The Death Dealer Read online

  Nick took the final landing and hit the apartment vestibule in full stride. No sooner had his feet touched the floor than the door at the end of the corridor opened, the truck's driver peeking in to check out the situation.

  Was the driver part of the double-cross, or was he one of the clay pigeons?

  A suddenly widened pair of eyes and a rapidly darting hand were judge and jury all wrapped up in one. Wilhelmina barked once more. The man's face caved in beneath the impact of the 9mm slug.

  Nick slowed himself only long enough to scoop up the victim's machine pistol and several clips. Then he headed, hell-bent, for the door.

  * * *

  He stood deep in the shadows of a recessed doorway. The cowllike collar of his greatcoat was high, and it wrapped around his head, completely obscuring his profile. A wide-brimmed hat further hid his face in shadow. Now and then, when he moved, a shaft of illumination from a nearby streetlight lit up two intense blue eyes. The rest of the face was a montage of shadow and gray-flecked beard.

  On extremely close inspection, one could see that the beard was false. But few, if any, had ever gotten close enough to inspect the beard, or the face beneath it.

  The Dealer took a long drag on his cigarette, a Russian brand, as harsh and demanding as the country that made it. He was not even conscious of his having cupped the tip, containing the orange glow within the confines of his hand.

  His mind was on this new one they had sent, this one code-named Mercury.

  Not like the others, this one. All those eager American agents, so intent on saving humanity, so eager to accept the Dealer's every arrangement, every detail, as though their morality were a shield of invulnerability.

  So many dead angels.

  But not this Mercury. He dares to dictate, to demand. And he bargains shrewdly, this one. A safe house with exposed perimeters, a mere block and a half from the breakthrough point. The breakthrough point itself, a sudden tangle of old apartments that interrupted the chain of fences and mine fields to reach out and caress the concrete wall itself — boarded up and guarded, to be sure, but far less exposed, with only human enemies to defeat.

  But no matter. Traps can be set anywhere.

  Yes, Mercury is not like the others. He is cold, calculating — a machine. He has to die, of course, and there was no time to set up an accident. His death will blow the operation; but then, after this night, this defection, the operation will no longer be needed.

  He dropped the cigarette and ground it out beneath his heel. Like Mercury, he thought, extinguished.

  His glance lifted to the idling truck where it had come to rest three houses away.

  The chickens had come to roost. Three of them, at least. One of them would make it over. He had work to do. It would be a dramatic escape, but Jacek would make it to freedom. Free to bury himself deep within the body of the Western enemy, like the mole he was to become.

  He watched with interest as the driver of the truck stepped down from his perch and entered the building. Behind him came the faint crackling of a walkie-talkie, and then the voice of his assistant, Yuri. It was an irritating, nasal voice; the Moscow winters seemed to live perpetually in Yuri's sinuses. His identification completed, Yuri sniffed and then passed on the information.

  "The driver is entering the building."

  The Dealer's answer contained no sarcasm, merely bored detachment. "I have eyes, Yuri. I can see."

  "Yes, sir."

  There was a moment of silence as the Dealer savored his setup. The agent on the rider's side of the cab opened his door and leaned out onto the running board. He pulled out a penlight and pointed it one apartment house farther up the street. The Dealer watched the tip glow faintly — like a cigarette — three times.

  All were aboard.

  From behind the Dealer came another crackle of electronics, another muted conversation, and another loud sniffle. The Dealer saved his minion the effort.

  "I know, Yuri, I know."

  Then came the shot, the sharp crack of gunfire that tagged the Dealer's heart like a whip. From out of the door flew a black-jacketed object, a machine pistol in its left hand, a pistol in its right. With blurring speed, the object leaped onto the running board of the driver's side. There were two more cracks, and the agent with the penlight dropped to the pavement.

  The black jacket disappeared into the cab of the truck, not stopping to close the doors. The grinding of gears echoed off the stone facades. With one giant lurch, the truck slipped into gear and jolted off down the street.

  With far less fanfare, the Dealer too slipped into motion.

  "The car, Yuri!" he barked. "Tell the others. Mercury has flown! Seal off the sector, but maintain Condition Yellow. Repeat, Yellow! Provide resistance — we must make it look good at all costs."

  "Mercury is alive," came the voice through the crackling static.

  "I know that, you fool. We'll switch to the alternate plan."

  "And Mercury?"

  "We'll have to let him live, now," the Dealer rasped. "He will now be our means of verification on the other side."

  The Dealer clicked off the instrument, and his lips creased in a smile. He had guessed right; Jacobi had been no match for this Mercury.

  Often, he thought, it is wise not to reveal all one's plans, even to those carrying them out.

  As he stepped into the street, he made a mental note to send a memo of commendation to Jacobi's widow through regular KGB channels.

  * * *

  Nick took the bend in the road, coaxing the ancient vehicle into second gear, his mind clicking off the possibilities. There was no point in going on as scheduled. If the safe house was infested, the breakthrough had to be overrun. The best hope seemed to be to keep on moving and wait for an opening to develop.

  He located the first street on his left, slammed the truck into third, and took the corner. The door on his side slammed shut from the sheer momentum. The door on the other side flew open, creaking on its hinges. It then made abrupt contact with the nearest lamp post, successfully tearing it from the truck's body. With it went about twenty chicken coops, wood and feathers flying to litter the cobbles behind.

  The street before him was narrow but straight. Nick slipped the truck into fourth and gunned the engine, turning into the heart of the Eastern sector, hoping to put distance between himself and whoever might be behind. At the same time he reached down to the seat on his right, picked up the machine pistol by its barrel, and slammed the stock into the cab's rear window. He was going to need help up front, and there was only one source for that.

  Half turning, he screamed through the fractured glass. "Anyone back there speak English?"

  A face lifted cautiously into his rearview mirror. It did not belong to either of the scientists, and it was a bit too old to be the boy artist.

  "Jacek, right?" Nick yelled. "You speak English?"

  It took a moment or two for the terror in the eyes to abate, but the answer was firm. "Yes. Very well, in fact. I was a professor of English at the University of Cracow."

  "Lovely," answered Nick. "Can you use one of these?" He held up the machine pistol.

  The look of terror returned for an instant, then the man nodded. "I can certainly try. What do I do with it?"

  Nick thrust it back through the opening in the glass, his voice bellowing to be heard above the din of the engine. "Use the butt to break out the rest of the window, then climb up here. Tell whoever's nearest you to drag the others as close to this cab as possible and then join you up here. We'll need someone to load clips. Now move!"

  Nick threw up the collar on his jacket and eyed the rearview mirror with approval as the dissident followed the orders.

  The stock slammed into the remaining glass, sending reflective meteors sailing into the cab. The head then vanished for a moment. When it reappeared, it was climbing its way into the cab. What the climb lacked in grace, it more than made up for in speed.

  Nick nodded. "Okay, professor, class time. Wedge
yourself in good. It's going to be a bumpy ride. Put your feet there, and there," he pointed. His finger than jabbed at the gun. "The safety's off. Just jam it into your shoulder and pull the trigger. Aim low. The gun will rise on you when firing. And don't clamp the trigger. Run it in short bursts. We'll need to conserve ammo."

  "How do I aim?" asked the man.

  "Don't worry about it," Nick shouted. "All I need from you is cover. If you see anything that even remotely looks hostile, spray it. If they're busy ducking, they can't get a good shot at us. If you hit 'em, that's gravy."

  At that moment, another face loomed into the mirror, a boyish, tow-headed youth who immediately joined them in the cab, a far more graceful entry than the first man's. The boy settled in, and Nick tossed Wilhelmina into the youth's lap, along with several clips — three for the machine pistol, five for the Luger.

  "Does painter boy here have any idea how to load these?" Nick called over to Jacek.

  To Nick's delight and relief, the boy replied for himself, in English. "I have never done this, but learning must be easy, yes?"

  Nick allowed a quick smile. "Hang onto the optimism, kid. We'll need it." He then gave a crash course in weaponry, watching with approval as the boy snapped in the hardware with a flourish. There was only time for the quickest of "hot damns" before the enemy made his appearance.

  Two streets up ahead, a military Jeep sped by, hit its brakes, and then jerked back to block the road. The Jeep's three occupants leaped out, guns sliding off their shoulders into eager hands. Nick immediately downshifted, noting the next turnoff, and yelled to the young artist. "Everyone packed up against the cab back there?"

  The boy nodded.

  Nick turned back and shouted, "Hang on, folks. Things are liable to get a bit hairy." He then turned back, steeling himself as the three soldiers down the street began shouldering arms. "Okay, professor, it's all yours."

  With that, he rammed the wheel to the left, the front wheel brushing the curb, the truck screaming as it tilted into the turn. Another dozen cages broke from their moorings to scatter around them. At the same time, the professor went into high gear. Nick watched as the man fired, sending the three soldiers diving for cover. He then drove the shift back into fourth and left the first obstacle behind.

  "Good job, professor," Nick grinned. "Didn't hit any soldiers, but I counted at least three chickens pulverized. We'll notch the stock at the first opportunity."

  Both Jacek and the boy smiled in relieved appreciation. But none of the smiles were to be long-lived. In front of Nick appeared another vehicle screeching to block the road. This one was civilian, a black Simca, barely large enough to fill the crossroads before them. From out of the car scrambled two figures, gray-coated and smelling of State Security. Nick gauged the odds and made his commitment.

  As the two men reached into their coats for pistols, Nick jammed the gears, giving the appearance of stopping. Just as quickly, he lifted the clutch and floored the pedal. There was a burst of backfire, and then the roar of the engine as the truck bore down on the two security men like an elephant gone haywire. The men fired several rounds in panic, but none of the shots found its mark. Instead there was only the agonizing screech of metal as the truck plowed through the rear end of the tiny car. Nick gripped the wheel to retain control and then sped on.

  Far up ahead loomed another obstacle. There was a faint glow of a street lamp and the linear pattern of light spilling through slatted boards. Nick recognized it immediately. It was the first stage in the grotesque barrier known as the Berlin Wall. From his right he felt the cab's other two occupants staring at him.

  Nick deliberated for only an instant. The streets were a crap shoot. Sooner or later there would be something in front of them that could neither be moved nor avoided. The open road seemed the best bet.

  Nick floored the truck again, gaining all the momentum he could. To his right, the breathing became labored and frantic as the wall grew taller and taller in front of them. It was obvious to all that Nick had no intention of turning.

  At the moment of impact, there was only a prolonged whimper from the young painter to punctuate the event.

  The truck collided with the fence, bursting through the slats and wire ribbing. There was a slight lift to the front end, and then a terrible groan as one of the twisted supports dug at the vehicle's underbelly. Nick jammed the gears down and twisted the wheel to his right, maintaining equilibrium as the truck careened off the curb and staggered onto the patrol road. Then he gunned it and prayed that there were no vital organs punctured.

  His eyes immediately began searching for some way out. The terrain was exactly what he had observed before — tank traps and mine fields to the left. To his right was only the slatted fence, beyond which now traveled several pairs of headlights — all paralleling his movement. There was a brief feeling of despair and frustration, and then something up ahead caught Nick's attention.

  Headlights were coming toward him, but they were not yet visible. What he saw instead was the aura of those headlights fanning out from around a large dark mass. Closer inspection of the mass revealed it to be a massive stone structure — a church planted smack in the middle of no man's land, an ecclesiastical bridge that stretched past tank traps and mines, to touch the Western wall on his right.

  "Bingo!" he muttered, just as the headlights cleared the bulk and pointed themselves directly toward the truck's grill. "Hunch down," he yelled to his allies. "We're getting past that son-of-a-bitch and walking out of here!"

  "How?" gulped the young artist, his head slowly sinking below the dash.

  "Easy," Nick replied. "We just play a little game. It's an American classic. It's called 'chicken. And we'll find out damn quick who really wants to win."

  He slammed the pedal to the floor and set the wheels directly for the approaching headlights. Nick, too, lowered himself in his seat, his eyes barely creasing the dashboard surface as he gauged the oncoming vehicle. It was truck-sized, hard to read in the glare of the approaching lights, but looking every bit like a troop carrier.

  From above the glare came a burst of light, and Nick slumped himself down hard in the seat. The glass in front of him burst into the cab as several rounds slammed through it. He waited until there was a lull in the fireworks and then peered back up.

  The vehicle was a mere one hundred yards away, its siren screeching in short warning blasts. Nick merely shifted the truck back onto collision course. As he drew nearer, the blasts became more frantic, evolving from sounds of warning to sounds of disbelief as Nick's intentions became obvious.

  With some twenty yards left, the siren screamed out in supplication and then lost itself in the screech of tires as the troop carrier slid off to the right, missing contact by mere inches.

  Nick let out an audible sigh of relief and then propped himself up behind the wheel. The church could now be clearly seen in the glow of his headlights. It was a reddish stone structure that needed only two layers of fence to be reached. But the fence was directly parallel to their angle of flight. There was no way to gain a head-on angle.

  It was no time to worry over luxuries. The church was their only hope, and the church was what Nick was determined to reach.

  He swung the truck to the left, wincing as wire fencing gripped at the edge of the flatbed. Then he slammed the wheel to the right, gritting his teeth and gripping the controls with every ounce of strength he possessed.

  The right front bumper caught the barrier, the headlight exploding as fence posts pounded at it like drumsticks. The truck tried to veer its way back onto the road, but Nick was adamant, forcing the wheel, driving the truck's nose toward safety.

  Then from up ahead came another glare of headlights — headlights to match the ones now pursuing from behind.

  "Grab, dammit!" Nick bellowed, coaxing fate to join him. "Break through now, you tin-plated son-of-a-bitch!"

  Fate must have been listening because the truck gave a sudden lurch, and then — breakthrough.
r />   The right front tire hit the earth with a neck-jarring jolt, then the left, both on the other side of the barrier. Nick gunned the engine, ignoring the conflict of metal on metal as the rear wheels joined their mates.

  The second fence still stood before them, but at a much easier angle. It veered in from the Western side, turning to encircle the bulk of the church — a head-on target that offered no problem. Nick gave his last push on the pedal and leveled the final barrier.

  There was no need to kill the engine. It gave a loud burst and, with a fanfare of hissing steam, gave up the ghost.

  There was little time for exaltation. The nose of the truck stood some ten yards from the brick facade, and Nick was determined to cross as quickly as possible.

  "Out! Now!" he cried, pushing at his two neighbors, forcing them out the gaping hole where the door had been. Silently he thanked the fates that not only got him through the fence, but now provided a smoke screen as the steam, pouring from the engine, curled up from beneath the truck to hang foglike outside the door to his left. He filed out behind the dissidents.

  "Make for the building!" he shouted. "Shoot the doors open if you have to, but get 'em open, and get 'em wide!"

  Nick then cut to his right, moving toward the back of the truck to retrieve the two scientists.

  That's when fate gave out.

  Not even the accompaniment of steam and sirens could mute the sound from Nick's ears. Too many nights and days on too many battlefields had taught him the hissing sound of a rocket launcher.

  Bellowing to the two men to jump to safety, Nick threw himself back behind the cover of the cab and prepared for the concussion of the upcoming blast.

  It roared like thunder, but fell far short of the Armageddon Nick had anticipated. The explosion was firm, but muted. Nick rolled free of the truck, and then saw why. Blasting had not been the goal. What the launcher had sent was burning death — a napalm-filled incendiary that was gnawing away at the bed of the truck.

  Nick felt his guts sink. Though the blast had not been particularly powerful, it had been more than potent. To the left, twisted on the ground, were the bodies of the two scientists, fire licking up from their remains.