# The Deadly Diva

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

ONE

The Chåteau d'Ormanz was one of the showplaces of

the Cöte d'Azur. It stood alone on the top of a hill above

Cannes, cornmanding a view of the entire sweep of sea

between the Esterel hills to the west and the Maritime Alps

to the east.

It had been built at the turn of the century by the aging

Eugene Ormanz, who had made fortunes first in slavery and

then in French railroads.

For eighty years, the place had stayed in the family. Then

it and the family fortune had fallen into the hands of old

Eugene's last surviving heir, his great-grandson, Palo.

Palo Ormanz loved good food, strong drink, airplanes,

expensive cars, beautiful women, and gambling. He re-

ceived his fortune at twenty-one. By the age of forty-one,

he had gone through all of it but the chateau.

On his forty-second birthday, Palo had stood at the front

window of the master suite and gazed out at the blue line

of Corsica barely visible to the southeast.

Nearby, on a table, lay the deed to the chateau, a pen,

and an American automatic .45.

Palo saluted the coastline with a glass of brandy, picked

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up the pen, and signed the deed of sale.

Then he picked up the .45. put the barrel in his mouth,

and blew the back of his head off.

ne new owner of the Chåteau d'Ormanz was one of

Palo's many lovers. It was she who found him two hours

later.

Within one week she had taken possession and had the

master suite completely redone. Gone were the gaudy reds

and yellows and the opulent velvets. Now it resembled a

room from a Chekhov play, down to snow scenes of Moscow

and the frozen steppes on the walls, and a giant bronze

samovar in the corner. The piano, a huge affair. was covered

with an antique lace shawl and rows of silver-framed photo-

graphs.

The owner now stood at the same window where Palo

had once stood. She also drank brandy, and she was also

contemplating the length of her life.

Three stories below, the lights ofa Mercedes sedan moved

slowly down the long. winding drive. In the Mercedes was

the woman's maid, Mrs. Kranz. and her gardener, Alfred.

It was a biweekly ritual. On their evening off, Alfred always

took Mrs. Kranz to dinner in one of the little cafés in Cannes.

On this particular evening, Alfred's old Fiat wasn't run-

ning properly, so the mistress of the chateau had insisted

that they take the Mercedes,

She watched the large wrought-iron gates open automat-

icaliy and then close. When she could no longer see the

taillights of the car, she crossed to a huge walk-in closet.

From a hidden drawer in the rear of a dresser, she extracted

a cheap, ankle-length, coarsely woven skirt. a full peasant

blouse, a rather ratty cardigan sweater, and a lightweight

shawl,

She carried the garments to her dressing room, dropped

them on a chair, and let her robe slip to the floor, Beneath

the robe was a slender but well-rounded body with small,

THE DEADLY DIVA

firm breasts, narrow hips, and longs tapering legs.

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firm breasts, narrow hips, and longs tapering legs.

She glanced one time in the mirror and then t*gan scrub-

bing the makeup from her face.

To anyone who knew. a strange transforrnation was taking

place. This woman, who counted on her own beauty above

everything, was making herself decidedly plain. The bright

blue eyes were made dull. The handsome, pure features

were blunted and the spun-gold of her long blond hair was

pulled into a severe bun at the back of her neck.

With the addition of the clothes and a pair of well-scuffed,

low-heeled shcrs, the transformation was almost complete.

The final touch was the shawl. A tie at its edges tugged it

tightly around her face and under her chin, completely hiding

her distinctive hair.

Leaving all the house lights on, she crossed the courtyard

and entered the huge garage. Perfectly in a line, their paint

and chrome gleaming, were a Rolls-Royce, a Jaguar, and

an American Cadillac convertible. She moved past them all

to the space usually by the Mercedes.

In its place was a dirty green four-door Fiat of questionable

age. There were several dents in the fenders and the up-

holstery was worn to the springs.

Under the hood, she reattached the two wires she had

disconnected that

The engine sputtered but idled evenly once it caught. She

pulled out of the garage and drove down the long lane.

From her pocket she took an electric gate opener and de-

pressed the button on its side. The gate swung open and

she flipped on the headlights as she drove through.

On the coast road, she turned east and pushed her speed

up to 110 kilometers. An hour later. just inside the city

limits of Nice, on the Promenade des Anglais, she stopped

at a late-night market.

Randomly she went through the little store until she had

enough to fill a good-sized bag.

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Back in the car she continued east to the Port Lympia.

She parked on the quay and, taking the bag, walked inland

from the port on the Rue Arson.

The way she was dressed, and carrying the bag of

groceries, she appeared to be a maid or housewife coming

home from work after shopping.

It was a neighborhood of tree-lined streets and middle-

class apartment buildings. Four blocks from the quay she

slowed. Across the street was a four-unit building. In a

window of the lower-right unit was a small sucker proclaim-

ing that the occupant had given to the International Red

Cross.

The meeting was on.

She checked the street both ways and then crossed. In

the dim hallway she found the bell and rang it three short

times. In her mind she counted off ten seconds and rang

again, this time a sustained ring of ten seconds.

The door opened inward and she darted in, pausing in

the hallway only long enough to deposit the bag of groceries

on a side table. As she moved into the sitting room, she

shook the shawl from her head.

"Good evening."

"Sergei," she said crisply, moving on across the room

toward a sid&ard.

"There is vodka chilled, if you want it."

' 'No," she replied.

She poured some vermouth into a tumbler, added an ice

cube, and dropped into an overstuffed chair. As she crossed

her legs the skirt parted, revealing a thigh clear to her hip.

' 'Do you have a cigarette?"

He shuffled toward her. "You shouldn't smoke . . . in

your profession ..

know I shouldn't smoke, dammit. Do you have a

"Of course."

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He took one from a box on the sideboard. lit it, and

passed it to her. She took it and dragged deeply, her eyes

following his to her bare flesh. With a nonchalance that

suggested that a thigh was of little interest, she adjusted the

skirt and, exhaling slowly, spoke.

"lf your budget allotment allow you release,

Sergei, I would gladly give you some money."

SS What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should get a whore, get laid. If you don't

have the money, I have."

He tumed away, his face crimson. s 'My sex life is none

of your business."

She started to speak, then paused, looking around the

room. "You've checked for any devices?"

"Of course," he replied. ' 'I do it twice, sometimes three

times a day. You're nervous tonight, tense."

' 'I'm tired," she said, standing and moving across the

room to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, "tired of playing the

part every waking moment instead of just on the stage. "

"It was your choice."

"I know." Her voice was a whisFEr. She examined the

books. They were in French, German, and English, mostly

fiction, some good, some bad. '*Do you read any of these,

Sergei?"

"No. I read only the classics . . . "

' 'Dostoyevsky, Pushkin, and so on?"

"Yes."

"l thought you would."

Across the room, he lit a small cigar and studied her

classic profile. She was beautiful, but probably her most

prepossessing feature was her completely relaxed, self-as-

sured manner, that of a woman who looked for and was

accustomed to a good deal of attention, mostly from men.

He shook his head to clear it, and spoke. "We have

business. What have you learned?"

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have a name," she replied.

"In East Berlin?"

"Yes. It is Dieter Weist. He is the head barman at the

opera. ' '

"Interesting," the man replied, leaning forward in the

chair, his mind on this new development rather than the fas-

cinating woman. S S You're sure this Weist is somehow con-

nected to the Double X team?"

"Positive. I would imagine he is their cutout. It would

be easy for him to pass on the espionage information he

receives from Double X, Over three quarters of the weekend

audiences for the opera are from East Berlin."

The man nodded. "It's obvious. We should have seen it

before. Does he have direct contact with the Double X

team?"

"I think so, but there is another courier involved, perhaps

a woman. "

"You don't have a name?" he asked.

SSNo."

"No matter. If we cover Weist, he will probably lead us

to her. Do you have any more on the team itself?"

"Nothing we haven•t already learned. Double X is a man

and a woman. They are German, and they have been in

place for at least fifteen years. They were turned right from

the beginning, and both of them hold responsible positions. "

The man sucked on his cigar for a moment in thought.

"Were you able to get any more of a timetable out of him

as to when they are coming out?"

"No, but J am sure it is soon. They know we are aware

of their existence. "

He sighed. "It would have helped if you could have

gotten a little more out of him."

She shrugged. "He hasn't had direct contact with them

for almost three years. Also, he had to be in London this

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moming for some kind of business conference. He flew out

last night."

"Couldn't you get him to take you with him for a day

or two?"

She whirled, her body tense and her eyes flashing. ' 'No,

dammit, I couldn't. What was I supposed to do, tell him I

am a Russian spy? 'Please take me with you because I need

more information from you? If you're a good boy and tell

me what I want to know, you can have my body for two

more days?' Merde!"

"Calm down, calm down. I know you have done your

best. I was only thinking out loud,"

S' Well, don't!" She stomped back to the chair and fell

into it.

He stood and gently ran his hand over the golden softness

of her hair. "I am sorry. I know you did your best. We'll

get them. "

She only nodded, the anger in her face replaced by weary

resignation.

"Would you like that vodka now?"

Again she nodded. patting his hand where it rested on

her shoulder.

From a small refrigerator he took a bottle of vodka and

two small, chilled glasses. Carefully, he filled the glasses

to the rim and handed her one of them.

"To your talent," he said, raising his glass.

'Are you refemng, Sergei, to my voice or my crotch?' '

A pained expression flooded his eyes and spread across

his face. The moment she saw it she was sorry for her words.

"To Mother Russia. Sergei."

They both drank and he refilled the glasses. He lit another

cigarette and returned to his chair. For several moments

they smoked and sipped the vodka in silence. When she

spoke again, her voice was soft, almost a whisper, and she

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shifted from French to her native Russian.

"Sergei . .

"You have a wife?"

He nodded. S 'And three children."

"When did you see them last?"

He looked up from his glass, his heavy brows coming

"It will be seven years this month."

together in a vee.

'SA long time."

"Yes," he said, his teeth grabbing his lower lip, very

long time."

s 'It has been twelve years for me." He started to reply.

and she held up her hand. "l know. Don't say it. It was

my choice. I wanted something and I got it. I have no

regrets. It is harder for you than for me, Sergei. I have no

husband or children to miss, and God knows I don't miss

Mother Russia. "

A faint smile curled his lips. "You have a God now. do

you?"

This brought a low, husky laugh from her throat. "Ohs

no. It is only an expression."

Suddenly she set aside her glass and stood. She moved

to stand before him. Slowly she opened her blouse and let

it slide from her shoulders. She wore nothing beneath it,

and the nipples on her small, firm breasts were erect. She

kicked off her shoes and unfastened the buttons on her skirt.

With a flip of her hip it fell to puddle around her feet.

He blinked but didn't take his eyes from the dark mound

between her thighs.

"Why do you do this?"

"Because, Sergei, I suddenly want to speak Russian again

while am making love."


TWO

Her street name was Cherry. She was thin and scruffy,

ith soot-black eyes and clothes that announced her as the

ooker she was. Her nails were bitten to the quick and every

ovement was a twitch. Her arms told the story of her drug

ddiction.

In the files of the West German police, she was called

tryn. She was eighteen years old.

Nick Carter followed her into the little one-room, barely

mished apartrnent and closed the door behind him. Out

f habit he moved to the window and checked the rain-wet

treet below.

He had tren in West Berlin for six hours and he was

tty sure he had been tagged right from the airport. So

ar he hadn't detected a tail.

' 'What do you like?" the girl said, and then laughed

Ilowly. "For forty marks you get whatever you want."

Carter turned.

She had tEen wearing a short skirt, summer lace-up boots,

and a tight sweater.

Now she was naked, and in the dim light from the over-

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head bulb he could see that she had beaten up, recently.

Not badly. a few bruises around her body. a cigarette burn

on her backside.

"Who did that, your pimp?"

"I don't have a pimp."

"Then who did it?" Carter asked.

She shrugged. ' 'A drunk. He couldn't get it up, so he

blames me. Look, you want it or not?"

"Not particularly," he growled, sliding into a wooden

straight-backed chair by the bed.

"What? You bastard

' 'Settle down." He tossed a fifty-mark bill on the bed.

"And put your clothes back on."

She did. just as fast as she had taken them off. She eyed

him suspiciously. "You some kind of pervert?"

"Yeah. I want to see Este."

The vacant eyes found fear and the thin body shivered

visibly. "Este? I know no Este."

"Bullshit. You lived with him for six months."

"He kicked me out."

g 'I know that," Carter said, lighting a cigarette. "But

you still know how to get in touch with him."

"I might." Her eyes narrowed and she tried to be slinky

as she moved around the It didn't work. She tripped

grabbing the fifty and shoving it down the front of her

sweater.

Carter smiled. He held up a hundred, tore it in half, and

shoved half of the bill after the fifty.

"Tell him that Nick the American wants to meet him

on business." He stood and moved to the door. "I'll be

back tomorrow night around eight. You have it set up."

"What if I can't?"

Carter paused at the door. "Then you don't get the other

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half of the hundred, and you get hassled every night for the

next month by the police.

He heard her curse him all the way to the street.

It was raining again when he hit the street, a light, misty

drizzle that wasn't cold and didn't soak through. It just gave

atmosphere to an already atmospheric Berlin.

A siren wailed directly behind him. It grew louder and

an ambulance streaked by, closely followed by a taxi. Carter

hailed the cab.

"Haselhorst," he said, "anywhere."

Twenty minutes later he alighted and walked in circles

to further shake off anyone behind him. Ihen he darted into

the U-Bahn and caught the first train. At the Havel station

near Spandau, he got off and came back up to the street.

Sure now that he wasn't being followed, he grabbed another

cab.

V 'Branitzer Platz."

An hour and a half after leaving the teenage hooker,

Carter stood in the center of the big traffic circle and paid

off the driver. When the cab was out of sight with a new

fare, he walked down Eichen Allee to number 28.

It was a stumpy, wide but not high. multiple dwelling.

nere was no downstairs door. Perhaps once upon a time

there had been one, but now there was just an open archway

to a narrow lobby at the end of which was a narrow staircase.

Carter climbed it to the second floor, rang the doorbell of

2C, and waited.

And waited.

He rang again, and finally the shield of the peephole

moved and was replaced by an eye.

"Hello, Martin," Carter muttered just loud enough to

seep through the door.

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The peephole closed. the door opened. and Carter was

in the seedy living room of a seedy little man in bare feet

and a threadbare bathrobe. Manin Bonner was pencil-thin

and pygmy-tiny, but he had a ferocious aspect because of

a massive outcropping of wild, iron-gray hair that sur-

rounded his head like an exploded halo. It made him look

like an angry mop with the wrong end up.

Bonner was the best free-lance forger in Berlin. He

worked almost exclusively for the BfV, and consequently

for the American CIA. He was paid well and he kept his

mouth shut.

"You are looking old, Nick."

"Strain," Carter replied, "I'll take a drink, if you've got

a clean glass."

Bonner chuckled. It sounded like a duck in heat. "I can

afford better, of course, but the image of the down-and-out,

out-of-work printer is good for business. "

He scrounged up a bottle of schnapps and washed two

glasses. They sat on an ancient sofa that squeaked with

every weight shift. Bonner poured. they toasted, and got

down to business.

"You go over Friday night. Will you have all your other

arrangements made by then?"

Carter nodded. "No problem."

' 'And the woman9"

"For a night at the opera, she can use her own

She goes back and forth often during the season."

Bonner seemed satisfied. "And you won't need my assis-

tance coming out?"

"No. It will be tricky with three of us. I'm going to use

Este."

The other man wrinkled his nose. "Is that wise? The man

will sell his grandmother's eyeballs for a price."

"I've used him before." Carter said. "He knows better

THE DEADLY DIVA

than to cross me. What have you got?"

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' 'Passport. " Bonner dropped a green. red-bordered vinyl

folder in front of Carter. ' 'This is the one you'll use once

you get loose over there. Your name is Willi Lehman. You're

a plasterer from Wittenberg. Here is your travel permit for

a five-day holiday in East Berlin. Here's your ticket stub

for the train ride from Wittenberg to Berlin." More docu-

ments were added to the growing pile. "Here are your party

registration papers and your driver's license. As you can

see, you wear glasses."

"I'll get some," Carter said.

"Youill stay in Prisen Allees number One-forty-one. It's

a boardinghouse just off Strassburger. Ihe woman who runs

it is named Becker, Winola Becker."

' 'One of yours?"

' 'One of mine," Bonner said, ncxlding. *'She knows

you're coming, but not the reason."

"Winola," Carter rerEated. "Isn't that Old German for

'gracious friend'?"

' 'That's right."

"Let's hope she is."

"She will be. If you need a car, she can take care of it.

money ? I',

Anything else ,

"No, the woman is taking care of that."

Bonner stuck out his hand. "Then. good luck. Nick."

"Thanks, Martin."

Back on the street, Carter went through the process of

losing a tail again even though he was sure it wasn't neces-

It was nearly midnight when he paid off the last of four

cabs and walked the final two blocks to her building. It was

on a steep hillside overlooking part of the Tegel Forest and

the Tegeler See beyond.

She had obviously moved up in the world since the last

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time Carter had seen her. He judged the view from the upryr

floors must be quite a production. And quite expensive.

He entered the sprawling building by a side door. Every-

thing but good taste had gone into the construction of the

place. The halls were cool, gray. and dim, and the doors

of the apartments were set flush against the walls. None of

them had doorknobs, just tiny keyholes, almost hidden. The

carpets were deep and they seemed to match the walls

exactly. It was something like walking through an endless

gray tube,

The apartment he wanted was on the top and after

a brief encounter with an elevator with the same decor as

the halls, he found it. The door, like all the others. fitted

flush with the corridor wall, and not a sign of a knob or a

trll button.

The Killmaster knocked.

The door was opened by a woman only an inch or so

shorter than Carter, with a bushel of flaming red hair piled

high on her head. She had almond eyes. almost Oriental.

and they were the color of the sea, deep green with tiny

flecks of foam.

She wore a long white dressing gown like a second skin,

and from under it vibrations were flowing that would melt

steel.

He name was Erica von Falkener. She was thirty-three

years old, and she was a modern version of the courtesans

of old.

"Just in time to be too late to take me out to dinner."

The tone had a bite to it, but the smile was wide.

Carter matched it, kicking the door closed and tugging

her to him. "There are all kinds of nourishment."

' 'Lecher. "

"So true."

Her eyes looked even greener in the more subdued light

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Of the apartment. He lowered his lips to hers. Their lips

met, broke away, and met again. He was leaning into her

and her body responded. She pressed her full breasts against

him and then her hips, moving them tantalizingly.

"Would you like a drink first?" she asked, coming up

for air.

"hat would probably be more civilized," Carter said

with a grin, letting her remove his wet raincoat.

"Ihe living rcx»rn was about the size ofa small rail terminal.

It was neatly furnished, mostly mcxiern, but with a touch

of the exotic here and there.

He moved over to a polished mahogany bar. Behind it

he found a full sterling silver ice bucket. a pair of Waterford

tumblers, and a freshly uncorked bottle of Chivas Regal.

' 'Mmm. business must be good, he as he poured

three fingers in each glass over a single cube.

"You're crude."

' 'Am I?" he chuckled, handing her one of the glasses as

she slid onto a stool.

"Yes, and I love it."

He had met her aboard the Queen Elizabeth II, one night

out of New York. They had eyed one another all through

dinner. nrre had tren unabashed interest, even lust, 'in her

eyes, and Carter hadn't failed to notice it.

Later, at the bow rail, he had caught the scent of expensive

perfume mingled in the salt air and found her at his elbow.

"l love the sea," she said.

A phosphorescent wave gleamed in the sea, reflecting the

full moon. A light breeze whipped the filmy material of her

dress, plastering it against her body.

He lit a cigarette and she took it from his lips. He lit

another.

' 'Erica von Falkener."

"Nick Carter," he replied.

NICK CARTER

"American?"

"Yes." he said, and switched to German

Berliner."

She laughed. "Does it show?"

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"American?"

"Yes." he said, and switched to German

Berliner."

She laughed. S 'Does it show?"

"Along with everything else, yes."

. 'S You're a

She had turned to face him, those green eyes penetrating

and mischievous. "Are you rich?"

"No, but I get by."

"No matter. I'm on holiday."

A half hour later they were in his stateroom, in bed. He

found that she would do anything in bed. and she did it

extremely well.

They spent every night of the crossing together, and in

that time Carter learned that she was quite wealthy, and had

made her wealth from men, some married, some divorced,

some widowed. They all had one thing in common, money,

and the willingness to part with it in the form of presents.

' '1 never take cash, only what can be turned into cash. "

She was quite open and honest about it, and in the course

of their time together they became fast friends as well as

lovers.

She never asked Carter what he did, but after aiding him

a time or two she had a pretty good idea.

Now she sipped the whiskey, licked a drop sensuously

from her lip, and let her negligee fall orrn. She wore nothing

but a strapless bra and panties beneath it.

Carter took in the view and plastered a serious look on

his face. "Did my bag arrive?"

She nodded. "In the bedroom. A package came also. It's

there. under the bar."

It was a plain envelope with only her name and address

on it. Carter broke the seal and spilled a passport and an

eight-by-ten photo onto the bar.

"That's my date?" she asked, studying the photo.

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"That's your date coming back." Carter replied, opening

the passport. "Kurt Heitxr, bom October 1945, Frankfurt;

occupation, dentist. "

She wrinkled her nose. "God, my «xial position."

"For one night," he said laughing, "your reputation can

stand it."

She fingered the photo. "Can you actually look like

"Just like him," Carter replied, S'That•s why he was

chosen. His height, weight, and build match mine. and his

facial structure is similar. "

"Who is he, really?"

Carter leveled his stare. ' 'Do you really want to know?' '

She averted her eyes. "No. LA's go to bed."

' 'Excellent suggestion."

In the even softer light of the bedroom, she turned into

an erotic statue. Her breasts were full and thrusting, the

curve of her belly warm and inviting, and her legs long and

silken.

She peeled Carter's clothes off and then, smiling like

Circe, tugged him to the bed. She had a passionate, full-

lipped, sensuous mouth, above which was a slender, high-

boned. haughty nose.

She was a lady of many contradictions.

They fell to the bed together, and immediately she aban-

doned herself. Her tongue searched his mouth and her lithe

body pressed against his.

His hands moved lightly along her legs, exploring, caress-

ing, awakening nerves and filling her with pleasure. She

moaned and opened and closed her hands and thighs. She

writhed and murmured nonsense and clasped her fingers in

his hair.

Then he was on top of her, flesh against flesh, touching

wherever they could.

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' 'You're ready." he whispered.

"I know. Oh God, I know," she gasped.

His lips found her nipples, teasing them gently. Then he

swept downward, delicately nibbling and licking. He traced

her inner thighs and moved upward.

She cried out and her legs scissored open. "There .

oh, yes, there!"

Again and again, with no more than the caress of his lips

and tongue. he brought her to the peak of arousal and backed

away again, making her wait.

And then she could wait no longer. She tugged him up-

ward, reached between them, and guided him inside her.

He moaned as she started rocking under him. He pushed

even deeper, eager but determined to hold his pleasure until

the last possible moment.

She groaned. Tears streamed down her face, but pleasure

pushed those tears back, and soon she gave way to rippling

shudders and tiny yelps of pleasure. They rocked together,

her hips refusing to allow him to pull away for even the

briefest second.

Their movements synchronized, and their breathing

matched. 'Ihey moved as lovers lost in ecstasy, beyond all

earthly concerns. They were one as they burst into sensual

exultation.

Carter moaned in pleasure as she grasped him in hard

little jerks. He kissed her lips, her forehead, her closed

eyelids, and her cheeks. She still held him inside her and

refused to let him leave. Her body quivered for minutes

after their last explosion was over.


THREE

Carter left the U-Bahn at Potsdamer Platz and walked

parallel to the Wall for nearly a mile trfore turning back,

inward, toward West Berlin.

He hit her general cruising area and found her in the fifth

doorway he checked.

She looked awful even in the dim light. The lashes were

drawn back from her eyeballs as though by some mechanical

device, and the pupils were so contracted that the entire

eyeball seemed to consist only of smoky iris. A cigarette

dangled from the comer of her chaprrd lips, and even though

she wore a trench coat she lcx)ked cold.

She spoke in a flat monotone. "Where's the other half

of the hundred?"

"Where's Este"'

' 'The hundred first."

Carter took the torn half of the bill and held it between

two fingers in front of her eyes. When she reached for it

he grabbed her wrist.

"Hurts!" she howled.

"Este."

' 'Down there. " She inclined her head to the right. "About

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four blocks. A place called the Dead Horse."

Carter pushed the torn bill into her hand and the fingers

closed over it like a claw.

He moved away without haste, comparing in his mind

this poor shell of a girl with Erica von Falkener. They both

sold the same product. It was just the packaging and market-

ing that was so different.

The lovemaking the night before had drained him, but

the urgency, compounded by stress. had taken him and the

redhead past the threshold of control. Three times during

the night Carter had surfaced from fitful sleep. aware that

Erica had awakened at the same precise moment. Iheir

move toward each other was simultaneous. the coupling

harsh and animal.

He wondered if she was that way with all her men, and

hoped that she wasn't.

At the end of four blocks, he paused. Three streets con-

verged, separated by two churches. To his left, down a

small alleyway, a pair of cafés faced each other. He spotted

the faded sign, Der Tot Pferd, and headed that way.

As he walked. he thought of Este and wondered how the

man had survived for so long. For years he had done a

thriving black market business by smuggling things into the

East. And he didn't stop at East Berlin or the border satel-

lites. It was rumored that Este had contacts to ship jeans

and other Western luxuries all the way to Moscow and sell

But that wasn't all Este did. He was also a major importer

of dope from Turkey and Morocco. And also had a sideline

of murder for hire.

All in all. he was a louse. But in Carter's line of work

he often had to deal with vermin. And there was no smarter

rat than Este when it came to getting people out 01' the East.

Also, Este owed Carter a favor, many favors. Years be-

fore, it had come down to a one-on-one between the two

THE DEADLY DIVA

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men. Carter had let him live, and the reason was need. He

had made it plain that night on a rain-slick Berlin street,

much like the one he walked now . . .

"You're going to live. Este, not you deserve to,

but because I need a slave with your talents. So any time,

for the rest of your life, when I call, you come running.

You don't come, I come after you."

Twice Carter had made the call, and his slave had come

running. He was sure tonight would no different.

The Dead Horse was like a hundred others in Berlin: small ,

dimly lit, noisy, and crowded. Canned rock music blared

and, on an stage in the rear. a bleached blonde

with enormous, naked bosoms wriggled lethargically.

It looked as though there was not a single empty table.

Twenty marks to a waitress in black tights and a tired red

bra took care of that.

She led the way to a table where a teen-age couple sat

mooning at each other over a pitcher of beer. She spoke

swiftly to them and they immediately left.

Carter ordered, and the tired red bra came back with

brandy and coffee.

Carter nodded, paid, and added yet another tip. He slowly

sipped the brandy and surveyed the room. Finally his gaze

came to rest on a table just beyond the dancing woman with

the huge, swaying appendages.

There were five men around the table, all hard-eyed,

some with prison pallor.

Este was easy to spot. He looked the least Germanic of

anyone in the room. He was small and dark, with gaunt,

tense features. He was wearing but inconspicuous

clothes, and Carter caught the glitter of a big diamond as

one hand moved in a gesture.

Carter knew that he had already been spotted; no one

would come in or out the door without Este knowing about

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it. He sat back and waited for the man to make the first

move. Eventually the little man rose and started dnfting

from table to tables doing business.

It was only a matter of time before he reached the Killmas-

ter's table and slipped into a chair. He was scarcely seated

before tired red bra appeared with a cup of coffee, Este

pushed a spoon around in the thick black liquid and stared

at Carter from dead eyes.

"Long time no see. I was thinking you might be dead,

Carter. ' '

"Thinking? Or hoping. Este."

"Both. What the fuck do you want now?"

"Nothing you can't handle."

"I can handle anything. "

Carter smiled as he leaned forward. Underneath the table,

his hand found Este's crotch, grabbed, and squeezed.

' 'Except me, you little son of a bitch."

"Jesus .

" Act tough with your shit friends over there, but drop it

with me, scum."

'*Christ, let go of my balls!" he croaked.

Carter released him and lit a cigarette. ' 'I'm going over.

soon. fiat's arranged. What I need from you is a way back."

"Shit, you don't need that. You know the tunnels."

' 'No good," Carter said. "Too much risk. I'm bringing

a couple of customers with me, old people. They won't be

able to run if there's a problem. What else have you got?"

Este glanced around the room, grimaced. and tkgan to

talk.

Carter listened. German is a heavy language. One's

tongue had to lumber over verbs and adjectives like a fully

loaded truck over a rough road. The way Este spoke it,

particularly in anger, the language became a swift series of

explosions.

When he finally wound down, Carter shook his head.

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23

"Still no good. Este. Every one of them either has a hole

in it or would take long to set up. Try again."

"Christ, that's it! How many damn ways do you think

there are of getting out of Fast Berlin?"

' 'More than you've told me."

It took another five minutes of bickering and a hard pat

on the knee under the table, but Este finally came through.

"l was going to use it myself, but . Well, there's a

plane .

Now Carter was interested. "Go on, little man."

"It's an old Piper Cherokee. They use it to ferry mail to

the smaller towns where the jets don't land. It's mostly

party stuff, goes out a couple of times a week. "

"Yeah . . . ?"

"I have a friend. He has a woman over here. I help him

get over to see his woman, he takes back some goodies for

me when he goes. For a price he might leave the keys in

the plane and a gate some night. "

Carter sank back in the chair, relieved, but he didn't show

it. "Can you get in touch with your friend?"

"I'll make a phone call."

He was back in five minutes,

"Let's go."

ney moved down a dimly lit hallway that smelled like

stale beer and cabbage. At the top of a balustraded stairway

they moved down a narrower, darker hall.

"This is it," Fste said, and took out a key.

The door opened and they walked into the smell of spilled

liquor mingled with rxrfume and stale body odor. They

paused on the threshold to let their eyes adjust, and then

went inside.

The apartment was dreary, sparsely furnished with cheap

rattan, sisal floor mats, and an old-fashioned iron bedstead

by the window with a view of the alley and the next building.

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The venetian blinds were drawn and the window was shut.

Several bottles glinted in the shadows on the windowsill.

They were all empty. Scattered about the room were piles

of women•s clothing. mostly dirty.

If the woman hadn't moved, Carter would have never

seen her. She was curled up in the corner of a sofa with a

bottle in her lap. Most of her big, flabby body was bulging

out of a torn slip under which she wore nothing. A third of

her hair was dirty blond. The rest of it, from the roots out

about six inches, was jet black.

"Where is he?"

She looked up with predatory eyes and leaned her head

toward a partially opened door. "On the pot."

"Get him. "

"You get him," she rasped.

Este struck like a cobra: the fiat of his palm across her

cheek cracked like a rifle. The bottle fell from her lap as

she leaped from the sofa and jiggled through the door.

Seconds later, she returned. Behind her appeared a little

man with an acne-scarred face that would always need a

shave, eyes that bulged tk*hind thick glasses, and a cigarette

in the comer of thick lips.

"You," Este barked to the woman. "out!"

"Where?" she whined. "There's only the toilet ,

Este picked up the bottle from the floor and shoved it

into her hands. "And close the door."

Again she jiggled out and the door slammed.

Este turned to Acne Face. •s This is the man."

"You can fly a Cherokee?"

Carter nodded. "What days of the week do they make

their runs?"

'*They do the mail on Wednesdays and Fridays. That's

the only time it's used unless somebody important has to

flown where the jets don't land. "

"Where is it parked?" Carter asked,

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Here Acne Face got cagey. "What are you willing to

Carter almost replied, then thought better of It.

"I'll work

that out with Este."

"Wait a minute . .. "

Este laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "He'll work it

out with me. "

He obviously didn't like it but he started talking. "Do

you know Schonfeld

"Very well," Carter said.

"By the old nurntxr two runway. there is a small hangar.

Near it. at the end of Bidan Allee, is a large steel gate with

a door in it. 9'

"Yes."

"l know where the emergency key to that gate is kept. "

"Where will the plane tr?"

"That depends on what night you'll be needing it."

Carter did some quick mental calculations. This was

Thursday. He would going over the next evening, Friday.

It would take two days at least to make the contacts, even

though Double X knew he was coming to take them out.

The last word out from the now-frightened couple had

been "Rush."

"Monday night," Carter said.

S'So soon?"

"Yes. Can you do it?"

"On Mondays, it will parked just inside the hangar.

It is always serviced just after every flight, so you v onit

have a problem there."

"What problems will I have?" Carter growled.

"Vopos, guards, two of them. One stays in the hangar

office, the other patrols the perimeter of the fence line from

there to the main runway."

"I can handle them," Carter said. "Now, tell me about

clearance and any traffic I might run into. "

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In the next half hours Carter got a complete rundown on

everything he might expect to encounter before and after

stealing the plane.

At last he stood. "I'll leave you and Este to work out

the finances."

Caner left. He stood at the foot of the stairway, smoking,

until Este joined him.

"How much?"

"Twenty thousand."

"Fifteen,"

"He won't—

'*Bullshit," Carter interrupted. "Fifteen. As it is. you're

only giving him five."

"Bastard."

"But an honest one. Este. You'll have your money in

the morning. And maybe you had better go back up there

and have another small heart-to-heart with him."

"What for?"

Carter raised his right arm and tensed the forearm muscle.

A razor-sharp. six-inch stiletto slid into his palm from a

chamois sheath under his sleeve, He placed the point just

inside Este's right nostril and teased the skin a little until a

drop of blood ran down to his lip.

"Because, if that plane isn't there, with the keys and

gassed, it's you I'll come back to see, Este. And I'll put

this right up through your nose and into your brain."

Carter left him like that, shaking and cursing, and walked

into the street to hail a cab.


FOUR

The extra-watt bulbs Carter had put in sockets alongside

the bathroom mirror created an eye-burning glare, but they

illuminated every line and pore in his face.

Above the sink he had carefully set out all the materials

from the makeup kit. Now, one by one, he started using

them.

Meticulously. he worked the putty into his nose until

it was much fuller and the bridge wider. Under his upper

lip went adhesive gums that made his lip flare out and

elongated his smile. A tint that would wear off in a few

hours was applied to his teeth until they were stained slightly

brown,

Using a single-edged razor blade, he barely broke the

skin to make a cut from the comer of his right lip to his

chin. Then he waited until the blood had nearly clotted

before rubbing a mixture of styptic. clown white, and pan-

cake into the thin wound. When he was finished, only a

close medical inspection could prove that it wasn't an old

scar.

By the time he finished with his hair, it was flecked with

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gray, the eyebrows were lighter, and they seemed to grow

together over his nose.

The last touch was a pair of contact lenses that turned

his dark brown eyes to an opaque blue.

He held up the eight-by-ten photo beside the mirror and

compared it to his reflection.

After a little accent with a flesh-colored makeup pencil

to accentuate the tiny lines around the mouth and eyes, he

was satisfied.

There wasn't a Vopo around Checkpoint Charlie that

could tell him from the photograph.

He donned the white-on-white tux shirt and carefully tied

the black tie. With the suspenders pulled up, and estab-

lishing a slight limp in his right leg, he walked into the

bedroom.

She was sitting at her vanity putting the last few touches

to her hair. She was stunning in an off-the-shoulder black

dress that clung to every inch of her full figure. The only

jewelry were pearls at her throat and ears.

"Well, darling, are we about ready?' " There was a guttural

lisp to his voice.

She turned, smiling. and then gasped, both hands going

to her throat. "My God, is that really you?"

"It is, Erica dear, and you must act as though you're

quite used to this face. Shall we go to the opera?"

For a foreigner to stay ovemight in East Berlin—or in

any part of East Germany—it takes weeks, sometimes

months, of preparation. Permits must be obtained through

the ploddingly slow bureaucracy of the German Democratic

Republic. Hotel reservations must be made and often ap-

proved in advance. The normal everyday tourist who just

wants to pop through Checkpoint Charlie for the day and

walk the wide Unter den Linden to view the stately buildings,

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must be back in the West by six that evening. Or, with an

extended permit, by midnight.

Those attending the famed. two-hundred-year-old

Deutsche Staatsoper have yet another permit that allows

them two hours from the final curtain to scurry back through

the wall.

These permits were issued at the first checkpoint when

Carter presented their tickets.

At the second, final checkpoint, a very masculine-looking

woman checked their passport photos against their faces and

went over their permits with an eagle eye.

She seemed to take forever. At last she t*arned at Erica,

sneered at Carter, and passed them through.

A long line of taxis waited tryond the gate to take the

operagoers to the theater. Somewhere in East Berlin, a preg-

nant woman whose water had broken an hour before might

be frantically trying to get a cab, but she would be out of

luck on opera night. Every cab in East Berlin would be at

Checkpoint Charlie.

Operagoers from the West tiprrd.

They sat back in the cab and Erica slid her arm through

his. The light scent of her perfume came to him.

"Hey."

"What?"

"We have a small private box," she whispered.

"Want to fool around if it gets boring?"

The darkness hid her eyes from him, but Carter knew

they were laughing. "You're incorrigible."

"I know. But since . .

Quickly he put a finger to her lips. "The upholstery has

ears. By the way, what is the opera?"

"Boris Godunov. "

"Great," he murmured with less than total enthusiasm.

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It could have been San Francisco. New York, or London.

The tuxedos were of the finest cut and the dresses were

ultrachic. The jewelry flashed and the people were beautiful.

As usual, the production was spectacular and the talent

the best in the world.

But no matter how lavish, Boris Godunov was boring.

Carter suffered through the first two acts and, at the second

interval, squeezed Erica's leg and brushed his lips across

her cheek. She did the same, and he was gone.

There were four rest rooms on each tier. The least-used

men's room was the one behind the Grand Gallery bar.

Caner had a whiskey at the bar and smoked until the first

warning chime. He waited for a few more seconds and

moved around the bar, weaved his way through the massive

pillars, and darted into the rest room.

There was a fat German at one of the sinks and a tall,

lord-of-the-manner-type Englishman at a urinal. One set of

tuxedoed legs could be seen in the second of six stalls.

Carter moved past the first two men and into the last stall.

He dropped his pants and sat.

The fat German stomped out, and seconds later the En-

glishman left.

The third-act warning chime sounded just as the other

stall's occupant lumbered to the sinks. It seemed as if he

were taking a bath instead of washing his hands, but finally

he finished and Carter heard the door slam again.

He wriggled upward until he was sitting on the tank with

his feet on the stool.

The overture to the third act began.

Carter waited.

Five minutes passed, then ten. At last the door opened

and Carter heard the rattle of a cart on rollers come across

the tile floor, followed by the swish of a mop. It passed in

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32

front of his stall and then moved into the adjoining one.

And then he heard it. a faint whistle. the first two bars

of "Deutchland Uber Alles."

Carter smiled. It was a gamey recognition signal at least.

He pursed his lips and whistled the next two bars.

Immediately, the legs in the blue coveralls moved into

the booth. The coveralls dropped to the floor and Carter's

legs came down.

He undressed in time to the other man. As each piece of

clothing came off, it was passed under the partition. here

was a blue workshirt, a pair of dark, baggy trousers, and a

worn vest. Over all of these went the blue coveralls.

rne scuffed black work boots were just a tad loose, but

Carter remedied that quickly with tissue paper. The last

article was a blue work cap, which he pulled down to his ears.

He emerged first and grabbed the mop. Seconds later,

the other man came out of the stall. He moved past Carter

to the sinks and lightly rinsed his hands. Carter plied the

mop until he stood just behind the man's right shoulder.

' 'Locker number three, right off the washroom. ' ' the man

whispered in German.

' 'Ja, " Carter replied,

For the briefest of seconds, Carter looked up. In the mirror

their eyes and their twin faces met.

The man looked shocked.

Carter smiled.

And then he was gone.

The Killmaster gave him a full five minutes and then he

too moved back into the hall.

Around the corner to his right he could hear the quiet

chatter of the barmen in the Grand Gallery and the occasional

clink of glasses.

He went left, to the side service stairs that led all the way

down into the lower depths of the great opera house, He

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passed through two empty rehearsal rooms and then under

the stage itselE

Stagehands waited tensely for their cues. balancing huge

pieces of scenery on the two elevators that would shoot

them upward into place at the precise time.

None of them even glanced at the tall man with the bucket

and mop.

Then he was deep in the bowels of the theater, in the

boiler room and beyond. He found locker numtrr three,

and quickly dumped the cap and coveralls. From the locker

he took a worn leather jacket. another cap, and a small

canvas pack with straps.

Then he darted into the washroom. Using srrcial soap

from a tiny capsule, he washed his hair and face. The blue

contacts were discarded, as well as the putty in his nose

and the false gums.

The last of the brown stain was removed from his teeth

with a finger and a little of the soap.

Then he mounted the stairs again, but this time he moved

away from the thundering music coming from the stage. He

moved into a rehearsal room with mirrors all around and a

waistJhigh barre at two ends. In one comer of this room

was a door. It was a sneak exit often used by stars when

they wanted to leave the theater quickly and discreetly and

not face their public outside the regular stage door.

Beyond it was a fire escape. At the foot of the fire escarx

two men, obviously electricians from their tool belts,

smoked.

"Almost over?" one of them asked.

Carter shrugged. "How should I know? I clean the toilets,

I never hear the music. "

They both laughed, and the second man said, "I thought

you shithouse cleaners were the last ones out,"

'*Usually," Carter chuckled,

"but I've gotten a

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34

stomachache from the stench of all that rich perfume. "

This provoked hearty laughter and Carter was on the

Schmann Strasse walking south quickly. At the Rathaus he

turned left and practically ran into two stern-eyed Vopos.

One of them eyed Carter's pack but said nothing.

When he reached Alexander Platz, he darted into a café

and ordered coffee. For the next hour he sipped coffee and

brooded like a good, bored East German.

Directly across the street was the large Café Neva, a

popular spot for a late-night snack. It was crowded on opera

nights.

Carter waited until the long line of taxis had taken the

last of the Westerners back to Checkpoint Charlie. and then

left the café.

At the north end of the square he went down into the

U-Bahn. He let the Eisenbahn train pass and took the next

local.

He walked to the rear of the car where he could survey

the car behind. Three women jabbered and an old man sat,

his nose in a newspaper.

Carter relaxed. took a seat, and fumbled in a pocket of

his leather jacket. He produced a pack of awful East German

cigarettes and lit one with a satisfied sigh.

Willi Lehman had amved in East Berlin from Wittenberg

for his holiday.

The train slid into the Tierpark station and the door slid

open. Carter walked casually out onto the platfornn. It wasn 't

crowded and no one gave him so much as a glance as he

headed for the exit.

He walked around the zoo and then picked up his pace.

Nine blocks later, he turned onto Strassburger and looked

for Prisen Allee.

It didn't take long. It was an old street with old brick

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NICK CARTER'

houses that had been only partially restored since the devas-

tation of the war. Number 141 to be the oldest of

the lot.

Ahead was a heavy door with antique wrought-iron hinges

and a studding of old-fashioned nailheads. He used the old,

heavy knocker and waited. When there was no reply he

knocked again and then backed off to check lights. The

windows were all dark in the front of the house, but he

thought he saw light in the rear alley.

It wouldn•t do to stand out here too long at this time of

night. He moved around the corner and along the narrow

walkway to the rear.

There was a light and the rear door was unlocked,

He stepped through into the wide, cool dimness of the

old-fashioned kitchen, his feet soundless on the Belgian

bricks of the floor. Metal glimmered, shining nickel on the

big. antique stove. He paused agaim No sound except the

rattle of wind on the shutters.

Footsteps suddenly clattered down the stone stairs deeper

in the labyrinth of the house. They reached the bottom of

the staircase and turned his way, soles scraping the floor,

slipping and driving on again toward the kitchen.

Carter wasn't sure how, but he knew it was Winola Becker

the moment she stepped through the kitchen door. He held

his hands out from his side and managed a weak smile.

S 'Frau Becker, I am Willi Lehman."

She was on the verge of grabbing something to hit him

with, but relaxed a bit when he spoke. "Lehman?"

"I think number Seven was reserved for me. I knocked

at the front door but there was no answer. "

Those were the magic words. The tension faded from her

round face and she relaxed completely. "I was prepanng

your room. This way."

Carter followed her through a sitting room, small and

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36

colorless, crowded with heavy furniture. He couldn't help

but notice as she stopped to rummage in a chest that the

woman was equally colorless. She was probably no more

than thirty-five, but she lcx»ked ten years older. She was a

trifle on the heavy side, and her body had lost much of its

shape. Her wispy blond hair was pulled back on top of her

head and there was no makeup on her face.

From the chest she took an old Hasselblad camera in a

battered case, and motioned for Carter to follow her again.

They went up the stairs and down a dim hall. She opened

the door with a key and Carter followed her inside.

The room felt damp and mildewed by the recent heavy

rains. It was a simply furnished cubicle with a metal cot,

two wooden chairs, and a metal bureau painted to look like

wpod. There were no rugs on the bare wood floor.

She snappEd on a bare overhead bulb and turned to face

him. "AII right?"

"fine," he said nodding. s 'I don't know how to thank

you."

She shrugged. "It is my job. I will need your travel

permit. "

He passed it over and dropped his bag on the bed. "Were

you able to make a connection?"

She held up the camera. "It has been waiting to be put

to use for some time."

Crouching by a chair, she pulled a small screwdriver from

her apron pocket and removed the camera from the case.

Carefully she disassembled it to yield the aluminum frame

and cartridge clip of a 9mm Beretta. The center of the

telephoto lens was a seven-centimeter barrel that fitted neatly

into the frame. The lens itself was actually a baffled silencer.

Her hands moved swiftly, and in less than ten seconds

she held up the fully loaded pistol.

"You can reassemble it?"

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Carter nodded. ' 'I can."

"Good." She stood. rubbing the faint remnants of gun

oil onto her apron. "One of the boarders is named Grot.

Be careful how you talk to him at breakfast. He is MVD. I

will return your travel papers in the moming as soon as I

have reported them."

"This Grot, is he recent?"

"No, he has been here for some time, but he likes to

suspicious of everybody. Are you hungry?"

"Some liquor . . . beer?"

' 'No, just some sleep, thank you."

' 'All right." she said. dropping the key and the gun onto

the bed. "Good night."

She shut the door quietly behind her and Carter stretched

out. He lit one of the cigarettes from the crumpled pack and

smoked slowly, staring at the spider web of cracks in the

ceiling.

Tomorrow he would have his tooth filled.

It was a good thing that everyone. even dentists, worked

on Saturdays in the German Democratic Republic.


FIVE

Carter thought he would hit breakfast early the next mom-

ing before any of the other boarders.

He was wrong.

When he walked into the small dining room there were

already two men and a woman at the table. He took the

empty space. The other three looked up, muttered desultory

good mornings, and went back to their food.

The MVD man was easy to spot. He sat directly across

irom Carter and didn't disguise the studied looks he gave

the newcomer as he stuffed food into his mouth.

Frau Becker entered with a plate of sausages and eggs,

set it before the Killmaster, and scurried back to her kitchen.

He dug into the food.

marmalade, mein Herr?" the MVD man

"Butter .

said, passing the dish.

Carter took it and uttered a small diatribe about the quality

of urban food as opposed to the country fare he was used

to in his native Wittenberg. He was careful to keep his gram-

mar sloppy and his normal Berlin accent out of his speech.

This seemed to satisfy the MVD man. He finished his

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I

coffee, belched, and left the table. fie other man and woman

quickly followed.

Frau Becker brought Carter coffee. ' 'Ihat was very

good," she murmured as she bent near his ear. "Where did

you learn German dialects?"

"I didn't," Carter said with a smile. "Berliners know

only their own dialect. Anything different and the speaker

must be from the country. They don't know what part."

She laughed. "You'll return for supper?"

"It will depend . . . I doubt it."

She nodded knowingly and left. Carter finished his coffee

and walked through the foyer and out the front door. He

walked to the U-Bahn and took the train to Marx-Engels

Platz. From there he walked along the Spree to Vollner

Allee and found number 91.

It was a four-story building that, like so many others in

East Berlin, still showed signs of the war.

Dr. Walther Mueller had offices on the top floor, Carter

climbed the stairs and entered a Spartan reception room with

an old desk, a couple of plastic-covered chairs, and some

patriotic posters on the walls.

Behind the desk was a hefty woman in starchy whites

with mean eyes. "Ja2"

"I have an appointment with Dr. Mueller," Carter re-

plied, biting his tongue as he spoke, as if holding back the

pain in his jaw. "Willi Lehman."

"Ja. Shortly .. . sit."

Carter sat in one of the chairs and reached for his cigar-

ettes.

' 'Don't smoke. "

' 'Sorry."

In the States, Carter thought, she would make a good

Marine drill sergeant.

The wait was nearly an hour before an old woman, her

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cheeks swollen like a chipmunk's. came stumbling out and

the drill sergeant jerked a thumb toward the interior office.

Mueller was around sixty, a small man with rounded

shoulders, faded blue eyes, and stark white hair. He had

been a link in the courier chain since Double X had been

in operation. Before that he had handled other agents in the

"What seems to be the trouble, Herr Lehman?"

e 'I think I need a filling changed, Herr Doktor." Carter

opened his mouth wide and pointed to three separate teeth.

"I see. And how long have they been bothering you?"

"Oh, since about the seventeenth,"

Mueller smiled and Carter could see the relief in his eyes.

"Sit, please." He walked to the door. "Grundel?"

"Ja, Herr Dokror?"

"I won't tr going out to lunch. Could you run down the

street and pick up something?"

"Jc Herr Dokror. "

Caner could hear the outside door closing. and then Muel-

ler was above him, probing in his mouth with a pick.

"It is good to see you. We were afraid you would not

come."

"A lot of connections had to be made on short notice,"

Carter replied. "What's the situation?"

"There has been no further surveillance on Herr Dorst

and his wife in the past week, but they feel that means

nothing. Surveillance has been taken off their immediate

co-workers as well. "

*'And you, Doktor?"

"Nothing, If the Dorsts have been blown, there has been

no connection to me."

"But they still want out?" Carter asked.

The dentist nodded and sighed. "Yes. After so many

years, I don't blame them. ney are both getting on in years,

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and the strain is more each day. Now. since they have been

taken off two sensitive projects, one right after another,

they feel that the state police are narrowing down their list

of suspects. It will be only a matter of time."

"They are probably right," Carter agreed.

Peter and Ruperta Dorst had been in their middle twenties

at the end of the war. Both of them had been anti-Nazi.

which had thrown them into the Communist camp. From

their positions at the Berlin institute of Scientific Research,

they had fed intelligence to the Russians.

After the war they became research in East

Berlin. Ihey were loyal to their Russian bosses for years,

even after the Wall was erected. hen, slowly, their faith

fell apart. In the early seventies, hating what they saw was

happening to Germany, they turned. Since that time they

had funneled information to the West through Dr. Mueller

and the last link, Dieter Weist. a barman at the Deutsche

Staatsoper.

*Jhe railroad for the intelligence was simple. Once every

six weeks or two months. Frau or Herr Dorst would visit

the dentist. Both of them had a capped, hollow tooth. In

the tooth would be microdots. Mueller would remove them

from the hollow interior and replace them with empty ones.

A few days later, after a prearranged signal, Dieter Weist

would have an appointment. He would undergo the same

process. That night, or soon after, the contents of the tooth

would be passed to an operagoer from the West.

Ihe chain wasn't foolproof, but it was as secure as pos-

sible. Only Mueller knew about the other two links. Weist

knew nothing about the Dorsts. not even their code name.

The dentist was speaking again. "You have made all the

arrangements?"

"Yes," Carter replied. "We're flying out."

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"Monday night. Is that too scx)n?"

41


41

Mueller chuckled. "No. They would go tonight if they

could. Where do you want them to

"Do they still have the use of a state car and driver?"

"Yes."

"Good," Carter said. "Have them arrange for a car and

driver for Monday evening. They are to tell the dispatcher

that they are going to an evening of theater at the Maxim

Gorki."

"And .

"And I will take care ofthe rest. What is their address?' '

"They have a flat in the Ermeler Haus. Do you know it?'

Carter nodded. "In the Markisches?"

"Yes, Thirty-four. "

"When will you see them?"

' 'Tomorrow afternoon. There will be an outdoor wedding

in the Volkspark and a reception at the Palast Hotel. How

shall I tell them to recognize you?"

will bring flowers, and my code name will be Jeder-

mann."

Mueller repeated it and nodded. In the hall they heard

the clip of the receptionist's heels returning.

' 'What about you. Doktor?S' Carter whispered.

"Me?" He chuckled. "I will go on doing what I am

doing. Who knows? Maybe your people already have

another mouth that will need a hollow tooth. "

The woman walked in carrying a white sack. "Your

lunch, Herr Doktor. "

"Yes, good, thank you. It's a pity I am not too hungry

all of a sudden."

With a smile and a thank you, Carter left the office.

He had some lunch and played tourist the rest of the

afternoon. In the early evening he checked out the Mar-

kisches area and the Ermeler Haus. Around eight he had

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NICK CARTER

dinner in a little restaurant on Stalin Allee.

Figuring that if he had been watched he had more than

satisfied his tourist image. he found a little shop that had

some better whiskey than the usual Soviet brands. For a

small bribe, the owner produced a bottle of decent French

brandy. Armed with that and what passed for a newspaper

in East Berlin, Carter returned to Prisen Allee and his room.

About eleven. there was a light tap on the door. Carter

eased from the bed and put his lips close to it. "Yes?"

"It is me, Frau Becker."

Carter cracked the door and she slid through.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I saw Grot coming out of your room," she replied.

"Does he suspect me?"

don't think so," she replied. "He just likes to think

he's doing his job. But I was worried about the camera."

Carter smiled. "l had it with me."

"Good," she said, her shoulders relaxing. "l think he

would be too stupid to figure it out. but one never knows.

Do you need anything?"

"No, everything is fine. It's a waiting game now. I'll

definitely be leaving the day after tomorrow. "

"Good yes, good."

Carter could sense there was something more from the

way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the

way her eyes darted around the room.

"What is it, Frau Becker?"

"My brother . . . in the West . .

"Yes?"

"He is ill, very ill. We are very close. I have not seen

him for three years. Would there be any chance . . . '

Carter felt a sinking in his gut. How could he tell her

that her value was here, that they didn't wam her on the

other side? How could he explain that a hundred Frau Bec-

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kers were not worth the trouble it took to take out one Frau

Dorst?

"I'm sorry, Frau Becker. it is impossible."

Her eyes began to fill with tears. She turned her face

from his so he wouldn't see it.

"Of course, I understand."

Silently, she moved to the door and let herself out.

Carter stretched across the bed and drank brandy directly

from the bottle.

Dieter Weist shrugged into his jacket and left the opera

house by the stagehands' exit. The darkness was made worse

by the presence of a damp and chilling fog.

Weist was tired. They had run him to death that night.

There had been some scenery trouble backstage, and the

intervals had been double the nomal length.

He was also tense. What was going on? Mueller had told

him only that someone was coming over. He had set up the

locker the previous evening as he had been told, and found

it exactly the same when he had cleaned it out tonight.

Had someone come over? And if he had, what for?

Mueller had warned him the last two times to be extra

careful. Why? Was the chain compromised? Were they get-

ting close?

It angered him. If he was about to go up against the wall,

he wanted to know about it.

As he left the lighted square, taking his usual shortcut to

the U-Bahn station, the fog became thicker, the visibility

down to about twenty feet. All he could see was an occa-

sional vehicle and, at times, the shadowy outline of passing

pedestrians in the muted blur of widely spaced streetlamps.

At the end of the street he could see the dim light of an

outside phone booth. He was near the U-Bahn.

Just past the telephone, a man appeared out of the fog.

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NICK CARTER

"Mein Herr, have you a match?"

Weist patted his pockets and found his lighter. He flicked

it, held it to the man's face. and felt the muzzle of a pistol

in the center of his gut.

"The car. this way. The door is open."

The gun was transferred to his side and the grip on his

elbow was like a vise.

"There," the man hissed, his face so close that Weist

could smell his dinner on his breath.

Weist was thrown into the rear of the car, the pistol still

pressed to his side. Already in the car was a small, wizened

man with a mustache that couldn't hide a deformed upper lip.

"What's going on here?" Weist demanded, realizing it

was a futile question. Whatever the answer. he knew he

could do nothing about it.

"I am Captain Negatov," said the little man with the

mustache.

The moment the man gave his name and rank identifying

him as a Russian. Weist knew it was over. The next words

were only sound in his numbed brain.

' 'You are under arrests Herr Weist."


SIX

Weist sat in a straight-backed chair darting his eyes from

one man, Negatov, to the other, the one who had shoved

the gun in his belly and piloted him to the car. He was a

big, bullet-headed man with heavy-knuckled hands.

Negatov had called him Metzger. It fit. He looked like

a butcher,

Police, Weist thought, come in all shades. There were

the loudmouths who sought to break you with shouted con-

fusion, a right-hand swing with fury their only alternative.

Then there were the subtle ones, dangerous with false de-

cency. ney were the "Tell me the truth, son, and I'll do

what I can for you" types.

Weist figured that between these two he had the entire

specu•um.

Negatov tapped a cigarette on the face of his watch and

placed it between his grotesque lips. He lit it and drew the

smoke in with an exaggerated sucking noise.

"Your full name?"

"Dieter Albrecht Weist." The routine was stylized to

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NICK CARTER

stupidity. Though they had a file on you an inch thick, they

always started with your name.

"Where do you live?" The cigarette burned steadily as

Negatov settled his buttocks on the edge of the desk.

"Number Seven Eisen Platz, apartment Four." Weist

replied, carefully keeping his hands relaxed on the wooden

arms of the chair.

"You know why you're here. of course, Weist."

"I know nothing."

Ihe room was silent, the labored clanking of a typewriter

somewhere nearby clear. The KGB captain moved behind

his desk to straddle his chair and lean his chin on its back.

' 'Herr Weist, we know you have used your job at the opera

to pass information to an agent of the West. We know that

information comes through a cutout, and that it has a high

scientific classification."

Weist didn't reply.

"Strip him, search him."

The giant attacked him and in minutes Weist was standing

in the middle of the room stark naked. Metzger went to

work with a studied thoroughness. He searched the band of

Weist's collar, the lining of his tie. his pockets. When that

came up empty. a knife was employed and the clothes were

cut to shreds. Next came the shoes. The heels were pried

off. as well as the soles, and they were cut into pieces.

Then a small, weasel-faced man entered the room wearing

surgical rubber gloves, and the ultimate hiding place was

probed.

They searched everywhere but Weist•s mouth.

His body was covered with perspiration when he again

took his seat.

Negatov sighed wearily, ' 'We have two men searching

your apartment. If we find nothing there, HeiT Weist, we

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will have to intensify this interrogation. It could be a very

long night. "

have nothing to say."

The big man drove the heel of his hand into Weist's jaw.

It landed flush. snapping his head to one side and almost

driving him off the chair. Weist tried to get his shoulders

up to protect his jaw. The interference only enraged the big

man and he swung with all his might.

Weist reeled to his feet, trying to turn away. The floor

slanted with him and he went down, He was on his knees

and elbows with his forehead to the floor.

Negatov got into the act. He came around the desk and

kicked Weist alongside the head with a force that drove him

back to a kneeling position. Then he kicked him again to

send him sprawling with his back against the wall.

"Well, Herr Weist?"

"l am loyal to my country," Weist mumbled as blood

poured from his lips.

The big man siezed him by the hair and dragged him.

He lifted him halfway to his feet and drove a knee to his

belly, sending Weist reeling toward the desk. He struck it,

falling, its edge in the small of his back.

The two men watching, grinning.

Weist got an elbow on the desk and lifted himself to lean

against it. The effort brought pain like a knife lancing

through his brain. It made him blind and dizzy. As he waited

for it to pass he tasted the salty blood in his mouth. His

nose was bleeding and his chest was red and gummy from

blood.

Negatov was speaking. "Take him below to one of the

interrogation rooms. Have the doctor examine him and pre-

pare the drugs."

The giant approached him.

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Weist stocxi quite still, watching the blood form on the

tip of his nose and drip to the floor.

He was trcoming increasingly light-headed.

His first thought was that it was from a loss of blood.

But it wasn't. It was the beginning of a seizure. He could

feel it, and knew that the excitement and the txating had

brought it on.

Drugs, Negatov had said.

That brought a smile to Weises mangled lips.

If they used drugs, he would die before they would learn

anything.

Dieter Weist withdrew his head into his shoulders and

willed the pain to subside in his body.

He knew that his nose was broken, and he was pretty

sure he had several broken ribs. Through the mist before

his eyes he could see his naked body and the purplish welts

on his legs from the cigarette burns. He could only feel

where they had burned his scrotum.

He wondered if they would use electricity next.

"It's really a shame, Weist, that you are a diabetic. If

we could use drugs on you, it would be much easier on all

of us."

Slowly Dieter Weist raised his head. The image of the

small, dark-skinned KGB captain slowly came into focus.

"l know nothing. 'Ihis is all a mistake."

"You are a fool, Weist."

Captain Igor Negatov pulled his chair closer, the legs

grating over the rough floor. His face was so close that

Weist could smell the staleness of his breath.

"Who is Double X, Weist? We know it is a man and

woman team. What are their identities?"

' 'I don't know. I have never heard of Double X. 'i'

Negatov was silent for a minute, carefully lighting another

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cigarette from the glowing tip of the first one. He inhaled

and coughed, the deep cough of a heavy smoker.

"You are a courier or a cutout, Weist. Who do you get

your information from and who do you pass it on to?"

When Weist didn't reply, the buming tip of the cigarette

was applied to his stomach. From somewhere there was a

blood-curdling scream. It was several seconds before Weist

realized that it was his own voice. screaming in pain.

S *How do you get your information and how do you pass

it along?"

No reply.

This time the tip of the cigarette was applied to his left

nipple. The whole world was pain now, white, hot, burning

pain.

"A drop!" he cried out. "I pick it up from a drop!"

"A call box . . . in Stalin Allee."

' 'You're lying, Weist. We know you passed three days

ago. We were watching you for three days prior to that.

You never went near a call box in Stalin Allee. "

Weist smiled inwardly. He had never gone near Herr

Doktor Mueller in that time either. He had gotten his instruc-

tions to ready the locker by phone, the first time that the

dentist had ever called him. And he had passed the word

to the West on his own that all was in readiness for the

This time the cigarette caressed his right nipple.

He screamed again, but no words escaped his lips.

And then he passed out.

Negatov stood, cursing in disgust.

"Revive him, keep him awake. What time is it?"

"Just past dawn, around six."

am going to sleep for two hours. Then we will start

again."

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Carter was crawling up out of sleep when he sensed the

door opening. He slitted his eyes and tensed his muscles,

ready to spring.

It was Frau Becker, and the expression on her face told

him something was wrong.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting up in bed.

"I don't know. A phone call just came for you. It was

a man."

"He asked for Lehman?"

She nodded. "He called me by name and told me to tell

Herr Lehman that his tickets would be ready early. He said

you should pick them up at ten this morning. Do you under-

"Only t(X) well," Carter replied, sliding quickly from

the bed and reaching for his pants.

Something had gone wrong. 'Ihe message meant that Dr.

Mueller wanted a meeting with him. They were not to meet

again unless something urgent came up that would interfere

with the next evening's escape.

Five minutes later. Carter was on the street.

Carter took the U-Bahn to the Volkspark stop. Above

ground, he crossed the parking lot and headed for the swim-

ming pool.

Sunday morning picnickers were already spreading their

food out on blankets beneath the trees.

He topped a hill and spotted the bathhouse, a large stone

building with a collage of turrets, arches, and towers. From

beyond it he could hear the shrieking of children at play in

the pool.

He descended stone steps to a white gravel path lined

with flowers. Following the path, he walked beh;nd an im-

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