Assassin: Code Name Vulture

by Nick Carter

  The red hair confused me for a moment, but then I realized that when I had last seen her, the hair had been short and brunette. That had been in Israel over a year ago. The girl's name was Erika Nystrom. She was a member of Israel's Shin Bet intelligence network. Her code name had been Flame when she and I had worked together to foil a Russian plot against the Israeli government, but that name was changed with each assignment.

  I rose and went to her table. When she raised her long lashes to meet my eyes, a smile swept across her face. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "It's you. What a pleasant surprise." She spoke English with almost no trace of an accent.

  Erika's parents had been Scandinavian Jews. Her family had lived first in Oslo and then in Copenhagen before they had emigrated to Israel when she was only eight years old.

  "I was about to say the same thing," I said. Erika and I had spent an intimate evening in Tel Aviv while waiting for a courier to show up; it was an evening we had both enjoyed very much. Her eyes told me now that she remembered it with fondness. "Will you join me at my table?"

  "Well, someone is joining me later, Nick. Would you mind?"

  "Not as much as not talking to you," I said.

  She joined me at my table and ordered a light lunch for herself and the third person, who she explained, was a fellow agent "You look very well, Nick."

  "You should have seen me a week ago," I said. "I like the red hair, Erika."

  She dazzled me with a smile. A long, aquiline nose set off a wide, sensuous mouth. Her eyes were a dark green, and the dress made them sparkle. "Thanks," she said. "It's mine, except for the color. It was short when we — worked together in Israel."

  "I remember," I said. "Are you here on business?"

  "Yes," she answered. "You?"

  "Yes," I grinned. "It's always business, isn't it?"

  "Almost always."

  I recalled reading in the newspapers recently that Israel was outraged by the assassination of Moshe Ben Canaan and that their president had vowed to get to the bottom of it. It was this assassination in which American intelligence believed Adrian Stavros to be involved. I couldn't help wondering if Erika was in Rio to either abduct Adrian Stavros to Israel, which was the Israeli's style, or to kill him.

  "Are you going to be in Rio long enough for us to have a drink and a talk together?" I asked.

  "Possibly," she said. The cleavage was pushed together by her arms as she rested them on the table, and my blood pressure rose ten points. Her green eyes looked into mine and told me that she knew I was not talking about wine and conversation.

  I picked up my glass. She had ordered and had been served the same Grande Uniao Cabernet. "To that possibility," I toasted.

  She picked up her own glass and clinked it against mine. "To that possibility."

  We had just finished the toast when the young man arrived. I didn't even see him until he was standing beside us. He was a blocky, muscular fellow with very short, blond hair and a hard, square face. Part of his left ear was missing, but that defect didn't harm his masculine good looks. He wore a beige summer-weight suit that didn't completely conceal the bulge under his left arm.

  "I did not see you at first, Erika," he said rather stiffly, eyeing me. "I did not expect you to be with someone."

  The words were intended as a mild reproach. They had been spoken with a marked accent. I recalled a photo of this man in AXE's Israeli intelligence file. He was Zachariah Ghareb, an executioner of Shin Bet. My theory about his and Erika's presence in Rio seemed strengthened.

  "This is an old friend, Zach," Erika said. "He worked with me in Israel."

  Ghareb seated himself at the third place setting. "I know," he said. "Carter, I believe."

  "That's right."

  "Your reputation precedes you."

  His manner was brittle, almost hostile. I sensed his jealousy about my knowing Erika. Before I could answer him, he turned to her. "Did you order the vichyssoise as I suggested?"

  "Yes, Zach," Erika said, a little embarrassed by his lack of friendliness. "It will be here shortly."

  "The vichyssoise is the only thing worth eating at this restaurant," Zach complained a bit too loudly.

  "I'm sorry you've had bad luck," I replied smoothly. "I find most of the dishes here well prepared. Perhaps they've changed chefs since your last visit."

  Zach turned and gave me a taut smile. "Perhaps."

  I decided that the conversation was going to be something less than pleasant from this point on. I was finished with my meal, so I called the waiter to bring my check. I offered to pay for the whole party, but Zach quickly declined.

  "Where are you staying?" I asked Erika.

  "At the Corumba on the Avenida Rio Branco," she said.

  Zach stared at her.

  "Under what name?"

  She hesitated. "Vargas."

  "May I call you there?"

  "You will have little time for socializing,"

  Zach said quickly to her.

  She ignored him and gave me a nice smile.

  "Yes, you may call me. I hope we can get together again, Nick."

  I rose. "The feeling is mutual." I touched my hand to hers and our eyes locked together for a brief moment. I knew Zach was jealous, and since I didn't like him, I was playing it up for his benefit He sat there glaring at me. "You'll hear from me."

  "Good," Erika said.

  I turned from them and left the restaurant I could almost feel the heat from Zach's hostility on my back as I walked out.

  That afternoon I took the cable car up to spectacular Corcovado Mountain, which was crested with the enormous statue of Christ the Redeemer. When I got there, I went to the observation parapet, stood in a designated spot, and waited. In about fifteen minutes, a man joined me at the railing. He was about my height, but slimmer. Although he was not yet in middle age, his long face was deeply lined. He was Carl Thompson, and he worked for the CIA.

  "Fine view, isn't it?" he said by way of introduction, waving a hand toward the city below which glistened white in the sun and was flanked by green hills and cobalt sea.

  "Breathtaking," I said. "How's it going, Thompson?"

  "About the same," he said. "It's been fairly quiet down here since the last change of administration at Brasilia. How's everything at AXE these days? For a while there you guys were shooting up more ammunition than the army in Asia."

  I grinned. "Sometimes it does seem that way. I've kept busy, as I'm sure you have."

  "And now they've put you onto Adrian Stavros."

  "That's right." I watched a cruise ship, plying the blue water with its sleek bow, move slowly into the harbor. It looked like a toy boat down there. "When is the last time you saw him?"

  He thought a moment. "We have the plantation under surveillance on a spot basis. He was seen leaving the place five or six weeks ago. We think he got on a plane going to Madrid."

  "That flight could have continued to Athens."

  "It probably did. Has he been seen there?"

  "We think so. What goes on at the plantation?"

  "The plantation is his real headquarters. He has the Apex Imports outfit here in Rio, and we think the smuggling is conducted through that company. But he doesn't visit its offices very much, even though his name is openly associated with it. The president of the company makes regular trips to Paracatu."

  "And that's where the plantation is located?"

  Thompson nodded. "It's near the village, out in the middle of nowhere. It's guarded by Stavros' own small army of ex-cons, political fanatics, and ex-Nazis. There's just a skeleton force there now, though."

  "You haven't noticed anything unusual out there, anything out of the ordinary?" I asked.

  "Well, if you mean a build-up of people or arms, the answer is no. But there has been a visitor whom none of us had seen before. We've had almost constant surveillance since his appearance with Stavros ninety days ago, and nobody has seen him leave the place. That in itself isn't particularly unusual, except that one of my two m
en insists that the new fellow, a middle-aged man, is a prisoner there. He's been hustled from one building to another by an armed guard."

  "What did this man look like?"

  Thompson shrugged. "We have a photo of him, but it's from a distance. He's about fifty, I'd say, with short, dark hair that has become a little gray at the temples. He's a stocky man who always seems to wear silk shirts."

  It sounded as if the man might be Minourkos, the Greek shipping magnate whose political pronouncements had recently shaken up Athens and at whose penthouse Adrian Stavros had been seen.

  "Can I have a copy of the photograph?"

  "That can be arranged," Thompson said. "Look, Carter, in the last week or so we've had to temporarily reduce our surveillance of the plantation to spot-checks again, and I may have to pull our people out of there completely in the next couple of days because there is another problem that has developed for us. Do you want me to get permission to put a man back on it with you?"

  "No," I said. "Hawk has promised me help if I need it. When can I have the photograph?"

  "How about tonight?"

  "Fine."

  "There's a drop site we use that's a bit different," Thompson said. "It's a city bus. You will get on at your hotel. My man will already have been on and off. You will go to the rear where nobody sits and take the last seat on your right. The photograph will be taped underneath that seat. The bus will be marked Estrada de Ferro and will take you downtown if you want to go that far."

  "When does the bus go past the hotel?"

  "At seven-fifteen. The bus will be marked number eleven."

  "Okay," I said. "And thanks."

  "Any time," Thompson said. A moment later he was gone.

  In the late afternoon I made a brief visit to the offices of the Apex Import Company. It was located in one of the old renovated government buildings that had been left empty when the capital moved to Brasilia. The offices were three flights up, and the elevator wasn't working.

  I entered a rather small reception office upstairs. There was perspiration on my brow from the climb, for the air-conditioning in the building seemed not to work much better than the elevator and it was a muggy day in Rio. A dark-haired girl sat at a metal desk and looked up at me suspiciously when I entered.

  "May I help you?" she asked in Portuguese.

  I responded in English. "I would like to see Mr. Stavros."

  Her dark eyes narrowed even more. When she spoke again, it was in broken English. "I believe you come to wrong place, senhor."

  "Oh?" I said. "But Mr. Stavros told me himself that I might contact him through the Apex Imports Company."

  "Senhor, Mr. Stavros does not have an office…"

  The door to a private office opened and a husky, dark-haired man appeared. "Is there some difficulty?" he demanded. His tone was not what could be called friendly.

  "I was just looking for Mr. Stavros," I said.

  "For what purpose?"

  I ignored the rudeness. "Mr. Stavros advised me that I might purchase Japanese cameras in wholesale lots from him if I contacted him here." I acted perplexed. "Am I in the wrong office?"

  "Mr. Stavros is the chairman of the board," the dark man said, "but he has no office here, and he does not do business for the company. I am its president; you may deal with me."

  "This is Senhor Carlos Ubeda," the girl interposed, a bit haughtily.

  "I'm glad to meet you, sir," I said, extending my hand. He took it stiffly. "My name is Johnson. I met Mr. Stavros quite casually in the Chale Restaurant several weeks ago. He said he would return from a trip to Europe about this time and that I might contact him here."

  "He is still in Athens," the girl said.

  Ubeda gave her a blistering look. "As I said, Mr. Stavros cannot be reached here. But I will be happy to forward your order."

  "I see. Well, I did want to deal with him personally. Can you tell me when he might return from Athens?"

  A muscle twitched in Ubeda's face near his mouth. "He is not expected back from Europe for several weeks, Mr. Johnson. If you want to do business, you will have to deal with me."

  I smiled. "I'll give you a call, Mr. Ubeda. Thanks for your time."

  I left them staring after me. Once again out on the street, I hailed a taxi and returned to my hotel. The girl's slip had given me the confirmation I had wanted, Adrian Stavros was indeed in Athens as Salomos had told me. And if that photograph turned out to be a picture of Nikkor Minourkos, things were getting interesting.

  I showered and rested for a short time, then boarded bus number eleven according to Thompson's instructions. As he had predicted, the photograph was taped to the seat in a small, brown envelope. I recovered it and went to a little cafe downtown and ordered a good Portuguese wine. Only then did I take the photograph from the envelope and study it.

  As Thompson had said, the picture was not a: good one, even though a telephoto lens had undoubtedly been used. It was a shot of three men, having just emerged from a rambling ranch house, walking toward the camera. The man in the middle was the one Thompson had described to me, and despite the small size of the face that I had to identify, there was little doubt in my mind, as I compared it to the face that I had been shown in AXE photographs, that this man was in fact Nikkor Minourkos. I had never seen the other men before.

  Minourkos was walking sullenly between the other two figures. None of them were talking, but the man on Minourkos' left, a tall, Teutonic-like fellow, was looking toward Minourkos as if he had just spoken to him and expected an answer. Minourkos' face was somber and grave.

  I slipped the photograph back into the envelope and stuck it into a pocket. If the CIA agent's observation had been correct, my friend Salomos' theory was indeed proven. Somehow Stavros had taken over the Minourkos operation in Athens and was plotting a coup in Minourkos' name.

  After a light meal at the cafe, I called Erika Nystrom's room at the Corumba Hotel. Her voice was friendly and warm. She said she would have the rest of the evening to herself, alone, and that she would be delighted to have me visit her. She and Zach had had a small argument, and he had gone off to a nightclub in a huff.

  Making a date for nine, I returned to my hotel and placed a call to Hawk. He answered in a tired voice and activated the scrambler at his end of the line so that we could talk without putting everything in code.

  "What an unseemly hour, Nick," he said a bit testily. "It seems to be the only time I ever hear from you."

  I grinned. I could visualize him sitting at the special phone in his super-secret apartment, his gray hair ruffled, with perhaps a silk smoking jacket on his stringy frame and the inevitable cigar clamped between his teeth.

  "At least I'm not in some girl's bedroom," I said with questionable honesty.

  "Hmmph! The evening's not over yet, is it? Don't con me, my boy. I've been through all that myself."

  Sometimes I felt as if Hawk had psychic powers that laid my innermost thoughts bare to his analytical mind.

  "No, sir," I admitted. "The evening isn't over. But I've made good use of the first part of it I think Minourkos is a prisoner at Stavros' plantation near Paracatu. Also, I've learned that Stavros is in Athens."

  "Well," Hawk said pensively, "that's interesting."

  "That fits into Salomos' theory."

  "So you're going to Paracatu?" Hawk asked.

  "That's right. Maybe I can get to the bottom of this. Thompson of CIA says the plantation is lightly guarded at the moment. But there is a complication."

  "Yes?"

  "An old friend is here in Rio. The young lady I worked with in Israel on the Promised Land Operation."

  "Oh, yes. Nystrom. Why is it that good looking women seem to follow you around the world?"

  I chuckled. "Mustn't be envious, sir. As you pointed out, you had your days, too — and nights."

  A sigh issued from the other end. "Get on with it, Nick."

  "Well, sir, it occurs to me that Miss Nystrom just may be here in Brazil for the sam
e reason I am. Or, rather, after the same man. We do suspect Stavros in the Ben Canaan assassination, don't we?"

  A small silence. "Yes, we do. And you've made a good guess, I'd say."

  "She has an executioner with her," I added. "I think they're gunning for Stavros. They may not know he's in Athens at the moment. But I don't want all of us to show up at the plantation at the same time and end up shooting at each other by mistake or otherwise fouling up the works. My idea is for you to verify Nystrom's mission with Israeli intelligence. You're an old friend of her boss, Giroux, and I think he'll level with you under the circumstances."

  Hawk grunted assent "You're right."

  "If that's the case, I think we should all be frank, and sit down to see whether we can help each other. Or at least keep out of each other's way."

  The silence was longer this time. "Okay, my boy. I'll call Giroux and get in touch with you."

  "Thanks," I said. "I won't move until I hear from you."

  I didn't have to wait long. An hour later, just before I left for Erika's hotel, I got the call from Hawk. He must have gotten Giroux out of bed before dawn in Jerusalem. Giroux's answer was affirmative, and I was instructed to discuss the Stavros matter openly with Nystrom who was in charge of the assignment, even though she had Zach Ghareb with her. I was given a code word that would prove that Giroux had ordered her to discuss her work with me.

  I arrived at Erika's room a few minutes after nine. She met me at the door in a brief lounging robe that showed much of her thighs. She was wearing a sultry perfume and a wide, sensuous smile.

  "I thought you'd never get here," she said as she closed the door behind me and locked it.