by Nick Carter
He drummed his fingers on the desk as memories flickered in his eyes. The disintegration began around the edges of the face. The muscles softened. Then he laughed, a series of mighty guffaws that broke his disciplined severity and resounded infectiously in the small room.
Carter smiled, waiting while the New Zealand chief wiped his eyes with a large white handkerchief.
"If he weren't so dangerous, I'd allow myself to enjoy him more often," ffolkes explained. He blew his nose, then stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket.
"You were in the field with him too?" Carter said, stubbing out his cigarette.
"We all knew each other," ffolkes said and leaned back in his chair. "Hawk, Blenkochev, March from Scotland Yard, Parateau from Interpol, the others. Graduates of the secret services of World War Two." He took out one of his own cigarettes, and Carter lit it for him. "I was younger, had more to learn, and Blenkochev looked upon New Zealand as a potential Soviet ally. He took an interest in me. That was before Korea. Before the Cold War. Back when the Soviets were at least in name the friends that helped us win the war."
"That didn't last long."
"Interesting that we called it a world war. More accurate would have been a world civil war. One world, yet we all fought one another as if we were from different planets. "The disciplined composure was coming back.
"And Blenkochev?"
ffolkes smiled. Laughter returned to his voice.
"He and Hawk were like two dogs after the same bitch in heat. Snarling and snapping at one another, but so busy pursuing the bitch that they didn't want to spare the lime to fight a decisive battle. Their countries always came first. Yet, in their own ways. I think they liked one another. Maybe respected is a better word," ffolkes rolled the cigarette in the ashtray.
"What made me laugh was Blenkochev," he said. "One night on the Konigsallec in Dusseldorf, Blenkochev got drunk on beer. That in itself isn't remarkable, but you have to understand the kind of man we're talking about. This man carried a toothbrush even when he had to abandon everything else. He ordered his underwear starched. He read and reread Julius Caesar's famous battle campaigns. He was fastidious, meticulous, and his attention to detail made him a formidable enemy."
"Then he got drunk."
"Yes. He met German beer. He was a vodka drinker, of course, and vodka is so much stronger than any beer that he thought he could drink the beer like water. An enormous error. He ended the evening stripped to the waist, his pant legs rolled up, frolicking across the beer hall tables with pink-checked whores and waitresses."
Carter grinned, picturing in his mind the sight of stout, drab Blenkochev as a dancing maniac.
"Embarrassing," Carter said, "but not fatal."
Then Blenkochev discovered mere were photographs," ffolkes said, enjoying the memory of Blenkochev's tirade of horror. "And a German photographer who wouldn't be bought or threatened off. The photographer had survived the war. After that, even Blenkochev couldn't terrify him. Poor Blenkochev was beside himself. He could fulfill the most difficult assignment from Moscow — planting moles or arranging clueless assassinations — but he couldn't convince the photographer to not publish the photographs. And obviously he didn't dare kill him."
"So?"
"The morning the photos were to appear in Dusseldorf, Blenkochev went to the newspaper building with a check for five hundred thousand Deutsche marks. He bought the newspaper on the spot, had the pressmen trash the edition, watched the head photographer destroy the prints and negatives, and then left town. As far as I know he's never been back."
"I'm not surprised," Carter said.
"The newspaper went bankrupt shortly after. No one would run it. But there was never a word of complaint from Blenkochev. How or where he got the money no one knew. The rumors were that it came from profits on watered-down black market penicillin, but who knows?… The irony, of course, was that poor Blenkochev had betrayed his ideology. He'd been forced to use capitalist means to solve a question of ethics," ffolkes laughed merrily. "Poor Blenkochev. No matter how many times he would wash his hands, the stain would remain."
"Reality is a tough teacher," Carter smilingly agreed, and lit another cigarette for himself.
"Don't get me wrong, Carter," the New Zealand intelligence leader went on thoughtfully. "I laugh at Blenkochev now only because he hasn't caused any trouble here… that we know of. He's about as friendly to the West as a pit viper is to a mouse, and as trustworthy. He has idiosyncrasies, but he uses them in his work. Perseverance. Ruthlessness. Cunning. I'd never want to face him off."
"No one relishes that idea."
Then we understand one another," ffolkes said, again smiling. "And that brings us back to our business at hand." He blew a smoke ring into the air. His gold-capped teeth glowed in the fluorescent lighting. "And a simple question. Are you sure your missing American pilot exists?"
"Positive," Carter said, relating the information he'd received earlier that day from the AXE computer. "Some of his former employers have been putting pressure on Hawk to find him. Diamond's reliable when there's enough money involved, and these employers don't want to lose his valuable future services."
"They sound like illegal services to me."
It was Carter's turn to laugh.
"Probably," he said, "but now we're grateful because tracing him may lead us to why Silver Dove is important, and what caused the earthquake that jarred Blenkochev loose from the Kremlin. Our sources arc reliable. They're dead positive Diamond was in New Zealand, although they don't know what his job was, or for whom he was working."
ffolkes smoked reflectively.
"We have a major problem with following mat up," he told Carter. "There are no records that show Philip Shelton, alias Rocky Diamond, ever arrived in or left New Zealand. No flight plans, no cargo manifests, nothing. As far as the official records go, we've never had a man by either of those names in our country. Just like the mysterious illness mat killed the Russian attaché. We wouldn't have any evidence of that cither except Mike and our doctors saw it with their own eyes. You don't have such a lucky break with Diamond. How do you plan to trace a nonexistent person?"
Carter smiled.
"If you know enough about someone," he said simply, "they always leave evidence of passage, no matter how hard they — or anyone else — tries to hide it."
* * *
Using one of his several identification cards with matching credit references, Carter checked into the Wellington Arms, a red-brick Victorian building with white gingerbread, located off Adelaide Road near the heart of downtown Wellington. He dropped his fortieth cigarette of the day into a flat box near the reception desk politely marked Smokers Please, pressed the foot lever, and the cigarette disappeared into a second level.
The clerk behind the desk smiled with appreciation, and gave Carter a fifth-floor room with a view of the Zoological Gardens.
Carter signed the registry, then slipped a twenty (New Zealand dollars) across the counter. The clerk stared at it, then at Carter. He was wary, but interested.
"Did you notice an American or Englishman come through here in the last couple of weeks?" Carter said casually. "A tall man, about my height. Rangy. English accent. Likes martinis with a dash of Pernod?"
The clerk's eager eyes dulled. He wouldn't get the extra money. He shook his head. He was honest.
"Popular with women," Carter added, smiling encouragement. "A real flamboyant type."
"Sorry, sir," the clerk said, disappointed. "I don't remember anyone like that, and I'm on duty every day just about."
Carter nodded. It'd be like hunting for one particular seashell on a Coney Island beach. Lousy odds.
"Take the money, son," Carter said. "Ask around. Maybe someone on another shift saw him."
The money disappeared into the clerk's pocket. A big smile appeared on his face. In socialized New Zealand, taxes were high. Tips were a hedge against inflation.
"Be glad to, sir," the clerk said, handing him his room key. "Anyth
ing I can do."
Carter left the hotel to go to a nearby men's shop to buy clothes. Without thinking about it, he automatically watched the streets for the bright yellow Mazda. Nothing. He went to a leather shop and bought a suitcase. Briefly he remembered the fishing gear that had burned to ashes in Mike's Cessna.
He shook his head, packed the suitcase, and returned to the hotel lobby. There'd been no sign of the Mazda. And no one seemed particularly interested in the short-bearded American tourist who'd just indulged himself in some fine New Zealand clothes.
In the lobby, Carter purchased a downtown map of Wellington, and a restaurant and touring guide. It had been thirty six hours since he had last slept. Weariness dragged at him. He went upstairs to his room to plan his hunt for Rocky Diamond, shower, and sleep.
Seven
The names of the areas of Wellington reflected its Maori, English, and American past. Names like Khandallah, Ngaio, Crofton Downs, Kilbimie, and Brooklyn were discouraging to Carter because they showed more than the past; they told of the present enormous size of Wellington. More than 300,000 inhabitants spread in an arc around the bay. And Carter needed to trace one single man, an outsider, who had no record of ever having been in New Zealand.
There was only one logical place to start: Wellington International Airport. He made a circle around the area, then consulted the restaurant and dining guide for bars.
* * *
In New Zealand, people drove on the left side of the road, mailboxes were painted royal red and shaped like dollhouses, and once every three years in the general election, prohibition was voted upon. It hadn't passed yet, but bar hours were commensurately short in a nation where the temperance movement could easily get out of hand. The bars closed at ten o'clock.
Nick Carter was mindful of this as he walked along Broadway, head bent against the howling wind, toward the Bayard Stockton Cellar. The international airport was south. Big planes roared in and out of the distance, lights flashing.
It was 6 p.m. The chilly Wellington gale slashed through Carter's suit as if it were gauze. But Carter had slept, eaten a good meal, and was feeling fine, eager to discover what underlay the strange events in New Zealand.
Prepared, he wore his old friends Wilhelmina, Pierre, and Hugo. It was astounding what their presence did for the disposition of a Killmaster.
He pushed open the plastic-covered door to the Bayard Stockton Cellar. Cigarette smoke and stale liquor odors clotted the air. In the entryway was an enlarged color photograph of a sardonic man with red hair. Beneath the photo was typed the inscription "Founded by radio announcer Bayard Stockton, the man with the golden-gravel voice, disappeared Christchurch on assignment, July 1984." The photo and inscription were covered with clear plastic thumb-tacked to the wall. Carter shook his head, and walked down four cellar stops. Not your usual high-class establishment.
The bar was dark, the only light coming from small bulbs hidden behind cheap bloodred lampshades. The wallpaper was red, too, and heavily flocked. Four people sat at the bar, empty stools between each. They'd staked their claims to isolation. Behind the bar was a large painted canvas, a poorly done imitation Modigliani nude. The bar had aspirations. It wanted to grow up to be a whorehouse.
Carter sat on a stool at the end of the bar and loosened his tie. The heater was on. Even in summer, Wellington nights could be cold. His face flushed with warmth and stale air. The bartender looked at him.
"Lion beer," Carter said.
The barkeep nodded, picked up a glass, and slid it beneath the tap. As the beer poured, Carter took in his fellow drinkers: two women, two men.
Each of the men glanced at Carter, furtive, polite. The women stared down into their drinks. Not often in this country did you see women alone in a bar. And they weren't soliciting, just drinking. One had a whiskey sour, and the other a rum and cola. They didn't look like Rocky Diamond's types.
The bartender watched Carter study the women.
The beer came down hard in front of Carter. It sloshed over the side of the mug. The women looked up.
"Nice night," Carter observed, smiling curiously at the surly bartender.
"You looking for someone?" the bartender demanded.
He had brutal eyes, a short pugnacious nose, and cauliflower ears. He'd never been to the Olympics, just on street-corners with too much time on his hands and no common sense. Now he was older and knew better, but he wouldn't pass up a challenge he could create.
"As a matter of fact, I am," Carter said.
"You won't find her here," the bartender said.
The barkeep had it all figured out. In New Zealand, a lady was to be protected. Unlike the United States where the identifying line between lady and streetwalker was blurred by sometimes indistinguishable dress, in New Zealand a whore looked like a tart, and a lady looked like someone's mother. The two women at the bar were either mothers, or wanted to be. Their brows were raised in alarm.
"Your sister?" Carter asked, glancing at the closest of the two women.
"Cousin," the bartender said gruffly. "Drink your beer and get out."
Carter put a twenty on the bar. The bartender was good at jumping to conclusions. Maybe he'd jump a different way if the motivation changed.
The bartender's hand came down on the twenty.
But before he could slide the bill away to the cash drawer, Carter's hand came down hard on top. Surprised, the bartender flinched and tried to pull the money and his hand out from under.
The hand was immobilized.
The barkeep's eyes narrowed. He thought about the situation, his brow wrinkled with effort.
With his free hand, Carter casually picked up his beer and drank.
Again the bartender tried to yank away, but Carter's steely muscles held the fighter to the spot.
Carter put his beer mug down.
"I said I was looking for someone," he said.
"So?"
The bartender wouldn't concede an iota. But his hand had started to sweat. He made occasional furtive attempts to regain his dignity by slipping away.
The four people at the bar stared, not quite sure what was going on.
The bartender knew. He'd played games of intimidation before, his cagey eyes said, but he'd always made sure he had the right role — the bully's role.
"An American flyer," Carter went on. "When he talks, he sounds English."
The bartender licked his lips. Mesmerized, he watched Carter's free hand play easily with his beer, as if there were no strain involved in keeping the New Zealander pinned.
A flush of worry rose up the bartender's bull neck. Even though he used the excuse, he didn't fight for women, honor, or patriotism. He fought because he expected to win. The destruction of others proved that he was real.
"Already got too many bloody Americans around here," the bartender growled.
"English accent," Carter repeated. "Tall man, about my sue Rangy. Likes martinis with a dash of Pernod. Also likes the ladies." Carter nodded politely at the two staring women at the bar. They'd have a fresh story to tell their less venturesome friends, this one about a bearded, uppity Yank. "Sorry, but he's got a big reputation. Very successful at picking women up and getting them to bed. Name's Rocky Diamond." He smiled at the bartender. "I want to find this man," he said pointedly.
The bartender shrugged.
Carter ground the hand painfully into the counter. The bartender tried to bite back a grunt of pain.
"I'd appreciate any leads you can give me," Carter told him. "Either to him, or to someone who saw or knows him."
The bartender clenched his teeth.
"Never heard of him," he hissed.
Then the bartender's hand lashed out. It was a scarred hand, marked by battles more often won than lost.
Carter sighed.
He smashed his free hand into the bartender's jaw. It was a single, perfect punch.
The fighter's eyes widened with surprise. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The beaten bartender
crashed back into the Modigliani nude. Bottles of bourbon, rum, and gin smashed to the floor. Flying glass embedded itself into the cheap oil painting.
The barkeep sat down abruptly in the middle of the mess. He fell back against the collapsed liquor shelves. His head, framed by the cauliflower ears, drooped to his chest.
Fascinated, the patrons leaned over the bar to watch as the unconscious man slowly keeled over. His head landed on an unbroken bottle of crème de menthe. He seemed to smile.
Still leaning over, the four turned their faces to look at Carter. They sat back on their stools.
"Any of you see Rocky Diamond? Hear anything about him?" Carter asked.
They shook their heads.
"Don't recognize the name," one man said.
"A lot of tourists here," the other added.
"Sorry," the woman who was the cousin said. Then she smiled. Slightly, but still a smile. She hadn't liked the cousin much either.
Carter grinned. He drained his beer.
"I'll be at the Wellington Arms if you hear anything." He gave them the name he'd registered under.
The bartender on the floor moaned. No one looked.
Carter reknotted his tie.
"What about the money?" the first male patron asked, glancing at the bar.
Carter put another twenty on top of the first.
"Tell him to get boxing lessons."
* * *
The wind was a howling gale through the Wellington night. The stars were hidden behind a furling layer of gray and charcoal clouds.
Over the next several hours Carter worked his chilly way up and down Broadway and its sidestreets, going from bar to bar. He ordered a beer at every stop, but finished none of them. He needed to be alert.
It was at times like this that he wished he had a force of agents at his disposal. Or at least an assistant. Anyone to help share the legwork of giving the simple description, and asking the simple question. Have you seen or heard of this man?
His feet were growing numb from the nighttime cold. His nose was frosty. He was again feeling his lack of sleep, but still he persevered through the windy night.
