"You're a damned hard man to follow," ffolkes said, his ruddy face pressed against the side of the dry irrigation trench. His gold-capped teeth shone in the sunlight.
"You're the one I lost in Wellington and then Christ-church."
"A couple of my men. You didn't think we'd let you run around without being watched, did you?"
"Considering the present situation, I can hardly complain."
The two agents shook hands.
"You have any more men here?" Carter said.
"A few," he said modestly.
The operation was simple. Carter, Colonel ffolkes, and the three New Zealand agents who were stationed nearby rushed the hillock from different directions.
The sharpshooter fired quickly.
The men pressed on, themselves firing on the lone rifleman, racing at him. A converging juggernaut.
Until there was silence.
An unnatural silence.
Carter put on a burst of speed, ffolkes close behind. Even though ffolkes was in his sixties, he was in excellent shape. His wiry frame ate the ground in long strides.
They found the sharpshooter crumpled behind the log that had sheltered him. Half his face was gone. The powder burns were unmistakable. Suicide.
Despite the years of experience, both Carter and ffolkes hesitated. Suicide was somehow more a tragedy than even murder. It made each man question his own pain.
Then, as the other agents arrived, ffolkes went through the dead man's pockets, but he found nothing.
Carter watched until ffolkes was finished. Then he unzipped the mans trousers and pulled them down. The White Dove tattoo was on the corpse's left thigh.
Ten
The tea was hot and delicious — Lapsang Souchong by Twinings, "Teamen to Connoisseurs for over 275 Years." A very English blend with the heavy, smoky flavor of burnt tar, probably discovered when tea leaves were thoughtlessly stored on tarred ropes in the belly of some four-rigger sailing ship. Instead of being horrified, the clever merchant advertised the tea as the newest taste from the Orient. And the English, with their tolerance and appetite for the unusual, loved it.
Nick Carter drank the tea with milk and sugar, the way fine black China tea should be drunk. And the way Colonel ffolkes took his.
The colonel put his cup down on the scarred coffee table next to the report. Weariness showed on the deepened lines of his face.
"Rocky Diamond didn't arrive in the Falklands," ffolkes said, tapping the report. "We've checked the mechanic's story front to back, and most of what he says appears to be true. Near as we can tell, Diamond took off Wednesday last week, planning to camp overnight at the South Pole and then fly on to Stanley in the Falklands. Mackenzie — an old friend of Diamond's — knew about it. Too bad he did. Meant his death. Anyway, your Yank carried no illegal cargo, only his personal supplies. As you know, New Zealand's roughly at a hundred-seventy degrees cast longitude and the Falklands are at sixty degrees west, so it was close to a straight-across-the-Pole trip. Barring weather and acts of God, it should have been easy. But something happened, and the poor bloke never arrived."
"And his employers?"
"No employers. Smith-deal was wrong about that. It was personal. The bet was with one of Diamond's old pilot rivals in Stanley. Very macho, as you Yanks say. And for a lot of money, which the cocky bastard fully expected to win. The rival was beginning to hope that Diamond had backed out. Bit of a pleasant surprise when we told him Diamond was missing.
Carter and the New Zealand secret service head were sitting alone in a small storage shack not far from the United States' Deep Freeze Base at Christchurch's airport. Air conditioning hummed, both relieving the end of the hot day and camouflaging their voices from inquisitive ears.
The windowless shack was stacked with wood storage crates at the end nearest the door. A passageway that weaved among the tall stacks of boxes led to the small sitting area at the back where Carter and ffolkes consulted. It was furnished with folding chairs, an overhead fluorescent light, apartment-size refrigerator, a hot plate, and a coffee table scarred by cigarette burns, coffee rings, and the scuff marks of hard-heeled boots.
Outside, the surrounding complex of buildings housed offices and storage for the U.S. Navy and the National Science. Foundation personnel who supported Deep Freeze operations on Antarctica. They were the link between life and certain frozen death for the isolated stations on the great wasteland.
The services were basic — housekeeping, food, clothing, medical aid, mail communications — and originated from the headquarters in Port Hueneme, California. They were implemented in the busy Deep Freeze complex at Christchurch.
The busyness was what had attracted ffolkes to the area. A windowless shack and innocent neighbors helped to maintain the secrecy of his operation.
"And the rifleman?" Carter said, sipping his tea. "He was a sleeper?"
"Exactly," ffolkes said, nodding. "A New Zealander of Russian descent. Second generation. No police record, never in any trouble with the law. Just an ordinary working bloke waiting to perform the one crucial act that would reveal him as an undercover agent for a foreign group."
"What kind of working man?"
"Personnel director for a big sheep processing company."
"Any trouble there?"
The colonel picked up the report and read. As he turned the first page, Carter could see the big red stamp that said Most Secret.
"He was reprimanded twice for complaints of racial discrimination," ffolkes said thoughtfully. "Maoris weren't being hired, and the few who were weren't being promoted to management jobs."
"After the second complaint, he improved the situation just enough to quiet the protestors," Carter said.
"That's it," ffolkes said, picking up his cup. "The complaints mean something to you?"
"Perhaps," Carter said. "I'd like to contact Hawk. See what he has to say."
"Of course," the colonel said and stood up. "I'll be waiting."
"Nice to hear from you, Nick! Do you by chance know what time it is?"
"Two a.m. there, I believe, sir."
There was a long pause. Carter settled back in comfort to wait for Hawk to clear the sleep from his brain.
The Killmaster was calling from the back seat of a VIP limousine he'd found on a quiet sidestreet near the Deep Freeze Base. He'd seen the U.S. general go up the front steps of the house, hat in hand, and the chauffeur go around to the back. The men had been there before, and each knew where to find his entertainment.
Carter had glanced up and down the street, then picked the limousine's lock and slipped into the back seat. The car smelled of wool uniforms and oiled leather. The windows were tinted so that passengers could see out while outsiders couldn't see in. It was a comfortable, relatively safe place for Carter to call his superior on the small Sony-size radio.
At last in far-off Washington the butane lighter clicked. There was a sudden gust of air as Hawk's cigar came to life.
Hawk sighed and puffed in the distance.
"Very well, N3," he said. Let's have it."
Carter reported the events that had taken place since Wellington, including the strange inhabitant of the yellow Mazda meeting Blenkochev in Christchurch's Cathedral Square.
Hawk was silent.
"Interesting how the past is always with us," he said at last. "I thought those days were behind me. I even allowed myself to be nostalgic for them. The good old days. But the reality is that nothing's changed. Blenkochev and I have been at war since before 1849 when Mao took over China."
"That's a long time."
"Our countries have beliefs that threaten the other. There's nothing to be done. Blenkochev and I must continue to try to outwit, outmaneuver, and outkill one another. That can only stop when our countries no longer perceive the other as mortal — and moral — dangers. And now we have Silver Dove to further irritate the elements."