The Death Dealer

by Nick Carter

  But, oh, so wonderful.

  It wasn't that he had not intended on companionship. He had heard the reporter and his lady depart. He had watched them take the cab from the hotel front and speed away. He had sensed his opportunity to escape from the protective but watchful eyes of the two agents.

  "This is not what I left the Iron Curtain for," he had muttered.

  And then he had slipped from his room. Grabbing the street map from the hotel desk, he had wandered the streets that led to the red-light district. There he got the offers; he heard the cries that promised pleasure, but the poet in him would not accept them. He felt sordid, cheap, a traitor to experiences that yielded poems of vast scope and emotion. He wanted elevation, not kicks. He wanted understanding, not sex. So he kept on walking, and finally came back to the confines of the hotel.

  From the lobby he had traveled to the bar, to find his pleasures in a glass of wine; one, no more! Alcohol would poison the spirit.

  What he found instead, was her.

  She was beautiful, almost childlike, yet alarmingly sensual. And, wonder of wonders, she sat down next to him. She spoke to him. And she was not a whore. She was a woman unhappy with her life, with her husband, with herself.

  Janusz had a second wine, and a third, and finally, the comfort of her arm as he climbed the floors to his room.

  And then, heaven. For both of them! Didn't the marks she had made on his back with her nails in the moment of culmination prove it?

  "A broad smile of happiness creased the poet's weathered face.

  And then suddenly he was struck with an inspiration. He struggled from the bed and on wobbling legs moved to the desk in the corner of the room. There was paper, and a pencil.

  He would write. He would take his joy and lay it across the paper in neat, flowing verse. He would even dedicate it! His first poem as a free man, dedicated to the fallen Olek, the poet who had joined him in his flight but had never made it past the Czechs at the border.

  But first, the bathroom. The excitement of it all was just slightly too much for him. His back was now aching and his stomach rebelled against the wine, and the activities. He staggered toward the tiny room whose door would suddenly not stand still. He weaved, his knee cracking against the desk chair. His legs were mercilessly heavy. He would vomit, emit the poison, and then he would create — his masterpiece.

  There were two more steps, and then there was nothing.

  Just an old man, his body spent, his face caressing the carpet.

  Chapter Six

  PARIS

  Nick stood at the arrivals gate at Orly Field. His body was tired, his mind weary, and his spirits sagged. Two days he had remained in Amsterdam, while the tour had traveled on in the capable hands of Tori and Anatole. Nick had remained with the poet, waiting and watching until the life had seeped from Janusz's body. The doctors had made their pronouncement simply. The tubes were pulled out, the machines turned off, and the curtains drawn on the hospital bed.

  Such was the end of an old man's life.

  "It's idiopathic," one of the doctors had said. "It's viral, with high pathogenic mutation, and extreme iatrogenic complications."

  "Say it straight," Nick had demanded.

  The doctor had shrugged. "We do not know. It is nothing we have ever seen. The man is from Poland, correct?"

  Nick had nodded.

  "Then it may be something indigenous to the Eastern bloc nations. If it is localized there, the Soviets would not necessarily share the knowledge with us. They do not boast of their problems, only their solutions."

  "Is it contagious?" Nick asked. "Is there any danger to the others?"

  The doctor shrugged once more. "There is only one way to find out."

  "The hard way, right?"

  The nod was sad and resigned. "We will quarantine, of course, at least until…"

  But that was where the conversation halted, with Nick making demands, making phone calls, with Hawk and the President lending their subtle power to persuade the Dutch government. In short, a cover-up, with the angered medical team only soothed by the promise of an American research group to aid in studying the virus. The team arrived, and Nick moved on to Paris.

  But, while the Dutch government might have accepted events, Nick could not. The potential of disease was not a part of the equation. It muddied the picture and turned the tour into a waiting game. Would anyone else contract it? He would wait and see, and he would keep the knowledge to himself. But he would worry for a while. And worry of any kind was the plague of a mission.

  He shook the feelings as the rented car glided to a halt in front of him. He climbed into the seat and returned the affectionate kiss of Tori Bacchus.

  "Rough?" she asked.

  "Kind of," he answered. "Just an old man whose heart gave out. How have the others taken it?"

  "Unhappy, but we've kept them busy enough to keep them from dwelling on it." she replied, maneuvering the car into the traffic flow. Then she grinned. "Wait until you see Anatole. You won't recognize him. He was a brilliant choice, Nick. He's got them all charmed!"

  "I trust he's kept his paws off Borczak's wife?"

  Her brows knitted slightly. "She's an odd one. Nick. Anatole picked it up right away. Unmolested, he called her. "Watch out for the unmolested wife, he told me. 'Very passionate, but very desperate. »

  Nick smiled at the impression she made of the bullish Dutchman. "Is he right?"

  "Well, I sort of started watching, and yes, I think he's right. Anatole's a three-ring circus, but he does know women."

  Images suddenly raced through Nick's mind, of female eyes planted firmly in the carpet all during the briefing in Hawk's office.

  "And what does your female intuition tell you?" he asked.

  Tori grinned. "An educated guess would be she's jealous."

  "What?"

  "Really! Think of it. Back in Poland she was the motivator — she got him to stand up and fight. She was his strength."

  "And now?"

  "It's us. You, and me, and Anatole, and AXE. We control it now. Stefan is the hero, and we're the forces pushing him toward Bern. Borczak and the other men sit on the podiums and tell their stories while she sits in the wings."

  "You wouldn't be going feminist on me, would you?

  "It's not a critique, just a fact. I think she's feeling a bit neglected. You've seen how Borczak is throwing himself into it. The man's consumed with getting the Dealer. It's my bet that he's carrying that into the bedroom with him."

  "Okay," Nick said. "Supposing you're right, how do we handle it?"

  "Well," Tori replied, "maybe just a little more attention. From all of us. Maybe just a bit more effort to include her in the events."

  Nick thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers as an idea hit him. "Why don't you do a story on her? We're supposed to be reporters. Why don't you do a special woman's point of view on Hela. The woman behind the man' sort of thing."

  Tori's tinkling laughter filled the car. "I've already started it."

  "Oh… well, I knew it was a brilliant idea," Nick grinned.

  "I thought so."

  "Any further word from Hawk?"

  Tori's smile dropped and business took over. "Indeed there has. We've found the mole."

  Nick's head spun in her direction. "Where? How?"

  "He's dead, Nick. His car ran off the road, just a few miles west of a little town called Winchester, in Virginia."

  "Who found him? Police?"

  "No. Some tourist, stopping to relieve himself. He noticed a metallic reflection off the bumper in a stand of trees and phoned it in to State Patrol. Your typical citizen, Nick. He was on an interstate trip and didn't want to get involved — just phoned and ran."

  "Then what?"

  "The State Patrol investigated, got an I. D., radioed it in, and the computer kicked out the security priority we had placed on Jacek. The Virginia boys promptly washed their hands of it and shipped it over to our investigating team."


  "Any luck?"

  "For once, yes. The interior of the car was clean, no indication of wherever the hell he thought he was running to. But the trunk was a gold mine. The man had packed two suitcases. One contained clothing and essentials, and one contained a harvest of documents and microfilm."

  Nick's eyes narrowed. "Live goods, in a suitcase? Doesn't that strike you as a bit careless?"

  Tori shrugged. "Not really. Hawk's guess is that the information was intended for the show in Bern. Back-up material, or — if we're real lucky — the proof itself, a record of whatever it is the Russians think they're going to throw at us."

  "In a suitcase?" Nick growled.

  "Why not? If Borczak hadn't appeared on the scene, who'd have known? The trip to Bern is strictly diplomatic. No customs, no searches, just red carpets and caviar."

  "I hope you're right," Nick said, the doubt still obvious in his voice. "How good is the info?"

  "Hawk wasn't specific, but it's apparently juicy. So juicy that there's been a slight alteration of plans. Ganicek's been dropped from the delegation. Not publicly, at least not yet, but the change has been made."

  "Why?"

  "First of all, if this is what the Soviets are going to come gunning with, it's got Ganicek's name all over it. Jacek bled him dry, Nick. There wasn't anything that passed through that office — Foreign Affairs or Intelligence Oversight — nothing that didn't make it onto paper. He'd be crucified, Nick. He'd spend all his time countering accusations and chewing on his own grief. What would that do for negotiations?"

  "Not much," Nick agreed. "How did he take the news?"

  "He roared like a lion. He's been living and breathing this conference for close to a year now. He's not going to surrender easily."

  "But he did surrender."

  "Both Hawk and the President put it out bluntly — tactfully, but bluntly. His entire office is compromised. Borczak can be more effective at the conference, as a recent native and an Intelligence employee. Also, Ganicek'll be of far more value at home."

  "So who'll take his place?"

  "The Vice President!"

  "What?" Nick exclaimed.

  "Don't you love it?" Tori smiled, her enthusiasm obvious. "It's the President's own idea. We're going at them tit-for-tat — or better. They've lost their mole, but we've still got Borczak. They've given away their information, but we'll still be getting ours. They're walking in with the Dealer and the Premier, two exintelligence honchos, so we bring in the Vice President, who has had years of experience both in Navy Intelligence and the FBI!"

  A long, low whistle escaped from Nick's lips. "So it's head-on-head for real," he breathed. "Should be very interesting. They've occupied opposing desks, and now, opposing offices. There isn't anything the Premier can toss out that the Vice President can't hand back in spades. And when we walk in with the Dealer's records, the Vice President will be able to judge the information from firsthand experience."

  "Exactly," Tori nodded, and then noticed the frown on Nick's face. "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know for sure," he replied, shaking his head. "It's just a lot to swallow in one sitting. It's also pretty damned lucky, and that always makes me a bit nervous. It's a hell of a lot of good fortune just because one son-of-a-bitch falls asleep at the wheel."

  "Maybe," Tori shrugged. "Also, he didn't just fall asleep. He was sick. He was running on about two barrels and just slipped off the road."

  Alarm bells sounded in Nick's head as he whirled in the seat. "Sick? How? What did he have?"

  "No one seems to know. The body was pretty chewed up. But the autopsy revealed some kind of virus. But what it was — no one's saying, or no one knows."

  Nick's hand went to his brow. "My God," he muttered.

  "What is it — is something wrong, Nick?"

  "I don't know," he replied. "I'm not sure — yet." He leaned back in the seat and stared out the window, his brain whirring, trying to fit the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle together.

  The car slid to a halt before the Hotel le Colbert, a six-story building of eighteenth-century architecture tucked quietly into one of the narrow alleys of the Left Bank. Together they left the car and entered the lobby.

  "Nicholas, you son-of-a-whore-dog!"

  "Oh, God," Tori winced, "the Dutch Goliath. Forgive me, Nick, but I think I'll just trot over to the desk and check for messages. You deal with the reunion!"

  "Chicken," Nick grinned, and turned to accept the giant arms.

  What he got instead was a sight he thought he'd never live to see. Anatole stood, his arms outstretched, his face awaiting the judgment of his friend.

  "The virgin, she has some taste, no?" he cried.

  Nick stared at the neatly pressed three-piece suit that struggled to contain the body within. The beard had been trimmed, a delicate fringe of tapered hair that gave the Dutchman the air of royalty. Anatole noted the gleam of delight in Nick's face and winked.

  "Not to worry," he said, his hand slapping against his chest. "Inside? The same old dog. I promise you."

  "Of that, I had no doubts," Nick laughed, clapping his hand on the man's arm. "You look tremendous. I'll warn you right now. There's not a woman in Paris who will be able to resist you."

  The giant waved off the thought. "Ach! Women? Paris, Amsterdam, Timbuktu — they are all the same! Take off the tailoring and roll down the bed, and there is still only one thing that will bring the smile to their faces, heh? That, my friend, has not been tailored!"

  "I heard that," laughed an approaching Tori.

  Anatole leaned into Nick. "For a virgin, she has big ears!" he chuckled. "But come, my friend. We have company in the bar. The man from Berlin. You wish to meet him now?"

  Nick perked at the news. "Yes. Right now."

  Tori cut in. "Nick, before you do that, look at this!" She handed him an envelope. "Anatole and I thought it best if any mail came, it come through us first."

  Nick stared at the envelope. It was addressed to Stefan Borczak; the return address was a small neighborhood bar in Georgetown — the Granada. The name was familiar. It was a tavern only three or four blocks from Nick's house.

  "Look at the postmark!" Tori pointed.

  The faintly smeared blue marking was difficult to read, but clear enough. Winchester, Virginia.

  "Jacek," he breathed.

  "Who else?" Tori said from beside him. "Should we hand it over or check it out ourselves?"

  Nick debated for a moment, giving honest consideration to the concept of runaways from communism who suddenly find their mail being opened and checked. It could have some unpleasant repercussions. Nick decided to compromise. He handed the letter back to Tori.

  "Stefan is blind and Hela may not understand the subtle aspects of English. Why don't you give them a hand and read it to them. Then we'll all know what it says."

  "But it could be anything, Nick. Jacek was a mole. It could be lies. It could be damaging. It could explode."

  "I know," he nodded, thrusting the letter further into her hand. "And it could also give us the key we're looking for."

  Tori shrugged and took it at last.

  Nick watched her move toward the elevator. There was something in her walk, the tilt of her head, the slant of her shoulders.

  Was she going to take the letter to Stefan or not?

  He was about to call out to her when Anatole's booming voice broke into his thoughts.

  "We go, heh? The man is waiting. And, Nick…?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Listen to this man. Feel him. He comes highly recommended, but there is something — I don't know what it is. He seems more like the man we seek than the man himself. You judge — tell me if an old man is imagining things, heh?"

  Nick patted the massive shoulder. "I'll judge him carefully. Trust me."

  Anatole nodded and they headed for the bar.

  Beyond the high arch was a long room with a bar running along one side. The ceiling was high, with open oak beams darkened from years of smoke layerin
g them.

  They paused a few seconds to let their eyes adjust to the dimness, and then Anatole gestured to a table in a far corner.

  Nick nodded, and a moment later they were seated across from the man they would interview.

  To the layman he would rate little more than a glance. But to Nick the man looked what he was — a killer. It was in the easy, slouched body, internally tense, externally at ease. It was in the unwavering slate gray eyes that stared back at Nick from a hard, chiseled face.

  In fact, the only lightness about the man was his mane of blonde hair. It almost shimmered, even in the bar's dim light.

  He smiled. His teeth were perfect, even, and gleaming white.

  For some reason the smile brought a sense of distaste to the forefront of Nick's mind.

  He pushed it away. Personal distaste was not a factor of judgment in cases such as this. The underworld was peopled by the outcasts, the sadists, and the insecure. You got used to dealing with them, even if they did offend one's sensibilities.

  Nick nodded his greeting as Anatole opened the events.

  "The man I spoke of," he said, gesturing toward Nick. "You will call him Alpha. That is all you need to know of him. Alpha, this is Herr Schwartz."

  Nick noted the alias with a smile. Schwartz was German for black. In espionage terms, the equivalent of Mr. Smith. In the future, if the interview proved productive, the Herr Schwartz would be dropped and forgotten. The blonde man would simply be Omega.

  "Credentials?" clipped Nick.

  "A reputation," the blonde replied icily. "And a history."

  Nick waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. His eyes narrowed. "I have fifty thousand marks to play with, Herr Schwartz," he said evenly. "If you are willing, I might choose to play with you. But I don't know your reputation, and I am too busy to read histories. We can play games, if you like. We can play chess or we can play monopoly. The choice is yours."

  The killer's stare remained leveled on Nick, then he shrugged. "Sixteen contracts, seven assassinations, five kidnappings, four espionage. All successful, all very high priced."

  "Jail?" Nick growled.