by Nick Carter
Annotation
The target: Stephan Conway, an American, founder of Protec International, the government's chief supplier of missile guidance systems. At first, Conway was the victim of blackmail. But then… he was marked for murder. Nick Carter was at hand in Berlin when Conway's wife was killed by a cyanide-tipped bullet.
It looked like a failed assassination attempt. But Carter knew the plot was more complicated than it appeared. Experience had taught him one important thing: a professional never misses…
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Nick CarterOne
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* * *
Nick Carter
Killmaster
The Berlin Target
Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
One
It had gone like clockwork so far, but then the beginning of an operation — setting it in motion — was always the easiest part. The biggest hurdles were many and yet to come.
The sky above Sevastopol' was a clear blue, and the sun shining down over "Soviet Florida" — the southern Crimea — was warm. So warm that Nick Carter had removed his well-worn, cracked leather jacket and slung it over his shoulder.
He crossed Nakhimov Square and entered Primorsky Boulevard, the seafront. He passed the museum, the Court's Harbor, home of the Soviet Black Sea fleet, and continued on into the older and dingier section of the city.
Batov Street was little more than an alley leading from the wider boulevard down to the wooden promenade and the sea. It was a street of small cafes, drinking houses, and bistros with cheap sleeping rooms above for one-hour visitors or overnight travelers. Batov Street was a place where workers on vacation or local fishermen could go for cheap vodka, filling food, and inexpensive lodging. If one could afford it, companionship could also be arranged to go with a room.
The name of the place was The Silver Dolphin, and it was easy to spot. Inside, it was a clone of every other place on the street; a wooden bar that was ancient before Peter was czar of all the Russias, a few solid tables and chairs, and cushioned benches along the walls. Even though it was a blistering eighty degrees outside, the ever-present samovar sat steaming away on one corner of the bar.
Carter dropped his bag by the bar and claimed one of the stools. The bartender was an old man with a chest-to-knee apron the color of old concrete. He used a dirty rag to move around the refuse on the bar, and mumbled a greeting.
"Vodka," Carter said.
The other male customers in the bar were, for the most part, dressed as was Carter. There were two old peasant women gossiping over tea at one of the tables. The three younger women were working girls, making a little extra money on the weekend.
It was common knowledge — and acceptable in the resort areas — for salesgirls and minor clerks to supplement their incomes with an occasional roll in the hay.
Near the window a fat old man dozed in a chair, a cold glass of tea on the table before him. The cat in his lap stretched out and also slept. Carter guessed that both of them, without opening an eye, could have told him how many buttons he had on his shirt.
The old man could have had «informant» stamped across his forehead.
"Vodka."
"Spasee'ba," Carter replied, dropping a bill on the bar. "You have rooms?"
"Do… for the night?"
"Da. I just arrived on the morning train from Khar'kov. I leave in the morning for the workers' camp at Soucha."
"Vacation?"
Carter nodded.
"I will have to have your travel pass and your worker's identification."
Carter passed them over and returned his concentration to the three women. He knew the bartender wouldn't miss it. In minutes the old man was back with the room ticket registration.
Carter scanned it:
Age: 36
Place of Birth: Valki
Place of Residence: 110 Karpolov Prospect, Khar'kov
Workplace: Fitter, People's Tractor Factory, Khar'kov
Carter scrawled his signature across the bottom of the slip: Mikhail Ivanovich Assalov.
As he did so, he mentioned to the barman what a long, dry, and lonely trip it had been.
The man nodded knowingly. "You wish some company, comrade?"
"You can provide some company?"
He shrugged, his shoulders rising to his ears. "Such a thing, you know, is illegal… but I can inform one of the women of your room number."
"The tall brunette with the small breasts," Carter said.
"I will see, comrade."
The woman sat alone at one of the tables, sipping tea and leafing through a magazine. The barman approached her, whispered in her ear, and waited. She looked up at Carter, weighed the price she could ask, and nodded.
"The young lady's name is Ludmilla Alecmovna. For how long would you wish her company, comrade?"
"The night."
"I see. That will be thirty-five rubles, and it includes a bottle."
Carter grimaced but didn't quibble. He paid, grabbed his bag, and followed the man upstairs and into a room.
"The toilet is on the floor above, comrade. Your hours for the bath are between seven and eight this evening and six and seven in the morning." He set the bottle and two glasses on a table.
Carter nodded and thanked him, and the man oozed from the room.
The Killmaster poured three fingers of the white lightning into a glass and moved to the murky window. He sighed as he looked out over the harbor. It had been a long three weeks and seven thousand miles from Washington to where he now stood.
Three weeks previously, to the day, David Hawk had briefed him in the AXE offices high above Dupont Circle in DC.
"Six months ago, we turned a deep-cover agent named Peter Limpton. His real name is Boris Simonov, and he was operating as an electronics broker for high-level, high-tech equipment manufactured in the United States."
While Hawk had filled him in on the general data, Carter had been scanning the details from the man's dossier.
Peter Limpton's main job was to set up a dummy West German company for the purchase of American electronics equipment. This he had done, plus devised a method and route of diverting this equipment to East Germany and eventually to Moscow.
Just about the time he had everything ready to go, he had been blown and turned. But before Limpton could be used as a double, he had been called back to Moscow. The reason Moscow gave was their sudden decision that Limpton should acquire a wife to help him.
Needless to say, the wife he was to be given was to be a KGB agent even better trained than himself.
But Washington had learned that this wasn't the case at all. In fact, quite the contrary. Limpton would be introduced to his "wife," and they would be given a Black Sea vacation together so they could get to know one another.
"Actually, Nick," Hawk continued, "the new wife will get out of Limpton all the routes and methods, plus the contacts he has made in the States…"
"And then the KGB will execute him," Carter finished.
Hawk nodded. "That's the way we've got it figured. We want all that information ourselves. That's why we've got to get him out."
Limpton and his KGB wife were scheduled for a two-week stay in the southern Crimea at an exclusive VIP resort in the Sochi area.
Two days before, Carter had gone aboard the Turkish liner Ilion in the guise of a stevedore. A special section of the ship's brig had been provided for him during the sail across the Black Sea to Odessa.
But Carter
had donned scuba gear and slipped into the sea fifty miles off the coast of the Crimea and Sevastopol'. Within a half hour, he had been picked up by a fishing trawler.
They had everything ready for him: proper clothes, a suitcase with more clothing, identity papers, a travel pass, and a canceled train ticket stub from Khar'kov to Sevastopol'.
The trawler had churned into Sevastopol' harbor just before dawn. Carter had stayed belowdecks until the catch was unloaded, and then had gone ashore at noon as one of the crew.
The boat was a long-range trawler, the Rosa, out of Sevastopol', and often cruised the entire length of the Crimean coast in search of fish.
It wouldn't be the last time Carter made use of the Rosa and its captain, Arlev Guildenkov.
A knock on the door brought him back to the present.
"Da."
The door swung aside and she stood, hands on hips, with her shoulders and pelvis moving in all directions at once. She was far short of beautiful, but pretty, with a strikingly pale face surrounded by blue-black hair. The dress was cheap and tight everywhere, and she wore a tiny hat on her head set at a saucy angle.
"You want to see Ludmilla, comrade?" she said in a too-loud voice.
Carter nodded her in with a smile, and she closed and locked the door behind her.
"Can we talk?" he asked, rolling his eyes around the room.
She nodded. "They only put listening devices in the Intourist hotels down here."
"How much did he give you?" Carter asked.
"Ten rubles."
"The thief, I gave him thirty-five. Drink?"
"Yes. I've set up at meeting with Kokolev for tonight, ten o'clock."
"We'll stay in the room until then."
"Very well, then I can get rid of this for a while." She pulled off the black wig and shook out a radiant mane of honey-blond hair.
"Sorry I was late. I waited at the station until the train I was supposed to be on came in."
"That's all right." she said with a chuckle. "I was rather enjoying myself. Do you know I could have made over two hundred rubles this afternoon?"
* * *
Carter checked out of the room with the excuse that he had decided to leave for the south early.
Ludmilla had left an hour before him.
Carrying his suitcase, he walked to Ushakov Square and joined the line waiting for the bus. He could see the golden halo of her hair near the front of the line. She had discarded the cheap garb of the prostitute and now wore a severe dark suit, low-heeled shoes, and carried a huge shoulder bag.
Now she looked like what she really was: an Intourist guide.
It was a perfect cover for her real role as a courier. She would obtain documents or information from Moscow-based vacationing agents, and pass it along to her English or American tourist charges.
Her role as liaison/guide for Carter was dangerous and far out of her line, but the operation had to be mounted in a hurry.
The bus arrived and the long line filtered aboard. Carter sat near the rear, Ludmilla directly behind the driver. When she got off at the Mount Sapun stop, he followed her.
The night had grown chilly, but the narrow streets of the little village were full of walking, chatting people. Mount Sapun was cleaner and prettier than Sevastopol', with a lot of packed street cafes and basement bistros.
A light fog swirled around them as they drew closer to the sea. Ludmilla kept changing directions in a zigzag pattern, and she even doubled back on herself twice. Carter knew she was checking for a tail, and went along.
When she halted at last, he continued walking until he caught her.
"It's not far now, just down the sea walk a little and then up to that row of houses — there."
Carter nodded and they set off.
Five minutes later, they had climbed to the seaward side of a long row of one-story, concrete-block houses.
"Go out on the point, there, and wait. It is best that his wife and children don't see you."
Carter nodded. They couldn't describe the face of a visitor they had never seen.
He moved out onto the overhanging cliff and hunkered down among the rocks. He scarcely had a cigarette going when Ludmilla appeared. She crouched opposite Carter, and then an enormous, black-haired man blocked out the moon before perching on a rock.
"I am Kokolev."
Carter nodded. He didn't give the man his own name. Kokolev knew what Carter was; there was no need of a who.
He cased the other man in the moonlight, and liked what he saw. Deep lines cut into the sides of his mouth. His flesh, roughened from exposure to sun, wind, and rain, was stretched taut over Tatar-like cheekbones, drawn tight over sunken cheeks. Under protruding black eyebrows, the pale blue eyes were intense as they studied Carter with equal care.
"Your target arrived in Sochi the day before yesterday."
"With the woman?"
"Yes. They are staying in a dacha at the compound near the Matsesta River, right on the sea. It is where all the very high government officials take their vacations."
"So it is very well guarded."
Kokolev nodded. "High, electrified fence three quarters of the way around, and patrols on the beach. Two of my cousins work there, so I know which house they are in."
"Do you have a plan?" Carter asked.
"Yes." Kokolev took a map from beneath his shirt and spread it on the ground. A penlight appeared in his hand and danced over the paper.
"You have arranged for the fishing trawler to pick you up, correct?"
"Yes," Carter said and nodded. "All I need to know is exactly where we leave the coast. I can arrange coordinates then with Guildenkov. You have the undersea sleds I requested?"
"We do. They are old but in good repair." He returned to the map. "The workers' complex is here. That is where you and Ludmilla will check in tomorrow afternoon. It abuts the government officials' complex — here."
"From the sketch, it's practically a fortress," Carter commented.
"It is." Kokolev chuckled. "They wouldn't want outsiders, real workers, to wander into it and see how lavishly they live. The compound itself is enclosed, with two entrances, each guarded by a pair of sentries. Two more sentries act as a roving patrol, one on the beach side and one in the compound itself."
"Is this a complete floor plan of the dacha?"
"The woman who got it for me works in the Ministry of Engineering. It is the exact floor plan from which every building in the compound was built."
"Tricky," Carter growled. "We'll have to get rid of at least one set of guards at one of the entrances. Then, even after I'm inside, the two roving guards will have to be occupied for at least an hour."
"True," Kokolev replied. "And this is how I think it can be done."
For the next twenty minutes, the big man went over the plan, and Carter tried to tear it apart.
He couldn't. It looked solid.
"That means we'll need two men besides yourself, plus arms and uniforms."
"I have already procured all of those things," Ludmilla offered.
"And your two cousins? They will cooperate?"
"They have been softening up the guards for a week," Kokolev replied. "Actually, it was very easy. They are very jealous of the ones they stand watch over."
"It looks good. Well go."
Kokolev nodded and smiled. "I have a delivery tomorrow near Soucha. I will take the two men arid the equipment down in the truck. You and Ludmilla will take the ten o'clock bus. We will meet you at ten tomorrow night, here. Ludmilla…"
"I know the place."
Kokolev folded the sketch and handed it to Carter. "You will want to study this. Bum it before you leave in the morning."
Without another word, he stood and moved like a cat back toward the row of houses.
"This way." Ludmilla murmured to Carter, rising. "We will stay tonight in the house of Kokolev's brother. He and his wife have conveniently gone away for a few days. It is on the edge of the village."
"The neighbors…"
We are two lovers from the north on vacation, and we do not dare check into a hotel together.
Carter nodded and grabbed his suitcase. He followed her down the cliffside, then paused on the ocean walk for a second.
"What are you thinking?"
"Just that this is a very dangerous game for all of you to play, with very little reward."
"Let us be the judge of that," Ludmilla replied quietly. "Besides, we are Tatars."
She moved away again, and the Killmaster fell in step behind her.
Tatars.
He knew exactly her meaning. Under the Soviets, in 1921, the Tatar Crimean Autonomous Republic was set up. They ruled themselves, and did it well. But during World War II, the Crimea was occupied by Germans for three years. This proved to have tragic consequences for the proud Tatars.
They were accused by Stalin of collaboration with the Nazis. All in all, this was not true. But it was a good excuse for the Soviet bear to swallow up the land at the end of the war and abolish self-rule.
The Crimean Tatar families were rounded up and banished to the Soviet republics in central Asia. Eventually, many of their offspring — like Ludmilla and Kokolev — returned, only to become bitter and disillusioned when they found themselves third-class citizens in their own land.
"Here we are," she said, opening the door.
The cottage was unimpressive from the outside, and even more so in the interior. It was stark and bare, with sagging, rugless wooden floors and Spartan furniture.
Light from a single coal-oil lamp illuminated a large room with a small wooden bed, a table and three chairs, and two sofas that had seen better days decades before. The kitchen was a tiny lean-to reached through an opening knocked through the original wall. An ancient tub sat in one corner with a pipe from its drain running through the wall. There were no pipes evident to run water into the tub.
Ludmilla saw his face as his gaze roamed around the room.
"These are very poor people. They cannot afford to live as you do in the West."
Carter smiled gently. "The West is not all a utopia, Ludmilla. There are poor people there, as well. I will take one of the sofas."