by Nick Carter
"Do I dare ask what it is that we're about to consume?"
Nick returned the whisper, "I've never quite figured it out. It's a liqueur, Anatole's own recipe, but what it consists of is a secret that neither Anatole nor the human palate will reveal. It's surprisingly tasty, but brace yourself."
Two glasses pounded onto the pillows between them. The cork was torn from the bottle, and a mysterious red-amber liquid filled the glasses. Nick and Tori accepted them as Anatole grabbed a chair and sat to face them.
"To life!" he bellowed, raising the bottle. "Good, bad, or indifferent, it sure beats the hell out of anything else!" With that, he took a giant swig from the bottle.
Tori and Nick gulped at their own drinks, Nick watching delightedly as Tori's eyes grew slightly misty and then her voice croaked out its approval.
"Mmm, smooth," she gasped.
"Ambrosia!" boomed the host.
"True hemlock," Nick murmured as the bottle surged out to refill their glasses, and then returned to fill Anatole's mouth.
The bottle came back down with a brush of the man's hand across his lips. Accompanied by a loud belch, the bottle slammed down onto the carved, medieval chest that served as a coffee table. The resultant contact sent nine pornographic magazines, two African fertility idols, and an agate ashtray rattling to the floor.
"Business now, yes?" Anatole grinned. "Later we can revel!"
He lumbered from his chair, his finger touching his lips to indicate silence. Moving to a corner of the room, he began cranking on an ancient Victrola. From the table by its side he lifted a record. Carefully he blew away the dust and set it on the turntable. There was a moment of loud scratching, a muttered curse, the scream of a needle scraping across plastic, and finally, the sultry, wobbling voice of Edith Piaf.
His mission successful, the giant returned to his chair and leaned toward his guests conspiratorially. "Just a precaution. No one listens to Anatole — not his women, not his friends — so why should the Red bastards? But anyway, it is safer this way, heh?"
He then sent a finger up into the air, a signal to wait. Once more he leaped from his chair, this time to another corner occupied by a huge Louis XIV desk. The desk was piled with papers, papers that began flying back and forth, then up and down, always to the steady muttering of curses. With a final slam the papers landed, half on, and half off, the desk. For a moment the giant stared at the desk in bafflement. Then came apparent inspiration.
A small vase was lifted from the desk, peered into, and greeted with a smile. Then came massive fingers rooting into the narrow opening. Then another loud curse. Then the sound of the vase smashing on wood. A sheet of paper was lifted from the fragments and returned, along with the giant, to the chair and the bottle.
Anatole smoothed out the paper and held it up for examination. "Notes," he winked, as Nick and Tori studied the scrawl across the paper, both trying to decipher the language.
"Italian?" guessed Nick.
"Ancient Latin," corrected Tori.
The giant shook his bald head. "Etruscan!" he beamed. "An ancient Italian civilization. A dead language. Who could read it today? I am not even certain I understand it! But I wrote it, so I can read it, heh?"
Tori gave Nick a very uncertain stare while Nick tried desperately to keep the smile from his face and return the look with assurance. Nick's having assurance was not in doubt. Anatole was eccentric, but brilliant, and — when the circumstances demanded — deadly beyond measure. It was communicating the assurance that Nick found difficult. Fortunately, Tori seemed to accept it all in stride.
Meanwhile, the giant studied his notes, hummed along with Piaf, and with a final nod wadded up the paper. He popped it into his mouth, and downed it with another swig from the bottle. It took a second for everything to clear his throat, and once it had, the dialogue commenced. With it came a subtle, but noticeable change in the man's expression. Bushy brows knit in concentration and vibrant green eyes grew gray and chilly.
"The message is from Skylark."
Nick mentally translated the code name into the real one: David Hawk.
"He says first, the mole has flown. No one-man flight, he says. A real operation."
"When?" Nick said, his own eyes narrowing.
"Just before you left. Maybe four, maybe four-thirty. You had watchdogs, and they did not report. A car was sent. No watchdogs. No mole. Poof!"
Nick quickly analyzed the implications. This was no mole running in panic. Jacek had obviously been given a great deal of assistance in his escape — the kind of assistance the Dealer supplied so well.
Anatole read Nick's thoughts. "Watchdogs are for police and frightened old women. Traitors should not be watched; they should be killed." His barrellike arm mimed a gesture of a knife slicing the human body from groin to throat.
Tori shivered at the obvious violence in the man. Nick spotted her look.
"Anatole served Dutch resistance during the war," he murmured to her. "By the time he was fifteen years old. and the war had ended, he was running half of Amsterdam on his own. He saw a lot of friends get turned in by informers."
"Dogs!" Anatole growled, repeating his gesture as indication of how they were dealt with.
"Since then," Nick said, "Anatole has been working freelance with AXE and is as dependable as they come."
There was a new look in Tori's eyes as she reexamined the massive man sitting across from her. He seemed to sense the mingling of curiosity and admiration in her stare. There was even a hint of a blush on his face before he waved it off again.
"Stop, Nicholas!" he boomed. "My face will heat up, catch fire, and my beard will burn me to death!"
"All right," Nick chuckled, "no more compliments." And then the smile disappeared from his face. "Is there any idea where the mole skipped to?"
"Not at the present, "Anatole replied. "Just, poof! But Skylark is searching. The scum will be found. It is assumed the Ice Man wants his little pet at home. It is my understanding the vermin would be very helpful to the Russians at Bern."
"It seems to me that the Dealer is covering his bases," Tori offered. "If he can get Jacek to Bern, he can still stage his little charade."
"You're right," Nick nodded. "And that would complicate our plans considerably."
"For once, I make a demand of Skylark," Anatole said, his voice quiet and cold. "It is the Ice Man that is running this, yes?"
Nick nodded.
"Then I go with you. I will be tour guide for the Polish birds. And I will be there when the Ice Man comes. I will be with you when he dies, heh?"
Nick didn't answer immediately. He stared into those eyes, gauging the consequences of the plan. The giant sensed the uncertainty.
"If I do not go with you, then the rest of the message will remain here." A hand slapped against his belly. "And you can go digging through the canal tomorrow to find it!"
"That's blackmail," Nick chuckled.
"Absolutely!" the big man thundered. "Is it effective?"
There was light laughter from Tori. "I don't know, Nick, he sounds serious. Personally, I'd like to work with him."
The giant opened up in a smile that filled the room with gold reflection. "Trust a virgin, Nicholas. They never tell lies."
Nick smiled and yielded to the combined pressure. "All right, I'll clear it with Skylark. But Tori takes you shopping, and she picks the clothing. Agreed?"
"But of course!"
"Now, what else did Skylark send?"
Another finger stabbed into the air, and then another pause as Anatole moved to turn the record over. He returned, and with another sweep of the bottle refilled the glasses.
"A slight change of plans. The Ice Man is suspicious. It will not do to further those suspicions. The tour will follow the first four cities as intended. Publicity will be held to a minimum. Each city will be followed by an invitation to the next. Keep the bastard guessing, heh? You will play up each appearance as scheduled, but the location of the next appearance will not be a
nnounced until the previous one has finished.
"Then you will announce cities five and six: city five to be scheduled for the opening day of Bern, city six to be announced at day two of Bern. City six is to be Berlin." Anatole's brow furrowed. "This makes sense to you, heh?"
Nick nodded. Berlin was the city that held the Dealer's diary.
"Good. Anyway, you do not go to city five or city six," the big man continued. "You go to city four, which is Munich, and then you disappear." For a moment Anatole paused, his eyes digging into Nick. "Berlin is important, yes? It is close to Munich, is it not?"
Nick flashed a look that told Anatole not to ask too many questions.
"But what do I know?" The giant shrugged. "Anyway, you go to city four, and then you desert the tour for operation Retrieval. Once this has succeeded, you are to go directly to Bern. It is very important that the artist go with you. His role at the conference has grown."
"Is he to be a counter to the mole?"
"Yes," Anatole nodded. "If the Ice Man produces his resource, Skylark wishes to produce his own. You will choose your own sanctuary in Bern. But Skylark made it very clear that day one of the conference was critical. You are to move on your own, and you must bring the artist — and the package — with you to Bern. The package must be wrapped and ready to be given then. This is all clear?"
"Crystal," Nick replied. "Now, there are certain things I will need you to do."
A cloud of doubt crossed Anatole's face. "You must clear this with Skylark first. You must not tell me until this is done, correct?"
Nick grinned. "It was cleared days ago, my friend. Would I chase the Ice Man without you to harp and criticize every step of the way?"
"You mean, you intended for me to go all along?" Anatole blinked. "You just wanted to see an old man suffer?"
Nick grinned and nodded.
The giant turned to Tori, his face beaming. "You do well to be with this one. He is good! Almost as good as me!" He leaned close to her, whispering conspiratorially. "But he is lousy with virgins. Avoid him at all costs. Save that for the funeral, and me, heh?" Then he swiveled to Nick. "Now, what is it you need of me. my friend?"
Nick began to inform Anatole exactly where he fit into the scheme of things.
* * *
Once outside the boat, the music continued to drift down the canal in the Amsterdam night. With it came other sounds, specifically the gentle hum of a generator attached to a Volkswagen van. It was parked directly across the canal from Anatole's vibrant green abode.
Inside the van was another sound — the whir of a laser. Its beam was trained carefully on the houseboat window. Its sensitive rays received and recorded the minute reverberations of human speech as sound waves collided with the glass. A computer churned, taking the laser's information and translating it back into speech. Slowly its round, silver type disc cranked the vibrations back into printed word.
There were two men in the rear of the van, technicians. One was an acoustical physicist, a man to whom sound was merely waves and numbers and mathematical constants. The other was a musician, a man gifted with perfect pitch and trained to turn notes into number values.
Together they would take the voice of Edith Piaf and reduce it to its skeletal, scientific basics.
The musician would note an A: 220 Hz logged. A low D: 196 Hz. On and on it would go. until a printout would emerge.
Then the physicist would make adjustments, compute for timbre, for volume, for slurs or shaded notes not quite perfect on the Hertz scale. He would then feed the whole into the microchip miracle of computer electronics. Slowly. Edith Piaf would disappear. Her contribution to the tape would reel within the machine, be reversed, and then erased.
What remained was the random mathematics of human speech — imperfect, inflective, aphonic leaps of sound that rolled out of the typewriter in clear elite typeface — to travel down the length of wire to the headphones at the front of the van.
Two other men sat in the front. The driver wore the headphones, one ear covered to take in the words from the house, one ear bare to take in the words from the man next to him. The second man silently contemplated the events being recorded on sheets of printouts growing before him.
They were heartless men, one blonde, with a face sculpted in granite, the other calm and poised, like a cobra. Both had eyes as cold and emotionless as tombstones.
The man with the papers dropped them on the dashboard, his attention turning to the back of the van. "What do you estimate the transcription delay to be?"
"Minimal, Herr Dealer. A minute, maybe. The record they are playing is a capella. Fortunately there is no instrumentation to compute, only the voice. I estimate a minute between reception and final printout."
"Well done," answered the man, his attention returning to the driver. "Piaf," he snorted. "Such a pathetic taste in music."
The driver shrugged. "They live in the past, these war heroes. Spies who still cover conversations with Piaf also still slip potions into drinks!" His smile revealed even teeth, icy white.
"Stone Age heroes," added the Dealer, "in a computer age world. What are they discussing now?"
"The diary. They will make the four city tour, ending in Munich. There will be two more cities on the schedule, but they will be merely cover. The strike on Berlin will be launched from Munich. The Dutchman will accompany…"
The Dealer cut him short, patting at the papers on the dash. "I can read, my friend. It is no more than I expected when I removed their precious Jacek. It is the details I need. How, my blonde friend, how are they going to strike?"
The man concentrated for a moment on the information pouring into his ear, then turned to the Dealer. "They wish to avoid normal channels. They feel you would be certain to get wind of any attempts in a town you yourself had selected for security reasons."
The Dealer chuckled. "Very wise, indeed. Also, very true. Continue."
"They will contract the job through an independent. At the moment, they are discussing names of possible candidates."
"Candidates we will be sure to make available. Go on."
"Wait — Mercury and the girl appear to be leaving."
All speech halted as the door to the houseboat opened, and three figures made their farewells. The parting was brief, with Nick and Tori stepping off into the Amsterdam night, and the giant returning into his home. From behind the Dealer, the clatter of activity halted. From next to him, the narrative continued.
"They have settled on two possibilities, both Berlin regulars. It has been agreed that the Dutchman will try to make contacts tomorrow. Mercury and the woman will stay with the tour. They will join each other in Paris. The Dutchman is to have the contractor meet them there for interviewing. From there, they will all continue on as per the schedule."
The Dealer laughed hollowly. "No, my friend. Not all. The woman is becoming something of an interference. I think it is time she was removed from the scenario. Paris will do nicely. You will arrange it. Nothing that smacks of reprisal, strictly underground all the way. Is that understood?"
The driver removed his earphones and nodded. "Understood."
"Good. Now there are two other matters to be covered. First, contact your man back in Virginia. I think it is time for the mole to be found. By the way, that was very well handled. You are certain it will appear to be accidental?"
"No doubt whatsoever."
"Excellent. Once you have arranged that, contact the Berlin contractors. Encourage them to be unavailable in the strongest possible terms. Also encourage them to supply your name as an alternative. Make it very worth their while, my friend. Make it worth their very lives."
"You wish for me to handle the strike on the diary?"
The Dealer smiled. "Naturlich, mein Herr. It would not do to have them fail, now would it?"
The blonde man returned the Dealer's mirthless smile. "And you, I take it, will be handling the dissidents?"
"Some," the Dealer replied, his eyes floating down to his
watch. "The first is being taken care of even now, by hands as thorough and competent as mine, I assure you. The poet Janusz is being treated to the time of his life." The eyes returned to the driver, the smile chilling. "Quite literally — the very last time of his life."
* * *
The poet Janusz sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his body slightly stiff from its efforts, his back tingling with the reminders of long, feminine nails digging into him. She had left an hour before, but the erotic aura of her presence, even her scent, remained in the room to remind him of what had transpired between them.
Janusz's mind and his body sang epics of gratitude.
What a heavenly face she had. And her figure — made for love.
Janusz rose from the bed and, with a slight strut, walked across the room. He wheeled the bathroom door wide and studied himself in the full-length mirror attached to its back.
He was not a man anyone would consider handsome. To grant that he was even "pleasant looking" would be a gift. It was a weathered face of fifty-one years, a body that had never been toned or shapely; he was nondescript to a fault. But he had values. His mind was rich and sensitive and deep.
But he had taken decades of rejection; the mocking of Polish girls, young and old, about his frail body and his gaunt face that looked so much older than its years. Janusz had turned that mockery into verse, transcending a world that was callous and unseeing.
His gaze flickered over his shoulders as he studied the marks on his back. It was proof to him, proof that the whole episode had not been a dream, a fantasy woven from the palette of his imagination. The marks were there, red, welted, just the barest spot or two of broken skin. They tingled, to the point of aching slightly. There was even a slight dizziness, an almost alcoholic euphoria that Janusz attributed to victory — or luck.
He moved back to the bed slowly, fighting the weakness in his knees.
"Too much for you, heh, old man?" he chuckled, easing himself down on the bed. "More than you bargained for — much more!"
