Carter watched from high up in the window, his feet firmly planted on the two-foot-wide ledge. His body was out of sight. Only his head could be seen, if the other agent were quick enough.
Wind whistled around him. Periodically he ducked out of view as the searcher, growing frustrated, would stop to survey the room and think.
It was at one of those times that Carter's own gaze saw the scrap of paper. It was a piece of notepaper, folded small to fit in a wallet or key case, resting at the top of the bottom pane of window-glass inside the room. It could easily have dropped when two hands — rather than the expected single hand — were required to reach up to unlock the double-paned window. (It was a stiff window.) And the scrap would go unnoticed by maids who cleaned only what was visible.
Carter smiled broadly, patient as the agent completed his methodical search of the room. The man spent a good hour at it, even removing the plates that covered the light switches and electrical outlets. He w as after Rocky Diamond too. But what was his reason… and for whom was he working?
At last, discouraged and disgusted, the agent pressed his car against the door. When the sounds outside told him it was safe, he opened the door and slipped out.
Carter reopened his window, grabbed the folded paper, and followed.
The agent strolled past the House of Natural Health Foods Sanatorium, the New Market Butcherym Reynolds Chemists, Woolworth's Variety, and back into Christchurch's Cathedral Square.
He was a slender man wearing nubby tan slacks, a London Fog windbreaker, and the jaunty tam-o'-shanter. He strolled with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, giving no indication he was concerned about being followed. That in itself was enough to make Carter suspicious.
An agent as good as this one appeared to be would be crossing streets, dipping in and out of stores, backtracking — because if he's on an assignment, he's a marked man. By somebody he often doesn't know.
He's also always on the lookout for unusual amounts of interest in him or what he's doing. That could lead him to information he needs. With Carter, careful use of a city's streets was second nature. Seldom was he tailed without his knowledge. He d lost at least one tail in Christchurch yesterday. And two in Wellington. Part of the job.
As they entered the square, Carter hung back farther.
The strange agent blended in with the European New Zealanders, his very English clothes like the very English clothes of the other inhabitants in the square.
Carter had never heard the stranger's voice, wondered whether there'd be a Scotch accent to fit the tam-o'-shanter, or another accent — Eastern European. American, Russian — that the tam-o'-shanter was worn to deflect.
The agent turned toward the flower stand in front of the big brick and stone post office. He had a strange gait, very idiosyncratic. If Carter had enough time to study it…
Instead, Carter ambled off, apparently heading for the men's rest room.
The agent selected a bouquet of yellow, white, and blue daisies from the flower woman. It was a simple, conversation-filled transaction, and Carter scanned the square, bored.
Until he saw Blenkochev.
The chief of the dreaded K-GOL was coming through the big double doors of the post office as casually as if it were the Kremlin.
The old agent was dressed in a dowdy, rumpled suit. Very English. He was shuffling through a stack of overseas envelopes as if looking for a remittance check.
It was a good cover, and Blenkochev was hardly recognizable as the polished Soviet official in Mike's photograph.
He was there to meet the man in the tam-o'-shanter.
Despite the enormity of the implications of having the world's top KGB man working once again in the field, Carter had to smile.
Blenkochev was good. The hands trembled ever so slightly. The nose was made up floridly red to suggest too much drink. And then just the right touch — the look of need on Blenkochev's face brightened into greed when he found the right envelope and ripped it open. He beamed as he read the amount on the fake check. Then he walked as if looking for a bar.
Meanwhile, the young agent in the tam-o'-shanter was busying himself at the flower stand, still engaging the flower woman in small talk. As the agent watched Blenkochev from the comer of his eye, he rotated the bouquet in his hand, cradled it a moment in his arms, then dropped it to his side to tap it against his thigh. He didn't know what to do with the thing.
At last, finishing the chat, the young man said thank you and turned.
Bumped into Blenkochev.
The envelopes flew into the air.
The bouquet dropped.
Both men bent to retrieve their belongings, and Carter saw the brief conversation that occurred without either man actually looking at the other. The young agent was reporting in. Carter lip-read. The old agent was disgusted with the message, then issued orders. They exchanged no looks or packages.
The two stood, shook hands, once again polite strangers. Apologies were given.
They walked off in directions ninety degrees apart.
Carter followed Blenkochev, giving him plenty of room.
Blenkochev walked at a brisk pace through the square, circled back, took advantage of the men's rest room, paused on a park bench to rest, then ambled around the post office to the street.
At some point he'd spotted Carter. But the AXE agent stayed with him. The KGB man didn't try very hard to lose the Killmaster.
Back at the street, the yellow Mazda was at the curb, and Blenkochev strode toward it. His too-long suit jacket flapped against the baggy pants.
The young agent reached across the front scat and opened Blenkochev's door. Impatient, he gunned the motor.
Blenkochev hopped in, turned, and looked back through the window.
As the Mazda sped away, the old fox gave Carter a small, impish smile and a tiny wave. It was a salute, one pro to Mother.
Grinning, Carter watched the Mazda weave into the Christchurch traffic. There was no point in following Blenkochev. Carter had found what Blenkochev had sent the young agent in the tam-o'-shanter for.
He took the small folded notepaper from his pocket, opened it, reread the address, and hailed a taxi.
Carter's destination was southwest, beyond Christchurch's city limits, in a sparsely populated area near Wigram Aerodrome. Willows and oaks dotted the dry landscape. Abandoned farm implements were rusty reminders of the original purpose the English gentlemen had had in mind for the land.
Now the area was partitioned into vacant lots, waiting for sale or foreclosure. A Maori family stood on a sagging porch as Carter drove by in the rented car. They were quiet people, exhausted by life. They didn't wave, but they watched Carter turn down the road that led to Charlie Smith-deal's address. His passing was their day's entertainment.
Carter parked the rented car in the shade of a willow whose branches brushed the ground. The summer afternoon had grown hot; it was almost eighty degrees. New Zealand's weather was not only dramatic, it was unpredictable.
He got out of the car and looked around. Smith-deal's house was little more than a shack. Tin cans, tires, a roll of barbed wire jumbled on the ground around it. Weeds sprouted limp from thirst. A metal flap from a broken reaper banged as a light breeze stirred dust into the air. It had been a good, sturdy house once. The foundation was even of stone. A dirt trail led to the sagging front porch. Carter walked up it.
He knocked.
"Smith-deal!"
No answer. He knocked again, called again, circled around to the back. No one there either.
He returned to the front, his hand on the doorknob, when he saw the old jeep lurching along the country road toward the shack.
The driver was having trouble deciding whether he preferred the accelerator or the brake. The vehicle would rush forward, skid almost to a stop, then would leap ahead like a jackrabbit with a shotgun at its tail.