The Death Dealer

by Nick Carter

  Nick lit a cigarette and let the smoke burn deeply into his lungs before exhaling it. Several seats in front of him, in the No Smoking section, he could see the back of Stefan Borczak's head, and the perfect coif of his wife in the adjoining seat. Directly across the aisle sat the other two dissidents, one nodding and the other deeply absorbed in a newspaper.

  The seat beside Nick was empty. He'd arranged it that way before boarding. He needed privacy, time to think. No puzzle, if it was worth attacking in the first place, had a quick or an easy solution. But this one had more pieces that didn't fit than anything Nick had ever seen before.

  And Jacek's letter didn't help.

  With a very audible sigh, he reached into his inside coat pocket to retrieve the letter for another read.

  "Is something the matter, monsieur?"

  Nick looked up. A very tall, very blonde flight attendant stood in the aisle by his seat. Her face held the usual look of professional concern behind the equally professional smile.

  "Nothing that can't be solved by a drink," Nick grinned, arresting the movement of his hand.

  "A cocktail?"

  "Yes — uh, no. A Campari, please, with one cube."

  "Oui, monsieur."

  As she moved away, Nick studied the rhythmic movement of her well-shaped derriere and the gliding walk of those long legs. Tori had been tall, with legs that made the rest of her body move like that.

  Cursing under his breath, he finished tugging the envelope from his pocket. The sheet of paper inside was water-stained in several places, and one corner looked as though it had been constantly worried by nervous fingers as the writer composed.

  My dear friend Stefan,

  Call this letter what you will — a confession, an apology, a written reenactment of my sins — but know that it had to be written.

  I betrayed you. From the beginning so very many years before, I betrayed you. Long before I even knew you, before the night of our flight in Berlin, I was groomed for what was to come. My defection to the West was only a ruse to put me in a position to spy for the KGB and the Dealer. I have become what is called a mole.

  My life these last years I considered my duty. I was troubled by what had happened to you, but I was able to remain content and do the job I was trained to do.

  Until you defected and I was forced to kill. I am not a strong man, this I admit. I am a clerk, nothing more, trained to use my eyes and ears and cyphers to report what I see and hear. They never told me I would have to kill; yet they forced me to do it.

  Even as I planted their vile instrument of death, I began to have doubts. My rise in rank, allowing a greater amount of service to Russia and the Dealer, was no longer an excuse.

  I can go no further with this deception. I have planned to turn myself in. Because of this, I will probably be prevented from ever seeing you, even as they prevent me now.

  I don't ask for your forgiveness, dear Stefan, for the pain my betrayal has caused you. The Dealer promised that you would be spared that night. I foolishly trusted him. Yes, you were spared your life, but you were denied your freedom, and your sight was taken from you.

  For that I blame myself and ask that you understand.

  Jacek

  The main message of the letter was written in a reeling scrawl, as if the author were sleeping, or drunk, or doped. There was a postscript beneath the signature written in a far steadier, more precise hand.

  Have seen the Dealer and he has explained. He has told me that you have been informed of my duties in his grand scheme. I do not blame you, my friend, for informing on me. Thankfully, all I have said above can now be explained in detail. The Dealer has agreed to get me out of the country. Believe it or not, my friend, but we will meet again after all. I will see you in Bern. Until then…

  But he had never made it to Bern, Nick mused. He hadn't even made it out of the country. And if he had made it, what did Jacek plan to do with his suitcase full of incriminating material?

  If, indeed, the suitcase had been his.

  "Your drink, monsieur."

  "What? Oh yes. Thank you."

  She set the drink on the tray in front of Nick and then moved aside to let someone pass. It was Parshev, the younger of the two male dissidents.

  Parshev nodded slightly to Nick as he passed and made his way to the rear of the plane and the restroom. Nick sipped his drink and returned his gaze to the letter.

  Besides the main text and the postscript, there were penciled notations in the margins. Nick had seen enough of Tori's small, printed hand to know that they were hers.

  It was the dead woman's notations that made the letter so much of a puzzle.

  Each reference to «kill» was underlined. "Rise in rank" was circled, and beside it Tori had written in "to where" and "with who." Over «Berlin» she had jotted Nick's Killmaster designation, N3, and a question mark. Several lines encircled "planted the instrument," and beside it, in pencil, "What? Bomb? Gun? How kill? Check with Nick! Check with Hawk!"

  On the back of the page, Tori had penciled in several questions. Evidently her mind had been flying after digesting the letter, and these were her notes probably meant to be gone over later with him. "Who Jacek kill? Speaker? Why?" "Ganicek to Speaker? Could be answer to rise in rank — maybe!" "First part, Jacek going to turn self in. Sees Dealer, runs. Why? Just to see Borczak in Bern?" "If Dealer in Wash, to see Jacek, where Dealer now?" "How did Jacek know Borczak to Bern? Postmark is prior to final decision on day and place. Also prior to news release!"

  It was obvious to Nick that the Dealer had told Jacek that Stefan would be in Bern. And while it wasn't obvious, Nick figured that the Dealer had urged Jacek to run, and then had him killed.

  But Jacek hadn't a mark on him beyond the bruises from the accident. Or did he? The body showed traces of illness, a virus…

  A movement coming up the aisle caught Nick's attention. It was Hela. Quickly he double-folded the letter and slipped it into the side pocket of his jacket.

  "May I sit here for a moment, Mr. Carter?"

  "Sure," Nick nodded. "And after all the days together, I think we can make it Nick… Hela."

  "Thank you."

  Nick eyed the woman as she slid gracefully into the seat beside him. The dress was a dull, in-between brown, snug around the hips, but cinched at the waist so that the top bloused, almost becoming baggy.

  Her face sported little makeup, just some lip gloss and a little blush on the cheeks. The eyes were bare, in their natural state, and now they darted from the front of the plane, to Nick, to her lap.

  The eyes, when they met Nick's, were almost cold. They seemed to look but not see. They had glanced at Nick, but not really acknowledged his existence.

  Nick's gut reaction now, as it had been several times before when he had been this close to Hela Borczak, was that the slim figure beneath the clothes was constructed of pure ice.

  Or maybe she was just that way toward him. No, Anatole had felt something akin to Nick's feeling about the woman.

  "Could I have a cigarette, please?"

  "I didn't think you smoked."

  "I don't, only on occasion. It — it makes me calm."

  Nick was pretty sure this woman was always calm. Nevertheless, he extended his case and then lit the cigarette she withdrew from it.

  "My, they are strong, aren't they?"

  "Don't inhale," Nick shrugged.

  Silence.

  "I'm sorry Tori couldn't accompany us to London. I miss her."

  Nick merely nodded. The AXE boys in Paris had done a good job of keeping Tori's name out of the press. She was merely a female victim. Nick had explained to Borczak, Hela and the two others that she would be joining them later.

  "I will be glad when it is over — all this." She punctuated her words with a cloud of uninhaled smoke.

  "We both will. Or I should say, we all will."

  "Perhaps Stefan will return to me then."

  Nick didn't reply. He remembered Tori's words about Stefan's
obsession with the Dealer encroaching on the bedroom. Again he glanced at Hela. Again he could almost feel her coldness. Maybe he didn't know women after all, but it seemed to him that Hela could care less if Stefan left her alone.

  As if to defy Nick's thoughts, her hand crept up to cover his where it rested on the armrest between them.

  "I feel as if my only purpose in life is to be the seeing eye dog for a fanatic bent on revenge."

  Her words were emphasized by a squeeze of her hand. Almost imperceptibly, her voice had dropped a full octave into a throaty whisper.

  "A very lonely seeing eye dog, at that," she added.

  Jesus, she can shift like a forest fire being fanned by a strong wind, Nick thought. But far beneath the smoldering look that had entered her eyes, he could still detect the marblelike coldness.

  He was just about to search for an adequate reply, as well as a subtle way of extricating his hand, when it was provided for him.

  From several seats in front there came a stifled scream, followed by a rasping, gagging cough.

  Nick looked up just in time to see Mazelik, the fourth male dissident, stagger into the aisle clutching his throat with both hands. The man's face was a glaring, bright red, and only the whites could be seen in his rolling eyes.

  "My God, what's wrong with him!" Hela cried.

  Nick didn't take time to answer. He placed a hand on each seat back, tucked his legs, and vaulted over Hela into the aisle.

  In seconds he was past the rest of the gasping, frightened passengers and had Mazelik in his arms. The man could get no air, and each anguished wheeze sounded like his last.

  Nick swiftly whirled him around and stretched him out as gently as possible in the aisle. It took all the force he could muster in both hands to force the jaw open. Once it was done, Nick checked the tongue.

  Mazelik hadn't swallowed it yet. To make sure he didn't, Nick started to reach for his pen. Wrapped in his handkerchief, it would make a substitute tongue depressor.

  "Here!"

  Nick looked up. It was the long-legged stewardess, and in her hand she held the real thing.

  "Good girl."

  Nick applied it sideways inside Mazelik's mouth and then ripped the man's shirt open. The wheezing had progressed now to what sounded like a death rattle. Nick balled his hands in a single, clublike fist and began to apply strong but even pressure on Mazelik's chest in the vicinity of the heart.

  Up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Down!

  Rest! Rest!

  Up! Down!

  Fetid air filled Nick's nostrils as Mazelik exhaled but didn't take in a new breath.

  Nick stopped the movement and dropped his ear to the man's chest. A second later he rolled back to his haunches.

  "Is he…" the stewardess asked.

  "He sure as hell is," Nick growled between gritted teeth. And then he remembered. "Parshev — shit!"

  Nick lurched to his feet. With flailing arms, he thrust curious passengers from his path. Like a frustrated and angry bull, he surged toward the rear of the plane.

  Once there, he swept his eyes over the doors of the four lavatories. Only one was occupied.

  "Parshev!" he cried, pounding both fists on the door.

  There was no answer.

  Nick had expected none.

  Leaning against the bulkhead behind him and using the handles on the other two lavatory doors, Nick lifted his legs into the air. His feet shot forward, and the soles of his shoes made a sickening, crunching sound as the door's lock shattered on impact.

  The door only opened a few inches. But it was far enough to see the dissident's body, with his head sprawled in the sink.

  Nick pushed the door open a few inches more, far enough to get his own head inside.

  "Jesus Christ," he whispered under his breath. The poor bastard didn't even have time to pull his pants up."

  * * *

  Nick's hands half-covered his eyes as they stared at the embossed nameplate on the desk before him: DAVIDSON HARCOURT-WITTE. Idly, Nick wondered if Davidson Harcourt-Witte was Cambridge or Oxford. For sure he had been Eton. Eton was almost as much a prerequisite for MI-5 as Cambridge or Oxford, in the upper echelons, that is.

  Beyond the plaque, its owner sat red-faced and fuming.

  "Good God, Carter, did you have to radio Heathrow and slap a quarantine status on the whole plane?"

  "There were two bodies…"

  He was ignored. "And you'll have to settle it with the Froggies about taking command of a French airliner."

  "I showed them proper authority," Nick replied, trying to keep the boredom out of his voice. Harcourt-Witte's anxiety about British etiquette and French bureaucracy was making it hard for him to concentrate on important things.

  The man was still raving about irate quarantined passengers and sputtering French pilots when an aide came in, deposited a report on the desk, and scurried out. The aide had barely hit the door when Nick speared the document.

  "Son-of-a-bitch, Carter, have you no manners?"

  "None," Nick replied, pacing as he speed read.

  "Autopsy report: two males; descriptions; manner of death: heart attack, but traces of virus found in blood; special report; computer correlation; virus aligns with that found in Bulgarian defector; gave dates; also same virus detected in two Czech defectors killed in London…" Nick let out a low whistle. "Damn!"

  The expletive sent Harcourt-Witte back in his chair. His voice, when he spoke this time, was far meeker. "What?"

  "Washington routinely ordered a blood analysis of our dissident, Janusz, who died in Amsterdam, run through your files. Why wasn't this picked up before?" Nick slapped the report down on the desk and pointed to the meaningful paragraphs.

  "Ah, yes, the umbrella killings." Nick groaned. "I really don't know, old boy. These things do take time, you know."

  "Almost as much time as it takes a mole in MI-5 to be discovered."

  "See here now…"

  "Get up!"

  He did, and Nick took his place behind the desk. "Is this a safe line?"

  "Yes."

  Nick reached for it and then stopped, smiling up at the other man innocently. "May I?

  "Well, I suppose. It is a business call, isn't it?"

  "Jesus," Nick growled and placed the call to Dupont Circle.

  A lot of things made sense now. For instance, Nick was pretty sure what the "instrument of death" in Jacek's letter meant now. And other things, already spotted by Tori, also became clear.

  "Hawk here."

  "N3, London."

  "Go ahead. You're being taped."

  Nick brought his superior up-to-date on the letter and the latest fatalities.

  "Can you redo the autopsy on Jacek and shoot some blood samples here to MI-5 for clarification?"

  "Shouldn't be a problem," came the reply.

  "And I don't think the stroke suffered by the Speaker of the House was, in fact, a stroke."

  "How so?"

  "In his letter, the mole mentioned a raise in rank. With the Speaker dead. Ganicek was next in line to not only the office, but also the tremendous information available to that office. That would mean that, if Ganicek had the information, our mole, Jacek, would have access to it. I think that's what he meant about 'raise in rank."

  "If this is all true," Hawk said, "how do you want me to prove it?"

  "Exhume the Speaker's body."

  The thunder from the other end of the line was deafening, ending with a growled, "You are nuts. No way — the family would never agree."

  "Okay, okay," Nick moaned. "Can you get access to the Speaker's personal effects on or about the time of his death? Such as personal things from his desk — both at home and in his office. Any personal things from his clothing drawers."

  "In other words, everything the guy owned?" Hawk said, exasperation in his voice.

  "You've got it," Nick replied. "At least everything that touched his body. And especially anything that could have punctured his skin. If you find anything lik
e that, have it analyzed immediately and send that analysis posthaste, along with everything else, to MI-5."

  "I think you have some idea already of what we'll find."

  "Maybe," Nick replied. "Maybe some kind of a heart arrester that Western doctors don't know about yet."

  "That all?"

  "That's all. How soon?"

  "Very soon."

  They rang off and Nick sat back in the thick cushioned chair with a sigh. He knew now that the virus was no plague, or anything that approached it. The plague was the Death Dealer himself. He had been following the team of dissidents himself, or through a henchman, and systematically had been killing them off one at a time.

  But why one at a time? Why not all at once?

  And then it clicked.

  "If you don't have a plague, the next best thing is to create the impression of one!"

  "Plague, old boy?" muttered Harcourt-Witte. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "Get your boys off their asses," Nick said, bolting for the door, "and you'll know when I do."

  Chapter Nine

  Nick tapped on the door and waited. It was opened a crack, and then pulled wide.

  "Stefan isn't here."

  "I know," Nick replied. "He's in the hotel bar having an after-dinner drink with Anatole."

  Hela nodded, and then a little light seemed to go on in her eyes. It brought a smile to her lightly rouged lips. "Then you dropped by to see me."

  "That's right," Nick said, letting his eyes cover all of her beneath partially hooded lids.

  As it had on the plane, much of her cold demeanor dropped away with the smile. Not all, but most. More than ever before, she had an air of femininity about her. Nick wondered if it was the robe. It was an azure, silky affair that clung like a sheath to her tall, model's body. Contrary to the dresses she usually wore, the robe fit snugly. It flowed over her breasts, separating and accenting them.