A taxi pulled up and Carter got in, ordering the driver to take him out to the Schlosshotel in Igls, which along with Axamer Lizum — where Kobelev was apparently staying in a private chalet — was a part of the Innsbruck winter sports area.
The hotel was a luxury spa for very wealthy people who wanted to come for the hot baths, various mineral and salt cures, and of course for the skiing and the Innsbruck night life.
Carter checked in with a lot of fanfare, opening an account with an unlimited ceiling on his platinum Carte Blanche.
“Are any of the slopes open yet?” he asked the clerk in the palatial lobby.
“Yes, sir, here, and of course at Axamer, the upper slopes have been opened,” the clerk said, eying Carter. “But may I suggest, sir, that you first avail yourself of our hot mineral pool, and perhaps a series of muscle toners.”
“Indeed,” Carter sniffed. “Why did you think I came here in the first place?”
“Of course, sir.”
The bellman helped Carter up to his beautiful rooms on the third floor, the view from which on a nice day was probably magnificent.
Carter tipped the man extremely well, then ordered up a bottle of champagne and a quarter pound of beluga caviar with toast points, grated onion, egg, and lemon.
Next he called the desk and arranged for a tailor to be sent up immediately.
While he was waiting he put Pierre in a drawer in the night stand beside the bed, and Wilhelmina under the pillow. He missed his stiletto.
His food and wine came within ten minutes, followed immediately by the tailor, who efficiently took his measurements.
“I’ll need a tuxedo — plain, black, single-breasted — in time for this evening’s dinner. And I need a blazer, a tweed sportcoat or two, and perhaps a couple of business suits. I’ll leave fabrics to your discretion,” Carter said.
Unfazed, the tailor was writing it all down.
“Of course I’ll need shirts, ties, shoes, accessories.”
“Very good, sir. Your luggage, perhaps, was lost?”
“By the stupid Germans.”
The tailor raised his eyebrows knowingly. “It shall be as you wish, sir.”
When the tailor was gone, Carter poured himself a glass of champagne and helped himself to the caviar. Very quickly the word would spread: an American is at the Schlosshotel. Very rich. Eccentric. Name is Nick Carter.
Kobelev would hear, and sooner or later he would have to come out himself to see.
Later in the afternoon, Carter spent a half hour scouting around the hotel, looking for bolt-holes for himself in case Kobelev made a frontal attack and tried to corner him.
Aside from the easy climb down from his balcony, he discovered several alternate means of escape. The hotel was very large. Stairways, corridors, and elevators seemed to be placed at random.
Back in his room he called for a masseur, who arrived within minutes pushing a long, padded table that he set up by the window.
He was a large man, Spanish, and very powerful. He did not speak a word as he arranged Carter on the table and began.
His touch was gentle and very professional, and soon Carter began to feel like a human being again.
The man was careful when he came to Carter’s various wounds and bruises, and a half hour later when he was finished, and Carter sat up, he nodded.
“You have certainly been around, Señor Carter,” he said. “Your right knee needs some help. Perhaps I will return tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Carter said noncommittally.
A half hour after the masseur left, the tailor returned with his tuxedo, shoes, a couple of formal shirts, and the other accessories.
“Your other things will be ready first thing in the morning, Herr Carter,” the man said.
Carter tried on the suit. It fit perfectly. “My compliments,” he said.
“One must look one’s best for dinner here,” the little man said, then he turned on his heel and left.
At seven Carter dressed for dinner, strapping on his Luger and positioning the little gas bomb. Downstairs, before he went into the bar, he made reservations at the front desk, for skiing on the upper slopes at Axamer for first thing in the morning. The hotel car and driver would be ready out front at eight o’clock sharp.
Then he went inside, ordered a scotch, and sat at the end of the bar, from where he had a clear view of the entrance to the lobby.
By now Kobelev would have to know about Ganin, and he would certainly be aware of Carter’s presence in Innsbruck. The next move would be the Russian’s, either that evening, or certainly the next morning sometime on the slopes.
Carter had given the man a choice: there at the hotel, or out on the slopes of the mountain somewhere. It would be dangerous. But Carter wanted the man drawn out.
The barman had moved to the opposite end of the bar, and he was talking on the telephone. He looked down toward Carter, then unplugged the telephone and brought it to him. He plugged it in behind the bar.
“A telephone call for you, Herr Carter,” he said, holding out the instrument.
Carter looked at him for a moment, then nodded and took the phone. The opening shots already?
“Carter here,” he said.
“Ah, Nicholas,” Kobelev said. “You are enjoying your stay? I understand the Schlosshotel is lovely.”
“I’ve come for you,” Carter said softly.
“Yes, I know. And I’m delighted that you arrived safe and sound, though I do feel sorry for poor Arkadi. Unfortunate, that.”
Carter said nothing.
“You did create quite a stir in Germany, you know. First in Munich, and then at the Zugspitze. And I tried to capitalize on it, you know, but to no avail. Your David Hawk is quite good.”
“Tell me, are you returning to Moscow so that you can kill little children in safety?” Carter taunted. “I mean, now that you no longer have Ganin to run your errands?”
Kobelev laughed. “On the contrary, Nicholas. Tomorrow I expect to see you at the slopes over here. I’m quite looking forward to it, you know. I still have not forgotten my daughter, or the Orient Express. It’s taken me two years to recover. And I am a man who never forgets.”
Carter had made reservations for skiing less than ten minutes earlier. It meant that Kobelev had people at the hotel who were watching him. Probably someone at the front desk.
“What do you want, then? Why wait until tomorrow?”
“The impatience of youth,” Kobelev sighed. “I wish you to be fit. To be well rested for our encounter in the morning.”
Carter looked up at that moment in time to see Lydia Borasova coming through the doorway from the lobby. She wore a low-cut sequined evening dress and a short sable jacket thrown casually over her shoulders. Her blond hair was done up. She looked lovely.
“I’ve sent along a little present for you. To the victor goes the spoils, I believe you once said.”
Lydia spotted Carter at the bar and came across to him. She was trying her best to smile for the benefit of the other people at the bar, but Carter could see she was barely holding on.
“Enjoy her for tonight, Nicholas. Believe me, enjoy the whore, because by noon tomorrow both of you will be dead.” Kobelev hung up.
“It was him?” Lydia asked, sitting down next to Carter.
Carter hung up the phone. The bartender came to collect it, and he placed a cocktail napkin in front of Lydia.
“Madam?”
“Vodka,” she said. “No ice.” She turned back to Carter, her eyes glistening. “He is crazy with rage. He killed my father, and he promises to kill my mother unless I do as he says.”
Carter touched her hand. “I’m sorry...”
“They came to the hotel. There wasn’t a thing I could do. God, I am so frightened, Nick. He has others in Germany. When they told him you had killed Ganin he went berserk. It was terrible. I thought he was going to kill me then and there.”