Nick Carter
The Budapest Run

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  The Budapest Run
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  Q
  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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  Q
  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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  12
  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
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  "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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  16
  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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  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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  18
  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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  20
  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
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  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?"
  25
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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 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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  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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  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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  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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  31
  *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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  33
  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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  35
  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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  "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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  NICK CARTER
  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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  THE BUDAPEST RUN
  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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  NICK CARTER
  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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  THE BUDAPEST RUN
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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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  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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  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
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  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.
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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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  NICK CARTER
  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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  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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  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 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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  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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  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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  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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  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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  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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  "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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  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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  "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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  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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  94
  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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  "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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  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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  NICK CARTER
  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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  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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  104
  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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  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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  112
  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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  THE BUDAPEST RUN
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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
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  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
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  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
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  "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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  126
  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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  132
  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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  134
  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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  136
  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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  138
  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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  NICK CARTER
  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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  142
  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. "
  145
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  NICK CARTER
  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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  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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  166
  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
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  170
  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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  174
  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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  Q
  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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  Q
  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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  185
  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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  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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  192
  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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  194
  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
  Page 198(209/211)
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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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  Q
  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.
  Page 4 (15/211)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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