The Death Dealer Read online

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  As the only KGB assassin to have taken Nick Carter and won, the mysterious Death Dealer ranks as one of AXE's most wanted enemies. Only one man, Polish dissident Stefan Borczak, holds the clues that can unmask him.

  Now Borczak has defected-and AXE is closing in on the missing pieces. It's up to agent N3 to uncover them — before the Death Dealer can execute his most treacherous mission yet.

  * * *

  Nick CarterPrologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Killmaster

  The Death Dealer

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

  Prologue

  WINTER 1970

  BERLIN

  The muscles in Nick's neck tensed, relaxed, and then almost immediately tensed again. It had been the same for the last hour.

  The deal stunk. His tempered senses, every instinct, told him so. And the grinning face of Jacobi, the German, sitting across the table from him didn't alleviate the feeling. Too hard, Nick slammed his cup on the table. He ignored the coffee that leapt out to dot the tabletop. Heaving himself to his feet with an audible groan, he stalked like a caged cat to the window. Purposely, he remained oblivious as Jacobi withdrew a spotless handkerchief from his inside pocket and meticulously blotted up the coffee. In seconds the tabletop was returned to its original pristine squalor.

  "You are restive, Herr Mercury." Jacobi's whiny voice all but chuckled. Following his words came a short burst of "tsk, tsks" that only served to tighten the muscles in Nick's neck. "We have been running our little underground railroad for many years now. We are good at what we do."

  Yeah, Nick thought, and what you do and who you do it for is what's worrying me.

  Nick acknowledged the fat man's words with silence as his eyes floated out the window and down.

  Several floors below him was roughly seventy yards of earth — a fraction so small, in global terms, that it defied calculation. And yet he might as well be staring at another galaxy.

  At his feet were fifteen yards of sidewalk and street, bordered by a high wooden fence. Beyond that, fifteen more yards of patrolled road, and a second wire fence. Farther on, Nick's eye picked out a perimeter of tank traps created by crosses of lumber, weirdly tilted. Beyond that, thirty more yards of mine field that culminated in a concrete wall that fully underscored the subtlety of the Slavic mind.

  Across this labyrinth, the flickering lights of West Berlin; within, the Minotaur of the Soviet presence.

  And over it all hung the pall of a gathering fog. Like ghostly gray fingers it seemed to seep up from the concrete to partially obscure everything it touched. Even objects already in shadow seemed to get darker and take on grotesque shapes.

  The fog is rolling in… heavier," Nick said, more to himself than to the man behind him.

  "All the better for our purpose," came the reply.

  All in all, he thought, not the best position for an undercover AXE operative like Nick Carter, who liked to pick his own ground for battle.

  Nick turned from the window and stared at his companion. He was an ill-kempt slob of a man, grown fat from bartering human lives. Jacobi returned his look with a wink and a quick thumbs-up. Nick's gaze dropped to the table.

  "You missed a spot," he said, and watched with distaste as the man again produced his handkerchief and snatched up one last hint of coffee stain from the oaken top of the table.

  "Can't be too careful," Jacobi chirped.

  That's obvious, thought Nick as he turned back to the window.

  Out there somewhere was a man Nick knew only as the Dealer, a man who, for a price, ferried live bodies from East to West — sometimes. The Dealer was an enigma, a man without a face, without a name.

  Nick Carter didn't like enigmas.

  It was said that the Dealer could work either side of the wall, and that was why he kept his identity so secret, his presence so much in the shadows.

  Nick didn't like, or trust, what he couldn't see.

  He rolled his cuff up and flicked his eyes down to the dial on his special issue AXE watch. "They're late."

  "Patience, Herr Mercury, patience."

  Patience, bullshit, Nick thought, knowing the fog would help this night's defection, but wishing his eyes could penetrate it.

  * * *

  The truck hit a bump in the road, tossing its occupants like cucumbers in a salad. Four bodies lifted and dropped again amid the cacophony of squawking chickens. Each, in his own section of the flatbed, struggled to keep his shielding of piled-up coops from toppling. The truck punctuated the event by backfiring, and then lumbered on, its equilibrium once more intact.

  The engine echoed back down the narrow street, the internal explosions doing little to settle the nerves of its occupants. The railroad was running late, but still running. That counted for something.

  Jacek, the appointed leader of the fleeing quartet, gave a quick check of the rigging supporting the surrounding coops. Tenuous, came the verdict, but still holding. His head then craned to the left, his eyes searching through planes of wire and meandering feathers to find the only other member of the four he could see.

  Stefan responded to the feel of Jacek's eyes, returning the look with a quick darting of tongue over lips before breaking out in a wide, gleaming grin that said much more for his youthful bravado than it ever did of his courage. The voice that followed was wobbly, but optimistic.

  "Making up time, eh, Jacek? Mercury will wait, no? Tomorrow, my friend. You'll see. Beer in the Tiergarten. Liters of it, yes?"

  Jacek's face broke out in a smile. The boy's energy was too contagious to ignore. "Liters, my young friend," he nodded. "And women, Stefan. Big women. Women for your canvases, and women for your bed."

  The boy's head bobbed excitedly, and his smile grew impossibly wider. His head then dropped away, arms resting behind him, as his eyes began creating feminine forms in the inky blackness of the sky above. Jacek watched him a few seconds more before relaxing his own head.

  There was only a mere ten years between their ages, but Jacek felt more like father than brother to the boy. Shared nationality, and seven years of living and fighting beneath the Communist fist, made for odd friendships. The truck's other two refugees were indisputably brilliant and dedicated men, scientists both, but they held little of Jacek's interest. Their fate was of no concern.

  But Stefan was different. He was young and rash, a dreamer of the worst kind. He was a painter of enormous talent, and a terminal idealist. Jacek knew the world would eventually chew him up and spit him out, and it evoked in him a kind of pity — a kind of love.

  Jacek settled back, pausing only to steal a quick glance at his watch. In minutes they would make their rendezvous. There was a brief surge of excitement in his belly, and then, just as quickly, it passed. The Dealer was in charge. By definition, everything was under control.

  No, thought Jacek, the scientists are of no concern. Their fates are sealed. The Dealer has called for their deaths, and countermanding that order would be inconceivable. But Stefan shall live. The Dealer has promised it. It shall be my one consolation in the years of work ahead.

  For now, let the boy have his dreams.

  * * *

  Nick gave a start as a loud crack pierced the night air. His eyes flew down to the base of the wall where the accompanying flash had sparked. Just as quickly his mus
cles relaxed. The single spark became many, and the crack evolved into a staccato burst of firecrackers. From the Western side of the wall came a defiant yell of childish voices, then laughter, then the scurrying of youthful feet.

  Today's pranksters — tomorrow's political giants. Would any of them ever see this hideous line of concrete torn down? Questions, thought Nick, that are not mine to answer. I'm the action man, the liaison on the scene to make sure that, this time, the Dealer delivers all the bodies he's been contracted for.

  "We're not sure of this Dealer," David Hawk, head of AXE, had said. "But right now he's all we have. Be there, N3 — and watch yourself."

  As if in response to the thought, Nick's hand slipped beneath the leather exterior of his jacket. He pulled out Wilhelmina, enjoying the cool comfort of the Luger's steel body in his hands, the crisp sound of its mechanics as the clip slid out to display its readiness. Satisfied, he slid the clip home and levered a shell into the chamber.

  The action did not go unnoticed.

  "Relax, my friend," Jacobi muttered. "These things take time. You cannot run on schedules, ja? The Dealer knows his business. You will see. You are new. You will learn."

  Nick turned and flashed the fat man an icy glare. There was a second or two of shrugging, smiling, even a wave of the hand, as though the German could clear the stink of danger from the air with a mere gesture. But after all the antics, the reality of Nick's stare began to reach him. There was a kind of peeling back of the skin, a reaching into the man with eyes so cold they burned.

  Jacobi could only stand that gaze for so long. His own eyes crept down to note the gun still in Nick's hand. Small beads of sweat were beginning to accumulate on his upper lip. Try as he might, his tongue could not reach them.

  Nick let the full effect of it settle before striding purposefully over to the table and leaning in over the German. There were two very definitive sounds that accompanied the action. One, Nick's fist slamming onto the table in front of the man. Two, Wilhelmina slamming down to his right.

  The voice, when it came, was arctic. "Let me be blunt. I may be new, but only to you. I've been running missions for more years than I care to recall, and I'm still alive to tell about it. Which is more than I can say for most of the people who have tried to cross me."

  A nervous grin flickered across Jacobi's face. Nick ignored it and continued.

  "I don't need to hear about schedules, or timetables, or the general dynamics of defections from anyone, much less you. I can recite them, chapter and verse. And, as to the state of my emotions, I will relax when I am sitting on the other side of that concrete slab with a Glenfiddich in my hand. Do I make myself clear?"

  The nod was adamant, but the smile had faded considerably. The sweat that had begun dotting his lip was being mirrored in tiny beads of moisture spreading over the brow. Nick paused only a second before continuing.

  "As for your Dealer, I will reserve judgment until later. Four successes in nine attempts is hardly a record worth bronzing. But I'm not here to give out awards. I'm here to see why three agents have lost their lives working this particular network, and I'm here to see that two very valuable scientific minds make it over to the side of the angels. Why your precious Dealer felt it necessary to throw two Polish dissidents into the picture thoroughly baffles me, but I'll live with it if the whole comes in on rime, and under budget. Do I make myself clear?"

  Jacobi slumped back into his chair, his body trying for nonchalance, but indicating retreat. "Ja, ja, whatever you wish. You are Mercury. I am told to obey, and I obey."

  "Precisely," Nick muttered. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a short trip up to the roof. Wait here."

  "But… but…" Jacobi stammered, but he was cut off by the slamming of the door behind Nick.

  In the hall, Nick took a deep breath. His original orders had been to wait in the room until delivery. But the script had been torn up right along with the timetable. Delays might have their explanations. After all, defection was not a gentleman's sport. But if the years had taught Nick nothing else, one lesson had been learned. Trust instinct. And, right now, those instincts were screaming that the whole show was up for grabs.

  Nick made his way quickly up one flight of stairs and let himself out onto the roof. With only the slightest stooping of his body, he raced to the nearest ledge and began a cautious circling of the area.

  First came the back. Nick peered over, scanning the narrow ribbon of alley five floors below. Then he studied the houses that shared the throughway, eyeing each window for any sign of unusual activity. So far, so good.

  He then gave quick reconnaissance to the two flanking rooftops. Both were set slightly lower than the building he occupied, and neither offered anything to speak of in the way of cover. If danger lurked at all, it was still buried beneath the slate-topped roofs.

  Finally he returned to the front of the building, studying, once more, the barren landscape of the wall. A patrol car cruised by, very deliberate, very slow. Its headlights cast odd patterns of light through the wooden fence to its left and sent odd sparkles of light shimmering across the wire fence to its right. But that was the extent of it. With plodding deliberateness, it continued on its way with hardly a hint of suspicion.

  For the briefest second, Nick let his arms rest on the parapet, his mind arguing with his gut that maybe he was witch-hunting. But just as quickly came a duet of sounds that solidified the whole picture.

  First came the loud report of backfire and then the rumbling approach of the flatbed truck. There was a part of Nick's mind that still made computerlike calculations. The faint cackling sound of fowl, the harsh grinding of gears being strained, all those things that said the merchandise was on its way — and in one hell of a hurry.

  But it was the second sound that brought him to full alert. The faint grinding of gravel beneath the tread of feet — unexpected company, directly behind him.

  Nick spun and dropped to his haunches, his back sliding down the stonework of the overlook, Wilhelmina flying out in front of him to take aim. His finger had pressed the trigger back to that magic millimeter of depth that separated inert ironwork from exploding death.

  All that greeted him in return was the taut face and wide eyes of Jacobi. "Nein!" the man cried. "It is me! Please, they are coming. We should go, ja?"

  For a second Nick held his aim, the hard breathing of the rotund German treading the air. Nick watched as Jacobi gestured feebly back toward the staircase opening.

  The fat German was plodding and obsequious to a fault. But he was far from harmless.

  In that one fleeting second when Nick had first turned, he had read something in Jacobi's eyes — something that raised the hackles on the back of Nick's neck. He had read betrayal. The German's hands had not quite made the commitment, but the beady little eyes had, and Nick had caught it.

  The question now was whether or not the German knew he had been read. Nick gambled that he did not.

  Nick slid Wilhelmina back into her sheath under his arm and stood. "Don't ever surprise me again," he spat. "Next time, I may make a mistake."

  Jacobi nodded, the first hint of earnest reaction he had yet displayed.

  "Downstairs," clipped Nick. "We've got work to attend to."

  Jacobi turned and waddled through the opening. Nick followed. They made it down to the first landing, the landing that housed the room they had so recently been occupying, when Nick halted.

  "The cup," he said. "Did you clear it?" Jacobi stared at him, his brows furrowing in apparent confusion. "Check the room," Nick barked and started down the steps. "I'll head on down and wait for you."

  Jacobi shrugged and moved toward the room. Nick took the next half-landing at a measured pace, not slow enough to arouse suspicions, but fast enough to get out of sightlines. Nick counted, tallying the seconds with no more than his uncanny ability to assess the German's skills.

  Then — instant replay!

  Nick turned again, his back once more slidi
ng — this time down plaster — his gun once more filling his hand — this time with different results.

  Jacobi turned the corner the very second Nick spun. Unlike the roof, there was no lack of understanding. Jacobi knew what he was dealing with. Fortunately, so did Nick. The German's arm swung around the corner, his machine pistol zeroing in on Nick's skull — at least where it should have been.

  The burst chewed at the walls of the stairwell, plaster cascading down over Nick's head. But plaster was all that touched him. Wilhelmina answered the challenge, beating out three crisp notes that left their mark on the German's chest.

  Jacobi's face turned sullen, then confused, as his mind tried to understand the agony that no amount of fat could cushion. His arm slumped to his side, the gun clattering to the floor. His eyes flickered to Nick's, registering honest disbelief, and then two hundred and forty pounds of flesh toppled down the stairs, careening off the banisters with an almost eerie grace.

  Nick cursed under his breath. He now knew how three agents had lost their lives. He also knew that if the Dealer's man, Jacobi, was a phony, so was the Dealer.

  Before the body had even touched bottom, Nick was up and moving. He raced down the remaining flights, propelled along by two certainties. First, the whole show was a setup. The Dealer had either turned the entire group over to the KGB or he was the KGB. The network was penetrated, the formula transparent. Let enough lightweights through to maintain credibility, but make sure you're in place to close the gates on the solid gold.

  Second, there were two very golden scientists on a flatbed truck, and, by God, Nick was determined to get them out alive, or go down trying.

  There was little time to work out any kind of counterstrategy. Nick was playing their table, in their casino, and the Dealer knew where all the aces were. There was really only one choice. Outside was a truck, and no matter where the enemy had set himself up, it was a hell of a lot harder to hit a moving target than a stationary one.