Butcher of Belgrade

by Nick Carter

  The German girl turned and stared out of the big window beside us. A chalet-dotted countryside slipped past. The click of the rails beneath the train was a rhythmic undercurrent to her low voice.

  "It was in Belgrade that we picked up his trail. Those of us who have seen reports on his career call him the Butcher — the Butcher of Belgrade. He is both dangerous and cunning. Although we have come close to capturing him more than once, he has continued to elude us. He changes names and identities and even his face. We know nothing about his present life and we don't know exactly what he looks like now. We do know that people who were acquainted with him in the past spotted him recently in Belgrade. And he is supposed to be traveling on this train with us."

  "I can see that this is more than just another assignment. Capturing him is very important to you."

  "Yes, it is. The things he did…" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to finish it.

  I swallowed the last of my coffee. "We'll keep in touch, Ursula. It isn't a very big train. I'll be around if you need me. You are armed, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." I glanced across the aisle and saw that Lubyanka and the woman were leaving together.

  "Excuse me," I said, taking some bills out of my pocket and placing them on the table. I rose from my seat. "We'll get together later."

  Lubyanka and the brown-haired woman were leaving the dining car. They were headed toward the end of the train, rather than back toward the Class A compartments. I followed them out of the car, taking a quick look at the Chinese as I passed. His face was not familiar, but he glanced at me again as I walked by.

  There was a small observation platform on the rear of the train, and the mysterious woman and Lubyanka went directly to it. They stood there and continued their conversation. They did not see me as I stood in the smoking salon behind them. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a small disc-like limpet microphone. With that gadget I might just be able to find out what they were saying. I went on the platform with them.

  The sound of my approach was drowned out by the movement of the train, but so were their voices. I made an obvious sound, and they turned. The woman gave me a hostile look; Lubyanka studied me carefully. He did not appear to recognize me.

  "Good morning," I said with a French accent. "It is a lovely morning, is it not?"

  The woman turned away from me impatiently. Lubyanka grunted out, "Yes, a beautiful morning."

  "How far are you going?" I asked. I pretended I was losing my balance, and grabbed at the rail near Lubyanka, depositing the limpet on the underside of the rail.

  Now Lubyanka's face was also hostile. "It all depends," he said. He did not want to be bothered by an intruder any more than the woman did. He turned coldly away from me and stared out over the receding tracks that glinted brightly in the morning sun.

  "Well, have a good day," I said to them.

  Lubyanka nodded without looking at me. I turned and went back inside. When I passed through the dining car, Ursula had gone. I went to the sleeping car and entered my compartment, number three. Then I opened up my luggage and located the small receiver set that was hidden in it. I snapped it on and turned a dial.

  At first all I got was static. Then I heard the steady click-click of the wheels of the train and the voices interspersed with it.

  "It is necessary… see the device… make an offer." It was Lubyanka's voice.

  More static, then the woman's voice.

  "…not reveal the device… if we allowed you to examine… but there are good photographs… to my compartment later."

  Lubyanka's voice then uttered a curt farewell to the woman, and the conversation was over.

  I snapped the receiver off and hid it in my luggage. There was no doubt in my mind now. The woman was the Topcon agent, and she was dealing with Lubyanka for sale of the stolen monitor device.

  The question still remained, though, whether the woman was on the train alone or whether she was traveling with another Topcon operative, possibly the head of the organization, who was keeping out of sight per Jan Skopje's prediction. If she was on board alone, it was possible that she was the head of Topcon. In any case, she would probably not be carrying the device on her person, and it might not even be in her compartment. I had to check to make sure.

  A light lunch was served in the diner just before we hit Milan. I met Ursula, and we ate together. I thought of the pleasure she could afford in one of the sleeping compartments. But I did not have time to think about sex for long. I had to find out which compartment the Topcon woman occupied.

  I was able to accomplish my mission when the train stopped at Milan and the dining car was taken off. Ursula had stepped off the train briefly, to get a look at the passengers who had gotten off to stretch their legs, and I had gone with her. Just as the train was about to leave, I saw the Topcon woman emerge from a station doorway and get aboard the second of two sleeper cars, the one next to Voiture 7, where I was staying. I left Ursula on the platform and quickly moved into Voiture 5. As I entered the corridor, I saw the woman disappearing into a compartment. I moved down the corridor and noted that she had entered Compartment 4. I continued to the end of the car and stepped out onto the platform. A tall dark-haired man in his fifties — but with a youthful, virile look — climbed aboard the car; he was carrying a portable radio, an excellent German brand, but it was silent. He passed me with a curt nod, and went on into the sleeper. I remembered that I had seen him at the Lausanne station. After he had passed, I got off the train again and found Ursula.

  She had been watching faces, but she had not found her man yet. She was becoming angry.

  "Do you know how long he will be aboard?" I asked as we climbed back aboard together.

  He may be getting off at Belgrade, but I'm not sure. He may have gotten wind that we are tracking him and not boarded at all."

  We watched the uniformed train official on the platform swing his "poached egg," the disc on a stick that signaled the train's departure from the station. There was a small jerking movement and then the train was moving on. Many people were waving from the platform.

  I was standing very close to Ursula. I put my hand on her waist. "Do you think you'll know your man if you see him?"

  She glanced at me and then out at the station as it slid past us and fell behind the train. "As an SS man in the Third Reich, he was a blond. He has probably dyed his hair. He wore a mustache then, but he may have shaved it off. Still, there are things I can look for. He is a man about your size. He used to have a bullet scar on his neck. I realize that could have been surgically removed, but I can still look for it."

  "That isn't much to go on."

  "There's something eke. He has a malformed knuckle on his left hand. That would be difficult to change."

  "It still isn't much. But I'll watch for a man who keeps his left hand in his pocket all the time," I said jokingly.

  Ursula gave me a small smile. "If I see someone who might be him, Nick, I have hope of tricking him into giving his identity away."

  She sounded determined. But her devotion to duty was not the only thing about her that I found appealing.

  I slid my arm around her and she turned suddenly, her lips slightly parted. I pressed my mouth to hers, and she responded.

  After a moment, she pulled away. "I see you still enjoy keeping your fellow agents in a happy frame of mind," she said.

  I noticed the way her breasts pressed against the sweater she was wearing. "You know me, I like to keep everyone smiling," I said.

  She was a little flustered, maybe a little embarrassed, by the way she had responded to the kiss. "I must go to my compartment now, Nick. I'll — see you later."

  I smiled easily. "I'm counting on it." Then she was gone.

  We were out in open country again. It was a sunny spring afternoon. The Italian countryside was splashed with the vivid colors of crimson poppies and blue wildflowers. Venice was our next stop in late afternoon, and I expected to find
out about the Topcon woman before we arrived there.

  I walked through the daycoaches that contained both first and second class sitting compartments. The second class part was much noisier and less civilized than the first class part. The first class compartments had closeable doors, and many of them had curtains drawn for privacy. I moved from one car to the next slowly, watching the faces of the travelers as they chatted or played cards or just sat and dozed, letting the movement of the train draw them into slumber. On the last car before the sleepers, I saw the brown-haired woman again. She was sitting with two men; neither of them was Lubyanka. One of the men was the one with the radio who had passed me getting back on board at Milan. She sat and knitted, glancing out the window, and did not appear to know either man. The man with the radio was immersed in an Italian newspaper. The other man, a fat, bald fellow, was munching happily on a lunch he had brought aboard with him and was seemingly oblivious of the other two. I walked past the compartment before the woman could see me, and headed for Voiture 5. This was my chance to take a look in her compartment.

  I was alone in the corridor when I arrived at her door. I knocked once to be sure no comrade of hers, or a porter, was inside. Then I picked the lock quickly and entered, closing the door behind me.

  It was a typical sleeping compartment, with a single bunk on one side of the small room and a nightstand and mirror on the other wall. There were racks for luggage, just as in the day coaches, and the woman had several suitcases.

  I took down one piece of luggage at a time and went through all of them. I found nothing, not even the photographs that she had mentioned in her talk with Lubyanka. I did find an immigration paper that identified her as Eva Schmidt, a Swiss national.

  I was disappointed in the luggage. I began a systematic search of the compartment, looking through bedding and everything else that might conceal the device. I was almost finished when the door burst open. One of the two men who stood there was the Chinese I had seen earlier in the dining car. With him was his dining companion, an Occidental with a swarthy, pockmarked face.

  Each of the intruders carried a revolver. And each of the weapons was pointed at me.

  I smiled at them. "Gentlemen, you should have knocked."

  The swarthy man kicked the door shut. "Do you want me to kill him now?" he asked the Chinese.

  There was very little to stop them. Their guns carried silencers. If they put a few bullets in me, no one outside the compartment would know.

  "Don't be impatient," the Chinese told the swarthy man in excellent English.

  Although the Oriental's face was pudgy and his thick neck rippled with rolls of fat, his shoulders looked powerful and his hands were immense. I didn't doubt that he had the ability to take care of himself in a fight.

  The swarthy man was short and heavy and his belly lapped over his belt. He looked as though he spent too much of his spare time boozing. The eyes in his pockmarked face were set close together. I rated him behind the Chinese as an adversary, as slower and possibly less intelligent than his companion.

  "Did you find what you were looking for?" the Chinese asked me.

  I shrugged. "What do you think I was looking for?"

  "That sort of response is very stupid, Mr. Carter. If you are going to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, I might as well let my friend here go ahead and shoot you."

  "I certainly wouldn't want that to happen." I spread my hands out, palms up. "I'm empty handed, as you can see."

  "Perhaps Eva Schmidt is not carrying the device," said the swarthy man.

  "That is, of course, a possibility. How do you feel about it, Mr. Carter?" the Chinese asked.

  "I wouldn't know. I haven't had a chance to get acquainted with Miss Schmidt. How is it that you know my name?"

  "It's in our files, along with your photograph. You are close to being a celebrity in our field, you know. I had hoped we might be running into each other."

  "Your files must be more complete than ours. I tried to place you when I saw you in the dining car. I couldn't."

  The Chinese chuckled. "There aren't any photographs of me in western files, Mr. Carter."

  That gave me something to think about. It put him in a very special category.

  The Chinese sat down on the edge of Eva Schmidt's bunk. "Enough about me, Mr. Carter. I am a modest man. I'd rather not discuss myself. I prefer to have you tell us how much you know about the organization that calls itself Topcon."

  I saw no reason for keeping that a secret. "Very little," I said. "I don't even know if Eva Schmidt is the organization's boss or only one of the hired hands."

  "As a matter of fact, she is neither," the Chinese remarked. He appeared amused that he had more information on Topcon than I had. "The Schmidt woman is not the boss and yet she is certainly more than a mere underling."

  The swarthy man, who was leaning against the door, stirred restlessly. "You're telling him more than he's telling us," he grumbled to the Chinese.

  "Since we intend to kill him, that hardly matters," replied the Chinese in his deceptively amiable voice.

  I shifted my feet slightly so that I was in a position to move toward either man. I didn't plan to be shot down without trying to take them first. When I made my move, I would go for the one who was closest.

  "You aren't even supposed to be here. Topcon is selling the device to the Russians," I told the Chinese.

  "They also offered it to us. We weren't willing to pay their price. We decided to take it instead."

  I leaned forward slightly, letting my weight go with the movement so that I was prepared to spring toward the man on the bed. "You mean this train may be swarming with all kinds of agents who hope to steal the device from the people who stole it in the first place?"

  "That's the trouble with what you capitalists call free enterprise. It arouses the spirit of competition," the Chinese said with a chuckle.

  The swarthy man spoke again. "We'd better get on with this. The woman could come back at any time."

  "And we will get on with it, my friend. But it isn't every day that one has an opportunity to talk firsthand to an American Killmaster. How many of my comrades have you disposed of in your infamous career, Mr. Carter?"

  I shrugged. "I'm a modest man too."

  "You have been quite a thorn in our side. When I report that I have gained possession of the monitor and have eliminated you as well, I may be commended by the Chairman himself," said the Chinese in a gloating voice.

  They were a lovely pair, I thought. The swarthy man wanted to kill me instantly out of sheer impatience and the Chinese was interested in the glory he could win by returning to Peking with my scalp on his belt.

  With his left hand, the Chinese gestured to his companion. Then he raised the revolver in his right. He was ready to execute me and he wasn't going to take any chances. He planned for both of them to pump slugs into my body.

  "I lied to you," I said.

  The Chinese hesitated, his finger on the trigger. The man at the door cursed. "He's stalling, Sheng Tze."

  Sheng Tze, I thought, and suddenly the memory bank was working. Sheng Tze, the legendary Chinese Communist agent who had been so successful at shielding his identity that he was more like a ghost than flesh and blood. At various times I had heard him described as an old man; at others, I had heard people insist that, no, he was only in his thirties. And none of those people had known him well. They had only caught fleeting glimpses of him, apparently in a variety of disguises. For the secret of Sheng Tze's remaining a mystery man was that people who knew what he actually looked like had an awkward habit of dying violently.

  The Chinese's eyes had slitted further when the name slipped from the lips of his companion. "You fool," he hissed at the swarthy man. "You were warned never to use my name."

  He looked back at me, his expression no longer amiable. "Now, Mr. Carter, your death is more certain than before."

  "Your people must really want that device. They sure brought out th
e big artillery."

  "No more small talk," he spat at me, furious that his companion had made a mistake. "You said you lied to us. Explain that to me."

  "I did find the gadget. I have it in my pocket." I moved my hand. "I'll show it to you."

  "Carter, move that hand again and I'll be checking the pockets of a dead man," Sheng said.

  I froze. I knew he meant every word.

  Sheng gestured. "Check his pockets," he told the man at the door.

  The swarthy man moved forward and for an instant his body blocked Sheng's view, hiding the movement of my arm as I brought the stiletto sliding down into my palm.

  He thrust his hand into my jacket pocket and as he did, I grasped Hugo and drove the razor sharp point into his fat belly. He gasped, his eyes bulging in pain. He slumped forward and I grabbed his shoulders to use him as a shield.

  Sheng pumped a shot in my direction. It struck the swarthy man even as I caught hold of his sagging body. The impact caused him to jump even though the life was ebbing out of him before the bullet hit.

  With gritted teeth, I gave the dead weight in my arms a backward shove, hurling the body toward the bunk and the Chinese agent. Sheng dodged. For a man of his size, he was remarkably fast. He got out of the way and the body of his companion slammed onto the bunk.

  Sheng was about to fire again. I took a step toward him and heard the silencer-equipped revolver in his hand make its spitting sound. I bent, twisting my body forward and downward and kicking at him with my right foot.

  His second shot missed because of my movement and then my kick, taught me by a Japanese master of karate, struck Sheng's gunhand brutally, cracking his fingers and sending the revolver flying from his grasp.

  Before he could recover, I was moving toward him. I threw a fist at his pudgy face and caught him on the jaw. He gasped and staggered, but he was too strong to be kayoed with a single blow.