The Inca Death Squad

by The Inca Death Squad (fb2)

  Annotation

  JOB OPPORTUNITY: SOUTH AMERICA

  Help wanted:

  By Soviet Committee for State Security (KGB), one (1) AXE agent, KILLMASTER rank, to serve as personal bodyguard to Soviet Minister Comrade Alexander Alexandrovitch Belkev, on tour of Chile. Must be willing to assume full responsibility, do odd jobs and, repeat, must be KILLMASTER rank.

  Job filled by:

  Nick Carter

  Duties:

  1)To deliver new-style bullet-proof vest to Comrade Belkev; to demonstrate final test of its power to safeguard against assassination.

  2) To guard Belkev's life with his own, under all circumstances.

  3) To stop a coup that could burn South America to the ground.

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  The Inca Death Squad

  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by

  Chapter One

  I pulled a towel around my waist and walked into the next antiseptic white room. So far AXE's new medical officer had checked my eyes, nose, throat, blood pressure and pedicure. I'd gone up and down a stepladder long enough to scale the Great Wall of China.

  "You must have a tremendous rate for healing," he said as he looked at the pinkish scar tissue over my chest.

  "I have a hell of an appetite, too."

  "So do I," he answered as if that gave us a common tie. "It just turns to fat on me."

  "Try outrunning a bullet once a day. That'll trim you down."

  The medical officer shook his head. "You Killmasters have the most gruesome sense of humor."

  "An occupational disease."

  He led me into a reaction chamber and sat me down. I was used to it. The chamber is a dark box. The man in it, me, holds a cord with a button and waits. A light appears and you press the button. The light can appear directly in front or at either side and it appears at random intervals. You can't time it beforehand and since you don't know where it will be, the peripheral vision gets a grueling workout. The reaction time — how fast you push the button after seeing the light — gets read out in thousandths of a second by a digital computer on the outside.

  And the tester doesn't say, "Ready? Go." The light appears and you push the button as if your life depends on it. Because, in a nasty way, it does. In the field, the lights shoot back.

  A pinpoint of light appeared at 80 degrees left. Already my thumb was down. My conscious mind was disengaged because thinking takes too long. This was strictly between my retina and my thumb.

  Another light from another awkward angle, and another. The test goes on for half an hour, although it seems like half a year when your eyes are dry from not blinking and the lights are appearing two and three at a time. You switch hands on the button because using one thumb produces a breakdown in the axons of the nervous system. Then, just in case you get confident, they make the lights dimmer and dimmer until you're straining for a glimmer the equivalent of a candle at a distance of three miles.

  Finally, when I was about to trade in my eyes for a used cane, the black sheet at the side was pulled away and the doctor stuck his head in.

  "Has anyone ever told you you have fantastic night vision?" he wanted to know.

  "Yes, someone a damn sight cuter than you."

  He seemed miffed by that.

  "Of course, it's not quite fair. I mean, you designed this yourself."

  That was true. I had created the reaction chamber during my last forced stay in AXE's infirmary. Occupational therapy was what Hawk called it.

  "Please sit down. There's one more series," the medico said.

  I found myself back in my chair in the chamber, wondering what the hell was going on. Now, the doctor said, I was to push the button as soon as I saw a red light. I wasn't supposed to do a thing if the light was green. In other words, no more simple motor response. This time it was judgment and reaction piled on top of each other, with the added fillip of using Red for Go and Green for Stop.

  By the time this torture ended, another half an hour had gone by and I was burning as I took my cramped self out of the chamber.

  "Look, Hawk worked up this little idea," I said as I emerged. "Let me tell you what you can do with it."

  Then I held my breath. My man was gone and in his place was a very cool, very smashing blonde. They'd put a white jacket on her too but somehow the effect was different, more like a tarpaulin over a pair of 12-inch naval guns. And if I was looking her over, she was returning the compliment.

  "Doctor Boyer was right. You are a remarkable specimen," she said coolly.

  "How long have you been here?" I demanded to know.

  "Since right after you went in. Doctor Boyer went to lunch."

  Typical.

  She looked down at her printout.

  "These are extraordinary times, N3."

  I can always tell when one of the girls in the agency wants to keep a relationship formal because that's when she will use my Killmaster rank. Actually, there is no N1 or N2 anymore; they were killed in the line of duty. At any rate, the blonde in the white jacket had obviously been filled in on the amorous exploits of Nick Carter — and she wanted no part of them.

  "Extraordinary times: .095, 090, .078, and so on. And not one slip on the green lights. Very fast and very sure. By the way, you're quite right, the colors were the director's idea."

  I bent over her shoulder and looked at the chart. If she thought I was concerned about the reaction times, she was wrong.

  "Well, Doctor Elizabeth Adams, if I'd known you were testing me, I would have made my responses slower so we could spend more time together."

  She ducked under my arm and stood up. The movement was neat, precise, no-fooling.

  "I've heard one or two things about you, N3. Enough to know you're just as fast with no lights on.

  I thought I detected a note of reluctant interest. Maybe she was just shy, not used to agents romping around in nothing but towels. Then:

  "You do exercises to keep in shape?" she asked, the professional veneer cracking a bit.

  "Yes, I do, Miss Adams. Elizabeth. Maybe I could show them to you sometime. Like sometime tonight perhaps?"

  "There's a rule about testers becoming involved with the agents."

  "This is not a proposal of marriage, Elizabeth. This is a proposition."

  For a moment I thought she might scream for Security. She frowned and bit her lips.

  "The director told me you were a very direct man," she said.

  "And what did the other girls around here tell you?"

  She was silent and then, marvel of marvels, she smiled. It was beautiful.

  "They used words like very fast and very sure, Mister Carter. Now," picking up her charts, "I'll send someone with your clothes. In the meantime, I'll think about our little discussion."

  Male chauvinist pig that I was, I whistled as I put my clothes back on and went to join the sardonic old man who ran the most efficient espionage agency in the world.

  I found Hawk in his office searching through his desk for one of the cheap cigars he loves to smoke. I took a seat and lit up one of my own gold-tipped cigarettes. The other agencies — Central Intelligence, Department of Defense, the FBI — p
ut a lot of their money into interior decorating. AXE, to put it mildly, does not. We have the smallest budget and the dirtiest jobs, and Hawk's offices show it. Personally, I sometimes think he prefers it that way.

  He sat silently for a while. I don't press Hawk about getting to the point. In his roundabout way the old man is always dead center. Finally he reached over to his desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper. I recognized it immediately by its cheap grayish cast as the letterhead of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, otherwise known as the Soviet Committee for State Security, or simply the KGB.

  "A 'friendly' took this out of a politburo file," Hawk said as he handed it to me.

  I whistled when I saw by the date that the report was just two days old. Like I said, Hawk was not someone to ever be underestimated. The gist of the report was the really interesting part, though. Especially since it concerned yours truly.

  "It's wrong. It has me down for the Kraznoff affair okay but it has the Chumbi explosions assigned to a new Killmaster."

  "Exactly. I've had other reports from the same source. You'll be interested to know that the Russian estimate of AXE strength is more than double what it actually is. You account for five agents by yourself." A trace of a grin showed on his thin lips. "Don't get cocky. They say that I am 'the most twisted genius since Rasputin.' What I'm trying to get across is that the boys in Moscow have not been able to keep their eyes as open as they should."

  He had me sitting on the edge of my chair. I was hooked now and he knew it; and I was beginning to agree with the Russian estimate of his personality.

  "How would you like to have some lunch?" Hawk changed the subject.

  The commissary sent up trays of roast beef and cottage cheese with peach halves. Hawk gave me his roast beef and took my cottage cheese. He was welcome to it.

  "How do you like the Russians' analysis?" he asked.

  "I think it's a sign we're doing a good job."

  "What about them? How do you think the opposition is doing? I don't want any political mumbo jumbo from you, N3. I get that every time I ride in an elevator with anyone from the State Department. You've been hand-to-hand with these people for some time. What I want from you is an assessment of the quality of manpower the Reds have been putting against us."

  It was something I really hadn't given much thought to. Now that I did, some interesting things were coming to mind. Like the kid in the Chumbi Valley I didn't have the nerve to kill. And the confusion that let the Russian ballerina and me slip out of the heart of Moscow.

  "Damn it, sir, they're slipping."

  "Yes. N3, they are. Expanding operations around the world — the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, the Chinese border — has given the Russians more headaches than they'd ever imagined. They're in the big leagues now and they're finding the going a little tougher than they thought. They're having all sorts of logistical problems with their new airfields and ships and, most important, with a thin line of top agents that's getting thinner all the time."

  "Sir," I went direct, "would you mind telling me what you've been leading up to?"

  Hawk stuck a new cigar into his tight grin.

  "Not at all. How would you like the idea of renting yourself out to the Russians for a while?"

  I almost jumped out of my chair and then I said he was kidding.

  "Not a bit, N3. Maybe you haven't known it, but ever since you stepped into that reaction chamber this morning, you've been on a lease to the KGB."

  Chapter Two

  We met the Russians on an abandoned civilian airfield in Delaware. There were three of us and three of them.

  Kasoff and I recognized each other immediately by our files. He was a well-dressed, elegant Muscovite, a tour director for Aeroflot when he wasn't on duty to the KGB. The two thugs with him weren't so elegant. Both looked as if they lifted weights at the same health club and bought their suits from the same pushcart.

  Besides Hawk and myself on our side there was AXE's Director of Special Effects and Editing, Dr. Thompson. He carried a box with the lettering, "Deluxe Formal Wear."

  "The famous Nick Carter. A pleasure to meet you." Kasoff said it as if he meant it.

  The cool spring breeze made his thugs' coats cling to the bulges under their armpits. They wore .32's from the size of the bulges. Despite the amiable greeting, I was conscious of what to do if things got ugly. I wouldn't be able to reach the Luger but I could eviscerate Kasoff and follow through across to the throat of the man to his left before anyone else could reach a gun. I'd take my chances from there. Maybe Kasoff read my thoughts because he raised his hands.

  "You're on our side now," he said in Russian. "Please, I know your reputation. That's why we asked for you especially."

  "Before we start talking, let's get comfortable," Hawk suggested.

  There was an empty terminal at the field. I was about to break the door open when Hawk produced a key. He always thinks of everything. There was even an urn of hot coffee waiting for us and Hawk did the honors of pouring the refreshment into paper cups.

  "You see, we Russians and you Americans, we agents on both sides, are merely pawns of our respective governments. A day ago, bitter enemies. Today, if you read the papers, we enjoy a billion-dollar trade agreement between Moscow and Washington. Trucks, turbines, grain. Instead of fighting a Cold War, our countries have become clients. The times are changing and we poor agents must change with them."

  "You have to remember that I read more than the papers," I said acidly. "Like the secret report on how you shot down an American plane over Turkey so you could capture an information drop from one of our satellites."

  Kasoff's eyes lit up momentarily.

  "That is off the track. The main thing is that in many parts of the world today American and Soviet interests are identical." He studied his manicured nails. "Like in Chile, for example. I trust your Spanish is as good as your Russian?"

  "My agent speaks half a dozen Spanish dialects," Hawk remarked and sipped his coffee. He wasn't boasting, just putting the Russian in his place.

  "Of course, of course. We have a very high regard for his abilities," Kasoff said quickly. "Very high."

  Then he went into his sales pitch without further ado. Chile now had a Marxist government; it was a country with strategic copper reserves. Moscow's problem was one the Russians were having to face all over the Communist world: their fight to the death with Red China. There was a new underground army, consisting of Maoist students and Chilean natives. They called themselves "MIRistas" and they were trying to take control of the Chilean government. The United States had already lost Chile to the Communist world and, with it, Chile's copper. The Soviet Union was willing to make that copper available to the world market again and at the same time promise no Marxist subversion of the neighboring South American nations.

  "After the Cuban missile crisis, we know just how much that promise is worth," I said dourly.

  "We all learned a lesson," Kasoff replied evenly. "Everyone but the mad-dog Chinese, that is."

  "Get to Belkev," Hawk told the Russian.

  "Ah, yes. Perhaps, Mister Carter, you remember the Castro tour of Chile. A new tour will start in two days, undertaken this time by our good comrade Alexander Belkev of the Ministry of the USSR. His object is to cement Russian trade agreements with the Allende regime. We have reason to believe that the MIRistas may try to cut his visit short by violent means, and here is where you come in. We want you to deliver something to Belkev when he arrives in Santiago."

  At this, Dr. Thompson opened his box, revealing an elegant-looking dinner suit. He displayed it with the pride of a new parent.

  "As you probably know, N3, the United States makes the best lightweight bulletproof vests in the world. The reason Castro looked so stout and dumpy when he was in Chile was that he was wearing the Russian model, no offense intended. The model we see here was created for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations when it had to protect some Asian leaders of slight build. Feel
it."

  I took the jacket in my hands. Despite the shields in its front and back, it couldn't have weighed more than six pounds.

  "We added the back shield especially for Belkev. The normal vest has only one in front. Inside there are overlapping Teflon-coated plastic plates. They will withstand direct shots from a .45-caliber automatic pistol. In fact, the coat will withstand a bullet from any known handgun."

  Kasoff eyed the vest with envy. I could remember a few times when I could have used it myself.

  "And you want me to deliver this to Belkev? That's all?"

  "Deliver it and fit it on him. Regrettably, the comrade is a suspicious man," Kasoff said with a straight face. "We felt that he would put more trust in this mutual arrangement between our countries if someone on as high a level as yourself performed this mission. It is a small thing to ask and it will go far in affirming American-Soviet cooperation and trust."

  A breeze flitted through the terminal's dilapidated walls, but there was no wind strong enough to ever blow away the stink of this proposal. It allowed the perfect setup for someone to collect a hundred thousand on the head of Nick Carter. Only my confidence in Hawk kept me from telling Kasoff right there that he could stuff the vest up his Aeroflot fuselage.

  "And when I deliver this plastic suit to Belkev, my job is done?"

  "Precisely," Kasoff murmured like a cat with canary feathers on its lips. Then he turned to Hawk. "Carter will be in Santiago by five o'clock tomorrow evening, right? There is to be a reception for Comrade Belkev at the Presidential Palace tomorrow night."

  "He will be there," Hawk replied. I could see that Kasoff wasn't going to get any details.

  The Russian took the rebuff in good grace, as why shouldn't he? He shook my hand.

  "Good luck, tovarisch. Maybe we will meet again sometime."

  "I'd like that," I said. In a dark alley, I wanted to add.

  On the way back from the airfield I tried to get the lowdown from Hawk. We sat alone in the back of his limousine. Dr. Thompson was up front with the chauffeur. The glass partition was up and the intercom was cut off.