Seven
It seemed like years since Carter had slept last, and he was dead tired, but he was a driven man now that he fully understood whom he was up against and what the stakes were. He had no illusions about Kobelev. The man was crazy for revenge, but he was brilliant. If he was successful with this operation, there would be no stopping him. Sooner or later one of his outrageous schemes, one of his terrible operations, would result in a confrontation between the two superpowers.
Carter left his car at Hawk’s cabin and hitched a ride with his boss to the helicopter pad on the East River just a few blocks south of the United Nations.
Hawk was to arrange cover identities and passports for Carter and the Russian woman. The plan was to take her down to Washington, and from there fly to London, where they would take the ferry across to France. Kobelev’s people would be watching for Carter to fly into Charles de Gaulle or Orly outside Paris. And they would redouble their efforts as soon as it was learned that Carter had the woman. Coming down to Paris by car would throw them off.
Beyond that, Carter had his own plans that he had not discussed even with Hawk. Kobelev wanted revenge, but so did Carter.
“It won’t be easy, Nick,” Hawk said when they’d landed. “The man is brilliant. He’ll have more tricks up his sleeve.”
“I know, sir,” Carter said.
They shook hands. “Good luck, then.”
“Thanks.”
Carter took a cab over to Penn Station, left his suitcase in a coin-operated locker, then bought two one-way tickets to Washington, D.C., on the evening train that left at eight. Their identities, passports, and travel arrangements would be ready for them when they arrived.
In a stall in the men’s room he checked his weapons, then took another cab, this time to within a couple of blocks of Lydia Borasova’s apartment, where he made a quick pass on foot.
There were no police cars out front, which he found mildly surprising. But Lashkin and Borasova were both Soviet diplomats, and therefore enjoyed diplomatic immunity. The Soviet delegation must have raised enough hell to make the New York police back down. And as far as Kobelev was concerned, the risk with the woman was all but over. She would be guarded by her own people.
It was just after four when he approached the apartment, this time from the north down Fifth Avenue. It was Wednesday, and the streets were crowded.
Within half a block of the apartment, he spotted the first of the Russian legmen coming around the corner from Madison Avenue.
Carter merged smoothly with a knot of people on the sidewalk, and he kept moving. The Russian stopped a moment, then, apparently realizing something, turned on his heel and walked back the way he had come. Before he disappeared around the corner, though, he scanned the street in both directions. He was definitely a pro. Carter hesitated, and feigned interest in a window display.
A couple of minutes later, still at that corner, Carter spotted the big, barrel-chested man turning the far corner.
It was a pattern. Evidently the man went back and forth in front of the apartment building, turning the corner at both ends of the block, making sure of the approaches.
Next he’d come back that way, then turn and repeat the process.
Carter quickly crossed the street and went up the steps to the Morgan Library, where he lit a cigarette and waited fully five minutes until the Russian appeared once again at the corner, looked both ways up the street, and turned back.
Immediately after the man disappeared, Carter hurried down the steps and up to the corner. The Russian was a third of the way down the block, heading slowly away, not looking back. There were several other pedestrians in the block, some traffic, and a lot of parked cars.
As far as Carter could tell, there were no other watchers. Someone would be out back. And no doubt someone was in or near the apartment with Lydia Borasova. But the approach from the street side was guarded by only the one man.
The guard stopped, then disappeared around the corner.
In the next few seconds Carter hurried to the neighboring brownstone, where at the door he buzzed all five apartments.
“Delivery for Alberts,” he mumbled into the speaker grille.
A second later the door lock buzzed, and he was inside, rushing to the back stairwell where he silently raced up to the top floor.
He found the rooftop access door with no trouble, and ninety seconds after entering the building, he was on the roof keeping low and well away from the edges so that he would not be spotted from below.
The buildings on this block were all connected, and there was only a two- or three-foot difference in the heights of the rooftops. Carter jumped down to the roof of Lydia’s apartment building and went to the access door, which was locked. He easily slipped the latch using Hugo’s blade and silently made his way down the stairs to the top floor, hesitating just within the doorway.
No sounds came from the corridor. Carter eased the door open a crack and looked out.
A very large man with a short haircut and wearing a dark, baggy suit leaned against the corridor wall near the elevator. He was turned sideways, but was looking away.
Carter pulled out Wilhelmina, made sure the safety was off, then burst out of the door, dropping into the classic shooter’s stance, the Luger up in both hands.
The Russian spun around, reaching for his weapon.
“Nyet!” Carter snapped urgently but keeping his voice low.
The Russian hesitated.
Carter shook his head. “Do not do it, comrade, or you will die here in this corridor,” Carter said in Russian.
For several long, tense moments they stood in a tableau, frozen at opposite ends of the short corridor, the Russian obviously weighing his chances. But then the big man visibly relaxed, letting his hands fall loosely to his sides. He nodded.
Carefully Carter straightened up and moved down the corridor, motioning with his Luger for the Russian to move back up the corridor to Lydia’s door.
“Is there anyone inside besides the woman?” Carter asked.
The Russian said nothing, though he moved up the corridor. He was still gauging his chances.
“I must know, comrade. If it is a lie, you will surely die.”
“There is no one other than the woman,” the man said.
“You have the key.” Carter said it as a statement of fact. “Open the door. I will be directly behind you.”
Again the Russian hesitated, and again he made the correct decision. Carefully he reached into his coat pocket and slowly withdrew the apartment key. He turned and unlocked the door.
“Inside,” Carter said, coming up behind the man.
The Russian pushed open the door, and as he moved inside he leaped forward, twisting to the right as he reached for his gun.
But Carter was right there. He lashed out with the butt of Wilhelmina, catching the big man at the base of his skull just behind his right ear.
The Russian went down like a felled steer, crashing into a small table. Lydia Borasova, wearing a bathrobe, came out of the bathroom as Carter was shoving the downed man aside and closing the door.
“Oh, my God!” she cried.
Carter looked up, and grinned. “Not exactly a sentiment Comrade Kobelev would enjoy hearing.”
The woman stepped back, her hand to her mouth.
Carter stooped down to make sure the Russian was out and would stay that way for a while. Quickly he took the man’s big pistol, emptied it, and shoved it under the couch. Next he pulled off the man’s belt and tie and trussed him up, Lydia watching him with wide eyes.