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At length, he pulled out his stiletto, and keeping low, he moved away from the wall, deeper into the courtyard, the back of the neighboring brownstone to his left, and the backs of other apartment buildings looming overhead straight across.

Carter slowly circled around to the right, but hearing a noise just ahead of him, he stopped in his tracks. It had sounded like a metallic crackle, or a hiss.

“Nothing here,” someone said in Russian. The voice obviously came from a walkie-talkie.

The courtyard bodyguard murmured some reply that Carter could not make out, though he could tell the man was very close. Possibly fifteen or twenty feet away. A siren sounded somewhere down toward 34th Street.

Carter inched forward, then stopped again as a match flared just beyond a bronze statue. A moment later cigarette smoke drifted back to him. The bodyguard grunted, then moved to the left of the statue and sat down on the low bench, his back to Carter.

Gripping the stiletto lightly in his right hand, never taking his eyes off the big Russian, Carter silently stepped past the statue and directly up to the man.

At the last moment the Russian, sensing he was no longer alone, started to turn, but by then it was too late for him. Carter flipped his stiletto over and, gripping the haft firmly in his right hand, clipped the man sharply at the base of his skull behind his right ear.

The Russian’s head snapped forward, his body went slack, and he slumped down onto the grass, his eyes fluttering, his left leg twitching.

Working swiftly now, Carter sheathed his stiletto, stepped around the bench, pulled off the Russian’s tie and belt, and trussed the man’s arms and legs together at his back. The man was just coming around as Carter stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth.

“Listen to me, comrade,” Carter said in Russian. “I wish you no harm.”

The Russian came fully awake, and for a moment or two he struggled against his bonds. But it was no use. He settled down.

“That’s better,” Carter said, continuing to speak in Russian. “If you move, if you try to escape, I will come back and surely kill you. Do you understand?”

The Russian looked up at Carter, his eyes narrowed. But he nodded.

“Very good. It will only be a few minutes, I promise you. Be a good boy now.”

The Russian was a pro. He was studying Carter’s face, making sure that if and when he got out of this, he would be able to provide an accurate description.

“My name is Nick Carter. I want you to know that, comrade. I wish Comrade Ganin to know that as well. Tell him I was here.”

The Russian’s expression did not change.

Carter reached inside the man’s coat and withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open and in the dim light studied the diplomatic identification. The man’s name was Yuri Pavlovich Mosolov. He was assigned as a trade specialist with the Soviet delegation to the U.N. Carter returned the man’s wallet, then straightened up and hurried across the courtyard to Lashkin’s building. The rear door was secured only with a simple tumbler lock, which Carter picked in less than twenty seconds.

Inside, a dimly lit corridor ran the length of the building. In front was the elevator, but to the right of where Carter stood — just within the doorway, there was a flight of stairs.

He hurried to the top floor, checked to make sure no one was in the corridor, then went down to the front apartment and listened at the door.

Music was playing softly from within, and Carter thought he heard a woman laughing.

He stepped aside, out of the range of the peephole in the door, and knocked loudly.

The music stopped a moment later.

Carter knocked again. “Comrade Lashkin,” he said urgently in Russian.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked from the other side of the door. “Who is there?”

“It is me... Mosolov. Open, hurry!”

“Yuri Pavlovich?” the man said, unlocking the door.

Carter pulled out his Luger, and as the door came open, he pushed his way inside.

Lashkin was shoved aside, and he cried out in alarm. Carter brought up Wilhelmina as he closed the door behind him.

“Believe me when I tell you that I do not want to shoot you, Petr Sergeiovich, but I will if you do not cooperate,” Carter snapped in Russian.

The apartment was small but very tastefully decorated. Lydia Borasova, wearing only a filmy negligee, appeared in the doorway from the bedroom.

“Petr...” she started to say, but then her hand came up to her mouth and she stepped back.

“Get back out here, Miss Borasova,” Carter ordered.

She hesitated. She was obviously very frightened.

“Who are you? What do you want with us?” Lashkin asked.

“Nick Carter. I have come here to talk with you about Arkadi Ganin.”

Lashkin turned white, and he stumbled backward, off-balance, as if he were on the verge of collapse.

Carter motioned for Lydia to come out. “I don’t want to hurt either of you, but I will if I have to,” he said.

The woman came the rest of the way out into the living room, and she and Lashkin sat down together on the couch.

Lashkin, suddenly conscious that his girl friend was nearly naked, looked up. “Let her put on something decent.”

“Your friend was not so considerate of my girl friend,” Carter said harshly. “She stays.”

Lashkin wanted to protest, but he was too frightened. “I don’t know this... Arkadi Ganin of whom you speak.”

“Yes, you do. He was most recently in Cuba under the cover name Hildebrandt. Does that name mean anything to you, comrade?”

Lashkin started to shake his head, but Lydia touched his sleeve. He looked at her.

“Tell him, Petr, and then he might go,” she said. She was a very good-looking woman, with an intelligent face.

“Shut up,” Lashkin hissed.

“If you value your life, comrade, you will listen to her. She is making sense.”

“Either you kill me, or... they do it. Either way I lose,” Lashkin said fatalistically.

“You die here and now, or live to take your chances another day. Your choice,” Carter said.

Lashkin held his silence.

“Petr?” Lydia said in a small voice.

“What do you want of me? I know this Hildebrandt. He was here in New York a few days ago. So what?”

“Here to see you?”

Lashkin just looked at him for a moment in stony silence. “He came to my office. He spoke with me. All right?”

“About what, comrade? What did Hildebrandt wish to tell you?”

Again Lashkin was reticent.

Carter prompted him. “You are number two in the KGB hierarchy here. I know that, so let’s not tell lies now.”

“He checked in with me, that’s all,” Lashkin blurted.

“Was he running an operation here in New York?”

“Not that I was aware of,” the KGB officer said. He glanced at Lydia, who had an odd, frightened look in her eyes.

“It’s standard procedure for visiting operatives to check in with you?”

Lashkin looked back at Carter. He nodded. “Yes. We don’t want—” He realized he was going too far, and he clamped it off.

Carter just looked at him.

“Hildebrandt was here. I have told you what you wanted to know, now get out of here,” Lashkin said finally.

“What did he look like?” Carter asked.

Lashkin shrugged. “I don’t know. Tall, dark. He was quite a good-looking fellow. I really didn’t look at him that closely.”

“That man was Arkadi Ganin. I believe you know that name,” Carter said.

Again Lashkin paled, and his hand shook as he wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip. “I don’t know this... Ganin. I have never seen him.”