Operation Petrograd Read online

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  The Petrograd submarine, Russia's newest and deadliest war-toy, is NATO's worst nightmare. So, when a Russian naval officer offers the sub's plans and maintenance manual for sale, the CIA station chief in Tokyo jumps at the chance. Both get more than they bargained for. Hours later Russian-seller and CIA-buyer are dead-gunned down by the KGB. But the microchip with the plans has vanished.

  With the plans up for grabs Tokyo becomes a chess board of intrigue in a deadly game of Far Eastern espionage. But the Killmaster is playing for higher stakes. As Soviet and Western agents clash, N3 goes after the sub itself…

  * * *

  Nick CarterPrologue

  One

  Two

  Three

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  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  Operation Petrograd

  Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  Prologue

  This was a hectic day even by Tokyo standards. The American embassy was on emergency footing because of the impending visit by President Reagan. Paul Tibbet, presiding over the special security meeting in the screened room, fiddled with the note pad in front of him. The President's every move, from the moment he landed aboard Air Force One until he left three days later, had been planned in minute detail. Boring to Tibbet, who was the number-two man for CIA operations in Japan, but necessary nevertheless.

  Bob Wilson, chief of security from Washington, passed around the President's itinerary. "I'll need your feedback within twenty-four hours," he said. "Anything doesn't jell, anything looks dangerous to you — anything at all — I want to know pronto."

  "What about security in the Imperial Palace?" Hans Fosse, deputy chief of consular affairs, asked from across the table.

  "Already taken care of," Wilson said. "We've got the man going in and coming out. Inside, the Japanese'll take care of him."

  Tibbet winced. During his year in Japan he had come to know and respect the Japanese people. Because of his job, he lived on the economy so that he could more readily have access to the right people.

  "Have you anything to add, Paul?" Wilson asked.

  Tibbet shrugged. "As far as I can see, we're ready for him. And we still have six days. We'll go over the scenario a couple more times before then."

  "That's it, then," Wilson said, satisfied.

  The door opened and Tibbet's secretary entered the room. Everyone looked up.

  "There's a phone call for you, sir."

  "I asked not to be disturbed," Tibbet said, irritated.

  "Sorry, sir. But this sounded urgent. I thought you'd want to handle it."

  "Excuse me," Tibbet said to the others. He got up and followed his secretary out of the conference room, across the busy fourth-floor corridor, and into his own office.

  "Couldn't this have waited?"

  "He knows who you are. He asked for you by name. It's a Russian."

  Tibbet's stomach lurched. Just now the Soviets were very active in Japan, stealing Japanese electronic technology. His job, in liaison with Japanese intelligence, was to stop them. He'd been working a cipher clerk out of the Soviet embassy for the past six months. This could very well be the break he had been waiting for.

  "Put it on the recorder," he told his secretary as he went the rest of the way into his office.

  He looked up at her through the open door as she punched the button to start the recorders, then he picked up the phone.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Paul Tibbet?"

  "Who's speaking?"

  "You don't know me, but I have something of great importance for you."

  The accent was obviously Russian, though the man spoke fair English. It sounded like some sort of trap to Tibbet.

  "I think you might have the wrong party," Tibbet said — the standard response.

  "Do you know what NATO calls the Petrograd-class submarine? I think you do."

  Tibbet's stomach lurched again. He was a large man. He gripped the telephone so hard that his knuckles turned white. The Soviet navy's Petrograd-class submarine was brand-new. State of the art. Supposedly stealth-capable… virtually undetectable, while submerged by any known method of sonar or satellite surveillance. So far the U.S. hadn't managed to come up with anything technically worthwhile.

  "Who are you?"

  "Lieutenant Nikolai Feodor Lavrov. I'm a naval officer, but I am KGB. Until recently I was stationed at Svetlaya. You know this place?"

  Tibbet did. The Soviets maintained a very large submarine base near the Siberian city north of Vladivostok. But that was about all that was known of the place; security there had always been extremely tight.

  "Why tell me this? What do you want?"

  "I have brought something with me, for you. I have it hidden… here in the city."

  "In exchange for what?"

  "I want to be taken to the United States. I want plastic surgery, I want a new identity, and I want one million dollars."

  Tibbet laughed. "You know we don't pay for information… at least not that kind of money."

  "I have the Petrogard's operations and maintenance manuals. On a computer chip. Everything."

  Tibbet caught his breath, his thoughts suddenly in full gear, the President's visit totally forgotten.

  "Where can we meet?"

  "Ueno Park," the Russian said. "The zoological gardens. At noon. It gives you two hours."

  "How will I know you?"

  "You won't, Mr. Tibbet. But I will know you." The Russian broke the connection.

  Tibbet crashed down the receiver. "Did you get all that?" he asked his secretary.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have the ambassador call me. Then get hold of Bernholtz — he may still be at home. And get me a secure circuit with Langley."

  "Should I call Major Rishiri?"

  Tibbet thought about that for a moment. The major was his contact with the Japanese CIA. "No," he said.

  While his secretary was making her calls, Tibbet telephoned down to Archives in the basement for something on the Russian. They promised to call back within five minutes if they came up with anything. Next he telephoned upstairs to his boss, CIA Chief of Station Arnold Scott, who listened without interruption while Tibbet explained what was happening.

  "A disinformation plot, Paul?" Scott asked.

  "Perhaps. But we have plenty of time to set him up."

  Tibbet could almost hear the older man thinking. They had worked together in Japan for a year, but five years ago they had done a stint together in Chile. They had a lot of mutual respect.

  "Do it. But keep me posted, and don't put your ass too far out on the line. It sounds like a setup to me."

  "It's worth the try."

  "Good hunting."

  * * *

  The American embassy was housed in a modern structure in Kojimachi-ku, a district in the southwestern side of Tokyo. Ueno Park, one of Tokyo's largest, was in the northwest of the vast, sprawling city. Traffic was heavy, as it usually was, and it took Tibbet the better part of an hour to drive to the park.

  Ambassador Zimmerman had been nervous about the project, but he had given Tibbet his tacit blessing. He had been somewhat disturbed, however, that the Japanese CIA had not been informed. Charlie Bernholtz, the number-one legman in the hemisphere, had gone ahead with his people to make the setup, and just before Tibbet had left the embassy, Archives had called up with what little information they had on
Lieutenant Nikolai "Lavrov. The man was who he claimed to be: a naval officer with the rank of lieutenant who also held a captaincy in the KGB. The register of Soviet officers listed him as Political Security Officer in Naval Research at the Svetlaya submarine base. Archives didn't have much else on him of interest.

  Tibbet parked his car half a block from the park entrance and went the rest of the way on foot. It was late October, and already there was a chill in the air. It promised to be a very cold winter.

  Thousands of people were inside the park. The huge, ornate Imperial Library was located there, along with the Imperial Museum and zoological gardens. A lot of schoolchildren on field trips wandered around in groups with their teachers.

  Tibbet spotted Bernholtz's men just within the main gates and at several good locations within the park itself.

  The sky was clear, only a light breeze rustling the tree branches. There were people everywhere. It reminded Tibbet of his youth at state fairs in Iowa.

  He passed the bear cages just within the zoo entrance, and fifty yards farther he stopped in front of a large natural pool in which a dozen seals were playing in the water. Children bought fish and held them out over the fence for the seals who would leap high into the air, snatch the fish from the tiny hands, and dive with a huge splash, the children squealing in delight each time.

  Tibbet lingered a moment at the fence and lit a cigarette. A seal jumped for a piece of fish, when a short, intense-looking young man stopped and leaned over the fence. Tibbet glanced at him.

  "The children's laughter is good to hear," the man said in a Russian accent.

  "Lieutenant Lavrov?" Tibbet asked.

  Lavrov nodded. His smile was sad. "You know, I am married. I have two children of my own whom I will never see again."

  "You have the computer chip?"

  "Not with me. First we will talk…"

  The Russian's skull erupted in a bright red geyser of blood, his body flipping over the fence. Tibbet stepped back at the same moment he heard the crack of a high-powered rifle.

  Children and their teachers or mothers were turning around. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  Out of the corner of his eye Tibbet could see Bernholtz himself racing up the broad path, his handgun drawn. Tibbet started to raise his hand, when something terribly hot and strong slammed into his head, and he felt himself being lifted over the fence.

  He never heard the shot that killed him…

  One

  At 10,000 feet, downtown Washington, D.C., twelve miles to the southwest, looked like an elaborate architect's model of the capital city. The lush green Maryland countryside was spread beneath Nick Carter's feet as he braced himself on the Cessna 180's wing strut, the wind buffeting his body as they neared the drop zone.

  He was a tall, well-built man with dark, intelligent eyes that at times could turn almost black. His moments of greatest pleasure came whenever he was pitting himself against a difficult adversary, either another man or simply his own abilities. That quirk of personality, combined with a nearly superhuman will to survive, suited him perfectly for his work with AXE, a highly specialized intelligence-gathering and special action agency. Whatever military intelligence — or even the CIA — could not do was given to AXE, which operated under the cover of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services. Within the organization, Carter was designated N3: he had a license to kill.

  They were nearing the drop zone over the U.S. Department of Agriculture's research center north of NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. Carter turned and looked in at the pilot, John Howard, who smiled and shook his head.

  "You're a crazy bastard, and I'll probably lose my license for this stunt," Howard had told him before they took off.

  "Then we'll get someone else."

  Howard, who did occasional contract work for AXE, held up his hand in protest. "Oh, no, I wouldn't miss this for anything."

  Carter glanced across the interior of the small, specially equipped plane at his jumpmaster, Tom Redman, who gave him the thumbs-up sign. With the engine and wind noises, all talk was impossible. But they had rehearsed this maneuver a dozen times now, so no talk was necessary.

  Howard held up his hand. Redman tensed. Besides the main chute and reserve pack, Redman would carry down with him a third chute, one that Carter had packed himself.

  This time, Carter wore no parachute. Not even a reserve chute.

  Howard's hand dropped and Redman stepped out, the slipstream carrying him neatly away.

  A moment later Carter could see him falling, and a few seconds later his chute came open as the plane banked sharply to the right, back the way they had come.

  Carter had read about this ultimate sky diving stunt twenty years ago. He had waited for the right time to try it himself. As he told his boss, David Hawk, he was becoming soft. He'd been off assignment now for nearly six months. His edge was starting to go. He was beginning to relax. Fatal flaws in his business.

  He needed something to bring the sharpness back. Of course, he had not advertised what he was going to do. Only Redman and Howard knew. Neither of them approved, but they were willing to go along for the ride.

  Howard had brought them around so that they were a few thousand feet above Redman, and more than a mile back.

  Carter could just pick out the brilliantly colored chute far below.

  Again he glanced at Howard, who shook his head, then raised his hand. Carter tensed. One shot was all he had. He would either get close enough to Redman to grab the spare chute, or he would not. There'd be no coming back if he missed.

  Howard dropped his hand, and without hesitation Carter stepped off the strut and he was falling.

  For the first second or two he was tumbling, but he easily straightened himself out in the spread-eagle position, his legs bent at the knees, his arms outstretched, and he was flying.

  There was little apparent speed at this altitude; it always seemed as if he were just floating in a stiff wind.

  Redman's canopy was much closer now, and a little to the left. Carter angled his body that way so that he edged closer to the correct trajectory.

  For the next few seconds Carter willed out of his consciousness the fact that he was plummeting toward the earth at better than a hundred miles per hour and concentrated instead on Redman. He was going to have to come in at a shallow angle beneath the jumpmaster's canopy, and in front of the chute's cords. If they tangled, they would both fall to their deaths. There would be absolutely no chance of recovery for either of them.

  Carter adjusted his free-fall angle again. He could see Redman clearly now. The jumpmaster was looking up.

  Redman spotted Carter, swung around so that they were facing, and held out the spare chute at arm's length.

  It happened quickly. Redman's canopy flashed in front of Carter's faceplate, and there was a tremendous shock as he connected with the outheld chute, and then the jumpmaster was above and behind him.

  Carter worked quickly but methodically. To lose the chute now would be certain death. And the ground was rushing up at an incredible speed.

  He got the chute on his back, but it took him precious seconds to find and secure the leg straps, and then stabilize his tumbling.

  His altimeter was buzzing angrily, warning him that he had passed the thousand-foot mark, and then he was ready.

  Now the land did not seem like a gentle panorama. Now he was acutely aware of his speed.

  At six hundred feet he pulled the ripcord. For what felt like an eternity nothing seemed to happen, but then the chute began feeding out of the pack, opening when he was barely two hundred feet above the ground.

  Carter smiled. One day, he knew, he would try and miss. But not this time.

  * * *

  Brad Williams, who ran AXE's Far East desk with an Englishman's precision, was leaning against his car, a blue Chevrolet Caprice, fifty yards from the drop zone target when Carter landed within three feet of the big white X.

  He walked over as Carter was bun
dling up his canopy and unhooking his harness. He had a pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck. He looked up.

  "That Tom Redman up there?"

  Carter nodded. "Does Hawk know?"

  Williams chuckled. "When are you going to learn, my boy, that Hawk knows everything. It's his business, you know."

  Hawk was the hard-bitten, cigar-smoking director of AXE. He had come out of the OSS after World War II, had helped set up the CIA, and then had created AXE when it became evident that such an agency was desperately needed. He and Carter went way back together. Their relationship, at times, bordered on that of a father and son. There was no other person on the face of the earth whom Carter respected more.

  "Did he send you out here?"

  "Yes, but not to stop you. Something's come up."

  "An assignment?" Carter asked, his pulse quickening.

  Williams nodded. He looked up as Redman was pulling back for a landing. "Quite a stunt you pulled off."

  Carter shrugged. Jumping out of an airplane without a parachute was tame stuff compared to most of his assignments. He was ready now. More than ready.

  Redman landed as their chase car started across the field. Carter went over to his jumpmaster and they shook hands.

  "Nice jump, Tom."

  Redman looked over at Williams. "Trouble?"

  "No, but I have to go."

  "See you when you get back."

  * * *

  It was a Sunday, so there wasn't much traffic on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, and they made good time back into the city.

  "What can you tell me, Brad?" Carter asked. He lit one of his custom-blended cigarettes with his initials in gold on the filter.

  "You're being sent out to Tokyo. Frisco tonight, then nonstop out."

  "What's going on over there?"

  "I don't have the full story myself, Nick, but Hawk saw the President this morning. Seems the CIA might be in a bit over its head. Their number-two man, a chap named Paul Tibbet, was shot and killed along with a Soviet naval lieutenant in the Tokyo zoo."