"How long do you guess this one will take?"
"Only Carter knows that," he said, turning back to Carter.
Carter shrugged. "A month, not more than five weeks. We think the date for the big summit between the KGB and the terrorist groups will be about then. By the way, hands off on the first two bedrooms on the left at the top of the stairs. The lady and I will need those for today."
There were several nods, and the men dispersed. Garrett moved behind the bar and took a healthy slug of sour mash.
"That stuff will kill you," Carter said.
"So will old age and not using seat belts," Garrett replied. "Where is it?"
"Upstairs."
"Let's go."
Garrett dived into the computer and the books of records alongside it as Carter eased in behind the desk. Carter lit a cigarette, took a slug from his drink, and dialed David Hawk's private Washington number.
"It's me, sir."
"How did it go?"
"Five bad guys wasted along with Kashmir himself. Three stretcher cases with sore heads. They're in the wine cellar. The cleanup boys are on their way to dispose of the deceased."
"And ours?"
"One winged, Chris. It's not serious. He's already on his way to Bethesda."
"How did the Italian lady fare?"
"Like a champ. She killed Kashmir herself."
"Excellent. Then you have no doubts she can carry the rest of it off?"
"None. What do we hear from Rome?"
"Pietro Amani's parole has been denied. We had a little bit to do with that, of course, but it's a known fact that Nicolo Palmori would try to kill him if he were released, so the parole denial is pretty plausible."
"Anything further on the meet?… time?… place?"
"Nothing. There are rumblings all over the world, so we know it's going to happen. But this operation is still the only real chance we have to find out when and where."
"Good enough," Carter said, downing the last of the scotch in the glass. "Delivery is for Amsterdam, Friday."
"I'll set up means of transportation. Anything else right now?"
"Nothing that I can think of. I'll contact you just before we hit Italy."
"Fine."
No good-byes were said. Sign-off between the head of AXE and his top agent was easily done with a tonal inflection.
Carter moved to the wall panel. Garrett was humming as his fingers flew over the keys.
"What do you think?"
"Piece of cake. Man, this guy is into everything."
"You're sure you can shoot through Bartinelli to Amsterdam without tipping us?"
"Positive. She must have been off her feed earlier tonight. She transmitted some plain-language stuff, then turned around and sent the same things in code. Helped crack it in minutes."
"I'm going to get some sleep. Roust me about two."
"You got it."
Carter moved into the hall. He paused at Carlotta Polti's door, remembering how she looked when she had dropped that towel.
His knuckles were halfway up to the door panel, when he changed his mind and moved on down the hall to the other bedroom.
Time enough for that later, he thought.
Four
Passports at Kennedy were no problem. Carlotta used her own. Carter used Ali Maumed Kashmir's. It was Lebanese, and one of Al Garrett's team had doctored it perfectly with Carter's picture and a stamp that defied proof of falsification.
The KLM 747 lifted off at exactly ten-fifteen, and drinks were placed in front of them the moment they hit cruising altitude.
"Where will we stay in Amsterdam? "Her eyes were clear and bright. The day's uninterrupted rest had done her a world of good.
"The Amstel," Carter replied, "until after the contact is made and everything is set. We'll play it by ear from there."
She sipped her drink thoughtfully. "It will be a long way from Amsterdam to Italy."
Carter nodded. "And even longer from there to… God knows where."
"I know." She cased her head back onto the seat, slipped the small plastic earphones of the in-flight entertainment recording to her ears, and closed her eyes as soothing music infused the tiny headset.
Carter retreated into his own thoughts.
His mind ticked off what had already been accomplished and what they hoped to accomplish in the next few weeks.
For the past several months, intelligence services throughout the free world had gotten rumblings that terrorist activities were about to be stepped up. After weeks of piecing together odds and ends of information, rumors, and a few solid facts, it was theorized that the KGB was preparing to jump back into worldwide terrorism with both feet.
Quietly, word had gone out from Number 2 Dzerzhinsky Square — KGB headquarters in Moscow — that Big Daddy himself would like a meeting with terrorist leaders.
Ostensibly, the meeting would be to plot future terrorist thrusts in their respective countries under the guidance of the KGB. It also came to light that an agreement would probably be reached as to the money and arms that Mother Russia would pour into the programs to step up terrorist activities in the West.
When enough facts and figures had been assembled, a team had been put together and a plan formulated. Eventually, the key twist in the plan had been handed over to David Hawk and AXE.
"The end result is fairly simple, N3," Hawk had said, chewing on his cigar and frowning at his top agent across the expanse of his cluttered desk. "We would like to know where and when this meeting will take place."
"And from there?"
"Disrupt it, of course. But more importantly, we'd like to get some concrete proof to hold over the KGB's head that they are indeed sponsoring worldwide terrorism."
"It would be a coup."
"One of the biggest," Hawk growled, flashing a rare, malevolent smile. "We've got a plan that may get you to that meeting."
Pietro Amani was the founder of a once-powerful Italian guerrilla group called La Amicizia di Liberia Italiana. His life — and his case — was an odd one. As the scion of a wealthy Italian publishing family, it seemed impossible that Amani would become the leader of a group whose sole purpose for being was the overthrow of the very class of which he was an intrinsic member.
But that was indeed the case.
However, Amani was more than a left-wing millionaire. He wanted to go down in history as Italy's Fidel Castro, the so-called liberator of his people. In so doing, Amani had spent nearly all his fortune trying to buy the place in history he coveted so much.
His failure, to date, had probably come through the very group he had founded, the Liberta. If not the entire group, it was assumed that at least one of its members, Nicolo Palmori — one of Amani's lieutenants — had betrayed the leader.
When Amani was arrested for murder, the supplying of arms to known terrorists, and treason, his enemies within the group — led by Palmori — took over what was left of Amani's fortune and the group.
Amani himself was incarcerated in the maximum security prison at Castel Montferrato for a term of twenty-five years.
It was now the eighth year of his sentence, and his former group — under the leadership of Nicolo Palmori — was in disarray.
"It's our hunch," Hawk continued, "that if Amani were out of prison, it would be he — and not Palmori — who would be the Liberia's representative at the KGB's little party."
Carter had groaned inwardly but kept his face an expressionless mask. He could already see what was coming.
"And, Nick, if you gained Amani's confidence by being the one to break him out of jail, you might also be elected to accompany him as, shall we say, his protector."
"Why would he need a protector?"
Hawk averted his eyes, suddenly becoming very interested in a painting on the far office wall. "Well," he said at last, "obviously, when Amani is free, Palmori's people will go after him. Also, since Amani didn't always agree with the Russians when he was in power, it can be supposed that they, too, would like to discourage his attendance."