# Spykiller33

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

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the Volvo, climb in, and drive off.

"A funny old man," Natalie mused.

"Yes." the Contessa agreed. "and quite charming."

Zapato waddled into his hotel room and dived for the

telephone. Alberto Ferare answered on the third ring.

"It's me."

"Felipe, where the hell are you?"

"In France, Nice."

"Nice? I thought the score was in Seville."

"It's been changed. Albertos I need a lookout, a woman,

someone young. fairly attractive."

"The lover's lane routine?"

"Exactly."

' •I want to go tomorrow night."

"Good God, Felipe .

"I must. The target will be at a yacht party. There will

be only one servant in the house, an old cook. I might never

get a chance like this again: '

"Give me your number there. I will call you back as soon

as I can."

S Thank you. Alberto. You won't regret it. You can take

a year off on just the commission."

Zapato gave him the hotel and room number, and then re-

dialed.

"Sefior Bolivar, please."

' 'Speaking."

As per his instructions, Zapato recited his room number

and the hotel number, and hung up.

Nervously he smoked and paced for twenty minutes until

the phone rang.

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"Felipe, I have found someone."

c Tank you, Alberto."

"Go to the Forum Plage. Ask for Lucie. She works there,

a beach girl. I have already made the contact for you."

"She has worked before?"

"Many times, Felipe. Good luck."

"Gracias, amigo. "

Five minutes later, Bolivar called. "I take it, Sefior

Zapato, you are ready to move?"

"Tomorrow night. I will leave right from the job. Where

can we make the exchange?"

"Let me think . . . you are in Nice?"

"Yes."

"This is Thursday. I will meet you Sunday evening in

the bar of the Hotel Roc in Andorra. That will be best for

both of us."

Zapato sighed with relief. "An excellent choice. You will

bring cash?"

"Of course, seöor. That, too, will be best, Until Sunday."

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TEN

The airport at Perpignan near the Spanish border was

small. It was also out of the way enough so that there was

a very slim chance of it being covered. The border itself

would be another thing, but if all went well, that would be

taken care of by Joe Crifasi.

The head of AXE in Rome had been cut free to work with

Carter for the duration of the mission.

In the terminal, Carter headed directly for a bank of phones

and dialed the special number in Madrid.

"Go ahead," came the stocky Italian's raspy voice.

"It's me, Joe. How're we doing?"

' 'Tony boy is still here in Madrid. He hasn't moved except

to hit a discotheque for a few hours every night. 1 think

he's between jobs. We've got taps on the phone and his

mail covered every day. Nada, so far."

"You've got the Barcelona house covered?"

"All the way. You still coming in?"

"If I've got transportation," Carter replied.

"You do. His name is Marc Lapin. He's bringing across

a load of wine tonight. He'll stop by a place called Bar

Diablo in Canet-Plage about ten tonight."

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'SHow will I know him?"

"Dark glasses, dungarees, and T-shirt that says, s When

get laid.' Just in case, he•ll also be drinking

in Rome .

Mexican beer."

"The T-shirt your idea?"

"Hell, yes." Crifasi said. laughing. "See you tomorrow. "

Carter hung up and hit the cabstand. "Canet-Plage .

a decent hotel."

A half hour later he checked into a decent two-star and

paid for a week in advance. If anyone was asking. they

would never expect that.

After dumping his bag, Caner hit the promenade and

found an all-purpose beach store. •He bought a small bag,

swim trunks. and a towel, then went back to his room.

Carefully, he unpacked and hung everything up neatly

except for a clean shirt, jeans, and the deck shoes. These

he stored in the beach bag along mth Wilhelmina and Hugo.

The clothes in the closet belonged to Simon Gordon, who

would soon disappear.

Then he changed into the trunks. draped the towel around

his neck and, beach bag in hand, hit the beach.

Forum Plage was at the end of Avenue Gambetta. It was

one of several sections of the beach franchised to a local

entrepreneur but open to the paying public,

Felipe Zapato paid his fee and walked on through the

dressing room without changing. On the pebbly beach, he

looked around at the occupied chairs and umbrellas and the

idle paddleboats, A beefy beach type lounged against a row

of unrented chairs. but Zapato saw no young woman.

And then she was there. in front of him. "Bonjour, mon-

sieur. May I help you? My name is Lucie."

"Yes, a chaise, please, and an umbrella."

She scurried away and returned almost at once balancing

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a chair under one arm and a beach umbrella under the other.

She seemed oblivious of the fact that he was about to sit

on the beach fully dressed.

"This way, monsieur," she said.

Zapato followed and waited while she set up the umbrella,

cursing under his breath.

Damn, I said young and attractive, but not this young!

She was nineteen or twenty, and very pretty. She had the

straight nose and heart-shaped face common to many French

girls, widest at the level of the eyes and tapering to a delicate

mouth and chin. Her hair was a short mop of blond curls,

and her figure was still the figure of a young girl, slim and

small-breasted. Her skin was golden brown from the sun.

"There you are, monsieur."

"Merci,"' Zapato replied. creasing a fifty-franc note

around one of his cards and pressing it into her hand. "And

a bottle of beer, Spanish, if you have it."

Her forehead furrowed and her eyes narrowed as she

searched his face and fingered the note and card in her hand.

At last her lips curled into a faint smile. She nodded and

hurried away. Zapato slumped onto the lounge chair and

masked the worry on his face with an open newspaper.

She returned and dropped into a crouch beside him to

pour the beer. Her eyes were intent on the beer and the

sunbathers around them. Her lips barely moved when she

spoke. "When will you need me?"

"Tonight, for a dry run," he replied, looking straight

ahead at the paper rather than at her. "We go tomorrow

night."

"What time tonight?"

"Ten," he said.

"Shall I come to your hotel?"

"I'll be glad to pick you up."

"No, it will be better for me to come to your hotel, I

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think. Where are you staying?"

He told her, and quickly outlined what would be expected

of her. "Now, as to the price . .

"Seven thousand francs. cash, tonight."

"It is more than—

"It is my price. I told Monsieur Ferare. Yes or no?"

She might look young, Zapato thought, but she thought

with maturity. Quickly he did a mental calculation, Her fee

would practically strap him, but there was nothing he could

do about it. The job would be far too dangerous without her.

"Very well, we have a bargain."

She smiled and squeezed his arm. Immediately the eyes

grew wider and the smile broadened. The rock-hard bicep

beneath the thin jacket did not belong to a frail old man.

"Until this evening, Monsieur le Voleur,"

Before he could rebuke her for calling him a thief out

loud, she stood and jogged toward the concession stand.

The exterior of the Bar Diablo was like any other bistro

along the promenade. It was big, noisy, and catered to

everyone from teen-agers to retirees who baked on the beach

by day and sought any entertainment by night.

There were three large trucks parked along the curb within

a block of the place. They were all enclosed and unmarked,

so it was impossible to tell which one went with Marc Lapin.

Caner entered. The place was packed. All the better, he

thought.

The left wall and the center were filled with tables. Booths

were in the rear, and the entire right wall was occupied by

a red vinyl and chrome bar.

Caner hit the end of it and ordered a beer. With a cigarette

in one hand and the beer in the other, he put his back to

the bar and took a closer look at the room.

It didn't take long to spot Lapin. The T-shirt was like a

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beacon. Carter waited a few minutes and sauntered over.

"Bonjour. Marc—it is good to see you again."

6'Ah, and you, monsieur. Please, sit, sit!"

Carter dropped into the opposite chair and they talked

until those around them paid no more attention. At last they

both leaned forward and spoke in lower voices.

"You need to be in Figueras by two in the morning,

correct?"

"That's right," Carter replied. "There is a small airfield

just south of the city."

"l know it. The agreed price is five hundred— American."

"Done," Carter said.

"I must warn you, monsieur, that is Catalan country. The

Communist party has eyes everywhere. You must do exactly

as I say."

"I am in your hands."

Lapin sprinkled bills on the table and left. Catter wandered

back to the bar and finished his beer. Ten minutes later he

was outside, ambling along the sidewalk toward the three

parked trucks. Lapin signaled him from the first vehicle.

"In the cab, monsieur, quickly!"

Carter dived into the cab and over the seats. A steel panel

had been removed. Without being told. he crawled into the

cubbyhole. Lapin's face appeared behind him.

"One rap means quiet, two raps—all clear. Three raps,

pray. I will see you again in Figueras, monsieur."

The panel was rescrewed in place, and Carter forced the

tension from his muscles. Once he was relaxed in the con-

fined space he let the sway of the truck loll him to sleep.

She arrived on the dot of ten dressed in a dark blouse,

jeans. and sneakers. Zapato let her in, checked the hail, and

closed the door.

"Would you like a drink?"

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"Good," he said. "Let's go to work."

For the next hour he laid out in detail, using a map of

the area around the countess's villa. all that was expected

of Lucie. When he was finished he went through it again.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

"Everything."

"Then tell it back to me."

She did, verbatim.

"Good. Let's go."

In the car, Lucie drove, while in the back seat Felipe

Zapato removed his padded clothes, the wedged shoes, and

the harness. The facial disguise he left in place, but he did

remove the wig.

The narrow road wound through the hills about five hun-

dred yards above the villa. It was dotted every four hundred

feet or so by cutouts for motorists with automobile trouble.

At night these were used as parking places for lovers to

look out over the lights of Monte Carlo.

Lucie pulled into the one selected by Zapato and parked.

He came over the front seat in dark trousers and a black

turtleneck.

"Your face is the same," she chuckled, "but your body

has lost thirty years."

Before he could answer, another car—a convertible with

the top down—pulled into the space beside them. Zapato

tugged Lucie into his arms and mashed his lips to hers. She

responded at once, curling her arms around his neck and

emitting tiny but audible growls of desire from her throat.

As they became more heated, Zapato heard a groan of

despair from the other car, and they backed out.

"Good," he said. breaking the clinch, "very good."

"Yes, it was."

He ignored the remark and started winding a rope ladder

around his middle. "This is only a dry run, but we'fl treat

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it as the real thing. Talk to me!"

"If a light goes on anywhere, I honk once. If a car comes

through the gates, I honk twice. If a car pulls in here and

does leave, I play prostitute and ask them if they would like

kinky company."

"And if they don't leave?"

"l leave, and meet you below at the cul-de-sac."

"Excellent. And if the police come by?"

"I lift (he hood and tell them my boyfriend has gone for

a garage man."

"Good." Zapato said, nodding. "Time?"

"Five past midnight."

"I'll see you at one sharp. If not . .

"I pull out and meet you on the promenade by the Forum

Plage."

Without another word. Zapato slipped from the car and

moved like a shadow down the hillside. One hundred yards

above the rear of the villa. he dropped to the ground at a

ten-foot chain-link fence overgrown with ivy and topped

with barbed wire.

The night was dry and warm. with a soft breeze blowing

off the sea through a clear sky. It made a rushing noise over

his head, whipping the scrub brush of the hillside and slightly

bending the trees. A hanging light across the road from the

villa danced on its pole, casting shadows back and forth

across the top two floors.

The stars overhead were bright. but the thin, fading moon

would not rise until just before dawn. It was the kind of

night Zapato liked best. and if the weather report was correct,

the next night would be the same.

He grasped the ivy and tested his weight, It would hold

three of him. Up and over he went, dropping into a crouch.

Twenty steps took him to the retaining wall above the swim-

ming pool.

Again he dropped to his belly to recon the house. The

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light on the pole made a tinny creaking noise as it swayed.

An automobile came up the road from the village below. It

turned into the gates.

From above, Zapato heard a horn sound twice. He nodded

in satisfaction. Lucie was alert.

He heard laughter from the front of the villa. A car door

slammed. The front door closed, and the car rolled back

through the gates and down the hill.

Moments later a light came on. Third floor. guest room,

he thought; that would be the ballerina.

A chimney blocked that room's view of the pool.

Zapato dropped the rope ladder and scurried down it. In

seconds he found the conduits from the main box in the

wine cellar up the side of the house and through the wall

to the alarm system.

He crouched by the conduit and laid out tools from his

utility belt. He counted off three minutes. That would be

the time it would take him to bypass and deaden the alarm

system the next evening.

This done, he moved to the darkest corner of the house

and, like a leech. attached himself to the old-fashioned clay

drainpipe. Two minutes later he was on the roof directly

over the west wing guest quarters. He crouched by a chim-

ney, and for the next twenty minutes visualized himself

going through the motions inside the villa. Finally he sighed

with satisfaction.

With only the one servant there the next evening, it would

be a snap.

At five minutes to one he retraced his steps, and at one

sharp he slipped into the rear seat of the Volvo. The door

was barely closed before Lucie started the engine and pulled

out.

By the time they were at the rear of her house, Zapato

was once again dressed as the rug merchant.

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He rolled over the seat as she stepped from the car.

'Tomorrow at the beach?"

"Yes," Zapato nodded. and drove off.

He hit the Promenade des Anglais and drove just five

miles over the speed limit until he was across the Pont du

Voe. There he speeded up to exactly sixty miles an hour

until he hit the village of Cagnes. Just across from the town

square, he pulled into an alley behind a BMW motorcycle

shop, and checked his watch.

It was exactly two hours from the time he had gone over

the fence behind the countess's villa.

It took only a two-minute stop to drop Carter off near the

fence of the small private airfield south of Figueras. There

he crouched in tall shrubbery until the sound of the truck

had faded in the distance.

It was just past five in the morning. the soft hour before

creeping dawn. In the quiet, Caner surveyed the field. The

only lights came from the mouth of a single hangar and the

small cubicle above it that served as air traffic control limited

to daylight takeoffs and landings.

Carter scaled the fence and ran in a crouch toward a line

of four lightweight aircraft tied down in the shadow of the

hangar.

Halfway there, he spotted the number he wanted on a

twin-engine Cessna.

Seconds later he was in the cabin behind the rear seats

and under a pair of canvas engine covers.

For nearly an hour he remained hidden, wanting a smoke

but not daring to do more than move now and then to adjust

his weight.

It was shortly after dawn when he heard voices and felt

the fuselage sway as the wing-tip-to-ground tie-downs were

removed. Shortly after that he heard the clamor of the pilot,

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He rolled over the seat as she stepped from the car.

'Tomorrow at the beach?"

"Yes," Zapato nodded. and drove off.

He hit the Promenade des Anglais and drove just five

miles over the speed limit until he was across the Pont du

Voe. There he speeded up to exactly sixty miles an hour

until he hit the village of Cagnes. Just across from the town

square, he pulled into an alley behind a BMW motorcycle

shop, and checked his watch.

It was exactly two hours from the time he had gone over

the fence behind the countess's villa.

It took only a two-minute stop to drop Carter off near the

fence of the small private airfield south of Figueras. There

he crouched in tall shrubbery until the sound of the truck

had faded in the distance.

It was just past five in the morning. the soft hour before

creeping dawn. In the quiet, Caner surveyed the field. The

only lights came from the mouth of a single hangar and the

small cubicle above it that served as air traffic control limited

to daylight takeoffs and landings.

Carter scaled the fence and ran in a crouch toward a line

of four lightweight aircraft tied down in the shadow of the

hangar.

Halfway there, he spotted the number he wanted on a

twin-engine Cessna.

Seconds later he was in the cabin behind the rear seats

and under a pair of canvas engine covers.

For nearly an hour he remained hidden, wanting a smoke

but not daring to do more than move now and then to adjust

his weight.

It was shortly after dawn when he heard voices and felt

the fuselage sway as the wing-tip-to-ground tie-downs were

removed. Shortly after that he heard the clamor of the pilot,

115


ELEVEN

The sun was high by the time they landed in Malaga.

Carter had no trouble finding the battered blue Peugeot in

the parking lot. He pulled out immediately and hit the coast

road south toward Algeciras.

It was a two-hour drive and he didn't push it. At San

Roque, a village just up the coast from Algeciras. he pulled

off and found a telephone.

The number he had been given was answered at once by

a youthful and bored female voice.

"Senorita Martinez. please.

"Who is calling?"

"Rodolfo from Madrid."

"One moment."

It was more like ten seconds. Carter heard another phone

picked up and a click as the fust one was replaced. The

voice that came on was husky and no-nonsense.

"Where are you?"

"San Roque."

"Driving?'

"A blue Peugeot. beat-up, licence 4D3-909."

"Take the inland route. Come in from the hills on the

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road from Medina. Leave now. You should arrive on the

outskirts of Algeciras m a half hour. I'll be driving a white

Mercedes two-door." The phone went dead.

Carter climbed back into the Peugeot and took off.

The back roads were small and poorly marked, but he

managed to come out on the Medina road in twenty minutes.

He cut left and saw a sign: ALGECIRAS—8 KM.

Six kilometers later, a horn barked behind him and a

white Mercedes shot around him. Carter speeded up and

fell in behind the car.

Five minutes later they hit the town and began zigzagging

through back streets and back alleys. Suddenly the Mercedes

swung left into an open garage. There was space for another

car, and Carter took it.

He had scarcely killed the engine. when the door behind

the two cars dropped, dipping the interior into darkness. He

stepped from the car and sensed her right beside him.

"This way. Watch your step."

He followed. He heard keys. A door opened into a small,

equally dim laundry room. Another door opened and they

stepped down into a tastefully decorated living room. A few

steps into the room, she turned to face him.

"Welcome to Algeciras, Senor Carter."

She was tall, with short black hair and a model's figure

in a clinging yellow dress. Her arms, shoulders, and legs

were slender, but the rest of her curved in and out in all the

right places.

"Thanks for the help," Carter said.

"Would you like a drink?"

"I'd kill for one."

"No need," she chuckled, moving to a sideboard. "That

bedroom will be yours while you're here. You look like

you could use a shower."

"l could."

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"Go ahead. The clothes you ordered are in the bureau

and armoir."

Carter thanked her again and moved through the bedroom

directly into the bath. The shower felt like heaven. He was

shaving, a towel wrapped around his middle, when she

pushed the door open and entered.

"Your drink."

She placed it beside him and sat on the commode. She

sipped from a glass of wine and spoke.

"I've got Bolivar's routine, which he adhere's to daily,

and his place of residence. He lives well, a villa near Tarifa

above the sea."

"What's his background?" Carter asked, alternately sip-

ping the drink and scraping his face.

"Clean. And J mean very clean. If Bolivar's the Black

Bear, he has managed to hide it very skillfully."

'That's a tall order," Carter growled, "if he's got his

fingers in so much."

"So far, I've come up with nothing that would tie him

into the Russians or the I(xal Communist party."

"Except the phone in the other office."

She laughed. "Everyone in Spain is doing a shady deal

or two these days. Truthfully, don't think that proves a

thing."

"Can I go through the office?"

"I shouldn't think it would too difficult to arrange."

"And you've got his routine?"

She nodded and closed her eyes in concentration. 'SEvery

workday, he leaves his villa at ten-thirty, an-ives in his office

at eleven sharp. He works until one-thirty, then goes across

the street to a sauna. There he sweats, gets a massage. has

a light lunch, and takes a short siesta. He returns to his

office at five. He works until nine. and retums to his villa."

Carter dried his face, picked up his drink, and moved

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into the bedroom. She moved right behind him, and it was

several seconds before she became aware of the awkward

situation.

"Oh, you want to dress."

. yeah."

"Dress," she said with a throaty chuckle.

Carter shrugged. dropped the towel, and began to dress.

"Any further word on my photograph?"

"Nothing solid, but by now I'm sure you've been iden-

tified by Moscow."

Carter strapped the Luger to his leg and nodded. "That's

almost a sure thing, so the quicker I can get things done,

the better. Where would Bolivar be right now?"

The woman checked her watch. "It's almost two, and

Friday, He'll be at the sauna."

"Then he@ll be there until five."

"Always," she said. "He never varies."

Carter was dressed now and combing gray into his tem-

ples. A salt-and-pepper mustache almost completed the pic-

ture. He turned to her for the rest.

Without being asked. she handed him a pair of midnight-

black wraparound glasses and a red-tipped cane.

"Also, here are two snapshots I managed to get yesterday

with a zoom lens when Bolivar came out of his building. "

Carter glanced at them and slipped them into his pocket.

'They'll help."

"The address is Fourteen Calle de Sesto. You can get a

cab two blocks south of here."

He nodded. "Stay by your phone. I told Crifasi I wanted

reports every hour or so on Lucci in Madrid."

The Killmaster tapped his way down the front stoop and

turned left. At the corner he hesitated, and a pretty young

girl grasped his arm.

"Watch your step, senor. There is a gutter runoff there.

Let me help."

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"BIess you, child," Caner and allowed himself

to be guided across the street.

Domingo Bolivar stood naked in the stall shower and let

the ice-cold water wash the sweat from him that the sauna

had raised.

He felt good today, especially good. By eight o'clock

this evening, the deal of a lifetime would be completed. At

nine, with any luck, he would lock his door, and by Monday

he would be on his way to a six-month vacation in Brazil.

He deserved it. He had worked hard for twenty years to

take such a trip. If he locked up this deal this evening, he

wouldn't be a rich man, but he would be a financially com-

fortable one for the rest of his life.

At Domingo Bolivar's age, the specter of the coffin was

shimmering imminently. But he was still strong and healthy ,

and ready for lots of play and very little work. And that

was what he planned to do.

Wrapping a towel around himself, Bolivar retired to his

private cubicle and called for the masseur,

He was rubbed with aromatic oils, pounded and kneaded,

bathed again in hot water, showered in cold water, and

vigorously curried with thick towels.

After a light lunch, he retired to the small cot for his siesta.

Carter paid off the cab two blocks from the building and

tapped his way to 14 Calle de Sesto. Inside, he barely

glanced at the sign and, using the railing, climbed the stairs.

On the mezzanine floor, he moved as if he had been there

many times before and knew the place well.

At Bolivar's door, he paused and listened. When he was

sure the office was empty, he went to work on the lock.

Thirty seconds later he was inside with the door locked

behind him.

The office was a single room. and a mess. There was a

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blackboard with chalk and erasers. and there seemed to be

papers everywhere.

Shedding his coat in the heat. Caner laid it across the

smaller of the two desks, and pulled on a pair of surgical

gloves. Then he went to work.

He went through file Cabinets, storage closets, and both

desks without disturbing the organized chaos of a single

piece of paper. He even checked the pens and old-fashioned

inkwells on the desks.

Nothing, other than discovering that Domingo Bolivar

had a very profitable business and, from his correspondence,

a very wide range of friends in several countries.

Next was the bathroom. Other than needing a good scour-

ing. it also yielded nothing. The walls, floors, blinds, and

drapes were equally clean.

A safe. scarcely concealed by a Goya print, was so easy

to open that Carter hardly had to go through it to discover

nothing.

One thing did catch his eye: a first-class air ticket to Rio

for the following Monday morning.

Making a mental note of the time and flight number, he

relocked the safe and checked the office. When he was

positive that everything was in the same place, he ea«d

himself through the door and locked it behind him.

He checked his watch: 4:55.

On the street, he tapped his way two doors down to an

outdoor cafe. Taking one of the corner tables facing the

street, he ordered a beer and waited.

At precisely five o'clock, Domingo Bolivar walked ou

of the building across the street. Carter checked the phot

in his palm against the man.

He was a pleasant-looking man in a lightweight tan busi

ness suit. His hair was sparse and completely gray, and he

looked to be about six feet tall. As he crossed

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he was stooped and walked with a slight limp.

The Killmaster waited until Bolivar was out of sight for

five minutes, and then he located the café's pay phone.

Dolores Martinez picked up on the first ring.

"It's me. Anything?"

"Crifasi checked in. Nothing."

"Okay. His office is clean. You were right. There is

nothing there that would connect him to a damn thing. He's

a cautious man. Give me a rundown on the Tarifa villa."

"Let me get my notes."

Carter let his eye wander. Siesta was over and the café

was filling up. Two young girls in brightly colored dresses

giggled near his booth. Two tables from them, an old woman

kept fingering a coin as if she wanted to use the phone. At

a table by the street, an enormous man with a nearly bald,

bullet head sat sipping a beer. Just as the man looked directly

at him, Carter turned away.

"I'm back."

"Yeah. "

Dolores Martinez described the villa and the devious route

to get to it. "He has a cleaning woman twice a week, Tuesday

and Saturday."

"Is she as punctual as he?"

"As near as I have been able to find out, yes , " she replied.

' 'Okay, but I don't think it would be wise for a blind man

to drive up there in the middle of the day. Put your phone

on the machine and pick me up. I'll be walking north on

Calle de Sesto."

"Ten minutes," she replied, and hung up.

The old woman darted for the booth the instant Carter

vacated it. He returned to his table and his beer.

Out of the corner of the dark wraparound, he noticed the

big man frowning in his direction. The man's brutish head

rested directly on his shoulders. He had practically no neck.

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and his tiny, watery eyes were embedded in fat, puffy hol-

lows.

Carter also noticed that his lightweight white suit was

soaked with perspiration.

The Killmaster dropped some pesetas on the table and

stood. So did the brute. and moved his way.

"Perdöneme. senor . . . "

"S(?" Carter replied.

"Senor, I see that you are blind, so L just wanted to tell

you . .

"The back of your coat, senor . . . you must have spilled

ink on it or something. I just thought I would tell you.' •

Carter made a show of being flustered. • •Gracias, senor.

Thank you. These things happen."

' 'Of course,"

"Muchas gracias:• Carter said, and moved down the

street.

Damn. he thought. It was a wonder the whole suit wasn't

stained. He had probably laid the coat right across one of

the many spills from the inkwells.

Behind him, the big man watched from the shade of the

canopy. When Carter crawled into a white Mercedes, he

noted the license number. and strolled to the pay phone

recently vacated by the old woman.

The routine of the beach umbrella, the chairs and the

Spanish beer was the same. When she returned to crouch

beside him and pour the beer. Zapato spoke.

"What time do you get out of here?"

"It's Friday night, so everyone will probably leave the

beach early to dress for parties and the casino. I'd say we

should be locked up by nine."

'*Good. The car is parked across the street. Here ake the

keys."

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"You want me to pick you up?"

"Yes, at ten sharp. in the casino parking lot. I'll be gam-

bling until then. I want to make sure their plans don't change

and they get on that yacht."

"I'll be there," Lucie said, and moved away.

Carter relocked the veranda doors and dropped to the

beach. He jogged in the sand for a hundred yards and climbed

the rocks until he reached the cutout where Dolores Martinez

waited.

Still panting, he slid into the front seat and mopped his

face with a handkerchief.

"Nothing." he sighed, "not a damn thing. The house is

so clean it's ridiculous. The guy can't keep everything in

his head. He must have to write something down."

"You searched everywhere?"

"Honey. not to brag, but I'm an expert. I even sent a

pipe cleaner down his tube of toothpaste. What does he do

on Friday nights and weekends?"

"Let's see," she said, consulting a notebook. "On Friday

nights he takes his sister to dinner. They usually go out for

a few drinks after that. Saturdays and Sundays. it's the

beach below his villa. That's it."

"Christ." Carter groaned. "If this guy wasn't in import-

export, he'd be a priest. Something isn't fitting here."

Dolores shrugged. "What now?"

"Back to your place and some sleep and food. I'll pick

him up at his office at nine o'clock."

125


TWELVE

Carter was slouched in the front seat of the battered

Peugeot. He was dressed in a dark, summerweight suit. It

was nine-thirty, and he was parked in an alley a block from

14 Calle de Sesto. He could see the entrance and he could

see the light still burning in the mezzanine office of Domingo

Bolivar.

He had been in the alley since eight-thirty. No one had

gone in or gone out in that time.

Bolivar was working late. This, coupled with the ticket

to Rio, was making Caner very nervous. If the man thought

he was blown, he might decide to run that night.

Then the light went out and Carter was instantly alert.

Minutes later, two men appeared on the street. One was

Bolivar. The other was a short, stocky man with a mane of

black hair and a mustache. They both camed briefcases and

seemed to be in high spirits.

They laughed, shook hands, and the shorter man walked

away. Bolivar crossed the street and got into his car, a

late-model white Simca.

Carter cranked up the Peugeot, and when the white car

pulled out he slid in behind it.

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All he could hope for now, he thought, following the car

through traffic, was that there could be some connection

through the sister.

Could Bolivar's sister, Marguerita, be the Black Bear?

She lived in Marbella. Sure enough, Bolivar was keeping

to his routine. He took the coast highway at the harbor, and

headed north toward the resort city. Carter let two cars slide

in between them and stayed with him,

Bolivar seemed to be in no hurry. and not once did he

do a check for a tail or try to evade. The man, Carter

decided, was absolutely sure of himself, or else he just

didn't care.

Just short of Marbella, the Simca took a left and started

climbing into the hills. Carter had the sister's address. so

he hung back.

No problem. By the time the Killmaster had the Simca

in sight again, it was parked in front of a new, five-story

apartment house. Bolivar was still in the car.

Carter parked in a nearby apartment complex and

watched. Five minutes passed, and a woman emerged.

She was a handsome woman, about fifty, tall, with gray-

ing black hair and long legs under a knee-length skirt. Her

clothes looked expensive and she carried herself with author-

ity. She fit Marguerita Bolivar's description.

Bolivar moved around the car, embraced the woman,

kissed both cheeks, and handed her into the Simca.

Carter gave him a three-block head start and then headed

out. A mile and a half on up into the hills, they stopped at

a small bar. The Killmaster parked across the street and

watched.

A cigarette later they were out again and moving. For

about twenty minutes they drove parallel to the ocean. Far

to his right, Carter could see the ugly high-rises of Tor-

remolinos blocking the view of the ocean.

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L..CK

He had already guessed their destination as the small.

whitewashed village of Mijas. and he was right. Minutes

later they pulled into La Boveda del Flamenco's parking

lot. By the time they were at the door. Carter had already

slipped into a space and was heading their way across the

street.

It was risky, very risky. but Carter had to take the chance.

He wanted to know every move Bolivar made.

In the foyer, he took a quick survey of the configuration.

It was perfect. Two dining rooms, with a dark bar to the

side. Bolivar and sister were just being seated in the far

dining room.

"Buenos nochest sefior. Will you be dining?"

"No," Carter replied, "drinking. I'lljust sit at the bar."

The place was crowded, but he managed to get a stool

where he could practically read the couple's lips and they

would have a hard time spotting him.

"Sangria," Carter told the barman. "A pitcher."

The man gave him an odd look. but moved away to fill

the order. A pitcher of sangria would be better than nursing

drinks. Caner somehow felt it was going to be a long dinner.

Felipe Zapato sat at a roulette table near a window and

across the room from the countess's party. It was nearly

ten-thirty, and he had begun to think that they would never

leave.

Twice he had seen the uniformed steward from the launch

whisper in the countess's ear, only to be waved away. Out

the window he could see the launch below, and in the middle

of the harbor, the Greek's huge yacht.

At last the countess stood and started from the room.

Zapato sighed with relief as the others roseand followed.

He followed them with his eyes to the launch. and watched

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NICK CARTER

its bow lift as it streaked for the yacht.

"Double zero, monsieur. You have won."

Without looking down at the table, Zapato waved his

hand at the croupier to let it ride. He was more interested

in the launch. Every second was agonizing as he watched

the launch being hoisted aboard.

. monsieur . . ."

"Double zero again .

Again Zapato waved his hand. His eyes burned as he

concentrated on the stern of the yacht. Then he saw it. The

twin screws began to turn, and behind the yacht he could

see a frothy white wake.

The night's cruise had begun.

"Fourteen . . . red."

Zapato sighed with relief and pushed himself from his

chair. Idly, he glanced at double zero, and his stomach

twisted. He counted as the croupier raked the chips from

the number he had let ride twice.

Damn, he thought, with less than two thousand francs in

his pocket he had just won—and lost—thirty thousand.

Carter was getting a little bleary from the sangria and

lack of food. Bolivar and sister were on their third course

and hadn't even left the table.

"More sangria, sefior?"

"Uh . . . no. Could I get a sandwich here at the bar?"

"Sandwich?"

' 'Yeah, any kind of sandwich."

The barman shrugged, shook his head. and moved away.

Carter returned his concentration to Bolivar's fast-moving

lips. As far as the Killmaster could tell, the man was telling

his sister that in the morning they would put flowers on

their mother's grave.

Christ. Carter thought, I'm slipping a cog someplace.

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C' You're late," Lucie said, starting the car as Zapato rolled

into the rear seat.

"Couldn't be helped. They kept gambling. Move!"

She drove steadily up into the hills, keeping to the speed

limit. By the time she had reached the cutout above the

villa, he had shed the old man's clothing and sat beside her

all in black.

"You know the routine."

"I do. Good luck."

Zapato was already out of the car and moving down the

hill. It was a replay of the previous night. Somewhere in

the distance, a dog barked a few times. There was no other

sound but the rush of the wind through the scrub and the

tinny creak of the streetlight on its pole, no movement but

the dancing shadows; no clouds scudded between the earth

and the sliver of a moon.

Zapato went down the rope ladder like a cat and around

the pool. In seconds he was crouching by the lead wires

that led through the wall to the alarm system.

The system was controlled by small rectangular sensors

that hung from the ceiling in every room of the house. They

were very sophisticated sound detectors that could pick up

sound or movement within a twenty-yard radius, even

through walls. Their control was the computer in the wine

cellar that recorded impulses and passed or caused an alarm

to go off by what it heard.

From his previous night's inspection from the roof, Zapato

already knew that the system was composed of a series Of

physical-intrusion detection devices. There were vibration

strips on the windows, microswitches on the doors, and a

layered system of interlocking pressure devices, probably

on sections of the flooring in key rcx)jns. All of these would

be controlled by the central computer system in the wine

cellar.

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By the time he had peeled apart the outer layer of the

conduit and separated the wiring, Zapato's face and torso

were bathed in perspiration.

One mistake there and the evening was over. All he could

do was run, and run fast.

Carefully, he separated the wires and, one by one, by-

passed them to a tiny voltmeter by his side. It was a simple

device, the kind that controlled the current to model trains

as they were switched from track to track.

When he was sure that each wire had been covered, and

that no matter what impulse they received from the sensors

in the villa, they would relay steady electronic impulses to

the computer, he ran along the high wall of the villa until

he reached the lower servants' wing.

If he had erred in his computations, this was the quickest

way back out, since the servants' quarters themselves were

probably not wired.

It was high and narrow, a slit in the thick outer wall of

the villa overlooking the gardens. He had to squeeze to get

through the upper ledge without exposing himself against

the night sky.

He was halfway through when he heard the single honk

of a horn in the distance. Somewhere in the villa a light

had gone on and Lucie had seen it. Hopefully it was the

old cook going to the bathroom, but in any event Zapato

didn't dare move.

He sat that way, in limbo between the two ledges, for

five minutes, until the girl sent the all-clear with three quick

honks of the horn.

When the all-clear came, Zapato leaned forward until he

was looking down into the interior courtyard that fed into

the servants' quarters.

There were no lights below him. He listened for voices,

watched for the gleam of a lighted cigarette in the dark,

heard nothing, saw nothing.

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Stretching to his full length from the ledge, he reached

around the corner and explored the wall with his fingers

until he found a crevice between the stones.

When he did, he began to slither down, a gray shadow

against gray rock.

He was known as the Fabulous Greek for good reason.

His yacht parties along the Cöte d'Azur were legendary.

And well they should be. The yacht, the Delphi, was a

fifteen-million-dollar oceangoing palace with a permanent

crew of fifty.

Aside from the crew there were four chefs—one French,

one Greek, one Hungarian. one Viennese—sixteen security

guards, a resident physican, a resident accountant, a resident

dietician. a resident masseur and a resident masseuse (who

had three beautiful assistant resident masseuses), two pilots

for the seaplane on the top deck. two switchboard operators

to control seventy-one telephones connected by radio to the

landlocked outside world. and twenty maintenance people

to care for the mosaic-tiled dance floor of the ballroom, the

swimming pool, the baths with their solid-gold fixtures and

marble tubs, and the commodious staterooms.

The Fabulous Greek knew no boundaries in business. He

dealt the world over, so the guests on his yacht hailed from

both East and West. For this reason, intrigue was rampant.

It was a great place for the countess to glean and exchange

information, as well as to renew old contacts. Members of

the other side, of course, were doing the same thing.

They were about an hour out of port when the countess

got her revelation from a Madrid businessman whos when

he wasn't feeding information to the West, brokered arms

for the Russians in Africa. The moment the countess got

her information, she caught Natalia Mydova's eye and

headed for the lower decks.

When they both had checked the powder room just off the

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main salon, they slipped into adjoining stalls with pens in

hand and pads on knees. Soon, scribbled notes were being

passed under the partitions:

Countess to Mydova: Contact says intelligence coup of

the century coming down this Sunday. Major Western ring

could be exposed. All contact's friends have been alerted

to move.

Mydova to countess: Fits. I have been instructed to attend

bullfights in Madrid week from Sunday. Am to pick up mic-

rofilm then and carry to Rome.

Countess to Mydova: What then?

Mydova to countess: Return with orders for Stringent to

Madrid and on to Paris.

The countess read the last note and felt her whole body

break out in a cold sweat. Stringent was the KGB code for

blanket arrests and/or assassinations. Whatever they thought

they had uncovered had far-reaching ramifications.

Countess to Mydova: Do as you are told. Will make

arrangements for possible intercept in Madrid. Meantime I

must get back to villa and notify my people.

Without waiting for an answer, the countess vacated the

powder room and hurried to find the Fabulous Greek. She

had already formulated ten fraudeient excuses in her mind

as to why she had to get back to the mainland at once.

And back in the powder room, in her stall, Natalia Mydova

was going through the same cold sweat.

Intelligence coup of the century .

Major Western

ring .

. exposed .

Could it be, the ballerina wondered, the same ring of

which she was such an integral part?

134


THIRTEEN

The old cook looked tiny as she slept bathed in moonlight

in the immense txd. Mouth half open, she trailed a hand

across the thin coverlet in drugged sleep.

Zapato, a pencil flash in his teeth, moved across the room

and gently opened the door. It creaked a little when it opened,

and he tensed. He pulled his eyes back to the woman. She

had not moved. Breathing a silent sigh of relief. he closed

the door on the sleeping woman and slipped silently to the

head of the stairs.

Down below, light filtered into the wide hall that led to

the study. The two mortise locks on the door were secured,

the keys gone. Zapato tried skeleton keys, failed, and re-

sorted to picks.

It took all of five minutes before the locks gave and the

heavy door opened on well-oiled hinges.

Four minutes later, the outer safe was open. The combi-

nation from the television remote control was the same, but

the inner liner was a different make. It Zapato a few

seconds to decipher that it was a direct pull-out.

This done, and the liner on the floor, he went to work

on the second safe. It was much newer and far more advanced

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than the model in the Seville house. Fora full fifteen minutes

he worked before he had to step back, relax the tension in

his body, and wipe the perspiration from his eyes.

He checked his watch. He had been in the villa for twenty-

two minutes. He was eight minutes behind schedule.

A tall grandfather clock in the corner whirred the half

hour as he attacked the safe again.

This time he was calmer. His fingers achieved the artistry

he knew they possessed. One by one. through the stetho-

scope in his ears, he heard the tumblers fall into place.

Twice he had all but one number in the combination, went

too far. and had to stan over.

At last he heard the final click and pulled the door open.

Still holding the light in his teeth, he looked inside.

They were there, both books. and a bonus: a diamond

and platinum watch, a ruby necklace with matching earrings,

and a cloverleafdiamond ring. This time the gems were real.

Zapato shoved everything into a specially sewn pouch in

the turtleneck and replaced the safe. After a quick check of

the room. he moved back into the hall. He was halfway

across the house to the servants' quarters, when, in the

distance, he heard a single blast from a horn. A split second

later the front windows were bathed with light.

Zapato ducked, his whole body quivering,

hnpossible. he thought. They've returned, they are back.

But they can 't be. They are miles out to sea.

But as he watched the headlights move around the villa

toward the garage area, his hopes dimmed. They dimmed

even further when the engine died and he heard the count-

eses voice barking orders at her chauffeur.

To make matters worse, a light came on in the old cook's

room. That way of escape was out.

Zapato heard the door between the kitchen and the garage

open, and sprinted across to the opposite stairs.

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On flying feet he worked his way up through the villa

from the bottom floor, peering through outside windows

and trying doors.

Most of the guest room doors he found securely locked,

and with the voices getting louder from below he had no

time to pick any of them.

He would need a window, to the outside. to the roof.

After climbing interminable flights of stairs, he found

one, opened it, and dropped to one of the rear roofs. From

there it would be an easy descent via drainpipe.

He was about to roll over the edge, when the whole pool

area lit up. At the same time, the countess appeared on the

patio.

"I am going to change. Make some coffee, lots of it, and

bring two phones out here where it's cool. It's going to be

a long night."

She disappeared, but two men and the old cook bustled

between the great room, the kitchen. and the patio. Twice,

while bringing a table and chairs from the other side of the

pool, one of the men came within two feet of the rope ladder.

Zapato hunkered down beside a chimney and forced his

mind into high gear. Exiting the same way he had come in

was now out of the question.

He checked his watch. In ten minutes, Lucie would pull

out of the cutout and wind her way down to the lower road

and the cul-de-sac below the villa,

There was only one thing Zapato figured he could do: he

would have to go over the front of the villa and work his

way through the trees to the front outer wall.

The countess's voice barking orders from an open window

not twenty yards from where Zapato crouched confirmed

his only option.

He studied the he still had to cross, marking a path

that would not take him in front of a dormer window. He

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had to pass the length of the wing and over the main. higher

rooftops to the tower, that rose from the juncture of the

opposite wing with the central mass of the villa.

The roofs were of slate tile. smooth and steep. Slate was

always dangerous to climb. not only because of its smooth-

ness but because each tile was hung on a single nail that

pulled loose easily under strain and might let the tile slide

with a revealing clatter. And although there were no dormers

overlooking the roof in either wing, several broke the top

outline of the main building, one or two showing lighted

windows.

He crossed above the dormers, making his way along the

gutter to the inner end of the wing, up the angle the roof

made with the joining wall, jumping from the peak of the

wing to catch the gutter at the eave of the higher roof, then

up the rise of the roof corner to the top.

Only the tower stood higher. The central roof was a series

of disconnected gables and sharply peaked turrets, so that

his path along the ridges of the rooftop, balanced as deli-

cately as a wire walker to avoid a misstep on the sheer

slopes of slate, took him up, down, and at angles until he

reached the base of the tower.

The eaves and the bulk of the villa itself had shielded

him until then from view of anyone who might look up

from the garden. The tower was more exposed. He knew

there was a stairway inside, and a door opened at the tower

base onto a lower roof. But he didn't try the door. He made

his way around the tower on the narrow walk to the outer

side, where it was blocked by the thick growth of ivy climb-

ing from the ground below,

But he didn't want the ground. He wanted the stout limb

of a tree twenty feet away and thirty feet below where he

Casting aside the penlight, Zapato opened his kni(e and

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put it in his teeth. Like a cat he moved back over the roof,

around the corner, and started down the ivy. He selected a

vine about wrist-thick and cut it away, and he went down.

When he was about thirty feet, he cut the vine free.

Twice he kicked out from the wall to make sure the vine

was sturdy enough for his weight. When he was satisfied,

he started to swing in long arcs around the corner.

It took four tries before he figured he had the momentum.

Then he took a deep breath, let go, and sailed

His fingers slid off the first limb, but he managed to wrap

his legs around another and arrest his fall. Without breaking

his momentum, he rolled on over and started going from

limb to limb and tree to tree.

A squirrel would have been envious of his progress.

In minutes he vaulted over the outer wall and hit the

ground running. A hundred yards through the trees he could

see the cul-de-sac . . .

and the car.

"Lucie!" he called so she wouldn't be alarmed.

She wasn't. She was good. His hand was barely on the

door handle when the engine kicked to life. His butt was

scarcely in the seat when the car lurched forward.

"How did we do, chéri?"

He glanced up from pulling a black bag from the bedroll

on the floorboard. Lucie's words were odd and so was her

tone. Her eyes were wide and alive, and her lips were curved

in a mischievous grin.

"We did fine, chérie. "

Zapato put the jewelry in the bag, pulled it taut, and

dropped it in her lap. "Can you get that to Ferare?"

"I'll be on the first plane in the morning. You?"

"The rest of the business," he replied, lighting a cigarette

and satisfied at how steady his fingers were. "Ferare will

give you a nice cut of those."

"I'm not worried," Lucie said, pulling into a parking

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"If I go to Ferare in Madrid

space and killing the lights.

will see you?"

"Do you want to see me?"

"I do," she replied, and emphasized it by leaning across

the car and kissing him soundly on the lips.

Zapato was about to slip his arms around her and return

the kissy when suddenly she was out of the car and darting

toward her apartment house.

"Well, I'll be damned," Zapato chuckled. and restarted

the car.

He drove carefully. keeping just above the speed limit

all the way to Cagnes. After parking behind the motorcycle

shop. he waited a full five minutes in the darkness.

Safe. Quiet.

Taking his time. he wiped the interior of the car and the

exterior handles clean of prints. Then. jimmying the door.

he entered the shop carrying the bedroll.

It took only another five minutes to attach the stolen plate

to a new BMW and tie the bedroll behind the saddle. Then

he rolled the machine out and coasted nearly a mile down

the hill before releasing the clutch and letting the machine

roar to life.

He hit the A4 motorway with the powerful BMW wide

open, and watched the towns fly by.

An hour and a half later, he flew through Aix-en-Provence

and bypassed Marseille. He took the N568 to Arles, and

cut south again to Montpellier where he stole some gas from

a small farmhouse. From there he rode to Béziers where

dawn and his stomach suggested breakfast.

By ten he was at the foot of the Pyrenees directly north

of Andorra, in the tiny village of Vicdessos.

Just south of the village there was a campground. It was

crowded with young people who had come to take the long

hike up the Pyrenees. But they would be hiking by •day,

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and only to the top of the first big peak.

That night Zapato would ride, by back-mountain trails,

all the way over the mountains and down into the valleys

of Andorra.

Zapato rented a small cabin and carried his bedroll inside.

His mind and his body craved sleep, but there was still

too much work ahead. He would sleep come dawn tomorrow

in one of the old shepherds' huts in the mountains around

El Serrat.

He took the countess's two leather-covered notebooks

from his bedroll, along with two blank notebooks of a similar

design.

Carefully, he lined up several ball-point pens and went

to work.

By dusk he had copied—at least in style and type of

content—the contents of the two stolen books into the two

blank ones.

Of course names, references, telephone numbers, and

personal descriptions had been totally altered.

Felipe Zapato had been a thief too long to trust anyone.

141


FOURTEEN

Carter was like a fused stick of dynamite ready to go

off. Bolivar had not once acted like a man who was settling

up his affairs to skip.

After a two-hour meal, he and his sister had adjourned

to another room and watched a half-hour set of flamenco

entertainment. When they left at last, Carter was right behind

them. There were two stops for after-dinner drinks as they

wound their way back to Marbella and the sister's house.

There, the woman got out and Bolivar drove away with

Carter again right behind him.

It was easy to keep the taillights in sight. As before,

Bolivar was in no hurry. For a moment, climbing and twist-

ing along the narrow mountain road, Carter had hopes that,

at last, the man was heading for some kind of contact.

No such luck.

Suddenly they pulled out Of a switchback, and Carter

could see the whole sweep of the Costa del Sol and the

Simca turning south again toward Algeciras. From there it

was a boring drive through the city and on to Tarifa.

Carter waited on another road above the villa until the lights

went out. It was three-thirty in the morning, and the Kill-

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master had no more on the man now than he had in the

beginning.

In disgust, he turned the Peugeot around and headed back

to Algeciras and Dolores Martinez's house. To himself he

vowed that if he had nothing concrete by Sunday night, he

would move on the man anyhow.

He parked in the garage and walked through the laundry

room. Before he reached the inner door he heard her heels

beating a quick tattoo on the parquet.

The door was yanked open, and even in the dim light,

he could read trouble on her face.

"What is it?"

'VI just talked to Crifasi a few moments ago, Bolivar

called."

"What?" Carter almost shouted. immediately racking his

brain. The man had not been out of his sight once all night,

other than two trips to the men's room. and Carter had made

sure he hadn't met anyone there nor made a call. "That's

impossible!"

"Not according to Madrid. He called Lucchi about two

hours ago."

Carter thought hard. Two hours before, they had either

been in one of the after-dinner watering holes, or in transit

between them. And Bolivar didn't have a telephone in his

car,

Carter dived for the phone. 'SDig me up a beer."

By the time Joe Crifasi's voice came on the line in Madrid,

Carter was pacing the room with the phone in one hand and

a second beer in the other.

"Sorry I took so long, Nick. We were double-checking

our trace."

"Good," the Killmaster replied, "because that was going

to be my first question. You're sure Bolivar called through

the Calle de Sesto relay phone?"

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"No doubt about it. Bolivar called Tony Lucchi at one

twenty-two this morning. Listen up, here's the tape,"

There was a few seconds' silence, then a click and the

sound of a phone buzz.

"Tony, this is Bolivar. We have business."

'Yes,"

s The man from Naples is here. I think it best you call

me back."

"Five minutes , " Lucchi replied, and the phone went dead.

Carter's stomach sank to his knees. If that was all the

conversation they had, he would learn nothing. And it was

ten to one that Tony Lucchi was headed for a neutral pay

phone.

He said as much to Crifasi when the other man came

back on the line.

"Caim down, Nick. We had that covered from the first

day we came aboard. There are five street phones in the

immediate area of Lucchi's apartment. My boys bugged

them all."

Caner sighed aloud. "Sorry, Joe. Go on."

' 'The minute Lucchi left the apartment, we had two cars

and three pedestrians all over his ass. When we got a line

on which phone he was headed for, we made the cut-in."

"Did he dial the relay phone here in Algreciras?" Carter

asked.

"No doubt about it. That's why I just got through double-

checking. Here's the tape."

Again the same sounds on the line, and the phone in Al-

geciras was picked up.

"I'm in the booth," Lucchüs voice said. "Go ahead."

"Fly to Barcelona in the morning. Pick up a car there and

drive up to the Roc. Do you understand?"

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"Yes."

"Check in, and be on the lookout for a mark. His name,

if he is dumb enough to use it, is Felipe Zapato.'i

"One of ours?"

"No, he's a common thief. He's lifting some very impor-

tant documents, which I will trade for Sunday night. Try

to spot him early if you can. He's about six feet, dark, black

hair. handsome man. I'd say around two hundred pounds

and very muscular. Has to be—he spends a lot of time on

roofs and in trees in his line of work." Here Bolivar paused

with a low chuckle.

"You just want me to spot him until you get here?"

"Yes. Don't touch him. I'll be in Sunday about noon and

give you the particulars then."

"After you get your goods," Lucchi asked, "do we go

"Yes. The material is very sensitive. I wouldn't want

Zapato to leak its whereabouts back to the real owners."

"Sunday. then."

"Sunday it is," Bolivar replied. "Also, I'll be passing the

material the following Sunday in Madrid, at the Plaza de

Toros. It might be a good idea if you accompany me as a

backup."

"Whatever your bankbook allows, senor, Till Sunday."

The connection was broken and Joe Crifasi came back

on the line,

'*Ihat's it, Nick. Lucchi went back to his apartment and

hit the sack. But, get this, not before he calls Iberia Airlines

and makes a reservation for the morning flight to Barcelona.

Talk about security!"

Carter was deep in thought, so much so that he didn't

speak for a full two minutes.

"Hey, Nick, you still there?"

"Yeah," the Killmaster growled. "I'm still here. bisten,

Joe, our main beef in this is the Black Bear first and Lucchi

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me macK bear nrst an

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SPYKILLER

second. That's what we're here for, right?"

"l got you."

ucc

"Whatever goods they're picking up might be worth some-

thing, or routine."

"I think I'm following you," Crifasi replied.

"Stay on Lucchi like glue. Keep him on ice for me.

Bolivar has a Monday ticket to Rio in his safe, and now

he's talking about meeting Lucchi at some rock out of Bar-

celona. I don't want to take a chance on missing him. I'm

going for Bolivar tonight."

"We'll be on Lucchi like flies on a corpse. See you."

Carter hung up and sat back with a sigh. Dolores Martinez

sat across the room, boring into him with her eyes.

"Do you think that's wise? We haven't got a shred of

proof that Bolivar is the Black Bear."

"I know," Caner replied. "And we'll have less than that.

I think, if we wait. But I've got a hunch. Let's move. I'll

need your help."

She shrugged and stood. "You're the boss. Let me change

into some slacks."

"Do that," Carter said, g 'and bring me back a pair of your

panty hose and some scissors."

Dolores scooted from the room. Carter crossed to the

sideboard and poured a shot of Chivas.

As the soothing liquid rolled down his throat. he closed

his eyes in concentration.

If he was sure of only one thing in this mess, it was that

the Domingo Bolivar he was tailing that night was not the

Domingo Bolivar that called Tony Lucchi.

They saw only one car on the narrow road leading up to

Bolivar's villa: a dusty black Citroen with a buggy-whip

radio aerial mounted on one rear fender.

Carter slowed and let it pass. As it did. he sensed Dolores

tense in the seat beside him.

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If this man was the Black Bear, Caner thought, nothing

up to this moment would point to him.

A quick look at Dolores's startled expression and the

Killmaster knew she was thinking along the same lines.

Quietly, he cut the legs out of the panty hose, handed

her one, and pulled the other one over his head and face,

When she had done the same , they moved into the bedroom.

'SSefior Bolivar . . . Sehor Domingo Bolivar .

The man grunted half awake and 0Fmed his eyes to slits.

When he saw the Luger, the eyes came wide and he lurched

to an upright position on the bed.

"Mother of God, ohs Holy Mother of God

take

anything. everything, take all I have .

. there is a safe in

the living room

take what you find .

"Relax. senor .. . "

"I have no cash here. I'll write you a check . . . Mother

of God, just don't shoot me!"

Carter exchanged a look with Dolores Martinez. They

were obviously both thinking the same thing.

Domingo Bolivar wasn't their target.

"Calm down, Seöor Bolivar," Caner said. passing a glass

of brandy from Dolores to him. "We are not going to rob

you."

"Then why .

Carter put the gun away. "We are looking for a man, and

we think that somehow you might be able to help us."

Alexander Czarkis sat in the cluttered office of Domingo

Bolivar and sipped ice water in an attempt to allay the heat

that constantly pestered his body.

He had been sitting like this, in the darkness, for hours,

since he had called Lucchi in Madrid and taken the return

call.

Earlier than that, the two federal customs agents who had

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NICK CARTER

been on his private payroll for over two years had called to

tell him that they had located the Mercedes.

"Watch it, but don't move on it unless the man is in it,"

he had told them. "Then call me back."

Now Czarkis was sweating. He knew Nick Carter was

on to Lucchi in Italy. Had he traced the dapper little killer

to Spain? It wouldn't appear so. Lucchi had told him he

was sure he was clean.

But Czarkis was positive that the blind man in the café

had been Caner, and from the Moscow report that meant

that he, Czarkis, was in trouble if the American agent was

in Algeciras.

The red light on the phone's intercom button, the one

that never came on when the real Bolivar was in the office,

was lit.

Czarkis grabbed the instrument with one huge, sweaty

paw. "SO"

"Sehor Bolivar?"

"This is he."

"The man returned to the woman's house. Soon they both

left in the Mercedes. It is strange, seior . .

"Strange? What do you mean?"

"We followed them to your villa, seöor. They parked

near the beach and entered your house. They are there now. "

Czarkis felt a pain in his belly. It was the ulcer he had

developed after eating ten years of the terrible food in this

stinking country. Also, another pint of perspiration poured

from him as he forced his mind to a decision.

"You will go ahead," he said at last.

"The woman, too, seior?"

"Of course the woman too!" Czarkis barked. "Jt won't

be the first woman you have killed for me!"

'ONO, sefior."

"Like the others, lose their bodies at sea. Paymeni will

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be made in the usual way. And, as always, don't approach

me in person. And don't approach them until they are a

safe distance from my villa. Do you understand this?"

"Of course, Senor Bolivar, it will done as you ask."

Czarkis returned the phone to its cradle and folded his

hands over his huge paunch.

The woman was probably a local agent. He was surprised

he didn't know of her existence. But then he, the Black

Bear, had operated in Spain for ten years and no one knew

Of him.

So Nick Carter was at Bolivar's villa. He was probably

interrogating the old fool. Of course he would learn nothing,

but if Carter was as good as Moscow's report claimed he

was, he would probably be putting the puzzle together.

Even if Carter and the woman didn't survive the night,

it was ridiculous to take chances. The American agent might

have passed on a report of his suspicions. When he and the

woman disappeared, someone else would come looking.

Czarkis heaved his huge body from the chair and, leaving

the door to Bolivar's office open, climbed the stairs to his

own office.

The Black Bear had had a long—and very successful—

ten-year run. It was time for Czarkis to return to his native

Prague and reap the rewards Of so many years of service.

And with the coup he would pass on in Madrid, the rewards

from Moscow would be more than enough for his retirement.

He had already planned for an emergency earlier in the

evening. All the most important papers, the ciphers, and

the code book were in a briefcase on his desk, He draped

the long strap of the briefcase around his neck and over his

shoulder, and lifted the two five-gallon cans of gasoline.

Liberally, he soaked his office and the small apartment,

and made a wide trail of the liquid down the stairs. When

the first can went dry he discarded it and shifted to the full

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one. By the time the second can was empty, Bolivar's office

was also soaked with gas and the trail ran down to the lobby.

After unlocking the front door. he turned, folded back a

book of matches, and lit them. When the matches hit the

gas, it moved up the stairs like an angry. fiery snake.

By the time the two offices had burst into flames. Czarkis

was in his car headed for the small private airfield near

Marbella,

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FIFTEEN

Carter checked the silk ties that bound Domingo Bolivar

one last time and motioned Dolores to follow him.

'The cleaning woman will find him in a few hours. In

the meantime, he won't be making any phone calls."

Together they hit the beach and sprinted toward the car.

Halfway there, Dolores was full of questions. "You really

think it's this Czarkis?"

"l don't doubt it for a minute. Hess been Bolivar's ac-

countant for eight years. He keeps a low profile, has no

friends, even lives beside his office. He's had the run of

Bolivar's office for five years, comes and goes as he pleases

with his own keys, You heard Bolivar. Czarkis often works

on his books in the morning before Bolivar arrives, and

sometimes in the evenings after he leaves."

"It would figure," she panted. "By using Bolivar's name

and office, Czarkis would be forewarned if anybody came

after the real Bolivar. Slick."

"Very." Carter said with a nod, yanking the door open

and crawling in. "Let's just hope he doesn't know about

you and hasn't spotted me."

He came out of the parking lot in a swirl of gravel and

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NICK CARTER

hurtled down the narrow hillside road toward the corniche.

The moment he hit the approach ramp, he floored the Mer-

cedes.

He had barely gone a mile when a pair of headlights

appeared behind them coming fast. much faster than any-

thing he could get out of the Mercedes.

It smelled, especially at this hour of the morning and on

this particular stretch of highway.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, and then again. And

then a third time. s 'I think we're being followed," he

growled.

Dolores swung her head around. "How can you tell?" she

asked after a moment.

"I'm not sure I'm right, not yet. But the set of those

headlights is distinctive. I think I've noticed them before."

He saw the sign for the turnoff and swung into the right

lane. The car behind followed.

Carter grabbed the next cutoff, hit the beach road, and

stomped on the brake. The little car screamed a lot, but it

performed like a Mercedes should and did a full turn, ending

up with its nose back toward the corniche ramp.

Seconds later, the black Citroen with the buggy-whip

aerial came off the corniche and headed their way,

"Nick, it's the customs police!"

"Oh, yeah? They're a long way from the docks, but I'll

give 'em one chance."

He took the Luger out, fingered the safety off, and placed

it between his legs. As he jiggled the foot feed with his

right toe, he kept the clutch partly out under his left foot,

ready to drop it and make tracks if he had to run.

The Citroen slowed, veered to the right, and came up

alongside. They slowed as the black car's rear door came

up just opposite Carter.

"Anything wrong?" he called out in Spanish, plastering

a smile on his face.

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There were two mean-looking men in the front seat. The

words were scarcely out of Carter's mouth when a third one

came up out of the back seat with an automatic in both hands.

"Down!" Carter shouted, and dropped the clutch. The

rear wheels screamed and the Mercedes lurched forward.

A slug tore through the rear window and Carter shoved his

foot to the floor. "Cops, my ass. You all right?"

"Glass in my hair, but I'm okay. But I know that's a

customs car."

"Maybe so," Carter hissed, "but if they are cops, they're

drawing two payrolls."

Through the shattered rear window he could see that the

Citroen had spun around, and from the bouncing light he

knew they were going to give chase.

' There's a curve up ahead. I'm going to speed up, cut

the headlights, and pull over to the side of the road once

we get around it. Hang on!"

He floored the accelerator, roared into the curve, tires

barely making contact. then slammed off the lights and

wheeled abruptly away from the asphalt. driving straight at

the shadow of a tree. then veering off to its side and totally

obscuring the Mercedes in the night shadows.

The Citroen, with its aerial whipping in the wind, thun-

dered by and suddenly picked up even more speed, as if

anxious to catch up to something.

"Looks as though you were right," Dolores said.

Carter said nothing. He pulled out onto the road, lights

off, then headed back in the direction they'd come.

"Do you think we're safe?" Dolores asked.

"No. They'll come back looking for us near that curve

as soon as they don't spot our taillights in front of them,"

Carter answered. "We'll drive a while and stop and see

what happens."

Two miles down the highway he went into another U-turn

and again pulled to the side of the road. Nothing showed,

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