by Nick Carter
"Once we've done that," Tori said, "the Dealer will know the game. What's to keep the Russians from backing out?"
Timing and pressure," Hawk answered. "At some point late in the tour, the President will be responding to all the press you two have been providing. Publicly, he will offer the dissidents his own personal invitation to attend the conference. Privately, he'll offer the Soviets a chance to discuss parameters in closed session. If they back out on the public announcement, it will read like cowardice. If they back out on the private session, we counter by going public. The Politburo would then most probably hang the Premier by his political neck."
"They'll be there," Nick said.
"What makes you so sure?" Rackley asked.
"The Dealer won't let it go," Nick replied. "I know him. He'll keep the ball rolling and try to get his records back. He'll come gunning for us, I promise you."
Hawk let a trace of a smile creep across his face. "That will be very unfortunate for him. won't it. N3."
Nick's eyes flickered briefly over to the couch. "Stefan and I both have a small score to settle."
Hawk nodded and glanced at the others. "So, to summarize, our situation is this. The six dissidents will conduct their tour, with N3 and N20 as chaperones. The Dealer's records will be obtained at the proper time, and then collated and transcribed by the Borczaks for presentation to the Russians, and, if necessary, the world. They will then go to Bern. In the meantime, we will be working the mole on this end. We'll try to discover the nature of the Soviet information and whitewash it. Beyond that, we will attempt to turn the mole to our advantage. If that proves impossible — we will neutralize him."
"You mean…?" Rackley started, his face suddenly very. pale.
"I mean," Hawk said, reaching for a cigar from the humidor on the desk and shredding its wrapper, "exactly what you think I mean, Mr. Rackley. Any further questions?"
The room remained silent.
"Then the briefing is concluded," Hawk said, firing up a match and disappearing in the swirling smoke. "Good luck."
Chapter Four
Jacek seemed mesmerized by the sound of his own footsteps. It was an uneven tread, heavy, plodding steps that slapped the pavement and echoed off the Georgetown brownstones. And there was a meandering uncertainty in the path he trod, a carelessness he made no effort to hide. But then, there was no reason to. Georgetown at four in the morning held no witnesses, just empty sidewalks and streetlights.
Jacek had meant to get drunk, and he carried his present stupor with gratitude. It had been years since he had allowed himself the luxury of alcohol. After all, spies just don't let themselves lose control. But tonight was an exception. He had endured his day at the office, and he had tried to endure his evening at home. But midnight had come, and gone, and the pain would not let him rest.
So he had gone to a bar to seek solace in drink.
But no amount of vodka could erase the stink, the horrible odor, of betrayal.
He had betrayed the artist, his friend who was now without eyes. He had bartered and traded the trust of Ganicek, and no matter how many times he had called it duty, it still smelled like betrayal.
And then, in the midst of his drinking, the desire for confession had overwhelmed him. With a shaking hand, on bar stationery, he had written the letter.
Now Jacek halted at the mailbox near the corner of his block. He stared at the drop, his hand toying nervously with the envelope in his pocket.
"Courage," he mumbled. "Courage, Jacek! You gave up your integrity years ago. Did you not at least save your courage?"
Jacek stepped away from the box, his pocket still heavy with its burden, and aimed himself toward his apartment, shaking his head. Confession is not the same when delivered by others. You must face the man, stare into the blinded eyes, study the agony you have written into his face. Only then can confession flow.
But that was not to be. Ganicek had made that quite clear. "No one is allowed to see him," the man had said. "I'm sorry, Jacek. Not even the President would bend on that issue. The dissidents are all leaving for Europe tomorrow, and until then, they are under the strictest security. Perhaps when they return I will be able to arrange a meeting."
That's when the pain started, and it would not stand the waiting. So Jacek searched, calling on favors, digging, as he had so many times, finally obtaining itineraries and accommodation lists. Stefan could now be located and the letter written. But the sending was still too great a task. It would mark the end. The confession would be made, and all that would remain was prison, or flight, or death. These Jacek was not yet strong enough to face.
He climbed the stoop of his apartment, moving through the vestibule and up the three flights to his apartment. His thoughts propelled him cruelly. It was not Stefan who was blind; it was he. All these years of blind service, for what? To what? To Russia? No. To the Dealer! And what was changed? What had the world gained from his service? Only death. A Speaker murdered so another could take his place. Ganicek elevated in rank so that Jacek could gain even richer treasures to betray.
Insanity!
Wearily, Jacek entered his apartment and let the door slam closed behind him. He ignored the light switch, preferring the solitude of darkness as he slumped himself down into his chair. "Insanity," he murmured, "total insanity."
"And quite, quite careless as well."
Jacek bolted in his chair, instantly sober. The voice was familiar, cold and hard as a knife. He stared into the dark corner from which it had come, his hands curled into knotted balls on the armrests. For a moment the corner revealed nothing. Then came the grinding sound of Venetian blinds opening. The streetlight poured through the slats, slashing across the figure of a man.
But even in the semidarkness, it was the eyes that Jacek riveted on — glittering ovals of blue ice.
Those eyes held Jacek for a moment, and then turned toward the window. "You're drunk," said the Dealer. "It is unbecoming."
Jacek let the tension out in a short snort of laughter. "I suppose it is. Very unprofessional, heh?" Jacek slumped back into his chair. "I'll be truthful. I don't feel very professional. But enough of trivialities. To what do I owe the honor?"
The eyes returned. "You are no doubt aware that your artist friend has defected? That he is in Washington at this moment?"
Another laugh escaped from Jacek's throat. "Certainly, comrade. I've been celebrating that very fact. After all, why not? Was it not I who made you promise to spare him? Was it not I that set him up so you could tear out his eyes? And yet, in spite of me, and in spite of you, he is still free. That demands a celebration, don't you agree?" Jacek's hand raised in a mock toast. "Nazdrovya, comrade. To the men who won't bow down."
The Dealer's move was rapid and deadly. His body flew from the window, his hands gripping the mole by the lapels. With a strength seemingly impossible from so slender a man, he lifted Jacek, raising the man's face until it was inches from his own.
"I am here to save you, you blithering fool, and I will not be mocked. You drew from me a promise, and I kept it. Blindness may be a handicap — may be an agony to some — but it far exceeds the eternal darkness of death. For you, I made an exception, and now I am paying a price that I cannot afford."
The Dealer released his grip. Jacek dropped back into the chair, his gaze glued to the figure hulking over him.
"You stink of self-pity," he growled. "You see a man blinded, and you wallow in self-contempt. Betrayal is not the sole domain of espionage agents, my friend. Stefan Borczak did not hesitate to sell your soul."
"What… what do you mean?"
The Dealer leaned in over Jacek, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. "I may have blinded the boy, but I also employed him. I put him to work in my office. And when he defected, he took that knowledge with him, knowledge that includes you, comrade. And if you think he has not shared that knowledge with his saviors, then you are an even bigger fool than I thought."
Jacek stared at the man, an icy c
hill sweeping over his body. "You're lying," he breathed, but the voice lacked conviction. "He knows? You let him know that I betrayed him?"
The Dealer reached down to grab Jacek's hand. With very little in the way of gentleness, he hoisted Jacek from the chair and shoved him to the window. Jacek stared out over the street.
"Look there," the Dealer pointed. Jacek followed the finger to where it led.
Below was a single figure, huddled in the doorway across the street. The figure stood stock-still, eyes drifting left and right down the street. Now and then there was an occasional twist of the head in the direction of Jacek's window.
"A bit late for tourists, wouldn't you say?"
Jacek studied the man below and then turned to face his tormentor. The lights were, once more, slashing across the Dealer's features, one ribbon cutting across the eyes of blue marble. Jacek battled with his emotions, fighting the instincts of survival, desperately trying to choke out the words that rambled in his brain.
"Maybe it's time," he whispered. "Maybe it's well past the time."
The Dealer's eyes widened and then began burning with a heat so intense. Jacek could almost feel it. Then came the hands. The Dealer pushed out his fists, slamming them into Jacek's chest and driving him back onto the floor.
"You sniveling pig! You would surrender? Is that it? You would walk over to them, turn yourself in, rattle on about the sins you have committed — and then be free! Is that the picture you are seeing?"
A knife suddenly appeared in the Dealer's clenched hand, its tip coming to rest at Jacek's throat.
"Tell me," the Dealer growled. "Are those your intentions? Because if they are, I can save you the trouble."
Jacek's eyes strained to find the tip digging into his flesh. Several breaths of air gasped their way into existence.
"No! Please!" he cried, his voice a timid squeak, pathetic, and resigned. "A thought. Only a thought."
The knife lifted and the Dealer straightened himself. Jacek's hand went to his neck, two fingers coming away with the barest trickle of red. He stared at his own blood, absently noting its texture and hue. Just the sight of it staining his fingertips filled his throat with fear. But the fear gave way to confusion when the Dealer spoke again.
"Would seeing Borczak change your mind?"
Jacek stared, his head nodding involuntarily. "But how?"
The Dealer retreated, the knife disappearing into his coat pocket. "At Bern. It can be arranged so that you will have time with him. Would that please you?"
Jacek's brows furrowed. "But he is not going to Bern. I don't understand. What would he be doing at Bern?"
"Trust me," came the voice. "He will be there. Will you run? Will you allow me to get you out of the country if I promise you a meeting with the artist?"
Jacek's head bobbed up and down. "But how? They are watching."
The Dealer thrust out his hand and tugged the mole to his feet. "They are always watching, my friend. That is what makes beating them such a pleasure. I have made arrangements. Follow me."
Jacek stood hypnotized and confused as the Dealer started off toward the door.
"Come," he said," There is no time to pack. Anything you need will be provided along the way. I have a car waiting. Come!"
Jacek followed, his hand still massaging at his neck, his burden lightened by the thought of facing his friend. The two slipped through the door, moving quickly down the stairway. At the first landing, the Dealer turned, grabbing Jacek by the arm and steering him toward a back doorway at the end of the hall.
At the door, he cracked it open, his eyes flickering across the alley beyond. Then he nodded and stepped through the door, Jacek following. They both moved down the old, wooden porch. Jacek made a move toward the alley, but the Dealer stopped him with an iron grip on the arm.
When Jacek turned to question him, the Dealer slipped a finger over his lips and gestured toward the front of the house. They moved left, entering a narrow footpath that separated Jacek's apartment from the one next to it. There was only the barest crunch of gravel as they made their way down the narrow lane. About ten feet from where the path would enter the street, the Dealer raised his hand and halted.
From his pocket he drew out a small box with a speaker and two knobs. Silently, he gave the red knob at the top two twists. From the garage came the sound of an engine revving, and Jacek's head turned instinctively as he recognized it. His own car was being started. Suddenly the car shot from the garage. Jacek almost cried out. It was only the firm but cautious slam of the Dealer's elbow that stopped him.
Reality dawned as Jacek watched the car speed off. Behind it came other sounds of engines. Headlights broke out, filling the alley with light as they sped off after the runaway auto. When Jacek turned back, he heard the sounds of footsteps from the front of the apartment. Several men had departed their stations to attack, in force, the stoop that would lead them up to Jacek's apartment.
Still the Dealer waited for the footsteps to fade. And then his head peered out, cautiously scanning the street. Then came the gesture to move. Jacek followed him rapidly onto the pavement. From down the block came the sound of a car engine as an automobile, its headlights dark, purred to a stop before them.
The Dealer yanked open the back door and gestured Jacek into the vehicle.
"Hurry," he ordered. "This man will get you away from your surveillance. Later, he will provide you with your escape route. Do what he says. There will be papers, money, and anything else you may need along the way. Move quickly. I will see you again in Bern."
Jacek barely had time to mutter a "thank you," before he was shoved into the back seat and the door slammed shut behind him. As the car raced off, Jacek stared through the rear window at the Dealer's figure in the shadowed darkness. He gave a brief wave, an inept but sincere gesture, as the car pealed around the corner and disappeared.
For several seconds, the Dealer stared at the space the car had vacated. Around him, figures began to appear out of the darkness. The men who had recently rushed the apartment now reappeared on the stoop, their own eyes following that of the Dealer's. The master spy walked over and addressed one of the suited figures.
"The bodies of the FBI men have been removed?"
One of the men replied in a barely whispered monotone. "Everything has been taken care of, comrade. The bodies have been sanitized, and the men are waiting along the escape route. The target will not escape."
"Excellent," said the Dealer. He tossed the box in his hands up to the man he was speaking to. "Radio ahead. Tell them the setup is in progress. Then get in your own car and follow. I don't want any errors. I want your own confirmation of the termination. You know where to reach me."
The man smiled. Even white teeth appeared in a hollow-cheeked face topped with blonde curls. If possible, the eyes that held the Dealer's were even colder than his own.
"I serve," was all the man said.
"I know," answered the Dealer as another car kicked into life. "Call me." And the Dealer stepped toward the waiting auto.
* * *
In another part of Georgetown, another pair of eyes studied the empty streets. Nick stood at his bedroom window, a cigarette in his hand, his mind floating. He stared at nothing in particular, just letting his gaze roam the pavement below. He was barely even conscious of the single automobile that turned the corner and drifted by.
"You were downright jolly at dinner. Maybe we should have left it at that."
The voice came from the candlelit dimness in the room behind him. It belonged to Tori Bacchus.
Nick let his eyes flicker toward the chaise where Tori languished, a brandy snifter in one hand.
She was strikingly beautiful, Nick thought. Her dress was a deep blue, belted around a remarkably tiny waist with a silver sash. The narrowness of her waist emphasized the fullness of her hips and breasts. She looked very female and very sensual, although Nick saw no placid softness in her curves. Rather, there was a flowing firmness that promised
strength as well as beauty. Her hair, a glossy brown, hung loosely about her sculpted face.
"Sorry," he said, still letting his eyes fill with the sight of her.
It had been a fun evening. The food had been Hunan Chinese, spicy and hot. They had drunk a gallon of hot tea and talked of past times they had shared.
Nick had indeed been jolly and loose. Tori had been warm and receptive. On leaving the restaurant, no words had been exchanged as to their destination, no "your place or mine." They had simply driven to Nick's apartment.
Inside, he had fixed a brandy. When he had handed it to her. Tori had tugged him close and they had kissed. It wasn't the hello or goodbye kind of kiss they had exchanged in the past. It was the kind of kiss that said, "I want you."
But somehow it hadn't happened. Even with his hands running up the fine, curved arch of her back, and her full breasts burning through his shirt to create a havoc of heat on his chest, it hadn't happened.
On the drive from the restaurant, his mind had already drifted back to the Dealer.
"Nick…?"
"Yeah."
"Are you smiling or leering?"
"Neither — looking and loving."
"Bull. Your mind's a million miles from here." As she spoke. Tori sat up, tugging her long legs under her. The dress went with them, exposing a long expanse of soft thigh in dark pantyhose.
Nick's eye caught it, and his smile grew. "You have beautiful thighs."
"I'd like to think the rest of me is all right as well, but that's not really what's on your mind, is it?"
"I guess not."
"The Dealer?" Nick nodded and turned his gaze back to the street. "He's nailed you a time or two, hasn't he?"
Nick nodded. "Yeah, a time or two."
"Does the idea of facing him across a negotiating table bother you?"
