The Death’s Head Conspiracy

by Nick Carter

  “Si, senor!” he snapped. The bulge of his eyes told me that he knew I wasn’t kidding. “On my mother’s name, I tell the truth! There were six others who they give also the suitcases. Where they take them, I do not hear. My case was for Cleveland. That is all I know, senor, believe me.”

  I did. I nodded to Hawk and he had Escobar taken away.

  “I presume you checked out the ship and these new owners,” I said when the three of us were alone again.

  “Yes. The Gaviota is Venezuelan registry. The former owners were paid a huge sum in cash by a man who said he represented an outfit called Halcyon Cruises. It’s phony, of course.”

  Rona spoke up. “Couldn’t you seize the ship and question the crew? Find out where the bombs are coming from?”

  “We could,” Hawk admitted. “But we couldn’t be sure that Gorodin would be aboard, and it seems that Zhizov almost never appears. Even if we did learn where the bombs are being made and where the triggering device is kept, word of the seizure of the ship would reach them before we could. And then they might set off the bombs already planted in God knows what cities. No, this exercise has to be low-profile, that’s why I wanted you and Nick here.”

  “I’ve been wondering when you’d get around to that,” I said. “No offense, Rona, but I’m accustomed to working alone.”

  “Not this time,” Hawk said. “Our first move is to get somebody aboard that cruise ship. And a single man would attract too much attention.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It so happens that the Gaviota specializes in . . .” here the old man found it necessary to clear his throat again, “. . . honeymoon cruises.”

  Rona Volstedt started to smile, then quickly sobered as Hawk gave her one of those severe New England looks.

  He said, “I have arranged with the Atomic Energy Commission to have Miss Volstedt assigned to AXE for the duration of this emergency. I don’t suppose it would be stretching your acting talents too far if I asked you to play the part of a honeymoon couple.”

  “I think we can manage it,” I said with a straight face.

  “As long as it’s in the line of duty,” Rona added, giving me a wink when Hawk wasn’t looking.

  “I knew I could count on your cooperation,” Hawk said drily. “You will join the cruise tomorrow at Antigua. The Gaviota will make several ports of call in the Caribbean, sail through the Panama Canal and up the west coast of Mexico, terminating at Los Angeles. But if you haven’t uncovered the base of operations and disabled it by the time the ship gets to Panama in eight days, it will be too late. Because eight days from now, the New York bomb is scheduled to go off.”

  “Short honeymoon,” I commented.

  Hawk continued as if I hadn’t spoken. Tour mission is to find out where the suitcase-bombs are being put aboard the ship and backtrack to the source. There you should find Anton Zhizov, and very likely Knox Warnow. You are then on your own. I will give you whatever support I can from this end, but any large-scale operation is impossible.”

  Rona and I left the old man’s office and went down one flight to Document Control. There we were provided with all the papers and photos we would need to pass as Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Hunter.

  As we left AXE headquarters, Rona played it kittenish, acting for all the world like a bride-to-be.

  “Don’t you think,” she said coyly, “that since our ‘marriage’ doesn’t officially begin until tomorrow, we ought to stay in two separate rooms tonight?”

  “Good idea,” I said as I hailed a cab. “I’ll have to be out rather late tonight, and I wouldn’t want to wake you coming in.”

  “Oh, really?” she asked with heavy sarcasm. “What’s her name?”

  “Come on, darling, surely you wouldn’t begrudge me enjoying my last night as a bachelor.”

  We climbed into a taxi and Rona edged as far away from me as the seat would permit. With arms folded and knees pressed tightly together, she sat frowning out the window.

  I let her sulk for half a dozen blocks, then relented. “If it will make you feel any better, I’ll be at AXE headquarters tonight doing my homework.”

  She turned, and fastened those Nordic blue eyes upon me. “Really?” she asked in a little-girl voice.

  “Really,” I said. “I don’t mind mixing business and pleasure when one doesn’t get in the way of the other. But tonight it’s got to be all business. I want to go over everything we have on Anton Zhizov, Fyodor Gorodin, and Knox Warnow.”

  Rona reached over and laid her hand lightly on my knee. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to be childish.”

  I grinned at her. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  She slid next to me then, and I bent to kiss her affectionately.

  Seven

  A chartered plane flew us to Antigua the next morning a couple of hours before the Gaviota was due to arrive. St. Johns, the capital city of the little island, is still very British in the downtown parts. But as soon as you get out into the native quarters, you start to hear the soft, musical calypso language and see the colorful costumes the people wear, not to impress the tourists, but because they like colors.

  The travel agent in Queen’s Hotel wasn’t anxious to sell us cruise tickets on the Gaviota.

  “You’ve already missed the first part of the cruise,” he said, “and I’ll still have to charge you full price.”

  “What do you think, dear?” I asked, bridegroom-like.

  Rona ran her tongue sensually over her lips. Tm sure we’ll be able to make do with whatever there is left of the cruise.”

  I winked at the travel agent. “You see how it is.”

  With some reluctance he made out a couple of tickets for Mr. and Mrs. Hunter. With somewhat less reluctance, he took my money.

  Rona and I strolled around a bit, window shopping and holding hands, playing the newlyweds in case anybody was looking us over. Actually, it was not at all a hard part to play.

  After a while we wandered down to the docks to watch the Gaviota put in. She was sleek and white with a speedy-looking silhouette, maybe a shade under five hundred feet long. As she pulled alongside the deepwater dock, the happy honeymoon passengers were noticeably absent.

  An isolated couple here and there peered smilingly over the rail, but the ship seemed to be sailing with far fewer than her capacity of four hundred passengers. Apparently the new owners were not pushing their product very hard, which was understandable, considering the other ventures they had going.

  I watched the few passengers and crew members who left the ship, and the minimal on-and-off loading activity, but saw nothing suspicious and no familiar faces. True to Juan Escobar’s account, most of the crew looked more Slavic than Latin.

  Rona and I boarded and located the purser. With a complete lack of enthusiasm he showed us to our stateroom, an outside room one deck below the Promenade. It was sparsely furnished with a chair, a divan, small table, dresser, and twin beds. This last seemed unusual for a honeymoon cruise, but Rona and I soon discovered that they moved easily together on rollers. The rather chilly light was provided by a fluorescent tube over the dresser mirror. I pushed the curtains aside and let some warm Caribbean sunlight stream in the porthole.

  Rona crossed to stand close beside me. She said,

  “Well, what would you like to do now, hubby dear?”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you what I’d like to do. However, what we are going to do first is take a walk around the ship. Business with pleasure, remember?”

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “But if this honeymoon doesn’t liven up pretty soon I may go home to mother.”

  I swatted her nicely rounded rear and hustled her out on deck. We strolled the decks for a couple of hours, checking out the bars, gymnasium, dining salon, theater, card room, and gift shop. The scarcity of other passengers was eerie. The honeymoon couples we did meet seemed too intent on each other to notice if anyone else was sailing with them or not. The few crewmembers we met were studiously preo
ccupied with their tasks, and seemed to find us invisible.

  The rest of the afternoon we sat in the observation lounge sipping a couple of those fruity rum drinks while covertly watching who came on board and sizing up the luggage they carried.

  At dusk nobody looking remotely like Fyodor Gorodin or Anton Zhizov had come aboard, and no strange suitcases appeared in the hands of returning passengers or crew. Meanwhile, the sweet rum drinks were sloshing uncomfortably in my stomach.

  As darkness swept toward us from the Atlantic, the Gaviota gave a couple of toots on her whistle to summon any vagrant passengers back aboard, and we prepared to sail. A native steel drum band serenaded us as the ship eased away from the dock.

  We had a light supper in the nearly deserted dining salon, then walked once around the deck and back to our cabin. Inside the door Rona turned to look up at me, and I took her in my arms and kissed her. It began as Just an easy, friendly after-dinner kiss. But then I felt the tip of her tongue lightly, almost shyly, touch my lips, and I had a hunch that the “honeymoon” would be no charade. I had more than a hunch when her sweet little hand slipped under the wasteband of my trousers and groped playfully downward, lingering for an affectionate caress that promised a long night of erotic acrobatics.

  She stepped back and, moving with the sensuality that is born in all women but used effectively by only a few, took off her clothes. She did it slowly—from the first button of her blouse to the final shrug of her hips that sent her panties sliding to the floor, revealing her tanned, velvet-smooth skin. Two narrow strips of white traced the outline of the bikini she had worn while sun-bathing. The white borders framed a fluffy-soft triangle that was only a shade darker than her blonde head.

  During our frenzied lovemaking in the house at Malibu, I had not had a real chance to appreciate Ronas incredible body. The greyhound leanness she seemed to possess when clothed was deceiving. Although there was not an extra ounce on her anywhere, there were no sharp angles either.

  She posed in front of me, enjoying my admiration. “You don’t think I’m too skinny?” she said, her face expressing not the least doubt.

  I stroked my chin and tried to look critical “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

  She placed her fingers lightly on my lips. “I get the message. It’s time for me to quit fishing for compliments.”

  I closed my arm about her waist and pulled her toward me, kissed the soft little mound of her tummy.

  Rona squirmed against me, made whimpering sounds of pleasure as now I explored her belly with my tongue in a slow circle, ever-descending.

  I released her and she fell against me, her mouth searching wildly. I lifted her in my arms, and carried her to the bed. There I let her down gently on the satin spread.

  Rona caught her lower lip between her teeth and watched with hungry eyes as I slipped out of my clothes.

  It is true that we were not really the carefree newlyweds we pretended to be. But I doubt that any legitimate pair of honeymooners ever had a more fulfilling wedding night than ours. Before we finally slept, the first gray light of dawn had smudged the eastern horizon.

  Eight

  We were up, dressed, and on the good side of breakfast by the time the Gaviota sailed into Martinique. Rona wanted to visit the colorful boutiques that lined the waterfront of Fort-de-France, but I told her I had to stay where I could watch who and what came aboard. I sent her off alone, but she was back in less than an hour, saying it was no fun by herself.

  As it turned out, I might as well have gone with her for all the good it did watching the gangplank. We spent four hours at Martinique, during which several honeymooners trooped ashore and returned with shaggy straw hats and other junk from the souvenir stores. The crew stayed aboard for the most part No suspicious suitcases were brought on. No heavy, bear-like Russians. No thin Russians with white hair.

  That night Rona and I again made the circuit of the promenade deck. Activity aboard the Gaviota was, as usual, minimal. We retired early to our own stateroom, where the action accelerated considerably.

  Our next stop was La Guaira, the seaport for Caracas. Since the Gaviota was registered in Venezuela, I was hopeful that something might happen at the glittering capital of that country.

  Again I was disappointed.

  That night I began to worry about our mission, though I didn’t confess my doubts to Rona. We had, after all, no solid reason to believe that Zhizov and his crew had not previously planted all the suitcase bombs for the fatal hour. The major cities of America might already be mined and ready to go up in a nuclear cloud as soon as the right button was pushed at some unknown location. If Juan Escobar had told the truth, at least six of the bombs had been sent out with crew members of the Gaviota. For all we knew, there might be other ways of distributing them too.

  And in just five more days the first bomb was scheduled to go off in New York. With the uncertain mood of the American public these days, the destruction of our largest city might be all it would take to start a clamor for negotiation. Of course, there’s no negotiating with people like Anton Zhizov.

  We had only two choices—surrender or fight-Chances were that, after a little democratic debate, the government would choose to fight. But that would be ridiculous, since there wasn’t a visible enemy. Hidden bombs triggered by radio signals from an unknown location don’t provide much of a target. When the second and third cities blew up, the people’s will to fight might crumple. Even if it didn’t, the destruction of the nation’s major cities would leave the people with no power to resist.

  So the Gaviota was really the only gamble we had. The alert customs man who had detained Juan Escobar had provided us with the one tiny chink in the enemy’s armor. My job was to get through that chink and deliver a killing blow before he had time to strike.

  Five more days.

  That night our lovemaking lacked its former spontaneity, on my part at least Of course Rona sensed that something was wrong.

  “What is it, Nick? Are you worried about the mission?”

  “We should’ve had some action by now,” I said. “Tomorrow we hit Curasao, and if nothing develops there, we’re in trouble.”

  “Would you rather I moved over to my half of the bed and let you sleep?” she asked seriously.

  I grabbed her and locked her naked body against mine. “Sweetheart, if we have only five more days before the world starts blowing up, I intend to spend as little of them sleeping as possible.”

  With a little purr of pleasure Rona wrapped her legs around mine. And for awhile I didn’t think about nuclear bombs in the guise of suitcases, I didn’t think about the death’s-head.

  At Curasao Fyodor Gorodin came aboard the Gaviota. I was so glad to see the scowling, broad-shouldered Russian that I could have kissed him. Curasao is an international free port with some of the best shopping in the Caribbean. Most of the passengers left the ship in the morning to hunt bargains, and when they came straggling back in the afternoon, the burly Gorodin was among them, trying vainly in a Palm Beach suit to look like a typical cruise passenger, whatever that might be. I spotted him right away and kept him in sight while he made a brief pretense of wandering the deck before sneaking into the officers’ quarters.

  I was a little disappointed that he didn’t bring one of the trick suitcases on board with him. But since Curasao is a historic headquarters for smugglers, I had a hunch that the time had come. It would make my job a lot simpler if one of the bombs showed up, so I could attempt to trace it But if not, I could always put the squeeze on Gorodin.

  After I found out what cabin the big man was nesting in, I joined Rona at the bar in the observation lounge.

  “Gorodin’s on board,” I told her.

  Her blue eyes widened with excitement. “Oh Nick, that means you’ll be able to track the bombs through him.”

  “That or blow my skull. Because so far it’s been a bust.”

  I saw the brief look of hurt and reached across to take her hand. “Don’t
misunderstand. In a way, these have been three of the best days of my life. But the job is first, and you might say without much exaggeration, that the whole goddamn world is on my shoulders.”

  “I know, darling,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be selfish.”

  “When this is over maybe we can take a little vacation,” I said. “It would be nice to slip into bed without Zhizov, Gorodin, and Knox Wamow joining us.”

  Rona put on a shocked look. “I should hope so!” Then she smiled at me and it was all right again.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Pray that one of the suitcase bombs is put aboard so I can move in. Otherwise I’ll have to go after Gorodin. Fast and neat. Because somewhere Zhizov and Warnow are waiting with the button that can blow up most of the U.S. If I get careless enough, somebody could send them a message not to wait for the deadline.”

  “What can I do, Nick?”

  “Stay out of the way,” I snapped, then softened. “Rona, from here on things can get frantic and deadly. I’m trained for this kind of action and you’re not. I want you to go back to our stateroom now and lock yourself in. Don’t open the door unless I give you the signal.”

  “All right,” she pouted.

  I sent Rona on her way. She was good company. And helpful. But not for this phase of the operation.

  I stepped back out on deck to have a better view of the gangplank. As darkness fell, we prepared to sail, and not one suitcase had been put on board. We moved out of Willemstad Harbor past the swinging pontoon bridge called Queen Emma, and I decided I was going to have to confront Mr. Gorodin. Then I heard the launch.

  It was a fast twin outboard, running without lights. When it pulled alongside, somebody dropped a sling down to it. A squat, bald man in the launch seemed to be giving the orders. His men lifted a dark, rectangular object into the sling. It was a suitcase; and I was laying odds that it was just like the one taken from Juan Escobar.