by Nick Carter
But none of it was powerful enough to dissuade the man's mood. Inside, he was fog, and dead trees, and winter, all in one. He turned from the window, his movement punctuated with another sigh, and surveyed the interior of his world. The Oval Office, the goal of so many ambitious men, seemed this day no more than a tomb.
The thoughts assailed him, quotes that spoke of impossibilities, of an office "too unwieldy to be managed by any one man," of responsibilities "too great to be individually borne."
And it was only — what? — five, six hours ago, he was toasting his fate, raising his orange juice high, joking with the aides that had torn him from his bed. "Where's the vodka?" he had jested. "What's orange juice without vodka? It's called a screwdriver, folks. And you know why? Because when the Soviets get to Bern, we'll be doing the driving, and — well — I'll let you figure out what they'll be getting."
So much responsive laughter. A year's worth of work, a year of handing out plums, to allies, to opposition party members, all to create this one singular event. Bern. And now-; chaos.
The man walked over to his desk, his eyes riveted on the thin brief that occupied the center. It was only paper, but to the man who occupied the Oval Office, it was a death warrant. One dissident slips through the Iron Curtain, and he brings with him the end of a dream.
The man lifted the brief, his eyes scanning for the hundredth time the typewritten words that had authored his mood.
No, dammit!
The papers slammed back onto the desk. Nothing was going to stop the conference. Not even this — this Dealer, whoever the hell he was. Nothing would stand in the way of Bern. There was a Presidential reputation at stake, true. There was maybe even just a touch of ego, a touch of politics. But most importantly, there were millions of damned souls buried under the yoke of tyranny and torture and arbitrary imprisonment; there was a question of human dignity at stake.
The man plopped himself into the high-backed chair, ignoring the loud squeals of leather. He swept the brief to his right, a firm gesture that spoke of defiance, while his other hand leafed through a series of computer cards, cards that allowed him direct connections to certain individuals, individuals that even his secretary was unaware of.
He popped in a card and waited patiently for the call to be answered.
There were games to be played, and there was only one man that the President felt secure in playing with.
The rings gave way to a computerized hum, a sound that indicated the call was being transferred to remote. The man might be out of his office, but he could be reached, anytime, anywhere.
There was another sequence of dull bursting electronics, and then, finally, a voice. "Yes?"
"David," said the man, "I need to see you. Right away."
"Just finishing breakfast," Hawk replied, with just the right tone of respect in his voice. "I'll be right there, sir."
* * *
The man occupying the Oval Office was not the only one filled with intense emotion this spring day. There were others, aides, men close to the President, whose futures would be determined by the decisions made within the next few hours. One such aide was feeling his own fair share of depression.
Jacek Januslawski paced his office, his desk occupied by a single brief. Unlike the man in the Oval Office, this brief held little of his attention. It represented an unofficial probe, an informal tally of votes that seemed to indicate that Karl Ganicek would be the next Speaker of the House of Representatives.
It was the kind of news that should have led to celebration. "Vodka!" Jacek might have once cried. But, of course, that was a luxury that thirteen years of spying had erased. Still, a celebration of some sort should have been in the offing. It is rare when any mole finds himself so elevated in the superstructure of an opposing government.
But Jacek was anything but joyous.
He walked to the window of his office, and. like the man just a few blocks away, he studied the sunny landscape. Below him was the sprawl of Washington traffic, ebbing its way down the streets that surrounded the Congressional Office Building. Like the aide watching it, it was a study in known goals going sour in the face of congested reality.
It had all seemed so simple just thirteen years ago. One studies, one trains, one spends precious years refining skills — training to betray any and all for the cause. And then, one ventures out, digging into the intestines of the enemy, setting oneself up as a pipeline of information. And not once, not ever, does guilt rear its head.
Until now.
But why now?
Part of it was Ganicek. The man who offered so much. The man who had lived under the aegis of the Soviet giant, and said "No!" The man who had read of the defector, read of the story at the Berlin Wall and said, "Let me be the first to welcome you, with appreciation, with relief, and with a job."
That was part of it, no doubt. Ganicek was climbing, and that meant that Jacek would climb with him. More prestige, more responsibility, and more information flowing back in greater bits of betrayal. But that could be lived with. That was no more than Jacek expected when he took on the role of agent.
Some of it was Borczak, too — the artist, the friend. The one man Jacek found it worth standing up for, even to the likes of the Dealer. "He must not die." Jacek had said. "He must accompany me on the defection. If he doesn't, suspicions may arise. But he must not share the fate of the scientists. He must live! I want your promise on that."
And the boy did survive. But now Jacek had the rumors to taunt him. There's been a defection," said the gossip mongers. "Couldn't be better timed… Bern, and all. It's an artist. Borjack, or something like that. They blinded the poor son-of-a-bitch. Can you believe it? God. we should nuke the bastards and never look back."
Stefan had lived, and survived, and had worked himself out of the Soviet grip. For that Jacek felt relief. But with dead eyes there would be no Tiergarten, no buxom women, only hate, and depression, and the agony of thirteen years of sightless confusion.
For that, Jacek felt remorse.
But that wasn't all of it. Just Stefan's sightless eyes wasn't what now tore at Jacek's insides and made him pace his office floor like a caged tiger with sweaty palms and a brooding scowl on his face.
It was also what they were now asking him to do. In the beginning it wasn't in the game plan. Not once, in the entire course of his KGB training, did they tell him that he would ever be asked to kill.
And now they had.
At least, that was the assumption Jacek had to draw from what had occurred. The lighter had been handed to him — as had every other instruction — through Ikon, the man at the Soviet Embassy who gave Rasputin all his instructions. There had been the usual meeting, Harper's Ferry, the deviation from the tour route, the treehouse, two hundred meters from the road. All, just as it had been every other time.
But this time there was the lighter, and the vial. The lighter had stabbed his finger, and the vial had never been explained. All he had been told was to fill the lighter from the small ampule of liquid, and then drop it at the appointed desk. "Congressman Ganicek wishes to express his thanks," was all he was told to say.
Murder, any way you cut it. And that was one thing they had never prepared him for.
Jacek's thoughts were interrupted by an explosion of sound as Congressman Ganicek roared through the door. "How does it look, Jacek?"
The spy took a moment to compose himself, aware that his attitude was one of defeat. He let the question dangle, building his cover — as he was trained to do — turning the moment of introspective doubt into one of friendly teasing. "I'm sorry to say, sir, that if all the calculations are correct…" Jacek then turned from the window, "…you will be confirmed as Speaker."
Ganicek's eyes narrowed, then lit up with appreciation. He answered his aide's jest with appropriate restraint. "Thank you, Jacek. "Then, with a humor of his own, he added, "I think you've just earned yourself a day off."
Ganicek turned back toward his own office, his progress
halted by the sound of Jacek's voice. "I'll make you a trade, sir."
The congressman turned back to face him. "Oh?"
"I understand there's a Stefan Borczak who has defected. I… I think I knew him. If possible, I would like to meet him — just to be sure. If it's the same man, we were very close — at least then."
A look of interest crossed the congressman's face. "Of course, Jacek. There has indeed been a defector — an artist, I understand, named Stefan Borczak. Could that be the same one?"
Jacek nodded.
"I will see what I can do," Ganicek answered with a smile. "For the moment, he is under tight security. You can understand that, I'm sure."
"Of course. But it is very important to me…"
Ganicek stared, and then stepped over to embrace Jacek's arm. "I don't suppose it would hurt if I were to ask the President. It's quite possible an exemption might be made in your case. After all," he grinned, his eyes lighting up with a conspiratorial twinkle, "the old boy needs all the votes he can get. If I succeed, does that mean I have re-earned your services for the day?"
"Yes, sir. Most willingly."
"Good!" the congressman beamed. "Now, do you have the Soviet data I asked you to compile?"
Jacek nodded.
"Then let's get to work. We have a lot to do before Bern!"
With that, the man departed.
Chapter Three
Nick stood patiently in the elevator, allowing the crowd to file out and empty the compartment. This was the fifth floor of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, Dupont Circle headquarters. It was quite legitimate; the departing chatter of the elevator's occupants was indication enough of that. There were shared bits of storyline, news breaks in the making, and hints of tomorrow's headlines — with, by far, the greatest lip service being offered to the upcoming Bern affair.
Nick waited for the doors to close, leaving him alone in the elevator. He then reached up to the selection panel and popped open the tiny door marked "Danger — High Voltage." Beneath the door was a tiny computer scanner screen and a voice register, Nick's key to the upper floors that housed the real purpose behind Amalgamated Press.
AXE.
Nick coded in the proper number sequence on the floor selection panel, and then held his palm up to the scanner. There was a faint hum of electronics and a rapid green flash beneath his hand as the scanner toured his palm, satisfying the complex machinery beyond.
Then came three sharp beeps.
"Code 2271–24," Nick intoned. "Classification N3, priority A21–874-KMR."
He dropped his hand away as the panel confirmed his message, verifying in green LED print across the screen that voice and hand scans were in order. It then repeated the coding sequence back, asking politely if the entry was correct. Nick confirmed the entry, and then settled back as the elevator gave a gentle lift toward the sixth — and most sacrosanct — floor of the building.
Nick reached into his pocket and withdrew one of his gold-tipped cigarettes from its case. It was a gesture born partially of a desire for a smoke, and partially for self-defense. Any visit to Hawk's office was a descent into a smoke-filled abyss created by the man's cigar. Although not as pungent, Nick's own Turkish blend of tobacco offered at least minor defense.
But as Nick lit up, it was not the comparative merits of tobaccos that was consuming his thoughts; it was the Death Dealer. He had just spent the better part of the day, each moment since he had parted from Hawk, digging into the archives, pulling and reading every file that might contain any mention of the man he was about to go up against.
Nick had come to the conclusion that he was truly an enigma; an amazing enigma. Rather than no name, the man had several, all aliases, and all discarded for a new one when the old one became well known.
There were only vague descriptions of his physical appearance, and hardly any information on his background. Possible places of birth ranged from Georgia to the Ukraine to Moscow itself. It was as if he had emerged full-blown and full-grown from the bowels of KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square.
In this modern day and age it was almost impossible for a man to circulate the way the Dealer had and not build up some kind of dossier in at least one espionage service besides his own. Somehow the Dealer had done just that, remaining a mystery to even his own henchmen.
But still Nick had dug out whatever information he could, preparing himself, loading the computerlike circuitry of his brain, immersing himself in every detail of the man's methods, and thought, and execution. When they met this time, the Dealer was not going to walk away.
Nick could feel the tingling sensations of finality coursing through him. There would be no next time. Not anymore.
The door slid silently open and Nick stepped out into the somber dignity of the AXE nerve center. He turned left, moving across deep-piled burgundy carpeting, past closed doors with other scanners for knobs and other voice registers for keys, seeking out the office of the man who ran the show.
He stepped up to the door slowly, allowing the overhead camera to announce his presence. There was a second's delay, and then the soft click of bolts releasing. Nick pushed on the oaken door and moved into the inner sanctum.
He was promptly greeted by the sight of a delightful derriere bent over a desk.
"Ah, Bateman," Nick grinned, "you get lovelier every day." The door clicked shut behind him.
Before him, the figure rose slowly, turning to greet him with eyes sparkling with sarcasm. Ginger Bateman would be lovely wearing any emotion, but anger somehow always fit her best. There was something about those flashing green eyes, the flaming red hair, and the subtle sophistication of her southern accent that made bantering an almost sexual experience.
"Carter, "she oozed, "you have a one-track mind. Not a fault in itself, mind you, but somewhere along the line I just can't help but think it derailed."
With a bright flash of a smile, she scooped up the files on her desk and slithered over to the open drawer of the cabinet. Nick watched the move with admiration. It was a ballet of limbs and motion, a test of the holding power of synthetic fabric.
"You know, Bateman, one of these days you're going to succumb to my charms. It's inevitable — like death and taxes," he grinned.
Ginger paused in her filing, her eyes darting impishly toward the ceiling, her tongue curling thoughtfully over rich, thick, ruby lips. "Death and taxes, huh?" With a quick sigh, she shrugged. "Sony, y'all. It just sounds like too dull an evening, and much too expensive."
Nick's laughter filled the room, accompanied by Ginger's smile. Both were interrupted by the crackling of the intercom. "N3," came the somber drone, "if you are through molesting the help, there are matters that need your attention."
Nick coughed out a quick, "Yes, sir," and. with a quick wink to Ginger, moved through the door.
Hawk's office was just as it ever was, a monument of leather and mahogany, a simple, elegant statement of functional furnishings, filled with various mementos of Hawk's career. Hawk sat behind his massive desk, the air around him surprisingly clear and devoid of the usual swirling of omnipresent cigar smoke. With a nod in his direction. Nick stopped short, his hand still on the doorknob.
He and Hawk were definitely not alone in the room.
To his left was the sofa, its occupants quite familiar. Stefan Borczak was sitting forward on the seat, his hands resting atop his cane, his eyes drifting in Nick's general direction. Beside him was his wife, Hela. For a moment her eyes met Nick's; then just as quickly they dropped to the floor. Nick watched her a moment. What had been a beautiful face when encountered during the defection, was now. if possible, even more beautiful. AXE had done its best to make the newcomers feel welcome. There were just the subtlest indications of makeup and the calm settling of facial features that said years of secrets and tension were over.
Nick then glanced to his right. There were two chairs with a side table between them. Both were occupied. One contained Albert Rackley, the Presidential aide that se
rved as liaison to intelligence affairs, the man who made sure what it was that the President did — or did not — want to know about AXE activities. In the other chair was a lady that Nick had not seen for years. She met his eyes and held them, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Nick remembered that smile. It was like the rest of her — well formed and sensuous, without being glaringly sexual.
Tori Bacchus: designation, Killmaster N20.
Nick returned the smile. Tori was a top-notch agent, a woman with whom he had shared several missions. Her station had been the Middle East, and there were at least three times that Nick could recall where her skill and expertise had saved the day. Although their relationship had never transcended the professional, that had always been more a result of circumstance than desire.
Nick acknowledged the lady with a nod, her own lustrous brown hair bowing in response. He then turned to Hawk. The man was waiting patiently for the preliminaries to end. He gestured toward the chair to the left of his desk.
"Good afternoon, N3. Sit. We have a lot to discuss. And would you be so kind as to put out your cigarette? Mr. Rackley has asked that there be no smoking."
Nick took the chair and stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette. Somehow, Rackley was never a welcome addition to the proceedings.
"Thank you, N3," Hawk nodded, and then addressed the room. "I'm sure you are all familiar enough with each other. I think we should get on with what needs to be said. I don't mean to appear abrupt, but the information that Mr. Borczak has given us is somewhat frightening in its proportions. There are decisions that need to be made here today, and those decisions will have a phenomenal impact on the upcoming Bern negotiations — an event you are all familiar enough with to understand without any added introduction."
