# The Dubrovnik Massacre

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THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All

rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-

tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-

lisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An Ace Charter Original.

"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast

Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-

fice.

First Ace Charter Printing July 1981

Published simultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

2468097531


****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******

(6 of 260)

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THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All

rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-

tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-

lisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An Ace Charter Original.

"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast

Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-

fice.

First Ace Charter Printing July 1981

Published simultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

2468097531


****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******

(6 of 260)

110%

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All

rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-

tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-

lisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An Ace Charter Original.

"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast

Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-

fice.

First Ace Charter Printing July 1981

Published simultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

2468097531


****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******

(6 of 260)

110%

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All

rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-

tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-

lisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An Ace Charter Original.

"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast

Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-

fice.

First Ace Charter Printing July 1981

Published simultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

2468097531


****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******

(6 of 260)

110%

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

Copyright @ 1981 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc. All

rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quota-

tions in a review, without permission in writing from the pub-

lisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An Ace Charter Original.

"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of The Condé Nast

Publications, Inc., registered in the United States Patent Of-

fice.

First Ace Charter Printing July 1981

Published simultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

2468097531


PROLOGUE

"Dusan, you have not let me down. They told

me you would refuse to come."

"It's our country I intend not to let down, Josip.

Your bureaucrats and lackeys tell me it is urgent. "

"You are bitter, Dusan. I put you into prison.

You were always loyal, but you strutted around

like a little tin god rubbing our noses in our fail-

ings. If the Stalinists had won, they would have de-

stroyed both you and our freedom."

"They won when you won, my marshal."

' 'For fifty years I have kept our nation strong,

independent—

"And what have you achieved? You are as bad

as they are. Only the face is different ... What do

you want?"

"l ask that you bury your bitterness and act to

save our country. I don't ask your forgiveness."

"Save our country? It's always been your coun-

try. I thought my marshal had already saved his

country."

"Dusan, listen to me. A conspiracy has reached

into the highest circles. They will seize power when

I die. There is a timetable—sabotage, civil unrest,

bloody riots between our many nationalities.

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Chaos. The Red Army will roll over our borders

and—"

"That is fantasy. Your mind is going, Josip.

They would love an excuse to invade us. They have

never forgiven you for taking Yugoslavia out of the

Eastern bloc. But for the moment they have no ex-

cuse."

"They will be invited."

"By whom? No one wants them."

"Do you know Deijer?"

"One of your hand-picked successors?"

"He is one."

"Impossible! Even we dissidents would have a

hard time believing him a traitor."

"Let me explain. He is not KGB, he is a 'con-

trolled one.' There are others at the highest levels.

KGB has used them to place agents everywhere, in

OZNA, the army, the Party They will as-

sassinate the honest patriots and call in the Red

Army to restore order."

"Josip, if you had fought the Stalinists openly,

fairly, this would not have happened. They had no

mass support. You drove them underground with

your phony trials and purges. But I can't believe

Deijer—

"Blackmail."

"Proof, Dusan, proof they collaborated with the

Nazis. The Stalinist group CRML found out a few

years after I threw out the Russians. They've been

working with the KGB to blackmail them for

years."

"Josip, are you sure? How do you know?"

"Eduard."

"Surely not!"

' 'He was one, too, I'm afraid. But he confessed


3

to me. Copies of the documents are still buried in

the mountains. The Nazis had a secret intelligence

post there. Eduard gave me a map. You must get

these papers and publish them. You are the only

one who I can be sure is not one of them. It is up

to you. Gatheryour friends and fight. I will not live

to see the week begin again. "

"I am old, too, Josip. walk strangely. Your

guards laughed when the legs they broke were set

wrong. They also broke my hands. . . .

And my

wife? What about Maria?"

"That wasn't my doing."

"You had her murdered as a warning."

"They exceeded their orders. They were pun-

ished very severely. "

"Did it bring her back! You only made more

widows. Josip, I know you. You do not love our

country as much as your reputation. You will ap-

pear a fool if the Red Army crushes us after you

die. "

"They will kill you and your friends, Dusan."

"I can always flee to the West."

"You won't do that. I know you, Dusan. Here is

a complete pardon. Here is the map. If you do this

I will issue a statement endorsing you and your

friends and commending our country into your

hands."

"Josip, I love our country, but spare me your

phony promises. "

"Dusan, for once be practical! Alone, you and

your intellectual friends have little chance."

"Practical?"

' 'You have Western contacts. Use them. When

the time comes, eliminate them or throw them

out."

"I have no such contacts."


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NICK CARTER

f' You will have to bring them in. Just ask for

'Western technicians.' They'll know what you

mean."

"But I don't know anyone!"

"Go see Andrej. He works for them."

"One standard for your son-in-law, but all oth-

ers are shot."

"Bah! You will never understand, Dusan. You

are a worthless, useless, stiff-backed idealist. Yot

have no practicality."

"It's this useless, worthless idealist you are ask-

ing to save your country."

"Dusan, the Red Army will destroy everything.

The Americans will do anything to keep them from

having Mediterranean ports. Don't try and prove

how hardheaded you are.

"Remember in the mountains when we fought

side by side? You were the one I always had in

mind as my successor. But you are stubborn. If we

don't get help. . . Promise me, Dusan, promise me

I will make my statement."

"We are both old, my marshal. Maybe . . . I am

tired. My idealism runs cooler. It has faded with

time just as . . . I fear I shall be joining you before

the year—

"Your answer, Dusan, your answer!"

"You are answered, Josip."


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CHAPTER 1

It was one of those spring days when Washing-

ton looks like the most beautiful city on earth.

There aren't many. It takes a lot of beauty to

overwhelm the odor of power and money that per-

vades the city like an unfragrant fog. It would be

my luck to spend this particular day indoors at

AXE headquarters on Dupont Circle.

It was a day of being poked and prodded, a day

of medical tests to see if the body still functioned,

psychological tests to see if the brain still had its

gearing. It was a day of forms and questionnaires,

arguments about expenses with accountants who

had never even seen the wrong end of a .22, a day

of requisitions and vouchers. They checked every-

thing thoroughly, but what worried them most was

the shoulder and the brain.

I've seen a lot of men take a bullet, and that day

it had been my turn—a .38 slug at point-blank

range in the right shoulder. Nick Carter, AXE

Killmaster, had taken a slug in Nairobi. My life

was never in danger, but my work was. It took four

operations to get that shoulder up to Killmaster

specifications.

They sent me to the doctor in Houston, the one

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NICK CARTER

who patches up potentates and dictators. He told

me AXE's finest doctors were butchers, but the guy

truly had magic fingers. I watched the operation

from a mirror he had rigged up. The Houston doc-

tor had greasy glasses, and even through his hospi-

tal gown he reeked of expensive Havana cigars. His

idea of operating-room chatter was tales of his sex-

ual conquests. He liked butterball blondes with big

breasts. It didn't take away from his work one bit.

When he got through, the shoulder worked.

They were also worried about the brain. At AXE

they don't call it going nuts, they call it crossing the

line. They are always afraid that one of us might

begin to enjoy the work too much and go into

private practice. Going into private practice hap-

pened in Nairobi, but it wasn't me. I tool: a bullet

from a "friend." *Ihe shrinks thought I'd go nuts

over that. They've never been in the field. If I go

nuts it will be because I have had to put up with

one shrink too many.

I was happier than hell when they finally ushered

me into Hawk's office late in the afternoon. Theo-

retically, it's the managing editor's office of the

Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. But what

my boss, David Hawk, actually does is manage

AXE. There's only one man in the country he re-

ports to.

I wondered what was up. I had "accidentally"

run into one of my language instructors in the

hallway. We just "happened" to strike up a con-

versation in Serbo-Croatian. I figured I was headed

for Yugoslavia, and that didn't seem so bad. Yugo-

slavia has a secret police, OZNA, but compared to

• KGB they are almost sweethearts. Besides, I liked

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Yugoslavia. I even liked the marshal, who was not

a bad tyrant as tyrants went. Also, if there is any

language I speak absolutely like a native in four or

five dialects, it is Serbo-Croatian.

Hawk wasn't home. They told me he would be

with me in a•minute. That wasn't like him, but the

office was the same. Everything was exactly where

I remembered it. Even the chair I sat in felt the

same. The office smelled, not faintly, of Hawk's

cheap cigars.-l took out one of my gold mono-

grammed cigarettes and lit up. I hadn't been smok-

ing much lately. Slows the recovery.

When Hawk came in, he looked as wiry and

tough as ever. And I thought then, as I have often

thought: I have never seen a man his age keep him-

self in better shape. But if he looked the same, his

manner was different. Hawk was definitely upset.

He paced back and forth behind his desk like a

father expecting quintuplets. I had seen him wor-

ried during an operation when everything was

going wrong, but I had never seen him this way

before an operation had even begun. He said noth-

ing for a couple of minutes. Then he stopped be-

hind his desk and looked at me coldly.

"Okay, N3, stand up." I got up but I was un-

easy.

"Let's see Hugo." There was some embarrass-

ment in his voice.

Hugo is my stiletto. With a flick of my wrist

Hugo slid out of his sheath on my left arm and into

my hand. As a bonus I pulled back my coat and

showed him Wilhelmina, my 9mm luger, tucked

under my left armpit. I didn't show him Pierre, the

small gas bomb taped to my thigh. But not because

I was shy. I knew why he had asked about Hugo.


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NICK CARTER

Hawk figured I could fool the doctors but knew I

would never carry Hugo where I couldn't reach

him quickly, even in AXE's office.

"Okay, N3, sit down." Hawk sat down, too, but

on the edge of his chair, like a kid watching an ad*

venture movie. "You're too damn patriotic for

your own good, N3. I can't send you on this one

with a clipped wing." He paused a minute. "Have

you heard of Dusan Ankevic?"

Ankevic was the Yugoslav dissident who had

once been the marshal's right-hand man. He had

broken with the old man in 1950 over the lack of

human rights, and had been in and out of the

marshal's prisons ever since.

"Yes, sir," I said. "Even read one of his books

once."

"I suppose you're as impressed with this guy as

everyone else. Don't see it myself. Damn plaster

saint, although

Hawk gestured to a cable,

which he placed on his desk.

"Well, he is tough," I said. "They broke his

hands so he couldn't write. He kept writing. Broke

his legs, killed his wife. But I don't think—

"You're going to say they never broke Ankevic.

Am I right?" Hawk interrupted.

I started to reply, but Hawk began again. "He is

a pacifist, right? You seem to know a lot about

him, N3."

"Well, not absolutely nonviolent, but he certain-

ly wouldn't have anything to do with the likes of

us."

Hawk permitted himself a grin, but only for a

moment.

"He just has. He approached a CIA contact in

Belgrade a few days ago and said he needs the help

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"That surprises me, sir. He is as rigid about

keeping Yugoslavia out of the hands of the East or

West as the marshal. Are they sure it was actually

Ankevic?"

' 'Ihe Coripäny's contact has known him per-

sonally for years. Ankevic went to the CIA."

"It still surprises me, sir."

"It surprises everyone, N3. It surprises the

Man." My ears pricked up at the mention of the

Man; they're supposed to. It tells me how high up

the matter has gone.

Hawk went on. "Ankevic couldn't just want out,

since he could easily leave. They would be glad to

be rid of him. The answer is obvious, or so they tell

me. The old boy wants to settle a few scores. He

wants somebody killed. What else could 'Western

technician' mean? He doesn't want a computer

programmer, for Christ's sake!"

"That doesn't sound like him, sir."

"Actually, I agree with you, N3. But the bright

boys can't think of anything else. But there is

something else. About a week ago he had a secret

meeting with the Fox."

' 'The marshal, sir?"

"Yes."

"As stubborn as both men are, it's hard to believe

they got together just to talk about old times. That

meeting cost them both a lot of pride."

"l think you're right. " He paused for several sec-

onds and looked at his cable again. "I am con-

vinced something ominous has happened. You see,

I have been watching the Fox closely. As long as

the Fox wasn't worried about what happened when

he kicked off, neither was I. Nick, about ten days

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NICK CARTER

ago, very suddenly, the Fox got worried. I won't go

into the details, but it looked for a while like he had

another purge up his sleeve. Then suddenly he

stopped dead in his tracks, like he knew his plans

wouldn't work. For two long days he did nothing.

Then he called Ankevic and set up the meeting. He

must have learned something so dangerous to Yu-

goslavia that he was forced to call his oldest and

most bitter enemy for help. That's my analysis. The

damn thing is I'm also convinced the Company

had the meeting bugged and is holding out on us."

"Why would they do that, sir?"

"I'll explain in a minute, N3. But maybe some

background on the conflict would help.

"I have followed the Fox's career for years. He is

the last of the great ones from World War II.

Churchill, Roosevelt, De Gaulle, Stalin—they're

all dead. Only the Fox remains. Now he's on his

death bed. There is a lot of talk about resistance

movements, but the Fox's partisans were the best.

They killed more Nazis than the rest of the re-

sistance groups put together. Why, the Fox tied

down twelve crack German divisions in Yugo-

slavia. But, hell, you know most of this."

He started pacing back and forth, his hands

clasped behind his back.

I did, but I listened respectfully as Hawk

warmed to his subject. I knew what the Fox meant

to him. He had stood up for the Fox years ago

when it wasn't popular. The Company had even

tried to label him a Commie sympathizer and it

had almost cost him his career. But Hawk didn't

know I knew the story. Besides, I respect the fact

that Hawk explains things to his men. Some of the

bright boys treat us like dogs; we're supposed to

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

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chomp whoever they point at and not ask ques-

tions.

Hawk lit up a new cigar and began puffing away

with obvious satisfaction. "The Fox is a Commie,

of course, Put he's a patriotic Commie. By 1948 he

was fed Stalin and the Red Army, so he

kicked them out. They have never, never forgiven

him. Now that he's about to kick off, it's the Sovi-

ets' big chance to undo everything the Fox did to

them and also gain ports in the Mediterranean.

The whole balance of power in Europe would shift

in their favor.

"There has been a battle in government for years

about how we should deal with the Fox. I took one

side, the Company the other. I have always re-

spected the Fox, even •though he's a Commie. I

have always argued that we should leave him

alone. How these fools in the Company think they

can teach the Fox any tricks, I don't know. It's like

a bunch of damn grasshoppers deciding they can

teach a lion to roar. Why, the Fox has kicked more

KGB personnel in the ass than all the Western in-

telligence agencies pot together. The idiots never

understood the Fox. Everyone admires Ankevic; it

would be hypocritical for the head of the AXE to

admire him too. Hell, the Fox is the one I admire.

"Anyway, I argued that we should leave the

Fox's succession to the Fox. Keep our paws off.

And, N3, the Man sided with me."

"Sounds like a fairy-tale ending," I said.

"That's just it. It didn't end there. The Company

wanted this one. bad, but he gave it to us. Bad

blood. The Company says we're an anachronism.

They want us either cut back or brought under

their wing. They implied we were a bunch of thugs.

NICK CARTER


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NICK CARTER

Hell, at least when we kill somebody we get the

right person. You know they tried to kill Ankevic

themselves years ago and blamed it on the Fox.

Claimed the Fox was going to have him murdered

anyway. Killed some poor slob in the Yugoslav

foreign office by mistake. Damn it, Nick, they get

more people killed in one of their stupid coups

than we've murdered in thirty years.

"l'm way out on a limb on this one, N3. The

Man is generous but unforgiving. If the Red Army

comes rolling into Yugoslavia after I convinced

him to leave well enough alone, it will be the end of

AXE. The Company is just waiting for our number

to be up. One thing is certain. You're not going to

get any help on this one. The Company is going to

play hardball. Stay away from Company per-

sonnel. In fact, stay away from AXE personnel.

You're going in there solo and you're going in

there blind. I'll give you a couple of names and

numbers, but that's it."

"l understand," I said.

"I thought you would, N3, which is why I've

chosen you. It looks like a tough one."

The feud with the Company didn't surprise me

all that much. There is no man in the world I ad-

mire more than David Hawk. He is a great leader.

But put him in a committee meeting and he turns

into an animal. It's kill or be killed. He has no

more mercy for the CIA than for the KGB. If they

make a mistake he rubs their noses in it. Hawk has

made enemies.

"Why not send in a dozen agents?" I asked.

"That's just it. The Man himself has spoken. A

direct order. Ankevic asked for only one man. We

send only one man. We must show respect. The

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Man thinks that plaster puffball is the next best

thing to cream cheese. You know how he gets

about this human rights stuff. It's a damn ob-

session with him. No, Nick, you're it."

"I can handle it."

"You're walking into a killing ground. It's not

just OZNA and KGB. There is a secret Stalinist

group, CRML. And there's a bunch of neo-Nazis

who call themselves the Blood of Croatia. We have

unconfirmed reports they are planning to as-

sassinate dissidents and liberals. Oh, one last thing.

The Fox wouldn't have gone to Ankevic unless he

had just one shot. That's all you'll have, N3, one

shot. Fail, and Yugoslavia goes."

"I have a friend in the Company, sir. Perhaps I

could get a copy—"

"l don't want to know about it, N3. That's up to

you."

Hawk got up and went to his safe. In a minute he

was back, file in hand. He handed me the file and

an airline ticket. The file didn't have much in it,

background and details of the meeting. There were

photos of Ankevic. He looked as impressive as the

biography made him sound: lean, ascetic face;

high, broad forehead; chiseled mouth. The later

photos showed the pain. He had been hurt in the

Fox's prisons, hurt badly. The details of the meet-

ing were very bad; obviously they were amateurs. I

didn't complain. I leave complaining to accoun-

tants.

I gave Hawk back the file and kept the ticket. I

was leaving for Belgrade that evening. Hawk

walked around in front of his desk. He stood less

than a foot from me.

"You know not to get taken alive, N3; you have

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NICK CARTER

your capsule for that. On this mission, though, you

can't afford to be taken dead either. The Man

doesn't want these dissidents discredited. I prom-

ised him it wouldn't happen." He took a small ob-

ject in his hand, a bomb only slightly larger than

Pierre. "If it looks like the end of the line, take this

in both hands and hold it up to your face." He

showed me how to use it.

"Anti-identification grenade?"

"Yeah," he said grimly. No fingerprints, no den-

tal work. It's powerful. Probably won't be any-

thing left of you bigger than an eyeball. But it's

best to use it the right way."

"I won't hesitate."

"Good. I want you to use this thing even if

you're in a room filled with schoolchildren. " Hawk

then casually dropped the bomb into my lap and

walked back behind his desk.

"What will you call this one?" he said.

"Waldo, I think, sir. I use him to shoot the

whole wad."

"Sounds good. One more thing. Apparently

Ankevic has this thing against smoking. Brother

died of lung cancer. Took a long time going. Can

you give it up for the duration?"

"l did it when I took a bullet in the lung."

"Good. Many men would die for their country

but wouldn't give up their smoking habit for it."

He reached out his hand. "Good luck, N3."

"I'll keep the Fox's handiwork together," I said

as I left. But he was already lost in thought and

didn't appear to hear me.


CHAPTER 2

I made my way out of AXE offices as quickly as

I could. To the staff these offices are a kind of

home—familiar, reassuring, secure. To me they are

just rooms. I have never been behind most of the

closed doors. Most of the faces are new, sleek, self-

satisfied. Only the security checks are exactly as

they have always been.

The world outside looked great, green and new,

yet mellow in the late-afternoon light. But right

then I had a phone call to make, quickly. *Ihat I

walked three blocks to a drugstore pay phone be-

fore doing so is a tribute to those new faces at AXE

headquarters. I called Jerry Goldstein, a friend

who worked for the Company. Jerry worked just

four blocks from AXE. I had never met him there.

Jerry and I traded information. It's not strictly

Kosher, but then both Jerry and I preferred staying

alive to playing by the rules.

Luckily, Jerry was in. I told him what I needed.

He wasn't sure he could get it, but wanted me to

meet him right away anyway. He was worried. He

wouldn't say why, even though his phone had a

scrambler on it. He said something about my not

getting mad about the money they said I owed on

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NICK CARTER

the car. I didn't owe any money. I said thanks and

hung up. In the movies everything is always clear;

for a Killmaster it seldom is. I didn't know how far

the Company would go.

Most people have no idea how sleazy it gets a

few blocks from the White House. We were to meet

a dozen blocks east and north at a porno theater.

The neighborhood is bad. But there are a lot of

middle-class guys on the street because of all the

action that goes on. It was a nice day. I decided to

walk over. Besides, I couldn't take my car, not with

the Company being involved. AXE would take

care of the car after I was out of town. I cut across

town feeling pretty good.

When I arrived at the theater Jerry wasn't there.

took my usual seat and waited. nere was much

huffing and puffing up on the screen, and the ac-

tors looked like they might be enjoying it. As far as

I could see, they might as well have been sawing

wood. I waited. The next film was no better. And

the color quality was worse. Jerry had still not

shown. That wasn't like him. I slipped out the side

exit to the vacant lot in back of the theater that we

use as a back-up spot. I had a bad feeling. Friend

Jerry was there, all right, lying face down. His

whole back was becoming one red stain. I reached

down and touched him. He was still warm, but

there was no pulse. His pistol was gone and so was

his wallet. I checked his suit pockets; there were

no papers. Things don't work out like in the

movies.

I walked down the block and phoned the cops.

It was safest now to stay on foots I walked over

to the Capitol building, then turned and walked

down the mall toward the Washington Monument.

The trees were just as green and pretty as before

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Jerry got blown away. I had about half an hour

until AXE agents dropped me a "secure" car

aiound the block from the State Department, the

area they call foggy bottom.

I stopped on the grassy knoll at the base of the

Washington& Monument. I thought of the kind of

patriotism Jerry represented. I paused a moment,

then walked down the hill to Constitution Avenue.

Patriotism leads you to strange places. I waited for

the stop light. It's always hard to get across Con-

stitution Avenue at rush hour, even for a Kill-

master.

A few minutes later, I reached the car, parked

just where it was supposed to be, across Twenty-

first Street and Virginia Avenue. There are many

degrees of secure cars and this was the most secure

AXE had. It was an old 1969 Chevy Malibu,

picked to be inconspicuous. L started to walk

around to the driver's side. On the way I glanced at

the hood. I didn't bother getting in. Every once in

a while the Company surprises you. I still don't

know if they killed Jerry, but this was a message to

AXE, loud and clear. The car was shot up and use-

less.

I looked around. There was nothing to see. I

started walking. A couple of blocks away I tossed

the useless key into a street drain. I headed for the

subway, hoping this was the last surprise of my

Washington stay. I don't like subways, but they're

easier for losing people than a taxi. As subways go,

Washington's is not bad, more like San Francisco's

BART than like New York's ugly system.

I walked out of the station and into a brief thun-

derstorm. By the time I had walked two blocks my

jacket and shoes had been washed clean and the

rain had stopped.

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Her name was Roberta Ann Fixx. The name

doesn't fit, which is why everybody calls her Straw-

berry. She is sweet, succulent like her name, but

there is another reason for long,

strawberry-blond hair. Her skin is as white and

translucent as a painted Madonna's, but freckled

lightly like some delicate bird's egg. She is what the

French call une femme honnéte—an honest wom-

an—and I respect her for it. She works as a secre-

tary during the day for some do-gooder outfit that

pays worse than the Feds. With her beautiful ass

and her long, strawberry-blond hair she could earn

a thousand dollars a night on the diplomatic party

circuit; but that's not her style. Truckers are her

style, truckers and, although she doesn't know it,

Killmasters.

She lives only a few blocks from where I got off

the subway, across from Rock Creek Park. You

can believe how I hurried. My hands were shaking

by the time I reached the door. Strawberry is so

beautiful that men have died before she got around

to slipping off her panties. I had a problem though:

I was running late. We had time for dinner but not

for loving.

We had a long-standing reservation to Washing-

ton's fine French restaurant San Souci, only a

block from the White House. Strawberry had been

looking forward to eating there "forever." We had

to hurry.

I was an hour late, and she was not ready. Wom-

en are never ready. She looked gorgeous. All she

had on was a short slip with matching pale-blue

panties, like you see in those expensive lingerie ads.

I explained we had to hurry, I had a plane to catch.

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

19


19

No time for loving, only for Sans Souci. She had

wanted to go there a long time. "Forget it," she

said. She smiled. Sometimes when she smiles I

think she has ten thousand teeth, all beautiful. She

plopped down on the end of her pale-blue silk quilt

on her bed ahd crossed her legs underneath her.

She motioned me over. I said we would have to

hurry. She said, "Don't worry." That was all she

said in the next two hours that bears repeating.

She undid my belt and gently brushed her long,

tapered fingers across the fly of my pants. She

tossed back her long, strawberry-blond hair and

looked up at me. Her eyes were ten shades bluer

than her panties. She unzipped my pants and ran

two fingers along the bulge in my briefs. I could see

the window, reflected in the mirror above her head.

I saw a double reflection; the stars were rising high

in the east and so was Nick Carter. I saw her lovely

pink tongue between her beautiful teeth. Like Sans -

Souci her appetizers were as delicious as the main

courses.

Strawberry likes her loving the way she likes her

work: hard, fast, and efficient. She likes to turn out

page after page. Now there are only so many pages

a man, any man, can turn out in two hours, but I

was sure I broke the record. Afterward, she drove

me to Dulles International, which was really sweet

because that little honey looked tired.

On the plane I slept deeply; I always do on

planes. Something about the movement, the hum

of the engines relaxes me. But something about

Strawberry's movement had relaxed me, too.


CHAPTER 3

I have logged more hours than most pilots; I en-

joy flying. The next day, two hours out of Belgrade

watching the French landscape near Paris slide by

forty-thousand feet below, I could not have felt

better. I had just finished a great meal, almost

equal to the one I missed at Sans Souci. After the

-last of the Chåteau Lafite 1974, a great Bordeaux,

but a modest vintage so the accountants wouldn't

raise eyebrows, I smoked my last cigarette and

checked my passport.

I was traveling as a Belgian businessman,

French-speaking, though I speak Flemish well

enough. I like traveling on a Belgian passport. Ev-

eryone has heard of Belgium, and nobody has any-

thing against it. Some of the most troublesome

people in the world—police, border guards, cus-

toms officials—aren't exactly sure where it is. My

cover was that of a textile importer looking into

possible deals with Yugoslav mills. It gave me an

excuse to be almost anywhere in the country.

Yugoslavia is a country of mountains, rugged

highlands, and spectacular coasts. There are fifteen

different ethnic groups, all of them industrious and

intelligent, but they have also been killing each oth-

20

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

21


21

er off for the last two thousand years. Balkan na-

tionalism makes the Hatfields and McCoys sound

like a do-gooder's bedtime story.

Serbs and Croats are the two largest ethnic

groups. Both speak the same language, but the

Serbs call it'SZrbo-Croatian and use the Cyrillic

alphabet, while the Croats call it Croat-Serbian

and use the Roman script. They can't even agree

what to call their language or what alphabet to use.

Most of the other thirteen groups hate the lan-

guage, whatever it's called, however it's written.

They were still murdering each other even after

the Nazis and Italians invaded and occupied their

country. They spent more time killing each other

than they did occupiers—except the Fox. But the

tension was still there. The KGB and their Stalinist

allies CRML in Yugoslavia knew it, and when the

Fox went, they'd use it to try and pull the country

apart.

There was another aspect to the problem. The

Fox got rid of Stalin's boys in 1948, years before

old Krush eased them out in the Soviet Union.

And he wasn't gentle in the way he did it. The Fox

out-Stalined Stalin. But according to Ankevic and

•others, Stalin's boys just went underground and re-

grouped, where they remained waiting, still dream-

ing Uncle Joe's dreams. Everything set them off:

dissidents, detente . . . they had been pushing for

years to nuke the Red Chinese. Yugoslavia could

have been their magic play. A big victory there and

maybe they could get back in power in the Soviet

Union. It wouldn't be easy. 'Ihese guys had killed

a few million of their own loyal citizens. Your aver-

age Russkie, even if he was a dedicated Commie,

was not anxious to have them back in power.

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NICK CARTER

I never understood why the big boys didn't put

together a deal and cut them off. If the diplomats

didn't work things out, sooner or later the hot wa-

ter would boil over. Anyway, until they got around

to it, there would be a lot of extra work for AXE.

It's easy for me to sit back after a meal, smoke

my cigarette, and mull things over like a Belgian

businessman whose most fearful expectation in

Yugoslavia might be a case of indigestion. But the

younger guys can't seem to do it. They can't enjoy

life, can't sit back, relax, and be Killmasters too.

It's never been a problem for me. It's not that I

don't see danger coming, but my attitude is dif-

ferent, like that of the men who make a living run-

ning whitewater rapids. One of them summed it up

for me. He said, "I watch for it. I'm always respect-

ful and I don't move a muscle until the first waye .

slams into the boat." Now as we approached Bel-

grade, I could almost see death coming, dancing

like a black bull in a field of red tulips.

From the air Belgrade looked as pretty as I'd re-

membered, almost serene in the white afternoon

light. Belgrade means "white city" in Serbo-Croa-

tian, and from the air that day it looked positively

glistening. You would never know it was a capital

in crisis. No evidence remained that one day during

World War II, in a single raid, German bombers

killed twenty-five thousand people before lunch.

Belgrade is a lovely city of broad avenues and

tree-lined streets, nineteenth-century architecture

and color—but the airport is modern, white, and

cavernous. And Yugoslavia is a colorful country.

People dress in bright colors, not your usual Com-

mie drab.

I was only mildly disguised, a little gray in the

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

23


23

hair, a small mustache tinged with more gray. The

suit was Belgian, and so was the luggage. I was sure

prised when I walked into the terminal and found

the place filled with guards with carbines instead of

the usual relaxed security. For a minute I thought

they had disioitered my cover, but I took my place

in the custom lines without incident. It soon be-

came clear they weren't looking for me in particu-

lar. Yet I could sense someone behind this. Sending

OZNA my name and occupation would be too

simple. Besides, a simple tipoff might be traced

back to them. Hawk would like nothing better than

to catch them pulling that one. If I knew him, he

would already be setting traps for the Company be-

fore I had left D.C. No, whatever had been leaked

was ambiguous and indirect. It would be designed

to result in my "accidental" capture.

I examined the customs men as carefully as I

could. I was looking for telltale signs. Unfortunate-

ly I found them. Not one had a pot belly, and their

eyes were wrong. The eyes should have been dull

and worn out from a life spent going through other

people's underwear. These men were sharp, alert. I

noticed the bulging biceps under the uniforms. I

had an OZNA problem.

They might have a Killmaster problem. Then

again, they might not—this was a lousy place for a

match. The guards with carbines were some dis-

tance away—for carbines an effective distance. The

nearest guard was a supervisor with a pistol on his

belt, sitting at a desk twenty feet behind the check-

ers. A long way. Even so, I only had a pistol and

they had carbines. The more I added it up the

worse it looked. I did have Hugo. But Hugo meant

hostages, which doesn't work in Communist

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NICK CARTER

countries like it does in the USA. Your hostage

gets a medal but he also dies.

They might not have found Wilhelmina, but I

had to make a judgement. My judgement was that

they would find her. If I waited my turn to see if my

judgement was right, I'd be standing right where

the system was designed to be most effective—--deal-

ing with someone like me. There is an old trick.

Most agents don't like using it because it concludes

in a violent finale for somebody—although it's not

always clear who.

I decided not to wait. I stood as straight as I

could. I'm tall anyway. And I marched up to the

nearest customs inspector as authoritatively as I

could.

I tried standing closer to him than he'd be cozy

with. I also tried to stand over him, which wasn't

easy. Yugoslavs run big. "UBNA," I said in my

best Serbo-Croatian. "Let's go." UBNA was the

new official name for OZNA, which supposedly

had reformed itself. Party officials and grade-A

morons use it, but no one else.

"Let's go to the office," I said. He looked at me

completely confused. "Come on," I said harshly.

"Do you want me to stand on the customs line like

a tourist?" The other customs men looked at me in

amazement. Someone pushed a button. I didn't see

it pushed, of course, but two big goons suddenly

appeared from nowhere. They engaged in a bit of

chitchat with the customs men. They didn't neces-

sarily believe I was OZNA, but they didn't know

who I was. Yugoslavia is an authoritarian country

even if a relatively mild one. They didn't ask ques-

tions. If this was some joke, they'd settle with me

later the hard way. Clearly, I was a problem for

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

25


25

While they were still getting their act together I

tossed one goon my suitcase and shoved my

passport into the other's hand as snappily as I

could. Then we started off, a goon on either side.

Before we crossed the big room we picked up two

more, one in front, one in back. The guy behind me

was a monster; I threw him my carry-on bag. He

caught it in both hands and whisked it away. He

wasn't exactly strong on the brains side. We

trooped across the customs area with carbined

guards eyeing us, to an innocuous-looking cor-

ridor. We turned down the hallway. A uniformed

guard was sitting at a high desk a few feet down the

corridor, just far enough out of sight so he

wouldn't be seen by tourists going through cus-

toms. OZNA's lair. The OZNA men visibly re-

laxed; this was their turf. The hallway turned sharp

ly. We walked past a dozen closed doors. They

seemed to be taking me to a gray one at the end of

the corridor. were certainly suspicious of me,

but the last thing they suspected was an attack.

In my business, you learn that the element of

surprise is sixty percent of success. Not one of them

was going to make it to that doorway. Going one

on four required a bit of strategy as well as brawn.

Lefty moved well but was smaller than the others;

he was the first target. Fronty was last; the way I

figured it, it would take him some time to turn

around. I kicked sideways, straight into Lefty's

knee. While I was tilted to my right side in the kick

position, I reached down, around my suitcase,

which Righty was carrying in his left hand,

grabbed his ankle, and lifted, dumping him head

first into the wall.

26


26

I glanced at Lefty. He was where I thought he

would be, down on one knee—but far from out. I

brought my right arm across my body to the left,

then swung my elbow back into his ear as hard as

I could. 'Ihere was a reassuring pop. *lhe guy on

my right was scrambling to his feet. He should at

least have been stunned.

Either I had got the angle wrong or Yugoslav

walls are substandard for head-knocking. Fronty

had turned to face me. Suddenly I was in trouble.

As they say in the Marines, I reprioritized my

targets. Righty got a roundhouse kick to the side of

his head as I turned to face Fronty. I saw Righty's

neck jerk but didn't have time to watch the lights

go out for him. Fronty was in fighting position—

fists up, feet spread wide. I watched his eyes and

pushed four or five straight karate punches at him

quick as I could. I didn't expect to connect with

anything important, and I didn't. But it got him

into position. I threw a punch with my right, high

and outside. I brought the arm sideways to just the

right spot on the side of his head.

Lefty, the tough little bastard, was trying to lift

himself up. And there was Backy! He was lumber-

ing at me, swinging a piece of my luggage one goon

had dropped, but I was turned wrong. He swung

the luggage. I ducked and turned on my left foot. I

pushed my right foot into Lefty's face as I went by

but not hard enough to do much damage because I

had to keep my balance.

It was easy enough to duck Backy's swing, but

my balance was such that, standing only on my left

foot and still turning, there wasn't much I could do

in the way of offense except push until I got my

balance back. There was a lot of Backy to push, so

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

27


27

I pretty much wasted my time. I knew he wouldn't

be doing anything intelligent with his hands, so I

made an awful grimace at him and waved my arms.

The poor bastard looked startled. I threw a punch

at his faæ, which of course the stupid bastard

blocked wittNerrific efficiency. Then I kicked him

in the groin with my left foot. His whole face

twisted up, his eyes crossed, his mind started slid-

ing to the floor. His body followed, doubling over.

I interlaced my fingers and brought both hands

down behind his neck by way of encouragement.

The big bozo hit the floor like a turned-over

jukebox. I hoped he wasn't planning to have kids.

No sooner was Backy down when I felt a pain in

my right side just below the ribs. I was almost

pushed off my feet. Lefty had hit me with a karate

chop before he even got to his feet. It hurt. It was

the first blow any of them had managed to land. I

began to wonder how good a fighter Lefty was; the

little bastard was tough, that was for sure. It was

hard to tell exactly how tough, though, since he'd

been taken off guard. I gave him a kick with my

right foot. I aimed for his head, but he blocked it

with a raised arm. He didn't see the left foot com-

ing, roundhouse and instep first across the bridge

of his nose, until it was too late.

He dropped to all fours, he was hurting. But he

lunged for me one more time. I had him. The kick

was as hard as I could deliver. I placed it at the

base of his skull and used my right foot. He was

gone. I wondered for a moment whether Lefty

would see morning light. But J looked again, and

his neck just seemed to be broken. That was okay

by me. I'd just as soon not have a guy like Lefty up

and around while I was visiting Yugoslavia.

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NICK CARTER

I picked up my passport, brushed off my suit,

and straightened my tie; then I gathered my lug-

gage. Luggage in hand, I walked back the way I

had come. The guard was still at his desk. I guess

he hadn't heard anything over the din of the termi-

nal. I gave him my twenty-dollar smile, walked up,

and socked him behind the temple.

It's certain death to run in a situation like this. I

hadn't used Hugo for the same reason. Hugo is

quick and deadly, but there would have been buck-

ets of blood and the time saved using him would

have been lost cleaning up before I left the termi-

nal. You can't walk by a bunch of guys with

carbines when you're covered with blood. You can

kill with a stiletto so there is only a drop of blood,

but you can't do it with four guys.

I sauntered into the main part of the terminal

and headed for the exit, taking my time. I say saun-

tered, but I sauntered with restraint—showing off

can be a dangerous habit.

I had reservations for the Metropol, Belgrade's

magnificent old hotel. Now I couldn't go there. It

was too much of a risk. The sunlight splashed in

my eyes as I walked out of the terminal and hailed

a taxi. I gave him the address of a small hotel with

no doorman. There was a telephone booth across

from it. I would call the special number Hawk had

given me from there. I wondered if the safe-house

keeper I'd be calling would be as beautiful as the

last one I'd stayed with.


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CHAPTER IV

'As the taxi honked its way through the con-

gested streets, I leaned back and watched Belgrade

slide by. I didn't make conversation, I wanted to be

as forgettable as possible. But it's not easy. Experi-

ence has shown me I'm not a forgettable guy.

Yugoslavia doesn't look like your average Com-

munist country. Not only do the people dress

brightly and seem affluent, but they actually look

happy.

Belgrade was as bustling as I had remembered,

but I noticed a certain melancholy in the air. I

didn't realize what it was until the driver turned up

his radio to listen to the hourly bulletin on the

Fox's health. Suddenly, I noticed the people in the

streets standing clustered around anyone with a ra-

dio. When the announcement ended, people scat-

tered again, without speaking, just giving each oth-

er a nod before going about their business.

We arrived at the hotel with an unnecessary

screech. I was thrown toward the front of the car.

The driver turned around and gave me a friendly

grin, so I just handed him his money. He looked

downcast when gave him Yugoslav notes. Most

of the drivers who operate out of the airport report

30

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NICK CARTER

to OZNA, but they like hard currency anyway.

They have to fink to keep their jobs, but most

could care less. The system isn't really efficient.

Still, I waited until he pulled away to walk over to

the phone. I called the safe-house keeper.

I didn't know much about her. She wasn't the

usual manager but one of Hawk's specials. She was

supposed to be able to handle "emergencies," if

you know what I mean.

"Hello, Rosa, this is cousin Dmitri," I said, us-

ing a Serbian dialect.

"Yes, Dmitri, how are you?"

"Fine, fine. I just got in from Sarajevo." That

meant I needed a place to stay.

"Good, you're coming over."

"l had hotel reservations but .

Now she

knew something had happened.

"No, no, you must come. I was going to the

country but . . e" She was asking if I wanted her to

go. She sounded sweet, and I was feeling lonely. I

thought about it, but what I said was, ' 'No, go.

ahead and don't stay on my account." She gave me

a number where she could be reached, and I said,

"Give my love to your mother. " It was the affirma-

tion code. "Father" would have meant the exact

opposite.

I hailed another cab and was let off at a huge

concrete housing project. I suppose it was chosen

for the anonymity it offered, but I also thought it

offered a good dose of galloping alienation. When

the Commies get around to building something it's

even worse than the stuff in the West. The paint

was already peeling off what seemed like a fairly

new building.

The key was under a pretty little woven

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

31


31

doormat. The apartment was bright and cheery in

a feminine sort of way—white walls, bright cur-

tains, macramé hangings, pieces of Yugoslav folk

art set about. I looked around carefully, checked

the closet and drawers; sometimes a safe house be-

comes unsafé. What I did find was that she was a

well-proportioned lady; I could tell from the

clothes and the lingerie.

I plopped my luggage on the big bed, threw off

my clothes and took a shower. I dried myself and

unpacked Wilhelmina and put her together. Then I

got the holster from its hiding place in the base of

the suitcase. I know a guy who died because he

went through Soviet customs with a beautifully dis-

guised pistol and holster stuck between some un-

derwear. I checked Wilhelmina as carefully as a sky

diver checks his parachute—my life depends on

her. In a few minutes she was in her holster, ready

for a ride.

I was tired. I could feel it coming over me. I

leaned back on Rosa's white chenille bedspread

planning some sweet dreams, but I had to get up

and double-check the door. Rosa turned out to

have good locks. Then, this naked Killmaster got

forty winks. I dreamed about the missing Rosa and

remembered the girl in Nairobi whose very long

legs seemed to pour from her like a magic water-

fall. She had been like the beginning of time---dark,

hot, endlessly moving.

He had left her a mess. I guess he wanted that

information about me badly. It was a slow, sloppy

kill. That, I can't forgive. It is the kind of kill that

makes even a Killmaster wake up from his dreams

and sit bolt upright. But there was no one to be

angry with. Wilhelmina had found her way into his

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NICK CARTER

heart 'when his .38 slug found its way into my

shoulder.

My shoulder ached when I woke up. I guess I

had been sleeping wrong. I dressed and thought

about the dangerous, sloppy meeting coming up.

They were amateurs, that was for sure. An open-air

café. Amateurs love to meet at open-air cafés. I

don't know why. Maybe they think they can out-

run bullets. I've seen so many men die in open-air

cafés it's like passing a cemetery every time I see

one. I like dark, crowded basement restaurants

with several exits. With a gun, or even better, a

small bomb, you can cause real chaos, enough to

actually cover an escape. Besides, unless your op-

position is expertly trained they are going to shoot

badly in the dark.

I walked there at about three o'clock. The res-

taurant itself didn't look half bad—wrought-iron

tables, folded pink umbrellas. Maybe Ankevic

picked this place because it looked pretty. There

were ten tables outside, about the right number to

give you some cover and still let you keep track of

the other patrons. The bay-windowed building

across the street was something else again. It

looked like it was designed by a moonlighting

sniper.

The table I wanted was taken by an old man and

a girl. I liked the one set back, where the street

opened up into a square. There was a little bit of

awning over it, and I liked being only three feet

from the corner of the building. I decided to have

a look around. The buildings were old, eighteenth

and nineteenth century from the look of them. The

streets were still cobblestoned. There are few old

buildings in Belgrade; the city has been destroyed

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

33


33

so many times. I walked out into the square. It felt

almost like Venice, except newer. The great old

buildings around the square with their fancy Vic-

torian balconies and elaborate grillwork looked

like they were built by a different class of people

from those Whö presently occupy Yugoslavia. I

suppose in a way that's true. The aristocrats and

wealthy bourgeoisie who once lived here might still

be doing so if they had been less greedy and a little

more patriotic.

When I returned, the old man and girl were still

seated at the table. I couldn't tell whether they were.

lovers or father and daughter, but whatever they

were, they were about to leave. I saw the waiter

bring the check over. I walked across the street to

the tiny newsstand near the corner. I noticed a few

out-of-date issues of Sports Illustrated and then I

bought the Belgrade and Zagreb papers, one in the

Roman alphabet, the other in Cyrillic. The couple

got up from the table. I paused a minute, then

walked over and sat down.

I spread the papers in front of me. The waiter

appeared quickly, acting as professional as he

looked in black pants and white shirt. I ordered

coffee and pastry and looked over the papers. Sud-

denly, I noticed the bay windows across the street.

Very bad. If someone had wanted to set me up for

a shoot they couldn't have picked a better spot.

Had I been dealing with professionals I would have

known immediately what this location meant and

aborted the meeting on sight. As it was I just didn't

know. I had to play this one out.

The coffee and pastry tasted good, but the longer

I waited the more I got worried. Fifteen minutes

late. When I get worried, I get watchful, and as my

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NICK CARTER

fellow café sitters seemed harmless I concentrated

on the passersby.

I watched the eyes and the strides. Appearances

are so completely deceiving. It has become trite to

get blown away by a harmless-looking little old

lady. There are three kinds of eyes that really look

at the world: tourist eyes, innocent and excited as a

child's; poet's eyes, drinking in everything; and

cops' or hunters' eyes. Thieves have them too, and

CIA, KGB, and AXE men. As for the rest, most

people never look at the world, and you can see

that in their eyes, too. Like a cat following a spar-

row, I try to spot the watchful eyes before they spot

me.

I glanced at my watch. Ankevic was now a half

an hour late. I would have broken off the ren-

dezvous, but that meant starting everything from

the ground up. So I continued to watch the pedes-

trians. Forty-five minutes passed and Ankevic had

still not shown. My feelings about the meeting

had turned totally sour. Then something hap-

pened.

The first time she walked by she stood out, but I

didn't realize why. She was beautiful—long, blond

hair, shapely legs, and all the rest—but a dozen

beautiful women had passed by. She kept walking.

Five minutes later she was back. Then I realized

why I noticed her: she had the wrong kind of eyes.

She was very nervous, but she stopped and looked

around.

I shifted my weight. I liked the tug of

Wilhelmina under my armpit. I slipped my foot

over against the base of the table so I could give it

a flying push if necessary. I noticed the American

couple to my right. If the lead started to fly, they

would eat more than their sliced cucumbers. The

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

35


35

blond girl examined everyone at the tables, then

turned and bolted off. Whoever she was, she was

damned obvious. I got ready. You'd have to be a

professional to understand why I had gotten so fa-

talistic, so quickly. I liked being alive. I unbuttoned

my jacket—2sirictly unprofessional—but it would

be a little quicker.

She came by again, looking even more serious. I

stared at her and when she just looked at me blank-

ly, I motioned her over with my eyes. What the

hell, I had nothing to lose.

She hurried over, clutching her purse, her breasts

bobbing gently, her three-inch heels clicking on the

cobblestones.

"Don't I know you from Skopje?" she said in

Serbo-Croatian. It was the code.

"I'm from Zagreb, but I lived in Skopje for five

years," I replied.

We went through the rest of it, all of it sounding

particularly ridiculous as a way to start a conversa-

tion with a woman. Just as she sat down, so deli-

cately on the edge of the chair that you would have

thought she had just been spanked, the waiter

sprinted over with the menu. She glanced at it

quickly and ordered a whole meal. I decided to do

the same and ordered a dinner, too. We made

chitchat until the waiter walked away. After he left,

she kept on talking nonsense. Incredible! She was

going to talk about the weather at a rendezvous.

Her fluster was beginning to turn to snootiness, so

I decided to bring the conversation to a higher

plane.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"His daughter, of course."

"Katrina? You don't look like your photo-

graph."

NICK CARTER


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NICK CARTER

"The picture has the wrong face," she said, giv-

ing me a big smile.

"Your name Ankevic is odd for a Yugoslav."

"My father's father was of Greek extraction, but

our family has lived in Yugoslavia many gener-

I went through her file in my mind and

ations."

switched to Macedonian, then Slovak, both of

which she was supposed to speak and, it turned

out, she did.

"Where is your father?" I asked.

"Ah, so now you believe me! You're the Western

technician my father sent for?" she whispered loud-

ly in English.

"Speak Serbo-Croatian," I said. "Only lovers

can whisper without attracting attention."

"l don't know why my father wanted you, a

Jesse James," she said in English. The American

couple a few feet away pricked up their ears. I

looked up at the windows.

Since she was possibly the last woman I would

ever see, I decided to take a closer look at her face.

She was more extraordinary-looking than I had

first noticed. The blond hair, of course, but she had

beautiful green eyes and cheekbones as high as an

Indian's. She was also a healthy-sized lady.

There was a tiny scar on the right side of her

nose. Most men would have looked at that face for

a week and not noticed it. A tomboy accident? I

didn't ask, of course. She was beautiful and she

didn't like me.

"We don't need you, Jesse James. Why don't

you go back where you came from?" she said. I

took all this quietly, but she wag beginning to an-

noy me.

"Would your father have asked for our help if he

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

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37

didn't need it?" I said. "I'm risking my life coming

here. It's a serious matter."

I didn't tell her I'd

risked my life about ten thousand times before.

"We don't need a Western technician. You're

scared. Have *You got a gun? I want to see your gun.

I want to see yöur gun right now," she demanded

in English. I would have dearly loved to slap her

across her beautiful face, but I don't hit women.

"You're acting like a spoiled child. Would your

father be proud of this performance? There is an

American couple sitting right over there," I said in

Serbo-Croatian.

"Maybe I'd better go," she said in Serbo-Croa-

tian. I could tell by the way she said it, that she had

said this many times, to many men.

I didn't budge. I wouldn't break off the meeting

myself, but if she was determined to abort it, there

wasn't much I could do.

She started to stand, but then sat back down.

Now we both knew each other's limits. She was

willing to drive me off but unwilling to take the

blame for breaking off the meeting herself.

"When do I see your father?" I asked.

"You don't."

"Are you trying to abort this meeting? Is that

what you want? More importantly, is that what

your father wants? If so, why are you here at all?"

I figured I'd nail her with the last point.

"You won't see my father. He is in the hospital.

Intensive care. He was hit by a truck last night, Mr.

Jesse James. "

"Can he speak?"

"He is in critical condition."

"Maybe we better go." I started to motion the

waiter over.


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NICK CARTER

"No, eat your lunch, Jesse James, my tail is cov-

ered good," she said in English.

"Your tail is covered very prettily, honey, but I

think you mean your trail is covered. I hope you've

done that better than everything else I've seen you

do or we're both dead."

S 'Don't be afraid, Mr. Jesse James. I'll protect

you from OZNA, even if you are afraid to show me

your gun."

"You make jokes about OZNA after what they

did to your mother and your father? You are

playing a child's game," I said in mock disgust. Ac-

tually, I liked the fact she could joke about OZNA.

It showed the lady had guts. She probably had a

little automatic in her purse she figured she could

hold off a whole army with.

"We believe in free speech and democracy, like

your father. That's why he asked for us," I said. I

didn't tell her, of course, that the Company had

tried to kill her father at least twice, once in the

Fifties in order to discredit the Fox, and once in the

Sixties when he opposed us on Vietnam and cost us

a lot of liberal support.

She looked dazed. The thing about her father

was beginning to get to her. I said: "If you think

what happened to your father was an accident,

you're wrong."

It started around the eyes. The muscles began to

tighten, then tears. She was crying. I motioned the

waiter over and looked at him for understanding.

The big tip helped to bring it to his face. I scooped

her up and off we headed. We got about halfway

across the square when she started sobbing loudly.

I handed her my handkerchief. It was time to ask

some questions.

THE DUBROVNIK MASSA


39

"Sometimes. He gets lost. He forgets what is

happening. Mostly he sleeps . . . I'm afraid he is

dying. "

"How closely_is he guarded?"

"Very closely. You'll never get in to see him."

"By the police? OZNA?"

"OZNA, maybe, what does it matter?"

"It matters a lot, to your father. Maybe we can

get him out."

"No, no, you don't understand. He works with

the Fox now." I took in my breath at this one.

Hawk had it figured right. That's why I like work-

ing for the man.

"They killed him, they finally killed him, after all

these years," she said. She was starting to break

down again. I had to stop her. We needed to get as

inconspicuous as possible. I put my arm around

her.

"Easy, honey," I said. "He's not dead yet. Your

old man is as tough as nails, you know that. Prison

couldn't kill him." I held her for a while as we

walked. "Do you know why he asked for us? Did

he ask you to carry on his project?" I asked as deli-

cately as I could, but she remained silent. "l think

he needed our help very badly," I went on.

"Where are we going?" she said at last. "I have

a place."

"You understand if they hit your father, you

shouldn't go back to your apartment."

"No, no I'm not an idiot. We can go to my

friends. Don't be afraid, Jesse James. You'll be

safe. OZNA would trade you for one of the Fox's

boys.

I decided to let that one pass. We began the


40

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NICK CARTER

usual procedures to eliminate being followed. She

was, surprisingly, very good at it. I asked her how

so and she said, "All this nonsense—that's why I

was late. We have lived with OZNA a long time."

I thought maybe I'd underestimated her, but I

wasn't sure. I had never seen anything more un-

professional in my life than that little scene at the

restaurant.

"I live in Zagreb most of the year. This apart-

ment is someone's that I don't think they are aware

I know of."

"Good," I said, doubtfully.

Finally we came to a central hill in the old sec-

tion of town. Old buildings everywhere but no fan-

cy neighborhood this. It was a slum when it was

built in the nineteenth century—tenements and in-

dustrial buildings.

"What do you do in Zagreb?" I asked.

"Dance, I design dances. I'm a choreographer."

"No, I don't have the build for it." She looked

down at her big breasts. "Folk dances."

"I like folk dances," I lied. "Maybe I've seen

your group."

"Zagreb Folk Ensemble."

"No, I can't say that I have." I told her about

one or two groups I liked a lot. Actually, I'd only

read about them.

"Are you of Yugoslav extraction?"

"No," I said, pleased that my Serbo-Croatian

might have had her fooled..

' 'Here we are," she said. It was an old building,

maybe turn of the century. It was very dark. The

ancient marble stairs were worn by too many feet.

The walls were missing chunks of plaster. We

THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

41


41

walked up four flights—there was no elevaior.

"Nice place," I said uneasily.

"There are many artist studios here. It's only one

more flight," she said. The landing was lit by a sin-

gle tiny yellow light bulb that couldn't have been

more than watts. There was a white powder

on the floor.

"Marble dust," she said, when I looked down at

it. "He is a sculptor."

She put the key in the door and turned the lock.

She started to open the door but stopped. "Wait,"

she said. "Something is wrong. " Wilhelmina was in

my hand. I edged over to the door and nudged it

open with the gun.

"Good night, Mr. Jesse James," she said sudden-

ly. And all my lights went out.


CHAPTER V

I lay sprawled on the floor with a terrible pain

in the back of my neck. It occurred to me that I had

forgotten something important about Katrina; she

was very much her father's daughter. And while

the Fox was the toughest and cleverest around,

Katrina's father would be a good bet for second

place. I should have thought of this a little sooner.

My neck and head still hurt, but after a minute or

two my vision began to clear. I lifted my head a

couple of aching inches and looked around. I was

lying on the bare wooden floor of a large white

room. I could hear furniture being moved some-

where off on my right. Katrina was sitting on a

brown table about twelve feet directly in front of

me dangling her beautiful long legs over the edge

provocatively. I could have gotten a hard feeling

just looking where I was looking, but it wouldn't

have been an appropriate response under the cir-

cumstances.

She was holding Wilhelmina in her hand and

looking down the barrel.

"It's a 9mm. Very nasty," she said to the unseen

furniture mover. She noticed I was awake and

moved the gun so it pointed at me.

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THE DUBROVNIK MASSACRE

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