The Death Dealer

by Nick Carter

  "You're very lovely this evening, Mrs. Borczak."

  The smile grew. "Is that a compliment or a Nick Carter statement of fact?"

  "A little of both."

  "If this is a social call, I think…"

  "It isn't," Nick said, stepping by her into the suite. "Bui I'll have a drink while we play twenty questions. I ask, you answer."

  Out of the corner of his eye Nick watched the smile fade from Hela's lips and the coldness return to her eyes. He also noticed the slits on each side of the robe when she shrugged and turned to close the door. They went all the way up to the softly rounded undercurves of her buttocks.

  "What'll it be? as you say in America."

  "Scotch, neat."

  As she built the drinks and walked back to where Nick had perched on the arm of a sofa, he got another shot of adrenaline from what his mind called her new or different look.

  The simple sash on the robe was drawn tightly about her tiny waist. It did marvelous things to the ample curves of her hips and breasts. She slid the drink into Nick's hand and then lowered herself into a lounging position on the sofa nearby. She landed with one leg drawn up, so the robe split open, the bottom falling away. Nick's eyes had no trouble following a large expanse of creamy thigh up to the barest suggestion of jet black pubic curls.

  "Is that an invitation?" he asked, sipping the Scotch.

  "Is that one of the twenty questions?"

  "Touché" he said. "No."

  "Then it's a comfortable way of sitting."

  As she spoke, she held her drink in front of her eyes, studying him over the rim of the glass. It was meant to add mystery and sultriness to her look. Like the lounging pose, it was too studied. Nick wondered if it was natural or learned.

  He guessed the latter.

  "Do you love your husband, Mrs. Borczak?"

  For the barest of seconds her eyes clouded, the knuckles grew slightly whiter around the glass, and the arched leg made a slight movement to close and cross over its mate.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I ask, remember? You answer."

  "We are not lovers, if that's what you mean. No longer, at least. We are more like companions now."

  "But you are married?"

  Her head swiveled to him. Now the eyes were like chunks of jade ice. The lips were sealed, a thin red slash above a firm, defiant chin. To Nick's surprise, her reply, when she spoke at last, was truthful.

  "No, we're not married. At least not in the usual sense. We exchanged vows between ourselves and I took Stefan's name. It's a common thing in the Eastern bloc countries where the church doesn't reign supreme.

  "Did the vows you exchanged between yourselves include a vow of fidelity?" The look never wavered, but the lips returned to their state of closed silence. "Okay, another one. When did you exchange these vows with Stefan?"

  "Six years ago this month." Not a blink, not a quiver, or a second's hesitation.

  "What day?"

  "The eighteenth."

  "Where?"

  "Warsaw."

  "Was Stefan blind then?"

  "Of course. Where…?"

  Nick verbally bolted on, trying not to give her time to think, even though he knew she didn't need to. "What was your maiden name?"

  "Obstrawski."

  "You were born in East Berlin."

  "I was born in Cracow."

  "What section?"

  "The Bakslackvia section, in the south."

  "Ever been to the U. S. before?"

  "No."

  "Your English is perfect, even the slang."

  "I received a very good education."

  "Where? Russia?"

  Only a slight pause before she said, "Partially."

  Now Nick paused, sipping the Scotch and letting it burn all the way down before speaking again. "When were you recruited to do your training at the Verkhonoye House of Love in Russia?"

  Goddamn, Nick thought, she is good. The eyes continued their cold appraisal, and the lips even managed to twist into a rather wicked grin.

  "How did you find out?"

  It was Nick's turn to smile. "I didn't. It was an educated guess. There are times, when viewed by another agent, that your training sticks out like a ringer in a pickup game."

  "Ringer?"

  "An American expression you should know."

  Hela put both hands on the glass and finally dropped her gaze from Nick's eyes. She stared into the amber liquid for several moments before speaking. When she did speak, there was just the suggestion — just the right suggestion — of a quiver in her voice.

  "You know about Verkhonoye? What goes on there? The training they give young girls to become sparrows?"

  "Yes," Nick replied, trying to take in every part of her at once. He didn't want to miss a single clue, and it was impossible to know from where it would come.

  "I was thirteen and a virgin. I was orphaned and put in a State home when I was ten. I had talent as a pianist. I thought it was that talent I was going to explore when I was picked to go to Moscow."

  Nick glanced at Hela's fingers. They were long, tapering fingers, thin but with obvious strength. But it was the nails that riveted his eyes. They too were long, and manicured to almost sharpened points. There was a slight sheen to their surface from a clear polish.

  "Do you play now?" he asked idly.

  "Rarely, if ever." Without glancing at Nick, Hela sipped her drink and then continued. "At first, when the Dealer put Stefan and me together, I felt like an animal, a piece of meat to be fattened and used. But then Stefan and I grew fond of each other. I saw the core of hate that was consuming him and decided to rebel against my training and the Dealer's edicts."

  "So instead of playing watchdog for the Dealer over one of his drones, you become the drone's conscience?"

  "Not entirely. I wanted out myself. Through Stefan I saw a way. Is it your turn to pour?"

  She held the empty glass up. Over it, Nick could see the sadness in her eyes. But he could also see the icy depths that wouldn't go away.

  Hela was either pouring her guts out, he thought, or she was the greatest actress since Sarah Bernhardt.

  He took the glass and moved to the bar.

  "Stefan and I agreed that if you learned about my KGB background, slight as it was, I would never be allowed to defect with him. Also, it would be impossible for your side to accept the aid that Stefan wanted to give you in destroying the Dealer."

  Nick stood directly over her as he placed the drink in her hand. He could smell her perfume, the musky scent of her body warmth, all of her. He could look down the openly draped top of the robe and see the gentle swell of her parted breasts. A tightening sensation gripped his belly and loins.

  Tori had been openly sensual. This woman was classically erotic.

  Taking the drink, she motioned with her eyes to the place beside her on the sofa. Nick sat and, sensing her start to move close to him, spoke again.

  "Who is the Dealer?"

  She shrugged. "A man. That's all I can tell you — all anyone can tell you about him, except perhaps his superiors. And probably very few of them know much about him."

  Nick swirled the liquid in his glass, his eyes darting from it to her, and back again. "I don't know his face," he murmured. "I only saw him once — on a dark night in Berlin, beside a wall. But I saw his eyes, and those I'll never forget. I'll know him by those eyes, but it would help if I had some kind of description beyond that."

  "I never saw him."

  "What? But that's impossible!"

  She shook her head. "It isn't. The only people he worked with who knew definitively that the man they were talking with was the Dealer were blind men."

  "You mean you've never seen his face?" Nick asked incredulously.

  "Never."

  Nick heaved himself to his feet and crossed to the window. Through the London fog he could see people moving along the streets of Mayfair. Was the Dealer down there now, looking up at him, waiting for him?

 
; He could be.

  The man was a godamn phantom.

  Nick spoke without turning. "Aren't you and Stefan worried about this virus, this plague that seems to be running amok through defectors?"

  "Of course we're worried. I'm petrified."

  "You should be. You're the only two left."

  "There's something in your voice," she said. "Why don't you put it into words?"

  Nick turned. She had crossed the room and stood so close now that her breasts nearly brushed his chest. Her scent was stronger than ever, and the dark depths of her eyes were almost hypnotic.

  "I don't think it's a disease at all," Nick said slowly. "I think it's a unique kind of poison that acts as a heart arrester. I think a virus is introduced into the bloodstream along with the poison that acts on the respiratory system. And I think the Dealer, or those who work for him, are the ones doing the introducing."

  "Then we're next?"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe the Dealer wants to keep the two of you alive — or just one of you. I don't know. Perhaps the Dealer wants to give the impression of a plague, and the further impression that all or most of you contracted it before leaving the Eastern side."

  "But why? What can be his purpose?"

  Nick shrugged. "I'm not sure."

  "You don't trust me, do you?" Hela said, moving closer now so that the soft pillows of her braless breasts beneath the robe began to spread on his chest.

  "Should I? You were originally placed at Stefan's side by the Dealer. The man, like all the rest of them over there, plans long range. You could still be in his pocket, waiting to be used when the time came."

  "I could, but I'm not."

  "But there's no way to prove it, is there?"

  The pink tip of her tongue slid forward to lightly run over her lower lip. She had a wide, full mouth, Nick thought, the kind you see a lot in beauty pageants. Her lower lip, glistening now with saliva, was sensuously full. It was a kissable mouth, but Nick didn't forget that it could bite as well as kiss.

  "I think, Hela, it would be wise if you went on to Berlin with me, while Stefan goes to Munich with Anatole and the others."

  "You think I'm the Dealer's instrument of death? You think that when the time is right, I'm going to kill Stefan?"

  "I don't know what to think. But for insurance, I'd feel better if Anatole had only Stefan to worry about now. Will you go?"

  Her eyes bored into his. He could almost feel the thoughts churning as she weighed his proposal.

  "I'll go," she said. "Gladly."

  "Oh?"

  She nodded. "Yes. Because while I'm alone with you in Berlin, I'll prove to you that you have nothing to fear from me."

  Her body relaxed, melted against his. She was provoking him, pasting her thighs to his and twisting her hips. He tried to extricate himself, but she held him by the waist and drew him in closer. Her breasts were spread across his chest now, and their heat suffused his whole body.

  Her mouth was like a magnet drawing his. He kissed her, their lips barely touching before her tongue was delving deeply inside his mouth.

  The kiss was long and deep. It was perfectly executed, everything Nick thought it would be. Just before he lifted his head, he felt those long, perfectly manicured nails tickling the skin and the short hairs on the back of his neck.

  "We needn't wait for Berlin," she murmured, her voice low and husky. "I can slip up to your suite as soon as Stefan is asleep…"

  He was tempted, for several reasons, as he looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her breasts heaving. Her lips were parted, soft, her tongue darting between them. She moaned as she brought her body back against his with a jolt.

  "Say yes."

  "No. Berlin — maybe."

  He left her like that, standing by the window. By the time he got to his own suite, there was sweat on the palms of his hands.

  He wasn't sure whether it was brought on by desire or a tinge of fear.

  The red light gleamed on his bedside phone.

  "Carter, five-thirteen. My light is on."

  "Yes, Mr. Carter, you have two messages. One was just, 'Call home. There was no number."

  "I have it," he replied. "And the other?" She gave him the number Nick recognized as Harcourt-Witte's private line. "Would you dial that for me, please?"

  "Certainly."

  Seconds later the MI-5 man's clipped accent echoed in Nick's ear.

  "You chaps are fast. Thanks to computers, ours are too. A printout of everything you wanted will be on my desk in twenty minutes."

  "I'll be there in ten," Nick said quickly, and rang off.

  * * *

  Nick sat at Harcourt-Witte's desk. The reams of computer printout were spread out before him. It was just after ten and Nick had been poring over them for the better part of three hours.

  They were like a book with a few key chapters missing, but they did paint an overall picture.

  "More coffee?"

  Nick looked up. Harcourt-Witte stood in the diffused glow from the desk lamp holding a teapot. "Yeah, thanks." He poured. "Isn't that a teapot?"

  Harcourt-Witte nodded. "I had them make some coffee though. Figured tea, even ours, wouldn't be strong enough for you."

  Nick smiled. "You've been a big help. Sorry I was so sticky the other day."

  "Pay no mind. You chaps just don't go as much by the book as we do. Suppose it's the frontier thing — independence, cowboys, Indians, gangsters — all that sort of thing."

  Nick grinned and saluted the Englishman with his cup as one of the desk's many phones set up a clamor.

  "Your call from Washington," Harcourt-Witte said, handing Nick the receiver and moving soundlessly from the room.

  "Carter here."

  Hawk's voice mumbled and then began to growl. "Your hunch about the Speaker was right — same virus."

  "I know," Nick said, lighting a cigarette. "I've got the printouts in front of me. What about the other?"

  "Had a hell of a time getting the family's permission, but we were finally able to exhume the body."

  "And?"

  "A tiny puncture in the thumb. It was so minute they missed it before."

  "In the thumb?" Nick said, and coughed from just one too many drags on one too many cigarettes. "Chances are it was self-administered then."

  "That's what we figured." Hawk paused and Nick bit his lip to keep from urging the man on. "We finally found your instrument of death' in the things from his office desk. It was a lighter — common brand, made in Japan."

  "Shit," Nick said, "hardest damn thing in the world to trace."

  "Right, and probably doctored after purchase anyway — which would make tracing it of no consequence. But we were in luck."

  Nick's body tensed, his ears came alive, and his nostrils flared like an animal who has just caught the scent. "Yeah?"

  "An aide in the Speaker's office remembered that the lighter had been a gift."

  "From whom?"

  "The aide couldn't remember, but a secretary did remember that it was delivered by Jacek."

  "And Jacek worked in Ganicek's office," Nick whispered.

  Both men were silent, the static of the long distance line the only sound between them. But Nick was sure his superior's mind was traveling down the same avenues as his own.

  Ganicek's political career had a meteoric rise. It was always heavily funded, and his constituency was heavily Slavic, mostly Polish Americans. He was looked upon as an American-born freedom fighter for the rights of those in the old country. He had spent a great deal of time in Poland after the war, trying to stop the Russian takeover of the country of his heritage.

  But had that been his real reason for his extended stay in Poland?

  "It's a little mind-boggling, isn't it?"

  "It is," Nick replied. "I assume — difficult and awkward as it must be — you've started surveillance on the new Speaker?"

  "Minute by minute, around the clock. I've also sent top priority, ultrasecret inquiries to Vienna. Th
ey'll be relayed on to Budapest, Prague, and, needless to say, Warsaw. Should have a complete reevaluation of Ganicek's background and activities within twenty-four hours."

  "I'll need it immediately in Berlin," Nick said.

  "You'll have it."

  Nick's mind, weary as it had become, was trigger fast now. Ganicek was a popular man. He was to have been the U. S. voice in Bern. Now his duties as Speaker precluded his appearance there. The Vice President would take his place, in a figurehead position. This wouldn't hurt the negotiations that much, because Stefan Borczak would speak of Poland and East Berlin with an even more recent and authoritative voice.

  "And, Nick…" Hawk said, his voice breaking into Nick's thoughts like a sharp knife, "…there's something else."

  "On Ganicek?"

  "No, on the Dealer. We've unearthed a file, an old one. It went through several times, but I spotted it by accident because of this virus and plague business."

  "Read it to me; it's worth the time."

  Nick went through half a pack of cigarettes, a lot of coughing, and a lot of teeth clenching for the next thirty minutes as he listened to Hawk's gravelly voice read through the file.

  At last he finished and Nick could feel the sweat running like a river down the center of his back.

  "Ill need a complete copy of that, down to your own notes, by the time I get to Berlin."

  "You'll have it. And, N3…"

  "Yeah?"

  "Cut down on your smoking, or switch to cigars. Those cigarettes will kill you."

  "I know," Nick growled. "But at least it takes time to go that way. Our dissident friends weren't so lucky."

  * * *

  Nick let himself into the suite and didn't bother with the light in the sitting room as he moved through the dimness into the bedroom.

  He was one step from the door when he sensed something; breathing, a slight rustle of movement from the direction of the bed, a barely perceptible sound that told him he wasn't alone.

  Instinctively he reached for Wilhelmina and then thought better of it. There had been enough hell raised with gunplay in Paris. There was no sense doing a repeat of that in London and being forced into yet another cover-up.

  Quietly he slipped his shoes off and tensed the muscle in his right forearm. Hugo, his pencil-thin stiletto, slid into Nick's palm from its chamois sheath. He crouched and duck-walked over the threshold, and then, holding his own breath, listened for someone else's.