the posters outside the theater. La Scala is of course

famous for its opera the world over, and has been since

the house was built in 1778 on the site of the Church of

Santa Maria della Scala. But now posters proclaimed a

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NICK CARTER

three-night run of the Ballet de Paris, opening the

following night.

The stage door read Artists Entrance. Not hesitating,

Carter used his shoulder and managed to get inside.

"Signore?" He was about a hundred years old, and

wore a black uniform with a matching billed cap that

hid haif his face.

"My name is Carter, Amalgamated Press and Wire

Services. I have an appointment to interview Nina

Cavetti."

Carter flashed his credentials. The guard bobbed his

bill and ran a gnarled finger down a book of scrawled

names. When he found the right one, he waved a finger

toward a flight of steps.

"Dressing room Three, but they are probably on

stage rehearsing."

"Grazie, "Carter said, but the old guard already had

his newspaper back in front of his face and could care

less.

The door marked "3" was open and empty. Carter

moved on past more open dressing rooms to another

flight of stairs that led down to the vast stage itself.

Everything was confusion. Short, fat women ran

everywhere carrying costumes, while dancers in re-

hearsal clothes warmed up with bored expressions on

their faces. One young man—or at least Carter thought

it was a young man—jumped high in the air, made two

complete revolutions, and came down on his crotch.

"Ouch," Carter groaned.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

The young man began stretching, the pain of his art

evident on his face. Then he practiced his airborne pir-

ouettes once again.

Carter moved on, scanning faces.

Stagehands, carrying scenery, shouted to one another

THE ANDROPOV FILE

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THE ANDROPOV FILE

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•n Italian and at the dancers to get out of their way in

rench. Below, in the pit, an orchestra was tuning up,

nd sounded loud and awful. But Carter wasn't there to

ritique music or dance.

He was there answering a summons for help from a

lovely Russian dancer that he had gotten out Of a very

tight spot in Budapest two years earlier. Her name was

Nina Kovich then, and she had been defecting with her

husband, a physics professor from Moscow State Uni-

versity.

The defection had backfired. They had been fingered,

and in the attempted arrest Kovich had been killed.

The rules of the game concerning defectors—as laid

down by Washington—could be summarized as follows:

if they don't got something we particularly want, we

don't want 'em.

Kovich's brain, and what was in it, Washington

wanted. His wife's pliés and arabesques they didn't

need.

But when the professor was shot, Carter couldn't ex-

actly leave his wife stranded to take the heat.

He got her out, to Vienna and eventually to Paris.

Once there, he pulled a few strings in the French

bureaucracy and got her papers with a new identity.

Nina Kovich became Nina Cavetti, complete with an

Italian passport and a background from one of the best

ballet schools in Rome.

She also got some money, a sympathetic shoulder to

cry on from Carter, and a number to call with a code

word if she ever needed some help.

Two days before, a call on that number had come

through.

Carter always kept a promise.

Six feet of legs in tights bounced by and Carter

stopped her. "Excuse me i"

"Olli?"


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NICK CARTER

"Nina Cavetti?"

"Oui?"

"I'm a reporter. I'm supposed to interview her."

"tOui.

g 'I wonder if you could tell me where she is."

"Somewhere, here. "

The dervish whirled off, and Carter moved on toward

a group of dancers in tights. T-shirts, and leg warmers,

which seemed to be the standard costume.

"l doubt that you are the new member of the corps de

ballet."

The voice was female and it came from behind him.

The French was pure but with an odd lilt.

Carter turned to find a very pretty young woman

wearing black tights and a white T-shirt through which

gleamed two small, compact breasts.

' UNO, I'm a little too old and beat up for this, I'm

afraid," Carter replied with a grin.

She laughed. It was a nice laugh, even though the rub.

ber band in her mouth did strange things to the sound.

She had been running a brush through her long hair.

Now she stopped, pulled it back, and fastened it with

the rubber band.

Suddenly it hit him . the slight tilt of the head, the

wry smile, the diminutive yet sensual figure

'CMY God, Nina ..

The smile broadened. ' 'Your Dr. Zeissdorf in Geneva

was wonderful, no?"

Carter nodded dumbly.

Aaron Zeissdorf was a plastic surgeon. He specialized

in rehabilitation, only now and then doing a purely

cosmetic job.

In Nina's case he had done a complete makeover.

When Carter had brought her out she had been rather

plain, with a slight hook in her nose, a somewhat

receding chin, and honey-blond hair.


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THE ANDROPOV FILE

19

Now she was a sable brunette with a pretty, pixieish

ace, not beautiful but definitely worth a second and a

hird look.

"I didn't know you went through with it," he said.

"l thought it best, a complete transformation." Here

he paused to laugh. "Of course, being a very natural

londe, the hair poses a constant problem. It must be

done every few days."

' 'And this?" Carter said, rolling his eyes around the

vast stage.

"To be anonymous, I thought it best to be obvious. I

think it has worked out quite well."

"Good." Carter relaxed and lit a cigarette. "Now,

why the call?"

She glanced anxiously toward the other dancers mill-

ing around. The orchestra was still warming up. The

principals hadn't arrived yet. The noise was rising to a

deafening level.

"l think it best we not talk here. We only have one

more number to rehearse. Could you wait? We could go

somewhere out of the way for a drink or something."

Carter nodded. "Sure."

She slipped away and Carter moved out to the rear of

the huge house. He had barely settled into a box when

the dancers gathered on stage. After a few directions

from a tall, big-boned man, the orchestra blared and the

number began. Instantly, all that had been chaos sud-

denly became order and symmetry.

Carter, amazed at the transformation, tried to watch

it with interest, but he'd always found classical ballet

too artificial for his taste. Besides, his eyes kept wander-

ing to the right where the man—Carter wondered if he

was the dance master—stood.

He was about thirty and. for a dancer. rather tall and

muscular, with black curly hair and stark blue eyes.

Even from such a distance, Carter could see a thin scar


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Even from such a distance,

110%

Carter could see a thin scar

20

NICK CARTER

that ran from behind his right ear, down his neck, and

disappeared beneath his T-shirt.

There was something very familiar about the man,

but no matter how hard the Killmaster concentrated, he

couldn't place what it was.

Eventually the leaping and whirling figures on stage

garnered his attention and the man slipped from his

mind.

It took about a half hour to iron out the kinks to

everyone's satisfaction before a halt was called. The

company was admonished to relax until opening, and

dismissed.

Carter returned backstage just as Nina was exiting,

heading for her dressing room.

"How did you like it?"

g g Wonderful," Carter replied.

"Liar. You didn't understand a bit of it," she teased.

"You're right. Change—I need a drink."

"I'll only be a minute."

She moved away to her dressing room and Carter got

out of the crowd. He lounged in some shadows and

studied the group, comparing them to a program he had

picked up as he came down the aisle.

He wondered just how safe Nina was. At least a third

of the performers had Russian names. Were they all

defectors? And if they were, surely one of them would

recognize Nina, if not by her face, at least by her style of

dance.

Carter knew very little about ballet, but he had read

enough to know that style and technique varied from

country to country, and that Russian training was

unique and highly valued by those in the dance world.

He glanced up to see the tall, blue-eyed man eyeing

him from the edge of the stage. Up close he looked more

like a longshoreman than a dancer. He had shoulder

like a boxer, and heavy arms. Then Carter glanced at hi

hands, and little bells went off.


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like a boxer, and heavy arms. Then Carter glanced at hi

hands, and little bells went Off.

THE ANDROPOV FILE

21

The joints of his fingers were oversize, as if they were

swollen, and there were calluses on the sides of the

palms.

They were not the hands of a dancer, Carter knew.

Carter's own mangled hands had the same appearance,

and it was caused by daily training, pounding his fists

against anything that would harden them. The knuckles

were oversize because they had been broken and allowed

to mend slightly out of joint. Because of this, hardened

scar tissue made them stronger and impervious to pain

. like an artery in the

when they struck something .

neck, crushing it.

They were the hands of a killer.

Then Nina appeared beside Carter. She looked lost in

a dark cotton dress, heavy leggings that came to her

knees, and an oversize fur coat.

Once a Russian, Carter thought, always a Russian.

"Shall we go?"

"Sure," he said, taking her arm. 'SDon't turn

around, but the guy who gave all the directions on stage

. is he the dance master?"

"No, he's the first assistant stage manager. We have a

lazy dance master who gives him orders and he relays

them."

"l didn't think he looked like a dancer."

Nina laughed. "He isn't. But he seems to be a good

technician. I suppose that was why he was hired. "

Carter checked the program. "Duval?"

She nodded. ' 'Henri Duval."

Carter asked her about the preponderance of Russian

names in the program as they hit the street. It brought

another, louder laugh to her lips.

"Stage names. Everyone believes that the only real

training in ballet comes from Russia. So, no matter who

anyone is, they take a Russian stage name when they

look for work."

She took the program from his hand and ran a finger


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anyone is, they take a Russian stage name when they

look for work."

She took the program from his hand and ran a finger

22

NICK CARTER

down the list before raising it to his eyes.

"This one, Boris Charkovsky?"

"Yeah."

"His real name is Francois Lessing. A Paris agent

found him dancing nude in a Marseille bordello. But,

believe it or not, he's a very well-trained dancer."

Carter shook his head. "The vagaries of show busi-

ness."

The rental car was a small Mercedes. Carter handed

Nina in, and went around to the driver's side. He didn't

speak until they were headed north on the wide Via

Brera.

' 'Want to tell me now?" he asked at last.

She tucked her legs beneath her and turned partially

toward him in the passenger seat. Out of the corner of

his eye Carter could see her face become serious.

"I don't think I ever told you, but I still have family

in the Soviet Union. "

' 'No, you didn't."

"l do, a brother. He tried to join my husband and me

when we came out, but he couldn't get a travel permit to

Budapest. He's been trying to get out ever since."

Carter lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before reply-

ing. '%And now he's coming out?"

"Yes."

"When?"

' 'Tomorrow night, through Finland. At least, that is

the plan. "

"Does he have help?"

Carter maneuvered the car through a sudden burst Of

traffic. When they were clear again she still hadn't

answered. He glanced over to see her puffing nervously

on a cigarette, inhaling deeply and almost gasping out

the smoke.

"I didn't know dancers smoked."

"They are the worst smokers," Nina replied, crush-


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esmo e.

"I didn't know dancers smoked."

"They are the worst smokers," Nina replied, crush-

THE ANDROPOV FILE

23

ing out the butt and immediately lighting another.

' 'You haven't answered my question."

"l know. Yes, he has help

... from the KGB."

"What?"

She waved the cigarette in the air. "He's doing some

special job for them. In return, they are giving him

travel papers. When he gets to Helsinki he will just

defect. "

Carter frowned in concentration. ' 'It sounds a little

too pat for me. What kind of a job is he doing?"

"l don't know. Even he didn't know until a day or so

ago, and I haven't been in contact with him since."

"Nina, any kind of job your brother would do for the

KGB is going to be shady as hell. And if it's shady

enough, they won't want him walking around talking

about it, especially in the West."

"I know. Joseph felt the same way. That's why he has

taken some precautions."

"What kind of precautions?"

' 'The KGB is giving him travel papers from Moscow

to the frontier of Finland. He will go by train to Hel-

sinki. But if they try to stop him—or worse—he has an

alternate route. "

She laid out both sides of the plan, and Carter lis-

tened closely as he drove.

Then he spotted the restaurant he wanted, and con-

versation ceased as he parked.

"Quaint," Nina commented, staring at the building.

"And out of the way," Carter replied, guiding her to

the door.

The restaurant was called Bella Marlene. It stood

alone on a street of aging tenements and looked like a

miniature Venetian palazzo. With its chipped stonework

and weathered paint, it had an unkempt look, like the

neighborhood. It had diamond-patterned stained-glass

windows and an old-fashioned post lantern by the door


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and weathered paint, it had an unkempt look. like the

neighborhood. It had diamond-patterned stained-glass

windows and an old-fashioned post lantern by the door

24

NICK CARTER

that cast a weak yellow light.

" You've been here before? " Nina asked.

"Often. The owner is a friend, a Welshman named

Scudder."

g 'A Welshman? In Milan?"

Carter chuckled. "He has the soul of an Italian."

Inside was sedate opulence, with crystal chandeliers

and private, curtained booths. Carter requested one of

these and inquired about Scudder.

"He is in a meeting. It will last ... perhaps an hour,"

replied the maitre d'. "Could give him your name,

signore?"

"Carter. He'll know."

The Killmaster ordered for both of them a Lombardy

stew of pork, sausages, carrots, and white wine, and a

small side dish of polenta.

' 'I never knew your Italian was as fluent as your

French," Nina said.

"So's my Russian," Carter said and grinned. "Let's

speak English. "

They waited until the food had arrived and they were

halfway through the meal before they returned to the

matter of Nina's brother.

"My family name was Kadinskov."

Carter nodded. "So what can I do for you and Joseph

Kadinskov?"

"The same thing you did for me."

"Papers?" Carter said with a wry face.

She nodded. "New papers, for both of us."

"You're leaving the ballet? "

"Yes. I have put aside some money. I have made

some contacts here in Italy. We can start a new life."

"You think that's wise?" Carter asked.

think it is necessary. Alone, I was able to hide.

Together .

. it would be difficult. Can you help? I

know it is asking a great deal. My brother has nothing


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ou think that s wise?" Carter asked.

think it is necessary. Alone, I was able to hide.

Together

. it would be difficult. Can you help? I

know it is asking a great deal. My brother has nothing

THE ANDROPOV FILE

25

your State Department wants, so help from that area is

out. But you know so many people .. ."

Her words trailed off in a plea. Carter pushed his

plate away and refilled their glasses.

"I do have a few people in the Italian CID that owe

me a favor or two. We'll have to create a whole new

background for both of you. "

understand."

"And you want to stay in Italy?"

"Yes."

Carter paused, studying her, and then smiled. "I like

your new look."

Nina returned the smile, moving her hands across the

table to cover his. ' 'Thank you, Nick. Thank you so

very much. "

"I'll have to list an occupation on the papers."

She thought for a moment. "Journalist. That would

be far enough afield."

"Good enough. What does Joseph do now?"

She paused. "You'll laugh ..

"Try me. "

' 'He's a mortician."