# The Budapest Run

Carter Nick

The Budapest Run

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ONE

The Citroen's powerful engine was little more than a hum

in the otherwise quiet and dimly lit street. At the peak

of an incline on the Rue Urbain, the car gently rocked to a

halt. Behind the windshield, Nick Carter's eyes were like

darting ingots in the faint glow from the dash.

They rolled over the row of marine warehouses at the base

of the hill, then the docks themselves, and the Bay of Mar-

seille beyond. One yellow streetlight barely illuminated the

intersection and warehouse parking lots below.

Far to his left was the open-ended rectangle of the Vieux

Port, bounded on all three of its sides by cheap hotels,

pornographic movie houses, raucous, low-life bars, and

some of the best restaurants in France. The Vieux Port was

bathed in light, and Carter knew the cacophony of sound

would be almost earsplitting at this late hour.

But here, two miles from the Vieux Port, there was a

deathly stillness broken only by the steady click, click, click

of the Citroen's windshield wipers.

From this distance Carter couldn't make out the black-

on-white numbers on the plates above the warehouse doors,

but he didn't have to. Each block of warehouses had a 100

designation, going from one to a thousand. He was between.

the eight- and nine-hundred blocks, and he wanted 903.

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NICK CARTER

Gently he tapped the accelerator with his toe, and the big

car idled forward. Halfway down the hill he killed the lights.

At the bottom of the hill he turned left and counted 900, 901,

902, then cranked the wheel to turn the Citroen into the

parking lot of 903. The only other vehicle around, parked

near the door, was a little Fiat.

He fed the engine's dual carbs just enough gas to goose it

across the lot, then flipped the key. Silently the car slid

forward, coming to rest directly behind the Fiat, their bump-

Above the door to the warehouse, about twenty feet up,

were two sets of windows. The dimmest of lights shone

through their wet panes. Carter guessed small night bulbs.

"Good evening, Lutov," he whispered.

"Allow me to

introduce myself, the guy who's been all over your ass for the

last three weeks

Nick Carter, Special Agent, AXE,

designation N3. You know what that means, Lutov? It means

Killmaster."

Smoothly, from experience, Carter filled his hand with the

9mm Luger he lovingly called Wilhelmina. He checked the

clip, jacked a shell into the chamber, set the safety to "off,"

and put his favorite lady in her leather holster under his left

From a chamois bag on the seat he withdrew a Czech-made

Skorpion Model 61. The 61 was a bastard cross between a

regular blowback submachine gun and a machine pistol. It

was designed to be fired from one hand or from the shoulder.

Perfect for this night's work

Firing 7.65mm on selective fire, it didn't have one hell of a

lot of punch from a distance. But Carter knew the killing he

would be doing soon would most probably be close up.

Cradling the Skorpion in his left hand, he pulled three

twenty-round magazines and a silencer from the bag. Be-

cause of the little gun's cyclic rate of fire, the silencer was

only half effective. But that would be enough not to sound

like World War IIl and bring half the gendarmes in Marseille

down around his neck.

When the silencer was attached, he slid a magazine home,

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

3

levered the bolt, and set the selector lever on "semi." The

other two magazines went into his right coat pocket.

Again he eyeballed the windows, this time with a smile.

"Coming now, Lutov."

Ivan Lutov was a courier, nothing but a messenger boy. A

month before, he had been on what should have been a

routine assignment: a quick in-and-out deal, Budapest to

Vienna.

Lutov hadn't known it, but he had been made. When he

sidetracked in and out of Libya, the two CIA operatives who

had been trailing his every move got curious. They came

down on him in Athens.

Since couriers rarely go armed, it should have been rou-

tine. It wasn't. Lutov panicked. He gut-shot one and put a

slug through the other's left ear.

Carter was in the area when Hawk called

"Langley's boiling, but as you know, N3, they've got

wraps.

"Yes, sir.

"This sort of thing should be answered.. in kind."

"Yes, sir.

Lutov had proved elusive. At first Carter had thought

Lutov would head directly for the Eastern bloc. He hadn't,

and so Carter had chased him halfway across Europe

Twice-once in Innsbruck and once in Palermo Carter had

almost scored, but Lutov had managed to give him the slip.

Two days before, here in Marseille, the hare had come to

ground, panting. He got the word out with Carter's descrip-

tion among the Marseille lowlifes. They had found Carter at

his hotel early that morning.

Lutov wanted to meet.

Sure enough.

Carter contacted a few lowlifes of his own for firepower.

By three that afternoon he had the Skorpion, and a one-eyed

Moroccan with half his teeth rotted away was the proud

owner of fifteen hundred AXE dollars.

Carter slipped the Citroen's keys into his pocket and

levered the car door open. Laying the Skorpion along his

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NICK CARTER

right leg, he crunched across the gravel toward the door of the

warehouse. The rain had lightened now to a fine mist that

made him squint as he kept constant watch on the windows.

Nothing. Not a blur, not a movement, not even a shadow.

Could Lutov be playing this straight? Just a meet to parlay

a deal?

No way.

Carter wasn't surprised to find the door unlocked. Stoop-

ing to a crouch, he opened it, rolled inside out of the gray

night behind him, and kicked the door shut. The sound

echoed like muted thunder in the cavernous old building.

It took a full minute for his eyes to become accustomed to

the illumination coming from the ten-watt bulbs l)laced high

on the walls.

The place was like a big tin-roofed barn. Stacks of cargo

were everywhere. Catwalks with cranes and big steel hooks

lined the overhead like a maze. Another walkway ran all

around the sides, backed with doors of tiny offices on the side

just opposite from where he stood flattened against the wall

by the door.

Carter didn't like it. The stacks of crates and machinery

around the main floor could hide an army. And a backup

force could be behind the doors along the catwalks.

Like the mist outside , the air inside the big room was filled

with a mist of its own: dust. It was so heavy Carter had to

stifle a sneeze when he breathed.

There hadn 't been a sound since the slamming ofthe door,

but Carter knew he wasn't alone. He sensed a presence,

maybe more than one, in the building with him. It was a

cultivated sense, sharpened by years of wanting to survive in

a deadly game.

Silence. Somewhere a faucet dripped. Outside, a dog

howled.

"It's your move, Lutov. If I have to come after you, I

won 't talk. "

"Up here. I'm not armed. "

'Then you 're an asshole. Come out where I can see you. "

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

5

One of the doors opened, and a short, bulky figure, his

hands high and wide in the air, emerged onto the catwalk.

"Not good enough, Ivan. Is there a light in that room

behind you?"

"Yes. "

"Switch it on and come back to the rail. "

The man backed up a few steps, lowered his arm, and light

cascaded across the maze of steel walkways high above

Caner. When Lutov regained the railing, he leaned far out

over it, peering into the darkness below him.

"I can it-see. you. "

"Goods/" Carter replied. "You don't have to."

"Who are you?"

s 'A man with a gun."

'Goddamn you, I know that. CIAO"

"No, just an innocent bystander. You screwed up,

Lutov. You know the rules. We have to keep the body count

even. "

Carter pumped the bolt on the Skorpion. A shell ejected

and made an eerie sound rolling across the steel floor.

"What for?"

"I didn 't know they were yours. I .

. . I thought they were

mine. "

' 'KGB?" Carter asked, putting an edge of sarcasm in his

voice.

"Yes, I swear it! I was making a run for my own people,

yes, but I was also picking up some retirement. Surely you

know about such things."

Carter knew. It was common practice among Soviet opera-

tives and those in the satellite countries as well-—especially

those who traveled to the West a lot and got a taste of

"decadent capitalist living. "

Somewhere along in their careers they would start thinking

about retirement in the West. lhe way to do it was to sell

what they knew or handled. A lot of them sold to everybody.

A few, like Lutov, only sold to Russian friendlies who

Wanted to keep track of what their big brother bear was doing.

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NICK CARTER

That way, Lutov's conscience was partially clean; he'd

only sold out halfway.

*I'm only a postman, you know that . . . a messenger

"Yeah, I know it.

*It was an accident. Hell, I didn't know what was going

In the darkness, Carter smiled. The man's use of American

idioms was almost ludicrous, but from Lutov's dossier Carter

knew they were for real. Lutov had once been an errand boy

at the United Nations. He'd lasted six years until Moscow

started figuring he liked American wine, women, and song a

'They're both dead, Lutov. You know the way it is .

fair exchange on body count.

"Can we trade?"

"What have you got?"

"Something big--Budapest. Maybe six weeks even a

"How big?"

"Libya thinks it's worth two hundred thousand petro-

dollars when I get it all."

"I'm not impressed. Qaddafi burns that much to cook a

goat for dinner every night.

"Would you be interested if you knew the Baron was

Carter's spine tensed and tingled. The Baron was a night

man dark, elusive, unknown. He had a good organization,

and no one in it knew each other or the head man's identity

The Baron and his organization would do anything for a

price, from petty theft to international terrorism.

Washington had bought from him a time or two, even

while putting a price on his head.

AXE had known of his activities but couldn't get proper

clearance to go after him.

"I'm interested, " Carter said

"Come up. I have vodka; we'll talk."

Without waiting for an answer, Lutov turned and disap

peared into the office behind him, leaving the door open.

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6

NICK CARTER

That way, Lutov's conscience was partially clean; he'd

only sold out halfway.

*I'm only a postman, you know that . . . a messenger

boy."

"Yeah, I know it."

"It was an accident. Hell, I didn't know what was going

down.

In the darkness, Carter smiled. The man's use of American

idioms was almost ludicrous, but from Lutov's dossier Carter

knew they were for real. Lutov had once been an errand boy

at the United Nations. He'd lasted six years-until Moscow

started figuring he liked American wine, women, and song a

bit too much.

"They're both dead, Lutov. You know the way it is.

fair exchange on body count."

"Can we trade?"

"What have you got?"

"Something big Budapest. Maybe six weeks even a

month."

"How big?"

"Libya thinks it's worth two hundred thousand petro-

dollars when I get it all. "

"I'm not impressed. Qaddafi burns that much to cook a

goat for dinner every night.'

'Would you be interested if you knew the Baron was

running the show?"

Carter's spine tensed and tingled. The Baron was a night

man—dark, elusive, unknown. He had a good organization,

and no one in it knew each other or the head man's identity

The Baron and his organization would do anything for a

price, from petty theft to international terrorism.

Washington had bought from him a time or two, even

while putting a price on his head.

AXE had known of his activities but couldn't get proper

clearance to go after him.

"I'm interested, " Carter said.

"Come up. I have vodka; we'll talk."

Without waiting for an answer, Lutov turned and disap-

peared into the office behind him, leaving the door open.

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6

NICK CARTER

That way, Lutov's conscience was partially clean; he'd

only sold out halfway.

*I'm only a postman, you know that . . . a messenger

boy."

"Yeah, I know it."

"It was an accident. Hell, I didn't know what was going

down.

In the darkness, Carter smiled. The man's use of American

idioms was almost ludicrous, but from Lutov's dossier Carter

knew they were for real. Lutov had once been an errand boy

at the United Nations. He'd lasted six years-until Moscow

started figuring he liked American wine, women, and song a

bit too much.

"They're both dead, Lutov. You know the way it is.

fair exchange on body count."

"Can we trade?"

"What have you got?"

"Something big Budapest. Maybe six weeks even a

month."

"How big?"

"Libya thinks it's worth two hundred thousand petro-

dollars when I get it all. "

"I'm not impressed. Qaddafi burns that much to cook a

goat for dinner every night.'

'Would you be interested if you knew the Baron was

running the show?"

Carter's spine tensed and tingled. The Baron was a night

man—dark, elusive, unknown. He had a good organization,

and no one in it knew each other or the head man's identity

The Baron and his organization would do anything for a

price, from petty theft to international terrorism.

Washington had bought from him a time or two, even

while putting a price on his head.

AXE had known of his activities but couldn't get proper

clearance to go after him.

"I'm interested, " Carter said.

"Come up. I have vodka; we'll talk."

Without waiting for an answer, Lutov turned and disap-

peared into the office behind him, leaving the door open.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

Carter had a tight feeling in his gut. The trade offer was

damn good. In fact, it was practically irresistible. But it could

Shifting the hot end of the Skorpion from side to side, he

moved carefully to the center of the big room. There were

flights of steel stairs up to the walkway at both ends of the

room. He chose right, then moved around a load of crates.

The sounds came from his right... a grunt and then

wood scraping against wood.

He didn't wait for a sighting. He sprayed the top level of

crates with three short, staccato bursts from the Skorpion.

Wood chips flew everywhere just as the crates started to

Carter hurled himself to the side. He was still in midair

when the heavy crates filled the space where he had been. In

the next instant he hit the floor himself, rolling and coming up

The guy was big, bearded, with a beret on his head and a

hacksawed double-barreled in his hands.

Carter squeezed off a burst just as the guy fired. Pellets

whined off the steel at Carter's feet, and a few ricocheted to

tug at a pants leg. One slug of the three-shot burst caught the

man in the thigh. He whirled, dropping without a sound.

But Carter knew he was still deadly. He could hear him

scooting along the top of the remaining crates. Carter was

about to double back around the crates for a better shot from

the other side when the area for twenty feet around him

became daylight.

Carter breathed, whirling around to face the

source of it, a big spotlight mounted on the railing above,

near the stairs he had almost reached

"There!" came a voice, quickly followed by slugs that

tore into the crates near Carter's head.

He backpedaled into the darkness. He stumbled into a

second pile of crates, then lunged into the opening between

them.

"He's coming around, Jacques!" yelled the voice from

the walkway in guttural French.

Jacques had just dropped from the crates to the floor when

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NICK CARTER

Carter rounded the corner. Without breaking stride, Kill-

master N3 flipped the Skorpion to full "auto'

" and stitched

the man from belly to beret.

Carter leaped over the body and kept running, replacing

the magazine as he moved. The walkway man-

-or men—

tried to nail him each time he crossed an opening, but their

aim was lousy, and from the spacing of the shots and their

sound, Carter guessed they hadn't come equipped. A couple

of .357s, or maybe .45s.

No match for the Skorpion.

Carter skidded to a halt just short of daylight beyond the

last bunch of crates. They had followed his progress with the

light. He crouched, gave a banshee yell, and skidded the

Skorpion across the steel floor, right through the center of the

beam.

As lead whined around the clattering gun, throwing up

sparks, Carter drew Wilhelmina and stepped around the

corner. Bracing his right wrist with his left hand, he took out

the light with two shots.

In the brief afterglow he spotted two of them, one on each

side of the spotlight. He chose right, swinging Wilhelmina

nose over.

It was a dead-center shot, nearly straight up. Carter took

his time, firing twice with careful precision. Saffron flame

burst from Wilhelmina's muzzle

Both slugs took the other shooter high in the chest. He let

out a scream, threw his arms wide, and took a dive down the

stairs.

Before the man hit bottom, Carter had holstered the 9mm

Luger and retrieved the Skorpion. He was already headed for

the stairs when he saw the flashing figure of the third gunman

running like hell down the walkway. He was firing wildly at

where he thought Carter should be. But Carter wasn't there.

He was already going up the stairs three at a time, sliding the

steel stock of the Skorpion back and locking it.

At the top, he shouldered the machine pistol and steadied it

over the top step. Back on "semi, " Carter fired a three-round

burst. The guy spun, fell to his back, and skidded another five

feet.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

Carter stood and moved along the walkway. He'd covered

half the distance by the time the man finally got his feet under

him. The guy used the rail to pull himself all the way up, and

then he turned to face Carter.

It was the same lowlife from whom Carter had bought the

Skorpion that afternoon. His one eye was dripping tears of

pain, and a few more of his teeth were missing from hitting

Everybody in Marseille, Carter thought, worked both

sides of the street.

"I've had it, / the Moroccan said in French, raising his

right arm. His left was a bloody mess.

"Yeah, you have.

Carter stitched a figure eight across his chest without

breaking stride. The man went over the railing in slow mo-

tion, doing a flip before he hit the floor below with a thud.

Ten feet from the office door, Carter stopped. He waited

several minutes to let his eardrums acclimate themselves to

the sudden silence before he spoke.

"You really are an asshole, Lutov."

"I take it there can be no trade now?"

"You know it."

"Who are you?"

"AXE... Nick Carter. "

There was a long silence. Carter grew tired of waiting it

out. With his back to the wall, he started sidestepping toward

the light and the room.

The Skorpion's muzzle was just edging around the door-

jamb when the room exploded with sound. It was quickly

followed by the unmistakable sound of a falling body and

metal on metal.

One look told it all.

Lutov had more guts than Carter had credited him with. He

lay in the center of the room. A lot of his head was against a

far wall, and beside him was a Magnum, the muzzle still

oozing gray smoke.

Carter wiped his prints from the Skorpion, discarded it,

and then went to work on Lutov.

The pockets produced the usual garbage: wallet, phony

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10

NICK CARTER

passport, money from three countries, and two sets of keys.

One set belonged to the Fiat outside. It was rented. The other

was a hotel key, attached to a big European-style hunk of

plastic.

"Résidence du Vieux Port, " Carter mumbled. "Eighteen

Quai du Port.

He pocketed the key and slid Hugo, a pencil-thin, razor-

sharp stiletto, from its resting place in a chamois sheath

tonight attached to his right calf instead of to his right fore-

arm, its usual spot. Using the stiletto, Carter pried Lutov's

watch apart. Finding nothing there, he went after the shoes

and then the lining, hems, and cuffs of the man's clothes.

He worked deftly, like the professional he was. He ex-

pected to find nothing and was rewarded in kind. Whatever

the meat of Lutov's trade offer had been-if there had been

anything at all—was probably in his hotel room.

Carter wiped the blood from his hands on the man's torn

clothing,

discarded the Skorpion's remaining magazine

from his pocket, and made for the door.

With no traffic it was a fifteen-minute drive up the Rue de

la République to the Vieux Port. He parked the Citroen in

front of the Office du Tourisme, where he had rented it the

day before, and hoofed it the four blocks to the hotel.

Eighteen Quai du Port consisted of a sidewalk café, the

hotel entrance, and a small bakery shop. Even at two in the

morning, the restaurants, cafés, and bars lining the quai were

going strong. The air was filled with laughter and the ever

present aroma of chocolate. Carter had always remembered

the new port of Marseille because of this oddity; it was so

near the water, yet the smell was of chocolate rather than fish.

He paused in front of the glass door leading into the hotel's

tiny lobby. To the left was the elevator, to the right a narrow

counter for registration. The concierge was a tall, balding

man with metal-framed eyeglasses and a severely trimmed

gray mustache.

He looked conservative but bribable.

Carter preferred not to take the chance.

Lighting a

cigarette, he stumbled through the sidewalk tables and into

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

11

the interior of the smoky bar. Along the way he hit the

doorframe, a couple of tables, and three customers. After

several slurred apologies, he reached a stool at the bar.

He ordered a double whiskey, again putting an obvious

slur to his words, and looked over his fellow customers

There were few, if any, tourist types other than himself. Most

were older, neighborhood denizens, with lined faces and

worn clothing. In the rear, around a loud jukebox, he saw a

few rockers in leather.

Then he saw what he wanted, two at one table, three at

another: hookers with that look of calculated boredom in their

eyes until they spotted him.

Carefully he looked each of them over in turn until he

spotted one he thought would fit the bill. He gave her a

lopsided smile.

She was on her feet and moving fast before Carter's lips

finished stretching.

He watched her maneuver through the tables. She wasn't

bad-looking, a dark-skinned Algerian with a nice oval face.

She had a good figure that looked firm and youthful, with

high pouting breasts and a flowing line to her belly that left

none of the charms just under it to the imagination.

All in all, she was much too much for the bar, but just right

for the Résidence du Vieux Port.

"Bonjour, monsieur. It is a lovely night."

*It is,

" Carter said, matching her French.

"American?" Carter nodded.

"Lonely American?" He

nodded again. "Three hundred francs. I can get the room. "

Carter smiled. "You're underpricing yourself.

She shrugged. *My sisters and I are in a contest. How do

you say in America? I want to win a scholarship.

Carter laughed drunkenly and ran a finger down the line of

her jaw.

"Where can you get a room?"

"Upstairs. "

Bingo, Carter thought, and let a smile be his assent.

*It's another fifty francs.

"Do we have to go through the lobby?"

Her smile grew broader. It was a common question. "No,

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NICK CARTER

I can take care of it. There are stairs

back there."

Carter produced a roll and passed her five ten-franc notes.

She strolled provocatively away, her high-boned, hollow-

cheeked buttocks straining the material of her dress to the

breaking point.

By the time Carter finished the whiskey she returned,

dangling a key on a hunk of plastic just like the one in his

powas 2. Tore die in his pocket was no suppress a smile.

The one in his pocket was 508.

"Let's go."

"Uh

business before pleasure

"Down here?"

She nodded, and Carter shrugged. He produced the roll,

counted off the amount, and passed it to her. She rolled the

bills tight and, with a motion of her head to follow her,

moved toward the rear of the bar.

As she passed the last table before the exit, her arm

brushed against a man's, and the bills changed hands.

He was a well-built but overdressed dude who slouched in

the chair with his legs draped over the table. Carter placed

him in one quick glance—wide-brimmed hat, well-tailored,

expensive suit, patent shoes, and a glittering ring on every

finger.

In France pimps are called mecs. This guy had mec written

all over him.

"The back stairs are this way," she murmured. "It's five

flights up..

*I'm healthy," Carter grinned, and he followed her

bouncy behind up the five flights.

They were in the room less than ten seconds before the

zipper down the back of her dress was making a clicking

sound. She shimmied her hips and shoulders, then her breasts

and hips, until the dress slithered down around her ankles.

With a deft kick of her foot, the dress landed neatly across the

back of a chair.

"French or straight or both, handsome? For three hundred

francs you have your choice.

"Cigarettes.

"Pardon?"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

13

"I forgot my cigarettes, " Carter said, patting his pockets

and moving to the door.

"I'll be right back."

"Monsieur, I don't have all night

He paused.

She stood hipshot beside the bed, her pretty little face

telling with a look that she thought he was crazy. Her brown

skin was like ebony in the room's eerie night-for-day light.

Her breasts were large, darkly nippled, and firm.

She was nice. Carter was tempted, but not that tempted.

He pried another hundred francs from his roll and passed it to

her.

"Now can you wait?"

"It's your money," she shrugged, flopping across the bed

as Carter moved into the hall.

Pulling on a pair of skintight black driving gloves, he

moved down the corridor, counting off room numbers.

Room 508 was just like 502, but there was a suitcase on the

bed, two suits in the closet, and shirts in a drawer.

With

Hugo's help, Carter made short work of them all.

The only thing of significance was a penciled notation

inside the cuff of one of the shirts: Carlyle, 17 Rue de Mont

Parnasse.

Carter ripped the cuff from the shirt, stuck it into his

pocket, and began scouring the room. It took ten minutes

before he found what he guessed Lutov was willing to trade: a

photo and three typed sheets taped to the underside of a desk

drawer.

Lutov was not only forgetful and had to write addresses on

a cuff, he was also a careless amateur when he tried to do

more than be a postman.

The photo was a small Polaroid of a woman about to get

into a taxi. It was a side view, a head-and-shoulder shot. She

had a striking profile only slightly marred by large-rimmed

glasses. Her hair was black, pulled back

severely and

bunched at the nape of her neck. It was difficult to tell from

the side view, but Carter's first impression was that she was a

schoolteacher on sabbatical.

But he found out differently when he scanned the typed

sheets.

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NICK CARTER

The name was Melissa Lane. Carter read her age, her

habits, her current place of residence, and her background

and education. But what really interested him and brought a

low whistle to his lips was her current occupation.

If the Baron, the Soviets, and Oaddafi were all interested

in Melissa Lane, Carter was sure David Hawk, head of AXE,

would also be interested.

He left the key on the bed, snapped off the lights, and

pulled the gloves from his hands as he moved quietly past

502.

*Quick

damn quick," the mee sneered as Carter

strolled past his table.

"I am like the rabbit," Carter said with a shrug, and he

walked into the street.

In the distance he heard the odd, howling sirens of French

police cars, and he wondered if they were headed for the

carnage he had left at the warehouse.

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TWO

The showroom and the dressing rooms of the House

of Honoré bubbled with a powerful mood of anticipa-

tion. Tall, lithe, near-naked models sat before huge, brightly

lit mirrors, patting and spraying the last wisp of hair into

place, applying the final bit of gloss to pouting lips, and

adding just a tiny dab more mascara to already seductive and

lustrous eyes.

In the showroom itself, subdued lighting in constantly

changing colors illuminated the object of all eyes: the long

runway that stretched nearly the length of the elegant and

tastefully furnished room. The aura, too, was subdued, with

champagne glasses lightly clinking and conversation at a low

hum.

Behind a lighted scrim near the runway's beginning, a

string

quartet played muted Mozart.

Tuxedoed waiters

moved deftly through the assembled buyers, press, and

well-wishers, taking orders for drinks or anything else the

well-dressed guests needed.

The reason for all this was Honoré de Matin's new fall line.

The start of the show was seconds away.

Only one woman in the crowded room seemed calm and

completely unconcerned. She sat alone, far to the rear, idly

fingering the program across the purse in her lap.

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NICK CARTER

She was a strikingly attractive woman, clothed in a belted

navy sheath that fit her tall figure like a second skin. The

figure beneath the sheath had the clean, tapered hollows and

curves of a fashion model, which the woman had been until

five years before.

Her hair was reddish blond and hung loosely to her shoul-

ders. It looked totally natural, but on closer examination one

could see that it had been carefully disciplined into its coif-

fure.

"Mademoiselle.

The waiter paused, his eye flicking

to the adhesive-backed paper name tag placed just above the

swell of the woman's left breast.

• . Carlyle, a drink?"

"Non, merci."

"Oui, mademoiselle."

The waiter moved away, and the woman opened her pro-

gram. A blood-red nail moved slowly down the page, not

over the description of the apparel but through names of the

models, and stopped.

The name beneath the tapping nail was Tanya Lane.

'How do you feel after your first Paris show, chérie?"

"Wonderful, exhilarated!" Tanya Lane replied, impul

sively kissing Madame de Matin on each cheek

"You were excellent and very beautiful. You do good

things for my son's clothes."

*Thank you, madame.

"You are young and very beautiful. Your success in New

York is nothing compared to the success you will have here in

Paris. You have the haute couture Parisian look. I fear

runway work will not be enough for you, my dear. The

photographers will find you, and the magazines will take you

away from us.

Tanya flushed and kissed the woman again.

"Never would

I completely leave you and Honoré after all you've done for

me by bringing me to France.

Tanya Lane was not beautiful in the insipid, very-pretty-

girl sense of the word. Her very tall, graceful figure, her

perfect porcelain features, and her jet-black hair and enor-

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

17

mous dark eyes created a dramatic and dynamic fascination

in all those who saw her.

She had wanted to be a model-and, most of all, a Parisian

model since she had done her first television commercial at

the age of ten in San Francisco. Now she was nineteen, and

her dream was coming true.

"I think you will one day soon make your parents very

proud of you."

"I have no parents. They were killed in a plane crash

several years ago.

"Oh, Lam so sorry, " Madame de Matin replied, a look of

genuine condolence on her face that only the French can

properly master.

*I was raised by my sister, Melissa.

and, yes, she will

be very proud of me.

*Tanya Lane?"

"Oui?" Tanya turned. One of the waiters from the show-

room was holding a silver tray in her direction. On it was a

folded piece of paper.

"A message, mademoiselle."

Tanya opened the note, and a card slipped into her hand.

She glanced at it briefly, then scanned the note.

My dear Miss Lane:

Could

we possibly have

drinks at La

Madeleine after the show and reception? We are looking

for just the right face for a new scent. I think you might

be that face.

Should you decide to meet me, I urge you not

to mention our meeting to anyone. I'm sure you know

that anything concerning the launch of a new campaign

must be kept confidential.

Sincerely,

Alexis Carlyle

Tanya flipped the card, and a tiny gasp escaped her lips.

ALEXIS CARLYLE, agent de MATELON

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NICK CARTER

Matelon, she thought, the finest fashion photographer in

France..

and he wants to see me!

"What is it, chérie? Good news?"

"Wha?

. Yes, oh, yes,

" Tanya replied, folding the

note over the card. "Very good news. I must shower quickly

... if you will excuse me, madame?"

Tanya slipped card and note into her purse. Then, with a

rippling laugh of exaltation, she grabbed a towel and ran

toward the showers at the far end of the dressing room.

Madame de Matin was never one to deny her curiosity.

Nor, in her entire life, had she ever had any compunctions

about how she assuaged it.

Gently, between thumb and forefinger, she withdrew the

card from the note just enough to read MATELO Mate-

Ooo-la-la, " she muttered just under her breath.

lon. This girl, she does move quickly!"

Alexis Carlyle shrugged the light, matching navy jacket

from her shoulders so that it hung carelessly over the back of

her chair. With a smile she extended a gold cigarette case

toward the raven-haired beauty across the table.

"No, thank you. I don't smoke."

"Very intelligent of you, my dear. It does seem stupid to

ruin one's health just to have something to do with one's

hands.

The cool, reddish-haired woman lit a cigarette with

aplomb, then snapped the magnetic lighter back against the

case. Tanya watched her every move. This woman, she

thought, had poise and class. Though she had spoken flaw-

less French to the maître d' and the waiter, her English was

very much American.

"Are you an American?" Tanva ventured

"I was.

" Alexis replied with an odd smile that didn't

move any part of her face except her lips.

"A long time ago.

Now, let us talk. You told no one of our meeting?"

"Not a soul."

"Good. I will go directly to the point. Poseidon is coming

out with a new scent later this year. We are all very excited

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

19

about it. Monsieur Matelon has the entire promotional con-

tract. The face that launches the new Poseidon fragrance will

become known the world over.

"Ohhh

"What is it?"

"I think I might faint." Tanya intoned.

"Now, now, don't get your hopes up too fast, my dear.

You must be screened by Matelon.

There will be at least

three, perhaps more, photo sessions. We have rented a villa

in the south to conduct these sessions. They must be done in

secret, you understand.

"But why all this secrecy?"

"My dear beautiful young girl, " Alexis Carlyle replied in

a chiding voice, "when Matelon is searching for a new star,

don t you think peoplecompetition—-would like to know

"Yes. Now, can you leave Paris for, say, about three

weeks?"

Mentally, Tanya went through the bookings her French

agent had set up for her. "I have one small print job the day

after tomorrow that my agent has set up. After that, one day

of the show, and I can be clear.

"Good "

Alexis said with a nod, pounding her cigarette

into shreds in an ashtray.

"Your agent?"

"Madame Lumoine. I will have to tell her-"

"No!"

"But_"

*Tell Madame Lumoine that you are tired. Tell her that

you have need of St.-Tropez for a few weeks.

Tanya chuckled. "I can't afford St.-Tropez!"

"You can now, Tanya. Just the screening photo sessions

alone are five hundred dollars a day for the model."

Tanya felt as if her knees would turn to water. Five hun-

dred dollars a day just for a screening session, and that would

be a drop in the proverbial bucket compared to what awaited

her if she got the job!

"I would also urge you not to tell your friends the true

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NICK CARTER

reason for your 'vacation. ' Do you have a roommate?"

*No, the only other people in my building are an old maid

over seventy and a quaint little man who loves to tell me

about his children.

"Perfect."

*But there is my sister, Melissa. She's in the States—in

New Mexico. Could I tell her?"

An enigmatic smile slowly spread across Alexis Carlyle's

heavily glossed lips.

"Of course,

Tanya. I don't think it

would present a problem to tell your sister.

The chauffeur, a gargantuan man with small, beady eyes,

placed Tanya's bag in the trunk of the long black limousine,

then held the door for her

"Good evening, darling!" Alexis said, leaning forward in

the seat to kiss Tanya on both cheeks. "Here, sit between us.

Tanya, this is Nedda Alfree. "

"Hi."

Nedda Alfree was a short, powerfully built woman with

voluminous breasts that bulged the front of her black great-

coat like pillows. The sleeves of the coat were inches too

short, and Tanya noticed that the woman's bare forearms

were as heavily muscled as a man's.

"Goot day, Fräulein, " the woman said, nodding her head

stiffly.

"Are you German?" Tanya asked, smiling.

"Nein, no more. I am a child of de world now.

"Pay no attention to Nedda, darling,

" Alexis smiled.

*She thinks the world is going to hell and only she can save

it. That's why she cuts her hair like a storm trooper's helmet.

Yuri, let's be off!"

The big car glided forward, and in what seemed like

minutes they were on the main highway out of Paris, heading

south.

Time and miles flew by. Alexis and Tanya chattered. The

tanklike woman to Tanya's left rarely spoke, and when she

did it was in monosyllabic grunts.

Tanya was in mid-question about the personality of Mate-

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

21

Ion, when she fleetingly noted a highway sign with the arrow

to the Côte d'Azur pointing to the right and the arrow to

Geneva pointing left.

The limousine turned left.

A few miles farther down the highway, Tanya mentioned

it.

"Didn't you say the villa that Monsieur Matelon rented

was on the Côte d'Azur.

near St.-Tropez?"

"Did I? I don't remember," Alexis replied coolly

"Yes, I'm sure you did. This is the road to Switzerland

We're not going out of the country, are we? I mean, I didn't

bring my passport.

"You won't need one, my dear, I assure you."

Suddenly Tanya felt the change of mood in the car.

She

sensed something was wrong, and this was magnified when

she glanced up to see the chauffeur's wide, ugly face leering

at her in the rearview mirror.

"Uh, Alexis, I don't think I understand. I think-"

*Nedda.

The German woman's thick arms engulfed Tanya like a

vise. Her stubby fingers held a towel that she roughly mashed

over the girl's face.

Tanya struggled against the powerful woman's grip as the

car filled with a sickly sweet odor.

"The windows, Yuri!" Alexis shouted. "Good God, the

stench will put us all to sleep!"

Tanya's legs in Alexis's grasp and her body in Nedda

Alfree's grip spasmed a few times, then went limp.

'Is she breathing? She looks dead..

*I am a nurse, among many other things, Carlyle,

"Nedda

growled. "I know my job. She will sleep for at least twelve

hours."

The big car gained speed, and twenty minutes later it

turned off the main highway. After an equal amount of time

on small dirt roads, often no more than cart paths, Yuri

Gorgon turned into a narrow lane between two white col-

umns.

A long lane wound through fields gone to weed. Moments

later they pulled into what appeared from the outside to be a

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NICK CARTER

deserted barn. The limo's engine had barely died before the

wide double doors were closed behind them and a pair of

lanterns were lit.

Two men waited behind a blue and white ambulance. The

rear door of the ambulance was open, and a gurney rested on

the straw-strewn dirt floor at the men's feet.

The limo had barely rocked to a halt when Yuri was out of

the car and barking orders.

"Hurry! Get her changed and onto the gurney!"

Tanya Lane was deftly stripped to bra and pantyhose by

Nedda Alfree and the two men. When a hospital gown had

replaced her clothes, she was placed on the gurney, covered

with a blanket, and strapped down.

While this was being done, Yuri Gorgon traded his black

coat for a white one and replaced the chauffeur's cap with a

white ambulance driver's beret.

On the other side of the limo, Alexis Carlyle peeled away

the designer original she had been wearing and donned a

nurse's uniform, complete with a narrow, peaked cap.

While the two men transferred the luggage from the trunk

of the limo to the storage compartment of the ambulance.

Nedda lifted Tanya, gurney and all, as if the whole weighed

no more than a feather, into the rear.

When the gurney was secured, she shed her black great-

coat. Beneath it she wore a uniform similar to the one Alexis

now wore. To it she added a cap, and then she checked

Tanya's pulse and respiration.

"All right?" Yuri asked from the front seat.

the big woman replied.

Yuri nodded and put the ambulance into gear. As soon as

the barn's double doors were opened wide enough, the ambu-

lance shot forward and sped down the twisting lane and back

out between the two columns.

Forty-five minutes laters, a border guard at the Swiss

frontier climbed into the rear of the ambulance between the

two nurses, one thin and attractive, the other fat and ugly.

He opened the passport and moved it down beside the

sleeping girl's face.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

23

The photographs matched.

"Fräulein Anna Berg?"

"Ja, ja,

"answered the fat one.

"Fourteen Beiderstrasse, Innsbruck?"

"Oui,

" said the pretty one.

"It is a mental hospital."

"A pity,

" the guard said, shaking his head. "She is so

very pretty.

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THREE

Lutov and the three Marseille lowlifes had rated two inches

of one column in the Paris dailies, and nothing in the En-

glish-language International Herald Tribune.

Carter had dropped off the Citroen, trained to Toulouse,

and, like any other tourist, had rented a Fiesta and driven to

Paris. Ten hours after the Marseille donnybrook, he'd coded

his report and the Melissa Lane information to David Hawk at

AXE headquarters in Washington's Dupont Circle.

He'd also requested a week's sun and fun before returning

to Washington. The reply had come back quickly: "Hold for

twenty-four hours.

He'd held, but it hadn't taken twenty-four hours; only ten

hours later a liaison man awoke him in his hotel room and

ushered him, posthaste, into the Paris office of Amalgamated

Press and Wire Services.

In the rear of the tiny Amalgamated offices off the

Champs-Élysées, there was a larger room. This room was all

AXE.

David Hawk's raspy, growling voice had come through

loud and clear on the scrambler phone.

"It might be something and it might not, N3, but Melissa

Lane is a valuable commodity, so we jumped right on your

info."

"And?"

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"And four days ago Melissa Lane got a telephone call

from her sister, Tanya, in Paris. Three days ago she got

another phone call. We don't know from whom. But hours

later Melissa requested, and got, a month's leave. By the

time our caution for more security on Melissa Lane

White Sands, the lady in question was on vacation.

"Is that so odd?" Carter asked.

"In a way. She's been at White Sands for almost four years

and has hardly taken a day off, let alone a month.

legmen did some talking with her coworkers. It seems the

little sister, Tanya, is a model in Paris. She phoned to tell

Melissa that she was getting a big break. She was auditioning

to be the face that would be used to sell a new perfume. For

the rest of that day and part of the next, Melissa was elated.

Then the second call came, and she was all nerves, edgy, not

at all herself."

"Maybe little sister didn't get the deal."

"Could be. But it could be worse, " Hawk said. "In any

event, it's worth a little legwork.

" Carter was about to

remind his superior that he was not a legman, but Hawk

anticipated that and added, 'I know this isn't your bag, N3

but we're on it now, and since you're there I think it wise if

you follow it up. Use your Amalgamated Press credentials

and get to this Tanya. Make sure there's no connection

between little sister's situation and big sister's sudden 'vaca-

"You must have people on Melissa Lane, " Carter replied.

*Have them ask her.

"Can't. Melissa is very clever. She gave her watchdogs

the slip in Dallas. We thought we had her on a Miami flight,

but when the flight landed she wasn't on it."

"Is Melissa Lane really this important?"

"You read Lutov's résumé on her?"

"Well, it wasn't complete

Carter copied down what the White Sands operatives had

been able to glean on Tanya Lane, then went to work

From an old woman in the flat below Tanya's, he learned

that she had just finished a show with Honoré de Matin. From

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

the great designer himself, he learned that Tanya's agent was

a Madame Lumoine.

.. they have no sense of responsibility!" the

agent exclaimed. "She does a big show, I have her primed

for even bigger things, and off she goes for a three-week

vacation to St.-Tropez!"

That sent needles up Carter's spine that he tried to shrug off

by reasoning that both sisters just wanted some time together

away from it all.

He went back to the House of Honoré. Honoré was out, but

"Mon dieu, already the press is on to the girl's success and

I don't even know what it is!"

"Well, " Carter replied coyly, "I don't know if it could be

"If Monsieur Matelon wants to see the girl, it is success-

ful, whatever it is!"

It took another half hour of roundabout questioning for

Nick Carter to find out just who Maurice Matelon was.

"Do you mean to say,

' Madame de Matin declared,

with a pending appointment with Matelon, Tanya went on

"Appointment.

Madame de Matin told him of seeing Matelon's card—

"by accident"-in Tanya's purse.

It took several phone calls and a little arm-twisting for

Carter to get an appointment to interview the great Matelon.

At last the man agreed to give Carter a half hour over drinks

Carter had two hours to kill until the appointment. On a

flyer he went by 17 Rue de Mont Parnasse. Carlyle, Alexis,

had Apartment 4 the entire fourth floor.

A maid answered the bell.

Mademoiselle Carlyle is not here, monsieur.

she left several messages for me to come

around this afternoon. What time will she be back?"

"the old woman shrugged, she is on vacation."

Now the hackles were really racing up Carter's spine; there

were too many people vacationing at the same time.

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28

NICK CARTER

At precisely three o'clock, Carter slid into a booth at

L'Express. He had finished his second drink and was nursing

a third when le grand Matelon stopped at his table with a

flourish.

Underneath the garish clothes and wide-brimmed hat,

Matelon was a little man with a Vandyke, baby blue eyes,

pointy shoes, a lisp, a paunch, and nail polish.

"You are the reporter, Monsieur Carter?"

"That's right, sir," Carter replied, rising and extending

his hand. "Nick Carter, Amalgamated Press and Wire Serv-

ices.

"Sit, sit, " the lisp said, touching Carter's fingertips with

his own and getting into the booth.

•You have precisely

thirty minutes. I am very busy today. I'll have a Perrier with a

slice of lime."

In between stops after leaving Madame de Matin, Carter

had given himself a crash course in The World of French

Fashion and Cosmetics, skimming a few important fashion

magazines picked up at a newsstand, and spending a few

minutes studying the perfume and makeup displays in a fancy

drugstore. For the next fifteen minutes he hoped he dropped

enough names and trade jargon into his questions to make the

interview believable

From Monsieur Matelon's responses, he assumed he was

succeeding.

Eventually he managed to get around to the real reason for

the interview.

*Our readers in the States are naturally very interested in

young American girls who come to Paris seeking a career in

modeling."

Matelon emitted a disdainful snort. "I do not know what

on earth for. Most of them end up being mistress to some

sheik or starring in trashy films!"

Carter ignored the remark and pressed on.

"We've heard

the rumor that you are particularly interested in a girl by the

name of Tanya Lane.

One eyebrow shot up, the other lowered, and Matelon's

high forehead furrowed for only a moment before he an-

swered. "I have never heard of the girl."

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

Carter slid the most recent photo he had of Tanya across

. very nice. She has good bones.

the photo back toward Carter.

"I might be interested."

"But you haven't contacted her?"

"No, I have not. Who handles her?"

*A woman named Lumoine.

"Then God knows I wouldn't have contacted her! ' Mate-

lon said, his face suddenly flushed. I refuse to use any of

that bitch's people!"

Carter digested this for a moment, but before he could ask

another question a shadow fell across the table. A slender,

dark-haired young man had woven his way through the

sidewalk tables and now stood looking down at them.

"I'm sorry I'm late, " the young man said. "I hung around

hoping for a second reading.

" His finger lightly flicked

Tanya's picture around on the table.

*You didn't get the part, did you, Roddy?" Matelon said,

obvious elation in his voice.

*I told you you wouldn't. Dear

God, they wanted a Belmondo type. . . someone older and

world-weary!"

"Well, you've never turned away the young and inno-

cent, " Roddy snapped

Suddenly he turned admiring velvet eyes on Carter. "Are

you an actor?"

"Reporter," Carter replied, wanting to add, "And I kill

" to wipe the smug grin off the kid's face.

Roddy started to sit down.

"Do be a dear, Maurice, and

order me a drink. I'm simply parched!"

Matelon dropped a hundred-franc note on the table.

"Drink it somewhere else. You embarrass me."

Roddy shot him a murderous glance and stormed out of the

*That young man is outstaying his welcome, " Matelon

said. "I met him through a friend a few weeks ago, and

already he's boring. Is there anything else, Monsieur Car-

ter?"

"Not really, " Carter sighed, pretty sure now that every-

body's "vacation" wasn't a coincidence. Matelon was about

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30

NICK CARTER

to rise when Carter decided to take a chance.

"Monsieur

Matelon, you wouldn't happen to know a woman named

Alexis Carlyle, would you?

"But of course I would, dear boy. She was a model.

..I

used her quite often, years ago. She's out of the business

now, though. The fast lane of modeling wasn't fast enough

for Alexis. She wanted to make it all, and make it fast..

and she did. At least I gather she did. She lives extremely

well. Odd you should ask about Alexis.

"How so?"

"It was at one of her soirees that I met little Roddy."

Rodney Bucknell moved along the sidewalk away from

L'Express. By the time he reached and turned a corner. the

mincing steps had become more like the powerful strides of

the athlete he was. The hips no longer swayed, and the

shoulders grew straighter and seemed to expand in the tight

sweater he wore.

Three blocks from the café, he turned into a telephone

"Local, " he said to the girl behind the center desk.

"Booth three, monsieur, on the left."

Rodney dialed the number from memory, waited two

rings, and dialed again.

"Yes?"

"Rodney Bucknell, Paris. "

"Your number?" Rodney gave the voice the number of

the exchange and his booth.

"Two minutes.

Exactly two minutes later, the phone rang and Rodney

grabbed the receiver.

"Bucknell?"

"Yes.

"Hold, please."

A moment later a second voice, speaking cultured French

only slightly laced with a German accent, came on the line.

*The Baron here. Go ahead, Rodney.

Just the voice sent a chill up Rodney's spine. He had never

met its owner, but he knew the man's power.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

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*The tall gentleman with the hard eyes the American

who was at the House of Honoré?"

"Yes."

"He is with Matelon now, and he has a picture of the girl."

"Do you know his name or affiliation?"

"He claims to be a reporter.

"I doubt it. Keep following him and inquire discreetly of

Monsieur Matelon as soon as you can what the American

wanted."

"Will do. Anything else?"

"Yes. He was also seen at Mademoiselle Carlyle's. If he

returns there, kill him.

Rodney's knuckles went white where they were clasped

around the receiver.

"Are you still there, Rodney?"

"Yes.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, Baron. You said kill him."

'That's right, Rodney. I'm sure you can handle it. I mean,

it's not something you haven't done before, is it?"

"No, Baron, it isn't."

"Good. Stay in touch."

The phone went dead in Rodney's ear.

Damn, he thought, / should have told him. IfI do this one, I

want my evidence file back. all of it.

As long as the Baron had the file of evidence he had

accumulated on Rodney Bucknell's past contract killings,

Rodney was the Baron's lackey.

Rodney wanted that file back. He wanted to be no one's

lackey.

Carter checked his watch. It was one in the morning.

Across the street only two lights burned, both on the third

floor of Number 17.

From all his running around Paris, a pattern had emerged:

Tanya Lane was gone. . . poof, disappeared; Melissa Lane

had also disappeared.

Carter was pretty sure Alexis Carlyle was somehow in the

middle of it. That was why he now stood in the shadows of

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NICK CARTER

Rue de Mont Parnasse at one in the morning.

He already had enough to call Hawk with a theory, but he

had decided to run one more check just in case he could add a

tidbit or two.

The check was on Alexis Carlyle's flat.

After a quick look right and left, he stepped into the street.

The sound of his heels on the old cobblestones sounded like

thunder in his ears until he made the opposite sidewalk and

then the stoop of Number 17.

He rang Apartment 4 with his right hand while he maneu-

vered the pick in his left. Impatiently he bounced from one

foot to the other, as if he were waiting for the buzz that would

let him in.

Instead, the tumblers made a clicking sound under the

pick's pressure, and he was inside, the door closing sound-

He pulled off his shoes and, bypassing the elevator, went

up the stairs two at a time. The door to Apartment 4 had three

locks. It took twenty seconds longer to open the three than

Nick had expended on the one downstairs.

Alexis Carlyle did indeed live extremely well, considering

what he had learned after leaving Matelon that afternoon.

The former model had had no visible means of support for the

last five years.

The foyer was large, and it opened onto a huge living room

adorned with gilded moldings, Oriental rugs, and expensive

paintings and tapestries.

Holding a small penlight, Carter spent three minutes doing

the grand tour. He found a guest bath, a music room, a

library, a kitchen and pantry, a maid's room, two guest

bedrooms, and a master suite.

On the surface there wasn't a single thing in any of the

rooms that shouldn't have been there. In the enormous walk-

in closet of the master suite he found enough furs, daytime

outfits, and evening wear to costume a Hollywood spectacu-

lar about fabulously wealthy women and the fashion indus-

try.

All in all, la Carlyle either had a very rich benefactor, or

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she was an industrious lady into something that paid a hell of

a lot more than modeling or mistressing.

Back in the library, Carter went methodically through the

desk. He slipped an address book into his pocket to check

later, along with a few matchbooks from the center drawer.

Matchbooks have a way of tracing peoples' haunts and

habits.

From the desk he went to the bookcases. The moldings

seemed solid, as did the panels behind the books. He was

about to vacate and do a rerun on the master suite, when his

light fell báck across the desk top.

From the other side of the desk it had appeared to be

nothing more than a plastic paperweight. From where he

stood now, shining his light, he could see a tiny, clear plastic

window. Flipping it over in his hand, he found the circuit dial

and activating bar concealed in its bottom.

Screwing his brow into furrows of concentration, Carter

visualized the exterior of Number 17, front and back. He

could see no garage or doors that would have been a garage.

But in his hand he held a very elaborate electronic garage

door opener.

There were five circuits on the dial setting

It took him

nearly twenty minutes to go through each of them on the

walls of the library.

Nothing.

The music room used up another ten minutes. Nothing.

"Bingo!' he whispered twenty minutes later in the master

bedroom as one wall in the walk-in closet slid away. Behind

the wall was a space about four feet deep, ten feet high, and

another ten feet wide.

And the space wasn't empty.

It was what every arms merchant would covet as a sample

case. The common manufacturers, such as Beretta,

Win-

chester, Browning, and Ruger, were all represented. But

there was also no lack of exotics. Carter's fingers trailed over

an Ingram M-11 machine pistol, a case of Soviet 9mm

Stetchin pistols, several AK-47 assault rifles, a few Galils,

and even a fair sampling of grenade launchers.

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NICK CARTER

"Well, well, " he said to himself, continuing his search,

"m'lady Carlyle could start a small war right here in Paris

from her own sun roof."

A file folder contained enought "end-user" certificates

and other documents to ship arms all over the world. A long

list from the same file was in code.

Carter was willing to bet Wilhelmina against a five-franc

note that the list contained names, addresses, and telephone

numbers of illegal arms suppliers and merchants all over the

But what had all this to do with Tanya Lane?

And then he remembered Lutov's mention of the Baron.

The Baron had his sticky fingers in anything and everything

that turned to profit.

There was a lot of profit in military hardware.

Carter closed the panel, replaced the electronic device in

the library, and headed for the large front room. He was

across the king-size Persian rug when he heard the unmis-

takable sound of a key being turned in the door.

Quickly he backpedaled and slid into the darkness of the

library as the door swung open and the front room blossomed

"Alex, it's me. Are you home, darling? I iust got in!"

Carter pulled his hand away from Wilhelmina and tracked

with his eye through the crack between the door and the

door frame.

It was a woman, blond and fairly attractive if one liked

tall—very tall-model types. She was expensively and taste-

fully dressed, right down to a pair of knee-high, soft leather

Gucci boots.

"Alex, are you here, darling?" the woman called,

dropping two bags and making the cape she wore float behind

her as she moved across the room.

She wore ultra-chic, huge-lensed tinted glasses, and her

long blond hair swirled around her face, partially shielding

her features. But watching her, Carter thought there was

something familiar about her face.

As she drew near the hall and library door, his mind

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clicked over the only two options that occurred to him. He

could wait, hoping she would go on past the library, then

slither out the front door. Or he could step out, act nonchal-

ant, and say that he was a house guest of Carlyle's.

All options went to hell when the woman drew even with

the library door. She suddenly threw herself sideways, with

about ten times more strength and agility than any female

should own.

A very powerful shoulder mashed Carter between the door

and the wall. Instinet brought his hand up, fingers curled,

wrist taut. Woman or no woman, he meant to plant the heel of

his hand against her nose.

The blow never landed.

Whoever she was, her instincts were equal to his, and her

parrying speed was like lightning. Two hands with a grip like

steel caught his wrist. She dropped to one knee, pulled, and

He came up rolling, Wilhelmina in hand. The woman was

incredible. Deftly she flicked a wall switch.

The sudden

harsh light made Carter hesitate a fraction of a second

It was long enough.

The woman took one step and was airborne. The heel of

one boot connected unerringly with Carter's right wrist.

Wilhelmina shot across the carpet, and a savage pain shot up

He barely got his head out of the way of the other boot. As

it was, the stacked heel clipped his ear, burning like hell. On

the way by, she tried a neck chop, missed, but managed an

elbow jam that caught Carter squarely on the cheek. His head

went around, and his body followed

Awkwardly he spun until his back slammed painfully up

against the edge of the door. He saw the woman execute a

perfect twist and roll. She came down on her boots like a cat,

legs and skirt spread wide. Beneath the slit in the skirt a

silenced Walther was strapped against a highly muscled

This, Nick thought, is no woman!

A quick scan up with his eyes told him he was right. The

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NICK CARTER

glasses were gone and the wig was slightly askew. Behind the

very carefully layered makeup, Carter recognized Matelon's

little friend from L'Express, sweet Roddy.

The Walther was just coming up as Carter launched a lamp

from a stand by the door. The young man's shot was off, but

not by much. Nick felt it go by his head and slam into the

wood behind him.

Before Roddy could swing around for another, Carter

covered the distance between them and chopped down onto

the forearm of the hand holding the gun.

Carter knew how painful the blow was, but there was no

evidence of it on Roddy's face as the gun fell to the floor. And

a guttural oath in French was all that escaped his lips as he

threw his shoulder into Carter's midsection, effectively

blocking a second blow.

Carter managed to wrap his arms around Roddy's, and

together they rolled across the floor. Two pairs of arms and

two pairs of legs wildly tried to find a purchase as they

slammed into the desk.

Carter had a good forty pounds on the other man, but

Roddy more than made up for it with speed, agility, and

training. It was the training that told the tale. Whoever Roddy

was, he was no amateur. He had killed before with his bare

hands, and probably more than once.

At last Carter got his own powerful fingers into the other's

throat. He found the windpipe, but before he could apply

enough pressure, the heavily calloused edge of Roddy's hand

slammed into the side of his own neck.

"You are dead, my friend, " Roddy growled, the hand

swinging up for a death blow.

'Not quite," Carter hissed, blocking the powerful blow

with a forearm. He jabbed at Roddy's face with stiff fingers,

going for the eyes, but the face turned.

Carter missed, but he managed to rake the left eye with a

nail. This brought the first real squawk of pain from Roddy,

who turned away with a yell.

Carter shook Hugo from its sheath on his right forearm.

Before Roddy could turn to face him again, Carter brought

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

his arms down over the young man's head. He held the

stiletto by the hilt with both hands, the point at Roddy's face.

Deftly, Carter slipped a full inch of the pencil-thin blade up

one of his nostrils.

Roddy froze.

"Twenty questions time," Carter growled in his ear,

slowly probing with Hugo until blood ran freely, matching

the color of Roddy's lips.

"Who is the Baron?"

*I know no baron.

"Then who put the contract on me?"

Carter thought he detected a smile through the bloody lips.

"Matelon. He thinks you're a pest."

*Bullshit, Carter said, moving Hugo another quarter of

an inch up the nostril.

"Impasse," Roddy said, bringing his hands up to grip

Once again Carter was amazed at the smaller man's

strength. His grip was like steel. Carter could almost sense

the aura of sinewy power in the man's forearms as he reso-

lutely began to pull the blade from his nose.

Carter applied pressure with his chest on the back of the

man's head, but his neck was like a small bull's. Carter's

hands and the stiletto continued to move forward.

There was nothing for it.

Carter tensed the muscles in his legs. Using his superior

strength, he fell forward, driving Roddy's face toward the

and Hugo into his brain.

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FOUR

"What did you do with the body?"

"Stuffed it behind the closet panel with the artillery."

"Rather like leaving a calling card, isn't it, N3?"

"Exactly. That's what I wanted it to be,

" Carter said,

casting a quick sidelong glance at the effect his calm rendi-

tion of a killing and its aftermath had on Ginger Bateman. To

her credit, the lady had only flinched once in the telling. That

was when he had described in lurid detail the final end of

not-so-sweet Roddy on the tip of Hugo's blade.

"Hmmm," David Hawk said, washing down a last bite of

filet mignon with Burgundy and pushing his plate to the side.

Carter hadn't been too surprised when he had returned to

his hotel from Alexis Carlyle's apartment and found the

cryptic message from Hawk:

"White Sands nervous.

Wash-

ington boiling. Think we had better put a lid on this. Taking

Concorde.

By the time Carter had showered, changed and dictated his

report to a high-clearance Amalgamated staffer he sum-

moned to the hotel, the call had come from the Pierre.

"We're here, Nick, at the Pierre, Suite Seven-twelve."

"We?"

"Bateman is with me. Have you eaten?"

*No.

"Good, I'll order."

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NICK CARTER

For David Hawk to drop everything at Dupont Circle and

jet to Paris, the Melissa Lane affair had to be very serious

business. To bring his beautiful, leggy private secretary,

Ginger Bateman, into the field with him was unheard of

Carter had taxied directly to the Pierre and had arrived an

hour earlier. As the three of them enjoyed a cream of aspara-

gus soup, filet mignon, potatoes, and an endive salad,

Carter delivered an oral version of his report.

When he was finished, he placed the typed report by

Hawk's plate in case the AXE chief wanted to review it.

In the folder with the report was the encoded list he had

already assumed to be arms suppliers or, perhaps, buyers.

Alexis Carlyle's address book had already been passed along

to two crypto people in the AXE center behind the Amalga-

mated offices.

Now Hawk pushed his bulk away from the table, lit a very

smelly cigar, and picked up the typed pages.

*What do you think, Nick, besides this?" he asked, rat-

tling the papers.

Carter shrugged one shoulder and sipped from his glass of

Burgundy. "Could be the two sisters just want some privacy,

a little time by themselves.

"But it looks like more."

Carter nodded. "A lot more. I think Alexis Carlyle is tied

up with the Baron. She sports the kind of wealth he can

provide. Tanya Lane is obviously gone... lifted? I don't

"But it appears that way."

Again Carter nodded. "It does. I guess it depends on how

important Melissa Lane is.

We can already assume that

Moscow or one of the satellites wants her, and evidently

she's valuable enough that Lutov thought Libya-

-and God

knows who else— would be interested enough in his informa-

tion to pay for it."

"Bateman,

" Hawk barked.

Ginger Bateman leaned her tall torso toward the briefcase

at her feet. The scooped front of her dress fell away to reveal

the twin, bulging arcs of her very ample breasts.

Carter glanced once, swallowed, and shifted his eyes to

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41

concentrate on his wine. He and Ginger had been friends for

years, as close friends as two people in their business could

be. A couple of times they had been within falling distance of

a bed, but nothing had come of it. Not because Nick hadn't

wanted to, but because Ginger had been wise enough to back

"I'm not just a wide-eyed little girl from Atlanta in the big

" she had drawled. "I've been there and back, and

I don't want to worry more than I do when you walk out the

door. I let you bed me down, I get involved even if you don't.

I don't want to get involved with anybody who has only a

fifty percent chance of seeing next Friday.

Ginger was a smart lady then, and she still was. She was

also very alluring in a seductive yet understated way. Now,

as she rummaged in the briefcase, the fragrance of her per-

fume filled Carter's nostrils.

combined with the

woman's own elusive aura of femininity and businesslike

precision, stimulated and excited him.

It always had, and he was pretty sure it always would. He

put it down to man's weakness for the forbidden, and he

continued to stare at his wineglass.

Ginger came up with a smile under her mane of dark hair

and passed Carter a thick, bound folder.

Lane... the whole story.

Carter nodded, opened the folder, and digested Melissa

In a nutshell, she was quite a woman.

She had been a child prodigy in math and physics. So much

so that she was graduated from MIT at the tender age of

seventeen with more honors than Boy Scouts have merit

badges.

Straight from graduate school she went into the aerospace

industry in California. It was immediately evident to her

employers that, youth or not, man or woman, they had more

than a prodigy under their wing. They had a genius.

In the years following her initial employment, she en-

gineered breakthroughs in several fields that had been puz-

zling other geniuses for several years. In no time she out-

stripped all her peers in the field of radar and missile tracking

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NICK CARTER

design.

She eventually went on to designing the missiles

themselves.

When she began to delve into fuels and propulsion, the

U.S. military complex stepped into the picture. All too

quickly the Pentagon realized that they had not only a poten-

tial gold mine of inventive genius in Melissa, they also had a

source of potential disaster should her mind and its contents

fall into the wrong hands.

Carter stopped, whistled, shook his head, and lit a

cigarette.

"Powerful stuff, eh?"

His eyes flickered up to meet Ginger's, and he nodded.

*Sounds like one in a million.

"More like one in ten million, " Ginger said. "I feel sorry

for her. There's no way, being who she is and knowing what

she knows, that she could have a life of her own.

"I'm just getting to that part," Carter replied, and he

returned his concentration to the file.

When Melissa Lane began to do research on electro-

magnetic fields as a source of space propulsion, the govern-

ment could no longer stand idly by. When her theories really

started producing results, she was quietly hired away from

private industry and relocated at the White Sands Missile

Range in New Mexico.

At White Sands her experiments could be carried on under

the strictest security.

Since arriving in New Mexico, Melissa had accumulated

every conceivable material comfort and possession. This was

done either through government perks usually poured on

someone of her status, or through her own salary, which was

considerable.

She was a bit temperamental, but then most geniuses are.

To make up for being watched and guarded around the clock,

the Pentagon did everything possible to keep her happy and

make her life problem-free.

Now, Carter thought, looking up at last from the folder,

something had happened to make Melissa slip her watch-

dogs, even the beefed-up guard ordered when Carter hap-

pened on Lutov's info.

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43

"You're right," he said, looking at Ginger. "It sounds as

though she was practically a prisoner."

"Exactly,

" Hawk said, expelling a cloud of smoke and

leaning over the table toward Carter.

"That's why this whole

mess gets very sticky. We can't exactly chain the woman to a

laboratory table, and we can't have operations sitting on her

stoop or sleeping with her. She's a human being, and she

needs some life of her own and some degree of privacy.

"So we can't bust into her vacation unless we know that

she or her little sister are in trouble, " Carter said, grinding

out his cigarette and immediately lighting another.

"Right," Hawk growled. "We can suppose the other side

is trying to get to Melissa through Tanya, but there's damn

little we can do until we're sure.

Carter tried to fight Hawk's acrid smoke with his own,

then mused,

"Looks like we have two choices. Keep an eye

on Melissa until they contact her, and/or find the little sis-

ter.

Ginger flipped a notebook in her hand and brought Carter

up-to-date.

"After she slipped the team in Dallas, some high-level

army intelligence types got on it. They traced her to Mexico

City, but by the time they checked her out there, she had

already slipped again."

Hawk picked it up.

"It took a day and a half, but they

finally found out how she did it. A clerk at Air France

identified her by a photograph. The clerk moonlights as a

cosmetics saleswoman. She remembered the Lane woman

because her makeup was all wrong for a blonde.

"Wig?"

Hawk nodded. "She traveled under a Swedish passport in

the name of Inga Heldstrom.

Again Carter whistled. "It's all very well planned if they

had a passport waiting for her.

"It sure as hell is,

" Hawk growled. " "Inga Heldstrom'

flew to Paris. We've got our Paris people working on it now,

but so far nothing."

The rap on the door was sharp and commanding. Ginger

left the room, and seconds later she returned with a tall,

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sandy-haired man named Michaels. Carter remembered

meeting him briefly in the Amalgamated offices.

He was young,

with a low-grade field rating. But any

grade in AXE would be fairly high in any other service.

"I think we've got a lead, sir. A clerk in a gift shop at Orly

remembered her because she seemed so nervous and had

forgotten to buy any francs. Her only purchases were a road

map of France and a city map of Perpignan.

The man paused, smiling for dramatic emphasis.

"Get on with it, Michaels,

" Hawk barked.

*Because

of the road map, you checked the rental car agencies,

and.?"

"Uh . . . yes, sir," Michaels said quickly. "She rented a

Peugeot four-door sedan. I have the license number.

"Do we have a man in Perpignan?"

"No, sir, but we've contacted the French authorities.

They've been told it's a security matter."

"Good. Get back to me the minute you hear."

"Yes, sir."

"Michaels?"" The man did a three-quarter turn at the sound

of Carter's voice. For a second Carter thought he was going

to click his heels. "Anything on the Carlyle woman's address

book yet?"

"Not yet, sir, but we've brought in two more people so we

can do an all-nighter, around the clock, if it's necessary.

"Good."

"There is one thing, " Michaels continued, "on the prints

you brought in.

"Yes?"

The agent produced a notebook and flipped it open. "Rod-

ney Bucknell, born 1958. Uh, that would make him twenty-

five

• quite remarkable, considering-

"Considering what?" Hawk rasped, not trying to hide the

impatience in his voice.

*Considering we found out from the French and German

authorities that he has been suspected of being a contract

killer for the last nine years. What we gleaned from under-

world sources is that Rodney Bucknell only took the very

biggest and most dangerous of hits. If all the background we

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have on him is true, Mr. Carter, I'd say you were lucky to

come out on top in a man-to-man with this guy. "

"No, Michaels, " Carter replied dryly, "not luckier, just

of course. Will there be anything else?"

"That's all, " Hawk said, waving the agent into retreat

with the magic wand of his cigar.

The moment Michaels was gone, Hawk turned to Carter.

"If it is Perpignan, you'll have to get right on it. I'll set up an

H.Q. here and, with the French, blanket as much as I can to

locate the younger sister.

"I doubt if she's still in the country, " Carter said

"So do I, but it's the best we can do until you can get to

Melissa and gain her confidence that we can handle this a lot

better than she can.

When we get the word, you'll take

Bateman with you.

"Huh?" Carter gasped, darting his eyes to Ginger in

"Hawk seems to think Melissa will be more approachable

by a couple or a woman. Admit it, Nick, you do look a little

"Only when I smile," Carter growled, trying to hide his

Ginger Bateman was one hell of a secretary, and she had a

fantastic mind for remembering and assembling facts. She

was also the perfect right arm for David Hawk in that she

could aid in the formulation of plans, and she could issue any

order-hers or Hawk's-and be sure it would be carried out.

But she was a far cry from a field agent.

He was about to say as much to Hawk when the big man cut

him off.

"There's another, very good reason why Bateman is going

along, N3"

"Sir, " Carter interjected, avoiding the glare in Ginger's

eyes, "if I may suggest.

. Sally Marshall is in Geneva.

She could be here in an hour. And right here in Paris there's

Monique Faiure.

"I know that, Nick. They're unacceptable."

"But-

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The phone at Hawk's elbow cut Carter off.

"Yeah.

… Hawk here."

Carter listened to Hawk's grunts and monosyllabic an-

swers with half an ear as he dug in his pockets for his lighter

and came up with the books of matches he'd lifted from

Alexis Carlyle's middle desk drawer.

There were four of them and they ran the gamut.

"Do you need a light?" Ginger asked.

"Got one,

" Carter replied, selecting one of the books.

It was from the Rococco Club in Perpignan.

"Good, good, " Hawk's voice boomed again.

"Have a car

brought around right away, and have another man pack

Carter's bags and bring them here. Also, get two first-class

seats on anything that flies into or near there.

Hawk slammed the receiver back on its cradle and

beamed.

"It is Perpignan, or at least close. "Inga Heldstrom'

checked into the Hotel Pont Blanc at Canet-Plage about two

hours ago. That's a resort beach near Perpignan.

"I know it." Carter said, still unable to remove the surly

quality from his voice. He left the Paris matches on the table

and dropped the book from the Rococco Club back into his

pocket.

"Sir, I wonder if we could be alone for a few

moments,

" he said, his eyes practically pleading as they

found Hawk's.

"You mean, about Ginger?"

"Uh . . . well, yes, sir.

"Nick, you are one stubborn bastard, do you know that?"

"Yes, sir... yes, sir, I do know that. There are times

that I am stubborn. As for being a bastard.

well, I try to

live up to that at all times.

"Bateman

"Sir?"

"Show the stubborn bastard the pictures.

Again Ginger dove for the briefcase. This time she came

up with three eight-by-ten glossy photographs

One was a head shot reminiscent of the Polaroid Carter had

found in Lutov's Marseille hotel room. This one was face

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front and unsmiling, but the hair was still pulled back se-

verely, and she wore the same lightly tinted glasses.

The second and third were both full length, one in a

tailored suit, the other in an evening dress. The latter showed

Melissa Lane to her best advantage. The woman had a seduc-

tively voluptuous figure.

"Nick?"

Carter looked up and immediately saw why Ginger was his

traveling companion. She had pulled her thick mane of black

hair back from her face and held it coiled at the nape of her

neck. She had also put on a pair of large-lensed, pink-tinted

sunglasses.

"We'even wear the same size shoes and clothes, " Ginger

said.

Carter nodded.

He had to admit it. From any kind of distance, Ginger

Bateman was a dead ringer for Melissa Lane.

Vasily Korshakov burped loudly and slid the flask of

vodka back into a desk drawer just as the communications

room officer stepped through the door.

"Yes, Major, what is it?"

"Scrambler phone, sir, through the Vienna booster."

"So? Can't you handle it?"

"No, sir. The message came through coded Budapest

Run, sir. Budapest Run is for your eyes and ears only, sir.

Vasily Korshakov mumbled an obscenity in Russian under

his breath and herded his bulk to his feet. He was a huge man,

fifty-eight years old, with a square jaw, a face going to pudgy

fat, and iron-gray hair cut short and bristly.

Vasily Korshakov was a colonel in the KGB. He had been

a colonel for sixteen years, and he would probably still be a

colonel two years hence, when he retired. For the last year he

had been attached as an advisor to the Hungarian secret police

in Budapest. Actually, he functioned as control for illegals

and freelancers in nearby Austria.

Vasily Korshakov hated the job and the Hungarians he was

forced to work with. But then he had hated the Bulgarians and

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48 NICK CARTER the Rumanians when he had been stationed among them. Korshakov paused before the door of the communications mom, implying by his pause what heespected. Clenching his jaw until a white line appeared along its ridge. the young Hungarian major opened the door for the Russian colonel. "Yes," Korshakov barked into the phone handed him by an orderly. "To whom am I speaking?" "Colonel Vasily Korshakov . . . and you?" "This is the Baron, Colonel. I believe my current project. the Budapest Run, has fallen under your control." "Yes, yes," Korshakov replied impatiently. He didn't know the face or the identity of the man on the opposite end of the line, but Vasily Korshakov hated him too. The Baron, whoever he was, sold his services to the highest bidder. Unlike Korshakov, the Baron would one day retire, very rich, to a villa in southern France. Vasily would be lucky to have a two-room apartment in Moscow upon his retire-ment. "We have run into a snag or two on this end," the Baron continued in what sounded to Korshakov liked a bored tone. "Cover on the project may have been blown." "We are not responsible for your people, Baron," Kor-shakov said loftily. "We are paying you for a result: the woman entenng Hungary of her own fine will." Them wm a moment's hesitation, and then the voice came back, sharp, clear, and as raw as serrated steel. "Listen, you pompous ass, if I didn't have to contend with your amateur lackeys—" 'Do not speak to me like that, you hireling!! am a colonel of the KGB, and—" "And you have failed on practically every mission as-signed you," came the harsh reply. Korshakov's jaw clamped shut, and beads of sweat popped didon his forehead. Unfair, he thought, this was unfair! How thisman. whom he didn't even know, know no much about him? "But you won't fail on this mission. Vasily Korshakov,

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

49

because you won 't be given the opportunity to think. I will do

the thinking, and the commanding .

"I am aware—"

'You are aware of nothing! For instance, do you know at

this moment the whereabouts of your courier, Ivan Lutov?"

"I can check the computer."

"Don •t bother. Lutov is currently resting peacefully in the

morgue of a French State Security hospital outside Marseille.

I am not sure yet, but he could be the source of our project

cover bein blown. "

Damn ovforafool, Korshakov thought, his entire body

now b ed in sweat.

'SListen„and listen carefully, Korshakov. I want every-

thing Moscow has on a man, an American, named Nicholas

Carter. He has been made by one of my people posing as a

reporter for Amalgamated Press and Wire Services. I want

his full file, and I want it fast. Also, I need everything on

Budapest Run—passport, visa, and the Swiss deposit

voucher for the second payment—delivered to the Vienna

drop, all within seventy-two hours. Is that quite clear, Col-

onel?"

"Quite clear. "

"Good. You know how to reach me. Don't fail me,

Korshakov. My employers in the KGB are more powerful

than your relatives in the Politburo. "

The line went dead. With a shaking hand, Korshakov

passed the instrument back through the opened slot in the

soundproof glass to the orderly. It took several moments

before he could control the perspiration gushing from his

pores and ease the trembling in his limbs.

At last he was under enough control to step from the booth

into the larger room. Loudly he barked for the major. In

quick, staccato sentences he gave the man orders.

"Use the direct hot line to Dzerzhinsky Square and have

my car brought around. "

A half hour later, Vasily Korshakov, dressed in civilian

clothes, was drinking vodka in a small nightclub on the Hess

Andras. Twenty feet in front of him, an olive-skinned , dark-

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50

NICK CARTER

haired beauty was bathed in the amber glow of a spotlight. In

a husky, rasping voice she breathed Hungarian lyrics into a

microphone.

She was billed throughout Germany, Hungary, Austria,

and France as "Margaret." Her real name was Hillary

DuFarve, and she was a high-ranking foreign agent in the

employ of Libya's secret service.

Otto Von Petrie replaced the gold-plated telephone on its

antique cradle and gazed across the wide veranda roof at the

fog slowly settling over the Vienna Woods.

Colonel Korshakov was a fool and a coward, but that was

why Von Petrie had requested he take over Budapest control

of the project. Von Petrie had dealt too often in the past with

pompous Russian KGB officers that he couldn't completely

control. Korshakov could be controlled, and more than any-

thing, Otto Von Petrie, the Baron, wanted to be in complete

control of everyone and everything around him.

The tinkling of ice in a glass brought his gaze around to the

bedroom. Through the door, on the huge canopied bed, he

saw Alexis Carlyle's naked body

At thirty-five, Alexis was much older than the women with

whom Otto Von Petrie usually dallied. But then Alexis Car-

lyle had become much more than a mere dalliance. Her lust

and her greed made her a perfect disciple of the Baron.

She had worked for him for nearly five years.

before, he had let her into his inner circle. Now Alexis, Yuri

Gorgon, and Nedda Alfree alone knew the real identity of the

Baron. And all three of them were completely within his

control: Alexis because of her insatiable desire for more and

more wealth; Nedda because of an almost pathological sense

of loyalty; and Yuri because it was only with Von Petrie that

the giant could exercise his sadism and killer desire to the

In the bedroom, Alexis rolled to her side, placing her glass

on a bedside stand. When she rolled back, her breasts seemed

to dance under Von Petrie's gaze. Her long, tapering legs

came open as she stretched, arousing Von Petrie for the

second time that evening. Her hair was the red of a soft

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

51

sunset, flowing down to frame her face and neck.

Moving toward the bedroom, Otto Von Petrie undid the

sash of his robe and let the garment fall from his body. By the

time he reached the side of the bed, he was erect.

There was no preamble, no kiss, no thought or mention of

love. None was needed.

Von Petrie placed one knee on the bed and fell forward.

"Guide me!" he growled.

She did, arching her body at his entrance, more out of habit

than need.

Beside her ear, Von Petrie's thin, cruel lips curled into a

smile. Shé was moving beneath him just right, just as he had

taught her, She had been ready, but then she always was.

That was why Von Petrie now trusted her so much. Alexis's

love of money was her only joy in life.

Otto Von Petrie was the source of that joy, so Alexis

Carlyle would remain loyal to him no matter the conse-

quences or the acts she had to perform to keep him happy.

He smiled again. The game they played rarely changed,

but he always loved to play it. It seemed to feed his belief that

all men and women were the same: the truly lower form of

animal.

Alexis bolstered his conviction that there was no morality

left in the world. Indeed, she was the epitome of the "every-

one has his price" credo that made Otto Von Petrie's world

go around

The sheets were cool beneath Alexis's naked shoulders as

she writhed automatically beneath her lover and gazed up at

the ceiling. Painted there, in deep, rich colors, was a very

elaborate,

intricate

scene of

cupids and bare-breasted

women.

But even if the ceiling had been pure white, she

would have looked at it with the same concentration.

Alexis was dead from the neck up when she was in bed

with a man.

As Otto reached his peak, her arms and legs locked around

him. A sobbing moan came from the depths of his throat.

"Say it!"

"I love you, Otto!"

After a moment, Von Petrie pushed himself up and looked

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52

NICK CARTER

down at her face, and smiled. Alexis's reddish hair flowed

over the pillow, and the white curves of her shoulders and

breasts gleamed with his perspiration.

"Very good, my dear,

' he said, rolling from her to the

side of the bed. "Would you like some champagne?"

"No, thank you, Alexis said, wondering how men could

switch off so quickly after such a climax.

A muted buzzing sound interrupted them. It came from

behind a panel on the side of the room.

Von Petrie was instantly on his feet and moving. With a

brush of his fingers, the panel slid up to reveal a powerful

high-frequency transmitter and receiver.

Von Petrie placed a set of earphones over his head and then

adjusted out the static that greeted him.

*WPQL 1000 calling Home... WPQL 1000 calling

Home.

Von Petrie squeezed the send button and leaned forward to

speak directly into the microphone.

"You're Home, WPQL 1000. Go ahead. Over."

"A caller, " came the reply."

"The number?" Von Petrie jotted the number down on a

note pad. "Anything else?"

*Nothing.

*Thank you," Von Petrie said. "Out."

He put the receiver back on "warn" and closed the panel.

Then he moved back into the living room. He chose one of

three phones and dialed a Vienna number.

""Yes?"

"I have a call to Budapest. Will you patch me through?"

"Of course."

Von Petrie read the numbers, heard the clicks making the

connection, and then the ring.

Colonel Korshakov himself answered.

*This man, Carter. He is a very prominent agent of a deep

Washington group.

"How deep?" Von Petrie asked, furrowing his brow.

*Very, very deep. . . perhaps the deepest. Some of their

agents have Killmaster designations. Nicholas Carter has

been one of their top men for years. He is highly trained and

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

53

very experienced. We believe Amalgamated Press and Wire

Services is a worldwide front for the agency.

*Damn,

" Von Petrie hissed. "My man said he used his

own name. If his agency is so deep, why wouldn't he use a

cover?"

"Perhaps he wanted you to know he was in the game, Herr

Baron.

Von Petrie didn't fail to recognize the slightly satisfied

tone in the other's voice. He chose to ignore it..

for the

time being.

"And the/other matters?"

"The required papers will be delivered at precisely eight

o'clock, three days from now, at the prearranged Vienna

'Very good."

"Uh . . . Herr Baron, can we expect the lady in question

*That, Colonel, is none of your business.

Von Petrie broke the connection, donned his discarded

robe from the floor, and returned to the bedroom.

"You'll be leaving for Perpignan in the morning."

"Very well."

"And, Alexis, you'll be picking up Yuri and taking him

"In case of what?"

"In case Rodney Bucknell has met his match at last."

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FIVE

Cartef fitted the binoculars to his eyes and followed

Melissa Lane's progress as she exited the front entrance of

the hotel and crossed the wide boulevard to the beach.

•There she goes, right on time.

"Third day in a row," Ginger Bateman said, her voice

close to his ear.

"It's a pattern.

"It sure as hell is, " Carter mused aloud as he watched the

woman go through the ritual of renting a chaise and mattress

from a beach boy.

They had been in the Pont Blanc for two days and two

nights. Either he or Ginger had been on Melissa Lane day and

night since they had arrived. Anyone watching her go

through the 11:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. ritual on the beach, as she

was doing now, would assume that she was just another

tourist, a very attractive single woman on vacation, soaking

up the Mediterranean sun.

It was the hours she spent off the beach that shot holes in

that theory.

Melissa Lane hadn't left her hotel room except for those

four hours each day on the beach. She took all her meals from

room service, and even ordered gin and tonic sent up at the

cocktail hour.

55

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NICK CARTER

It was now fairly obvious to both Ginger and Carter that

when the rendezvous and contact came, it would take place

on the beach.

"Should I go down?"

Ginger was standing at Carter's side, so close that her soft

breast in the barely-there bikini top was pressed against his

arm. It was close enough for him to catch the flavor of her: a

pure fragrance of silken perfume that wafted from her glossy

hair and her radiant skin so abundantly displayed in the brief

suit.

Carter had never seen Ginger in swimwear in all the years

he had known her. The first time, two days before, had been a

shock.

"Something wrong?" she had said

"Yeah, everything. We have a two-room suite as Mr. and

Mrs. John Hastings. I don't know how long we're going to

have to stay here, but it's going to get more and more difficult

for Mr. Hastings to sleep in the sitting room with Mrs.

Hastings in the bedroom.

"We'll manage."

The round-the-clock surveillance on Melissa had helped

take the edge off their proximity, but it hadn't stopped Carter

from thinking.

What would it be like to really take a week-long Mediter-

ranean vacation with Ginger Bateman?

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

*I asked if I should go on down."

He lowered the glasses from his eyes and swiveled his

head. Their faces were hardly two inches apart. Carter forced

his eyes to remain above her neck, ignoring the full, rounded

curves and dark hollows of her magnificent body

"Yeah,

"he croaked. "Go on down. Move in today.

For the past two afternoons, Ginger had approached

Melissa Lane with idle conversation. It had appeared com-

letely innocent: two American women on vacation ır

-rance, one with a husband whose business kept him toc

busy to spend time with his wife, the other single and alone.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

57

Both women were about the same age, idling the midday

hours away on the beach.

It was a natural.

Melissa had stayed aloof the first day. On the second, she

had warmed a little. This afternoon, Carter figured that her

loneliness, her fear, and her frustrations would make her

welcome Ginger's attempts at friendliness.

Ginger pulled a white terry cloth beach robe over the

bikini, grabbed a shoulder bag, and made for the door.

"And, Ginger. •

"Yes?"

"Lay on the big-sister act. You know, something's trou-

bling her, would she like to talk about it... you know the

bit.

"I know.

The door closed behind her, and Carter brought the glasses

back to his eyes. He hit Melissa Lane briefly, then checked

the beach all around her. There was a family of four, three

young girls sunning topless, an older man reading the finan-

cial section of a Paris paper, and the usual assortment of

beach boys and vendors milling among them.

It was all just a normal beach scene, but Carter had the gut

feeling that whoever the Baron's contact was, he-or she-

was very close by.

The perspiration that gleamed on Melissa Lane's body was

caused as much by her inner tension as it was from the sun's

warm rays.

This was the third day she had dumbly carried out their

instructions and come down to the beach to swelter and wait.

How much longer would they put her through this torture?

She had done everything they had instructed. The flight to

Mexico City, and from there to Paris, had been hell. The

drive from Paris to Perpignan had been numbing. And now

this interminable wait was gnawing at the already raw edges

of her nerves.

There was no doubt in Melissa's mind now that they.

whoever they were-spoke the truth. Tanya had indeed been

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NICK CARTER

kidnapped. A few telephone calls to Paris, and then the

photograph slipped under her door here at the Pont Blanc,

confirmed it. The picture was of her younger sister in a

hospital room. She was obviously heavily sedated, and the

issue of a Paris newspaper across her chest gave Melissa the

date of her kidnapping.

But what did they want? She had offered money, and her

only answer had been a curt, "In time you will be told. Just

follow our instructions exactly as you receive them.

That was precisely what Melissa Lane was doing, and it

was driving her crazy. She was beginning now to have

doubts. All her life she had been an intelligent, rational,

logical person. This sudden threat to Tanya had thrown her

off-balance. Without thinking rationally, Melissa had blindly

left the States, doing exactly as she was told.!

Now Melissa was wondering if she shouldn't have con-

tacted her superiors first.

Melissa shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up. It

was the pretty brunette who had befriended her these last two

days, Ginger Hastings.

Was she the one who would be passing on the next set of

instructions? And if she was, why in God's name didn't she

get on with it?

"Hi. Husband working again today?"

"Lord, yes. I don't know why he bothers to call these trips

All he does is work. Warm today.

" Melissa replied, watching the other woman re-

move her bra and settle back on the chaise.

magnifique ooo-la-la!"

Both women's eyes rolled upward to the railed walkway

separating the beach area from the boulevard. An old man in

a dark suit, a beret, and carrying a cane was smiling down at

them with a mischievous glint in his eve

Ginger smiled at him and waved, curling her fingers in his

direction. She made no attempt to hide the swell of her bare

breasts from his approving stare.

Ooo-la-la, " he repeated, and throwing Ginger a kiss

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

59

with his fingers, he strolled on down the promenade to take in

the rest of the sights. Ginger giggled, rolling over onto her

*Ahh, the French,

stomach.

"God love 'em.

Melissa tried to smile in agreement. She couldn't. Her

mind was on other things. She studied the paunchy old man

reading the paper not far from them. Was he the one? Or was

it one of the three young girls, or one of the vendors? Damnit!

Who was it, and why didn't he come forward?

"Melissa?"

"Yes."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Who

/. me?" Melissa studied the other woman's

dark, liquid eyes.

They told her nothing.

*No, not at all.

Why do you ask?"

Ginger shrugged a bare shoulder.

"Just wondering. You

seem nervous. I get the feeling you'd rather be anywhere

right now than sunbathing on the beach."

. I guess I'm just bored, Melissa replied, half

meaning it.

Ginger jumped on the remark. "No wonder, the way you

stay in your room. We haven't seen you in the dining room

once. "

Melissa's mind clicked over and over, looking for an

answer to her strange behavior while on a supposed pleasure

trip.

*I... I've had a bit of a bad experience. I guess I just

don't want to be around people."

"Not good enough," Ginger said, rolling up on one el-

bow. "T'll tell you what-have dinner with my husband and

me this evening.

"No, I-

*I insist. I'm sure, between the two of us, we can cheer

you up.

A ripple ran up Melissa's spine. What did this woman

mean by that? There was only one way for Melissa to be

cheered up: to find out what these horrible people wanted,

give it to them, and make sure Tanya was all right.

*It would be nice to have some company and a real meal

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60

NICK CARTER

for a change, " she said impetuously, adding, "and to be

cheered up

"Good! " Ginger said. "Meet you in the hotel lounge for

drinks around seven, and then we'll find some quiet out-of-

the-way place, okay?"

Melissa hesitated. She could read nothing in this beautiful

brunette's tone or her eyes.

'Madame Hastings?"

"Yes

. here.

It was the young beach boy who had arranged the lounges

for them.

*Telephone, madame. You can take the call there

in the cabana.

*Thank you." Ginger snapped the hooks on her bikini

bra, tugged on her beach robe, and stood up.

"Be right

back!" she said and smiled at Melissa.

Melissa nodded and watched the other woman plod

through the sand toward the cabana. She was about to roll

over and let her back get some sun, when she noticed the

beach boy still standing there, gazing down at her.

"Yes?"

"Your cigarettes, mademoiselle." He placed cigarettes

and matches on the tray stand beside her chaise.

"I didn't order any.

"They were ordered for you, mademoiselle, " he said,

then walked away.

Melissa's mouth was suddenly very dry, and the perspira

tion on her skin turned to ice. With a trembling hand she lifted

the pack of cigarettes and turned them over and over in her

hand.

Nothing.

Then her eyes fell on the book of matches: Rococco Club,

14 Rue Pont Neuf, Perpignan. With a nail she flipped the

cover open. The inner part was plain except for a scribbled

message in felt pen: Tonite-8:00.

Quickly she dropped the matches into her bag, gathered

her towel and robe, and slipped her feet into a pair of yellow

espadrilles. She had already started up the steps toward the

walkway when Ginger called out to her.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

61

"Melissa you're leaving early today?"

"Yes, I..

the sun. It's just too hot."

"All right. See you tonight!"

Melissa froze. 'Uh, not tonight, Ginger. Perhaps later in

the week.

"But_"

"Something's come up. Sorry.

Before Ginger could say anything else, the woman was

hurrying across the boulevard

Odd,

she thought. Nick wasn't on the phone. In fact, it

wasn't anyone. And now Melissa takes off.

Something's up!

She began to gather her own things and suddenly spied the

cigarettes/on the stand. She grabbed them and stood to call

out to Melissa that she had forgotten her cigarettes.

And then she remembered.

Not once, in all the hours she had spent with Melissa, had

she ever seen the woman smoke.

Carter crumpled the pack of his custom blends and ripped

the cellophane on a new one. When he had the cigarette

glowing, he shifted his cramped position on the front seat of

the rented Seat.

From where he sat he could see the front entrance of the

hotel two blocks away. On his left, a light breeze whipped the

sea into slow-breaking waves against the beach. Between the

Seat and the hotel entrance, tourists and locals walked off

their dinners on the broad boardwalk along the beach.

Through one of the two big bay windows of the hotel

lounge, he could see Ginger's anxious face. Nervously she

was scanning the hotel entrance between sips of her drink.

Carter smiled. Ginger was sharp. It was no lead-pipe cinch

that tonight was the night, but the coincidences on the beach

that afternoon the cigarettes, the phony phone call, and

Melissa Lane's sudden change of mind about dinner-all

added up to a good guess that she had been contacted. And

since the contact obviously hadn't stayed long enough for any

lengthy amount of information to be passed, Carter guessed

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NICK CARTER

she had been set up for a meet.

Idly he worried the book of matches in his hand with his

thumb. It was the same book of matches that he had lifted

from Alexis Carlyle's Paris apartment.

Matchbooks, he thought again, do indeed have a way of

tracing a person's haunts and habits.

He had a pretty good hunch that if there was a meet, it

would take place at this Rococco Club. But he couldn't be

sure, not completely.

That was why he had set up this

elaborate tail, using both himself and Ginger.

He was about to check his watch, when one of the hotel's

wide glass doors swung open and Melissa Lane stepped out.

She spoke to the doorman, and his arm shot up, motioning for

a taxi.

Carter's eye flicked to the lounge window. Ginger's face

was gone.

Good girl, he thought, twisting the ignition key to bring

the little car's engine to life.

The blond wig had barely disappeared into the back of the

taxi when Ginger moved from the shadows of the lounge

entrance twenty feet away. Unhurried but moving at a steady

pace, Ginger walked the half block to the second car Carter

had rented that afternoon, a black Peugeot.

The taxi carrying Melissa Lane was just pulling away as

Ginger slid into the driver's seat of the Peugeot. Carter didn't

hear the engine kick into life, but he saw the exhaust. Sec-

onds later Ginger was moving through the gears, rapidly

gaining on the taxi, making no attempt to lay back.

Carter forced himself to wait, narrowing his eyes as the

two sets of lights moved up the boulevard. The taxi turned

right. Ginger followed.

He put the Seat in gear and still waited. Maybe he was

wrong.

Maybe the phony telephone call hadn't meant that

they had made Ginger. Maybe they just wanted to get her

away from Melissa long enough to pass the word.

Then a gray Mercedes four-door with two men in front

pulled out of the alley beside the hotel. They moved fast, and

Carter held his breath.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

When the Mercedes made the same right turn, Carter

floored the accelerator and let out the clutch. The little car

whined through three gears, and he made the same turn.

Three blocks ahead he saw the Mercedes making a left.

Tires screamed from Carter's right, a side street. Out of the

corner of his eye he saw the driver of a battered old sedan

shaking his fist in the air.

Carter smiled but didn't bother, yet, to turn on his lights.

He made the left and poured on the gas. A sign, N120,

flashed past, and a few feet further, another: Perpignan 18

Well, he thought, already half my hunch is right.

The streetlights of Canet-Plage disappeared, leaving only

moonlight and the beams of the cars in front of him to light

the highway.

The road began to climb steeply through vinevards dotted

here and there with clumps of cypress and olive trees. To his

left was the ocean, to his right low, rolling hills. About a

mile ahead there was a junction. N120 would veer right to

Perpignan. A narrow two-lane would veer left, back to the

At the top of a rise, Carter halted. He could see all the way

to the junction and the bouncing headlight beams of the three

cars approaching it.

The taxi barely paused for the stop sign, then turned right.

Ginger, in the Peugeot, came to a full stop, pulled out a few

feet, and then swerved to the left.

In no time she was through the gears and hurtling for the

beach. The Mercedes also stopped, and Carter could imagine

the perplexity of the driver.

At last he made his decision and opted left, no doubt to

make sure Ginger wasn't going to double back and end up on

his tail following the taxi.

Carter waited until he could no longer see the Mercedes's

tail beams, and then he made the Seat's engine sing. He

barely braked at the stop sign and swung right. A mile later he

rounded a curve and came upon the taxi rumbling along

behind a truck.

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He snapped on his headlights and settled back to light a

cigarette.

By the time the two men followed Ginger back to the Pont

Blanc parking lot, he and the taxi would be in the outskirts of

Carter pulled up five car lengths behind the taxi, near the

cathedral square of Perpignan. He watched Melissa Lane pay

the driver and then nod as he waved his arms, obviously

giving her directions.

When he was sure this was the end of the line, Carter

swung out around the taxi and found a parking space near the

end of the block.

By the time she walked past him, Carter was out of the car

and crossing the street. She moved quickly, her heels making

a staccato clatter on the cobblestones, her chin high, eyes

scanning the street names set into signs embedded in the sides

of the buildings.

Suddenly she stopped, dug in her bag, and looked from the

object in her hand up to a street sign. Carter followed her gaze

and pursed his lips in a smile.

The sign read Rue Pont Neuf.

He slouched in a doorway near the corner, lighting a

cigarette as Melissa moved with purpose down the center of

the narrow alleyway. When she stopped and rang the bell,

Nick knew without looking that it would be Number 17.

An Amazon with enormous breasts beneath a tight sweater

opened the door. Standing at her side, an immense Doberman

stared intently at Melissa.

The two women exchanged words that Carter couldn't

hear, then Melissa stepped inside. The door closed quickly

behind her, and Carter distinctly heard a bolt snap into place.

The Club Rococco door was marked only by a single

yellow bulb above it. For two blocks down the alley, Carter

counted eight other bulbs similarly illuminating other doors.

From past experience he knew that behind each of those

doors was a private club.

But not totally private. If vou

weren't North African or black, and you looked as though

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

you could afford the drinks, you could gain entrance

But Carter wondered about waltzing right in behind

Melissa Lane, and especially doing it solo.

He strolled slowly by the door and on past two others. By

the time he covered the full two blocks, many of the doors

had opened and people had exited, only to make for another

yellow-lighted door and gain admittance.

For fifteen minutes he watched, and the pattern was the

same. He had just about decided to try Number 17 when two

girls, both young and well dressed in suede and high-heeled

boots, entered the alley behind him. They were laughing

gayly at something one of them had just said and were

obviously out for the evening.

.. excuse me thar, ma'am

They stopped, their faces staring quizzically at this strange

man strutting toward them with his thumbs hooked in his belt

and a lopsided grin on his face.

"Either one o'

you little fillies speak American?"

"Oui. English,

said the taller of the two, a striking

redhead with a lean, hollow-cheeked face made even leaner

by the careful application of makeup.

"American?*

*Non, monsieur. We are French.

"Ah mean, ah'm an American." Quizzical looks again

passed between them, then they all laughed. "Are ya'll goin'

i one o' these here clubs?"

"Oui, monsieur.

'Well, seein' as how they's all private and I ain't no

member, I wonder as how I kinda might tag along inside with

*But, monsieur, all you must do is knock. Anyone can go

"Is that so? Well, in that case I will, but.

" Carter

pulled a thick wad of bills from his pocket.

*What say we all

go in and I'll buy you gals a little drink?"

The tall one relayed his words to her blond friend. Why

not?" the blonde replied in French.

*We didn't go out

tonight to spend our own money.

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NICK CARTER

"My friend says that would be very nice, monsieur. "

"Good, good! ' Carter roared and moved between them.

He took each girl by the elbow and propelled them down the

"Here, monsieur, here," the redhead said, motioning

toward one of the doors they had already passed.

"Nah, honey, I got me a hankerin' fer this place called the

Both of them stopped dead in their tracks. "Non, mon-

"Why not?"

"The Rococco Club, that is.

. it is a club for ladies."

"Well, darlin', that's all the better!"

Before they could object further, Carter had them in front

of the door. His knock was answered instantly by the Ama-

zon and the dog.

"Oui?" she said, her eyes growing wide when she saw

"An American, Elise, " the redhead said in French, twirl-

ing her finger at the side of her head. "He has probably heard

of the club. He has tons of money.

Elise shrugged and stepped aside. The Doberman looked

at Carter and then up at his mistress oddly, as if he weren't

sure she was right in the head. When she snapped her fingers,

he moved to the side, albeit grudgingly.

"Now that's right neighborly of ya, ma'am, " Carter

drawled, and in they went.

Inside, it was intimate. A bar lined one whole wall on both

small levels. They entered on the top level. Below, there was

a postage-size dance floor and a few tables.

Every stool on the upper level was taken, by women.

"You see what I mean, monsieur?" the redhead whis-

"Ah shore do. Let's sit down there at the end of the bar. "

He spotted Melissa Lane as they moved down to the lower

level. She was sitting alone, nervously sipping a drink, in a

booth meant for two near the far end of the bar.

Several of the well-dressed women sitting at the lower bar

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

gave Carter quizzical looks mixed with mirth, but they soon

returned to their own conversations.

"Here," he said,

"Til jest stand. You two jest sit right

down and have anything yer little hearts desire.

From his standing position he had a clear view of the booth

where Melissa Lane sat. Between nervous sips of the concoc-

tion in front of her, she darted her eyes around the bar,

searching each face. Once her gaze fell on Carter, but her

expression remained blank and her eyes quickly moved on.

A twin of the woman with the Doberman leaned her

elbows on the bar and drooped an eyelid. "What is he doing

in here?" she asked the girls.

*He is a rich American,

" the redhead answered, "who

has probably heard that you and Elise bare your breasts every

night. You know Americans!"

"Oui," the woman said, flicking a glance at Carter and

lowering the corners of her mouth.

"So let us have champagne!"

The woman nodded, smiling at last, and moved back down

the bar. Carter plastered a dumb smile on his face, as if he

hadn't understood a word they had spoken, and lit a cigarette

Moments later, two bottles and three glasses were set in front

"Monsieur?" the redhead said, smiling coquettishly up at

"Yeah, little lady?"

"You must pay her now.

.. six hundred francs."

Eighty-five bucks, he thought. If the AXE accountants

could only see this! He produced his roll, counted out the

money, and added a fifty-frane note.

"That's fer you, little

lady told you so, "the redhead grinned to the bartender, who

shrugged and moved away.

Carter poured, toasted to the good life, and drank. It was

terrible champagne.

For the next twenty minutes he bored the redhead with

inane conversation about his oil wells and cattle ranches in

Texas. For a few minutes she interpreted for her friend, then

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gave up. The blonde obviously didn't give two hoots in hell

about Texas.

Several women entered and others left, but no one ap-

proached Melissa Lane. Carter was starting to wonder if this

was the rendezvous after all, when the front door opened

again, and the newcomer got a louder and more exuberant

welcome from chesty Elise.

Carter made her at once. The description was perfect. The

newcomer was Alexis Carlyle.

After effusive kisses between herself and Elise, Alexis

moved down to the lower level. Twenty pair of eyes besides

Carter's watched her progress toward the table where Melissa

She was a striking, commanding woman, dressed in a

black trench coat, black stockings and boots, and a black silk

scarf knotted at her throat. Without the boots she was tall, but

with them she was right at Carter's six-two.

"What?" Carter replied to the redhead's whisper.

"That woman is Rococo's owner. She once was a very

successful Parisian model... very rich!"

*She's shore got a pretty playmate over there.

*That woman I do not know."

Words were exchanged at the booth, and Carter noted that

Melissa's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Her lips began to

tremble, and Carter thought he saw her shoulders follow suit.

She looked to be on the verge of hysteria, but not for long.

Carlyle slipped into the booth and moved her hand across the

table to cover Melissa's. The expression on the younger

woman's face quickly turned to excruciating pain, and Carter

saw why. Alexis Carlyle's long, blood-red nails were biting

deeply into Melissa's wrist.

It didn't take long for Melissa to regain her composure.

From there it was all intense conversation, their heads close

together; Alexis Carlyle did all the talking, with Melissa

By the time the talking was over, tears were running

profusely down Melissa's cheeks. From the look on Alexis

Carlyle's face, Carter guessed she was thoroughly enjoying

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

69

the other woman's agony and discomfort

When an envelope was produced from Alexis Carlyle's

black shoulder bag and pushed across the table, Carter

guessed the meeting was about to come to a close.

From his pocket he produced another two hundred francs

and laid it on the bar. He then took the redhead's hand,

brushed the back of it with his lips, and said in perfect

French,

*You and the evening have been charming, my

dear, but now I must return to my hotel and my wife who is

expecting our tenth child. Until we meet again, adieu.

He made for the door. Elise quickly opened it for him and

told him with a look that she was glad to see him go. The

Doberman told him with a low growl not to come back

At the corer he slipped into the same doorway he had used

before, and waited.

Minutes later Melissa emerged, looked up and down the

alley, and then headed his way. She passed him without a

glance. There was no sign of hysteria now, nor of tears. Her

features were set in hard lines, and her eyes were cold.

It was as if the life had gone out of her.

Carter followed her into the square around the cathedral.

When she stepped into a cab, he paused and debated.

The big question was what was in the envelope.

The big

answer was that there was little doubt now that big sister

Melissa and little sister Tanya were in the middle of one hell

of a lot of trouble.

Tanya was the bait, and Carter was pretty sure the payoff

the Baron wanted for her return was what Melissa Lane had in

her head. He wondered what the next step would be. If there

was going to be an interrogation, there had to be a place.

Should he stay with Melissa, or ...?

Just as the cab started to pull out, Carter bolted forward

"Excuse me, monsieur,

he asked the cabbie in French.

"Oui?"

"Are you going near Polshard?"

"Non, monsieur. Canet-Plage.

"Merci, " Carter replied, and stepped back from the cab.

As soon as the driver turned the corner, Carter sprinted to a

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70

NICK CARTER

phone booth at the head of the alley. From there he could call

Ginger at the Pont Blanc and keep an eye on the door of the

Club Rococco at the same time.

He'd made his decision, and it was along the lines of "a

bird in the hand"

. the bird being Alexis Carlyle.

A weary-voiced operator answered the Pont Blanc switch-

board, and Carter barked out the room number.

"Hello?"

"Me. How'd you do?"

*No problem.

"Did you get a decent look at them?"

"Decent enough. The driver was a big moose

• dark

complexion with a beefy, pushed-in face. The other one was

the same beach boy who called me to the telephone this

afternoon.

*That was the beach contact. Did they make ahy move on

you?"

*No. They did look a little perplexed when I parked the car

and came back into the hotel, but I don't think they figured

out the game.

"It doesn't look like it," Carter replied.

"They never

showed up here . . but Alexis Carlyle did."

"Whoopdee-do, they're moving!"

"Right, and I think it's time we did the same. " Carter

relayed everything he had seen transpire between the two

women, down to Melissa's tears and the exchange of the

envelope.

"What is in it is anybody's guess, but I'd say it's

definitely the next step in their plan.

"What's ours?"

"Gamble, " he said. "Go up to our lady scientist's room,

let her know who you are, and make the pitch that we can

handle this better than she can.

"How rough do I get?"

"As rough as you have to," Carter said grimly.

"Scare

hell out of her if you must, but get her to cooperate. And most

of all, find out what she's been told to do next.

"And you?"

"Another gamble. I'm going after Alexis Carlyle."

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

71

Light flooded the alley from Number 17, and the black-

clad lady in question emerged.

"Got to go, luv. Lean on Lane, I'll do the same with this

one. hard."

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SIX

The villa was on the beach side of the coastal road that led

south out off Canet-Plage to the foothills of the Pyrenees and

the Costa Brava of Spain.

Carter watched from a distance, made sure of her turn in,

and then sped on past. Beyond the villa's drive, the road

narrowed and began to climb. In several places the asphalt

was eroded, and the little car shuddered as it hit pothole after

pothole.

To his left, the mountain dropped straight into the ocean.

On the other side, the cliffs rose vertically to disappear

against a midnight sky.

He had almost given up finding a wide-out in the road,

when the tires squealed around a hairpin turn and the beams

of his headlights fell upon a sign announcing a scenic view

lookout just ahead.

Carter cranked the wheel to the left and seconds later came

to a halt with the nose of the Seat inches from the guardrail.

From beneath the seat he extracted a small Beretta. It was

only a 7.65, but up close it would pack almost as much punch

as Wilhelmina, and it weighed only a little over a pound.

He locked the car, slid the Beretta beneath his belt in the

small of his back, and moved to the guardrail. Gazing back in

the direction he had come, he could barely make out the lights

spilling from the seaward side of the villa.

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NICK CARTER

It was a little over a mile away. About half the distance

would have to be covered on the road. There the cliffs had an

easier slant to the sea, and trees would give him handholds to

walk along the cliffs.

Carter took off at a trot, checking the loads in Wilhel-

mina's magazine as he ran.

Ten minutes later he was crouched in a thicket of oleanders

just to the side of the tall iron gates that guarded a paved drive

that led down to the stucco and red-tiled villa.

It wasn't the kind of place that would be listed in the Guide

to Great Homes of the World, but it was about a hundred and

fifty grand on the good side of a dump nevertheless. In the

open garage, Carter could see the rear end of the little Jaguar

Alexis Carlyle had driven from Perpignan like a woman

possessed.

Parked in the circular drive directly in front of the villa's.

entrance was the gray Mercedes Ginger had lured away from

him earlier that evening. That meant the woman had com-

pany; at least two men, he thought. And then a little ripple ran

up his spine.

Could one of them be the Baron? And if not, could there be

a third man already inside, who was the Baron?

Probably too much to hope for, he mused, but definitely

something to look forward to.

Entering by the front was obviously out of the question, so

Carter backed off a bit and angled around to the side.

The

high iron fence ran all the way from the road to a cliff that

jutted over the beach. The cliff face was sheer and about a

fifty-foot drop to the beach. There was access to the beach by

wooden stairs, but the iron fence crossed about thirty vards

short of the rear veranda and patio. Carter could see a gate,

but he was fairly sure that it was locked and, like the front

gate, controlled electronically from the house.

Taking his time, he moved back around the front and to the

opposite side. A row of carobs ran down the length of the

fence, but most of them were too short or planted too far away

to do any good.

And then he saw it: a tall willow about eight feet from the

fence. Its tallest limb was the main trunk itself. It was small,

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

but a willow was strong, and Carter knew they were very

He was about to move through the carobs, when light

flooded the front drive and voices reached his ears. Quietly

he moved back to higher ground and parted the heavy under-

growth. The moose Ginger had described and the beach boy

were standing beside the gray Mercedes. He saw the

woman's shadow across the steps. She was speaking in a

muted voice. He couldn't hear her words, but there was no

mistaking the venom in her tone.

"Yes, yes, Alexis, but we have to sleep sometime," the

giant said in guttural German.

Carter couldn't hear the woman's answer, but it was obvi-

ously strong enough to put both men in the car and squealing

tires toward the gate. It opened just in time, and more rubber

was spent as the Mercedes hit the asphalt and headed in the

direction of Canet-Plage.

Carter stifled his elation with movement. No matter how

tough Alexis Carlyle could be, he would much rather tackle

Just as he had thought, every branch of the willow, no

matter what size, held his weight as he climbed to very near

the top. Once there, he began to rock back and forth, back

He was swinging ten feet in either direction when he

suddenly released his grip. He cleared the spiked top of the

fence by three feet and made no sound when his feet hit the

soft turf on the other side.

He moved with the speed of a panther across the twenty

yards to the villa, and then, with the same animallike agility.

clambered up the heavy bougainvillea vines that covered it.

In seconds the cork soles of his shoes hit the floor of a

second-floor terrace.

Carter's right hand moved inside his coat and came out

with Wilhelmina. Instinctively his fingers checked the maga-

zine catch, pushed off the safety, and worked the ejector.

Slowly he eased into the light pouring through the glass-

paneled French doors.

It was a bedroom tastefully and expensively decorated,

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76

NICK CARTER

right down to a canopied bed draped with satin. The other

furniture was heavy, inlaid stuff that looked as though it had

been lifted from Versailles. The door to the left was ajar.

Through it Carter could see the top of some stairs. There was

another door to the right. It too was open, and there was a

shaft of light coming through from the room beyond. He

guessed it was the bathroom.

He was just about to enter when Alexis Carlyle glided into

the room from the hall door.

Now she was dressed in white; a satin nightgown clung as

if wet to every curve of her ample body, and over it, a gauzy,

translucent peignoir, open in front, wafted like a lacy train

behind her.

She had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a

concentrated frown on her hard but beautiful features. Her

lips were taut red lines, and she nibbled on the lower one with

even, white teeth.

Carter watched her pace for several moments, wondering

which course of action would give him more information:

moving in now, or waiting.

His answer came with the ring of a phone on a bedside

stand.

She went for it like a cat would pounce on a mouse; so

much so that half her drink spilled across her bodice, further

molding the sleek satin to her jutting breasts.

"Yes?"

Whoever was on the other end of the line was saying

something that served to agitate her further.

"Damn! In my own apartment?"

Carter smiled. They had evidently found Roddy.

"She has the tickets. I've sent Yuri and Petrie back to the

hotel; they will watch her until she's on the plane. But what

do we do about this agent?.

..No, no one suspicious.

and no men. There was one woman, a Ginger Hastings, but

she seems harmless, and no one else has contacted her.

There was a long pause while the other person on the line

spoke. Through it all, Alexis nodded but didn't speak

"Tomorrow night?

. Yes, I suppose I can catch the

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

77

afternoon flight, but is it necessary?..

. God, I hate Coun-

tess Von Riggen, she's such a cloying bitch.

Yes, I'll

be there."

There was another long pause during which her face be-

came quite flushed with obvious anger.

"Yes, I.

. I love you.

There was a healthy slam, receiver to cradle, and the glass

came to her lips. Carter watched her throat work until the

glass was empty. As she started toward the door, he entered.

"Stop right there and turn around."

She did, slowly, as cool and with as much aplomb as if

Carter had just asked her the time. Her icy eyes took him in

from head to toe, barely pausing at the 9mm in his hand that

was pointed directly at her belly.

"You are a man, monsieur, with a mistreated face and

nothing in your eyes, neither gaiety nor despair. I would say

you have gone beyond both, and that tells me that you are

afraid of nothing.

Therefore you are no common thief."

•Not a thief,

" Carter replied, also speaking French and

using all his will to keep his surprise from registering on his

face.

*Then you must be the man Carter, " she said in English.

*Nick Carter," he said and nodded.

"Let's talk.

She raised the glass in her hand. 'I must do something

about this. "

She whirled on the heel of one satin slipper and headed for

the door. Carter squeezed off one shot. The slug missed her

shoulder by inches and shredded a hunk of the oak doorjamb.

She didn't flinch but continued to the door and turned.

*Either you are a very poor shot or a very good one, and you

don't intend to kill me, only frighten me. This you cannot

do."

Carter fired again, putting a neat hole in the satin directly

between her legs. Alexis looked down and then back up,

laughing scornfully.

"Bravo! Now I really need a drink. Join me?"

Deciding to play it her way, he followed her down the

stairs. They went through a room-size foyer into a den that

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78

NICK CARTER

ran the length of the villa. In the center of the room was a

gushing fountain surrounded by monstrous plants and heavy

furniture similar to what he had seen upstairs

The ceiling was beamed with oak, and the floor was pink

and white marble. On the far side-

-covering half the

wall-was a glass- and oak-paneled bar. As Alexis moved

toward it, she spoke over her shoulder.

"Since you are American I suppose you want whiskey. "

"Scotch.

• neat. Is there a weapon behind the bar?"

"Yes, a Walther PPK. I'm quite good with it."

"Put it on top of the bar.

• slowly, by the barrel."

She did, smiling, and then began to fix the drinks. As she

poured, Carter moved to the bar himself. He clicked on

Wilhelmina's safety and set it beside the Walther.

"Since I can't seem to intimidate you, we might as well

start even.

"Fair enough," she said, handing him a drink and letting a

mirthless smile spread across her full lips.

"But you do

intimidate me, Monsieur Carter.

in a different way than

you intend. Come, sit!"

Carrying her glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, she

crossed to a huge sofa covered in muted green velvet, sat, and

patted the space beside her. Carter chose an antique but

sturdy-looking chair opposite the sofa.

"Mon dieu, maybe you are afraid of me?"

Carter matched her cold smile. "Lady, there's no 'maybe'

about it. Who's the Baron?"

"Which one?" Alexis replied without a blink.

"There are

titles all over Europe.

several of them are barons.

"You know the one.

"You have beautiful shoulders. I would guess you are very

virile."

"Where is Tanya Lane?"

*I know of no one by that name.

"You met her sister tonight. in Perpignan. "

"Did I? Perhaps. You see.

. I meet a lot of women.

She refilled her glass and drank half of it.

"What does the Baron want in exchange for Tanya?"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

79

"Could we talk about something else?"

'We could make you a deal. I'm sure you have no loyalty

beyond money to the Baron. How much?"

A hollow laugh, followed by the gulping of more gin.

"Suppose I am who you think I am. Look around you. This is

mine, all mine, and only a tenth of what I own.

"And how do you make your money?"

"Lovers," she shrugged.

"I have several rich lovers.

men and women. My monthly retainers are probably twice

what you make in a year.

*Probably, but I represent a much more powerful com-

pany."

I doubt it. " She poured yet another glass and drank.

Carter/sipped his own drink and sighed.

"If we can't make

a deal, 1'll have to use other means to get the information I

'Torture?"

"Yes."

She looked at him evenly for a long moment. "Hmmm,

yes, I believe you would. And what if that doesn't work?'

"T'll kill you and find someone else who will tell me what I

want to know. " Carter watched her reaction very closely.

Her eyes flared wide and a little more liquid from the glass in

her hand spread across the white satin.

"I think you mean it."

"I do, lady. Believe it. I killed Rodney Bucknell in your

apartment when he wouldn't answer my questions. I shoved

the point of a stiletto up his nose and asked him questions.

When he wouldn't answer them, I shoved it on up into his

brain. And then I shoved him into your closet.

the one

where you keep your little cache of arms samples."

There was a glaze over her eyes now, and Carter couldn't

tell whether it was from all the gin she had consumed or from

the impact of his story.

Setting the bottle on the coffee table in front of her, she

stood.

"Don't go near the bar, " he warned

"I'm not. " She moved to the end of the sofa and flipped up

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NICK CARTER

a panel in its arm. Her fingers worked, and music filled the

room. She adjusted the volume up a few decibels and then

turned to face him.

"Must you?" Carter asked. "French cabaret music bores

me.

"It calms me.

She stood with her feet spread wide, her eyes closed, an

odd smile of pleasure floating across her lips. Suddenly she

breathed deeply, making the satin grow taut over her breasts.

She polished off the last of the gin in the glass and, at the

same time, reached up with her free hand and sensuously

cupped each breast in turn, then rumpled her hair with the

same hand.

"You're right, I do work for the Baron, Monsieur Car-

ter, " she murmured. "But I don't know who he is. No one

does."

"All right, I'll buy that . . . for now. What about Tanya

Lane?"

Her eyes opened. There was a flinty, feline look in their

depths. The glass dropped to the floor, and she began to sway

toward him lithely.

*Just what do you plan on giving me in return for be.

traying the Baron, Monsieur Carter?**

*Whatever you ask. within reason, " Carter replied,

trying to fathom this new twist.

"Look at me!" Alexis commanded, jutting her breasts and

arching her pelvis toward him.

"I'm a mature, sensual

woman. I've made love with many men... but no man has

ever satisfied me. How much of a man are you, Nick Car-

ter?"

"That music is awfully loud."

"It's warm in here.

very warm.

The peignoir slipped from her shoulders. A second later

the satin nightgown joined it at her feet. She stood directly in

front of him now, the light from the chandelier above them

dancing over her smooth, dazzling body.

"I don't feel like playing games,

husky.

" Carter said, his voice

"That's a pity. I guess you're not as virile as you look. I'll

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

81

just have to cool off another way, won't I?"

"How's that?"

"With a swim," Alexis said gleefully, and turned from

him.

Like a gazelle she leaped for the glass doors heading out

onto the veranda. By the time Carter reached her she had

wrenched the door open and taken two steps onto the deck.

He managed to grasp her wrist and turn her around. To his

surprise she didn't struggle. She did just the opposite, in fact,

melting into his arms and flattening her lush body against his.

Carter could feel the heat of her firm breasts against his

chest and her thigh eagerly massaging his groin. Because of

her height she barely had to tip her face upward to mash her

lips against his.

The kiss contained more brutality than passion, and rather

than arousing him, the thigh was rubbing his crotch raw.

But she wouldn't let up, even when he tried to disengage

himself.

The kiss went on and on. She wrapped her free arm tightly

around his neck and forced her tongue between his teeth.

Unconsciously, Carter's hand slid down her back until he

was cupping the taut roundness of her buttocks.

"Yes, yes

" she whispered into his mouth.

Then suddenly it was over. She still clung to him, holding

him, but the kiss was broken.

*I would kill you too, you know," she said loudly.

*I have no doubt of it.

"If I could reach one of those guns on the bar I would

gladly empty it into your belly!"

She was almost screaming now, yet laughing at the same

time. There was a cunning glint in her eye, and Carter felt her

thigh move away from his groin. Suddenly he sensed her

intent and turned to the side just in time to escape the knee she

had intended to cripple him with.

She was a big woman, strong, and he knew there would be

a bruise on his thigh from the blow. Too late he tried to grab

her free wrist. She evaded him and managed to struggle the

other one free.

At the same time she maneuvered her leg between his,

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planted her hands flat against his chest, and shoved with all

the strength in her big body.

Carter lurched backward, paused in mid-flight, and then

sprawled into the room.

As he fell, he heard the sound of Alexis's hysterically

screaming voice over the blaring sound of the stereo.

"Elise, kill him! Shoot the bastard, Elise! Empty both

. kill him, kill him!"

Carter's mind clicked like a computer.

from the club.

why the loud stereo.. couldn't hear Elise's car or the door

He lit on his side and rolled as fast as he could toward the

sofa. He spotted Elise near ths bar, the Walther in one hand,

Wilhelmina in the other.

He was pawing the Beretta from the small of his back when

the room exploded with sound. He felt the heat of the slug go

past his face just as he brought the Beretta up and Elise

squeezed off two more rounds, both wild.

Crouching for a millisecond behind the sofa, he threw his

arms one way to misdirect her fire, then took two steps in the

opposite direction and stood up.

His first shot caught her in the left shoulder and slammed

her against the bar. She cried out in pain as the red spiotch

above her gigantic breast grew.

"Kill him, kill him!" Alexis Carlyle was still screaming.

Wilhelmina had fallen to the carpet, but the woman still

held the Walther. Biting her lip until she brought blood, Elise

brought the muzzle back up to firing line.

"Don't, " Carter hissed, lining up the Beretta at the same

The Walther kept coming up.

He pumped two slugs rapid-fire, dead center-between

her breasts. The Walther hit the floor. Elise's hands came up

to claw at her bloody chest, and then she fell. face forward

onto the carpet.

There were no words from Alexis now, just ear-piercing

screams. Carter rescued Wilhelmina and made for her.

"You son of a bitch, you killed her!"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

83

"Just like I said, " he replied, making a lunge for her naked

another shriek, Alexis

brought her nails down into each side of his neck. The pain

was instant, and it was aggravated when she clawed forward.

Carter released his hold on her waist and tried to grab her

She was quicker, much quicker, than he thought. Again

her knee came into play, this time against his chest. At the

same time she whirled and dashed for the veranda.

Carter was on his feet in an instant. Without a pause she

flipped a switch by the rear door and leaped down the wooden

steps that led to the beach.

The switch had been for the gate. Carter saw it swing open

just before she reached it. He dropped to one knee, pocketing

the Beretta and swinging Wilhelmina up. He slapped his right

wrist into his left hand and squeezed off two shots.

Sparks blossomed from the concrete pillar beside the gate.

Alexis didn't even pause; she just bolted through the gate

and flew down the steps.

Damnit, he thought, she knows / want her alive!

Then she was on the beach, a white specter fleeing toward

the water. Carter took the steps three at a time. By the time he

hit the sand she was already flat out in a dive.

"Don't!" he yelled.

"You'll never make it!"

There was a heavy sea running with foam and whitecaps as

far as he could see in the darkness. To his right and left,

breakers slammed against jutting rocks, sending their spray

Alexis's head and arms broke the surface about twenty

yards out and she started stroking.

"Stop . . you're crazy!" Carter cried.

But she didn't stop.

He had no choice. He wanted her, and he wanted her alive.

Right now she was the only one who could tell him where the

Baron was holding Tanya.

Quickly he stripped to his shorts and dove in after her. He

had lost sight of her in the blackness, but he set off toward the

last place he had spotted her.

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84

NICK CARTER

She was either trying to kill herself or get away; he didn't

know which. And even if she got away, he thought, how far

would she get naked?

The tide was tugging toward the rocks to his right. He let it

take him, and then he saw her. She had obviously done the

same thing and was already close to the rocks.

"Stop! " he shouted. "The waves will wash you onto the

rocks! They'll cut you to pieces!"

Alexis paid no attention but kept up the powerful, steady

crawl that took her closer and closer to the rocks. Then she

seemed to pause, treading water, looking back at him. Carter

could see her pale face just above the surface, and it looked as

if she were smiling.

Suddenly a wave hit. It lifted her up, higher and higher.

She was heading right for the rocks.

And then she was gone.

Carter turned and, letting the waves help him, stroked for

shore. Seconds laters he pulled himself upright on the sand

and sprinted along the beach back toward the rocks where she

had disappeared

He was almost there when he suddenly saw her among the

trees halfway up the cliff.

"How in hell...?"

And then he knew. Halfway out on the shelf of rocks was a

smooth, flat plateau. She had simply let the wave lift her and

deposit her right on top of it. From there she dove into a pool

of calm water and made it easily to shore.

He sprinted back to the steps, pausing only long enough to

grab Wilhelmina and his clothes. His bare feet hit the wooden

deck of the veranda just as a car came to life in front of the

villa.

One leap took him over Elise's bloody corpse, and he

yanked the front door open.

Naked or not, Alexis was heading somewhere.

The tail-

lights of a little Mercedes sports coupe were already through

the gate. She swerved the car to the right, and within seconds

the powerful roar of the engine was fading in the distance.

Carter didn't have much hope, but he checked the Jaguar.

No keys.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

85

Quickly he ran back into the house and found a telephone.

*Pont Blanc.

He gave his room number, and when it didn't answer he

asked for Inga Heldstrom's suite.

There was no answer there either.

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SEVEN

Nick Carter moved through the lobby as fast as he could

without drawing too many stares. The elevator was on the

fifth floor. He took the stairs three at a time to the fourth floor

and moved down the hall to his and Ginger's suite.

He rapped first, a signal they had devised so there would be

no surprises, and then entered

He needn't have rapped. There was no Ginger in the sitting

room, bedroom, or bath. Reaching for the phone, he made a

fist of his hand and decided to check in person.

The time for games was over.

Back in the hall he climbed again, this time to the top floor,

and looked for 705. His knock brought no response.

'Miss Heldstrom?" he called, knocking again, louder this

Still no answer.

The third key he tried from his special ring worked. He

stepped inside, levering Wilhelmina from her shoulder hol-

ster at the same time.

The room was in blackness.

Carter spun inside, flattening himself against the wall and

kicking the door shut. Cautiously he felt along the wall until

he found the switch for the overhead light. Simultaneously he

clicked it on and dropped to one knee, scanning the room

with the deadlv end of Wilhelmina.

The room was a tomb. Silence. No one. Nothing.

87

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NICK CARTER

The bedroom was another story. Ginger lay facedown,

half on, half off the bed. Beside her head was the telephone,

its plastic cover knocked off and split. There was blood on

one side of it.

"Jesus, " he gasped as he gently pulled the matted hair

away from a now clotted gash at the base of Ginger's skull. It

had bled fairly badly, enough to run down the back of her

neck and do a pretty good job of dyeing the top half of her

blouse.

He felt her pulse; it was erratic but steady. Carefully he

rolled her over and pressed his ear to her chest. Her breathing

was shallow but steady.

Cradling her in his arms, he retraced the stairs to their

suite. Very gently he stretched her out on the bed, then

grabbed the phone.

"Desk."

*This is Hastings in four-twelve. My wife has had an

accident-slipped on the bathroom rug. We need a doctor at

once!"

"Right away, monsieur. "

A sighing groan came from the bed as he hung up.

"Ginger, can you open your eyes?"

Another groan and they blinked open. Carter held up a

finger, and moved it back and forth in front of her eyes. The

pupils followed.

"Can you talk?"

"Of course, " she groaned.

'Who am I?"

"Nick Carter."

"Who are you?"

"Ginger Bateman."

'Where are you?"

"In bed.

"I know you're in bed, damnit! What city are you in?"

There was a slight hesitation before she spoke again.

"Canet-Plage.

.. France.

"Good girl. What's your mother's first name?"

"Mildred. Why all the stupid questions?" she asked,

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

89

trying to rise and then falling back to the pillow with a gasp of

*To make sure you've got your faculties, gorgeous.

that you're not bonkers,

" Carter said and grinned.

*I'm not bonkers, you bastard.

Ginger said, trying to return his smile. Her hand raised to

tentatively touch the gash at the back of her neck. "Ouch!

What happened?"

"You got conked with a telephone."

"You mean she did it?"' he asked incredulously. Ginger

nodded, the movement bringing another gasp of pain.

"Don't move, just talk.

"I went to her suite and laid it on the line, told her we knew

about Tanya and wanted to help her. At first she broke down

and cried. Then, after I got her calmed down, she got rational

and even angry. She said there was no way we could help her

or Tanya. If we interfered, Tanya would just disappear.

"Did she give any hint of what instructions she had been

given by Alexis Carlyle tonight?"

*Not directly, but I saw the end of an airline ticket sticking

out of her bag. And she did give me an odd answer to one of

"What was it?"

*I asked her if it was her research material they wanted in

exchange for Tanya. She laughed right through her tears and

said, 'Hell, no they want me.

all of me!' And then she

got mad and scared again. She told me to leave and not try to

see her again.

"And that's when you applied the screws."

"Right. I told her we'd have to put her in protective

custody. Was I wrong?"

" Carter said, shaking his head. "That's just what

we would have to do.

What happened then?"

'She agreed and asked me if I'd help her pack. I followed

her into the bedroom, turned my back, and wham, the lights

"About what? you were right.

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"I make a pretty lousy field agent, huh?"

Carter squeezed her arm and brushed his lips across hers.

"Don't worry about it. I screwed up pretty good myself

"What happened?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then quickly clamped it

shut. The vision of Elise's bloody chest rose up before his

eyes, and his ears rang

with Alexis Carlyle's hysterical

shrieks of "Kill him, kill him!"

"T'll tell you later. " He moved across the room to where

his suitcase lay open on a stand.

"I've already called down-

stairs for a doctor. As soon as he gets here, I'll call Hawk in

He stood, bouncing a small leather case in his hand. Inside

it was a telephone mouthpiece, and inside the mouthpiece

was a special electronic voice scrambler.

Five minutes later the doctor—a short, squat, heavyset

man with Charles Laughton jowls and twinkling eyes came

rolling into the suite.

At his heels was a very nervous night manager.

"She's in there," Carter said, nodding toward the bed-

"Took a nasty knock on the back of the head."

The doctor gave a short bow and, without a word, rolled on

into the other room.

The night manager wrung his hands and chewed his lips.

*We are so very sorry, Monsieur Hastings, so very sorry.

If there is anything

Carter held up his hand. "It's all right... all our fault.

You have nothing to worry about."

Relief flooded the little man's face. Carter could almost

read his thoughts behind the watery eyes.

Thank God... they are Americans, and Americans are

always suing somebody!

Carter gave a slight cough. *There is one favor I would

ask, though, " he said.

"Anything, monsieur!"

*I have to go out for a very few minutes. Would you ask

the doctor not to leave until I return?"

"Of course, of course!"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

This time he took the elevator. There was no public phone

in the hotel lobby, but he found one in a small café a block

Soon the phone was ringing in David Hawk's suite.

Carter knew that Hawk was doing the same thing he was

doing: unscrewing the regular mouthpiece and replacing it

with the scrambler.

" Hawk said.

"Same here."

In minute detail, Carter went through the sequence of

events that had occurred since he and Ginger had arrived

When he was finished and Hawk spoke, there was genuine

care and worry in the man's voice.

*Perhaps I shouldn't have put her on the case, after all

that's happened."

"Don't worry, sir, I think she's okay," Carter reassured

him. "There might be a mild concussion, but the doctor's

with her now. If it's any worse, I'll get right back to you."

"Well, it looks like everything's in the cooker. We'll put

somebody on every airport in Switzerland and Austria. But I

imagine Melissa Lane won't be taking a plane now, not if

she's hardheaded enough to brain Ginger to keep us out of

"Austria and Switzerland?" Carter asked

"Yeah. We got a break

a small one, but at least a

break. A border guard at the Swiss frontier recognized Tanya

from a photograph. She was out cold in an ambulance. He

doesn't remember the name, but knows it wasn't Tanya Lane

. says he thinks it was a German name. Also, he remem-

bers that one of the nurses said the girl was a mental patient.

"Did you have the other sides checked? Austria? Ger-

many?"

"Of course we did, " Hawk replied, irritation in his voice.

"Nothing, at least none of the customs people remember.

But then, things go out of Switzerland a hell of a lot easier

than they go in.

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92

NICK CARTER

Carter agreed. "So Tanya could be in Switzerland, Ger-

many, or Austria, and Melissa could be heading for any of the

three. But maybe I've got one thing..

*Shoot.

*Get somebody to check on a Countess Von Riggen. That

was the name Carlyle used on the phone. It sounded like there

is some kind of a 'do' at her place tomorrow night.

Blant get right on it. What's your room number at the Pont

"Four-twelve, but don't bother. If Ginger can travel, I

think we'll hop over to Spain later tonight. My guess is that

Alexis's boyfriends will go by the villa and clean up the mess

I made,,

but just in case, I think it's safer if we're out of

France.

"Barcelona?" Hawk asked.

"Right. We can fly out of there if Von Riggen means

anything. We'll be at the Oriente, on the Ramblas. "

"Check with me if you don't drive straight to Barcelona. "

"Okay."

"And, Nick..

"Yes, sir?"

"Take care of her.

all right?"

"Will do, sir."

Back in the hotel, Carter took the elevator to Melissa

Lane's floor and let himself back into her suite. He wiped the

phone clean, repaired it, and then went over every room.

In the bathroom wastebasket he found an envelope con-

taining what was once an enlarged photograph. Now it was

torn into seemingly hundreds of tiny pieces. Carefully he

gathered them all up in a pillowcase and hotfooted it back to

his own suite.

The doctor was finishing a drink in the sitting room when

Carter entered

"How is she?" he asked.

"Good, considering. It was a nasty gash and required six

stitches. But it should heal without any problem and leave

only a small scar. That's what women always worry about, "

he said with a tired smile.

"Her hair will hide it.

"Nothing more serious than that?"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

93

"Concussion," the doctor replied, "but very mild. Noth-

ing more than you could get yourself banging your head into a

*Thank you, doctor. By the way..

*I've given her a sedative, but she should be fine by

Morning might be too late, Carter thought, and he reached

The doctor chuckled and nodded his head toward the still

white-faced night manager who stood nearby.

taken care of, monsieur.

Carter thanked the doctor again, and when he was gone, he

turned to the other man.

"Will you have our bill ready

immediatély, and send someone up for the bags.

"But, monsieur.. the doctor-

"I know what the doctor said, " Carter barked harshly. "I

want a physician in Paris to look at my wife.

"Very well, monsieur,

"the man said, backing to the door

and then skittering away.

Ginger was already up, dropping things into an open bag,

when Carter entered the bedroom.

"I heard what you said. Paris?"

" he replied. "Barcelona. Do you think you can

"I am a little groggy. Must we go right now?"

"I left a woman named Elise with three holes in her at

Alexis Carlyle's villa tonight. "

"I can make it."

"My God, another check!" Ginger exclaimed

*Every road from France into Spain is covered like this,

Carter replied. "Nearly all the Basque separatist fugitives

seek shelter in France because of the extradition laws. They

get back in just like we're doing and often bring a trunkload

of arms along with them.

About five miles back, they had passed through the fron-

tier checkpoint at Port Bou with only a cursory inspection of

their papers and their car. Now, rounding a blind curve, they

saw three uniformed Guardia Civil lounging beside the road.

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NICK CARTER

Carter smiled to himself. If a smuggler or terrorist thought

he had it made passing through the frontier check so easily,

he would have a rude awakening with a second check by

these three.

Each of them sported a 9mm Super Star pistol in a shiny

black leather holster at his waist. A lightweight and compact

Z-62 submachine gun was draped over each of their shoul-

ders by a webbed strap.

As Carter geared down, one of them walked to the middle

of the road, the muzzle of his Z-62 pointing to the ground, his

deep brown eyes alert under the patent leather tricorn on his

head.

When the car rocked to a halt, the Guardia Civil bent to

scrutinize the French license plates, then moved around to

the driver's side of the Peugeot. The other two moved around

to stand near the rear of the car just out of Carter's line of

vision.

"Buenos dias, señor ... señora. Pasaportes, por

favor."

Keeping his eye on the Z-62 that now swayed gently across

the man's front, Carter opened his coat and slowly extracted

two passports.

"Señor y Senora Hastings?"

"That's right," Carter replied. "We're on vacation for

three weeks.

" He made no effort to speak Spanish.

"You came from Canet-Plage?" the guard asked in En-

glish.

"Perpignan, " Carter replied, not liking the intense way

the man studied the passports.

*We decided to take the coast

road and watch the sun come up."

The man

nodded but didn't seem too impressed

"Registration, por favor.

Carter fumbled in the glove compartment until he came up

with the car's papers.

"Muy bien,

the officer said, then went through the pa-

pers in the small leather folder line by line. At last he snapped

it shut and stared into Carter's eyes.

"Would vou pull to the

side of the road, señor.

"Is there anything wrong por favor?"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

"Right there beneath the tree will be fine," the man said,

ignoring Carter's question.

Carter did as he was told

"I thought you said American tourists, especially a man

and wife, would go right through border checks, " Ginger

"They usually do," Carter said between clenched teeth.

"Both of you will get out of the car

"Keep your legs together,

" Carter said out of the side of

"and let's hope they don't do a body search.

Ginger hissed

"Oh yes, they would."

Carter was the first out of the car. He moved around to the

passenger side and opened the door for Ginger. As she slid

from the seat and stood, he checked first the front and then the

rear of the wide dirndl skirt she wore. He could discern no

telltale bulges, and he sighed with relief.

Shortly before they reached the Spanish border, he had

stopped the car and walked to the farthest point of a cliff that

jutted out into the sea. There he had heaved the Beretta as far

as he could into the Mediterranean. Then he had unstrapped

Wilhelmina, instructed Ginger to lift her skirt to her waist,

and wound the holster straps around one of her legs.

Right now both Wilhelmina and the holster were wedged

between Ginger's lovely thighs.

"Señora, your purse..

and you, senor, would you

remove your coat, por favor?"

Ginger handed over her bag with a haughty sniff, and

Carter removed his coat. While the head man went through

the bag and patted Carter down, the other two went through

the car like the pros they were.

" the officer said, returning Ginger's bag and

heading for the car to aid his comrades in their search.

"Nick, what the hell is going on?"

"Offhand," Carter growled, "I'd say they were tipped."

Ginger's face went white.

"You mean tipped that you

killed that woman?"

*Not likely. No, it was probably an anonymous phone

call—no doubt from Alexis or one of her two playmates

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NICK CARTER

giving descriptions of us and the car. The tip was probably

that we were armed. If they find what's between your legs,

the Guardia Civil could jail us for a few days and get us out of

Alexis's hair."

Carter had other thoughts on the situation, but he didn't

relay them to Ginger. Obviously Alexis Carlyle, the moose

Yuri, and the beach boy Petrie hadn't vacated the scene at

Canet-Plage. They must have been watching all three roads

out in every direction and, when they had a make, tipped off

the Spanish officials.

And Carter guessed that wasn't all of it.

He let his eyes roam on up the road where it twisted over

the bone-white limestone mountains that ran along the sea.

He couldn't help but wonder if somewhere, up in those

mountains, they weren't being watched at that very moment

through a pair of powerful glasses.

..and if they got by the Guardia Civil

•.. was there another reception committee awaiting them?

"Gracias, señor, señora,'

the officer said, handing Car-

ter their passports and the car's papers.

*I am sorry for the

delay but I am sure you understand that these are trying times

for my country.

"Of course.

"Vaya con Dios," he muttered, stepping aside and raising

a two-fingered salute to his tricorn.

Carter drove warily, slowing to a crawl at every hairpin

turn, all the way to Llansá. It was past dawn now, and the sun

was well over the mountains. Just beyond the tiny village,

Nick spotted a restaurant with several trucks and a few cars

"he said, cranking the car to the right.

"I don't think my stomach can take it, " Ginger groaned.

*Then just have coffee.

"she replied wearily, "and about ten aspirins."

"Headache?"

She nodded, and Carter studied her face out of the corner

of his eye as he parked. It was pasty white and her eyes were

red-rimmed. They also seemed to be constantly blinking

now, and he knew she couldn't last much longer.

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97

"It's about thirty miles, maybe fifty minutes on these

roads, on into Lloret, " he said, gently squeezing her knee.

"We'll get a room for the rest of the day there... okay?"

"It's a deal," she replied with a wan smile, running a

fingertip down the line of his jaw.

Literally translated, the restaurant was called 'The Hole in

the Cliff.

" It was just that, a hole. Inside there was an

unwiped Formica countertop that had seen better days, a

vinyl floor with broken and missing tiles, and a few painted

tables haphazardly arranged along the front windows.

But the place was filled with the aroma of good food that

made Carter's stomach growl and remind him how long it had

been since he had eaten.

Ginger whispered, just after sliding into one

of the rickety chairs.

"Can I get rid of this?" She patted her lap.

He grinned. "Sure. There's a señora over there. Put it in

your bag. I'll order for you.

A rosy-cheeked, dark-eyed woman as wide as she was tall

took their order and started bellowing it toward the kitchen

before she left the table.

Just like home, Carter thought, chuckling to himself and

downing a large swallow of the steaming coffee the woman

had brought.

They ate slowly, Ginger managing to put away about half

the bacon and eggs he had ordered for her.

Carter paid the bill while Ginger finished her coffee, and

then he darted into the men's room.

When he returned, Ginger was sitting ramrod straight at

the table. Her face was chalk white and matched her knuckles

"What is it?"

" she replied in a flat voice.

"Are you sure?"

She had been staring out the window. Now she rolled her

eyes around to meet his.

*I'm sure. They slowed down when

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NICK CARTER

they saw our car, and just before they speeded up I could see

the young one's face... the beach boy

?"

"Yeah?"

"He was grinning at me."

Carter kept the needle at sixty-five kilometers and his eyes

peeled for the Mercedes all the way to Tossa. He thought

briefly of stopping at Tossa and vetoed it. Too small. Lloret

de Mar was larger, an overgrown beach resort that at this time

of year would be teeming with people. That, he hoped, would

make it all the more difficult for Yuri and Petrie to try their

hand

It was almost noon when he topped a pass and dropped

down into the bowl cut into the side of the cliffs that was

Lloret de Mar. Older, whitewashed buildings gleamed in the

sunlight beside newer, taller brick and stucco hotels that had

been hastily erected when tourists discovered the Costa

Brava.

Carter chose the Metropole. It was an older place on the

western edge of the town, in the upper part away from the

sea. The original hotel had been all stucco charm, with open

beams, ceramic tiles, and elaborate gables. Now a new wing

towered at its side in concrete, glass, and steel.

But he had stayed there before and knew the inner layout.

In the parking area he pulled the keys and turned to Ginger.

"You okay?"

"I think so. At this point I'm too tired to care."

His hands crept up to her shoulders. He held her at arm's

length for a moment, then pulled her against him and kissed

her, hard. He held the kiss until he felt her smooth mouth

open beneath his, and then he released her.

"What was that for?" she gasped

"General principles,

"he said with a chuckle. "Let's go."

The lobby was as he remembered it. He swore that even the

tall, reed-thin young concierge was the same or a clone. As

they approached, he came to attention and adjusted a pair of

thick glasses.

'Your reservation, señor?"

•We have none,

" Carter said, sliding their passports

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

across the counter with an American twenty-dollar bill peek-

ing from between them.

The concierge's smile was ghoulish. "With or without

bath?"

In the room, Carter overtipped the bellman.

"If anyone

should ask about us, I'd appreciate knowing about it right

away.

"'Sí, señor."

""A bed! My God, a bed! " Ginger said as soon as the little

man was out the door.

Carter got Wilhelmina from her handbag and placed the

9mm on the bureau as Ginger sprawled across the double

bed. From his suitcase he produced a bottle of Chivas, then

moved into the bathroom and got two glasses.

"Waft a quick one? It'll help you sleep.

There was no answer, and when he stepped back into the

bedroom he saw why. Ginger was sound asleep.

In sleep, with a smile on her face and her raven hair spread

across the pillow, she looked almostbut not quite—in-

nocent.

But then, who wants innocence?

Carter took a long slug from the bottle and methodically

closed the drapes until the room was almost night. Then he

removed her shoes, skirt, blouse, and pantyhose. The rest

was tempting, but even he was too tired.

He stripped to his shorts, left Hugo strapped to his leg, and

crawled in beside her. He was just nodding off when Ginger

rolled over, her arm falling across his shoulder. Carter turned

over, embraced her until her head was against his chest, and

fell asleep.

It could have been minutes, but Carter knew it was hours

when his eyes opened and he saw no light peeking around the

drawn drapes.

He didn't know what had awakened him.

And then he heard it, a light rapping sound on the door.

Gently he disengaged himself from Ginger's embrace and

padded to the door.

"Yes?" he whispered.

"It is I, señor..

• Miguel, the bellman. "

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Carter dropped the chain and pulled back the bolt. He

reached out a hand and pulled the little bellman into the room.

"Senor

"Shhh

Carter slid the bolt and guided the man into the bathroom.

With the door shut and the lights on, he sat on the commode

and gestured toward the tub

Miguel eyed the stiletto strapped to Carter's leg and whis-

pered,

"You are an American gangster, señor?"

Carter ignored his question.

me?"

*What do you have to tell

"A big man dark, with a pushed-in face and small

eyes-asked about you. He said he was a business associate

of yours and had forgotten what hotel you would be staying

in.

"And the concierge told him."

"Of course

with a little persuasion. " The bellman

held up his thumb and forefinger, and rubbed them together.

"I followed him back outside. There was another, younger,

waiting for him in a car.

"A gray Mercedes?"

"ST"

Carter nodded. He thought of Ginger sleeping peacefully

in the other room, the smile on her face, the so recent warmth

of her body against his.

And he thought of the two killers downstairs calmly wait-

ing to waste them.

"Where are they now?"

"At the Tivoli. It is a bar across the street. They sit, they

drink, they watch. I think they are very bad men, señor..

they have the look. Are vou bad?"

'Let's just say, Miguel," Carter said with a smile,

"that

I'm not as bad as they are. Do you have a car?"

"Si, a very old Fiesta. It has gone many kilometers like

myself, but it has, as they say, a few left.

Carter made an offer, and the man readily accepted it.

"Is there a service entrance?" The man nodded."

*Good.

In one hour, park your car at the service entrance and then

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

101

come back up here. Bring with you a big hat, an old pair of

pants, a typical peasant's shirt.

"And then

.?"

Carter gave him the rest of the details in quick, staccato

sentences, and then he guided him back through the bed-

room. Along the way he grabbed his wallet from his pants.

"There will be more, " he said, pressing a wad of bills into

the man's hand.

When the door was securely locked, Nick walked to the

bed and gently shook Ginger by the shoulder. He was pleased

when she stirred in her sleep and her arms instinctively came

up to wind around his neck.

But that would come later.

if there was a later.

"Ginger.

"Huh/

..wha.

?"

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

"What for?"

"We're moving out."

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EIGHT

In the Metropole bar there was a pay phone. Nick Carter

ordered a beer, bought a token for the phone from the bar-

tender, dialed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Yuri's

beady eyes through the window across the street watching his

every move. There was no sign of the other one, and Carter

smiled.

He would be in the back, watching Miguel and one of the

bellman's peasant relatives leave in a beat-up old Fiesta.

The international call had to go through the Metropole

switchboard, but eventually the Pierre answered, and Carter

gave the operator the number of Hawk's suite.

"Yes?"

There was tension in the voice.

*It's me.

"Nick, where the hell have you been? Wait"

Never mind," Carter rasped, knowing that Hawk was

reaching for the scrambler. He hadn't even bothered to re-

move his from his bag.

"If there's anyone on the line, which I

doubt, I don't give a damn. I want them to know we're

coming.

Hawk chuckled. "It sounds as though you're as pissed off

at them as I am at you.

"Something like that, " Carter replied, then he brought his

mentor up-to-date.

103

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NICK CARTER

"And Ginger?"

"She's safe, and will be. What's happened at your end?"

*Enough. Clair Von Riggen. She's an American socialite

who married Count Hugo Von Riggen twelve years ago. He's

a successful Austrian industrialist, sits on a whole bunch of

boards of German and Austrian companies. She's a social

high-flyer, believes in total détente between East and West,

and works hard to influence it."

"Think the Von Riggens could be bingo?" Carter asked.

"If you mean could our count be the Baron, I suppose

there's an outside chance.

But pretty far outside.

He's

loaded, but all of his money is legit and can be accounted

for.

"And the countess?"

"Ditto, but the do' tonight is interesting.

"Oh?'

Carter heard a shuffling of papers from the other end of the

line before Hawk spoke again.

*The Countess Von Riggen is

constantly organizing cultural exchanges between Eastern

and Western bloc countries..

others for two weeks or better.

; some for only a weekend,

Carter sighed. Little lights had started going off in his

brain. "And the countess has a little group going over this

weekend.

"You've got it. Budapest. The group leaves the day after

tomorrow. There's a cocktail party this evening for all the

participants to get acquainted.

"Where?" Carter asked, already guessing the answer.

"Vienna. The Von Riggens have restored an old mansion

inside the Ring as a townhouse.

"Any word on Melissa now that we know she's headed for

Vienna?"

"Nothing yet," Hawk said,

"but we've got men at the

railway stations and the airport.

We're also putting a couple

of people into the Von Riggens' place as servants tonight.

Carter's mind clicked over the hard points. First, pick up

Melissa and get her on ice. Second, find Tanya and get her

back.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

Hawk's voice interrupted his thoughts. "It's fairly obvi-

ous what they're doing.

"Yeah," Carter replied. "I think I've got it too. They

want Melissa to go over of her own free will. That's why

they've helped her along but pretty much let her move

"Right. I can almost see the headlines: Topflight Amer-

ican Scientist Defects To Soviet Bloc'!"

"If we move fast,

"Carter said, "maybe we can hold up

this run to Budapest. I won't have time for a scheduled flight

after I get these two off my back. Can you arrange for a

have it ready and waiting?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. It'll be done in the Hastings

"Good. Also, I picked up some pieces of a photo in

Melissa's room in Canet-Plage. I'll try to put them together

on the flight. Have somebody standing by in Vienna in case

we can get something out of it."

"Will do."

"And you'd better have a change of clothes waiting for

both of us. I left our bags in the room here. I don't want our

birds to know I'm leaving, so I'm not checking out. Send

someone around later to collect them and pay the bill. It's the

Metropole in Lloret."

"For now."

"Good hunting!" Hawk rasped, and the line went dead.

Carter finished his beer in big gulps, then headed for the

parking lot as if he were strolling out for a pack of cigarettes.

In the Tivoli he saw Yuri the moose paying his bill.

Carter hoped he had guessed right that Yuri would go anc

pick up his partner for the move on him. Ginger wasn't thei

game, so she would probably be left in the hotel room.

It's me they want. Nick thought, and it's me they're going

His biggest hope was that they would think Ginger was still

in the room and that he wouldn't leave without her. He was

fairly sure they wouldn't make a try until they were positive

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NICK CARTER

he and Ginger were leaving.

That's where the surprise would come.

He started the Peugeot, let it warm up a minute or two, and

then pulled out.

For the next half hour he drove aimlessly around Lloret,

from one end of the town to the other, and from the lower

road along the beach to the upper, skirting the cliffs.

For about half that time the gray Mercedes-with both of

them in the front-had tailed him. At last they had wised up.

There was one way west and one way east out of the town by

road. The only other way was by sea.

When they disappeared from his rearview mirror, Carter

was pretty sure where they had gone. Lloret, like Tossa, was

indented like a three-sided bowl into the Costa Brava cliffs.

The main road was a winding affair along the side of the cliffs

five hundred yards above. From any place on that toad, the

entire town could be observed with a pair of field glasses.

Carter was willing to lay ten-to-one that Yuri or Petrie-or

both of them were up there at that very moment, watching

every inch of his movement in the Peugeot.

When an hour had passed, and then an hour and a half, he

headed toward the upper town. Following Miguel's direc-

tions, he turned into a narrow lane that ran parallel to the main

road about thirty yards above. He followed the numbers on

the tiny, two-room whitewashed cottages to 421. Then he

went two houses beyond, pulled the right wheels of the

Peugeot up onto the sidewalk, and parked.

Retracing his steps, he let his eyes float for just a moment

to the curtained window of 421. He saw Ginger's face, and

briefly noted that she still wore the big straw hat and the white

peasant's shirt.

He gave her no sign of recognition and turned right at the

corner. Below him the lights of Lloret blinked, and in the

distance-at the end of the pier jutting out into the bayhe

saw the ferry bobbing at anchor.

Two more turns brought him out on a wide street that took

him clear to the beach. Purposely he stayed near the street-

lights in case the men watching him didn't have infrared

lenses in the glasses they were using.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

107

At the beach end of the pier, he glanced up at the sign

painted on plywood nailed between two poles: TOSSA.

LLORET SCENIC BOAT RIDES. Beneath the designation

were the times of departure and the prices

"Uno," Carter said, placing a bill on the counter.

"One way or round-trip, señor?"

"One way," he said with a smile.

Carter was first in line off the gangway the instant they

lowered the chain. He searched the faces of the people

waiting to board the ferry for the return trip and sighed in

relief when he spotted Miguel.

Beside him, holding his hand, was a squat little woman

dressed all in black. On her kindly face was a mask of total

bewilderment.

Cartet could guess why. In fact, he could almost imagine

what their conversation had been an hour or so before.

"Tossa? Why in God's name do you want to go to Tossa at

this time of night?"

"Because the man who has bought our car will be in

Tossa. We will deliver the car there tonight, then return on

"You sold our car? Madre de Dios, how can we visit our

sons in the country without a car?"

"Quiet, woman! In a month's time we will be on the land

with our sons. The man paid me enough for the car to enable

us to buy the land we have always wanted!"

*The man is a fool, " his wife would have said. But like a

good Spanish wife, she would not question her husband any

further. And when Miguel reported his car stolen upon their

return to Lloret, she would close her eyes and her ears to the

fact, and accept the good fortune God had sent them.

As Carter passed the couple, his eyes met Miguel's for

only a second. The man gave him a brief nod, which Carter

You are a gutsy guy, Carter thought. But then poverty

makes wily creatures of us all.

It took him less than two minutes to find the Fiesta in the

parking lot. As Miguel had said, it was nothing to shout

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NICK CARTER

about, but that didn't matter. In a few minutes it was going to

He fished the keys from the ashtray and was pleased at the

engine's steady hum. The car, as Miguel had assured him,

ran much better than it looked.

Leaving a cloud of dust behind him, Carter roared out of

the parking lot and didn't let up on the accelerator when he hit

the asphalt. The tires screamed, and he kept them screaming

all the way through the gears.

"Here I am, gentlemen,

he said aloud, a wide grin

gleaming on his face in the dashboard lights.

"Come and get

Carter took the last incline to the main highway in second,

careened to the left, and floored the little car again toward

Lloret de Mar.

It was a little over seven miles from Tossa to Lloret over a

roller-coaster road that wound like a snake against the sides

of the steep cliffs. Carter hoped the little car's engine would

take the beating he was going to give it for at least four of

Although the night was cool, his shirt stuck to his back as

he geared down and thundered into the first curve. As if by

magic the lights of Tossa were switched off, and only the two

faint beams from the Fiesta's headlights and a sliver of

moonlight illuminated the winding ribbon of road

The white limestone, speckled now and then a darker gray,

gleamed to his right. On his left, far below, lay the jagged

rocks of the seacoast.

He whined around another curve. A straightaway more

than half a mile long lay in front of him. He knew it was one

of three before Lloret. The rest of the road was deadly curves

cautioned only by red reflectors set in low, whitewashed

concrete posts.

Near the end of the straightaway he saw a faint yellow

glow in his rearview mirror that grew rapidly brighter as a car

came up and over the brow of the hill behind him. Carter

could tell when the driver of the other car spotted his tail-

lights. He started chewing up ground like hell between them.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

109

Carter doused his own lights, saw no beams beyond the

curve, and took it full tilt. On the other side he brought the

lights back up and repeated the action again for the next two

curves.

Like a cat with a burning tail, the Fiesta fairly leaped over a

rise in the road and screamed down the long hill that began

the second straight stretch of road

Then suddenly the engine started to clatter; it didn't sound

bad, but it didn't sound good either. It was more like a gentle

protest than an outright declaration of quitting

"C'mon, little baby," Carter whispered, patting the dash-

board.

"It's not much longer now.

The Mercedes was a bigger, heavier car than the Fiesta,

but it was føur times more powerful, and with its fine German

suspension it was every bit as maneuverable.

This was

proved to Carter when he saw lights appear, dance out into

the vast darkness, disappear, and reappear again.

Then he was starting up the incline, and the big car behind

him was rolling around the last curve and bearing down like a

looming hulk from hell.

And then the Mercedes was on him, lights on high, full

power. Carter zigged, zagged, and zigged again, being care-

ful not to let the big car on the inside.

One glance up told him Yuri was driving. The other,

Petrie, had his hands on the door, empty. Carter wasn't

surprised. They would want to make it look like an accident if

they could.

Then they nailed him, the heavier Mercedes slamming into

the rear end of the Fiesta like a tank. Carter fought the

steering wheel and managed to hold the car to the inside,

against the cliffs.

In seconds the Mercedes had pulled alongside and was

inching over. His intent was clear: squash the Fiesta like a

bug against the cliff

There was a scream of tearing metal. Sparks filled the

night between the two cars, and between the Fiesta and solid

rock. Slowly but surely, as Carter kept the accelerator to the

floor, Yuri was achieving his purpose.

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NICK CARTER

"Not yet, you son of a bitch!" Carter screamed at the

beach boy's leering

face inches from his through the

Mercedes's open window.

Carter stomped brake and clutch at the same time with all

the strength in his legs. The Fiesta stood on its nose, metal

scraping, tires burning.

The Mercedes shot on by. Just before it cleared Carter,

Yuri tried to cut in under the nose of the smaller car and save

He was too late.

The front bumper of the Mercedes caught the cliffside. The

car bucked and twisted as Yuri wrestled with the wheel, then

skidded to a standstill directly in front of Carter, facing him.

Carter threw the car into gear and, fenders clattering,

roared around them. At the top of the hill he could see that it

would be at least a full minute before Yuri could get the big

car turned around on the narrow road.

He was right. He was through the next set of curves before

he saw any gleam of light behind him. He made it through the

last straightaway with the Mercedes coming on strong again.

One of the big car's headlights was out, and the other was

dancing toward the sky at a crazy angle.

"All the better, " Carter hissed, and he swung wide for the

It was hairpin sharp, and Carter had geared down to first by

the time he was halfway through. The last sixty feet of it was

practically a right angle, and then it dipped straight down.

He cleared the right angle, and the lights of Lloret rushed

toward him a mile away. Just as he started to gain speed down

the incline, he stomped the brake and brodied the wheel to the

The tires screamed their objection as they tore from their

rims, and the little Fiesta teetered dangerously for several

seconds before coming back down on all fours.

Carter left the engine running, pulled on the emergency

brake, and killed the lights. In one motion he yanked the

passenger side door open and hit the asphalt running. Fift

feet down the road he skidded to a halt, grabbed one of the

concrete retainer posts, and threw his body over the side.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

111

When he looked back he could barely see the outline of the

road and the cliff. And then he heard the Mercedes coming at

full roar. He heard the change in tone as Yuri braked slightly

and geared down for the curve.

And then he was there, around the curve and hurtling down

the incline, already back in fourth gear.

Twenty feet away from the Fiesta, Yuri had two choices:

hit the little car stretched across the highway in front of him

full on, or crank the Mercedes into the cliffs to the right.

At the last second he chose the cliffs, but it was too late.

The front of the Mercedes hit the Fiesta broadside. The

sound of metal on metal, shattering glass, and screaming tires

was a cacophony of death in the otherwise still night.

The impaot carried the Fiesta across the road, where it

teetered for/a few seconds and then rolled over. Before it hit

the sea, Carter was on his feet and running toward the mess

that had been the Mercedes.

The hood was an upside-down vee, and both front fenders

were ripped half off the rest of the car and splayed out like

wings. The radiator had been punctured, and steam partially

obscured Carter's vision until he reached a point near the

iriver's side door.

Petrie had gone halfway through the windshield. His face

was gone, and half the blood in his body had already spilled

but, causing an awful stink as it hit the hot engine.

The driver's door was open. Carter whirled and un-

sheathed Wilhelmina at the same time. He saw Yuri's bulk

come up on one knee at the edge of the cliff. Warily, Wilhel-

mina at the end of his outstretched arms, Carter crossed the

road.

*Don't move, you bastard," he hissed.

But Yuri did, coming to his feet and turning in the direction

of Carter's voice. In the moonlight, Carter saw his arms

groping wildly in the air. And then he saw why. Evidently

Yuri had hit the windshield frame and one of the concrete

posts along the road when he was thrown clear.

The front of his skull was neatly caved in, and blood

Flowed like a fountain over his face, obscuring what vision he

had left.

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NICK CARTER

Carter holstered Wilhelmina and shouldered his way be-

tween the groping arms.

There was little to fear. Yuri was a walking dead man.

In seconds Carter had patted the man down, taking every-

thing he found in Yuri's pockets as well as two rings from his

fingers.

When he was through, he grasped him by the shoulders

and turned him to face the sea. Then he carefully placed his

knee in the middle of Yuri's back.

"So long, chum."

He heard a thud, another, and then a faint splash. The

sound barely reached his ears before Carter was sprinting

toward Lloret.

As soon as he made out houses on his left, he left the main

road and scrambled down the rocky incline that led to

Miguel's lane.

By the time he reached the Peugeot, his chest was burning

and his legs felt like posts. The parking lights were on, and he

could see Ginger's outline in the dash lights. She was sitting

in the driver's seat.

Carter yanked open the passenger door and fell inside.

She brought a tire iron up from between the bucket seats.

recognized him just in time, and dropped it.

*Thank God

*Hi, baby,

" he panted, holding the pain in his sides.

Suddenly she was on him, arms around his neck, her lips

plastered over his.

•No.

. no, " he managed to mumble.

"What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

- while you're kissing me

"I.. just..

can't.

breathe

"Oh, " she sighed with relief, and then she saw the blood

on his hands and the front of his shirt from Yuri's gushing

head

"My God, what happened?"

*There has been a very serious accident, Carter said,

catching his breath at last,

"up there. Drive!"

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"There's booze in the bar, right there, and sandwiches

back in that area. It's an open galley.

Carter nodded and thanked the uniformed First Officer.

"How soon do we take off?"

"Ten minutes. Weather's clear all the way to Vienna. I'll

let you know when it's seat belt time.

The man took a last look at the bloody front of Carter's

shirt and seemed to want to say more.

"Yes?" Carter asked.

The copilot shrugged. "It's up to you, but chances are

you'll have to go through Austrian customs at Schwechat

Airport. We're about the same size, I'd say

"Yeah, " Carter agreed

*There are a couple of clean shirts in the locker beside the

"I appreciate it," Carter said, and he meant it.

When the man had moved forward into the cockpit and the

door was closed behind him, Ginger spoke. 'What do you

suppose he thinks?"

"He doesn't," Carter replied, peeling the bloody shirt

"He's probably hauled people who look a lot

worse. Small charters like this take whatever and whoever

they can get, as long as it's only slightly shady and not

outrightly illegal. "

From beneath his shirt and belt, he tugged the pillowcase

containing the shredded photograph and the contents of

Yuri's pockets. He dumped it on the seat and headed for the

rear of the plane.

"Build us a couple of drinks. I'm going to get present-

Carter scrubbed the dried blood from his chest and shoul-

ders that had seeped through the shirt. The little cabinet

above the lavatory was well equipped with cellophane-

wrapped razors and toothbrushes as well as cologne and after

He used what he needed, found the crisp, freshly laun-

dered shirt, and ten minutes later stepped back into the main

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114 NICK CARTER He accepted thernink Gingerhanded him, then moved into the seat beside her just as the plane's intercom came alive. 'We're taxiing out now, no will you please fasten your seat belts." Minutes later, the powerful little jet was streaking into the night sky over the Mediterranean. The lights of Barcelona disappeared behind them. Almost at once, the twinkling night skyline of southern France appeared on the horizon ahead and to the left. "How long will it take?— Ginger asked. "About three hours." Nick replied. digging into the pil-lowcase, "if he pours the coals to it. Let's get to work." They went through everything from Yud's pockets, even ripping apad the wallet. The only thing that looked goad was a cipher penned faintly into the margin of an international driver's license. It resembled the code system used in Alexii Carlyle's address book. Carver memorized it, and then they went to work on the picture puzzle. Two more drinks and an hour and a half later. they had it completed, with only two small pieces missing. "It's some kind of a hospital." Ginger said. 'That would fit in with the ambulance. Let's hope the boys in Vienna can make something of it." "Poor kid, she looks sedated." "Yeah," Carter replied, wearily rubbing his temples. "Let's hope that's all she is."

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# NINE


Melissa Lane nervously swirled the wine in her glass and

let her eyes/dart around the huge, well-appointed room. She

had arrived exactly at the specified time. Now three hours

had passed. The cocktail party was breaking up, and still no

one had contacted her.

The guests were a curious array, even for a cosmopolitan

city such as Vienna. There were the usual assortment of titles

from a bygone regime, as well as untitled members of the

new monarchy: private enterprise.

They all had one thing in common—money—whether it

was old or new.

The Countess Von Riggen herself was a charming grande

dame, if a little bit on the light side when it came to brains.

She had welcomed Melissa herself, introduced her to every-

one, and then darted off.

Since then, she had loudly proclaimed to all who would

listen that just because there were political differences be-

tween East and West, there should not be cultural ignorance.

The arts should be freely exchanged, and she meant to make

it happen.

Melissa wished her well but found it difficult to follow any

of the conversation of the countess or her guests. She was too

nervous.

"Fräulein Heldstrom?"


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Oh, yes. " It was one of the robotlike

tuxedoed waiters. He stood, looking directly through her,

extending a silver tray.

"A telegram, Fräulein. "*

*Thank you.

Melissa held her breath until he was gone, then she tore at

It wasn't a telegram at all, but a piece of white paper inside

a yellow cable envelope.

Miss Lane: The moment you finish reading this, go to the

second floor. The third door on your right from the head of

the stairs is a library. Inside you will see another door. It is a

book recovery room. I'll be waiting.

Stuffing the envelope and the note in her purse, Melissa

discarded her glass and made for the stairs. She counted the

doors and bolted through the third one. The room was floor-

to-ceiling books, its old furniture consisting of à sofa, desk

and a few chairs. Only one light, a reading lamp, was lit.

Directly across from her she saw a second door, slightly

ajar. Cautiously she pushed it open and stepped inside. Sud-

denly the door was wrenched from her hand and closed. She

heard a bolt slide into place and felt someone move by her

into the room.

In panic she felt for a wall switch, only to be brought up

short by a low, guttural voice.

"Don't, Miss Lane. I have the only light we will need."

The beam of a powerful flashlight came on and found her

face, momentarily blinding her.

"Congratulations, Miss Lane. You have done splendidly

thus far. Continue to do so, and your sister will be released

without harm.

*Yes, I am the Baron. You were to be contacted here by

the same woman who met you in Perpignan, but I fear she has

been delayed."

"How is Tanya?"

"Sleeping peacefully but very much alive, I assure you."

The light moved forward, becoming stronger, so that Melissa

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

117

had to turn her head slightly from its glare. "Here, take this

and listen carefully."

An envelope was shoved into her hand, and then the man

backed away again.

"The day after tomorrow, at nine o'clock, a bus carrying

these fools on their little crusade will pick you up at your

hotel. You have the red dress and hat?"

"Yes."

"Good. Wear them both. Do not wear the blond wig."

*But the people in the party—

*I doubt if anyone would mention the change in your hair

color, but if someone does you can claim a woman's preroga-

"You have everything figured out, don't you?" Melissa

"Everything. At the frontier you will use your own pass-

port. In the envelope in your hand is a valid visa in your own

name. Also, you will find forint vouchers for three days and

an in-country travel pass."

"What about Tanya?"

"I am getting to that,

"the man replied in an agonizingly

calm voice. On the evening prior to your scheduled return,

you will complain of stomach cramps right after dinner.

Shortly after returning to your room, you will complain

further. A doctor will be sent, and he will recommend hospi-

tal checks. "

"I'm to be hospitalized?"

"Yes, until Countess Von Riggen's group is back here in

When they are back and contact has been broken,

you will declare your defection. Your sister will then be

""And what happens if I recant my defection after Tanya's

"My dear Miss Lane, I really don't care what you do then.

I do this solely for money. You will have been delivered of

your own free will-into Hungary, and my Swiss accounts

will have grown commensurately. What you do over there, or

what they do to you, is none of my affair."

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118

NICK CARTER

"Dear God, what makes a man do such things?" Melissa

cried.

"I just told you, Miss Lane. Money. In case you hadn't

heard, it makes the world go around.

at least my world.

Now would you leave here and return to your hotel, please?

And, by the way, remain in your room, as you did in Perpig-

nan, until the time for departure.

"Who are you?"

""A very clever man, Miss Lane. And a very deadly one if I

have to be. Good night."

The palms of Colonel Vasily Korshakov's hands sweated

profusely, and his pants stuck to his heavy thighs. He glanced

at the illuminated dial of his watch and pulled the collar of his

trench coat up higher around his neck.

The rain had stopped now, but there was, a damp mist

remaining in the air and the fog swirled upward from the

Danube. Korshakov could hear the throaty foghorns begin to

bellow their warnings as the fog thickened.

The fog was already too thick to see the Aspernplatz near

the opposite end of the bridge. He heard the car just before its

yellow lights made a dent in the fog. It crawled toward him

over the bridge, slowed, and then went on by.

Korshakov started to reach for a cigarette, thought better of

it, and began to crack his knuckles instead to assuage his

Again he checked his watch. She was fifteen minutes late,

and Korshakov was beginning to wonder if something had

gone wrong.

Then he heard the unmistakable click, click, click of high

heels on the concrete.

She came from the Ring side of the

bridge, her movement through the fog making it swirl around

She was a small girl, but she moved with long, gliding

strides. A product of her dancing, he mused, studying her

pert face and close-cropped hair in the dim

light as she

She could be an English or American student studying

abroad, he thought.

And then he shivered. It was Hillary DuFarve's look of

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

119

innocence that had lured so many men to their deaths.

"Good evening, Vasily,

" she said, her speaking voice

sounding even lower and huskier than it did when she sang.

'Hillary

you have it?"

"Of course. And you?"

She extracted a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket

and handed it to him. Korshakov practically snatched it from

her fingers and held it close to his face in order to see the

print.

It was a deposit voucher from Swiss Eurobank for one

million dollars.

"Your hands are shaking, Vasily."

"It is not every day that one defects," he retorted.

*Nor does one betray the Baron every day," she chuck-

led.

Korshakay looked at her gamin face, and once again he

shivered. In detail he told her everything: where the Lane

woman was staying; under what name she traveled; the way

the Baron was sending her across; and, most important of all,

the timetable.

"You are sure of everything?"

•Positive,

"he replied,

"down to the last detail."

*The government of Libya thanks you, comrade. I doubt

if we shall meet again."

"I doubt it too,'

" Korshakov said, managing a smile. "I

have no desire to ever visit Tripoli."

"You go to the American embassy at once?"

Immediately.

"I think you are a fool, Vasily Korshakov, but I wish you

well."

He said nothing in reply as she moved past him and

continued on across the bridge. When he could no longer hear

her heels, he turned and moved quickly toward the Aspern-

platz.

He almost felt like whistling.

One million in a Swiss

account, another million from Moscow that was supposed to

go to the Baron's account sidetracked to his, and surely he

would be able to wheedle some funds out of the Americans

after his defection.

All in all, it was a good day. And it would be an even better

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120

NICK CARTER

tomorrow. Vasily Korshakov planned to retire in style.

The black car was directly in front of him before Korsha-

kov saw it come out of the fog. A shadowy figure was at his

shoulder. A gun barrel was ground into the small of his back,

and guttural German was barked into his ear.

*Get into the car, comrade. If you don't, the gun is

silenced. No one will hear the shot that severs your spine.

The driver had leaned across and opened the rear door of

the car.

Vasily ventured a look over his shoulder at the man who

held the gun. He was wide and heavyset, with coarse, Slavic

features. His cheeks were heavily pitted, and no pupils could

be discerned between the pig-slits of his eyes

'What is the purpose of this stupidity?'

Vasily had used the words to turn and face the man. He saw

the thick, porcine lips curve into an ugly smile, and then a

hamlike fist buried itself in his fat belly clearto the wrist.

His head hit the roof as he slammed against the car. He

struck out blindly, but his wrist was caught in a steel grip.

And then he heard his own voice gasp out a scream of agony

as his groin erupted in pain and he was hurled into the car.

The young agent, Michaels, and an old hand from SDECE

in Paris, Michel Dontaine, met the chartered jet at Vienna's

Schwechat Airport.

Carter knew Dontaine from past assignments. He was a

good and experienced man, but Carter was surprised to see

him involved in this, and told him so.

"Your Monsieur Hawk thought it best to get me involved,

Nick, since you may need Austrian help. I've been liaison

man down here for nearly two years, and I know how the

wheels are greased."

"Good enough," Carter replied. He passed across the

now assembled picture. He and Ginger had carefully glued

each piece to a hard cardboard backing.

•Have somebody

blow this up and then take it apart bit by bit. There might be

some clue as to where they are holding the girl."

"I understand."

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

121

Dontaine left in one car, Carter, Ginger, and Michaels in

another. They entered the Ring at Kopalplatz, across from

the air terminal, and drove to Wipplinerstrasse, not far from

St. Peter's Cathedral. There they parked, walked another

block, and turned down a narrow street, more like an alley.

Carter had been in the building that housed AXE Vienna

many times in years past. On the outside it was a nondescript

five-story pension. Inside, it was narrow hallways barely

wide enough for two people to pass. The walls were drab,

stippled brown plaster, and the rooms were not much better.

Like the Paris office, this one had its special rooms, all in

the basement.

Michaels finger-punched a code on the night bell, and the

door buzzed. They walked to the end of the dimly lit hall and

lightly rapped on a door

It was opened immediately by a small. wizened man with

quick, intélligent eyes. Beyond him was a small, two-room

apartment. With only a nod from the old man they crossed the

room, entered a kitchen, and continued on down a flight of

stairs to another door.

Again Michaels pressed a code into the bell by the door,

and they were buzzed into a stark white room brightly illumi-

nated by fluorescent bulbs. Machines made a low hum and

now and then a clatter as a message was received from

somewhere in the world

*Hawk's probably in the conference room," Michaels

said. "You go ahead. I'll check update from Paris.

Carter nodded and led the way through the desks and

machines to a steel door. The door opened easily at his touch,

and he and Ginger found themselves in a narrow, paneled

room with a bar and snack counter at one end, and several

monitoring screens at the other. The center of the room was

occupied by a long conference table and several leather

chairs.

Javid Hawk looked up from a mountain of papers as the!

ntered, and was immediately on his feet and across th

room.

"Nick, there's coffee brandy if you like." He grasped

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122

NICK CARTER

both of Ginger's hands in his own big fists, and there was

obvious concern in his eyes when he spoke.

"Are you all

right?"

*A headache that doesn't seem to want to go away. Other

than that, fine.

really," Ginger said and smiled.

"Good, " he said. He flashed her a brief smile, then moved

back to the table, once more all business. "Brief me.

Carter did as he poured coffee and liberally laced it with

brandy. He detailed the wild drive from Tossa to Lloret, and

didn't mince on the details of how the two men had bought it.

Hawk only nodded.

Ginger paled a little but managed to hold her composure.

She was learning just what an agent like Carter did in the

field, and it was a tough lesson.

When Carter put a period to it, Hawk began.

*The Spanish are treating it like it looks: an accident.

Someone steals a car and gets into a bad wreck. We did

manage to get the names and run them through our own files

and Interpol."

He fished through the papers and finally came up with the

reports he wanted.

*Yuri Gorgon was a legionnaire. He ended up in Algeria,

one of the fanatics who considered DeGaulle a traitor for

giving up Algeria to the rebels. We're checking now on any

close ties he had there that he might have kept.

Hawk paused, switched papers, and let a frown creep

across his already seamed forehead.

"The other one, Petrie, is a bit of a puzzle. His passport

and other identifying papers were in the name of Petrie

Alexander. But a fingerprint check through Interpol makes

him as Karl Von Petrie, Austrian. No known record, but he's

long been suspected of arms running, mostly into Africa."

"That figures,

"Carter said, sipping his coffee.

*Do you

have a printout of Alexis Carlyle's address book?"

Hawk found the folded sheets and passed them across the

table.

Carter jotted the ciphers from Yuri Gorgon's wallet down

on a pad and began comparing.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

123

"All the codes have been broken down into phone num-

bers," Hawk said. "We've checked them out, but nothing

seems to make sense.

Carter made a match, moved his finger across to the

decoded number, and then read the inked notation below it:

Answering Service, 121 Wiedner Hauptstrasse.

He underlined it and turned the sheet around to face Hawk.

*Can you put a man on that place until we're ready to

move?"

Hawk nodded and reached for a panel of buttons on the

table. Before he could buzz, Michaels stepped through the

door.

*Melissa Lane showed up at the Von Riggens' cocktail

party. One of our men tailed her to the Parkhotel. It's near

Schonbrunh, about a half hour outside the city. They are

'What happened to our cooperation with the police?"

Hawk fumed. "Why weren't we informed that 'Inga Held-

strom' had checked in?"

"Because she didn't check in, or at least not individual-

ly," Michaels replied.

"She came by tour, by bus, from

Geneva. The rooms were booked in a block by the tour

company.

"We've got to hand it to him," Carter said. "The Baron is

one clever bastard!"

The phone in front of Hawk lit up. "Yes?.. Put him

on. " Hawk listened for a few moments, nodding, before he

spoke again. "All right, get as many men on it as it takes,

irst thing in the morning.

Right.

He replaced the receiver and faced Carter.

*That was Dontaine. We might have something. They

blew the picture up and were able to make out the manufac-

turer's trademark on one of the steel bars on the bed. It's an

outfit in Dusseldorf."

Carter shook his head. *Bare chance. they probably

ship hundreds a day; Hawk smiled. *It's a very special bed

Not like these,

that's equipped with restraints for mental patients.

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124

NICK CARTER

Now Carter was smiling too. He placed his fingertips

together in front of his face, and then flexed his fingers up and

down.

"If it's bingo," he said,

*the plan lays itself out. We ice

Melissa and go after Tanya.

" Suddenly he lurched to his feet,

rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's a big day tomorrow.

Where do we sleep?'

*Here, upstairs,

" Michaels said. "Two rooms have al-

ready been prepared."

Carter nodded and turned to Ginger.

She was sound asleep in her chair.

*There is only one thing worse than a fool, and that is a

greedy fool!

Vasily Korshakov narrowed his eyes against the harsh

light and concentrated in the direction of the voice. The face

was in shadow, but he could make out a clipped gray beard, a

narrow straight nose, and hollow cheekbones. The eyes were

a cold, slate gray, and the face-taken as a whole-

-gave

Vasily an instant impression of cruelty, brutality, and pur-

pose.

"Where is my money, Korshakov?"

"You are the Baron,

" Vasily said, his voice a whisper.

'I chose you as my Budapest contact, Korshakov, because

I knew you were a fool. As such, I thought you would

ploddingly do your job. Now vou amaze me.

Vasily shook his head to clear the last cobwebs. It was then

that he realized that he was stark naked and strapped to a

chair.

"How dare you! I am a colonel"

*You are a dead man, Vasily, unless you answer each of

my questions. I have already contacted Moscow. They claim

the money was transferred. I believe them.

Korshakov blinked the sweat from his eyes. The die was

cast. He couldn't return to the East or Russia now, and if he

told the Baron everything, he would be a dead man in the

West.

He watched the Baron lift the lid from a black metal box

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

near his legs. From it he took a cord and plugged it into a

nearby wall socket.

"Do you know what this is, comrade?"

Vasily didn't answer. His throat had suddenly gone very

dry and his mouth tasted like bile.

*I joined the French Foreign Legion in Marseille when I

was only a boy. Years later I was posted to Algeria as a

colonel. Even at that, I went up through the ranks very

quickly. Do you know why, Comrade Korshakov?"

The KGB colonel watched the man's long, tapering fin-

gers withdraw two thick cables from the box. Attached to the

end of each one of them was an alligator clip

"It was because I was a master at interrogation, comrade. I

learned early that beatings with rubber hoses, truncheons,

and the like were foolish. That kind of pain is self-defeating.

The prisoher soon falls into a stupefied coma, and nothing

"What do you want to know?"

A harsh, guttural laugh erupted from the Baron's throat to

echo around the small room and thunder in Korshakov's ears

"Ah yes, you will indeed be a willing subject. The prelude to

pain is often more rewarding to the interrogator than the pain

itself. Who was the woman on the bridge?"

"A nightclub entertainer. Her name is Margaret. We are

having an affair.

"I don't believe you, comrade."

"I swear it."

The Baron held up the two cables, snapping the alligator

clips open and shut before Vasily's eyes.

*There was a Swiss Eurobank deposit voucher in your

coat pocket with the account number torn off. It was for one

million dollars.

Was that my million dollars, Vasily?"

"No, no! I swear it wasn't!" Korshakov snapped his head

from side to side, flinging sweat from his face in both direc-

*Then the woman gave you the voucher. What did you

give her in return?"

"Nothing. nothing!"

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NICK CARTER

"God, you are more than a fool, Vasily. You are a simple-

ton. Open your mouth.

When he didn't, the Baron squeezed his cheeks until he

did. Vasily howled in mumbled pain when one of the clips

closed down over his tongue. But that howl was nothing

compared to the second ear-piercing shriek that came from

his throat when the other clip was clamped over his testicles.

•This is a rheostat, Vasily,

"the Baron intoned. 'And this

is what happens when I turn it.

The room burst into saffron flames before Korshakov's

eyes. He could swear that boiling lava had shot through his

veins and that all his bones had turned to mush. His fat body

lurched against the leather straps holding him, and if the chair

hadn't been bolted to the floor it and he would have flown

across the room.

*That, Vasily, was barely an eighth of the power in the

rheostat.

Who was the woman?"

the Baron asked as he

removed the alligator clip from Korshakov's tongue.

"A Libyan agent. Her name is Hillary DuFarve

"T've heard of her. What was your deal?"

"In exchange for the million, I gave her all the details of

the Lane crossover. . . place, time, everything

*Will she try to intercept Melissa Lane before she gets to

Budapest?"

"Yes, but I don't know where or when. I swear I don't!"

"And what were you planning on doing with the money

hers and mine?"

"Defecting. I was on my way to the American embassy

when your people picked me up.

"Good."

the Baron said, leaning his face close to the other

man's. "Now, one last question,

Vasily, and I shall leave

you in peace. Your accounts in Switzerland... they are all

private, numbered accounts.

Silence.

"What are the numbers and the codes, Vasily?"

Silence.

The Baron asked the same question again, and still there

was no answer. Again he forced open Korshakov's mouth

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

127

nd reattached the clip. His hand found the black box, and

gain the rheostat spun.

Vasily Korshakov's body wrenched in the chair and went

amrod straight. Agony that no man would believe ever

xisted shot through his every nerve.

He never quite lost

onsciousness. There were enough brief intervals between

le shocks that wouldn't let him pass out. As soon as one

onvulsion would fade, another would hit him.

"Stop.

dear God in heaven, please stop!" he said, his

oice a croaking mumble around the clip

"You people don't believe in God any more than I do,

asily.

"TIl... tell

stop!"

The Baron flipped the rheostat op

"off," took off the

ngue clip, and placed his lips close to the other man's ear.

The numbers, Vasily.

"Water

. can't speak."

The Baron reached echind hisht ap, and then a bottle was

eing forced between Korshakov's lips, striking his teeth. He

rank greedily, and then the bottle was taken away.

"I'm reaching for the rheostat,

Vasily.

The numbers began tumbling from Vasily Korshakov's

ps. Instead of the rheostat, the Baron's hand found a pad and

encil. Furiously he copied account numbers, codes, and

anks.

He made the man repeat everything three times before he

ighed with satisfaction and slipped the pad into his pocket.

"Rest in peace, Vasily. "

The Baron flipped the rheostat in the black box to "full"

nd, accompanied by Korshakov's screams, made his way to

le stairs.

By the time he reached the door at the top of the stairs the

creams had ended and the only sound in the room was the

um from the black box.

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TEN

Nick Carter pushed the linen-covered tray cart into the

elevator of the Parkhotel and punched '7.

The elevator

jolted, took hold, and began to glide upward. The cart beside

him shuddered. He patted it with his open palm.

He moved down the seventh floor corridor to the very end

Out the window, in the distance, he could see the vast acres

and sprawling buildings of Schonbrunn Palace. Closer to the

hotel were other, smaller hotels, office buildings, and more

buildings under construction.

Though he couldn't see them, he knew there were two

special-duty AXE agents in one of the windows directly

across, a high-powered scope trained on the windows of

Room 717 of the Parkhotel. He also knew that somewhere

over there, one or more of the Baron's army was also watch-

ing the same windows to make sure their little bird didn't get

cold feet and fly

"Yes?" came the answer to his knock.

"Bitte, Fräulein.

The door opened, held on the chain, and one eye peered

fearfully through the crack.

Carter straightened his white jacket, inclined his head, and

barely clicked his heels. "Guten Tag, Fräulein.'

yes. " The door closed and opened again wide.

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NICK CARTER

Melissa Lane paced to the window as Carter kicked the

door closed and pushed the cart to the center of the room.

"Wie geht es ihnen dieser fein Tag, Fräulein?'

. I'm sorry, I don't speak German. Would

you just leave the cart, please? Right there is fine.

"I said," Carter repeated in fluent, American-accented

"how are you this fine day, Miss Lane?"

She had turned toward the window. Now she whirled, her

hands flying to her face as it drained of color.

*Would you please move away from the window, Miss

Lane? Our people are watching you, but I'm sure there are

Instinctively Melissa took several steps from the window

as Carter rapped on the cart and lifted the linen from one side.

"You!" Melissa gasped as the side of the cart raised and

Ginger Bateman tumbled out.

"No thanks to you," Ginger said, getting to her feet. She

turned slightly and lifted her hair. "Wanna see my stitches?"

Melissa's eyes misted. Her hands came together and began

to wring each other. "T... I'm sorry, but I told you to leave

me alone. My God, can't you people understand? They 'll kill

"Not if we get her away from them first," Carter said.

In two steps he had his arm around Melissa's waist. He half

carried, half guided her to a sofa near the cart and sat her

"Here," he said almost brutally, shoving a cup of coffee

and a saucer into her hands.

"When you get tired of hearing

those clatter, maybe you'll calm down.

"Damn you

"No, Miss Genius, damn you," Carter said, venom and

steel in his voice. "You may know about pushing things

around in space, finding things without seeing them on radar

screens, and be a computer wizard, but you don't know beans

about the killing business. I do!"

"I... I'm afraid, that's all

'You bet your ass you're afraid. That's why you're worth

nothing to your little sister. Ginger and I are

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THE BUDAPEST RUN 131 He knew he was being hard on her, but he also knew he had to be. He didn't have any time to waste. As he dropped to one knee beside her legs, his hand—quicker than she could fol-low—slipped beneath his coat and came out holding Wilhel-mina. In an instant he levered a shell into the chamber and held the black Luger directly before her eyes. "You know computers, Miss Lane; they're the tools of your trade. These are the tools of mine." He paused, squeezing his right forearm. The spring action on Hugo's arm clip clicked, and the razor-sharp stiletto filled his hand. Melissa's eyes grew wide and white. 'This is a specially modified 9mm Parabellum Luger POP. It carries a special ten-load magazine, and its muzzle velocity is one thousand and fifty feet per second. It is very effective in either short or long range, because I'm skillful with it. In fact, I can out both a man's eyes at fifty yards. I know . . I've; one it. "I call this little piece Wilhelmina. She was specially modified for me. See this in the bun? That's for a shoulder stock attachment and a thirty-two-round magazine, so I can kill people faster. And this? This is Hugo, very quick, very deadly, and very efficient ... leaves very little mess." Carter slid the weapons out of sight and stood expelling his breath in a long sigh. "Are you ready to listen to us now, Miss Lane?" Melissa swallowed once, carefully set her cup and saucer ml the cart, and nodded. "Yes. Yes, IT do whatever you "Good. We think we may know where Tanya is." Carter pulled a photo from his inside coat pocket and unfurled it. "Do you know what this is?" "No." 'This is a blown-up portion of the photograph you ripped up and left in the wastebasket of your room in Canet-Plage; the photograph would probably have helped us if you'd given it to us a few days earlier." "Nick," Ginger said, shooting him a warning glance and sliding onto the sofa beside Melissa.

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NICK CARTER

"Yeah, you're right," he said grudgingly. "Brief her."

Ginger took the photograph and began to speak while

Carter lit a cigarette.

"This is a blowup of one of the steel struts of a hospital bed

the bed Tanya was lying on in the photograph.

"Yes...?"

"Here you can see the plate with the manufacturer's

trademark.

"Yes, I see it," Melissa nodded, some enthusiasm creep-

ing into her voice now.

"It's a Dusseldorf company.

"Right. This particular model is very special.

It has

different hydraulics than other hospital beds, and it is also

built with special patient restraints.

Very few of them are

made. We found out that only twenty-two of them, this year's

model that same model in the picture-were shipped into

Austria."

Across the room, Carter picked it up. *Two pf them went

to a psychiatric ward of the main hospital here in Vienna.

They're full right now and have been for over a month with

the same people.

"A sixty-five-year-old-woman," Ginger said, "and a

man who thinks he's the Marquis de Sade.

Melissa looked up at Carter, the beginnings of a smile

curling her lips.

"And the other twenty beds?"

"A very private, very exclusive clinic in the Alps near

Innsbruck. It's called St. Christobel. I have a helicopter

ready to go up there just as soon as we get you to a safe

place.

The smile on her face quickly faded. "But if they find me

gone.

"Melissa. Ginger took the other woman by the arm and

led her across the room to a full-length mirror. She placed her

in a spot in front of the mirror and then stood beside her.

Carefully Ginger coiled her hair toward the back of her head

until it was very near the same style worn by Melissa. Then,

deftly, she inserted a few pins and dropped one arm around

the other woman's shoulders. She tugged until she and

Melissa were standing shoulder to shoulder.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

133

"With a little makeup, dark glasses, and your clothes,

even the Baron himself would have to be right on top of me to

tell the difference."

"My God, you're right, " Melissa gasped, turning to face

the other woman.

"And that's how we plan to do it, Carter said. "Ginger

came in via the cart, and you go out via the cart. She stays

here until we're sure Tanya's safe.

"But are you sure.

.?" Melissa said, again gnawing at

her lower lip.

"As sure as we're going to get," Carter replied, moving

across the room and taking her by the shoulders.

Miss

"Look,

.. Melissa, it's you they want. You're not only a

scientific addition, you're a propaganda tool. That's pretty

obvious from the way they want you to make the crossover.

They want/it to appear as if it were entirely of your own

volition. If you follow all their orders, doing exactly as they

have specified, Tanya can scream at the top of her lungs over

here when it's all done, and it won't make any difference."

"But-

*No buts about it. Moscow can disclaim any association

or knowledge of the Baron whatsoever. The fact that vou

came across on your own and defected is all they're interested

in. Now, do we play ball?"

«Yes,

" Melissa answered, squaring her shoulders and

gaining some strength for the first time since they had entered

the room.

"All right, " Ginger began. "I've got to know everything

they told you, right down to the last little minute piece of

instruction.

Melissa thought for a moment, took a deep breath, and

started spitting out all the instructions she had gone over and

over in her mind since her meeting at the Countess Von

Riggen's with the Baron.

I'm to wear a red dress and hat. They're in the closet. No

more wig..

• that's probably because they're planning

some kind of photograph at the frontier. Also, there is a visa

and other papers in my name.

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NICK CARTER

"They want you to go over under your own passport?"

Carter asked.

"Yes,

" she replied.

"That clinches it, " he said.

Melissa reiterated the rest of the instructions about the

stomach cramps and subsequent hospitalization, and defec-

tion on the other side.

Carter turned to Ginger. "Got it?"

"As much as I'll ever have it," she replied.

"Okay, let's just hope it never gets to the point where you

have to make the crossing.

" He turned and grasped Melissa

by the elbow.

"C'mon, m'girl.

. into the cart!"

She paused for a second, rolling her eyes up to his square-

jawed, ruggedly handsome face.

"Who are you?"

"The name's Carter," he replied with a smile. "Nick

Carter. And you'd better know it, lady. •

. I'm one of the

good guys.

Carter hit the tarmac before the rotor blades stopped turn-

ing above him. With Michaels at his heels he dove into the

back of a vintage Mercedes. Michel Dontaine was in the front

passenger seat, and the driver was introduced as Kurt Hueb-

ling.

They were barely settled in when the car lurched forward.

Huebling was a good man with a wheel. In no time they were

out of the Flughafen parking lot and moving toward the city

on the autobahn.

"What have you got?" Carter asked.

"A start, but not a hell of a lot yet,

" Dontaine replied,

passing a map of Innsbruck over the seat back and following

it with half his bodv.

"St. Christobel is a converted monas-

tery. It's built into the foothills above the Stubai Valley.

here."

"How far out of Innsbruck?" Carter asked.

"Less than an hour this time of year. I've booked us three

rooms at an inn on the Brenner Autobahn.

here. We can

use them for a gathering place and fall back if necessary.

"Good," Carter growled. "What else?"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

"Here's the architectural layout. The monastery itself was

built way back in Ludwig's time, but they had to file these

plans when they did the renovation. Also, because of Aus-

tria's socialized medical care system, they had to get a state

sanction in order to stay private and charge their patients an

Carter spread the St. Christobel floor plan out across his

and Michaels's laps and did a quick study. At the same time,

Dontaine spread out six four-by-ten glossies.

"Here's the exterior-four by telephoto from the ground

and two by helicopter this morning.

"Weird, " Michaels said

Dontaine chuckled. "Yeah, they say on warm nights you

can't see the place for the bats.

Carter's keen and experienced eye took in the exterior

photos. There was one road up to St. Christobel, and it went

nowhere else. The mountain behind went up just over sixty-

five hundred feet. The snow line came down halfway to the

He jabbed the top of that mountain with his finger. "Can

we get up there?"

Dontaine smiled. "I figured you'd ask that. The top is a

rangy plateau over to this mountain here. There's still a lot of

snow even at this time of year. About the only way is by

Carter nodded. "We could be dropped off here"-he

jabbed the map and slid his finger down to the monastery-

'and ski down to here. Then we just walk down to the back

"Can be done," Dontaine said, his brows curving into a

vee, "but it's rough. There are live trees up there, and lots of

half-buried stumps left from summer timbering, Also rocks

and a few other hazards. It's not ski country.

"Particularly at night," Carter said, a white line appearing

along the edge of his jaw.

"But we can't go in the front

"He moved the photos to the side and smoothed out the

"Give me a rundown on this.

"Okay, " Dontaine said, leaning further over the seat.

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NICK CARTER

"Kitchens and staff quarters are here. They take up almost

the entire bottom floor. There are two wards, actually wings

... here and here. They're broken up into nine rooms to a

ward."

"What about a cellar?" Carter asked. "Monks always

made wine.

•They did. It's been converted into storerooms and of-

"And the two towers?"

"Nothing, " Dontaine replied. "They've been closed off

Carter's head came up, his eyes meeting the other man's

"Supposedly ..?"

"Look here at the end of the corridors on each wing.

There's a kind of anteroom..

and see right here?" Don-

taine took a pencil from his pocket and pointed to some dotted

lines. "They're dumbwaiters, and if I'm any judge, they go

beyond servicing just the wards on this floor.

'The towers?" Carter suggested

Another picture came over the seat. •This was also taken

from the helicopter. If vou look closely through those narrow

windows, you can see activity in there.

"Which one?" Carter asked, referring back to the floor

"The one on the right... or left, if you're looking from

the mountain. And, Nick

"Yeah?"

"There are nine rooms to a ward. That's a total of eighteen

beds.

"So that would leave a bed each for the towers, Nick

said. "Can we do a recon?"

"Already set it up,

takes fready ner up every day ac repried, " Laundry truck

"What about the driver?"

"Iced. Let's just say he can't say no, no matter how much

he wants to.

"Sounds good. Laundry, huh? In those big, rolling canvas

carts?"

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

137

Dontaine nodded.

Carter turned to the young agent beside him.

"How are

your guts, Michaels?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" he said with a grin.

"Okay, you'll go in with me and the laundry man. In the

meantime, study the hell out of these floor plans. "

'What do I concentrate on?"

'The tower,

" Carter replied. When we bust ass in there,

I want you in Tanya Lane's room waiting for us. They'll try

to get to her the minute the lid blows. Cut up anybody who

tries."

The car came to a halt, and the driver growled something

unintelligible to Dontaine.

*We're here.

Nick Carter looked out the window.

There, pérched about a mile away and a thousand feet up

the side of a mountain, was the gray stone mass of St

Christobel.

The man's name was Gustav Fleming. He was only about

three years older than Carter, but his hair was nearly com-

pletely gray, and there were miles of age lines in his face. His

eyes were small and cold, and he had shoulders like a wres-

ter's or a professional weightlifter's.

He was an illegal from East Germany, just one of many on

French SDECE and German BND lists. Carter knew the

moment he had stepped from the truck that the man hated

both Dontaine and Huebling for fingering him.

"He'll grouse a lot, " Dontaine had said of Fleming,

"but

he'll do as he's told, and he won't cross you up. He doesn't

want to go back to East Germany.

They crawled the last quarter mile to St. Christobel where

the road leveled out, before Fleming said a word

*Through the gate there is a courtyard. On the far side of

the courtyard is a loading ramp. We park there.

"And then?"

"You take one cart of clean linen; I take the other. Then

follow me. You speak German?"

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NICK CARTER

"Ja, ja," Carter replied.

"Good. If an orderly speaks, answer him, but don't say

much. They are as much security men as they are orderlies.

"Didn't you ever wonder why?" Carter asked dryly

Fleming swept him once with his small eyes and replied

through clenched teeth, *They get a lot of celebrities up here,

alcoholics and crazies who want to dry out and put their heads

back together. That's what they tell me; that's what I believe.

Without a passport and work card it's hard to get a job in

Austria. Here we go."

The panel truck pulled into a large courtyard, swung

around, and then backed up to the open door of a loading

Carter stepped down from the truck in unison with the

other man, and they moved toward the rear.

"Ah, Gustav, you have help today?"

The man was dressed all in utility whites, including soft-

soled white shoes. His face was square with a massive jaw,

and his blond hair was clipped in a brush cut a half inch from

his scalp. His shoulders in the white jacket were massive, and

the hands were more like paws where they hung from the

"Yeah, the boss is thinking of putting on a second truck."

Fleming opened the rear doors of the truck and whispered to

Carter out of the side of his mouth, "His name is Goetz. He's

the chief orderly."

He looks more like a Viking hit man, Carter thought.

This was confirmed when Carter brushed his elbow against

the man's midsection in passing.

"Ah, sorry, " he said in German. "Not used to the carts

"Eh," the man grunted, shrugging.

There was no doubt that the hard piece of steel stuck in the

front of Goetz's belt was some kind of pistol.

"In here," Fleming said, banging his cart against two

swinging doors

It was a large utility room. There were two carts full of

dirty linen awaiting them.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

139

"We take these back to the truck and get the other two carts

of clean.

" Carter grabbed one of the carts and followed him

back out into the corridor, where he paused. "When we come

back, take your cart down to that wing. The utility room is the

last door on the right."

"And that's where the auxiliary generator is?"

"Yes,

in an adjacent room. It is behind a door marked

*Danger.

' But I think it is kept locked."

Carter only smiled. It wasn't necessary to inform Gustav

Fleming that there were damn few locks in the world that

were unpickable.

They returned to the truck, got the two carts of clean linen,

and again made the trek down the corridor. Carter turned

right; Fleming went left.

Carter counted off the rooms as he went through the wing.

About half the doors were open. He heard the sounds of

televisions or voices behind the closed doors.

Well, he thought, the legit half of the sanitarium's business

is obviously booming.

He didn't want to think that maybe, just maybe, the whole

place was legit and Tanya Lane wasn't in the tower room.

He barely paused at the last door on the right. Instead he

pushed the cart to the end of the corridor, parked it, and

pushed open the end door. He found himself in a small alcove

with a narrow steel spiral staircase winding upward.

To his left there was a steel or aluminum door built into the

wall about waist high. It slid up at his touch, and Carter poked

his head inside.

Below, he could hear the sounds of pots and pans, and

cooking odors wafted up to fill his nostrils. Above was

blackness, but the cables along the side told him that this was

the dumbwaiter in the floor plan.

And, he thought, I'll lay ten-to-one that it goes right from

the kitchen up to the tower suite!

He let the door slide shut and started up the stairs, making

no pretense at stealth. He was nearly to the top when an

orderly who could have been Goetz's clone glanced up from a

magazine he was reading.

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He was on his feet in an instant and moving to block Carter

at the last curve of the stairs.

"Hey, what are you doing up here?"

"Linen," Carter replied, pointing to the green company

patch on his breast pocket. *I'm looking for the utility room

in this wing.

He let his eyes waver a bit from the other man's just

enough to note the table where he had been sitting and the

double-locked steel door behind it.

"Where's Gustav?" the orderly demanded, his right hand

"Other wing. I'm helping him out today, learning the

ropes. The company is adding a second truck."

The orderly seemed agitated, unsure, as he continued to

eye Carter. There didn't seem to be a great deal of gray matter

behind the eyes, and Carter took advantage of it.

"Gustav said the last door. This was the last door. Where

the hell is the utility room? There? How the hell am I sup-

posed to get that damn cart up these narrow stairs?"

"You're not, Dummkopf," the orderly snapped in disgust.

"He meant the last door on the right! Go back downit's

just opposite the one you came in.

" Carter said, turning and muttering as if to

"Mein Gott, everyone in this place is crazy.

He retraced his steps to the corridor and pushed the cart

into the utility room.

Quickly he moved to a second door;

stenciled lettering read Danger.

By penlight he checked. It was an Orwell. Two minutes

later he had it picked and was following the beam from the

penlight down a set of rickety wooden stairs to a small,

stone-walled room. In the room's center was the emergency

Systematically he went around the generator with a pair of

wire clippers.

Then, with Hugo, he disengaged the input

and output cables, and made hamburger out of their connec

Back in the utility room, he crouched beside the cart of

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

clean linen he had just wheeled in.

'Michaels?"

" came the muffled reply.

"I'm sweating like a stuck pig, but I can breathe."

*Okay, you're in the utility room. Across the way is a door

that leads up to the tower. There's an orderly, armed, outside

the door topside.

"Is the dumbwaiter in the same place as shown on the

"Affirmative, " Carter said. "You remember everything I

"Down to the last period. Did you nail the secondary

power source?"

"Yeah. It'll take ten electricians a day and a half to put it

back together. I'm taking off.

« a hone I don't needs. good luck, guy."

Carter was just closing the door of the utility room when a

short, stout woman with shoulders and arms like a football

linebacker came toward him down the corridor.

She paused, eyeing him as he passed. Carter nodded.

"Guten Tag."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched her watch him. He

remembered the vague description of the two nurses the

Swiss frontier guard had given, the two nurses in the ambu-

lance with Tanya Lane.

He had already figured out that one of them was Alexis

This one, more man than woman, fit the description of the

Carter came up short, hoping the sweat on his upper lip and

forehead wouldn't give him away.

"Ja?"

She moved around to the front of the cart and placed her

beefy hand on it.

"You're new.

"Yes, I am. Gustav.

" At just that moment he saw

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NICK CARTER

Fleming nearing the intersection of the corridors thirty yards

away.

"Ah, Gustav!"

The woman turned as Gustav left his cart and strolled

toward them.

"Guten Tag. Fräulein Alfree, this is my new

helper, Kurt. Rumfort."

The woman turned back to Carter. "How do you do, Herr

Rumfort?"

"Come along, Kurt, we're late," Fleming called

"Fräulein," Carter said again, nodding his head toward

her hand, which was still gripping the cart.

She lifted it, and he forced himself to take slow, measured

steps as he passed her and joined Fleming.

"Who's she?" Carter whispered as they made the turn and

headed for the loading dock.

*Fräulein Nedda Alfree. She runs the place. Mean

very mean. I once saw her beat one of the orderlies bloody for

"I can believe it, " Carter said, exhaling his breath in a low

They were across the courtyard and nearing the main

gate when Fleming was forced to stand on the brakes. A

baby blue Jaguar shot by them, skidded to the left, and

came to a screeching halt near the sanitarium's huge oaken

"Stupid damn woman, " Fleming hissed, putting the truck

"Wait a second, " Carter said, grasping the man's arm.

"Never mind, just hold it a second..

The car was familiar, but he couldn't quite re-

And then he didn't have to.

Alexis Carlyle, dressed in a black blouse and slacks, with

her reddish blond hair flying, lurched from the car and rushed

up the steps.

"Okay, Gustav," Carter said, smiling broadly, "let's

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

143

He leaned back in the seat with a contented sigh and lit a

cigarette.

If he had any doubts about Tanya Lane being at St.

Christobel, they were all gone now.

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ELEVEN

Otto Von Petrie adjusted the black tie at his throat and

shrugged into the close-cut dinner jacket.

The mán who stared back at him from the mirror looked far

short of his fifty-odd years. The deep-set, brooding eyes,

aquiline nose, full, almost feminine mouth, strong, closely

shaved chin, and tanned skin were all part of the cultivated

image.

He could have been an actor or playboy, or both. He was

obviously rich, confident, and self-assured. He had the sort

of face one sees regularly at St. Moritz or Biarritz.

He smiled, feeling very good about the day's progress so

far, so good that he was about to allow himself a night at the

opera.

The Lane woman was nervously pacing her room, waiting

to go over in the morning. He had successfully shifted over

two million dollars from Korshakov's Swiss accounts to his

own. By the same time a day from now, he would collect yet

another million from Moscow for the completion of the Lane

contract, and it would all be over for a while.

And no one could connect Otto Von Petrie with anything.

It would be wise to rest for a while afterward, perhaps

travel. South America would be best, with Alexis. And while

there, she could be the victim of an "accident. "

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He was bored with Alexis and was beginning to have

doubts about her knowing his true identity.

He was about to pull on a lightweight topcoat when the bar

phone interrupted his thoughts.

"Otto, it's me-Alexis."

"Where have you been? Why didn't you call at the ap-

pointed time?"

"Otto, I couldn't. There are-

"Where are you?" he barked

"At St. Christobel. Otto, they missed him.

"I don't know how it happened, but somehow he tricked

them. Yuri and Petrie are both dead."

"What? Petrie.

… is dead?"

Otto Von Petrie's eyes traveled up to the mirrot behind the

bar. His tanned face looked lighter now, and lines appeared

where there had been none before. A fine layer of moisture

covered his eyes.

"Otto. are you still there?"

"Of course I'm still here, " he whispered. "This Carter

killed Petrie?"

*Yes, but I should think you would worry more over the

loss of Yuri. I think Yuri was the only one left who could

have stopped this man.

"Be quiet and listen! Could he have followed you to St.

Christobel?"

"Are you sure? Positive?"

There was a moment's hesitation, and then she replied in a

whisper, "No, I'm not positive.

*Damn.

"Otto.

"Quiet, I'm thinking, damn you!"

His keen, alert mind raced through all the recent hap-

penings and their ramifications. If Carter knew about St.

Christobel, he would surely try for Tanya. The DuFarve

woman had been located and was being watched, so it was

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THE BUDAPEST RUN 147 doubtful that she and her fellow Libyans would be able to execute whatever plans they had formulated. The key was still Tanya Lane.

"Yes?" "As soon as it's quiet up there, when the girl can be taken out under cover, bring her here." "There? To the schloss?" "Y., and don't use the ambulance." "If you 're sure—" "Alexis, I never give an order I'm not sum on And once she's in a plain car. I want just you and Nedda to accompany He re7 the receiver and moved acro. the room to a heavy oak • bey. With a key from his ring he unlocked one of the dm ers and yanked it open. His jawline snapped shut and his eyes blazed foe as he lifted a leather folder from the drawer. Carefully he extracted the two photographs the folder contained, then he crossed to the fireplace. "You were nothing but a common thief, a hooligan, my son . . but I was almost able to make you into a man. For what it's worth, you'll have your revenge on this Nicholas Carter." He dropped the pictures into the fire, and even before they were consumed by the flames, One Von Petrie's eyes had lost the misty quality that they had momentarily held. Now they were once again ice cold, and his mind was already back on the pure track of business . . . and survival. I wonder how long it will take, he thought, for them to discover that Petrie Alexander is actually Karl Von Petrie. And if theydodiscover it, will they beable todigdeepenough to find out that he was the son of Otto Von Petrie? It was dusk when they dropped out of the helicopter on the range beyond the peak of Christobel Mountain. By the time they had climbed by snowshoe to the peak, darkness had swallowed the world. The fast stars were shining faintly, and the air was crisp and quiet.

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148

NICK CARTER

Wordlessly, both of them discarded their snowshoes and

unstrapped the skis from their backs. When the boot clips

were fast, Carter stood and adjusted Wilhelmina at his side.

With the added length of the silencer on the Luger, the barrel

reached well below his belt.

He checked the thirty-two-round magazine at his belt and

cast a glance in Dontaine's direction to make sure he did the

same with the Ingram he carried.

"Time?" Carter asked, checking his own watch.

"Eight, " Dontaine replied,

"sharp.

"We match. Let's hope Michaels does, too."

Below them, halfway down the mountain, the lights of St.

Christobel danced eerily behind the old slitted windows. Far,

far below lay the chalky ribbon of the Brenner Autobahn, and

beyond it more lights, much more garish than those of the

monastery.

Between where they crouched and the monastery was

darkness and trees and stumps and rocks and God-only-

knew-what-else that could break a leg, or worse.

It was cool, but Carter mopped his face with the end of the

scarf knotted around his neck.

"You think we can make it down there, cut all the lines,

and get in, all in an hour and a half?"

Carter nodded.

"I think we have to."

Suddenly, as if someone had snapped on a switch, the

terrain in front of them was bathed with a soft blue glow.

Moon's over the mountain, " Dontaine muttered.

"Yeah. Let's go.

They pushed off, Carter leading, Dontaine close behind.

The moguls began at once, jarring the bones in Carter's

legs until he thought they would come out his shoulders. He

took small bites with his pole spikes, preferring to use them

only for balance as he slowed his descent by planing to get the

feel of the snow.

It was about three inches of powder with a crusty layer of

ice underneath.

He ransacked his memory for his old training on ice: ski

subtly, as if the runners were on eggshells; easy on the edges,

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

take small bites and control the weight distribution; don't curl

the toes, keep them flat.

When he had the feel of the snow, he began a series of short

wedel turns, eating up the downhill distance.

Suddenly a limb was heading right for his throat. It was too

late for a christie, so he did a layback and hoped he wouldn't

hit a mogul that would topple him.

Safe from the limb, he took wider traverses to further slow

"Boulder and stump!" he called to the figure at his rear.

Carter threw his weight into a royal christie and ended with

a kickout. He glided by the boulder a foot on the safe side and

missed the stump by an inch.

Then he burst from the tree line.

As the powder and ice turned to pure slush beneath his

skis, he flattened out in a crouch with his points headed

straight dowa. Just behind him and to his right, he could see

that Dontaine had done the same thing.

In this way, using what was left of the snow and even the

dewy grass, they were able to add another hundred yards to

their downhill run.

When he felt the skis begin to stick and pull, threatening to

topple him, Carter did a stem christie to the right and soon

came to a halt.

Side by side the two men unclamped the skis, discarded

them and the poles, and continued on down the mountain on

foot. Twice they ran into deep gorges and had to drive pitons

into trees and rope themselves down the sheer sides.

Eventually they reached the seventy-odd yards of level

land at the rear of the monastery. Even though it was warmer

at this elevation, the night was cool with a steady breeze off

the mountain. But both of them were soaked with sweat from

the exertion of the descent.

Carter checked his watch. The second hand was just click-

ing over a minute. It was exactly 8:50.

From where they stood they could see the top of an ancient

stone wall fourteen feet above them. Beyond the top of the

wall squatted the gray and brown mass of St. Christobel, its

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150

NICK CARTER

twin towers, one at each end of the monastery, soaring up

into the night sky.

Carter smiled to himself when he saw light slanting from

the slitted windows of the tower to his left. The windows of

its twin to the right were dark.

From the rear clip of his belt he unhooked a four-pronged

grappling hook. To its ring he snapped a twenty-foot line and

began to swing the hook in a circular motion at his right side.

And then it was sailing through the air with a whooshing

sound. The sound of the steel tines clanking against the stone

just over the top of the wall was like a jarring flat note from a

tuba in a concert. It seemed to reverberate all along the wall

and fill the night.

Both Carter and Michel Dontaine crouched silently, wait-

ing, listening, each studying the other's blackened face.

They stayed like that, tensed, for a full minute, and then two,

to be sure that no doors had opened or alarm had been

sounded.

At last, satisfied, Carter began to tug on the line, pulling

the four-tined hook slowly back to the top until it held. He

yanked once to be sure, then further tested it with his weight.

As one, they both bent and undid the cumbersome ski

boots. In seconds they were replaced with soft-soled sneak-

ers, and then Carter was back at the rope

"Okay," he whispered, "up we go.

As Dontaine held the slack from the line, Carter went up

hand over hand, using his feet against the stone wall as a

brace. At the top, he had just started to pull himself over

when the

palm of his hand struck something sharp and

smooth. Quickly he recoiled and used two of the spikes

embedded in the top instead

Crouching at the top, he flipped the rope twice and then felt

it go taut with Dontaine's weight.

'Careful, he whispered when the man was just below

him. "They've scattered broken glass all along the wall, and

there are spikes every foot.

Dontaine nodded and began to swing from side to side

When he had the momentum, he did a jackknife upward and

gained the top like an agile cat.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

151

Carter's estimation of the man as a night fighter went up

ten points.

Using the rope again, they lowered themselves to the

courtyard inside the wall.

On silent feet they ran in a zigzag pattern across the

courtyard, each covering the other. Near the rear wall they

fell on all fours and patted the ground as they moved.

"I've got them, " Dontaine hissed.

Carter squeezed in close beside the other man and quickly

sprayed the ground with the beam from a shielded penlight.

Three dark-colored four-inch cables came out of the wall,

climbed a steel support pole, and angled off into the dark-

"I don't know, Dontaine said. "The plans only called

for a two-cable power input."

•Don't take a chance,

" Carter replied, fumbling inside

the pack on the other's back and producing a carefully

wrapped bottle.

*Take all three of them out.

"Okay, " Dontaine said with a nod, unwrapping the bottle

When the seal was broken and the cork extracted, a sour

odor like rotten eggs filled their nostrils. Gingerly, Dontaine

addressed the mouth of the bottle to the cables, saturating

them with sulfuric acid.

At once there was a hissing sound that built in intensity,

and the rotten-egg smell was magnified a hundred times.

"How long will that stuff take?" Carter asked.

"To burn through enough to throw the power out.

about twenty minutes, give or take a minute.

Carter nodded with satisfaction as he hit the face of his

watch with the penlight.

"Let's go and get set by the telephone cable."

Inside the linen basket, Michaels noted the time on his own

watch and began to work his way free through the folded

sheets and towels.

At the door he paused to tighten the sling on the Ingram,

bringing it in tighter to his chest. Satisfied that it wouldn't

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NICK CARTER

swing, he levered a shell into the chamber and cracked the

The corridor was clear even though he could hear voices in

one of the nearby rooms. By the time the latch clicked behind

him, his feet were already moving toward the other door.

In the alcove at the base of the steel stairs that ran up to the

tower, his mouth went suddenly dry and his knees began to

wobble slightly.

Sudden questions went flying through his mind. How old

was the cable system in the dumbwaiter? Would it squeak or,

worse yet, clank and scream as he ascended? Was the kitchen

below truly empty at this time of night, as they had supposed?

And was the girl alone in the room? There was no way of

knowing if there was a guard on duty inside, as they knew

there was outside.

"C'mon, Michaels, for Chrissake,

"he growled to him-

self. "vou wanted in on this deal, now get with it!"

At least, he thought, the aluminum door of the dumbwaiter

went up without a sound. Tentatively, holding his breath, he

tugged on the cables.

There was no sound, and less than a minute later the

open-faced carrier filled the space before him. Room was no

problem; two men his size could have fit.

The balance on the counterweights was perfect. He was

able to pull himself all the way up using only one hand. When

narrow lines of light appeared through the cracks in the door

of the tower room, he halted the carrier and locked it.

Now he loosened the strap on the Ingram, tested its ma-

neuverability, and reached for the inner handle on the sliding

door. Rolling to his side and getting his eye as close to the

bottom of the door as he could, he cracked it just enough to

peer into the room.

Tanya Lane lay stretched out on the bed, covered by a

single sheet. Over that a restraining strap crossed just under

her armpits and above the steady rise and fall of her breasts. A

second strap ran across her body about where her ankles

would be

Bastards, Michaels thought. She can barely move her

arms and her head.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

Her eyes were open, but even from a distance Michaels

could see that the pupils were slightly dilated.

sedated, but it wasn't enough to put her out.

Thank God for that, he thought, soundlessly raising the

door. She may have to do some moving on her own.

He had dropped soundlessly to the stone floor and had

taken three strides toward the bed before she sensed another

presence in the room. When her head rolled

Michaels stopped and brought his finger up to his lips.

Her eyes grew wide and her nostrils flared. There was an

agonizing moment of tension when her gaze fell on the

deadly submachine gun across his chest.

Michaels went to the balls of his feet, prepared to leap for

her and stifle a scream, when he saw her relax. There was still

terror in her eyes, but it was mixed with acquiescence.

Whoevet this man was, he could be no worse than her

kidnappers./

Michaels covered the few feet left to the bed and crouched

with his lips near her ear.

*The hell it is,

" she replied in a whisper. "Who are you?"

Michaels smiled and patted her arm.

Good girl, he

thought. You've still got some spunk left.

"My name is Michaels... I work for the government."

"Which one?"

Another smile. "The U.S. of A. We're going to get you

"What am I doing here in the first place? They haven't told

"Too much to explain now, but it has to do with your

sister. Is there a way you can get that goon out there in here?"

Tanya nodded and rolled her eyes to the far side of a

pillow.

"There's a call light there. He comes in and unstraps

me when I have to go to the bathroom."

"Okay, I'm going to go over there, behind the door. Then

I want you to push the button

.. and close your eyes.

"Close my eyes? What for?"

Michaels looked down at her for a second, then decided

there wasn't time to mince words. He reached down to his

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boot and came up with a curved Scatchi knife. The blade was

six inches long and honed like a razor.

*Because when he comes through that door, I'm going to

She swallowed, then nodded. Michaels moved to the wall.

He unharnessed the Ingram and carefully set it on the floor.

Then he flattened himself against the wall and nodded to the

girl on the bed.

He watched her arm rise until her thumb was near the call

button, and then he shifted his concentration to the door. His

heart was beating like a trip-hammer in his chest. He'd never

killed a man before. He had been trained to, but unlike

Carter, Michaels didn't have a Killmaster designation.

But he knew, in his gut, that he could—and would do it.

The door cracked a foot and then swung wide. Michaels

saw a flash of the man's white jacket before the door ob-

"Vat iss der matter now mit you?" the orderly growled in

heavily accented English.

"Vell, vat.

Michaels slammed the edge of the heavy steel door into the

man's back. Before the orderly could recover, Michaels was

on him. He curved his left hand around the man's face,

gripping his nose and curling thumb and fingers into his eye

sockets. At the same time, he planted a knee in the other's

back and yanked backward on the head to expose the throat.

In one deft motion his right arm had already begun the arc

Then he brought his right arm back and felt the blade of the

Scatchi bite deep. The only sound was a low gurgle as the

man's life spewed from his throat.

The body went limp, and Michaels dropped it.

Tanya stared at him in wide-eyed suspended animation.

Her face was chalk white, and he thought her eyeballs would

burst from their sockets.

"Goddamnit, I told you to shut your eyes!" he hissed.

She did, then covered them with her hands.

Michaels dragged the body to the side and slipped the

small pack from his back. From it he pulled a magnetic steel

bar about two inches wide and eight inches long. With the

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

155

door closed, he placed the bar over the spot where a lock

would normally be below the handle.

Then, also from the pack, he took a small but powerful

hand-held welding torch and fired it up

Two minutes later, the steel bar was soldered across the slit

between the door and the jamb.

*Let's hope that holds

'em long enough," he said, re-

turning to the head of the bed

Tanya Lane dropped her hands and opened her eyes.

"What happens now?"

Michaels checked his watch: 9:25.

"We wait."

Alexis Carlyle hung up the phone and turned to Nedda

Alfree. The stout woman was standing in the center of the

room like a rooted post, glowering.

"I don't believe i heard what you just said correctly."

"You did, " Alexis replied. 'He wants us to take her to the

"It's too dangerous!"

"Dangerous or not, Nedda, those are his orders."

Nedda shrugged. The one thing in life she had been trained

to do, and the one thing she did well, was carry out orders.

"He wants just you and me to take her down. Get Goetz

and Erich, and bring her down to the courtyard. I'll bring the

station wagon around."

Nedda did an about-face and marched to the door. There

she paused and turned back to face Alexis.

"Of course I will

do what he says ... but it puzzles me.

"Why does he want her moved?"

Alexis didn't meet the other woman's eyes. She could see

no reason to tell Nedda that the agent, Carter, may have

somehow found out about St. Christobel and might try to

She also didn't want Nedda to know that it might have been

she, Alexis, who had led him there. She was fairly sure that

was impossible, but if Nedda even thought it.

A shudder ran through Alexis. She was afraid of Nedda.

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156

NICK CARTER

She was sure the woman was slightly insane and completely

capable of killing her if, in her unbalanced mind, she thought

it necessary.

"Well

?"

"I don't know, Nedda, damnit," Alexis cried, slamming

the flat of her hand against her thigh for emphasis.

"Just do

Nedda shrugged and left.

Alexis grabbed her purse, waited a few seconds, and then

ran down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

She was almost to the garage when St. Christobel went

black.

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TWELVE

"Yeah/" Carter hissed. "Hands."

Michel Dontaine dropped to one knee and laced his fingers

together to support Carter's right foot. At the same time he

powered up from his knee and, with seemingly little effort,

hoisted Carter to his shoulders.

"Can you reach them?" Dontaine grunted

*T's no piece of cake," Carter replied, "but, yeah... I

Trying not to put any more pressure than he had to on the

man below him, Carter eased his weight up onto his toes. He

placed one hand on the wall for balance and extended the

other upward. Sweat poured into his eyes, but he ignored it as

the wire clippers in his hand came closer and closer to the

two. Got 'em!"

Dontaine stepped back, and Carter dropped to the ground

like a panther, already moving. The other agent followed his

lead, and in seconds they had burst through the kitchen door

just off the courtyard.

Once through, they darted to each side, weapons raised.

muzzles scanning.

They could hear muffled shouts and

curses from the hall, probably as a result of the failed power.

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The kitchen itself was as still as a tomb. Moonlight pouring

through the door and windows bathed the stark walls and

stainless steel equipment in an eerie blue glow.

Positions staggered, they moved like two black-clad spec-

ters through the sinks and shelves toward the double, swing-

ing doors. They were five feet short when the doors burst

inward and the weak beam of a flash danced through. Behind

• the flash was a tall, Indian-looking man, all in white, with a

He was nearly between Carter and Dontaine when his light

struck them and brought him up short. Carter chopped the

man's wrist. The flashlight skittered across the tile floor as

Dontaine threw the beam of his own penlight into his face.

The chef's eyes popped and rolled as they went from the

black night suits to the darkened faces and then to the

weapons in their hands. He took one step, thought better of it,

and began to raise his hands.

Carter caught the look in Dontaine's eye and saw the

muzzle of the silenced Ingram come up. He shook his head

from side to side, and the movement stopped.

"Ja, ja?" the man said, turning full on Carter.

Dontaine clipped him behind the left ear just hard enough

to put him out for a few hours. Together they rolled him under

one of the stainless steel tables and then moved to the doors in

"Is that the rule of thumb?" Dontaine asked.

Carter nodded.

"If they don't go for a weapon they're

probably unarmed, innocent employees who don't know

what the hell really goes on around here.

He cracked the door. The shouts were louder now and light

from both candles and flashlights danced off the white walls.

Most of the activity was taking place at the junction of the two

corridors near the front door and at the far end of the opposite

wing near the basement room where the auxiliary generator

The wing where they crouched was clear.

Dontaine moved out, hugging the wall, his Ingram cov-

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

ering their approach in case a random beam of a flash came

their way. Carter followed him by ten paces, throwing a look

over his shoulder every second step.

Dontaine was just past the last room before the intersection

when a tray cart sporting a candle on each corner came out of

the room. Another Indian followed it, and the dishes made a

hollow rattle as he slid to a halt.

His eyes were on Dontaine as Carter sprang like a cat, his

right arm raised. The soft-soled shoes he wore made no sound

on the tile. Three strides took him to the man, and then his

hand flashed down, fingers locked straight. The outside edge

of his palm was like a blunt-edged knife as it chopped the

He swayed, turning, his eyes rolling up into his skull as he

fell into Carter's arms.

" Carter hissed, dragging the man back

into the room he had just exited.

An aged, gray-haired woman slept peacefully on the bed.

Carter rolled the man under the bed and seconds later they

were back in the corridor, moving.

At the far end of the hall they saw a figure emerge from the

utility room and pause. Carter tensed, waiting to see if the

light he held would come their way.

Instead he bolted through the door opposite, and Carter

could hear his tread up the steel stairs toward the tower before

the door closed behind him.

The intersection where the two hallways crossed was also

the small foyer from the front door. Just short of it Dontaine

paused and pointed around the corner. Then he looked over

his shoulder and held up one finger.

Carter nodded his understanding, and both of them rolled

into the area at the same time.

There was a desk and chair on one side of the entrance, a

sofa on the other. Candles on the desk illuminated a white-

Sensing he wasn't alone, the man whirled, simultaneously

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160

NICK CARTER

snapping on the flashlight he held in his left hand

Carter got a good look at him in the candlelight. He looked

totally out of place in the hospital whites. That, as much as

the movement of his hand toward his belt, told Carter that he

was more guard than orderly.

A Mauser had barely cleared his coat when Carter pumped

three slugs into the center of his broad chest. The sound from

the silenced Luger was no louder than the soft popping of

three champagne corks.

The front of the man's jacket was instantly dyed red from

the inside out. His face registered shock as the Mauser fell to

the floor and he staggered into the desk. He half turned as his

knees buckled, and then he dropped like a stone.

He was dead before he hit the floor.

"Leave him," Carter said.

"It's go all the way now."

Together they sprinted to the end of the corridor. The

shouts of angry patients reached their ears from the rooms

they passed. Now and then there was the thud of something

being thrown against a door to summon an orderly or the

clatter of a tray being overturned.

Carter's hand was on the knob of the door leading to the

tower stairs when all hell broke loose.

Nedda Alfree's mind was not swift, but it was logical. And

the pain in her shoulder as she and the big man beside her

slammed again and again into the steel door seemed to

enhance the progression of that logic.

Otto had ordered the girl taken to the Vienna Woods

schloss. That was very dangerous. It was unlike Otto to

involve himself directly with any part of an operation. He

must have known that something was going to happen

here at St. Christobel. And he probably related his fears to

Alexis.

And that bitch, Nedda throught, didn't tell me everything.

Her first thought when they had reached the tower door and

found it somehow jammed from the inside, was Gerhard. His

lustful eyes had devoured the young girl when they had first

brought her up to the tower.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

161

Was Gerhard foolish enough to enter the room and rape the

girl?

They had called out to him and there had been no answer

and then the lights had gone off.

Too much coincidence.

"Whatever is holding it," Erich said between gasps for

breath,

"is giving.

"Good! Again!"

Again their shoulders crashed into the steel door and

Nedda Alfree smiled at the subsequent pain. The slam of her

shoulder against the door was nearly as powerful as that of the

giant Erich.

*Fräulein Nedda.

She whirled in the light of the lantern at their feet and saw

Goetz swinging up the stairs. Puzzlement was tainted with

fear in his big, broad face.

"Well? Why have we no lights?"

*Fräulein Nedda,

"he gasped, reaching the landing.

"The

auxiliary generator has been sabotaged. The cables have been

severed and the connectors mangled."

"Mein Gott!"

Nedda cried.

"The door, both of you!

Schnell, schnell!"

Again the door was pummeled from the other side. From

the increased illumination through the widening

crack,

Michaels could see that the hunk of steel was beginning to

give.

It wouldn't be long now.

He could hear the girl's heavy breathing from the far

corner where he had moved her from the bed.

"The door is giving!"

"I know, Michaels replied. "Just stay flat, Tanya.

You'll be all right.

He could imagine the stark fear that must be in the girl's

eyes at that moment. She had just watched him slit a man's

throat, and she knew, even in the darkness, that he was now

crouched behind the overturned bed with the submachine

gun.

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There was another brutal assault on the door. It gave a bit

more, sending a wide shaft of light into the room, but still

held. It now remained closed only by a sliver of steel where

Michaels had welded it.

"Once more! Quickly!" came a woman's shout from the

landing outside the door.

Michaels thought, his palms greasing with

sweat. My God, I've got to kill a woman?

Then he had no more time for thought.

The steel bar gave, and the door swung open to crash

against the wall. The room was suddenly bathed in light from

the landing, and a huge man dressed in white filled the

Michaels was suddenly calm, his mind working like a

well-oiled clock.

Breathe! Exhale! Fire between pulse beats!

For a full two seconds the big man stood, still as death,

silhouetted in the doorway. It was a second too long. As he

threw himself desperately to the right, Michaels fired.

He could sense as well as hear the angry whip of the bullets

as they slammed into the man, stitching him from hip to

shoulder. The body lifted back into the air and slammed

against the wall where Michaels put another three-shot burst

He heard Tanya give a little sound that started as a scream,

but it was bitten off almost as soon as it began.

Instantly he moved the muzzle back to a second flash of

white in the doorway. At the same time he flipped the gun to

full automatic and sprayed.

The smell of burned cordite became acrid in the room as

bullets whined and ricocheted off the stone walls of the

landing.

Fire was returned from beyond the lights, but the

slugs thudded harmlessly into the mattress to Michaels's

right.

He heard another loud, guttural scream of pain and saw a

body tumble down the stairs quickly followed by another

figure in white.

Michaels exhaled the breath he had been holding since the

firing had begun.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

163

From the corner he heard the sound of Tanya retching.

The staccato chattering of Michaels's submachine gun

from the top of the stairs was like a single explosion in

Carter's ears. His hand lifted from the doorknob as if it had

touched fire.

Michaels had come through. Carter had little doubt now

that the man had done his job like a pro. He also surmised that

no matter how many were trying to get into the tower room,

none of them would be successful.

As if in answer to his thoughts there was an agonizing

scream of pain and the sound of a body falling down the

stairs. Almost at the same time the firing stopped.

"Back, " Dontaine replied, already backing away down

the corridor.

Carter threw the switch on his penlight to full, ripped off

the shield that had narrowed its beam, and placed it on the

floor. Dontaine followed his lead so that the door was now

awash with light.

Both men retreated another few paces and crouched to

wait.

It was a short wait.

The man Carter remembered as the chief orderly, Goetz,

burst through the door with the stumpy Nedda Alfree close

behind. Goetz's left arm hung useless as his side, a bloody

mess.

Both he and Nedda Alfree carried Mausers.

As they hit the light, their reactions were very different

Nedda threw her hands up to shield her eyes from the glare

Goetz screamed with rage and began firing wildly down the

corridor.

Carter and Dontaine fired simultaneously.

Goetz seemed to explode as if a bomb had gone off deep in

his guts. He buckled and began to fall forward. To both

Carter's and Dontaine's surprise, Nedda Alfree proved more

adept than they imagined.

She reached out and caught the

falling man. Then, using the strength of just one arm, she

held him in front of her like a shield.

With more strength than most men, Nedda drove directly

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164

NICK CARTER

toward the two men, hurtling Goetz before her, the Mauser

barking from her right hand.

"Look out!" Dontaine cried, getting off two shots that

thudded into the already lifeless body.

At the last second, she hurled the body at Carter and turned

to fire twice at Dontaine's huddled form.

Carter tried to evade, but it was hopeless. He went down

under the big orderly's bulk. By the time he had squirmed

free, the woman was almost at the junction of the hallways.

"Stop, Nedda," Carter shouted, dropping to one knee,

"or else!"

She thundered ahead like a tank.

Carter exhaled and fired, aiming for her right thigh. He

could hear the soft plop as the bullet struck.

Her body went ramrod straight, and her right leg swung out

in a strange reflex action to the slug. Her voice was a wailing,

eerie scream, but she didn't stop. She hopped on her left leg,

dragging her right, and was around the corner before Carter

could get off another shot.

He was about to pursue her when he heard a gasping groan

from Dontaine's direction. One of the penlights had been

kicked around so it now fell full on the other man. A hunk of

his black pullover was gone just above his belt on the right

side. Torn flesh and glistening blood gleamed where the

material had been.

"You're hit."

"Not that bad," Dontaine said and grimaced, leaning his

back against the wall to get to his feet. "Go after her."

"She won't go far," Carter replied. "Keep watch?"

"Can do."

Carter bolted for the tower stairs. A quarter of the way up

he stopped. "Michaels?"

"Yo."

"How goes it?"

Michaels appeared above him on the landing, bathed in

light from the still burning lantern. His arm was around the

waist of a tall, white-faced girl whose eyes were wide and

staring as if they had just seen hell.


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THE BUDAPEST RUN

165

"She ain't gonna do the hundred in ten flat, but she's

mobile.

"Good man," Nick Carter said. "Let's get out of here."

There was very little pain, but as Nedda pushed open the

door and moved toward the steps, she knew something vital

had been severed. She barely had control over her right leg. It

dragged behind her and gave her little mobility beyond some

She sighed with relief when she heard the station wagon's

engine and then looked through the windshield and saw

Alexis waiting

"Here, over here!" she shouted, moving awkwardly

In the car Alexis Carlyle was frozen. Since the firing had

begun she had sat, immobile, not sure of her next move.

Now, seeing Nedda's bloody uniform and watching the

woman hobble grotesquely down the steps, she knew the

answer to the one big question that had been running through

It was the agent, Carter; she was sure of it. The question

was. Who would win?

Watching Nedda frantically moving toward her, Alexis

knew that the game was over.

They had rescued the girl. There would be no returning to

Otto; the Baron didn't condone failure.

Alexis would have to run far and fast. Her sensual lips

thinned with grim determination as she moved the gear shift

into drive and eased her foot down on the accelerator.

Run, she thought, far and fast, and she couldn't do it with a

wounded Nedda Alfree.

Somewhere above her, Nedda heard the unmistakable

putt, putt, putt of a helicopter engine and the whir of its

rotors, but she didn't look up.

She couldn't.

All her concentration was on the car that was picking up

speed and hurtling directly for her. Through the windshield

she saw Alexis Carlyle's frozen face, and in that instant knew

what the other woman meant to do.

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NICK CARTER

You bitch, Nedda thought, you rotten, traitorous bitch.

There was no chance of moving out of the path of the

oncoming car. She couldn't move fast enough with the crip-

pled leg, and even if she could, a slight twist of the wheel by

Alexis and she would be lost anyway.

Nedda was suddenly calm as she lifted the Mauser in both

hands. The car was only twenty feet away when she started

firing. She saw the windshield shatter, and even after the face

behind it had disintegrated into red pulp, Nedda kept firing.

The car struck and passed over her body, yet Nedda's

finger reflexively kept squeezing the trigger of the empty

The helicopter came down smoothly between the four

flares Carter had ignited in St. Christobel's rear courtyard.

The pilot stayed at the controls while a second crewmember

helped Carter and Michaels raise Dontaine into the machine's

"You got a donnybrook in the front courtyard," the

crewman said

"How so?" Carter asked

"A fat woman in a nurse's uniform just got nailed by a

Carter handed Tanya up to Michaels and turned back to the

crewman. "One minute.

"Not a second longer, " came the reply, but Carter was

already sprinting toward the kitchen door.

Throwing caution to the winds, he moved through the

darkened sanatorium, avoiding patients and employees who

were aimlessly wandering the corridors.

Five steps into the front courtyard pretty much told him the

story. He guessed that the woman in the station wagon

mashed against the stone wall of St. Christobel was Alexis

Carlyle. But just gazing at the bloody corpse in the front

seat couldn't tell him for sure.

Only when he did a quick search of the purse at her side

was he certain.

Taking her bag with him, Carter retraced his steps through

the building to the waiting copter.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

167

"Okay?" Carter gave the crewman a thumbs-up sign and

turned to the pilot.

"Let's get the hell out of here.

"What was it?" Michaels asked

Carter told him the general picture, then added,

"We

won't have to worry about anyone up here warning the Baron

we're coming."

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THIRTEEN

"It's still vague, circumstantial stuff, " David Hawk said

belching cigar smoke with each word,

"but it comes too

damn close to ignore. "

Nick Carter nodded, easing his weight into a more com-

fortable position in the leather chair. They were back in the

AXE conference room in Vienna. Dontaine had undergone

emergency surgery and was coming along fine. Tanya had

also been hospitalized and declared fit if somewhat jumbled

in her mind about what the last weeks were all about.

Across the table Michaels fought violently to keep his eyes

open, and Carter could understand why. In the past few

minutes he, too, had found himself pressing his fingertips

hard against his temples to stave off exhaustion. It was as

much mental as it was physical after coming back from the

raid on St.

Christobel, and now they had the continuing

pressure of the matter at hand.

Even David Hawk's red-rimmed eyes showed the strain.

Carter's belly rumbled as he leaned forward and placed the

remains of a cold cup of coffee on the conference table before

him. He gathered up the BND and SDECE reports, and the

cabled communiqué from Paris Interpol. These in hand, he

leaned back and, for the fifth time in the last hour, began to

leaf through them.

They were good and seemed substantial, but as David

169

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NICK CARTER

Hawk had said, there was a lot of circumstantial stuff in

It was up to him and Hawk to find the key that would link

the Baron to the subject extensively covered in the reports.

Yuri Gorgon had been a legionnaire. During the latter part

of his service he had spent nearly all of his duty time in

Algiers. His mentor and commanding officer had been Col-

Von Petrie had been married to a wealthy French woman.

Somewhere during the peak of the three-way war in Algeria,

the wife fled. Divorce papers had been filed in Marseille but

never finalized. The woman had disappeared from the face of

the earth before that had happened.

When Algeria gained independence, Von Petrie lost all his

wealth. For nearly ten years the man had dropped out of

sight. When he surfaced again it was as an oil baron on the

spot market. When oil went crazy, Von Petrie made a for-

tune. One of the reasons for this was an amazing availability

of ready cash. Another was an equally amazing amount of

inside information that allowed Von Petrie to predict wildly

Did Von Petrie exchange arms and/or little acts of terror-

ism for the information that had brought him so much wealth?

And was it a coincidence that "Petrie Alexander' was

actually Karl Von Petrie? Was the younger man Carter had

killed near Lloret related to Otto Von Petrie? A son? A

There was no birth certificate recorded anywhere in

France, Germany, or Austria for a Karl Von Petrie. Could he

have been born in Algeria?

As a teenager he had a brief career as a small-time hooligan

in Marseille and right here in Vienna. He had had a few

arrests but no convictions and never did any time.

Then he had disappeared. Only now, by tracing the finger-

prints of the dead Petrie Alexander-a suspected gun-

runner-had Karl Von Petrie resurfaced

Carter spoke at last. "Otto Von Petrie is a very respected

businessman, held in high esteem by banks in four countries.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

171

There is a slim connection between him and Gorgon as well

as between him and Petrie Alexander.

...

"And this, " Hawk said, tapping a blowup from an Aus-

trian magazine.

Carter nodded. The picture had been taken in the ballroom

of a posh Viennese hotel. It showed a smiling Von Petrie

accepting an award for his charitable contributions. Sitting

directly to his right on the dais, and obviously a member of

his party, was Alexis Carlyle.

"Still not solid," Carter mumbled.

*The woman was a

social butterfly. There's a good chance she may have been

close to of even slept with half the men at that table.

The door to the adjoining communications room opened

and a young woman, one of the crypto people, entered.

"We're ready with the voice tapes, sir.

Three men stood as one, Carter and Hawk exchanging a

hopeful glance.

"Let's hope, " Hawk said, "that this might help put a lid

on it."

Melissa Lane, looking much calmer and more the mature

person Carter assumed she really was, sat at a console, her

face twisted into intense concentration. She wore a set of

earphones across her head, and every now and then she

would raise her hands and press her fingers to them.

*Once more on that one,

" she said

The tape was stopped, rewound, and started again.

And again Melissa Lane's face became intense. As she

listened to the male voice on the rolling tape, her lower lip

curled between her teeth.

This had been going on for the

better part of an hour, and by now there was no gloss left on

her lips.

At last she sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and rolled her

eyes up to Nick.

*No, not that one.

Nick hid his elation and turned to the clerk. "Try the next

one."

The woman went to work on the equipment as Nick lit a

cigarette.

The voice Melissa had just heard belonged to one of the

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172

NICK CARTER

other crypto clerks in the office. It had been the fifth of ten

tapes that had been made up of ten different male voices. All

the voices spoke English with a slight but distinguishable

German accent. All of them were similar in level, tone, and

accent to the voice of Otto Von Petrie.

The sixth tape began to roll. Carter mashed out his

cigarette only to light another right away.

"Wait.

"What is it?" Carter asked, doing everything he could to

hold his voice in check.

*I don't know.

. something, " Melissa replied. "Can

you start that one over again?"

Carter nodded at the clerk.

Melissa listened, concentrated, and then her façe relaxed.

"That's it," she gasped. "That's the voice."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes.

That's the voice of the man I heard at the Von

Riggens' home that night.

*Play it again,

" Carter commanded, rolling his cigarette

between tense fingers.

The seconds seemed interminable as Melissa sat nodding,

listening. And then she removed the earphones and looked up

at him with a smile.

"It's him, no doubt about it. Whoever that voice belongs

to, it's the voice of the Baron."

*You are truly a genius,

' Carter said, kissing her on the

forehead and turning to Hawk.

"We're halfway home.

The two men returned to the conference room just as

Michaels entered from the operations area. In his hand he

carried a recently ripped com sheet.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"She nailed Von Petrie's voice tape as the Baron, " Carter

replied. "What have you got?"

"Maybe the last nail in Von Petrie's coffin," Michaels

replied, beaming.

"How so?"

*We got an ident on Nedda Alfree. Her real name is Nedda

Alexander. She worked as a nurse/nanny in Von Petrie's

household in Algeria. This is a confirmation from Interpol.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

Nedda Alexander was Petrie Alexander's legal guardian. She

was the one who filed the name change in Marseille on the

kid. And all that is very odd since shortly after that, Nedda

Alexander was buried in St. Peter's in Marseille.

Hawk exhaled a cloud of smoke with a sigh.

than even money that the real occupant of that grave is Mrs.

"I'd say that now we're all the way home," Carter de-

clared, turning to Michaels.

"Where's that list of Von Pet-

Michaels fumbled with the papers on the table and passed

one across. Carter scanned the list: Mayfair, London; Ober-

strasse, Vienna; and a château outside Geneva.

"We've got people on all these?"

Hawk nodded. Have had for the last forty-eight hours

He hasn't shown. We've made some discreet inquiries of

servants and delivery people. He hasn't been in any of these

places for weeks.

"Michaels, get Melissa.

As the man left the room, Carter dropped into a chair and

dialed the number of the Parkhotel. The new switchboard

operator was AXE. She got him through immediately.

*Thank God! I haven't slept a wink since your last call.

What's up?"

"We've got an ident on the Baron. You'll have to hang in

there for a while longer.

There was a moment of silence on the other end before she

spoke again.

"You're going after him?"

"If he's still around,

" Carter replied. "We'll know that in

a few minutes. In the meantime get out the red dress, just in

"Okay."

"And don't worry. We'll have your every move cov-

ered."

"I'm not worried. about myself. Nick..?"

"Yeah?"

Take care. "

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NICK CARTER

"It's my middle name," he replied and hung up.

Melissa Lane stood at his elbow. Quickly, in short, to-

the-point instructions, Carter told her what he wanted her to

do.

She nodded her understanding, and Carter's finger went

down the printout of the decoded cipher sheet from Alexis

Carlyle's address book.

When he found the number he wanted, he nodded to

Melissa to pick up the second phone.

"Yes?"

"Carlyle. I'm in Innsbruck. "

"Your number?"

Melissa rattled off the number of the instrument she was

using.

"Two minutes, " replied the voice, and the connection

was broken.

Carefully Carter stretched the cord of Melissa's phone

across the table and nodded to Michaels. While the other man

held the cord flat, Carter placed the point of Hugo's blade on

it.

The phone rang.

Melissa brought the mouthpiece up and held it six inches

from her lips.

"Hello?" she mumbled.

"Alexis, damn you, what's going on up there? You should

have been here hours ago!"

Carter jammed Hugo down, and sudden static filled the

line all but obliterating the man's voice. He lifted the point,

gave the line clarity for two seconds, then jammed it in again.

At Carter's nod, Melissa broke the connection.

They all stood rooted to the spot for a full moment before

the phone rang again.

"Alpine Inn. . . Lounge," Carter answered in German.

There were several seconds of silence before a voice

spoke, also in German. "I was just speaking to a woman

there when the connection went bad. • very tall, attractive

with reddish blond hair, probably dressed in black."

"Ja, ja, mein Herr. She just walked out.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

175

Would you see if you can catch her, please? It is an

emergency.

"Ja, ja. One moment." Carter held his hand over the

mouthpiece and watched the second hand of his watch make

two sweeps.

"Mein Herr?"

"Yes,

the caller snapped

"She just drove out of the parking lot in a station wagon. I

couldn't catch her

"Was she alone in the car?"

"I couldn't tell. It was very dark. "

"Very well... uh, wait.

"Yes?"

"Did you see which way she turned on the highway?"

"Left, sir: "

"Good, thank you. Good night."

"Good night, sir.

Carter replaced the phone with a smile on his face. Left

meant Salzburg or Vienna. He guessed Vienna; it was closer

to the action.

He turned to Hawk, still smiling. "Do I go?"

Hawk nodded. "If we can find him.

"We'll find him," Nick Carter growled.

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FOURTEEN

Number 121 Wiedner Hauptstrasse was a new concrete

block building about five minutes outside the Vienna Ring.

The first floor consisted of a gallery of shops, closed off by an

iron gate. The other four floors were offices, their windows

all dark at this hour of the morning.

All dark except for a set of corner windows on the street

side. These were heavily shuttered, but even from where

Carter stood across the street, he could see yellow light

seeping through.

He lifted the small two-way to his lips, depressed the

"send" button, and spoke.

"Michaels?"

"Here."

"The others?"

'In place.

"I'm going in."

He snapped the two-way onto his belt and moved across

the street.

There was no

way of knowing if Gettering's

Message & Communications Service was straight or in the

sole employ of the Baron. In any event, Carter wasn't taking

any chances.

He leaped for the fire escape runner, pulled it down, and

started to climb. At the second floor he halted and went to

work on the door. There had been no time to check if the

upper offices of the building had been set up with a burglar

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alarm, so it was breath-holding time when he turned the knob

In seconds he found the stairs and mounted them quickly to

the top floor. He didn't have to search for numbers or busi-

ness nameplates. Light came through just one frosted pane.

Carter heard nothing on the other side of the door.

The door gave under his hand. He inched it open just

enough to peer inside. It was an anteroom containing a

counter, a sofa, a few wilting plants, and a message board

with bits of paper tacked to it.

On soundless feet Carter slipped inside and closed the door

behind him. The bulk of the light came from a second room

beyond an open door. He could see a coffeemaker, a cot, and

two large, old-fashioned switchboards with jutting, waist-

high consoles.

In the center of everything a tall, rawboned man with

straw-colored hair and glasses that resembled the bottoms of

Coke bottles lounged in an old-fashioned wooden swivel

chair. A garish girlie magazine was open on his lap, and his

feet were propped up on one of the consoles.

Carter stepped through the door with Wilhelmina at his

"Good evening,

" he said in German.

"Mein Gott!" The magazine flew, the feet hit the floor,

and the eyes grew wider than the lenses in front of them.

"How in hell..?"

"Never mind how I got in here. Franz Gettering?"

"Ja,

" the man replied instinctively, and then he reached

for one of the switchboard cables.

Carter's hand caught his wrist in midair. "If you're think-

ing of calling the police, don't bother. They won't come.

"Who the

"I am the police, " Carter answered, "in a way, and this is

police business, in a way.

*Then let me see some identification."

Carter brought up Wilhelmina and waved the business end

under his nose.

"It's all I've got right now."

The man relaxed completely, and Carter relaxed his hold

"What do you want?" he asked quietly.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

"Who's the Baron?" Carter demanded, fastening his eyes

on the Coke-bottle lenses.

"Baron who?" There wasn't a blink.

"Half my clients

have some kind of a title, mostly phony.

"Is one of your clients Otto Von Petrie?"

"Don't think so, unless he's recent, last day or so.

"He would have been around for a while.

Carter handed him a slip of paper and watched him eyeball

it. "These two numbers on your board?"

Gettering looked up from the paper. Sweat had popped out

on his forehead. "Look, I've got a lot of clients who ship

things, move them, you know? One of the services they pay

for is confidentiality. I can't.

Carter levered a shell into the chamber. "I don't have time

"Yes, they are. It's designated "Home.' "

"How do you contact him?"

Gettering turned and dropped a plywood facing from a

large cabinet between the switchboards. Carter took one look

and lifted the two-way from his belt.

"Our guess was right; it's shortwave. Move the units and

send Fisher up here. The second floor fire escape is open."

"On the way.

Five minutes later, Bertolt Fisher, the best electronics

surveillance man in Europe, was swapping trade jargon with

At last he turned to Nick. "It's a narrow channel-prob-

ably with an open-beam alternate-

that's wave-lengthened

to a warning system beeper of some kind on the other end."

Carter nodded and went back to the two-way. *Michaels,

are they in place?"

"Right on. Got three ground units and a twin-engine Colt

"Good, here's the frequency. " Carter looked to Gettering

and then relayed the figures to Michaels.

"Got it. Go in five minutes.

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180

NICK CARTER

They waited: Nick smoking, Gettering looking nervous,

and Fisher making calibrations.

"Okay,

" Carter said, looking up from his watch,

"get

him up.

The Baron came up on the first call.

"Go ahead, WPQL 1000. This is Home."

"I have a call, Home, " Gettering said as Fisher fluttered

the frequency modulator.

"WPQL 1000, I can barely hear you.

"Having some difficulty here.. one moment."

Gettering paused, looking to Carter with a flushed face

"Stall," Carter whispered, whirling his finger around and

around in the air.

Both voices faded in and out around the floating frequency

and the static Fisher was causing.

Carter turned away and barked into the two-way.

"We got a fix. It's near Oisenburg in the Vienna Woods.

There's not much there except an old schloss. The

ordinates put the signal somewhere right on the estate Co

Carter alerted Gettering and made a motion of slashing his

throat with a finger.

*Home, this is WPQL 1000. We're getting a lot of atmos-

pherics, and I might have fuse problems. Will call back in

By the time Gettering shut down, his whole body was

"You're out of business for the rest of the night, " Carter

said, throwing a look at Fisher.

"Franz, isn't it?" Fisher asked.

"Do you play Bosch? I happen to have a deck of cards."

The twin engines of the Colt droned smoothly as the plane

banked and then started the run. The faint grayness of a new

dawn was just settling over the horizon.

"One minute," the pilot shouted to Carter over his shoul-

der.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

181

He was a good man with the powerful little plane's tricky

controls. His hand and foot coordination on rudder and aile-

ron was perfect. Gently he put them into a steep back that

would take them directly over the dim lights of what Nick

now knew was Schloss Wurtenburg.

Carter adjusted his saddle straps and wriggled his powerful

shoulders into a more comfortable seating of the parachute

pack.

"Set?"

"Fine," Carter replied and added a thumbs-up sign to the

pilot in case he hadn't understood over the roaring of the twin

props.

"Yellow," the pilot shouted.

Carter stood and moved to the open hatch. The wind in his

face was welcome. It blew many of the cobwebs of weariness

he was feeling out of his head. He balanced on his toes and

gripped each side of the hatch hard until his knuckles went

White.

"Green, " said the voice from the front of the plane.

Carter took one look down. He saw the mottled blackness

of the woods break into the open, rolling hills of the estate.

When the dim lights below began to creep into the corner of

his vision, he pushed forward.

He did a couple of easy rolls. The second his mental gyro

was level with the horizon, he flattened out, spread his arms,

and bent his legs. When his body was floating in a free fall, he

took his sightings on the schloss and maneuvered accord-

ingly.

About three hundred yards upwind of the squatting mass of

stone, he pulled. He felt the flaps pop, and then the trailer

blew, pulling the bigger chute out behind it in a billowing

black cloud

He took the jolt and settled into the saddle, sawing at the

lines to bring him in line. His calculations were as close to

perfect as possible, and the descent was smooth. Even the

wind was cooperating.

He had two choices. He could drop in one of the two

courtyards. or he could try for the roof of one of the crene-

lated towers that loomed up to meet him.

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NICK CARTER

He chose the latter and tugged at the shroud lines accord-

ingly to shift his line of glide.

Carter was pretty sure the Baron, aka Otto Von Petrie, was

as conscious of security as he was adept at pushing other

people's buttons. Somewhere on the grounds or in the court-

yards below, Carter guessed there would be dogs.

He tucked just as he passed over the jagged parapet and

then hit with a soft thud. Going to the side, he absorbed most

of the shock on his hip and shoulder.

Landing on solid stone was far different than soft grass, but

Carter's body took commands from his brain like a true

The shock was minimal, and he was instantly on his feet

winding the shroud lines. When the chute was collapsed, he

unsnapped the leg and shoulder rings and easily slithered out

As he and Dontaine had done at St. Christobel, Carter shed

the heavy jump boots and quickly replaced them with soft-

soled sneakers. He then unwrapped sixty feet of heavy-gauge

nylon rope from around his waist and moved across the roof

to the edge of the parapet.

The windows twenty feet below were little more than

firing slits. But farther down, about forty feet, larger, modern

casement windows had been installed.

When the line was secured around one tooth of the parapet,

Carter swung over and started his descent.

Unlike at St. Christobel, he didn't have a floor plan of

Schloss Wurtenburg. But then he was pretty sure he wouldn't

need one to find the Baron.

The instincts of a good hunter will always lead him right to

*This is the Baron. Something is wrong with my commu-

nications through Vienna, and the women have not yet ar-

rived. I also cannot reach St. Christobel. I want you to send a

man up there at once.

"Ja, Herr Baron.

"The Lane woman is still in her room?"

"Ja. We are watching from the Royale, and our maid on

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

183

her floor says she has not stirred all night."

"Good. But I still feel something is very wrong; there are

too many odd occurrences in communications. I don't like it.

I will call you every half hour for a report until the time of

departure.

Otto Von Petrie dropped the receiver back on its cradle and

lifted the bottle of brandy beside it

"You were right. There is something very wrong."

The voice had come from directly behind him.

Von Pet-

rie's hand paused for the briefest of seconds before he went

ahead and poured the amber liquid into the snifter. He picked

up the snifter and, still holding the bottle in his other hand,

Carter took in the tall, aristocratic figure, the hollow

cheeks, and the cruel, gray eyes in one glance, and gave the

man a slight bow with just his head.

"Baron.

"I beg your pardon. I'm afraid my heritage is far short of

titled."

"My name is Carter, Nick Carter. I'm sure, Baron, in the

last few days you have become quite familiar with it."

*I see.

The hand moved like a whip, sending the half-full bottle of

brandy directly at Carter's head. It missed by a hair and

crashed through a window. To Carter's credit, he didn't

move an inch.

"A waste of good brandy, " Carter said, his lips curving

into a thin smile.

Von Petrie shrugged his shoulders in the expensive jacket

and sipped from his glass.

"It's over, Herr Von Petrie.

*I have more.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then I'll tell you.

Two men and myself raided St.

Christobel last night. We got Tanya Lane out.

"Oh?"

"Also, the woman at the Parkhotel in Vienna isn't Melissa

Lane. She's one of ours. Her name is Ginger Bateman.

The man's eyelids fluttered slightly and then hooded.

"And Nedda? ... Alexis?"

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NICK CARTER

"Dead."

"You?"

Carter shook his head. "Odd as it sounds, they killed each

Von Petrie sighed. He drank the last of the brandy,

dropped the glass to the carpet, and then crushed it underfoot.

"Then it is over."

" Carter growled. "That's why I'm here."

The Baron chuckled. It was a mirthless, hollow sound.

*My dear man, surely you don't suppose you can connect

*No, I can't. You're very clever. Everyone else does your

"Dirty work? Dear God, man, how naive you are! The

world is a dirty place inhabited by idiots. The luxury of any

life is to rise above the insanity. To do that one must have

power. To have power one must acquire a great deal of

wealth. I've done no more than hundreds of others are doing

around the world every day.

*That's probably quite true," Carter said, levering a shell

into Wilhelmina's chamber and flipping off the safety.

that's why guys like me come along every now and then.

so there will be less guys like you.

Von Petrie shrugged. "Very well, I'll go with you, though

you're being very foolish. There's not a single thread of

connection between myself and the events of the past few

"As I said before, I know that."

Then Von Petrie realized.

It was in the other man's set jaw, in the way he carelessly

yet deftly handled the Luger. It was also in the icy gray eyes

even colder than his own.

"You're going to kill me."

"Almost

not quite,

" Carter replied.

*Money. I can set you up for life.

"Life mine-

-doesn't mean that much. That's why I'm

in this business. This way."

Carter shifted the muzzle of the Luger and, with faltering

steps, Von Petrie moved.

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

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As they left the room and Carter directed him up the stairs

to the tallest tower, Carter knew that the Baron's veneer had

cracked at last. Sweat had soaked clear through his jacket,

and he was nervously rubbing his palms against his trousers.

"Listen, Carter.

"Up there.

They moved single file up the narrow stone stairs and out

onto the roof of the tower. There was a soft breeze and the sun

was just peeking over the horizon.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

"This is murder, cold-blooded murder," Von Petrie

gasped, his voice little more than a croak

*There has been a lot of blood, a lot of murder these past

few days. Up there.

"What?'

Parapeter gestured with the gun. "Stand up there... on the

'There's two million

Carter squeezed off a slug that came close to burning Von

"Move, damn you!"

He began to whimper, but he climbed up between two

teeth of the parapet on shaky feet. Swaying, his face green-

ish, he turned to face Carter.

"You're mad

"Jump, Von Petrie.

"My God. .

"Jump, you miserable bastard!"

Carter began walking toward him.

"Stop! Please!"

Two steps from him, Carter thrust out both arms.

Instinctively the other man stepped backward, teetered,

and then fell.

Nick Carter leaned out, his face emotionless,

as he

watched the body turn over twice and then hit the stone

courtyard two hundred feet below with a dull thud.

"Now, Von Petrie, it's over. Now it's all over.

Carter eased the powerful little motor launch against the

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rubber tires that served as bumpers along the pier. Deftly he

tied up the bow and stern, and then walked along the pier to

the stone steps that led up to the villa.

It was a warm Portuguese night with a golden crescent

moon. A soft breeze settled across his back from the Atlantic,

and above a blanket of stars seemed to twinkle the message

that all was right in the world.

Well, Nick thought, for now it was.

He topped the first set of stairs and saw that there were

lights burning in the villa.

Had the housekeeper stayed late? Or was she there?

Carter felt a tug in his guts. He hoped it was the latter.

He'd rented the villa for a month. That's how much time

*Take a month, Nick, relax

you've earned it. I'l

even make a deal with you: don't even tell me where you're

And Carter hadn't. He'd overseen the mop-up and then

took a direct flight to Lisbon.

The mop-up had been easy. Ginger had been cool. She

played out the hand right up to the frontier, and because of it

they had netted quite a few of the Baron's little fish and even

one big one they hadn't even known was in the pond: Hillary

She had been escorted by the Austrian authorities to a

waiting jet, destination Libya. The others had been deported

for concealed weapons offenses. That was really all they

could be nailed with.

But without the Baron for leadership, it would be quite a

while before they got back in the game

He opened the oceanside door and stepped onto the

veranda. Halfway across, the door of the villa itself opened

She stood, hipshot, a drink in one hand, light spilling onto

the veranda from the room behind her. The light framed her

body like a painting and brought a smile of relief to Carter's

It was going to be a hell of a month.

She wore no shoes and her legs were bare. A wraparound

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

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peasant skirt did fabulous things to her fabulous hips, and a

sheer white blouse did equally fabulous things for her

breasts.

There was a welcoming smile on her face, and as he came

closer, Carter could see that she wore no bra beneath the

blouse. He could see the dark outline of her nipples clearly

through the gauzy material.

"Hi," she said in a throaty whisper.

"Hi, yourself. Any problems?"

"No.

She leaned her left shoulder against the doorframe

and rested her right hand lazily on a jutting hip.

"I think

Hawk guessed when I requested two weeks right after we got

back to D/C.., but he didn't say a thing; he just signed the

Her voice was husky and warm in a seductive, man-

woman way. It did new things to Carter's body, but the "two

weeks" she mentioned did things to his brain.

He stopped a foot in front of her, and she came up to her

full height. Even in her bare feet she was only three or four

"Two weeks?" he growled.

*I thought it best, Nick, for both of us. When you asked in

Vienna, that last night, I told you I'd think about it. Well, I

"Here we are," he said, unable any longer to keep his

hands off her.

She glided easily into his arms and stood with her face

tilted up to his, her crimson lips parted over even, white

"Yeah, here we are. " She worked her full, luscious lips as

if she were about to taste something good. "It's the Nick and

Ginger party. Kiss me.

He did, long and deep, and all the while he did he let his

hands roam over her perfect, full-figured body.

"I'm not wearing anything under this skirt and blouse."

"I can tell you noticed, " she chuckled, grinding her body

against his. "Do you want a drink first?"

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NICK CARTER

"What's this?" he asked, lifting the glass from her hand

"Scotch

neat."

*It'll do.

He drank the fiery liquid in one swallow and tossed the

glass over his shoulder. The shattering sound was still rever-

berating through the villa when they moved through the

bedroom door.

Carter stopped dead center in the room and smiled. She

had everything waiting for him, right down to soft guitar

music on a radio and candles on the bedside stands.

"Nick

He turned and felt sweat instantly fill his palms. She had

already dropped the skirt to the floor and was now shaking

her shoulders out of the blouse. Every moment made her full,

jutting breasts dance delightfully before his eyes.

*Bateman, you're even more beautiful than I imagined."

Like a cat she lowered herself to the bed and stretched her

bare legs to their full length. Languidly, she clasped both

hands behind her head and thrust her torso upward so that her

hips and her breasts were clearly defined in the candles'

flickering glow.

"Well

Carter undressed slowly, taking the time to drink in her

lush femininity.

When he was naked he eased himself down beside her and

felt a shudder go through his body when their flesh met. A

sound rolled from her throat that resembled a purr as her

hands began to work at his body.

*I do think you're ready,

" she whispered.

*I've been ready for years,

"he replied, burying his face

in the softness of her neck.

"And you?"

"I'll admit it, if you promise to never repeat it."

"There's iust the two of us, remember?"

And then Nick Carter began to make love to her in earnest,

and Ginger responded in kind. He moved his lips from hers

down across her breasts and belly. Her breathing heightened

until it came in ragged gasps and her body began to shudder.

Suddenly he felt her whole body twist as if she were in

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THE BUDAPEST RUN

189

agony. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, pulling his body

up over hers.

"Now, Nick.

I want you, all of you!"

Her hands found and guided him deftly. Carter groaned

and then gasped as he felt her warmth envelop him. He

moved until his chest was pillowed against the cushiony

softness of her full breasts.

"Good

so good," he groaned, gazing down at her

rolling eyes through the misty glaze that had covered his

own.

And then she moved, arching against him, lurching and

twisting at the same time.

Her arms wound around his body

and her nails dug into his thrusting buttocks.

She whimpered, imploring him with her body to go faster,

harder. Their rhythm became a rapture, a scorching, blazing

melody filled with desire.

And then it rose to a nerve-shattering symphony of sensa-

tion that left them both panting and drenched with perspira-

tion.

Slowly Nick rolled to her side, his hardness still trapped

inside her. For several moments they lay silently, each look-

ing into the depths of the other's eyes.

"Was it worth the wait?" she asked at last, tracing the firm

line of his jaw with one finger.

"That's a question that doesn't need an answer. You

know, Ginger, I've long thought that, for you.

She held a fingertip over his lips

"Don't say it, Nick, please.

Okay,

" he shrugged.

"But I can't help feeling it."

*Don't even do that,

" she replied.

"And do me ... us

another favor.

"Name it.

"When I go back, we both forget it.

.. like a nice

dream."

*Like two ships in the night..

just passing?"

She nodded. "Paused.

.. met for a while, but went on.

Okay?"

"Okay."

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NICK CARTER

Again he kissed her, and together their lips started moving.

"Again? So soon?" she whispered.

"Lady, we only have two weeks."

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36 NICK CARTER

She reached slowly and touched his muscled naked body as he knelt in the corridor. "So ... beautiful ..." And she was dead. Carter remained crouched there for a moment. Then he stood and strode to the fire door. Spent shells littered the floor: AK-47 shells. From the look of it, one man had fired at the person who came out of the suite door. Anna was not KGB, so it was not meant for her. Someone was out to kill him. But Anna Ivanovna was dead. Doors were open a crack now. Fearful eyes stared out. Far below there were sirens. Naked, Carter hurried beck to her room, dressed quickly, zipped up his over. night bag, and took the AXE-designed escape device from the heel of a shoe. On the balcony he attached the thin wire, lowered himself over the edge, and dropped two balconies down to an empty one. He retrieved the unit, repacked it, and walked through the empty suite and out to the elevator. He rode down to the lobby, walked back to the linen supply room, picked the lock on the side door into the service alley, and walked out to the street to blend with thery hordes of pedestrians who fought the bumper-to-bumper traffic for the right of way. One of the last of the once-famous sidewalk cafes was across the teeming street from the hotel. Carter took a table, ordered coffee, and asked for a telephone. Through the passing mass of people in Western clothes, in the long robes and headdresses of the villages, in every possible dress, he watched the door of the hotel where the police were checking everyone who came out. His coffee and telephone came. He sipped the thick

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NICK CARTER

with it in hand when the man with the gun stepped into the

room.

"What—" Mahbee cried out, startled. He dropped the

snifter, which shattered as it struck the tiled floor.

Better be careful getting out of that tub," Nick Carter

said. "You wouldn't want to cut your feet on the glass.

Carter made Mahbee get out of the tub, but he would not

allow the man to put on his robe. He had learned a long time

ago that being nude strips a man of more than just his clothes.

It's hard to be brave when you're buck naked.

"You're mad," Mahbee told Carter.

"My personal

guards are right outside the door. "

"Well, then, " Carter said, "I guess I'm lucky being in

here with you.

"You're the American?"

'That's very good."

"Are you going to kill me?"

*Better and better.

"You can't!" Mahbee croaked, choking on the words.

*Your country would never stand for it.

"What they don't know won't hurt them, " Carter assured

him.

"Jules Berbick would never agree to assassinate anyone,"

Mahbee said.

"Not even me.

"But he's not assassinating you, Mr. President," Carter

replied. "I am.

"No, you're not, Nick," a voice said from behind him. It

was a voice he recognized immediately.

"Valniev, " Carter said.

"Correct, my friend," Valniev said. "Please, put down

your weapon.

"I can't do that, " Carter said, feeling annoyed with him-

self that he had been outmaneuvered. Then again, the fact

that it was Valniev softened the blow. Killmaster N3 had

enough confidence in his own abilities to know that no one

else could have done it.

"If you shoot me,

" Carter went on, "T'll shoot Mahbee,

and then you'll lose anyway.

"You will lose also, my friend," Valniev said. "Your

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NICK CARTER

193

country will be very embarrassed when the public finds out

that an American agent assassinated the president of a small

but important Caribbean country. Now, drop your gun to the

floor, please, Nick. Don't force me to kill you.

—From CARIBBEAN COUP

A New Nick Carter Spy Thriller

From Charter in January

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NICK CARTER

The first pair headed toward the center of the complex

where the security headquarters was situated. The sec-

ond left for Reactor 3, Comanche Point's newest and

most powerful generator.

The three guards stationed at Central Security could

not know what lay in store as the two armed men

entered. One had time to rise from his chair, but he was

greeted by a .45 hollow point. Tagged in the heart, he

was sent reeling backward into a wall, his chest gushing

blood. The others could not react, died clutching coffee

cups as they dropped to the floor.

The first of the killers holstered his silenced weapon.

The other stepped outside the bulletproof building, and

his eyes combed the surrounding area vigilantly. Mean-

while, his comrade searched each of the three dead

guards. His hand was wet with blood as he pulled a

small plastic card from the captain's pocket. He ran his

fingers over its embossed numeral.

"Yes," he whispered, pleased.

He placed it in a slot marked "Systems," then

watched as the panel lit: Corridors 1, 2, 3. Security Sec

tion II. Reactor 1. Reactor 2. Reactor 3.

It was Reactor 3 that concerned him. In the final

stages of refueling, it was most valuable. Moreover,

their inside contact had left security gaps a mile wide.

The second team reached Reactor 3 without incident.

The site was patrolled at regular intervals, so there was

no room for slipups as the two men moved toward one

of its three entrances. They separated as the guard left

the office building to the left of the pressurized steam

stack, and one of the team shot a silenced round that

blew off the back of the guard's skull. The assailant

stood hidden some twenty feet away awaiting reprisals

as his accomplice tossed an egg-shaped gas grenade

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NICK CARTER

195

into the reactor's entranceway. The two seated guards

reached for their throats. Their eyes bulged grotesquely

as they fell face forward onto the desk, then made soft,

choking noises as they succumbed to the deadly phos-

gene fumes.

There was a cautious silence. Again nothing.

The domed reactor, which could become a beehive of

commotion, remained silent as a tomb. The men se-

cured their gas masks. The leader patted down the guard

for his security card, then entered it into the slot marked

"Systems." The panel lit: Security Section II. Reactor

3. Corridors 1, 2, 3, 4. The leader pushed the button

marked Corridor 1. The panel door slid open. He en-

tered, a 50mm machine gun leveled chest high.

"Come," he said to the other, who held a suitcaselike

vessel.

He followed as the first of the technicians appeared

from the labyrinth of corridor doorways. A volley of

silenced machine-gun fire turned the technician's labo-

ratory coat red before he could say a word. Anther

followed. Then anther. The sound-sensitive devices

seemed deaf to the slaughter. The second assailant

followed, tossing a gas grenade into Corridor 1, then

into each of the technical labs along the way. The build-

ing was cylindrical with the reactor at its core. They

walked toward the reactor room entrance. The heavy

door was of reinforced steel. The concrete walls were

four feet thick. The locks clicked open as the security

card was introduced. Finally, the fourteen-inch-thick

steel panel slid open. A round of fire followed, killing

one of the two nuclear technicians.

"Don't move!" the armed man snarled.

The technician raised his hands in the air. "This is in-

sane," he sputtered. "What-who-"

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NICK CARTER

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196

NICK CARTER

The leader slid on his belly under an electronic beam.

"Shut up, Mr. McClusky," he told him.

The leader dragged the containment vessel behind. He

stood, then raised his .45 automatic. He eyed the petri-

fied McClusky for a fraction of a second, then walked

to the 950,000K W reactor. He stood over the spent fuel

pit. "Raise the fuel rods," he ordered.

"You're crazy!" the technician rasped.

"Those rods

are highly radioactive! We'll all be contaminated!"

"Raise them!"

"I can't—I won't!" he said, sweat streaming down

his face.

The leader calmly fired a bullet into McClusky's

forehead.

"Come," said the leader in Spanish. "We must work

fast."

The second man moved to the fuel pit, a virtual well

where the energy-giving fuel rods were "cooled" for 120

days during refueling. The leader stepped up the metal

staircase briskly. He neared the computer panelboard.

His eyes blinked rapidly as he strained to remember its

intricate code. He punched the first three digits. The

number and letter combination lit on the keyboard. The

second man made ready the containment vessel as a

fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh combination followed.

The leader paused. He pulled the release lever slowly.

The two men watched in awe as the tubular rods con-

taining the fuel element U232 began their ascent from

the depths of the water-filled pit. The stainless steel

shroud rose with an electrical hum. The lift halted. The

leader set the shroud's digital lock, and the head sprang

open. The leader looked at his watch, then to the man

who handed him a mechanical retrieving device. With

precision, he lifted the five-inch-by-ten-inch rods, then

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NICK CARTER

197

placed them individually in the graphite and asbestos

vessel. Suddenly, the lights flickered. The generator's

monotone hum

stopped. The lights remained in

brown-out state for a split second, then returned to nor-

mal.

"A detection device," the leader said in Spanish.

"Radio now!"

The second man pulled a walkie-talkie from his side.

"Green 0215," he whispered, looking at his watch.

"Repeat. Green 0215 hours."

The leader bolted the containment vessel and lifted it.

"Come, we must go."

They secured their gas masks, then passed under the

electric eye, knowing detection would seal the reactor

building in seconds. They passed through the huge panel

door and back into Corridor 1. The phosgene fumes still

rose like steam from the concrete floor. They walked

briskly, the leader carrying the bulky containment vessel

at his side. The radioactivity had reached outlandish

proportions as they ran from the corridor and exited

the reactor building. Ripping off their gasmasks, they

cast their eyes skyward where a Huey helicopter hovered

twenty-five feet above. The two ran toward the copter

as it lowered itself to the ground.

Security headquarters had been ignited in a diversion-

ary effort. The second team ran from the blazing build-

ing as security men emerged from the Reactor 1 and 2

areas. The four terrorists mowed them down mercilessly

before shoving the containment vessel into the copter,

which still hovered slightly above the ground.

"What happened? For Christ's sake, what hap

pened?" one of the first team screamed.

The leader threw himself into the copter. Two others

followed as the aircraft's churning blades stirred a

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198

NICK CARTER

blinding dust cloud. The last of them took a bullet and

clutched at his side as the copter rose vertically. The

leader returned the fire, killing the guard, then looked

downward to his wounded compatriot.

"Lo siento, " he whispered coolly, then fired two .45

slugs deep into the man's chest.

The chopper reeled away at a 45-degree angle, leaving

a score of men dead or dying. Security headquarters

blazed in the moonlight. A lone alarm echoed eerily be-

hind. Comanche's Reactor 3 had been robbed of pluto-

nium, the makings of an atomic bomb.

—From BLOOD ULTIMATUM

A New Nick Carter Spy Thriller

From Charter in April 1986

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ONE

Clouds of dust rose from the steep dirt road scorched

by the long, rainless years of African sun in the Eritrean

back country of northeastern Ethiopia. The heat baked

into the rock, the rock pounded to dust by hundreds of

thousands of bare, skeletal feet as the starving natives of

Eritrea left their dead farms to struggle toward the last

hope of food in the refugee camps set up by the interna-

tional aid committees.

The endless column of white-clad victims of Africa's

longest drought in recent memory stretched almost out

of sight in both directions, a column that moved slowly,

with many gaps, as the weakened victims of years of

hunger stumbled and shuffled ahead, their ranks thin-

ning with each moment. Some collapsed on the road

with their bloated bellies and protruding bones, others

staggered

off to sprawl into the ditches and thorny

underbrush, too exhausted to move farther.

Through this ragged column of despair a fast-moving

patrol of the Ethiopian army pushed its way. The

soldiers shoved and kicked the starving refugees out of

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ONE

Clouds of dust rose from the steep dirt road scorched

by the long, rainless years of African sun in the Eritrean

back country of northeastern Ethiopia. The heat baked

into the rock, the rock pounded to dust by hundreds of

thousands of bare, skeletal feet as the starving natives of

Eritrea left their dead farms to struggle toward the last

hope of food in the refugee camps set up by the interna-

tional aid committees.

The endless column of white-clad victims of Africa's

longest drought in recent memory stretched almost out

of sight in both directions, a column that moved slowly,

with many gaps, as the weakened victims of years of

hunger stumbled and shuffled ahead, their ranks thin-

ning with each moment. Some collapsed on the road

with their bloated bellies and protruding bones, others

staggered

off to sprawl into the ditches and thorny

underbrush, too exhausted to move farther.

Through this ragged column of despair a fast-moving

patrol of the Ethiopian army pushed its way. The

soldiers shoved and kicked the starving refugees out of

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2

NICK CARTER

their path, laughing as they pushed some particularly

emaciated

man who staggered to fall facedown into

the dust. The stronger of the ragged horde moved to

get out of the path of the well-fed soldiers, but most

only stumbled on, oblivious to anything beyond their

hunger, and the weakest collapsed at the touch of the

soldiers to lie unmoving wherever they fell. The soldiers

barely glanced at the near dead walkers. These were,

after all, Eritreans. Rebels. The enemy. Let them starve.

At a spot where the mountains towered close to the

dusty road that descended toward the plain and the aid

camps, the officer in charge of the patrol made a sharp

motion with his arm. The soldiers turned and left the

road on a narrow trail that wound up the steep slope

into the brush and tinder-dry trees. They vanished in

seconds, and the stream of miserable humanity flowed

on as if the soldiers had never been there. For most of

them, sunk in pain and hunger and weakness, the sold-

iers never had.

One tall man, his tattered rags flapping over his black

skin, his turban so filthy it was impossible to believe it

had ever been white, his skin so dusty it was more gray

than black, staggered after the vanished patrol, drawn

like a moth to the sound of their passage, pulled inex-

orably by their very speed, their power. An animal

following anything that moved in the hope of food.

The rear soldier of the patrol glanced back at the road

and the river of refugees and saw the ragged peasant

weaving and struggling after them, his eyes rolled up to

the sky as if blind, his mouth open and gasping for air.

The soldier dropped back and kicked the refugee's feet

out from under him. The ragged man crashed down into

the dust and brush and lay motionless.

"Eat dirt, pig," the soldier muttered. "It will teach

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MERCENARY MOUNTAIN

3

you not to defy your leaders."

The soldier hurried back to his post at the rear of the

patrol. The column vanished on through the brush.

Silence descended on the mountainside. There was only

the shuffle of feet down on the barren road, and the

cries of birds in the dry trees.

The peasant raised his head. The eyes that had been

turned blindly up to the sky quickly surveyed the hidden

hillside. He was alone. He leaped to his feet, moved off

the trail, and ran forward in a silent, ground-covering

stride parallel to the path. He seemed to glide like a

snake through the thick brush, as silent as a ghost, and

as unseen.

He caught up with the hurrying patrol down on the

path and then settled into an effortless, long-striding

walk parallel to the soldiers. Together they moved on up

the mountainside, the soldiers single-file on the narrow

trail, the ragged, unseen peasant twenty yards up the

side of the mountain among the thick brush and trees.

A mile in from the road the officer raised his hand in

a small clearing on the mountainside. The patrol came

to a sharp halt. The officer looked, listened, and then

signaled his men to take up positions around the per-

imeter of the small clearing. The officer sat down with

his back against a thick tree, lit a long Russian cigarette,

and blew lazy streams of smoke. He seemed to be wait-

ing, was in no hurry, enjoying his ease and his cigarette.

Up on the side of the mountain the still unseen peas-

ant in the ragged turban watched.

The sharp call of a bird came from somewhere ahead

along the trail.

The officer in the clearing sat up, his cigarette held

motionless.

On the mountain the hidden peasant listened.

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NICK CARTER

The call of the bird came again. It was a good imita-

tion, but to the ears of the peasant, not quite good

enough. The officer in the clearing waited for a third

call. Then he cupped his hands and gave a return call.

The officer stood, motioning orders to his men. They

spread out through the trees to cover the clearing. The

officer watched the trail ahead. His slender black hand

rested on the butt of his pistol.

On the mountainside the peasant aimed a powerful

pair of binoculars at the pair. They came into focus as

they were greeted by the patrol officer. He could see

that one was an Ethiopian general, and the second a

short, stocky civilian wearing a khaki bush jacket with

the symbol of a U.N. observer on its breast pocket.

He moved the binoculars to observe the civilian's

right hand with its four rings. The stocky man's left

hand was missing the tip of the third finger. Then he

studied the tall, erect general with his smart khaki

uniform and Sam Browne belt despite the heat and the

rugged country. He returned the binoculars to their

pocket in his filthy turban and withdrew a small, rec-

tangular case from under his ragged robes.

As the general, the civilian, and the patrol officer

conferred in the center of the clearing under the guns of

the alert soldiers of the patrol, the hidden watcher on

the mountainside opened the case and assembled a

short, compact rifle with a telescopic sight. Prone, he

aimed at the conference in the clearing below.

"Ahhhhnnnannhhnnnnannnnnn!"

The scream of agony shattered the forest. A cloud of

birds rose into the air from the dry trees. Animals scur-

ried through the thick brush. In the clearing the soldiers

stared along the trail from where the general and the

civilian had come.

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