by Nick Carter
The whining of two more bullets split the air. They were high-pitched screamers from a long-range rifle. The sharpshooter — or sharpshooters — were trying to draw Carter and Smith-deal out from the car.
"W-what's going on now?" Smith-deal yelled.
"You got a gun in your jeep?" Carter asked.
"An old hunting rifle, but…"
"Back seat? Front seat?"
"Under the front seat, but…"
"Don't move," Carter ordered, "or you're dead!"
Smith-deal nodded solemnly, his ashen face registering that once more he'd had a foot in the grave.
Carter looked across at the battered, muddy jeep. It was twenty feet away. The air was silent, the rifleman or riflemen saving bullets, waiting for targets.
As Smith-deal unscrewed his bottle, Carter dashed for the jeep.
A bullet ripped through the jeep's hood.
"Hey!" Smith-deal yelled. "That's my jeep!"
It was dirty and banged up, but — unlike the shack — it was his. Ownership was more important than safety.
"Smith-deal! Get down!" Carter shouted.
Confused, the mechanic ducked as another bullet whistled over the Ford where Smith-deal's head had been a moment before.
Because of the time between shots, Carter knew it was one rifleman. Before the sharpshooter could resight, Carter vaulted into the jeep's front seat. He pulled out the old rifle and a cardboard box of bullets. Now he had to get out again.
"Smith-deal!" Carter called. "You still got that jug?"
"Yeah!"
"Take a drink and hold it high so I can see it!"
Obediently, the mechanic swigged deeply and lifted the big white bottle above his head, above the hood of the Ford. "Steady!" Carter urged.
"How come?"
The answer came in the whine of a well placed bullet.
It burst the big plastic bottle. Liquor sprayed into the air, dousing the lord and Smith-deal's face. Pieces of plastic fell to the ground.
"No!" cried Smith-deal.
He pulled the handle down and stared at it as if by his needs he could reassemble the bottle. Tears ran down his checks, and he licked the inside of the handle.
Again using the brief time before resighting, Carter leaped over the jeep's door and sprinted to the Ford.
"Why'd you have me do that?" Smith-deal complained. "I oughta knock your head off!"
Angry, the drunk wiped his arm across his eyes. Anger was what Carter needed, not submersion in the immobility of self-pity. An angry Smith-deal was useful, perhaps useful enough to save his own life and help Carter capture the sharpshooter.
"Here," Carter said, and he shoved the rifle and ammunition at Smith-deal. "There's only one over there. Behind the trees on that knoll. Keep him occupied, but don't gel yourself shot."
Smith-deal frowned. His eyes narrowed. He was beginning to get the idea.
"Can you handle it?" Carter said, checking Wilhelmina's chambers.
"You're going after him?"
"You have a better idea?"
"We could just drive out of here."
"He'd get the tires, the gas tank."
"It'd be safer."
Carter laughed. "You mean it might get you closer to another drink."
Smith-deal drew himself up where he squatted in the dirt. "Nothing wrong with a man having a drink now and then."
"Nothing wrong at all," Carter agreed. "Afterward, I'll buy you one myself. Whatever you want."
"I want a bottle. The best Irish."
"You can count on it."
Carter slapped Smith-deal on the back and crawled to the end of the car. "It'd been a long time since the last shot.
"He may move," Carter warned Smith-deal over his shoulder. "Be careful."
Smith-deal raised his baseball cap, scratched his scalp, and flopped the cap back onto his head.
"Got it," he said, and lifted the barrel of the rifle over the hood of the car.
Instantly another shot rang out, landing in a blast of dust a few feet behind the car.
"Guess he's watching me," the drunk said worriedly.
"Good," Carter said, and ran.
Slowly Carter made his way around the gently rolling, sparsely settled plain. In a country where hunting was one way a family kept from starving, there wasn't any noticeable excitement about the rifleman on the low knoll who kept Smith-deal pinned down and tried to stop Carter in his speedy dashes from one shelter to the next.
The rifleman had lost the advantage that came with surprise. He was a good shot, though, and persistent. Eventually, if he wasn't caught or didn't give up or didn't run out of ammunition, he'd get one or both of his targets.
But he wasn't a professional killer.
A professional would have disappeared after the first miss. He would have escaped — unnamed — to succeed the next time.
Carter needed to get in range for his 9mm Luger. He would wing the rifleman, rush him, and capture him. He hoped.
Once again Carter scrambled to his feet and tore across the hard plain.
Two bullets sang past.
He dived into a scrubby stand of oaks. Dry leaf dust puffed into the air.
He raised Wilhelmina. He was on the edge of being in range. He studied the hillock where the rifleman was hidden.
There a variety of trees presided over dry grass and downed logs. In the winter, the logs would be dragged away for firewood. But now they provided good shields for the rifleman.
Between Carter and the rifleman were no more shelters for Carter. Only the sun and the dirt of the open plain waited. If Carter couldn't get a good shot here, he'd have a long, dangerous run ahead. A run long enough to give the rifleman time to aim accurately for a kill.
Again Carter observed the knoll. The last place the man had fired from was to the left of a big maple, just above a thick log.
Carter lay still, watching.
Suddenly there was a shot from the Ford.
Charlie Smith-deal had remembered to use his hunting rifle. The bullet thudded harmlessly between two trees on the low hill.
A rifle barrel appeared on the hillock, in the place where Carter expected it. Quickly he aimed and fired.
The bullet was short, the distance still too great.
Carter ducked.
Immediately a bullet streaked past him.
Smith-deal fired again, his whiskey-riddled mind fixed on the promised bottle.
Again the rifleman shot at Smith-deal behind the Ford, and Carter raced away from the stand of trees into the open plain, shelterless and dangerous.
The voice was hollow, almost like a cough. It seemed to be calling Carter's name.
The bullets blasted from the hillock, one at a time, steady, now ignoring Smith-deal behind the Ford.
Carter weaved. The voice coughed again.
The sharpshooter's shots were closing in. Carter zigzagged.
The bullet ripped through Carter's sleeve, burning his skin.
The next one might kill him, and yet he was almost at the knoll.
"Carter!" the voice said.
As the rifle on the hillock barked again, Carter rolled.
The bullet sang into the dirt.
"Over here, Carter!"
Carter rolled again, this time into a narrow trench, invisible from any distance on the gently rolling plain.
"Colonel ffolkes," Carter said and grinned. "I was just on my way to call you."
"You're a damned hard man to follow," ffolkes said, his ruddy face pressed against the side of the dry irrigation trench. His gold-capped teeth shone in the sunlight.
"You're the one I lost in Wellington and then Christ-church."
"A couple of my men. You didn't think we'd let you run around without being watched, did you?"
"Considering the present situation, I can hardly complain."
The two agents shook hands.
"You have any more men here?" Carter said.
"A few," he said modestly.
The
operation was simple. Carter, Colonel ffolkes, and the three New Zealand agents who were stationed nearby rushed the hillock from different directions.
The sharpshooter fired quickly.
The men pressed on, themselves firing on the lone rifleman, racing at him. A converging juggernaut.
Until there was silence.
An unnatural silence.
Carter put on a burst of speed, ffolkes close behind. Even though ffolkes was in his sixties, he was in excellent shape. His wiry frame ate the ground in long strides.
They found the sharpshooter crumpled behind the log that had sheltered him. Half his face was gone. The powder burns were unmistakable. Suicide.
Despite the years of experience, both Carter and ffolkes hesitated. Suicide was somehow more a tragedy than even murder. It made each man question his own pain.
Then, as the other agents arrived, ffolkes went through the dead man's pockets, but he found nothing.
Carter watched until ffolkes was finished. Then he unzipped the mans trousers and pulled them down. The White Dove tattoo was on the corpse's left thigh.
Ten
The tea was hot and delicious — Lapsang Souchong by Twinings, "Teamen to Connoisseurs for over 275 Years." A very English blend with the heavy, smoky flavor of burnt tar, probably discovered when tea leaves were thoughtlessly stored on tarred ropes in the belly of some four-rigger sailing ship. Instead of being horrified, the clever merchant advertised the tea as the newest taste from the Orient. And the English, with their tolerance and appetite for the unusual, loved it.
Nick Carter drank the tea with milk and sugar, the way fine black China tea should be drunk. And the way Colonel ffolkes took his.
The colonel put his cup down on the scarred coffee table next to the report. Weariness showed on the deepened lines of his face.
"Rocky Diamond didn't arrive in the Falklands," ffolkes said, tapping the report. "We've checked the mechanic's story front to back, and most of what he says appears to be true. Near as we can tell, Diamond took off Wednesday last week, planning to camp overnight at the South Pole and then fly on to Stanley in the Falklands. Mackenzie — an old friend of Diamond's — knew about it. Too bad he did. Meant his death. Anyway, your Yank carried no illegal cargo, only his personal supplies. As you know, New Zealand's roughly at a hundred-seventy degrees cast longitude and the Falklands are at sixty degrees west, so it was close to a straight-across-the-Pole trip. Barring weather and acts of God, it should have been easy. But something happened, and the poor bloke never arrived."
"And his employers?"
"No employers. Smith-deal was wrong about that. It was personal. The bet was with one of Diamond's old pilot rivals in Stanley. Very macho, as you Yanks say. And for a lot of money, which the cocky bastard fully expected to win. The rival was beginning to hope that Diamond had backed out. Bit of a pleasant surprise when we told him Diamond was missing.
Carter and the New Zealand secret service head were sitting alone in a small storage shack not far from the United States' Deep Freeze Base at Christchurch's airport. Air conditioning hummed, both relieving the end of the hot day and camouflaging their voices from inquisitive ears.
The windowless shack was stacked with wood storage crates at the end nearest the door. A passageway that weaved among the tall stacks of boxes led to the small sitting area at the back where Carter and ffolkes consulted. It was furnished with folding chairs, an overhead fluorescent light, apartment-size refrigerator, a hot plate, and a coffee table scarred by cigarette burns, coffee rings, and the scuff marks of hard-heeled boots.
Outside, the surrounding complex of buildings housed offices and storage for the U.S. Navy and the National Science. Foundation personnel who supported Deep Freeze operations on Antarctica. They were the link between life and certain frozen death for the isolated stations on the great wasteland.
The services were basic — housekeeping, food, clothing, medical aid, mail communications — and originated from the headquarters in Port Hueneme, California. They were implemented in the busy Deep Freeze complex at Christchurch.
The busyness was what had attracted ffolkes to the area. A windowless shack and innocent neighbors helped to maintain the secrecy of his operation.
"And the rifleman?" Carter said, sipping his tea. "He was a sleeper?"
"Exactly," ffolkes said, nodding. "A New Zealander of Russian descent. Second generation. No police record, never in any trouble with the law. Just an ordinary working bloke waiting to perform the one crucial act that would reveal him as an undercover agent for a foreign group."
"What kind of working man?"
"Personnel director for a big sheep processing company."
"Any trouble there?"
The colonel picked up the report and read. As he turned the first page, Carter could see the big red stamp that said Most Secret.
"He was reprimanded twice for complaints of racial discrimination," ffolkes said thoughtfully. "Maoris weren't being hired, and the few who were weren't being promoted to management jobs."
"After the second complaint, he improved the situation just enough to quiet the protestors," Carter said.
"That's it," ffolkes said, picking up his cup. "The complaints mean something to you?"
"Perhaps," Carter said. "I'd like to contact Hawk. See what he has to say."
"Of course," the colonel said and stood up. "I'll be waiting."
"Nice to hear from you, Nick! Do you by chance know what time it is?"
"Two a.m. there, I believe, sir."
There was a long pause. Carter settled back in comfort to wait for Hawk to clear the sleep from his brain.
The Killmaster was calling from the back seat of a VIP limousine he'd found on a quiet sidestreet near the Deep Freeze Base. He'd seen the U.S. general go up the front steps of the house, hat in hand, and the chauffeur go around to the back. The men had been there before, and each knew where to find his entertainment.
Carter had glanced up and down the street, then picked the limousine's lock and slipped into the back seat. The car smelled of wool uniforms and oiled leather. The windows were tinted so that passengers could see out while outsiders couldn't see in. It was a comfortable, relatively safe place for Carter to call his superior on the small Sony-size radio.
At last in far-off Washington the butane lighter clicked. There was a sudden gust of air as Hawk's cigar came to life.
Hawk sighed and puffed in the distance.
"Very well, N3," he said. Let's have it."
Carter reported the events that had taken place since Wellington, including the strange inhabitant of the yellow Mazda meeting Blenkochev in Christchurch's Cathedral Square.
Hawk was silent.
"Interesting how the past is always with us," he said at last. "I thought those days were behind me. I even allowed myself to be nostalgic for them. The good old days. But the reality is that nothing's changed. Blenkochev and I have been at war since before 1849 when Mao took over China."
"That's a long time."
"Our countries have beliefs that threaten the other. There's nothing to be done. Blenkochev and I must continue to try to outwit, outmaneuver, and outkill one another. That can only stop when our countries no longer perceive the other as mortal — and moral — dangers. And now we have Silver Dove to further irritate the elements."
"Then you think I'm right, sir?"
"Naturally," Hawk said gruffly. It might be the middle of the night, but he was still in top form. "Silver Dove… Knights of the White Camelia… the White League… the Pale Faces… all names for various versions of the Ku Klux Klan in the 1860s. I should've made the connection before. An organization that started as a social club and grew into one of the strongest underground hatred movements in the world."
"The name Silver Dove seemed familiar to me, too," Carter said, "but I didn't put it together until Colonel ffolkes mentioned the protests against the sleeper's racist personnel policies."
"We're getting somewhere at last," Ha
wk mused, puffing on his cigar. "Good work, N3. Serebryanyi Golub — Silver Dove. Russia's modern version of racial and moral supremacy. I'll check it out. Meanwhile, our most direct link is obviously the missing flyer Rocky Diamond. We must find out what that Russian group is doing. You'll of course retrace Diamond's flight."
"It'll have to be a guess, sir. The flight plan is still missing. Colonel ffolkes suspects that the Soviet sleeper used connections to find it. And then destroyed it."
"Unfortunate," Hawk said, not surprised. In espionage, a well-placed sleeper has years to develop the connections and skills necessary to accomplish any task. "Don't forget warm clothes, N3. Better yet, I'll come down there and see that you're outfitted properly."
"Sir?" Hawk had many facets, but this sudden motherliness startled Carter.
"Blenkochev is in New Zealand." Hawk's voice was impatient again… and full of vigor. "Do you expect me to stay behind a desk in Washington?"
Carter lit one of his cigarettes in the back seat of the limo and smiled. It would be a difficult but interesting hunt.
Colonel ffolkes's wiry body was sprawled on the floor next to the scarred coffee table. Carter checked the room, then knelt beside him. Unconsciousness had turned the New Zealander's ruddy face ashen. The china teapot was shattered. The colonel's folding chair was knocked onto its side.
The secret report of Charlie Smith-deal's testimony, Rocky Diamond's flight, and the sleeper's background lay on the intelligence chief's chest. It had been tossed or dropped there.
Someone else now knew that Rocky Diamond's destination had been the South Pole and Stanley.
Carter considered this new piece of information as he lifted the colonel's eyelids and checked his pulse. The colonel's heartbeat was strong and regular. A lump the size of a goose egg had formed on the back of his head. Carter wet his handkerchief and wiped the unconscious man's face.
When the secret service director's eyes fluttered, Carter spoke gently.
"Did you see them?" he asked.
"Dammee, no," ffolkes replied. His hand reached toward the lump. "Sneaked up on me. But it was only one. Light-footed. Here." He unfolded the fingers on the other hand. An ordinary olive-green button lay on the palm. "Guess I still have a bit of the old agent in me."
