by Nick Carter
"Forget the Dealer, Nick — at least for a while. It's just the two of us now."
Nick kissed the back of her hand and let his lips trail down her fingers. His eyes moved ahead to her nails.
She had redone them before coming to his room.
The polish on them before had been clear. Now it was blood red.
"You redid your nails."
"Of course," she replied, trying to make the withdrawing of her hand from his as casual as possible. "I wanted to be beautiful for you. I combed my hair and put on perfume as well." She couldn't hide the nervous sound in the laughter that followed her words.
"Jacek was killed by a puncture wound. The Speaker by a pinprick when he ignited a lighter. The two on the plane contracted their 'virus' from a tiny prick to their wrists, so small they weren't detected in the first autopsy."
"What are you getting at?" Hela's voice was cold now, all traces of lusty desire extinguished by swift-moving thoughts.
"The poet — Janusz…"
"What about him?"
Nick didn't have to feel the tenseness in her body. He could sense it. The feminine, yet athletically hardened muscles in her arms and legs, began to bunch. The cords in her neck began to rise, and her whole body began to coil.
"There were scratches on Janusz's back, all up and down its entire length including his buttocks. They were scratches made by a woman in the throes of passion — the kind of scratches a man would welcome if they told him he was satisfying a woman's needs. They were deep, gouging scratches, from nails much like these…"
Nick reached for her wrists, but they weren't there for him to capture.
In an instant she was on him, clawing like a cat. The long, deadly talons of her nails went for his eyes, his flesh, anywhere they could make contact and dig in. At the same time, she swung her body around so she could bring her knee up into his groin.
Nick blocked her knee with his hip and managed to grab both of her wrists at last.
"It's over, Hela, the charade is over. I know who the Dealer is, and I know who you are. I'm going to kill him. Don't make me kill you as well."
Her only reply was a near maniacal laugh.
Hela struggled like a hellcat, with more power and energy than he would have thought possible. She managed to free one arm and lashed forward, her hand like a claw. The nails went directly for his eyes. She missed his eyes, but Nick could feel the pain and then warm blood as she slashed his forehead. Another swipe, as quick as a serpent, and all five of the deadly talons had opened his cheek.
He swung his own free arm in a wide arc and landed a solid blow to the side of her head. She sprawled, cursing, off the bed and across the floor.
A blow of that force would have felled most men, but not Hela. She was on her knees by the time Nick reached her. He managed to regain her wrists, but just as he did, she twisted, taking them both to the floor.
Together they rolled, Nick panting now and holding on as best he could, Hela using everything — her teeth, her feet, her knees — but most of all, trying to free her wrists and bring those nails back into play.
Her face came up close to his as Nick regained his feet and pulled her up along with him. Her eyes were bright but coldly vacant. There was no anger, no love, no hate, literally no emotion in her eyes or her features.
She, like Nick himself, was only a machine.
And then it started. The fingers gripping her wrists began to grow numb. A slight mist began to form over his eyes, and he felt contractions in his chest.
"You're dying, Carter," Hela hissed in his ear. "You're dying on your feet. Keep struggling — it makes the blood flow faster, shoots it right to your heart."
Like her eyes and her features, there was no emotion in her voice.
Nick staggered against her. His legs had suddenly stopped working. He felt a cold sweat oozing from his pores, and his chest felt as though it was between the two tongues of a vise.
He hadn't even realized that he had dropped his hold on her wrists. But there they were, her hands dancing before his eyes. One of them insolently smashed against his face, sending him sprawling across the bed on his back.
She was on him in an instant, the hands poised over him, curled into claws. And then she struck, all ten nails finding the soft part of his belly. The fingers curled and drove the blood-red spikes as far as they could into his gut.
Satisfied, she moved away from him. For several minutes she stood, statuelike, staring down at him. She watched his face flush, and listened intently as the wracking cough became a wheezing rattle.
When he was deathly still, she went to the bath. Nick lay watching her through slitted eyes. It was as if he were floating, watching her in slow motion as she washed her hands and methodically brushed her hair. Dreamlike, she applied fresh makeup and returned to the bedroom to dress.
Nick didn't move. He couldn't. His mind was still alive, but his body felt numb and dead.
Fully dressed, with the sheaf of papers under her arm, Hela paused in the doorway and stared back at him.
Odd, he thought, now she smiles.
And then she was gone.
Go, baby, Nick thought, run to him. Take him Borczak's precious, bloody diaries and tell him everything is fine. Tell him Carter's dead. Tell him the road is clear to make his bloody deal. Make him think that no one knows!
The minutes dragged by. Nick kept mental count. At the end of an hour, there was still no movement. Another half hour, and he began to sweat.
Jesus, he thought, sensing rather than feeling the sweat pour off him, the hypo is worthless — the antidote isn't going to work!
And then, just over two hours later, he began to feel the numbness subside.
Shortly after that he felt his first movement; his lips curled into a smile.
Chapter Twelve
The sigh that slipped around Hawk's cigar was one of contentment. His eyes flicked up from the paper-strewn desk to where Nick sat slouched down in an overstuffed chair.
"This stuff is dynamite."
"I figured it would be. The real Stefan Borczak lived on hate. This was his form of revenge."
Hawk chuckled. "And it might have all worked."
"It probably would have worked, long enough anyway, if Omega had killed the old man before he admitted that he was Stefan's father. Or if Omega had been able to kill me, as he was supposed to, and get the real diaries to the Dealer."
"The President has had two very private and very secret conferences with the Premier already this afternoon."
"And…?" Nick asked.
"The Russians want to cooperate all the way," Hawk replied, and swept his hand over the papers. "They want all this kept quiet. They'll deal any way they can to get it all back and all hushed up."
Nick felt tenseness crawl up his spine. "You mean we'd give it back to them?"
Hawk shrugged, it's part of the game, Nick, you know that. They give us the considerations we want, we give them their life back. Besides, we could never release this stuff, and they know it. It would be like a nuclear strike if we did. And before the repercussions hit, they would be forced to retaliate."
Nick groaned but nodded. He knew all too well it was part of the game. "What about the Dealer?"
Hawk paused, letting his eyes stray from Carter's. "The Russians want him back."
"What for?"
"Probably to find out what other little bombs he's got planted around the world."
"And we want to keep him for the same reason," Nick said with disgust.
Hawk heaved his big frame from the desk chair and moved to a high, arched window that looked toward the Alps. He stood in silence for several moments, with his hands entwined behind his back and his head veiled in a cloud of smoke. "Not necessarily, "he said finally. "The Dealer is as awkward in our hands as he is in theirs. The President didn't tell the Premier everything, but enough to make the old boy sweat."
"Where is he now?"
"The Dealer?"
"Who else?" Nick
replied.
"Up there," Hawk gestured toward the mountains, "in a chalet. Your friend Anatole and five of our best are guarding him."
"And he doesn't know that it's over?"
"No, not yet. But he will tomorrow, when the conference starts and he's not there."
Nick let his mind work, trying to interpret Hawk's thoughts as well as his words. "So when he does find out that we know, and that we have the real diaries, he could get word out somehow and still raise hell."
Hawk nodded. "That's why your deception with Hela was a masterpiece. She delivered the mock package you provided and took off. The Dealer believes they're the real thing, so he's been quiet."
"And the woman?"
"He told her to disappear until it was over. On the scene, she might be dangerous if we suspected her of killing you. You are dead, you know, as far as he's concerned."
"That was the idea," Nick said, moving across the room to stand at Hawk's side. "Now, how do we use the advantage?"
"We nailed the woman before she left Vienna to cross the river into Hungary. She injected herself before we could stop her. I think when we come down on Ganicek, he'll do the same."
"Hopefully," Nick murmured.
Hawk gave a barely perceptible nod and echoed the word, "Hopefully."
"So there's only the Dealer himself," Nick intoned. "As long as he's alive, even in custody, here or over there, he's still got worldwide contacts known only to himself, and loyal only to him."
"That's right," Hawk said, another cloud of smoke obscuring his features. "As long as he's alive…"
The words trailed off. Neither Hawk nor Nick's head turned. Both men stared straight ahead, to the lights of a chalet on the far mountain.
At last Nick spoke again. "You'll inform Anatole so he can get everything ready?"
"I will."
The chalet was easily accessible from the rear by climbing over huge stones in the snow. For Nick it would have been easily accessible from the front, but the Dealer had insisted on occupying a front room. From there he could monitor everyone who came and went.
Nick didn't want to announce his arrival just yet.
One by one he stepped over the stones until he reached a low, Romanesque balustrade that encircled the rear courtyard of the chalet. Easily he vaulted the balustrade and then walked casually across the courtyard.
Ahead of him, one of the tall, multi-paned French doors opened and Anatole stepped out.
"Good evening, my friend."
"Anatole." Together they stepped into the high-ceiling room. "Where is he?"
"In his room. He has been there all evening."
"He suspects nothing?"
"Nothing, as far as I can tell. And he hasn't tried to communicate with the outside."
Nick nodded. "You are alone?"
The others left a half hour ago, the same way you arrived. There is a key in the gray Bentley out front for your departure."
"Servants?"
"Off for tonight. I dismissed them the moment word came up from Hawk."
Nick held out his hand. "Goodbye, my friend. Go back to your boat and forget all this."
"Have I ever remembered all the other times, heh?"
" 'Til the next time."
Anatole sighed. "For me, I think there will be no next time. This time my age is beginning to tell on me. Everything that is necessary has been planted. All you need do is connect the two loose wires in the electrical box near the front door."
Nick nodded, and without another word Anatole crossed the courtyard. Nick watched until his figure was swallowed in darkness and then turned and mounted the wide stairway to the second floor.
"A moment please," was the reply to Nick's knock.
Nick didn't wait. He pushed open the door and walked into the room. Stefan Borczak was turned away from him, his hands working at his face.
"There's no need," Nick said. "It's over. You can leave them out."
The man tensed, his shoulders hunched. After a moment's hesitation, he turned. His hands dropped to his chest. In one of them was a gray opaque eyeglass, the kind used by film actors to give the aura of sightlessness to their eyes for close-ups when they are portraying a blind person. Its mate was in the man's left eye. His right eye was blue, brightly blue, and gleaming at Nick.
Nick had no trouble remembering where he had seen that gleaming eye, and its mate, before. In fact, if the room was a bit darker, he could almost imagine the both of them back in Berlin, by the wall, those eyes looking up at him out of the shadows caused by the brim of a slouched hat.
"Your people found an antidote."
Nick nodded. "It was fairly simple once we broke the virus down into its components."
"And how did you know that I and Stefan Borczak were one in the same?"
"It clicked when the old man in Berlin told me his real name."
"A pity Gerhard couldn't silence him before he spoke, and, of course, an equal pity he couldn't silence you as well. I commend you, Carter. Gerhard, the one you called Omega, was the very best."
"Not as good as you and I," Nick said, letting a disarming smile play across his face.
"That's true — obviously"
He dropped the eyeglass he held to the table in front of him. Then he moved his hands back to his face and removed the other. When he looked up again, Nick felt cold sweat cover his body.
There was pure evil in the man's eyes, made even more evil by what Nick saw as a touch of madness.
"Did you kill the real Stefan?" Nick asked.
"Yes, the moment I found out what he was doing. I would have killed him eventually anyway. His identity was always the one I planned to use to come over."
"You cremated the body?"
"Of course."
"And then it took you four years to find out where Stefan had sent the information he had accumulated."
The Dealer nodded. "I knew his father had defected years before and Stefan was to join him. I wrongly supposed that Stefan would contact his old friend, Jacek, and tell him where the diaries were. I gave him every opportunity."
"But he didn't."
"No. So I had to find them myself."
Nick pulled the narrow-cylindered, specially designed pistol from his pocket and checked the load as he spoke. "Why didn't you just have Omega get them on his own?"
"Safety. In case the old man made a copy. I knew, with your credentials, he would tell you." The Dealer paused and, taking up his cane, moved to a desk where he had obviously been working. "I suppose this is a copy of the real thing."
"It is," Nick replied.
"I thought so. The cypher is childish and makes no sense — far beneath what I have expected of Stefan."
"Did you really think you could get away with it?" Nick growled.
The Dealer turned and started to walk slowly across the room toward Nick. "Absolutely. By the way, how do you plan on eliminating me?"
"With this," Nick said.
He raised the gun and fired. The stiletto-thin dart hit the Dealer in the right thigh. It penetrated the thigh muscle about three inches, leaving two inches of slender steel protruding from the man's leg.
The Dealer stopped and looked down at his leg without a sign of emotion. Then he looked back up at Nick.
"The virus?" Nick nodded. "Amazing. I didn't think you could work up the formula that quickly. But since you did, you can join me."
In an instant the limp disappeared as the man flew toward Nick. As he lunged, the cane flipped in his hand and the gold head sailed directly toward Nick's chest.
Nick was ready. At the last second, he dropped to his knees and reached up to grasp the cane with both hands. At the same time, he brought his shoulder up under the man's gut with all the spring in his legs.
Dropping the cane behind him, Nick chopped twice at the back of the Dealer's neck. He went down, groggy, but not out.
No matter.
Nick secured his feet quickly with his own belt and then his hands with a sash he ripped
from the curtains. Then he retrieved the cane and bent over the Dealer, rolling the man to his back.
"About the virus?"
"Yes."
"You're right, we couldn't break down the formula that fast. At least not enough to reproduce it."
Nick easily located the protruding needle in the gold head of the cane. The Dealer actually smiled as Nick pressed it into the fleshy part of his thigh.
Sixty seconds later, Nick dropped the cane and leaned back on his haunches to light a cigarette.
"Drag?" he asked, extending the cigarette to the man.
"No, I've never used them."
"Yeah," Nick hissed, "they will kill you, in time."
"Speaking of time, it takes about three to five minutes."
"I know," Nick said, exhaling. "Remember?"
"Ah, yes." A pause. "Hela?"
"Dead. She injected herself."
The Dealer smiled again. "Good girl."
Nick sat smoking as he watched the sweats begin.
"Who are you, or were you, really?" he asked at last.
"Would it really matter if you knew?" replied the now raspy voice.
"No, not really."
Five minutes later, it was over. Nick checked the pulse twice to make sure, and then made his way downstairs to the switchbox. He connected the wires and went on out to the Bentley.
The powerful engine started at once. Nick eased the car into gear and drove through the estate's front gate. He turned toward the road leading up to the mountain. He had reached a rise above the chateau when the first explosion raised hell with the peaceful Swiss countryside. By the time he had stopped the car, four more had rocked the air and the chalet directly below him was engulfed in flames.
He waited until there was nothing but a huge ball of flame, denoting that nothing inside would ever be identified, and then began idling down the mountain.
When he hit a straightaway, he pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket and unwrapped it.
He paused when the lighter was halfway to the tip, but only for an instant.
As the harsh Turkish smoke filled his lungs, he thought that at least they were a slow death.
