by Nick Carter
"Why didn't you warn me? I could have sent more men. I could have prevented the defection and silenced this agent you call Mercury. Why did you allow those men to be slaughtered?"
Rankov's face iced over, his eyes narrowing into twin laserlike slits as his hand brushed the Czech's hands aside. "There are things in this world greater than your indignation, comrade. It was the Dealer's command that the dogs make good their escape, and it was my job to see that it succeeded. I make it a point not to question the wishes of my superiors, especially those of the Dealer. I have done as I was instructed, and I will now go back to Moscow — to my tiny desk and my immense wife. On both accounts, I suggest you do the same. If not, I am sure you are free to accompany me, courtesy of the State, to lodge your complaints formally. It is my understanding that Lubyanka has many reservations available at this time."
The Czech paled. His courage shredded and oozed out from his body in cold beads of sweat. "But… why?" he whispered.
Rankov softened somewhat and stared back toward the battlefield behind them. "There are plans," he said, almost reverently. "I am a servant. I do not know the details. But the Dealer does. They are his plans. And they are big plans, my friend. Immense."
Rankov turned back to the soldier, his hand once more gripping the man's shoulder. "Much bigger than you or I," he sighed. "Much bigger than twenty lives. I do know this. There is an air about Moscow these past few days, a crackling of excitement. There are smiles in the halls of the Kremlin — and that bodes well for both of us. Come. There is vodka waiting in the car. Join me in a toast, yes? To the Dealer and his plans?"
The Czech shuddered as he followed Rankov to the waiting car. What could be so important about the escape of a handful of miserable refugees that the Dealer would ensure their flight by sacrificing twenty lives?
But then, he thought, who was he? Who was anyone to question the Dealer's motives?
Chapter Two
WASHINGTON, DC.
Nick stared out the window of the limo as the landscape slipped by. There was a haunted feeling in his brain and a gnawing in his gut that even vehicle-supplied Scotch could not dispel. It had been roughly forty hours since the defection at the Czech border, and yet he still felt as though he were sitting in rural Bohemia.
There was the fog; granted, it was an early morning fog, a mist of rising air drifting off the Potomac. There was granite, man-made monuments of stone that comprised the cemetery of Arlington. There were hills, hummocks, really, mere reminders of the Appalachian chain that dwelt in the west.
But to Nick, it was Bohemia, and the ghosts that had followed him there — the ghosts that should so rightfully have fallen beside the Czech militiamen — were still with him. A mission, so loaded with the potential for resolving the past, had turned out to be an irritant, a reincarnation of doubt and hate.
And Nick could not put his finger on why.
He retreated from the visual reminders of the Arlington landscape, settling back into the leather comfort of the seat, and allowing his thoughts to travel the tufted roof of the passenger compartment.
Part of it was definitely Stefan Borczak, the youthful artist he had once been forced to desert. The man had spent the entire trip back to the United States in silent contemplation. Any attempts on Nick's part to resolve that moment of history had met only with cool politeness and dismissal, attitudes that implied a hint of blame. Mercury would always have his share of credit in the man's loss of sight.
And there was the defection itself. Another routine operation, suddenly glorified with opposition. So like the Berlin affair — so like the Death Dealer. There was almost a signature to it, except that Nick had won. And something about that called for explanation. Anyone can hit a slump, evil geniuses included. But with the Dealer, slumps meant singles instead of homers — never a strikeout.
And the Czech affair had been a strikeout for the Dealer from the first pitch.
But there were no resolutions. Nick could only stare at the Scotch in his hands and let his thoughts swirl right along with the amber liquid. He was so absorbed that he didn't even feel the car drift to a halt. It wasn't until the chauffeur, a brawling bear of a man, pulled open the door and stared at him, his eyes registering firm disapproval of Nick's breakfast habits, that the spell removed itself. With a quick toast toward the driver, Nick downed the remaining Scotch, dropped the glass into his arm-side niche, and pulled himself from the vehicle.
"Count your blessings," he muttered, as much for his own benefit as the chauffeur's.
If the man heard, he gave no indication. His only response was to guide Nick, with a tilt of his head, toward a thick grouping of people in the near distance. Nick nodded and stepped off toward the gathering of mourners. His tread was silent, as if his feet refused to intrude on the solemnity of the funeral. The only giveaway to his approach was the dark markings his shoes left in the dewy grass beneath.
He searched the ensemble and quickly spotted the shocking mane of white hair and the hunched body of David Hawk.
Hawk was head of AXE, the mastermind and caretaker of one of the most super-secret intelligence organizations ever created. What AXE lacked in notoriety, it more than made up for in effectiveness. Hawk was the daddy and Nick Carter one of his offspring.
Killmaster, N3!
Nick found the man hovering alone, off to the right of the group. Even in his isolation there was a sense of invisibility. His gray overcoat seemed to blend in perfectly with the misting fog of the cemetery, his white hair, a mere crack of sunlight bursting through the haze.
Nick approached softly and settled in beside Hawk, his own hands knotting together in imitation of the mourning stance of the crowd.
There was a brief exchange of glances that told Nick nothing would begin until the service was ended.
Five minutes passed, and then the burial was over. The crowd moved off. Hawk remained standing, slowly pulling cigar and matches from an inside pocket. He lit up, carefully folding cellophane and spent match back into his coat pocket. It was a gesture that spoke far more of years of intelligence work than it ever would of littering national monuments.
He savored his first puff before speaking. "Congratulations. I understand the Czech crossing drew quite an audience."
"A few," Nick shrugged. "Not exactly a full house."
"Good job, nonetheless. I trust the ride up from debrief was to your liking?"
Nick smiled. "It isn't every day you get to ride in the boss's own limo. Thanks."
"You deserved it." The cigar suddenly stabbed out into the air, gesturing off to Nick's left. "Someone else wants to thank you, too. I thought this would be as good a time as any."
Nick turned. Nearing them were three individuals. Nick recognized the man in the center. Representative Karl Ganicek, chairman of the Congressional Committee on Foreign Affairs. The two with him were strangers, but it didn't take a trained eye to spot Secret Service written all over them.
Nick ran the man's bio through his mental computer. Ganicek was one of two sons born to Polish-American parents. With the re-establishment of Poland at the end of World War I, the family moved there to help with the reconstruction. Ganicek's father had climbed the political ladder quite quickly, a rise that was cut brutally short by the Nazi invasion.
The family then fled to England, joining the government in exile, and waiting to see if the Allied powers could save their state. But with the war progressing and England itself under attack, Ganicek's father finally conceded defeat and returned to the United States. Only Ganicek's brother remained to carry on the fight. He joined Military Intelligence in England and was eventually dropped into Poland. He was never heard from again.
After Pearl Harbor, Ganicek joined the U. S. war effort, drawing duty as language specialist for the forces advancing toward central Europe. It was his hope to be involved when the Allies freed his native country, but the Russians took the honors instead. After the war, Ganicek entered Poland. He spent three years trying to get inv
olved in the postwar machinery and trying to track down his brother. Both projects were frustrated at every turn.
With the Soviet strategy of «liberation» becoming evident to all, Ganicek finally gave up his struggle. He returned to the United States and spent several years, as he put it, "brooding over events I could not control." It took a car accident in the fifties — an accident that claimed the lives of both his parents, and very nearly his own — to finally shake him from his personal defeat.
Ganicek wanted a voice in European affairs, and he went for it. He ran for Congress, riding the anti-Communist tide of the fifties, and got elected. He made good his commitments, remaining, even after the deterioration of McCarthyism, a staunch anti-Soviet presence in Congress. He was also recognized as a master of Foreign Affairs legislation. He was now well into his seventh term, a Democratic hammer whose weight could always be counted on — even by Republican regimes — whenever it came to questions of Soviet policy.
Physically, Ganicek was anything but awesome, five feet nine, a compacted cyclone of pure determination. He had lightly Slavic features, slender but rounded, with a thin stream of white hair that raced back from a balding skull. His entire face seemed to pinch inward toward his wire-rimmed spectacles.
In an era of television campaigners, he was anything but photogenic. The deep scars of his accident cut through his face like a road map. But his constituents could obviously care less. To them, the scars were only reminders of how deep his commitments lay.
Nick nodded in greeting as the man approached him. It was a hand with a grip of iron that captured his own.
"This is perhaps not the best time," came the resonant voice. "But I just wanted to say thank you for what you have done."
Nick shrugged, giving him a brief smile as the man pumped his hand. What, on the surface, appeared to be abject humility, was in reality Nick's invitation for Hawk to take the conversational lead. AXE was known to only a few individuals, and Nick was not about to be the first to let it slip.
Hawk took the lead. "This is Mercury, Mr. Congressman. I think you'll understand if we don't identify him further."
"Of course," Ganicek nodded. "I don't need details. It is enough to know that you have been responsible for freeing several of my countrymen. The President tells me that this is not the first time you've accomplished such a mission. I just wanted to thank you personally. As someone who's lived there, I wanted you to know just how much your actions have meant. You're a credit to the CIA and a hero to any who value human rights."
"It's my job," Nick answered, and then grinned. "But a little recognition never hurts. I'll remember your thoughts next time, sir. I appreciate your speaking to me."
The congressman beamed his approval. "Good luck, young man. I know you must be tired, so I won't take up any more of your time." He tossed a wave toward Hawk and departed, his watchdogs dutifully following. Nick and Hawk let the others move off before turning and drifting toward the waiting limo.
"Why the kudos?" Nick asked. "You don't usually go for that much exposure."
Hawk pulled the cigar from between clenched teeth and heaved a thick column of smoke into the morning air. "The President hinted that he would be very appreciative if I were to bend the rules just a bit, at least where Ganicek is concerned."
"Any particular reason?"
Hawk nodded. "How well have you been following the upcoming Bern convention?"
Nick gave a quick chuckle. "You don't have to follow it, Hawk. It follows you."
The Bern Conference on International Human Rights was the story of the decade. Though still two weeks away, it was accumulating more press coverage than any event Nick could remember. It was the President's own personal brainchild, and, for a man accused of inexperience in foreign affairs, it was something of a coup d'état — personally and politically.
Its claim was to out-Helsinki the Helsinki Accords, and to make good that claim, the President had committed himself to personally attending each of the conference's six major sessions. Most of the previous presidential year had been spent in back-room negotiations, all designed to see that allied leaders matched the President with equal or nearly equal commitment. And so far the responses had been astounding.
"The old man has quite a show going," chortled Hawk.
"Now," Nick added, "if he could only get the Communist countries to join him, he'd have re-election in his hip pocket."
There was a quick stab from Hawk's wary eyes, a chastising look that implied ill of the uninformed agent. Just as quickly came a forgiving dismissal of the glance. "I forget," Hawk grumbled. "You've been a bit out of touch for the last few days."
Nick's brow furrowed questioningly. "You mean the Iron Curtain has joined the parade of dignitaries?"
"Joined!" Hawk roared. "You'd think the Premier had his own re-election at stake! He dropped his blockbuster in Moscow last night, and it's consuming the front page of every tabloid in America Not only is he personally seeing the President, but he's raising him two or three."
"You mean he'll show up himself?"
"Indeed," Hawk nodded. "And he's bringing a few of the Politburo's more prestigious octogenarians with him."
"And just where does Ganicek fit into all this?"
"Well, regardless of party affiliation, there's always one thing any President can count on from Congressman Ganicek, and that's a hard-line Soviet position, a position the current regime feels quite at home with. Whatever other issues they may differ on, the President and Ganicek seem to have made a small marriage vis à vis the Red menace."
Nick once more picked up the thread. "And nothing would increase the President's bargaining power more than a united front at the Bern negotiations — the Allies tucked in one holster, his political opposition at home in the other."
"Exactly," Hawk nodded, his eyes bright with approval. "Ganicek will attend the conference as the President's number one negotiator. And he's more than a holster-full, N3. He's double-barreled. He represents a bipartisan front on the one hand, and a living record of Soviet abuses on the other. I pity the poor negotiator that has to look Ganicek in the face, and then speak of the joys of Soviet life."
"Is that why the President wanted him to meet me? A little shot to get the juices flowing?"
"No doubt."
The driver held the limo door open as the two men approached, then closed it softly behind them and moved around to his position behind the wheel. The car eased off into the morning mists.
"Only one thing I don't get," Nick mused as the car picked up speed and pulled out onto the parkway, if the President is going into the Bern conference so well armed, why are the Soviets so ready to go under the gun? They've got the occupation of Afghanistan, yellow rain in Southeast Asia — any number of reasons for backing out. Instead, they're walking in with bells on. Why?"
Hawk digested the question for a few seconds, sliding his window down and watching as the smoke from his cigar curled out. Finally he answered, his voice somewhat distant and unsure.
"On the surface, it would all appear somewhat masochistic, I grant you. But, if what your Polish artist friend has been telling us is true, the picture gets very ugly."
"Borczak?" Nick squawked.
Hawk nodded. "The President is going over the debrief now. He should make some kind of decision within the next hour or so. Until then, I'd rather not get into too much speculation."
And then Hawk turned and looked at Nick sharply. "But if Borczak's claims do hold water, we'll be operational by this afternoon. The Dealer is involved, Nick — up to his ugly ears. And if we're going to move, I want you handling the whole show."
Nick's eyes grew hard and icy. "If the Dealer's involved, it would be pretty hard to keep me away from it."
Hawk smiled, his teeth clamping down on the cigar. "I thought you might feel that way. So, since we've got a few hours to kill, how does breakfast sound?"
"You buying?"
Hawk nodded with a chuckle.
Then you've g
ot a date," Nick replied, turning his gaze out the window to the Virginia countryside. "By the way. Who did we just put to rest?"
"You have been out of touch," Hawk grunted, shaking his head. "Representative Harris, Speaker of the House. Stroke. The papers have been full of it."
Nick whistled. "I didn't think he was that old."
"He wasn't," Hawk growled. "It was very sudden and very unexpected." Here the big man sighed and ran the fingers of his free hand across his forehead in a gesture of resignation. "It's modern times, I guess. The stress and strain of the computerized nuclear age."
Nick grinned. "It's nice you and I have our nice cushy jobs without the strain of big government or big business."
"You dodge bullets, I dodge budgets," Hawk chuckled. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
Nick nodded. "Who will be Harris' successor?"
Hawk gave a noncommittal shrug. "If you listen to the press, there are a couple of old-boy regulars ready to don the mantle. But. if you listen to the echoes in the trenches, Ganicek's name keeps popping up."
"One more bit of ammunition for the conference?"
"I would say so," Hawk nodded. "The vote comes up today."
"Any bets on which way it'll go?"
"I don't gamble, N3. Surely you know that." Hawk replied, his voice a hard rumble in his chest. "Betting is a commitment made on the unknowable. I like certainty. I collect tiny little pieces and then patch them into bigger pictures. When the picture is clear, then I'll commit."
"And what's the picture on this afternoon's vote?"
"Ganicek," Hawk said flatly. Then he turned to Nick, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Bet on it."
* * *
The man stood staring out the window, his hands clutched limply behind his back. The sun was breaking through the fog, turning what had been a dismal morning into a brilliant festival of spring light. Shadows were breaking across the long lawn, pointing their way to the surrounding iron fencework. There was even the faintest hint of lilac fragrance, somehow managing to find its way through bulletproof glass to tease at the man's nostrils.
