The Berlin Target Page 3

  "Preposterous!" Anna said, and tugged harder, trying to keep him against her.

  It didn't work. Simonov was already backing away from her, his face a chalky white and his body shaking in fright.

  "It's true, Boris. Anna was supposed to get everything out of you she could, and then you were on your way back to Moscow. Where were you headed when you left here tonight, Boris?"

  "Moscow," he stammered.

  "And from there it was a gulag, at best. At the worst…"Carter shrugged, leaving Simonov to fill in the inevitable.

  "It's true, isn't it?" the frightened man said, staring at the woman he had probably been making love to the past two nights. "Isn't it?"

  Anna knew she'd been unmasked. The Killmaster could see it in her eyes.

  Carter thought, wrongly, that she would go for him. Anna was too much the trained agent. Instead of Carter, she went for Simonov. If the Russians couldn't retain what he had accomplished in the West, then the Americans wouldn't have it either.

  She was like a panther, fast and sharp. In a split second she had the narrow chain belt from her waist around Simonov's throat. Her hands were trained, skilled in killing.

  Simonov was no match for her, and Carter couldn't get in a shot without hitting him. The belt became a garrote, and her knee in the small of his back was doing the rest of the work.

  Carter had only seconds, and he used them.

  It was useless to try and flank her. Everywhere the Killmaster approached, she turned Simonov's body to head him off.

  Finally he gave up and plowed into both of them. His shoulder hit Simonov in the gut, driving the wind from him and slamming Anna into the wall.

  The long barrel of the Makarov cracking across one of her wrists brought enough slack in the belt to allow Carter's fingers to get between it and the man's neck.

  When Carter pulled it away, Simonov fell to the floor gagging. Anna recovered instantly, even though it was obvious that her right wrist was broken. With the fingers of her left hand curled, she went for Carter's throat.

  He barely avoided a death blow to his windpipe by spinning and taking the blow on his ear. Bells rang and he was staggered, but he managed to continue the spin and drive his knee into her belly.

  As she doubled over, he brought the long-barreled silencer down across the back of her neck.

  She had scarcely crumpled to the floor before Carter was on her, the tip of the Makarov nuzzled just behind her left ear.

  He was just squeezing, when Simonov lurched and dragged Carter's arm to the side. The powerful gun popped, but the slug dug harmlessly into the carpet.

  "Damn you!" Carter hissed, backing the man across the room with a shoulder to Simonov's belly.

  "No!" Simonov gasped, holding his aching gut with both hands and looking as though all he wanted to do in the world was vomit. "No, don't kill her!"

  "Why not!" Carter moved the Makarov back to the woman's skull.

  "No!" Boris shouted in the loudest voice he could muster, and staggered again toward the Killmaster.

  "You damned fool! She almost killed me once, and she would have had you killed within the next three or four days!"

  "No… please. I'll go with you, do anything your people want me to, but don't kill her…"

  Carter looked at the pain in the man's contorted face, then down at the beautiful woman on the floor.

  Obviously Boris Simonov was a normal man, subject to the emotions and passions of a normal man.

  "How much have you told her?"

  "Nothing of consequence, I swear it!" Simonov replied, jabbering wildly. "I swear it! I guessed what they were doing. I told her that I put everything in a report and that it was in my Moscow apartment. That was why we were leaving tonight. It was my insurance."

  "What were you going to do once you got to Moscow?"

  His eyes fell. "I hadn't figured that out yet."

  "Figures," Carter growled. "If you're lying, Simonov, you know you're of little use to us. If she knows what you know, we'll give you right back to them."

  "She doesn't, I swear it! She knows a little, yes. Bits and pieces I told her to bring her on, get her trust… but only a few things. Don't kill her, Carter, please."

  You poor fool. Carter thought, but he hauled the woman to her feet. Then he slid his arm under her shapely rear end, lifted her high in the air, and started for the bedroom.

  "What… what are you doing?"

  "I've got to do something with her — I can't just leave her lying in here. She's already waking up. Simonov…"

  "Yes?"

  "Get back up to the administration office. Explain that you and she have changed your minds. Got that?"

  "Yes… yes."

  "Have them change the order for your car to seven in the morning. Have them change your reservations to Moscow accordingly. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "When you return, don't even bother coming in here. Go to the beach, over the wall. There's a man there with a wet suit. Get it on and be ready to go when I get there."

  "I'll do it."

  "You'd better."

  Simonov started walking to the door, then paused and turned. "Carter…"

  "Yeah?"

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  "As a gentleman?"

  "Look, Boris. I'm a long way from being a fucking gentleman, but you've got my word that she'll be alive when I leave here."

  The Russian scooted out the door, and Carter continued on into the bedroom. Unceremoniously he dumped Anna on the bed and searched in the open suitcase for panty hose. By the time her eyes were blinking and she was shaking herself awake, both of her arms and her legs were tied securely to the four-poster.

  "Bastard, you've broken my neck!" she groaned.

  "You're lucky that's all," Carter said.

  A string of Russian curses that even Carter didn't know erupted from her mouth as he rummaged again in the bag.

  "You had better kill me, bastard, because if we ever meet again, I'll kill you… and as slowly as I can."

  "You know something?" he said, pausing in his search. "I believe you. The only reason I'm not putting a needle in your arm is to keep Simonov happy."

  She started to scream another series of oaths at him, but it ended abruptly when Carter rolled a pair of panties into a ball and stuffed them into her mouth.

  Using a scarf from the bag, he secured the gag in her mouth and then stood staring down at her. "Stay over here. Anna. Don't come to the West again. If you do, I'll hunt you down like the viper you are."

  Her eyes flashed pure hatred in reply as Carter went around the room closing drapes and shutting off lights. He did the same in the living room, then let himself out into the garden.

  Kokolev waited with Simonov and the two phony Russian guards. Both of them had already shed their uniform tunics and (heir rifles for the swim. Simonov had pulled on the wet suit.

  "All right, let's go!"

  "Carter," Simonov stammered, "is she…"

  "She's alive," Carter growled. "But she won't be if I ever see her again."

  The four of them slid into the water. They retraced the swim that Carter and Kokolev had made earlier.

  Ludmilla was waiting. She had dragged the powered sleds down to the beach.

  Just before pushing off, Carter turned to Kokolev. "If you, or she… or any of you people ever want out…"

  Kokolev interrupted him with a raised hand. "We won't."

  The Killmaster nodded in understanding. He shook the big man's hand and glanced at Ludmilla. "Good luck," he said gently. Then he turned to the Russian. "C'mon, Boris!"

  Two hours later they abandoned the sleds and hoisted themselves over the rail of the Rosa.

  Three

  Lisa Berrington's beautiful, usually soft features were set in hard lines as she tooled the little sports car across the Key Bridge from Arlington. Once over the bridge she turned right, onto the Whitehurst Freeway, and took the Wisconsin Avenue turnoff into the heart of
Georgetown.

  Her dark blond hair glinted in the sun as the wind swirled it about her shoulders. Her blue eyes and delicate features concentrated on the traffic around her. but a close observer would have noticed that her mind was absorbed with more than her driving.

  Lisa was beautiful in a refined, classic way. She came from an old, aristocratic Virginia family, and there was nothing brassy or coarse about her, even though, no matter what she wore, her figure turned heads wherever she went.

  Now she wore a simple navy skirt, a mint-green sweater set. and a navy and white scarf was draped around her neck. It was hardly the outfit she would have chosen for that day, but she had been in a hurry to leave her apartment when Ginger Bateman had agreed to meet her.

  Ginger was not exactly an old friend, but because Lisa had been involved with a couple of AXE-related jobs, she knew the head of that agency's secretary and right hand fairly well.

  Lisa hoped she knew Ginger well enough. She realized that the request she was about to make of the woman was pretty bizarre.

  She handled the powerful little sports car with precision, driving aggressively and knowledgeably, right hand on the shift, long legs scissoring over gas, brake, and clutch with agility.

  In the drive of the Pierre, a popular Georgetown restaurant, she left the motor running and accepted the attendant's hand. The car roared away into the parking lot as Lisa entered the building.

  "A table for one, mademoiselle?"

  "No, I'm meeting someone… a Miss Bateman."

  "Ah, yes. Right this way."

  The interior decor was a pleasing mixture of expensive leather, high ceilings and windows, elegant draperies, and lots of greenery.

  The maitre d' guided her toward a table for two in one of the smaller dining rooms. They were halfway there when Lisa sported Ginger Bateman's glossy black hair and tall figure.

  The woman looked up and smiled. Lisa returned the smile as she slid into the opposite chair.

  "Good to see you again."

  "Thank you," Lisa replied. "It's been a long time."

  "Would mademoiselle care for a drink?"

  "One of those will be fine," Lisa said, nodding toward the concoction sitting in front of Ginger.

  The maitre d' glided away, and Ginger leaned forward, lowering her voice. "How's Langley?"

  "Unchanged. I've been upgraded. I'm a courier now."

  "Congratulations."

  Neither woman voiced what their eyes were communicating. AXE had borrowed Lisa twice from the CIA for delicate missions. The second time she had almost been killed. Afterward, when she had been returned to the Company, she had been reclassified away from field agent status.

  It had hurt, but Lisa had accepted it. Her superiors had feared that she had lost her nerve. Lisa feared the same thing, so she had accepted «white» work and a desk.

  Being put on courier duty was a big step back up for her.

  The drink came, and the two women saluted each other with their glasses.

  "I must say I was a little surprised to get your call," Ginger said, studying the other woman over the rim of her glass.

  "Yes, I suppose you were. I need a favor, Ginger… a big one."

  "I'll do what lean."

  "I need to get in touch with Nick Carter."

  Bateman's face turned to stone. Her hard eyes stopped any further mention of AXE's top agent.

  "I suggest that we have lunch and then take a drive around beautiful Georgetown."

  Lisa nodded. "That might be a good idea."

  "Shall we order? The name is French, but they have marvelous German dishes," Ginger said, replastering a smile on her face.

  They both ordered a breaded veal cutlet topped with a fried egg and served with fresh vegetables. Ginger mentioned wine, but Lisa demurred, suggesting Perrier instead.

  They ate sparingly, moving through the meal with offhand chatter about the mounting costs of living in the nation's capital and the ludicrousness of the latest youth-oriented fashions.

  Ginger could see that her luncheon companion was getting increasingly nervous with each passing minute. She passed on dessert and requested the check.

  "Let me…" Lisa protested.

  "No, I'll put it on the account," Ginger replied with a wave of a hand. "After all, it does look like we're going to be discussing business."

  She paid the check and they moved through the front doors.

  "What are you driving?"

  "An Alfa," Lisa replied. "Convertible."

  "We'll take mine. I'll drive… you talk."

  Ginger handed the attendant her car claim check, and five minutes later they pulled out of the parking lot and headed north past the Naval Observatory and toward Chevy Chase.

  "Is Nick in the States?"

  "You know I can't tell you that."

  "I have his home number. I called it all night long and this morning. There was no answer."

  Ginger knew that Carter and this woman had worked together. One look at Lisa Berrington's face and figure told her why she had the number of Carter's Georgetown condo.

  "He's not in the country right now, Lisa. You know that's all I can tell you until you tell me more."

  "I know," Lisa sighed. "Do you know my sister. Delaine?"

  Ginger chuckled. "I know of her. I've seen her picture in the paper a few hundred times. I don't travel in those circles."

  "But you do know her husband, Stephan Conway."

  "Yes, I know about him."

  Lisa smiled and met Ginger's eyes. "File?"

  Ginger nodded. There was no need to say more. The CIA and the FBI both had extensive files on Stephan Conway. AXE also held a copy of those files as a matter of course.

  Stephan Conway was quite a man, or character, depending on which side of him a person stood.

  He had been a youthful computer genius and a student activist in the sixties. He eventually lost his rebellious nature, abandoned his liberal activism, and founded a small computer electronics company, Protec, that grew and grew until Conway was a rich man, even by Silicon Valley standards.

  But for him that wasn't enough. With the power and wealth that came with his marriage to Delaine Berrington, he went after huge government contracts… and got them. He began buying up small companies and merging with larger ones all over the world, with himself always retaining controlling interest.

  By the early 1980s, the company was the undisputed leader in its field, and the government's chief supplier of electronic radar and missile guidance systems.

  This knowledge of modem technology, coupled with his wealth, his worldwide business interests, and the enormous clout of his Washington contacts, had recently shoved Stephan Conway into the political arena.

  It was an unannounced fact that he would run for a Senate seat in the upcoming elections.

  "I got a call from Delaine last night, from West Berlin."

  "Yes?"

  "It's driving me out of my mind," Lisa blurted.

  "How so?"

  "Two reasons, really. First, Stephan himself. As you probably know, our parents left both of us very well off. I have always thought that Stephan married Delaine solely for our family name and contacts and her wealth."

  "And now the marriage is going sour?" Ginger asked drily.

  "I think it's been going sour right from the beginning, and Delaine is just realizing it. She not only sounded very down on the phone, she also sounded scared… petrified."

  Ginger pulled into one of the narrow, tree-shaded streets of Chevy Chase, cruised for another half block, and pulled to the curb.

  "Afraid?" she asked when she had killed the engine.

  "Yes, very."

  "I hate to say this, Lisa, but why Nick? I mean, he's hardly trained to handle domestic squabbles."

  "I know that," Lisa replied, her face flushing slightly. "There's something else. Delaine hinted that some friends had shown up from Stephan's past. It happened a few weeks ago in California. There was a terrible fight, and when Delaine a
pproached him about it, he called them 'blackmailing bastards' and said that he had told them to go to hell."

  "But that wasn't the end of it?"

  "No," Lisa replied. "At least. Delaine doesn't think so. Stephan became more and more nervous. And he began to lock himself in his study late at night and make all sorts of odd phone calls. And when they started on this speaking tour in Europe, he hired four bodyguards."

  "Speaking tour?"

  "Yes, he's going to five countries for the State Department. He's speaking to rallies, trying to convince them of the wisdom and the safety of the NATO missiles."

  "I see," Ginger sighed. "That alone would give him reason to hire bodyguards."

  "Yes, I suppose it would. But the last thing Delaine said really shook me up. Last night, just before her phone call, they were at a dinner party with a group of German dignitaries, and Delaine overheard Stephen tell two high-ranking German officials that he was positive there was a plot to assassinate him."

  This brought Ginger out of her slouch. "Well, that puts a different light on the matter. But Nick…?"

  "I didn't want to go to anyone in the Company. I was afraid they would think I was crazy, especially since Stephan and Delaine do have a domestic problem. And besides, I do know Nick personally, and I know what he's capable of accomplishing. Dammit, Ginger, if you would just speak to your boss…"

  Ginger furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in thought. She had a pretty good idea that David Hawk would either laugh until his sides hurt, or explode in anger at the idea of his top operative running off to settle a future senator's domestic problems.

  On the other hand, if Stephan Conway were being blackmailed and threatened, it could be a major security bomb.

  There was also Lisa herself to consider. She was a highly intelligent woman, familiar with the realities of the espionage game, and normally level-headed and rational, certainly not prone to hysteria. Now her nerves were obviously frayed at the ends, and she apparently firmly believed that everything her sister feared had a basis in fact. If she was this shaken, it warranted at least a cursory investigation.