Nick Carter
The Killing Ground
Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Prologue
Wind-driven snow howled around the eaves of the buildings in the vast compound. It was late night, and the temperatures had already plunged well below zero in the Siberian outpost. Far on the other side of the camp, enclosed within a high steel mesh fence, the guards slept in safe isolation. Out in the open, where there were no guards at night, no fences, only the cold weather and thousands of miles of frozen terrain, it was no-man’s land. This was a labor camp for some of the worst, most hardened criminals in the Soviet Union. Murderers, rapists, bombers. Russia had them all, though it was never publicized.
A tall, powerfully built man dashed from the comer of one of the buildings into the shadows behind the next. He was oblivious to the cold. His survival that night would depend upon his complete concentration. He could make no mistakes. And to fail would be the biggest mistake of all.
“His name is Balachev. Big man with a scar on his right cheek,” the mission-master explained.
“What did he do?”
“He’s a nice fellow, let me tell you, Arkadi. He killed his mother, raped and killed both of his sisters, then strangled his father — who was a steelworker and no small man himself — after which he cut them all into little pieces and threw them into the Moscow River. How do you like that?”
“He sounds sick.”
“In camp he’s known as ‘the enforcer.’ Already he’s killed six men.”
“Why hasn’t he been taken out of there and shot? Why play games with someone like that?” Arkadi Konstantinovich Ganin asked. He and his mission-master sat in a warm office in the town of Krasnoyarsk.
“He serves two purposes, and so has been too valuable to execute. He has kept order in the camp. If anyone gets out of line, he simply kills them.”
“But that has ended?” There was a hardness to Ganin, but a natural curiosity, too. He held the KGB rank of colonel.
“Unfortunately yes. We are moving the camp away from there. The work has been done. There is a new project. Balachev would be a disruptive element.”
Ganin nodded. He had an idea what might be coming, and he didn’t like it. He was a killer. A highly trained assassin, the best in the Soviet Union. But like most professionals, he was not a wanton criminal. When he had a job to do, he did it with skill and dispatch.
“There was a second reason you mentioned,” Ganin prompted.
“Ah, yes, of course, comrade. The second purpose Balachev will serve will be for your training.”
Ganin sat up. “What are you saying?”
“Your orders are to go into the camp — tonight — and kill Comrade Balachev.”
Ganin’s dark eyes narrowed. This was stupid. More than that, it was outrageous.
“Without weapons, Arkadi Konstantinovich. You will be unarmed.”
“What is the purpose of this assignment?” Ganin asked. His mission-master, whose name he did not know, was a hard man who had trained him well. But he didn’t like this at all.
“If you fail, you will be dead, and we will simply shoot poor Balachev in the head to end his misery. If you succeed, you will be assigned to something new out of Moscow. Something that would involve much travel. Overseas travel.”
“Yes?”
“It is called Komodel — Komitet Mokrie Dela — the State Committee for Wet Affairs.”
“There is a Department Viktor in the KGB—” Ganin started, “but his mission-master cut him off.”
“This is special, Arkadi. This is run by Kobelev himself.”
The name Kobelev kept running through Ganin’s mind as he studied Barracks A from where he was concealed in the shadows. Atop every fifth building was a strong light that illuminated a wide section of the compound. The one atop the A building flickered intermittently with the wind. Balachev was in that building. Waiting for him. On parting, Ganin’s mission-master had informed him that the entire camp knew that someone would be in there to try for the killer. It made the assignment that much more interesting, on Kobelev’s orders.
No one would be protecting Balachev; at least Ganin didn’t think there would be. But the camp was filled with a thousand pairs of eyes and ears. Balachev would have his watchers. They would be reporting to him on any movement outside.
On the way out to the camp Ganin had devised a dozen plans, scrapping each after a few minutes’ reflection. Going up against one man with any kind of stealth would be impossible with all the watchers. In the end it would come down to one thing: a man-to-man fight. One-on-one. Ganin’s skill against Balachev’s.
Ganin stepped out away from the building behind which he had been crouching and approached the barracks. He could sense that he was being watched. Even the wind died for a moment.
“Balachev!” Ganin shouted. “Vasili Mikhailovich Balachev!”
A light atop the building flickered with a gust of wind, the metal cage over the bulb rattling.
“Balachev!” Ganin shouted again. “You are a motherless whore! A killer of weak people! Come outside and meet your match!”
For several long seconds there was no sound, no movement, and Ganin was about to shout again, when the barracks’ door crashed open and a monster of a man burst outside in a blur, bellowing in rage, a long, wicked-looking butcher knife raised over his head.
Ganin was just barely able to feint to the left, then slide right as Balachev charged, the knife swinging in a long, deadly arc, slicing open Ganin’s left sleeve.
Suddenly there were hundreds of prisoners pouring out of the barracks, forming a circle in front of the building. Either way the fight went, it would provide entertainment, and some relief. If Balachev won, it would be their blow against the state. If, on the other hand, Ganin should win, it would provide them relief against the monster’s tyranny.
Balachev had spun around in the snow, surprisingly light on his feet for his size, and he immediately charged again. This time the knife was in his left hand, and he held it low, so that he could slice upward.
Ganin had only a split second to regain his balance, and he leaped up, kicked out with both feet, catching Balachev square in the chest, and fell back, twisting out of the way as he went down. His movements were hampered by his heavy clothing, however, and he was an instant too late. Balachev buried the knife in the meaty part of Ganin’s left thigh, the pain shooting throughout his entire body.
A roar went up from the crowd of prisoners.
Balachev, sensing an early, easy victory, smiled insanely and leaped at the same moment. With superhuman effort, Ganin yanked the knife from his leg, rolled over, and brought it up, stiff-armed, the blade burying itself to the hilt in the big man’s chest.
Nikolai Fedor Kobelev stood at the window of his third-floor office looking out across Dzerzhinskogo Plaza toward Lubyanka Prison and the downtown building that headquartered the KGB. His Department Viktor office had been over there at one time. But the place was a madhouse. One hand had no idea what the other was doing. He had often maintained that the KGB’s downfall would come not because of Western coups; it would collapse of its own ponderous weight.
“Fools and opportunists, more interested in licking their superiors’ boots than doing a creative, intelligent job,” he muttered.
A knock came at his door.
“Come in,” he snapped.
His secretary Ivan Stanovich came in. “We have gotten word from Krasnoyarsk, Comrade General.”
“Yes?” Kobelev barked without turning around.
“Balachev is dead.”
“Ganin was successful, then?”