by Nick Carter
"You're the accident," she said and grinned. "I couldn't let you get out of New Zealand without seeing you." She squeezed his leg. "Sorry?"
"Only sorry I didn't call you first."
"That's what I like to hear." She grinned happily. "Now, the big news is that the embassy sent back to Moscow for their own medical experts to do an autopsy and check the lab results. Bet you can't guess who the Kremlin sent."
"I don't know anything about their medical community," Carter admitted.
"You don't have to. Look at this."
With one hand, Mike dug into her purse, unzipped an inner pocket, and pulled out a photograph of two men and a beautiful young blond woman.
Carter tipped it at his window to catch the moon's light.
"Blenkochev!"
"You've got it," Mike said, pleased. "The head of the great K-GOL, the most secret and feared agency in the KGB. The agency that runs all the KGB public operations, and the secret ones that even the Politburo will never know anything about."
Carter held the photo.
"How'd you get it?" he asked quietly.
"It was taken secretly at the Wellington airport when they arrived," she said proudly. "Their security is good, but it's our airport."
Carter studied the photo. The only pictures AXE had of Blenkochev were five years old and hazy, taken by a mole at Blenkochev's dacha outside Moscow. This photo was good and showed a clear likeness Blenkochev was a stout man, about five-nine, with thick black hair greased back slick and neat. He'd be sixty-eight now, but he looked a good ten years younger. Desk work agreed with him. His features were coarse. Slavic, bumpy. The hooded eyes looked over the shoulder of his companion as if he could see straight back to Moscow. There was something fierce and aggressive about his thickness, as if he were an old bull, a survivor seasoned by the ring. No mere mortal could ever touch him. And no photograph could do him justice. It couldn't show the immense power he wielded. The men and women he'd condemned to death. Those he'd needed and saved for the moment. The network of highly trained spies for whom he was an earthly god in a godless land.
"I've never known him to leave Russia," Carter said thoughtfully.
"Me neither," Mike said.
They drove in silence, thinking of the powerful, deadly Blenkochev. What had been so important to get him out of the motherland where he'd be a target for any number of international agents who'd lost friends due to his orders? The New Zealand road wound down the side of the mountain toward the sparkling lights of a small town. The car purred, well tuned. They watched the lights grow larger and brighter.
"What were they after?" Mike said, suddenly worried.
"The men at the jail? You, maybe."
"But…" She turned to him, her eyes wide.
"They've probably been following you since the embassy. This was the first time you did something different, unusual to your routine."
"That's right. There's been a car that could have been following me… But I've mostly been pushing papers lately. Didn't think anything of it. Waiting for a development, orders, you know."
"And then there was the killing of Mackenzie. You go, apparently to investigate."
"You think Mackenzie is connected to the Silver Dove business?"
"It might be wise to find out."
Four
The airport was small, just two buildings — a one-room terminal and a hangar sitting squat on a flat, dry area that had once been a mountain meadow. The terminal's windows were glowing rectangles of light.
The night was crisp and clear. Here the wind was a deep breath through the mountains. The single hangar was near the terminal. Small, light aircraft were staked around it, wings gently rocking with the wind.
Mike Strange was working on her single-engine plane. Expertly she checked tires and filled the gas tank, readying the craft for takeoff.
Nick Carter strode toward the terminal. No one else was out. It was midnight, not a popular time for the town flyers who used the airport for excursions into Wellington and Auckland, crop dusting, herding cattle, and sightseeing tours for the few international tourists who were intent on discovering the backcountry of ruggedly beautiful New Zealand.
Carter walked through the terminal, nodding at the lone man behind the desk who looked up at him sleepily. The telephone booth was at the back of the room, beside a rack of tattered, well-read magazines.
David Hawk, head of AXE, was not expecting Carter's call. It was 7 am yesterday in Washington, and Hawk would be leaving soon for the office. He was always the first there. Carter had interrupted his routine.
"I thought you were on vacation," Hawk said irritably.
"So did I," Carter said. "I found Mackenzie."
"You called just to tell me that?"
"I found him dead."
In the distance, Carter heard the click of Hawk's butane lighter. Hawk had one weakness — cheap cigars — and he gloried in them. He'd just lit the first cigar of the day.
"You found nothing about Rocky Diamond then?" Hawk said, exhaling noisily.
"Nothing. But something else has come up that I thought might interest you."
"Well?"
Hawk's impatience was legendary. He relied on his people — he had to — but he was always suspicious, even of his favorite and most outstanding Killmaster, Nick Carter.
"Blenkochev is in New Zealand." Carter told him.
It was a simple statement with enormous implications.
In Washington, Hawk was silent.
At last Carter heard him draw and puff on the cigar. Hawk and Blenkochev had begun their careers in army intelligence during the war, and now both men headed their own powerful espionage agencies. They were old adversaries, each painfully aware of the other's brilliance and cunning.
AXE rumor had it that once, long ago in Ethiopia, Blenkochev had left Hawk wounded in the desert to die. Another time, the story went, Hawk had captured Blenkochev, tied him up, and turned him over to other agents for shipment to the United States. Each had managed daring escapes. Now that those days of face-to-face combat — and immediate success and failure — were over, the two leaders pitted their agents against one another in a longstanding war of wits, training, and technology. It was a giant chess game of world-shaking possibilities, and the two main players were Hawk and Blenkochev.
Hawk cleared his throat.
"You've seen him?" he said.
"A photograph at the Wellington airport. He was with a Russian medical expert."
"Tell me what you know," Hawk said, his voice cold as the Arctic.
Carter related the events of his long day in the New Zealand backcountry, and of Mike's tale of the mysterious death in the Soviet embassy.
Hawk sighed, and Carter could see in his mind the AXE leader's chin jut with growing anger and concern as he gripped the cigar even tighter between his teeth.
"We know about the attaché already," Hawk said finally. "Our flyer could figure in, but I don't see how yet. He's private, but he has friends here in Washington who knew enough to annoy me into checking on him. A lucky break for us, though. It put you in a position to find out about Blenkochev." He paused. "All right. Blenkochev's not in New Zealand for the fun of it. This is much more important than what appears on the surface. I want to know about that disease. Where it came from. What it is. And who or what Silver Dove is. See if there's a connection to the missing flyer and the attaché's death. You got that, N3?"
Blenkochev's presence colored ordinary events in the espionage world into the potential of international threat.
"I understand," Carter said.
"Sorry about your vacation, N3. Can't be helped."
Carter thought briefly of the fishing gear in Mike's trunk.
"We're off to Wellington now," he told his superior. "Mike came up in a plane."
"Good. I'll contact our AXE stringer there and see that you get your equipment. It'll probably take a few hours. Then check into the computer. I'll have our people here feed in everything the
y have about Rocky Diamond."
There was a pause again as Hawk puffed distractedly. He was thinking about the past.
"Keep in close touch, Nick," he said at last, "and stay out of Blenkochev's way." His voice was full of warning.
* * *
Mike was waiting in the cockpit of her small single-engine Cessna 180. She waved to Carter as he came onto the tarmac. Overhead lights reflected off the plane's silvery wings. Ahead, small colored lights showed the takeoff strip that extended about the length of two football fields.
"You put my gear on board?" he shouted up to her over the roar of the craft's motor.
"Didn't dare forget it," She laughed.
He hoarded, and she cased the throttle forward. The plane sped down the runway and into the star-studded night. The sky was unusually clear for New Zealand, a country known for its dramatic weather. In the fourteenth century, the Polynesian Maori who settled the land called it Aotearoa — Land of the Long White Cloud.
"You took a long time in the bathroom," she observed as she leveled the plane. She was as good a pilot as she was a driver. She rode the updrafts smoothly. "How was Hawk?"
He smiled. He wasn't surprised that she knew his real purpose in going into the airport terminal.
"Feeling fine. Sends his regards."
She laughed again as if the world were hers. She had an exciting assignment, and an even more exciting companion to share it with. Later she'd think of the danger involved.
She circled the plane over the town in a long, slow, unnecessary loop. Suddenly she pulled back the throttle and arched the craft up in a deep curve toward the top of the sky. The moon flashed by.
"Enough, Mike!" Carter protested. "Let's get on with it. This assignment's interrupting my vacation!"
She giggled and leveled the plane once more.
"You going to shave that beard?" she teased.
They flew south now toward Wellington. It was the second-largest city in New Zealand, about 320,000 stalwart souls living in the windswept capital that governed a land roughly the size and population of Colorado.
"I'll think about it," he said and settled back into the seat. His fishing equipment was behind him, stacked on the floor. She had remembered it all.
She put a hand on his thigh and squeezed. Warmth spread through him.
"I'm a Coaster," she said. "Grew up on the west coast, the wet side of the New Zealand Alps. We know about fishing, hunting, farming, you name it."
"South Island," he said, nodding. "When you get a new pair of leather boots, you have to oil them every day and store them off the ground. With luck, they'll last you two weeks."
"That's right," she said, and returned the hand to the throttle, smiling. "It was glorious. Glaciers, mountains, and the sea. The vegetation's so lush that it smothers the harsh lines of the land. We average a hundred inches of rain a year. The punga ferns crowd the roads and shut off light." She looked out into the starry night. "Everything was so simple there. Us against the elements, but at the same time we lived in harmony with them. This country is a paradise. Whatever climate or geography appeals to you. Just remembering that those Russians stormed the jail, and that Blenkochev is here, makes my stomach turn. What can they want with New Zealand?"
"As you say, it's a wide-open country. That alone could be the attraction."
"Our government isn't really equipped to deal with them. It's not like Washington or London or Paris or Zurich where international agents come and go like tourists."
"Sometimes disguised as tourists."
"We simply don't have anything here that could be important to them."
"There's always the strategic importance. A good jumping-off spot for Australia and the United States. Maybe Christchurch interests them."
"Christchurch," she repeated thoughtfully. "That's where your government has the Deep Freeze Base for Antarctica."
"It's a possibility," Carter said. "Any new action down there?"
"Not that I know of. But I'll find out."
The land was dark beneath them. Moonlight reflected from rivers in long silvery braids. Occasional car lights moved along slender gray roads that wove between towns where streetlamps shone dimly up to the Cessna's cockpit. The land undulated smoothly. Grasslands, fields, and vineyards. The time passed quickly. Not far ahead would be the big Lake Wairarapa. About twenty-five miles beyond would be the Wellington aerodrome, perched on a bay facing Cook Strait.
Mike looked down, her head angled, eager for the signs that indicated she was closing in on home.
"There's Masterton," she said, pointing. "A good town. Another fifty or so kilometers and we'll see Featherston and Lake Wairarapa."
The jolt was small, and the plane recovered quickly under Mike's sensitive control.
"Engine?" Carter said.
She nodded, bit her lip, and watched the gauges.
"We're losing power," she said quietly.
He watched her work, the fine head with the mass of chestnut hair held upright as she adjusted switches, turned knobs. Nothing helped.
"Better take her down," Carter advised.
They'd left Masterton behind and were speeding on toward Lake Wairarapa in the distance, and Wellington beyond.
"No! We're so close!"
"Not that close. Too much flying time needed. Take her down. Now!"
Smoke erupted from the nose. Small flames licked up. The plane dove.
Carter grabbed the throttle and pulled, fighting the craft's desire to spiral straight down into the earth.
He struggled with the throttle. Sweat bathed his face. Slowly the nose rose. He steadied the throttle. It shook. His hands shook.
He couldn't rum the plane. They had to go straight ahead. Turning would make it lose all control, and spiral.
He watched the earth and aimed the plane for one of the gray strips of road below. Luckily the early morning hour was not a popular time for driving. The traffic was practically nonexistent.
Mike's knuckles whitened as she gripped the arms of her seat.
The flames whipped up over the nose.
Carter watched for traffic and for tall trees that could catch the light plane and tear it to shreds.
The ground rose to meet them at a dizzying speed.
Carter felt the blood drain from his face. His hands numbed on the throttle.
They had to get down fast, before the flames swallowed the engine. And the gas tank.
The plane bucked, fought.
The controls turned to mush.
But below, the dark gray road spread ahead like a welcome mat.
He pushed the sloppy throttle forward to land. Wheels squealed and bounced on the asphalt. No control. He pulled and yanked on the throttle.
The craft veered. With little air resistance, the flames erupted into the night sky. Heat shot up in the cabin.
The Cessna bounced into the tall roadside trees, flames crackling. The starboard wing ripped off. The plane dove into a thick stand of beeches. The impact threw Carter and Mike against the controls, the windshield, the seat, the ceiling.
The plane shuddered, then stopped. Flames roared. Heat stole the air from the cabin.
Carter shook his head, gasping. He ached all over. The heat was suffocating. The gas tank would go any minute.
"Mike!"
Her head lolled to the side, eyes closed. Unconscious.
He dragged her out, a dead weight.
He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and ran.
The thick forest of tall beeches stood silent and still, sentinels to the sudden explosion that rocked the land beneath Carter's running feet.
He fell with Mike to the ground, throwing himself over her to protect her.
The blast shot twisted metal and burning wood through the air. They were lethal missiles that could maim and kill.
Just as suddenly the air was quiet, unmoving. Heat spread thickly out to them from the fireball that had been a plane.
He rolled Mike over and felt for a pul
se. It was regular and strong.
He carried her to the side of the highway, and sat for a moment beside her on the grass.
In the distance of the quiet farmland, cattle lowed nervously. Dogs barked. Sheep bleated. The land was rolling and grassy, with small stands of forest in the low places where water collected. He could see no houses.
Carter stood at the edge of the highway, waiting for a car. Behind him, the plane burned brilliant red and blue.
The first car slowed at the sight of the fire, then sped past Carter's waving arms, unwilling to be involved. When he heard the second car, Carter ran to the center of the lane, where he stood and waved. The car would have to run him down or go into the other lane and risk being hit by an oncoming vehicle.
It was a small Mazda, a sports model, bright yellow. Its tires screeched, and it angled sharply across the road to stop on the wrong side, opposite Mike and the direction it was heading.
"Nick!"
Mike was sitting up, groaning, holding her side. She fell back and screamed in pain.
He ran back to her.
"Oh, God, Nick!" she cried. "What happened! An accident?" She curled up on her other side.
"No accident," he said grimly, brushing the hair from her face. "Some kind of time explosive planted in your Cessna."
A first aid kit dropped at his feet, and a small CB radio. He looked up, but the gift-giver was already dashing back to the yellow Mazda.
"Hey!" he called. "Stop!"
But the figure slammed the Mazda door, and the car raced off into the night.
Carter opened the kit, found a flashlight, and turned it on. Mike was sooty, her face bruised. Gently he felt along her side. She bit her lip.
"Ribs, probably," he murmured.
"They hurt like hell," she said, tight with tension as she tried not to show the pain.
"They usually do. Not much I can do for you here. We'd better get you to a hospital," he said, turning on the radio.
