# The Kremlin Kill

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

NICK CARTER: THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER ONE


The office in the Lubyanka was a study in Spartan gloom, illuminated only by a single green-shaded lamp on the massive oak desk. General Viktor Andreyeff, head of the KGB's elite Second Chief Directorate, stared at the photographs spread before him. They were grainy, taken from a long distance with a telephoto lens, but the subject was unmistakable. The hawk-like nose, the deep-set eyes, the broad shoulders that suggested a deceptive power.


“He is here,” Andreyeff said, his voice a low, dry rasp. “In our own backyard, and we are playing blind man’s buff.”


Colonel Volkov, standing stiffly at attention, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine despite the chill in the room. “He was spotted near the GUM department store two hours ago, Comrade General. We had a tail on him, but he vanished in the crowds near Red Square. He is a master of disguise. One moment he is a grey-faced bureaucrat in a shapeless topcoat, the next he is just another common laborer lost in the metro.”


Andreyeff slammed his fist onto the desk, making the lamp rattle. “I do not want excuses, Volkov! I want the Killmaster. For years he has been a thorn in our side from Europe to Asia. But to come here, to Moscow... it is an insult. It is a direct challenge to the Party and the State.”


The General stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow-dusted expanse of Dzerzhinsky Square. “If he reaches his contact at the American Embassy, the documents regarding the 'Red Aurora' project will be out of our hands forever. Do you understand the consequences? The Politburo will not be satisfied with reports of 'missing leads'. They will want heads on platters. Starting with mine, and ending with yours.”


Volkov paled. Red Aurora was the most sensitive project in the Soviet Union’s military arsenal—a satellite-based laser system that could blind Western defense networks in seconds. “We have doubled the perimeter guards at every sensitive installation. Every exit from the city—the Yaroslavl Highway, the Minsk Road—is being monitored by the MVD. Every train station is under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”


“It is not enough,” Andreyeff whispered, his eyes narrowing as he watched a black Zil limousine cruise below. “Carter does not use exits. He creates them. He is not a man; he is a weapon forged by AX. Send the ‘Wolf Pack’ units. Tell them I want him taken alive if possible, for interrogation. But if he resists, they are to terminate him on the spot. No mistakes, Volkov. Not this time.”


“It will be done, Comrade General.” Volkov saluted and backed out of the room.


Outside, the snow began to fall more heavily over the Kremlin towers, turning the city into a white, suffocating labyrinth. Somewhere in that frozen maze, Nick Carter was moving. He felt the cold, but it didn't slow him down. He had a micro-disc in his pocket and a contact to meet in less than four hours. He knew the city was closing in on him, the steel trap of the KGB beginning to snap shut. But Carter had been in traps before.


He adjusted his fur hat, blended into the shadow of an alleyway near the Moskva River, and waited for the signal. The hunt was on.

Основные моменты для перевода:


Lubyanka: Любянка (главное здание КГБ).


Second Chief Directorate: Второе главное управление (ВГУ) — контрразведка.


Red Aurora: Проект «Красная Аврора».


MVD: МВД (милиция, контролирующая выезды из города).


Wolf Pack units: Подразделения «Волчья стая» (спецназ КГБ в представлении автора).Вот

## Глава 2 книги "The Kremlin Kill":


CHAPTER TWO


The metro station at Ploshchad Revolyutsii was a cathedral of marble and bronze, a monument to the proletariat that felt more like a tomb to Nick Carter. He stood near one of the bronze statues of a partisan, his face partially hidden by the collar of his heavy woolen coat. To anyone passing by, he was just another weary worker waiting for a train.


His contact was supposed to be here five minutes ago.


Carter’s eyes, as sharp as a hawk's, scanned the platform. He didn't look for faces; he looked for patterns—anyone standing too still, anyone moving too fast, the subtle "V" of men closing in.


A train roared into the station, its brakes screaming. The doors slid open, and a wave of people surged out. Among them was a small man in a brown fedora. He walked with a slight limp and carried a tattered briefcase. He paused to light a cigarette near the statue where Carter stood.


"The winter is long this year," the man said in Russian, his voice barely audible over the receding roar of the train.


"But the spring will be red," Carter replied, giving the countersign.


The man didn't look at him. Instead, he leaned against the pedestal of the statue. "They are everywhere, Carter. Andreyeff has put the city under a microscope. You were spotted at GUM."


"I know," Carter said. "Do you have the route out?"


"Not yet. The MVD has blocked the main highways. Your only chance is the railway to Leningrad, but even that is risky. There is a safe house in the Arbat district. Here." The man subtly slid a small, folded piece of paper toward Carter’s hand.


Suddenly, Carter felt a prickle at the back of his neck—the sixth sense that had kept him alive in a hundred countries. Two men in dark leather coats had stepped off the opposite end of the platform. They weren't looking at the trains. They were looking at the statues.


"KGB," Carter hissed. "Go! Now!"


The man in the fedora didn't hesitate. He melted into the crowd heading for the escalators. Carter, however, stayed put for a second longer. If he ran now, he’d lead them straight to the contact. He had to draw them off.


He turned and began to walk calmly toward the opposite exit, his hand sliding inside his coat to the grip of Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger. He wasn't planning on a firefight in a crowded metro station, but in Moscow, plans had a way of changing fast.


CHAPTER THREE


Carter moved with practiced ease through the surging crowd, his boots thudding rhythmically on the polished stone floor. Behind him, the two leather-coated men were weaving through the commuters, their eyes locked on the back of his head. They were good, but they were aggressive, which meant they were confident they had him cornered.


He reached the top of the escalator and stepped out into the biting chill of the Moscow night. The wind whipped across the open square, carrying the scent of diesel exhaust and frozen river water. He didn't head for the main street; instead, he ducked into a narrow alleyway behind the Metropol Hotel.


The shadows swallowed him. Carter stopped, pressed his back against a brick wall, and pulled Wilhelmina from her holster. The cold steel felt reassuring in his palm. A moment later, he heard the frantic crunch of boots on packed snow.


One of the KGB agents rounded the corner, a Makarov pistol already in his hand. He never had a chance to use it.


Carter stepped out of the gloom, the silenced Luger coughing once. The man doubled over, a small dark hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He slumped into a snowbank without a sound.


The second agent was more cautious. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, squinting into the darkness. "Vanya?" he called out hoarsely.


Carter didn't answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Pierre, his small gas-bomb disguised as a cigarette lighter. He flicked the timer and tossed it toward the street. A second later, a thick cloud of incapacitating grey mist erupted, masking the alley entrance.


Under the cover of the gas, Carter scrambled over a high wooden fence and dropped into a courtyard on the other side. He heard the muffled shouts of more men arriving—the "Wolf Pack" was closing in.


He checked the scrap of paper the contact had given him. The address on the Arbat was less than a mile away, but in a city where every window could have an informant behind it, it might as well have been on the moon.


He holstered his weapon, adjusted his fur hat again, and stepped out onto a side street, walking with the slow, dejected gait of a man who had spent too many hours standing in line for bread. He was no longer the Killmaster; he was just another ghost in the Soviet machine.


Лев, как только перенесете этот фрагмент в свой файл — дайте знать. Я буду на связи, чтобы предоставить четвертую главу.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER ONE (Full Text)


The office in the Lubyanka was a study in Spartan gloom, illuminated only by a single green-shaded lamp on the massive oak desk. General Viktor Andreyeff, head of the KGB's elite Second Chief Directorate, stared at the photographs spread before him. They were grainy, taken from a long distance with a telephoto lens, but the subject was unmistakable. The hawk-like nose, the deep-set eyes, the broad shoulders that suggested a deceptive power even through the heavy fabric of a winter coat.


“He is here,” Andreyeff said, his voice a low, dry rasp that sounded like sandpaper on wood. “In our own backyard, and we are playing blind man’s buff.”


Colonel Volkov, standing stiffly at attention, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine despite the chill in the room. The General was not a man who accepted failure. “He was spotted near the GUM department store two hours ago, Comrade General. We had a tail on him, one of our best surveillance teams, but he vanished in the crowds near Red Square. He is a master of disguise. One moment he is a grey-faced bureaucrat in a shapeless topcoat, the next he is just another common laborer lost in the noise of the metro.”


Andreyeff slowly stood up and walked to the window. He pulled aside the heavy velvet curtain and looked out at the snow-dusted expanse of Dzerzhinsky Square. Below, the city was a tapestry of grey and white, illuminated by the dim yellow glow of streetlamps.


“For years,” the General whispered, “this man, this ‘Killmaster’, has been a thorn in our side. From the jungles of Southeast Asia to the back alleys of Berlin, he has undone our work. But to come here, to Moscow... it is more than an assignment for him. It is an insult. It is a direct challenge to the security of the State.”


He turned back to Volkov, his eyes cold and hard as Siberian ice. “If he reaches his contact at the American Embassy, or if he meets the subversives we suspect he is here to aid, the documents regarding the 'Red Aurora' project will be out of our hands forever. Do you understand the consequences, Colonel? The Politburo will not be satisfied with reports of 'missing leads'. They will want heads on platters. They will want to know why the entire apparatus of the KGB could not catch one American agent.”


Volkov swallowed hard. He knew that Red Aurora was the most sensitive project in the Soviet Union’s military arsenal—a satellite-based system that could paralyze Western communications in a matter of seconds.


“We have doubled the perimeter guards at every sensitive installation,” Volkov said quickly. “The MVD has established checkpoints on every highway leading out of the city—the Yaroslavl, the Minsk, the Warsaw roads. Every train station, from Leningradsky to Kazansky, is under twenty-four-hour surveillance by plainclothes officers.”


“It is not enough,” Andreyeff snapped. “Carter does not use exits. He creates them. He is a weapon forged by AX, and he must be broken. I want the ‘Wolf Pack’ units activated immediately. Tell them I want him taken alive if possible—I want to know who his contacts are, who the traitors among us are. But if he resists, they are to terminate him on the spot. No mistakes, Volkov. If he slips through your fingers again, do not bother coming back to this office.”


“It will be done, Comrade General.” Volkov saluted, his heels clicking together, and backed out of the room as if escaping a cage with a predator.


Left alone, Andreyeff sat back down and picked up one of the photographs. He stared at the face of Nick Carter. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the Lubyanka, and the snow began to fall more heavily, turning Moscow into a white, suffocating labyrinth. The hunt had begun, and Andreyeff knew that before it was over, the streets of the capital would likely run red.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER TWO (Full Text)


The metro station at Ploshchad Revolyutsii was a cathedral of marble and bronze, a monument to the proletariat that felt more like a cold, echoing tomb to Nick Carter. He stood near one of the larger-than-life bronze statues of a partisan, his face partially hidden by the high collar of his heavy, ill-fitting woolen coat. To anyone passing by, he was just another weary Soviet citizen, a cog in the massive machine, waiting for a train to take him home after a long day of tedious labor.


But beneath the coat, every nerve was electric. Carter’s eyes, hooded and sharp, scanned the platform with a predatory intensity. He didn't look for faces—faces could be changed with a bit of putty and a wig. He looked for patterns. He watched for the way a man’s shoulders tensed, the way a pair of eyes lingered a fraction of a second too long on a target, or the subtle "V" formation of a surveillance team closing in on their prey.


His contact was supposed to have arrived five minutes ago. In the world of espionage, five minutes could be a lifetime.


A train roared into the station, its iron brakes screaming against the rails. The heavy doors slid open with a hiss, and a wave of people surged out—men in fur shapkas, women carrying string bags filled with meager groceries, all of them moving with the grey, dejected gait of the Moscow winter.


Among them, Carter spotted a small, bird-like man in a brown fedora and a scuffed leather jacket. He walked with a slight, rhythmic limp and carried a tattered briefcase that looked like it had seen better days during the Great Patriotic War. The man paused near the statue of the partisan, fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette.


"The winter is long this year," the man said in a low, gravelly Russian, his voice barely audible over the receding roar of the departing train.


"But the spring will be red," Carter replied, giving the pre-arranged countersign.


The man didn't look at Carter. He struck a match, his hands trembling slightly, and leaned against the cold bronze pedestal. "They are everywhere, Carter," he whispered, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the damp air. "Andreyeff has put the entire city under a microscope. Word is that you were spotted at GUM earlier today. The 'Wolf Pack' has been activated. They aren't just looking for you; they are hunting you."


"I figured as much," Carter said, his voice level. "Do you have the route out of the city?"


"Not yet. It is too dangerous. The MVD has blocked the main highways—the Yaroslavl is a fortress right now. Your only chance is the railway to Leningrad, but even the midnight expresses are being searched car by car. There is a safe house in the Arbat district. A small basement apartment behind the Vakhtangov Theatre. Here."


The man subtly slid a small, tightly folded piece of paper toward Carter’s gloved hand. Carter palmed it in one smooth motion, sliding it into his pocket.


Suddenly, a cold prickle moved up the back of Carter’s neck—the legendary sixth sense that had kept him alive in a hundred countries and a thousand death traps. He didn't turn his head, but his peripheral vision caught them: two men in dark, heavy leather coats stepping off the opposite end of the platform. They weren't looking for a train. They were moving with a purposeful, practiced stride, their eyes locked on the statues at the center of the platform.


"KGB," Carter hissed under his breath. "Go! Melt into the crowd. Now!"


The contact didn't need to be told twice. He turned and vanished into the throng of commuters heading for the escalators. Carter, however, stayed put for a heartbeat longer. If he ran now, the agents would lock onto him immediately and might spot the contact. He had to draw the heat away.


He turned his back to the agents and began to walk calmly toward the opposite end of the station, his hand sliding inside his coat to find the comforting, cold grip of Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger. He didn't want a firefight in a crowded public space, especially not in the heart of Moscow, but Nick Carter had learned long ago that in the Soviet Union, plans were written in water, and survival was written in lead.


Лев, сохраняйте этот текст. Как только


Вот полный и подробный текст третьей главы. В этой части Ник Картер выходит на поверхность, и начинается классическое противостояние в заснеженных переулках Москвы.

THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER THREE (Full Text)


Carter moved with practiced, deceptive ease through the surging crowd of commuters, his boots thudding rhythmically on the polished stone floor of the station. Behind him, the two leather-coated agents were weaving through the throng with less subtlety. They were aggressive, their faces set in grim masks of determination. They weren't just following; they were closing the gap, confident that their prey was trapped within the granite walls of the metro.


He reached the long, silver-railed escalator and stepped onto the moving stairs. He stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the illuminated exit ahead, but his ears were tuned to the sounds behind him. He heard the heavy breathing of the agents a few steps down, the metallic clinking of their gear. They were waiting until he reached the street—less witnesses, less chance for a stray bullet to hit a civilian.


As he stepped out into the night, the biting chill of the Moscow wind struck him like a physical blow. It whipped across the open square, carrying the sharp scent of diesel exhaust, scorched coal, and the frozen iron of the nearby river. The city lights were dim, obscured by a swirling mist of fine, crystalline snow.


Carter didn't head for the broad, well-lit expanse of Marx Prospekt. Instead, he spun on his heel and ducked into a narrow, shadow-choked alleyway that ran behind the Metropol Hotel. The darkness swallowed him instantly. He moved ten yards in, then stopped, pressing his back against the rough, freezing bricks of a building wall. In one fluid motion, he pulled Wilhelmina from her chamois-lined holster. The 9mm Luger felt cold and solid, a familiar weight in his palm.


A moment later, he heard it: the frantic, uneven crunch of boots on packed snow.


One of the KGB agents rounded the corner, moving too fast, his professional caution overridden by the fear of losing his target. He had a Makarov pistol gripped in his right hand, but he never had a chance to level it.


Carter stepped out of the gloom like a vengeful ghost. The silenced Luger coughed once—a dry, metallic sound no louder than a snapped twig. The agent doubled over, a small, dark puncture appearing in the center of his forehead. He slumped into a dirty snowbank without a groan, his life escaping into the frozen Russian air.


The second agent was more experienced. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, his body half-hidden by the stone corner of the building. "Vanya?" he called out, his voice hoarse with sudden suspicion.


Carter didn't waste breath on an answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Pierre, his small gas-bomb disguised as a common cigarette lighter. He flicked the concealed timer and tossed it toward the street entrance. A second later, a thick, rolling cloud of incapacitating grey mist erupted, masking the alley from the street.


Under the cover of the chemical fog, Carter turned and scrambled over a high, splintered wooden fence. He dropped silently into a small interior courtyard filled with rusted trash bins and the skeletons of abandoned crates. Behind him, he could hear the muffled shouts of more men arriving—the "Wolf Pack" was responding to the silent alarm.


He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper the contact had given him. He memorized the address in a second: a basement apartment in the Arbat district, behind the Vakhtangov Theatre. It was less than a mile away, but in a city where every window could house an informant and every street corner was a potential trap, it might as well have been across the border in Finland.


He holstered Wilhelmina, adjusted his fur shapka to hide his brow, and stepped out onto a quiet side street. He shifted his posture, drooping his shoulders and adopting the slow, dejected gait of a man who had spent too many years standing in line for basic necessities. He was no longer the Killmaster, the elite operative of AX; he was just another anonymous shadow in the vast, grey Soviet machine.


The hunt was intensifying, and Carter knew that by dawn, the KGB would have half the city under lock and key. He had to reach the Arbat before the steel ring closed for good.


Лев, сохраняйте эту главу. В ней уже чувствуется тот самый стиль шпионского боевика 80-х.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER FOUR (Full Text)


The walk toward the Arbat was a exercise in controlled tension. Carter kept to the secondary streets, avoiding the wide, well-lit boulevards where the black Zil limousines and police Gaziks cruised like sharks in dark water. The snow was falling harder now, a thick white curtain that muffled the sounds of the city and turned the streetlamps into hazy yellow orbs.


Every few minutes, Carter would pause in a doorway or near a darkened shop window. He wasn't resting; he was using the glass as a mirror to check his rear. Twice he saw groups of three men in heavy overcoats—KGB foot patrols—searching the side alleys with powerful flashlights. He simply stepped deeper into the shadows, slowed his breathing, and waited until the beams of light passed over him. To them, he was just another frozen lump of Moscow architecture.


As he reached the edge of the Arbat district, the character of the city changed. Here, the buildings were older, their facades crumbling under decades of neglect and harsh winters. The Arbat was a maze of winding lanes and hidden courtyards, a place where the old soul of Moscow still lingered beneath the socialist veneer. It was the perfect place for a safe house, and the perfect place for an ambush.


He found the street behind the Vakhtangov Theatre. It was a narrow, cobblestoned passage, nearly blocked by high snowdrifts. The theatre itself loomed like a dark fortress to his left. Carter identified the building—a three-story grey stone structure with a rusted iron gate leading to a central courtyard.


He didn't go through the gate. Instead, he moved to a service entrance in the neighboring building, climbed a fire escape to the second floor, and leaped across a four-foot gap to a stone ledge on the target building. He moved like a cat, silent and sure-footed, despite the ice. He reached the back stairs and descended toward the basement.


The door to the apartment was unmarked, painted a dull, peeling green. Carter reached out and tapped a specific code on the wood: three quick knocks, a pause, then two more.


For a long minute, there was only silence. Then, he heard the heavy thud of a deadbolt being thrown, followed by the rattle of a security chain. The door opened just a few inches. A sliver of pale light spilled out, illuminating a single, frightened eye.


"Who sends you?" a woman’s voice whispered in Russian.


"The falcon flies at midnight," Carter replied.


The door opened wider. The woman was in her late fifties, her face etched with the lines of a hard life, her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a thick cardigan over a faded floral dress. She gestured for him to enter quickly, her eyes darting to the stairs behind him.


As soon as Carter was inside, she slammed the door and locked it with frantic speed. The apartment was small and smelled of boiled cabbage and old paper. A single radio played low in the corner, broadcasting a turgid symphony.


"You are the American," she said, her voice trembling. "They said you were coming. They said the city is closing down because of you."


"I need a phone," Carter said, his eyes already scanning the room for exits. "And I need to know if the package from the 'Red Aurora' labs has arrived."


The woman shook her head, her hands twisting the fabric of her sweater. "The package is not here. There was trouble at the laboratory in Chimki. The courier... he did not make it. But he left a message. He said the 'Star' has fallen, and only the 'Sun' can find it."


Carter felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. If the courier was down, the KGB likely had the micro-disc, or they were very close to it. "What does the message mean?"


"I do not know," she whispered. "But the KGB... they were here an hour ago. They searched the upstairs apartments. They will be back, American. You cannot stay here."


Suddenly, the symphony on the radio was cut short by a sharp burst of static, followed by a frantic, high-pitched whistling tone. It was a signal Carter knew well. It wasn't the radio station; it was his own short-range scanner picking up a localized transmission.


Someone was using a high-powered walkie-talkie less than fifty yards from the door.


"Get down!" Carter lunged for the woman, tackling her to the floor just as the basement window shattered inward, followed by the hissing metallic canister of a tear-gas grenade.


Лев, на этом моменте заканчивается четвертая глава — на самом интересном! Похоже, «Волчья стая» всё-таки выследила убежище.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER FIVE (Full Text)


The tear-gas canister skittered across the floor, spewing a thick, acrid cloud of white smoke. The woman began to cough violently, her lungs rejecting the poison. Carter, acting on instinct, ripped a decorative scarf from a nearby table, doused it with cold tea from a pot on the stove, and pressed it over her face.


"Stay low!" he barked in Russian. "Crawl toward the back door!"


The basement apartment was rapidly becoming a deathtrap. Carter pulled a specialized gas mask—a thin, high-tech membrane—from a hidden compartment in his belt and fitted it over his nose and mouth. Through the swirling white haze, he saw the shadows of boots appearing at the shattered window. The "Wolf Pack" was moving in for the kill.


He didn't wait for them to clear the ledge. Carter reached for Hugo, his specially designed stiletto, with his left hand and kept Wilhelmina in his right. As the first agent dropped through the window, blinded by his own gas and relying on his mask, Carter was there to meet him.


The stiletto found its mark with surgical precision, sliding between the agent's ribs. The man let out a muffled grunt and collapsed. Carter didn't stop to watch him fall. He grabbed the agent's discarded AK-74 and spun toward the door.


The heavy thud of a battering ram echoed through the small room. The hallway door groaned under the impact. Carter knew he had seconds. He grabbed the woman by the arm and shoved her toward a small coal-chute at the rear of the kitchen.


"Go! It leads to the alley behind the theatre!"


As she scrambled up the narrow metal tunnel, the front door splintered open. Three men in tactical gear burst through the fog, their submachine guns spitting lead. Bullets chewed into the wooden table and shattered the radio, sending sparks flying.


Carter dived behind a heavy cast-iron stove, returning fire with the captured AK-74. The roar of the weapon in the cramped space was deafening. He stitched a line of fire across the doorway, forcing the attackers to retreat into the hall.


He didn't plan on staying for a prolonged siege. Carter reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, spherical object—a concussion grenade. He pulled the pin with his teeth and lobbed it into the center of the room.


"Cover!" he shouted to no one, ducking behind the iron stove.


The explosion rocked the building to its foundations. Plaster rained down from the ceiling, and the remaining windows blew outward. The shockwave neutralized the immediate threat, leaving the attackers in the hallway stunned and bleeding.


Carter didn't waste a heartbeat. He lunged for the coal-chute, pulling himself up with the strength of a mountain climber. He emerged into the freezing night air of the alley, his lungs burning despite the mask.


The woman was gone—presumably fled into the darkness of the Arbat’s courtyards. Carter was alone again, but now the entire district was crawling with security forces. Sirens began to wail in the distance, a rising chorus of mechanical predators.


He looked at the scrap of paper again, now singed by the explosion. The message about the "Star" and the "Sun" was all he had left. The "Star," he realized, wasn't a person. It was the "Red Star" facility near Gorky Park. And the "Sun"? That had to be the Solntsevo district on the outskirts of Moscow.


He had to get across the city, and he had to do it while every policeman and KGB agent in the Soviet Union was looking for a man fitting his description.


He stripped off the heavy, gas-tainted overcoat, revealing a dark, tight-fitting sweater. He found a discarded worker’s jacket on a trash heap, threw it on, and stepped out of the alley. He didn't run. Running attracted eyes. He walked with the steady, purposeful stride of a man heading for the night shift at a factory.


Behind him, the basement apartment was a pillar of smoke and fire. The Killmaster was back in the shadows, and the real game was just beginning.


Лев, сохраняйте пят


Вот полный текст шестой главы. В этой части Ник Картер пытается пересечь ночную Москву, используя свои знания о работе советских спецслужб, чтобы добраться до окраин города.

THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER SIX (Full Text)


The night had become a freezing shroud, but for Nick Carter, the cold was an ally. It kept people’s heads down, buried in their scarves, and it made the KGB patrols eager to stay inside their heated Gazik vans.


He moved south, away from the Arbat, threading through a series of interconnected courtyards. Moscow’s "vnutrenniye dvory" were a world unto themselves—a labyrinth of laundry lines, rusted playground equipment, and trash bins where a man could move for miles without ever stepping onto a main sidewalk. He was heading for the Gorky Park area, but he knew the bridges would be death traps. The Moskva River was a black ribbon of ice, and every crossing point would be choked with MVD checkpoints.


He stopped near a darkened metro ventilation grate to warm his hands for a moment. The "Star" and the "Sun." The woman’s message haunted him. If the "Star" was indeed the Red Star facility—a heavily guarded GRU communications post—then he was walking into a hornets' nest. But AX intelligence had suggested that the micro-disc containing the Red Aurora override codes had been hidden there by a double agent before his execution.


Suddenly, the roar of a low-flying helicopter shattered the silence. A powerful searchlight cut through the falling snow, sweeping across the rooftops like the eye of a vengeful god. Carter pressed himself into the shadow of a stone archway, his heart hammering a steady, rhythmic beat. The "Wolf Pack" wasn't just using ground troops; Andreyeff was pulling out all the stops.


He needed transport. Walking across Moscow in a worker’s jacket wouldn't get him to the Solntsevo district before dawn.


He emerged onto a street near the Frunzenskaya embankment and saw what he was looking for: a mud-splattered Ural truck idling outside a small, all-night bakery. The driver was inside, likely bartering for a loaf of fresh bread. The engine was still running, coughing out plumes of blue-grey smoke into the sub-zero air.


Carter didn't hesitate. He slipped into the cab, shifted the heavy, grinding gears into first, and pulled away just as the startled driver ran out of the bakery, shouting and waving a fist.


Driving a Soviet truck was like wrestling a bear. The steering was heavy, and the heater did little more than blow lukewarm dust into his face. But the truck gave him cover. To the patrols, he was just another driver making an early morning delivery.


As he approached the Krymsky Bridge, his grip tightened on the wheel. Up ahead, the blue and red lights of a Militsiya roadblock flickered against the snow. Three officers in heavy fur coats were flagging down vehicles, their Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders.


Carter reached down and checked the hidden pocket of his trousers. He had a set of forged internal documents—a "propiska"—identifying him as Ivan Khorov, a driver for the State Transport Pool. It was a masterpiece of AX forgery, but under the glare of a KGB flashlight, every flaw would look like a neon sign.


He slowed the truck to a crawl as he reached the first officer. The man gestured for him to roll down the window. The cold air rushed in, smelling of salt and wet wool.


"Documents," the officer grunted, his breath a white cloud.


Carter handed over the stained leather folder. He didn't look the officer in the eye; he looked bored, tired, the way a man who had worked twelve hours straight ought to look.


The officer flipped through the papers, his flashlight beam dancing over the Cyrillic stamps. Behind him, another officer was walking around the back of the truck, tapping the wooden slats with his nightstick.


"Where are you heading, Khorov?"


"Solntsevo," Carter replied, his Russian accent perfect—the flat, slightly nasal tone of a man from the Ural Mountains. "Parts for the tractor plant. They’re screaming for them since midnight."


The officer looked at the papers, then at Carter’s face, then back at the papers. For a second, time seemed to freeze. In the distance, a siren wailed, growing louder. Carter’s hand moved toward the silenced Luger hidden beneath the seat. If the officer looked up one more time, he would have to kill him and ram the gate.


"Go on," the officer finally said, slapping the folder against the door. "But watch the ice on the bridge. A truck went over the side an hour ago."


Carter nodded, took the papers, and eased the truck forward. He didn't speed up until he was well across the river. His back was drenched in sweat despite the freezing cab. He had passed the first ring of the trap, but the "Star" was still miles away, and he knew that Andreyeff’s "Wolf Pack" wouldn't be as easily fooled as a bridge guard.


He turned the truck toward the outskirts, the glow of the city fading behind him. The real mission—the retrieval of the Red Aurora disc—was now within reach. Or it was the ultimate ambush.


Лев, шестая глава готова. Здесь Ник проявил свою выдержку и знание «быта» советского водителя.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER SEVEN (Full Text)


The Solntsevo district was a desolate wasteland of grey concrete and rusted iron, a stark contrast to the historic grandeur of the city center. Here, the Soviet dream was a sprawling maze of unfinished apartment blocks and smoke-belching factories that ran on twenty-four-hour shifts. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and wet soot.


Carter ditched the Ural truck in a snow-filled ditch three blocks away from the coordinates of the "Red Star" facility. He couldn't risk the noise of the engine any longer. He wiped his fingerprints from the steering wheel and the door handles, then stepped out into the waist-deep powder.


The facility didn't look like a military installation. To the casual observer, it was just another aging power substation, surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with jagged coils of Barbed wire. But Carter’s trained eyes saw the anomalies: the reinforced concrete base of the fence, the sophisticated microwave sensors mounted on the corner posts, and the way the snow had been cleared in a precise, tactical perimeter.


He crouched behind a pile of discarded concrete pipes, pulling a pair of high-powered compact binoculars from his inner pocket. He focused on the main gate. Two guards in the olive-drab uniforms of the MVD stood near a small sandbagged shack, their Kalashnikovs held in the relaxed but ready "patrol carry."


"Too easy," Carter whispered to himself.


If the Red Aurora documents were here, Andreyeff wouldn't rely on mere conscripts. There would be "invisible" security—pressure plates, infrared beams, and most likely, snipers on the surrounding rooftops.


He shifted his position, moving like a shadow through the skeleton of an unfinished ten-story building that overlooked the facility. From the fifth floor, he had a clear view of the "Star"—a low, windowless bunker at the center of the compound. A single heavy steel door was the only entrance.


Carter reached into his kit and pulled out a small, specialized device—a thermal scanner. He activated it and swept the area. The screen glowed with heat signatures. There were four men inside the bunker, and two more on the roof of a neighboring warehouse. The "invisible" security was now visible.


His contact had said the disc was hidden in the "Star’s heart." That meant the central server room, likely located three levels underground.


He checked his watch. It was 3:15 AM. In two hours, the first shift of workers would begin to arrive at the nearby tractor plant, and the streets would be too busy for a quiet extraction. He had to move now.


He didn't head for the gate. Instead, he moved toward a section of the fence where an old drainage pipe exited the compound. It was choked with ice and filth, but it was a blind spot in the microwave sensor's sweep.


Using a pair of laser-cutters hidden in his sleeve, Carter made a silent, surgical opening in the wire. He slid through, his dark clothing blending perfectly with the oily shadows of the industrial yard. He was inside the perimeter.


Suddenly, a low, guttural growl vibrated through the air. Carter froze.


From around the corner of the bunker, a massive Caucasian Shepherd—a "volkodav" or wolf-crusher—emerged. These dogs were bred for one thing: killing intruders. It hadn't barked yet; it was a silent hunter, and it was less than ten feet away, its nostrils flared as it caught the scent of an outsider.


Carter didn't reach for his gun. The sound of a shot, even silenced, would bring the entire "Wolf Pack" down on him. Instead, he reached for a small pressurized cannister in his belt—a concentrated pheromone spray designed to mimic the scent of a dominant alpha predator.


The dog stopped, its head cocked to the side. It was confused. The scent told its brain that something much bigger and much more dangerous than a man was standing in the shadows.


In that moment of hesitation, Carter moved. He didn't kill the animal; he didn't have to. He struck a precise nerve point at the base of the dog's skull with the butt of his Luger. The massive beast slumped into the snow, unconscious but alive.


"Sorry, boy," Carter muttered. "Just doing my job."


He reached the steel door of the bunker. It was locked with a sophisticated electronic keypad—a model AX had briefed him on weeks ago. He pulled out a pocket-sized micro-computer, attached the leads to the keypad’s housing, and watched as the numbers began to cycle at lightning speed.


4... 9... 2... 1...


The solenoid clicked. The heavy door groaned and swung open an inch.


Carter took a deep breath, checked the action on Wilhelmina, and stepped into the neon-lit gloom of the Red Star facility. He was in the heart of the enemy's secret, and he knew that getting in was the easy part. Getting out alive would be the real miracle.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER EIGHT (Full Text)


The air inside the bunker was pressurized and recycled, carrying the dry, metallic tang of ozone and high-voltage electronics. Carter moved down a steep concrete ramp, his footsteps swallowed by the thick rubber matting that lined the floor. Every twenty yards, a recessed red light bathed the corridor in a bloody, sinister glow.


He reached the first sublevel. A heavy plexiglass partition separated the hallway from a room filled with humming mainframe computers—the primitive but massive Soviet versions of the West's latest technology. Two technicians in white lab coats were hunched over a terminal, their faces illuminated by the flickering green text on the screen.


Carter didn't spare them a second glance. They were civilians, cogs in the machine. His target was Level Three.


He found the elevator shaft, but he didn't touch the buttons. An elevator was a vertical coffin if the power was cut or if an alert was triggered. Instead, he pried open the heavy steel doors of the service stairs. He descended rapidly, his muscles coiled and ready.


Level Three was different. The walls were reinforced with lead-lined shielding, and the air was significantly colder. This was the "Heart of the Star."


At the end of the corridor stood a vault door that looked like it belonged in the State Bank of the USSR. It was guarded by two elite GRU soldiers in mottled camouflage, armed with shortened AKS-74U carbines. They weren't leaning against the wall or smoking; they were standing at a rigid attention, their eyes scanning the hallway with professional discipline.


Carter checked his watch. 3:42 AM. He had less than twenty minutes before the guard rotation.


He reached into his equipment pouch and pulled out a pair of small, marble-sized spheres—"flash-bang" pellets. He threw them with the precision of a major-league pitcher. They hit the floor directly between the two guards.


A blinding white light and a thunderous crack filled the narrow corridor.


The guards stumbled, clutching their eyes and ears. Before they could recover their senses or trigger their throat-mics, Carter was upon them. He didn't use his gun. Two swift, brutal strikes with the edge of his hand to the carotid arteries sent them into unconsciousness. He caught their bodies before they hit the floor to prevent the sound of clattering gear from echoing through the vents.


He dragged them into a nearby storage closet and turned his attention to the vault. This wasn't just a keypad; it was a dual-authentication system. It required a physical key and a voice-print.


Carter pulled out a small, high-sensitivity tape recorder. Earlier, in the hallway, he had captured a few snippets of the guards' conversation. Using an AX voice-synthesizer—a device the size of a pack of cigarettes—he fed the recorded syllables into the machine.


The synthesizer chirped, processing the Russian phonemes. He pressed the device against the vault's intercom.


"Identify," a synthesized voice inside the door demanded.


"Major Volodin, security clearance Red-One," the device played back in a perfect, gravelly mimicry of the senior guard's voice.


There was a series of heavy mechanical thuds as the locking bolts retracted. The massive door hissed open, revealing a small, sterile room. In the center, suspended in a vacuum-sealed glass case, was the micro-disc. It looked like an ordinary piece of plastic, but it held the power to blind the world.


Carter moved toward the case, but his eyes caught something on the floor—a thin, almost invisible dusting of white powder around the pedestal.


"Pressure sensors," Carter muttered.


He didn't step on the floor. Instead, he braced his back against one wall and his feet against the other, shimmying up toward the ceiling. He reached the ventilation duct directly above the case. Hanging by his knees, he used a diamond-tipped glass cutter to make a circular opening in the top of the display.


He lowered a small, collapsible magnetic rod. The disc was housed in a metal-rimmed sleeve. The magnet clicked softly as it made contact. Slowly, inch by inch, Carter drew the Red Aurora disc upward.


As the disc cleared the rim of the case, a soft, high-pitched chime echoed through the room.


The silent alarm.


"Damn," Carter hissed. He grabbed the disc, shoved it into a lead-lined pouch in his belt, and dropped to the floor.


Suddenly, the red lights in the hallway turned to a strobing, frantic blue. An automated voice began to blare over the intercom system: "Security breach! Level Three! All units to intercept! Immediate lockdown in progress!"


Carter didn't head for the stairs. He knew the exits would be sealed within seconds. He looked up at the ventilation duct he had just used. It was his only way out, but it was a long, cramped crawl into the unknown.


He hauled himself into the metal tunnel just as the first squad of reinforcements burst into the room, their submachine guns raking the space where he had been standing seconds before.


The Killmaster was in the pipes, and the entire weight of the Soviet military was about to come down on the "Red Star."


Лев, восьмая глава завершена. Ник получил диск, но он загнан в вентиляцию, а база поднята по тревоге.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER NINE (Full Text)


The ventilation duct was a cramped, vibrating tunnel of galvanized steel, barely wide enough for Carter’s broad shoulders. The air was thin and tasted of dust and machine oil. Above him, he could hear the frantic clatter of boots on the metal gratings and the muffled, distorted shouts of the "Wolf Pack" units as they fanned out through the sublevels.


Carter crawled with agonizing slowness, his fingers gripping the rivets of the duct. He knew that the Soviet engineers hadn't designed these shafts for human passage; they were afterthoughts, jagged and narrow. Every few yards, he had to exhale completely just to squeeze his chest through the reinforcing ribs of the pipe.


Suddenly, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump echoed through the metal.


"They’re tapping the ducts," Carter whispered to himself.


The KGB wasn't stupid. They knew he hadn't exited through the main doors, and they knew the only other way out of a sealed vault was up. They were listening for the telltale hollow echoes of someone moving inside the ventilation system.


Carter stopped. He reached into his belt and pulled out a small, flat device—a sonic decoy. He set the timer for sixty seconds and wedged it into a corner where two ducts intersected. He then turned and began to crawl in the opposite direction, toward the main exhaust fans of the cooling system.


Precisely one minute later, the decoy began to emit a series of loud, metallic thuds that perfectly mimicked the sound of a man struggling in the pipes.


Almost instantly, a hail of bullets ripped through the metal ducting fifty yards behind him. The sound was deafening, a frantic percussion of lead on steel. The soldiers were "sewing" the ducts with fire, hoping to catch him in the crossfire.


Under the cover of the noise, Carter reached the main vertical shaft. Below him was a sheer drop into the humming darkness of the generator room. Above him, a massive four-bladed exhaust fan was spinning, its blades cutting the air with a deadly, rhythmic whistle.


He looked up. The fan was the only way to the roof.


He pulled out a small pressurized canister of liquid nitrogen—part of AX's specialized "sabotage kit." He waited for the precise moment when the fan's motor groaned under a power surge, then sprayed the icy liquid directly onto the central bearing.


The metal shrieked as it flash-frozen. The fan slowed, the blades grinding against the housing with a shower of sparks, until it shuddered to a halt.


Carter didn't hesitate. He scrambled through the narrow gap between the frozen blades and hauled himself onto the roof of the bunker.


The Moscow night air hit him like a frozen hammer. The snow was a blinding white swirl, but the roof was illuminated by the sweeping beams of several truck-mounted searchlights.


"There! On the roof!" a voice screamed from below.


A heavy machine gun—a DShK mounted on a Gazik—opened up. The large-caliber rounds chewed into the concrete parapet, throwing shards of stone into the air. Carter dived behind a heavy ventilation housing, the Red Aurora disc pressing against his ribs like a hot coal.


He was trapped. The fence was fifty yards away, and the open ground was a killing zone.


He looked toward the perimeter. Just beyond the wire, the silhouette of a massive industrial crane loomed over the unfinished apartment blocks. It was a long shot—a suicidal shot—но у Киллмастера не было выбора.


He reached for his belt and uncoiled a thin, high-tensile strength wire with a weighted grappling hook. He didn't aim for the fence. He aimed for the steel arm of the crane, swaying in the winter gale.


He threw the hook with every ounce of strength he had left. It sailed through the darkness, a silver line against the black sky. It looped once, twice around the crane’s lattice-work and held.


"Hold on, Nick," he muttered.


He stepped off the roof just as a volley of tracer fire lit up the spot where he had been standing. He swung out into the freezing void, a lone shadow suspended over the heart of the Soviet war machine, while below him, the "Wolf Pack" howled in frustration.


Лев, девятая глава готова. К


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER TEN (Full Text)


The wind screamed in Carter’s ears as he swung through the freezing darkness. Below him, the Red Star facility looked like a frantic ant hill, with searchlights crisscrossing the snow and the muzzle flashes of Kalashnikovs winking like angry fireflies. The high-tensile wire groaned under his weight, vibrating with the force of the gale.


He hit the rusted steel girders of the industrial crane with a bone-jarring thud. His breath escaped him in a ragged gasp, but he didn't let go. He scrambled up the lattice-work, his hands numb despite the gloves. Behind him, the searchlights were already sweeping the arm of the crane.


"Vory! Vory!" (Thieves! Thieves!) the shouts echoed from below.


A heavy machine gun burst chewed into the crane’s counterweight, sending a spray of metal sparks into Carter’s face. He reached the operator's cab, found it empty, and kicked out the back window. He dived through just as a line of tracer bullets stitched across the front glass.


He knew he couldn't stay on the crane. It was a landmark, a target. He looked down the long, tapering arm that stretched out over the perimeter fence and toward the skeletal remains of an unfinished apartment block.


He didn't climb down. He ran.


Running along a swaying steel beam sixty feet above the ground in a Moscow blizzard was something they didn't teach in the training manuals, but Carter’s sense of balance was uncanny. He reached the end of the arm, took a literal leap of faith, and crashed through a pile of frozen wooden scaffolding on the fourth floor of the construction site.


He rolled, came up with Wilhelmina in his hand, and didn't stop moving. He descended the dark, stairless central shaft of the building, sliding down a series of heavy electrical cables.


By the time he reached the ground level, the first KGB Gaziks were screaming into the construction site, their tires spinning in the deep slush.


Carter didn't head for the street. He moved toward the rear of the site, where a line of massive concrete sewer pipes lay waiting to be buried. He crawled into the first one, moving deep into the darkness just as a squad of "Wolf Pack" soldiers swarmed the building he had just vacated.


He checked the lead-lined pouch. The Red Aurora disc was still there.


"Now for the hard part," Carter whispered.


He had the prize, but he was on the outskirts of a city that was now a total lockdown. Andreyeff would have the airports, the train stations, and every road out of the Moscow Oblast sealed tighter than a submarine hatch.


He pulled out a small, waterproof map. To the west lay the forest of Peredelkino—the famous dacha district for Soviet writers. It was heavily wooded and led toward the Minsk Highway. If he could reach the woods, he might have a chance to disappear.


But between him and the woods lay three miles of open industrial wasteland and the inner ring road, which would be crawling with MVD patrols.


Suddenly, his ears caught a sound that didn't belong in the industrial silence: the low, rhythmic throb of a powerful marine engine. He looked toward the nearby canal—a branch of the Moscow-Volga waterway. A heavy ice-breaking tug was pushing a line of coal barges toward the city's heating plants.


It was moving slow. Painfully slow.


Carter emerged from the sewer pipe and began to run toward the canal bank. It was his only ticket out of the Solntsevo trap. If he could board one of those barges, he could ride it out of the immediate search perimeter.


He reached the edge of the stone embankment just as the last barge in the line was passing. It was a massive, rusted hulk filled with mounds of frozen anthracite. He took a running jump, his fingers catching the icy lip of the metal hull. He hauled himself over the side and burrowed deep into the coal, the black dust staining his face and clothes.


As the barge moved slowly away from the glowing lights of the "Red Star" facility, Carter looked back. The sky was turning a bruised purple—the first hint of a Moscow dawn. He was covered in soot, freezing, and hunted by the most powerful secret police in the world.


But he had the disc. And the Killmaster wasn't finished yet.


Лев, десятая глава готова. Ник у


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER ELEVEN (Full Text)


The barge moved with an agonizing, glacial slowness. The vibration of the tug’s heavy diesel engines thrummed through the hull and into Carter’s bones, a rhythmic reminder of the massive power pushing him through the ice-choked canal. He lay flat against the frozen anthracite, the black dust gritting in his teeth and coating his lungs.


He was a shadow among shadows. Above, the sky was a dirty grey, the dawn light filtered through a thick layer of industrial smog and falling snow.


As the barge approached the Fili district, the canal narrowed. On both banks, Carter could see the silhouettes of guard towers and the flickering lights of patrol cars. The KGB wasn't just searching the streets; they had remembered the waterways.


"Searchlights ahead," Carter muttered, pressing his face into the coal.


Two powerful beams of white light cut through the mist from the shore, sweeping across the deck of the lead barge. The "Wolf Pack" was conducting a systematic inspection of every vessel entering or leaving the industrial zones. Carter knew that if they boarded, even the deep mounds of coal wouldn't hide him from a determined search or a chemical sniffer.


He reached into his sleeve for Pierre, his gas-emitting lighter, but then hesitated. Gas would be a giveaway. He needed a distraction, something to make the guards look the other way for the ten seconds he needed to slip into the freezing water.


He spotted a stack of heavy wooden crates at the stern of the barge—machinery parts destined for the city’s power plants. He crawled toward them, moving with the silent, fluid grace of a panther. He pulled a small incendiary pellet from his kit, set it for a thirty-second delay, and tucked it deep inside a crate filled with oily rags and packing straw.


He then moved to the opposite side of the barge, near the water line.


A loud, crackling "Whoosh!" erupted behind him. A pillar of orange flame shot into the grey sky as the oily rags caught fire.


"Pozhar! Pozhar!" (Fire! Fire!) someone screamed from the tugboat.


The searchlights on the bank immediately swung away from the coal mounds and locked onto the burning crates. The guards on the shore began shouting into their radios, distracted by the sudden emergency.


Carter slipped over the side.


The water of the canal was so cold it felt like liquid fire. It felt as if a thousand needles were piercing his skin simultaneously. His heart skipped a beat, the shock of the sub-zero temperature nearly paralyzing his muscles. But the Killmaster’s will was a tempered blade. He forced himself to submerge, swimming beneath the surface, his dark form invisible under the oily, ice-filmed water.


He surfaced fifty yards downstream, behind a row of rusted mooring pylons. He hauled himself onto the stone embankment, his body shaking uncontrollably with the onset of hypothermia. He knew he had minutes—perhaps less—before his core temperature dropped to a lethal level.


He found a secluded boiler room behind a textile factory. The door was locked, but a single blow from his boot sent the rusted latch flying. Inside, the air was gloriously, suffocatingly hot. Carter stripped off his soaked, coal-stained rags and stood before the massive furnace, the heat stinging his frozen flesh.


He checked the lead pouch. The Red Aurora disc was dry.


He reached into a hidden compartment of his belt and pulled out a small, highly concentrated stimulant pill—an AX "emergency boost." He swallowed it dry. Within seconds, his heart began to race, and a wave of artificial warmth flooded his limbs. The shaking stopped.


He looked at himself in a cracked shard of mirror on the wall. He was covered in soot, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked more like a fugitive from a labor camp than an American agent.


"Perfect," he whispered.


He found a set of dry, grease-stained overalls hanging on a peg. He put them on, tucked Wilhelmina into the waistband, and stepped back out into the Moscow morning.


He was now in the heart of the city's industrial belt. The "Red Aurora" disc was in his pocket, but the border was still hundreds of miles away, and General Andreyeff was about to realize that his prey had escaped the Solntsevo trap.


Carter headed for the Leningradsky Station. It was the boldest move possible—the lion’s den—but it was the only way to reach the north before the net became a solid wall of steel.


Лев, одиннадцатая глава готова. Ник чудом спасся из ледяной воды и теперь направляется к вокзалу.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER TWELVE (Full Text)


Leningradsky Station was a churning sea of humanity, a vast cavern of steam, echoing announcements, and the smell of cheap tobacco and stale sweat. Even at this early hour, the terminal was packed with travelers—soldiers in greatcoats, peasants with burlap sacks, and stone-faced bureaucrats clutching briefcases.


Carter moved through the crowd with the invisible ease of a ghost. In his grease-stained overalls and a battered cap pulled low over his eyes, he was just another face in the socialist mass. But beneath the facade, his senses were tuned to a fever pitch.


He saw them immediately. The "Bluecaps"—the MVD internal security forces—were stationed at every turnstile and every platform gate. But more dangerous were the men in plain overcoats standing near the newspaper kiosks. They weren't looking at the headlines; they were watching eyes. They were looking for the "Western blink"—the subtle hesitation of a man not used to the crushing weight of Soviet authority.


Carter approached a ticket window. "Leningrad. One way. Hard seat," he grunted in his coarse Ural accent, sliding a handful of crumpled rubles under the glass.


The clerk didn't even look up. She stamped a piece of cardboard and shoved it back. Carter took it, but as he turned away, he felt a heavy hand drop onto his shoulder.


"Documents," a voice commanded.


Carter froze. It was a tall, thin man with a hawk-like nose and the unmistakable cold eyes of a KGB field interrogator. Beside him stood two uniformed soldiers, their AK-47s held across their chests.


Carter didn't hesitate. He played the part of the disgruntled worker to perfection. "Again?" he spat, fumbling in his pockets. "I showed them at the gate. I showed them at the factory. Do I look like a spy, or just a man trying to visit his dying mother?"


He handed over the "Ivan Khorov" papers. The KGB man flipped through them slowly, his thumb lingering over the edges of the stamps. The AX forgeries were good, but this man was a professional. He looked from the photo to Carter’s soot-streaked face.


"You work at the tractor plant, Khorov? Why are you not at your shift?"


"Night shift," Carter growled. "Double time for the holidays. Now I have three days off."


The agent's eyes narrowed. He leaned in closer, and for a second, Carter thought he would have to pull Wilhelmina and turn the station into a slaughterhouse.


"Your hands," the agent said. "Show me your hands."


Carter held them out. They were stained with coal dust and grease, the nails bitten and dirty. It was the "Ivan Khorov" manicure—carefully prepared by AX specialists before the mission.


The agent grunted, handed the papers back, and gestured with his chin. "Move on. And watch your tongue, worker. The State has a long memory for those who complain."


Carter nodded, pocketed the papers, and walked toward Platform 4. He felt the agent's eyes on his back until he disappeared into the steam of the waiting express.


The train was a monstrous, soot-covered beast. Carter found his carriage—a "Platskart" car where forty people were crammed into open bunks. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool and smoked sausage. He climbed into a top bunk, pulled his cap over his eyes, and waited.


As the train began to groan and pull away from the platform, Carter saw a black Zil limousine scream to a halt near the tracks. Several men in leather coats burst out, running toward the station master’s office.


"They’ve figured it out," Carter whispered to himself.


The hunt had shifted from the streets of Moscow to the iron rails heading north. He was on the move, but the "Red Aurora" disc was a magnet, and he knew that somewhere ahead, the "Wolf Pack" would be waiting to intercept the Leningrad Express.


He felt the micro-disc pressing against his chest. It was 400 miles to Leningrad, and every mile was a battlefield.


Лев, двенадцатая глава готова. Ник Кар


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER THIRTEEN (Full Text)


The Leningrad Express screamed through the frozen Russian night, a streak of iron and light cutting across the desolate, snow-covered plains. Inside the "Platskart" car, the heat was stifling, a thick soup of human breath and the rhythmic clack-clack of wheels on cold steel. Carter lay motionless on the upper bunk, his body swaying with the motion of the train, his hand never straying more than an inch from the grip of the Luger hidden beneath his grease-stained jacket.


He didn't sleep. A professional like Carter knew how to enter a state of "dynamic rest"—his muscles relaxed, his heart rate slowed, but his senses remained sharp as a razor.


Three hours out of Moscow, the atmosphere changed. The rhythmic snoring of the passengers was interrupted by the heavy, sliding bang of the corridor door.


"Everyone stay in your places!" a sharp voice commanded. "Internal Security check! Get your documents ready!"


Carter didn't move, but his eyes opened a sliver. At the end of the car, three men in the grey uniforms of the Railway Police had entered, led by a civilian in a sharp, belted trench coat. The civilian didn't look like a local cop; he had the cold, clinical air of a KGB specialist.


They were moving systematically, bunk by bunk. They weren't just checking papers; they were shining flashlights directly into people’s faces, comparing them to a high-resolution photograph.


Carter knew his disguise was good, but it wouldn't survive a direct, prolonged stare from a man trained by Andreyeff. He needed to change the game.


He slid off the bunk with the silence of a shadow, dropping into the narrow aisle just as the search party was four bunks away. He didn't head for the exit; he headed for the small, cramped lavatory at the end of the car.


"Hey, you! Stop!" the civilian shouted.


Carter didn't stop. He ducked into the lavatory, locked the door, and immediately reached for the window. It was frozen shut, sealed by layers of ice and Soviet paint. He wrapped his hand in his cap and delivered a short, powerful blow to the frame. The ice cracked. He heaved the window upward, and a blast of sub-zero air rushed into the tiny room.


The door to the lavatory shuddered under a heavy kick. "Open up! KGB!"


Carter didn't have time for the window. He looked up at the ceiling—the service hatch for the water tank. He hauled himself up, his boots scrambling for purchase on the narrow pipes, and disappeared into the crawlspace just as the lavatory door was kicked off its hinges.


"He went out the window!" one of the soldiers shouted, looking at the open frame and the rushing darkness outside.


"Stop the train!" the KGB man screamed. "He’s jumped!"


Carter heard the hiss of the emergency brakes. The train began to shudder, the wheels shrieking in protest as they locked against the rails. He lay flat against the freezing metal tank, his breath coming in shallow gasps.


He hadn't jumped. He was still on the train, but now he was in a metal box surrounded by men who would shoot on sight.


As the train ground to a bone-jarring halt in the middle of a vast, lightless pine forest, Carter knew he had only seconds before they searched the roof and the service conduits. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, high-explosive "button." He pressed it against the outer skin of the car’s roof.


"Time to leave the Express," he muttered.


A dull thump echoed through the car. The explosion was small, shaped to blow outward. Carter scrambled through the jagged hole and onto the roof of the stationary train.


The silence of the forest was absolute, broken only by the panting of the locomotive and the shouts of the soldiers far below. Carter looked toward the dark wall of trees a hundred yards away. Between the train and the forest lay a flat expanse of waist-deep snow.


He was a perfect target against the white.


Suddenly, a flare hissed into the sky, bathing the entire scene in a ghostly, flickering red light.


"There! On the roof!"


The forest erupted in gunfire.


Лев, тринадцатая глава готова.


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER FOURTEEN (Full Text)


The red flare drifted slowly toward the earth, casting long, dancing shadows across the snow. Carter didn't wait for the light to fade. He threw himself off the roof of the train, his body curling into a tight ball as he hit the deep drift beside the tracks.


The snow was like powdered ice, swallowing him to the chest. He heard the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a light machine gun from the rear of the train, the bullets zipping overhead and shredding the pine needles of the nearby trees.


"Wolf Pack One, move in!" a voice barked over a megaphone. "Flank him!"


Carter struggled through the drifts, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs. He reached the edge of the tree line just as a second flare went up, illuminating three figures in white camouflage parkas emerging from the steam of the locomotive. They moved with the terrifying efficiency of professional hunters.


Carter spun around, leveling Wilhelmina. He didn't fire at the men; he fired at the second flare while it was still rising. The 9mm round struck the magnesium canister, causing it to explode prematurely in a blinding white flash.


The soldiers were momentarily blinded. Carter used the three seconds of darkness to melt into the thick stands of spruce and fir.


The forest was a nightmare of frozen branches and hidden deadfalls. Carter’s breath was a plume of silver in the moonlight. He knew he couldn't outrun the "Wolf Pack" in deep snow—they would have skis and radio coordination. He had to stop them here, in the dark.


He stopped behind a massive, ancient oak and pulled Pierre from his belt. But he didn't use the gas. He took a thin wire from his kit and rigged a classic AX "deadfall" trap across a narrow gap between two boulders. At the end of the wire, he placed a concussion grenade.


He then moved thirty yards to the left and waited.


Minutes later, he heard the crunch of snow. Two agents appeared, moving slowly, their AK-74s swept in wide arcs. They were using infrared goggles.


"I have a thermal signature," one whispered in Russian. "Directly ahead."


They stepped into the gap. The lead man’s boot caught the wire.


The explosion was a flat, heavy crump that shook the snow from the trees. The two agents were thrown backward, neutralized by the shockwave. But the third agent—the leader—was more cautious. He had stayed back, and now he opened fire with a suppressed submachine gun, the bullets chewing into the bark of Carter’s oak tree.


"Carter!" the man shouted, his voice echoing through the frozen woods. "There is no way out! Andreyeff has the entire Leningrad sector cordoned off! Give us the disc, and perhaps you will see the sun again!"


Carter didn't answer. He reached into his pocket and found a small, glass vial—a concentrated chemical irritant. He shattered it against a stone and used a small battery-powered fan to blow the vapor toward the agent's position.


The wind caught it. A moment later, a series of violent, hacking coughs erupted from the shadows.


Carter moved like a blur. He didn't use Wilhelmina; he wanted this silent. He closed the distance in three strides, Hugo—his stiletto—gleaming in his hand. The agent tried to raise his weapon, but his eyes were streaming with tears and his lungs were on fire.


The struggle was brief and brutal. A minute later, the forest was silent again.


Carter stood over the fallen agent, his own chest heaving. He reached into the man's pocket and pulled out a high-frequency radio.


"...Wolf Pack One, report! Do you have the American? Report!" Andreyeff’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding small and distant, yet filled with a cold, simmering rage.


Carter picked up the radio, his thumb on the transmit button. "He's not here, General," Carter said in perfect English, his voice as cold as the Russian winter. "And neither is the disc. Tell Volkov to stop wasting his men. I'm coming for the border."


He smashed the radio against a rock and turned toward the north. He was alone in the wilderness, miles from any road, but the "Red Aurora" disc was still in his possession.


Ahead lay the final stretch—the crossing into Finland. But he knew that Andreyeff would be waiting at the finish line with every gun the Soviet Union could muster.


Лев, четырнадцатая глава гото


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER FIFTEEN (Full Text)


The forest began to thin, the dense spruce giving way to the desolate, winds-swept marshes that marked the border zone. The temperature had plummeted even further, the air so cold it felt like inhaling shards of glass. Carter moved with a grim, mechanical persistence, his legs feeling like lead weights, his vision blurring at the edges.


He had been moving for twelve hours straight since leaving the train. Behind him lay a trail of broken traps and frustrated search teams, but the prize — the "Red Aurora" micro-disc — was still secured in its lead-lined pouch.


Up ahead, through the swirling white haze of a developing blizzard, he saw it: the "Death Strip." A hundred-yard wide clearing of raked earth, illuminated by towering floodlights and guarded by a double line of electrified wire. Beyond that lay a frozen river, and on the other side, the dark, silent pines of Finland.


But Carter wasn't looking at the wire. He was looking at the black Zil limousine parked directly in the middle of the patrol road.


Standing beside the car, a long wool coat draped over his shoulders, was General Viktor Andreyeff. He looked exactly as he did in the AX files, but more tired, his face a map of Soviet history. Beside him stood a dozen "Wolf Pack" commandos, their rifles leveled at the tree line where Carter was hidden.


"Come out, Nicholas!" Andreyeff’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker, competing with the howl of the wind. "The game is over! You have nowhere to run, and your body will never be found in these bogs!"


Carter leaned against a frozen birch, checking the last three rounds in Wilhelmina. He was exhausted, out of gadgets, and surrounded by a small army.


"I know you have the disc!" Andreyeff continued. "Give it to me, and I give you my word as a soldier of the Soviet Union — you will be put on a plane to West Berlin. No trials, no Lubyanka. I just want the 'Aurora' back."


Carter knew it was a lie. Andreyeff couldn't afford to let the man who had humiliated the KGB walk free. But Carter also knew something the General didn't.


He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, palm-sized transmitter he had salvaged from the dead agent's gear. He reconfigured the wires with his fingernails, his hands shaking from the cold. He wasn't calling for help; he was setting a frequency.


The Red Aurora disc wasn't just a storage device; it was an active override. If it was brought within range of a high-frequency Soviet military relay — like the one mounted on the General's Zil — it would trigger a diagnostic "handshake."


Carter stepped out from the trees, his hands held high. He looked defeated, a broken man in a tattered worker's jacket.


"I’m coming in, General!" Carter shouted.


As he walked slowly across the "Death Strip," the commandos tightened their fingers on their triggers. Andreyeff smiled, a thin, predatory expression.


"Smart choice, Carter," the General said as Nick reached the front of the Zil. "Now, the disc."


Carter reached into his pouch and pulled out the small plastic square. But as he handed it toward Andreyeff, he pressed a hidden contact on his improvised transmitter.


Inside the Zil, the sophisticated radio equipment suddenly erupted in a high-pitched, screaming feedback loop. The "Red Aurora" system had recognized the override. All at once, the perimeter floodlights began to flicker and explode, short-circuited by the massive power surge the disc had triggered through the local relay.


In the sudden, chaotic darkness, Carter dived.


He didn't run for the wire. He lunged for Andreyeff, using the General as a human shield. A hail of gunfire from the startled commandos tore into the Zil's bodywork, sparks flying as the bullets ricocheted off the armored steel.


"Hold your fire!" Volkov’s voice screamed from somewhere in the dark. "You'll hit the General!"


In the confusion, Carter shoved Andreyeff toward the soldiers and threw his last concussion grenade at the base of the electrified fence. The explosion ripped a jagged hole in the wire, the blue sparks of the short-circuiting electricity lighting up the night like a grotesque firework display.


Carter didn't look back. He sprinted for the hole, his boots pounding the frozen earth. He hit the ice of the border river at a dead run, sliding across the slick surface as the first flares began to light up the sky again.


"Kill him!" Andreyeff’s voice roared, no longer calm. "Kill him now!"


The ice around Carter’s feet began to shatter under the impact of heavy machine-gun fire. He was halfway across. The Finnish shore was a wall of black ink ahead.


Лев, это была предпоследняя глава


THE KREMLIN KILL


CHAPTER SIXTEEN (Full Text)


The ice of the river hissed and cracked as a rain of lead tore into the frozen surface. Carter felt a searing pain in his shoulder — a grazing shot — but he didn't slow down. He scrambled up the steep, snow-covered bank on the Finnish side, his fingers clawing at the frozen roots of a pine tree.


He rolled behind a granite boulder just as a massive Soviet searchlight flared to life from a guard tower across the water. The beam swept the trees, a finger of light searching for the ghost that had slipped through the Iron Curtain.


On the Soviet bank, the shouting had turned into a chaotic din. Engines roared, and Carter could see the silhouette of General Andreyeff standing by his car, a figure of frozen, impotent fury. The "Red Aurora" override had done its work; the border's electronic grid was a smoking ruin, and for a few precious minutes, the Killmaster had vanished from the KGB's radar.


Carter lay in the snow, his breath coming in long, ragged gasps. He reached into his pouch. The disc was still there. He had risked everything — his life, his identity, and the stability of the Cold War — for this small piece of plastic.


Suddenly, the silence of the Finnish woods was broken by a soft, rhythmic clicking. It wasn't a Geiger counter or a radio; it was the sound of a ski pole hitting a branch.


Three figures in white winter gear emerged from the darkness of the Finnish forest. They weren't Soviet. They carried Swedish-made submachine guns and moved with a calm, quiet professionalism.


"N-7?" the leader asked in English, using Carter's AX code-designation.


"The falcon is home," Carter replied, his voice a dry rasp.


The Finns didn't waste time with handshakes. They grabbed Carter under the arms and hauled him toward a waiting snowmobile hidden in a nearby ravine.


"We have to move fast," the leader whispered. "The Russians are already claiming a border violation. Their MiGs are scrambled from Murmansk."


"Let them fly," Carter said, leaning back into the seat of the snowmobile as the engine roared to life. "By the time they find this trail, I'll be having a double bourbon in Helsinki."


EPILOGUE


Two days later, the air was warm and smelled of salt and expensive perfume. Nick Carter sat on the terrace of a villa in the South of France, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The bandages on his shoulder were hidden beneath a silk shirt.


Across from him, David Hawk, the head of AX, stared at the micro-disc resting on the table between them.


"The analysts at Langley are having a field day, Nick," Hawk said, his voice a low rumble. "This disc doesn't just give us the override codes. It gives us the entire architecture of the Soviet satellite network. We’ve neutralized their biggest threat without firing a single missile."


"A lot of good people died for that plastic, David," Carter said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "The contact at the metro, the woman on the Arbat... they’re still there. Just ghosts in the machine."


"That’s the business we're in, Nick," Hawk said, lighting a cigar. "We trade in ghosts."


Carter didn't respond. He looked at his hands — the stains of coal dust and grease were gone, scrubbed away by hot water and expensive soap. But he knew that in his mind, he would always be running through that Moscow blizzard, hearing the howl of the "Wolf Pack" behind him.


He picked up his glass and drained it. The Kremlin Kill was over, but the Great Game never ended. Somewhere, in another city, in another shadow, a new hunt was already beginning.


THE END


Лев, на этом всё! Книга «The Kremlin Kill» («Кремлевский контракт») полностью перенесена в ваш список. Ник Картер в очередной раз спас мир и ушел в закат.


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