The Frenchman glanced toward the elevator, and nodded a third time.
“Bon,” Carter said. He pulled the man around and aimed him toward the elevator. “Your keys — quickly! We are going to the eleventh floor. I wish to speak with Comrade Borodin.”
The Frenchman fumbled out his keys and handed them to Carter. He and Carter stepped aboard the elevator, and Carter motioned for the man to take them upstairs.
“Which key operates this car?” Carter asked.
The white-haired Frenchman looked from Carter’s eyes to the outheld keys, and pointed to one.
Carter inserted it into the elevator lock-out control, flipped it over, and the car stopped. He turned it back on, and they continued up.
Next, Carter holstered his Luger, pulled out his stiletto, and cut the emergency telephone cord.
“Now, listen to me, my old friend,” he said. “I wish you no harm. I swear to God, I do not. So if you cooperate with me, and do nothing to sound an alarm, this will all be over in a few minutes, and it will be an adventure you can tell to the police, and then to your wife. You will be a hero.”
The Frenchman blinked. “I do not wish to die, monsieur.”
“And you will not, if you do as I say.”
“Oui.”
“I will lock you in the elevator. It will only be for a few minutes. When I am finished with my task, I will return, we shall ride together to the ground floor, and I shall leave. No noise. No alarm. Do you understand?”
“Oui, monsieur. I understand. And it will be as you say.”
“Very good,” Carter said.
They arrived at the eleventh floor. Carter stepped aside as the doors came open, but the corridor was empty. He flipped the key, withdrew it, and quickly stepped off the car. On the outside he inserted the key into the emergency override lock and flipped it left to Stop. Slowly the doors closed on the frightened Frenchman.
With the building’s master key in one hand and Hugo gripped loosely in his left, Carter hurried down the broad, thickly carpeted corridor to Borodin’s apartment.
He was taking a very large chance coming here like this. Lydia had provided him with the name. And she was Kobelev’s woman. This could very well be more of the elaborate plan. It could be a setup. It was possible Borodin was not alone. Very possible.
At the door Carter listened, but no sounds came from within.
Carefully he inserted the master key into the lock and slowly turned it. The latch opened, and the door came ajar.
For several long, tense moments Carter stood stock-still, his every sense alert for another presence on the other side of the door. But there were no sounds, no movement, nothing.
Stepping aside, Carter shifted Hugo to his right hand and slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open. A narrow vestibule led into what appeared to be a wide living room. Directly across were several large windows, the curtains open, through which the lights of Paris shown dimly.
Carter stepped inside and softly closed the door behind him.
He waited in the vestibule until his eyes adjusted completely to the relative darkness. At length he could see the outlines of the couch, several chairs, what appeared to be bookcases along one wall, and an opening that probably led back to the bedroom.
The hairs at the back of Carter’s neck suddenly rose. Someone was there. Very close. He started to step to one side, when something very hard slammed at him from the right, smashing into his knife arm, his fingers going numb, Hugo slipping to the floor.
He tried to move out of the way, but was hampered by a low table, which crashed over. An instant later something that felt like a battering ram smashed into the side of his head, knocking him off his feet, the night exploding into a million bursts of light.
Carter kicked the table away and rolled over as a booted foot caught him squarely in his wounded right thigh, causing him to cry out involuntarily.
He rolled again, this time the booted foot missing his head by inches, Borodin grunting with the effort.
Although Carter was stunned, it was all the opening he needed. He scrambled backward and leaped to his feet in time to counter a huge, meaty fist. In rapid order he hammered three blows to Borodin’s chest, and a fourth to the side of the big man’s face, sending him staggering backward against the back of the couch.
The Russian recovered instantly, charging Carter like a berserk bull elephant, the weight of his rush sending them both back crashing into the wall.
Carter brought his knee sharply up into Borodin’s groin, putting every ounce of his strength into it, the air whooshing out of the Russian’s lungs.
Borodin smashed his forehead into Carter’s face once, then again before Carter could twist out of his grip and stumble out of the way.
The Russian was incredible. He swiveled lightly on his feet and charged, but Carter leaped aside, his bad leg nearly collapsing beneath him. But then he was in the middle of the large living room, with much more space in which to maneuver.
The Russian paused and shook his head. He smiled. “Nikolai Fedor said you would come to me.”
Had Lydia betrayed him after all? Had it been a setup?
“Two weeks ago he said you would be coming. I have been waiting!” Borodin grunted.
Two weeks ago... It suddenly connected in Carter’s mind. “It was you who killed Wengerhoff.”
Borodin laughed. “Just as I will kill you, Carter. This time it will be my show, not Ganin’s!”
The Russian leaped across the couch. It was a fatal error. For a moment the big man was off-balance, all of his weight on one leg. Carter jumped forward, slamming his foot just, below the man’s kneecap, Borodin’s leg breaking with a loud snap.
As the Russian fell forward, bellowing in rage and pain, he managed to grab the front of Carter’s coat and drag him down.
Carter twisted to the left, at the same moment shoving Borodin to the right, and suddenly he was behind the Russian, his knee in the small of the man’s back, his hands on the man’s forehead and chin.
“This is for the little girl you killed, you son of a bitch!” Carter swore, and he jabbed his knee harshly downward at the same moment as he yanked Borodin’s head back with all of his might.
The Russian’s neck snapped with an audible pop, and the man went slack, dead instantly.
Carter fell back, exhausted, battered, hurt, as he caught his breath. The Russian had been waiting for him. Kobelev had foreseen Carter’s move. He had orchestrated the situation in New York and again here in Paris. It meant Ganin would be setting up the next lure. The killing ground was coming closer.
After a long time, Carter got painfully to his feet, found his stiletto, and let himself out of the apartment.
He started down the broad corridor, but it wasn’t until he had gotten within ten feet of the elevator before he realized that something was wrong... drastically wrong.
The door of the car was open! The elevator was empty! The Frenchman had escaped!
Nine
Arkadi Ganin stood in the broad corridor just around the corner from the elevator, listening for Carter to turn and go the other way. Surely the American would not take the service elevator back down. He would have to suspect it was a trap.
Behind Ganin, lying on the floor, was the body of the old Frenchman, who had begged for his life. Ganin felt a twinge of genuine sadness for the old man who unfortunately had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. His death had been unavoidable.
Kobelev had predicted this. He had foreseen that Carter would somehow come up with Borodin’s name. He predicted that the American would come here and kill the man.
The only thing Kobelev had not prophesied was Carter returning to New York to snatch Lydia Borasova. Ganin had to admire the American’s cunning and skill, yet in the end it would not be enough. In the end — although he probably would not beg for his life — Carter would die.