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ONE
The house was set back from Sussex Drive, sur-
rounded by Governor's Bay to the north, Rockliffe Park
to the east, and Rideau Falls to the west. Royal Canadian
Mounted Police officers in plainclothes sat in unmarked
cars opposite the mansion. Special Security Service men
patrolled the grounds and manned the security center
inside. Police boats patrolled Governor's Bay, a bulge in
the Ottawa River not far from the Parliament Buildings.
The focus of their attention was number 24, the house of
the prime minister.
The need for security had doubled since the premier of
Québec arrived the day before. With the separation issue
heating up before Québec voters who would decide for
or against in two weeks, strong feeling ran like super-
heated lava through the capital. The French-speaking
separatist sympathizers had flocked to Ottawa with their
leader. The rest of the province's population, including
people who had immigrated to Québec from almost
every country in the world, opposed the breaking up of
their constitution. To them, it was unacceptable for one
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NICK CARTER
of the most liberal of all democracies to be ripped apart
and crippled financially by a minority clinging to old
traditions.
Jacques Carreau, a stocky middle-aged man of me-
dium height, climbed from the bath in his suite on the
second floor and was helped to dress by his man, Arthur.
While he was slipping into a light cardigan, Marie
Carreau came in without knocking.
"Having him in the house makes me nervous,
Jacques," she started without preliminaries. "Living in a
fishbowl is bad enough, but this
Carreau sighed. She was like a continuous tape, al-
ways the same message. Marie was a beautiful woman.
He had always liked the way her black hair and dark eyes
contrasted with her alabaster skin. She was the mother of
his son and he still loved her, but she had become
shrewish lately. The spotlight had never pleased her. Her
attitude had grown worse week by week. Every function,
every visitor, had disturbed her.
"Gilles Parisant is an old friend. He will always be
welcome in our house," he said, trying to keep his voice
calm.
"But he's not the same man we knew," she protested.
"When we used to sit around the cafés with him in the
old days. .
I loved him then as you did, you know
that," she added, frowning. "But
I just don't
know
he's not the crazy radical who laughed and
argued politics with us." She sat, her face taking on a
wistful ICN)k. But just for a moment. "Back then, we all
talked about a better government—a better world." Her
features hardened. "Now the two-faced bastard's lying
to us half the time." She walked to the window and
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looked out at the grounds. "Looking back, I think he had
his own world in mind all the time, his own selfish,
separate world. "
A prude when it came to language, he shook his head
as much at her logic as her vocabulary. "You're being
unreasonable, my dear. We have to keep an open mind. "
"Dammit!" she snapcEd, her face flushed. "He'll go
his own way and make you a failure—the prime minister
who let it all slip away. "
g You know I hate that kind of language, Marie," he
said, finally voicing his displeasure.
When his man had slipped out tactfully, she closed
the door after him. "You didn't hate it when we were
younger, when it was part of our lovemaking," she said,
putting her arms around his neck.
"That was long ago, Marie," he replied, disengag-
ing himself. "You haven't grown with our position. I
wish—"
"Damn you, Jacques Carreau!" she cried. "I hate all
this damned formality. I hate your treating
this .
Parisant with kid gloves. Tell the bastard to shape up or
you'll kick his butt."
I've explained it to you," he
"Marie, Marie .
said, throwing up his hands. "I've got to go down to him
now. Try to be civil."
"Go down to the traitorous bastard! Go down to the
back-stabber!" she yelled as he opened the bedroom
door. "If I was a man I'd kill him!"
Carreau's shoulders slumped visibly as he left her to
join his guest in the library for a final talk, a last chance
to change the man's hard line.
"Mother on the warpath again, Dad?" a youthful voice
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NICK CARTER
asked from behind him. Jules Carreau had opened a door
down the hall from his father's room and now followed
him along the hall. He was taller than his father, a
handsome young man with his mother's dark hair and
At eighteen, he was the heartthrob of Ottawa's
teenage girls.
"Don't pay any attention to her, son. She's angry at
Gilles. "
"Enough to use the word kill?"
"You know your mother. She sounds off like that
sometimes, but it's all talk."
"I can't blame her," Jules said, his face taking on a
brooding look. "Most of my friends feel the same way.
The man's going to take away our future. That's what
my friends say."
Carreau thought back to what he felt at eighteen. In
fact, one of his friends who had agreed with him on
revolutionary change was Gilles Parisant. They had
spouted their radical philosophies over glasses of beer in
Montreal cafés until they were kicked out for disturbing
the peace. He had gone on to practice law, to teach law
and political science at Montreal University, while Gilles
had followed a newspaper career.
Still in his teens, Jules was at the starting gate, the
issues all black and white. In a way, Parisant was still
like that. While the rest of their friends had tempered
their thinking, realizing that nationalism was the only
sane economic and social route for Canada, Parisant had
been a maverick. To him, everything was still black and
white. To the leader of the Parti Québecois, nothing was
gray, nothing could be compromised. It had to be all or
nothing.
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The next morning the prime minister pulled a comb
through his hair, covering a bald spot
with long strands his barber skillfully left intact, and ran
the comb through his still-black beard. Arthur helped
him into a gray pin-striped suit and a dark blue Burberry
raincoat. He was hatless, as was his custom He hadn't
slept well after the session with Parisant, and his prema-
turely lined face reflected his tiredness.
As the prime minister descended the long, winding
staircase to the first floor of his official residence,
Parisant was standing near the door with an aide. The
premier of Quebec, a short, thin man with the inevitable
cigarette in his mouth, seemed impatient to get the
ceremony over with and get home. Every day took him
closer to the moment of truth. It was the first day of May.
On the fifteenth, the of Québec would go to the
polls and make their choice, He'd either be the leader-
hero of a separate state, or just another unsuccessful
separatist.
"Let's get it over with," the small man said, his
irritation obvious. "l donst know why the hell I agreed to
this in the first place."
"You could be gracious just this once, Gilles," Car-
reau said. "Laying a wreath at the War Memorial is just
as symbolic for you as for me. The men who died were
from all over the country, including our own province. "
"Our province? You have a hell of a nerve calling
yourself a Québecois. "
Their conversation was interrupted while the secret
service assigned the two leaders to a car in the middle of
a convoy drawn up outside. The day had cleared. The
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NICK CARTER
raincoat wouldn't be necessary. Carreau took it off and
put it on the seat beside him.
The air smelled of tulips. Thousands, in a multitude of
colors, were in full bloom on the grounds of his house
this time of year as they were in thousands of flower beds
around the capital. The bulbs had been a gift from
grateful Dutchmen who never forgot that it was the
Canadian government that had harbored their royal
family and Canadian forces who had fought their way
through the Netherlands to free them from Hitler's
tyranny.
As their five-car convoy of armored Cadillacs pre-
pared to pull away, four of them filled with Special
Security Service agents, they were led by RCMP officers
on motorcycles. Carreau noted that Jules's black van
pulled out ahead of them and took off to the east. He
smiled to himself as he thought of the freedom of youth.
He almost, but not quite, wished he could return to that
freedom once again, that he could give Marie the free-
dom she needed so desperately, the freedom from public
scrutiny. He knew now, too late, that he could not
change and she would never adjust.
Crowds had formed outside the gates of 24 Sussex
Drive. Carreau noted that they were not all cheering.
Some raised angry fists. Some of the gestures were for
him; some were for the small man sitting beside him.
"The people recognize our differences all too well,"
Parisant said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the already
smoke-filled interior.
Carreau coughed and waved the smoke away. "You
were like a rock last night. It was our last time to be
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reasonable, to discuss the issues," he said, "and you
barely listened."
"It was the same old story."
"It was the plain truth. Why the hell can't you see it?"
he said, swearing for probably the second or third time
since he'd entered Plitics.
g live heard all of it so many times t*fore. Québec
can't stand alone," he parroted. "We'll be in economic
trouble within a year. All the big multinationals will
move their headquarters. It's all horseshit. "
"You're all alike, you and all the fools who have
hanging on to your coattails in Québec."
"That's enough, Jacques! I should never have come,"
Parisant said, raising his voice. "Stupid to come.
Stupid."
As they drove along Sussex Drive to the west, they
passed over the two bridges of Green Island, the site of
Ottawa's city hall. The crowds were thicker near the
bridges. It was impossible to see the Rideau Canal or
even the water of Governor's Bay.
Now, as they neared the end of Sussex Drive, both
men were silent, each with his own thoughts. The
convoy angled over to Mackenzie Avenue, past the
basilica of Notre Dame Cathedral on the left and toward
the Chåteau Laurier Hotel on the right.
They were very close to the cenotaph now. The
crowds were four and five deep along the road. At the
memorial itself, thousands would await them. With
feelings so high, Carreau wondered for the first time if
this weekend had been a mistake.
No. He'd had to have this last try at Parisant. They'd
sat up until two in the morning going over the issues. It
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NICK CARTER
had not changed anything, but at least Carreau knew
he'd done all he could.
"This was a stupid idea," Parisant said again, as if
echoing his thoughts.
"You might be right. But it's too late to stop now."
"Let's get it over with fast," Parisant said, his voice
dull, as if the weight of the world was upon him. "I've
got work piled up at home."
The cavalcade stopped. Special Security Service men
surrounded the car and opened the door only after check-
ing the crowd.
Carreau stepped out first to a tumultuous ovation. An
undertone of opposition rumbled like an orchestra's bass
section beneath the cheers.
Parisant slipped out and stood beside Carreau, his
head barely coming to the prime minister's shoulder.
They were almost hidden by the security agents who
formed a human wall around them.
Wreaths had already been placed by others at the base
of the monument. A huge new wreath of red roses and
green ferns stood on a stand to one side.
The official party walked slowly toward the monu-
ment.
"Come on. This is the last stupid, meaningless act I'll
perform for your nationalistic Make it fast,"
Parisant mumbled to his old friend.
The area around the base for thirty feet or so had been
kept clear, The guards held the crowds back as the two
leaders stepped out and walked slowly to the wreath.
Parisant had done this hundr'eds of times before in
countless towns around the country. He lifted the wreath,
carried it to the base of the monument, and placed it
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carefully on a frame left there for the purpose. He lcx)ked
up at the soldiers cast in bronze for a moment and turned.
Carreau stood looking at him, the Sun shining through
his sparse hair, its rays glinting from his bald spot:
Parisant reached his side. He started to turn to whisper
something to Carreau, when something happened to his
face. It began to disintegrate before the prime minister's
eyes.
Carreau reached out for his friend as another missile
struck the small man in the neck. It spun him around,
into Carreau's arms, taking them both off-balance,
hurling them to the ground.
Special Security Service men moved quickly to fall
over the two leaders and form a human shield above
them. Others stood with Uzi machine pistols in their
hands, surveying the crowd.
The prime minister had heard no shots. The last thing
he remembered was blood pouring from his old friend's
shattered throat across his face and off his chin. It
smelled like sheared copper and felt like hot syrup.
Slowly, the river of his friend's life stopped running. The
weight of the bodies on him was too much. A black
vortex sucked him down and all was still.
Carreau opened his eyes and looked around. He was in
his own bed. Dr. Morrison held one of his wrists. Marie
stood at the foot of the bed.
"How do you feel?" Morrison asked.
The scene at the memorial rushed back to envelop
him: the smells and sounds that clawed at him; the hot
blood that ran Off his chin. He turned to reach for a tissue
and wretched up some green bile.
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NICK CARTER
"Is Gilles dead?" he asked, his face pale.
"Yes," Morrison replied. He was chief of medicine at
Carlton University and official doctor to the cabinet.
"James Turner is waiting outside to talk with you. Filbert
Hume is on his way from a meeting in Calgary."
Carreau's mind whirled. Turner was the head of the
RCMP. He didn't like the man; something about him put
the prime minister off. Filbert Hume headed the Special
Security Service. The SSS had been formed, early in
Carreau's first term, to take over the most sensitive areas
of RCMP work. That had been six years ago, and Turner
and Carreau had been enemies ever since. The friction
was the surface, out of plain sight, but it was
there.
"Show him in," Carreau said. "I want to see him
alone. "
"l don't think-—" Morrison started.
"No buts," Carreau cut in. "l want to see him alone."
Dr. Morrison and Marie glanced at each other, then
turned and left the room.
Turner entered and towered over the bed. Carreau got
out of reached for the rotr Arthur had left on a
nearby chair, and pulled it on. He gestured for Turner to
sit while he paced the room.
"Okay. Now, tell me—how the hell could something
like this happen?" he asked. "How the hell could it
"l don't know," Turner said. He was a very big man,
at least six-feet-three, and his bulk looked awkward in
the antique chair. "We have learned something, how-
ever, and it's very bad. Worse than you could
imagine
something that could ruin you."
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"What could be worse?" Carreau exploded.
11
"We couldn't find the assassin at the memorial. But
we found your son Jules in his van with the murder
weapon. "
Carreau stood stock-still, waiting for Turner to con-
tinue.
was spaced out on drugs, pulled over to the side
of Mountain Road in Gatineau Park about thirty miles
•north of here. "
Carreau slumped in a chair, oblivious of the big man
opposite him. Gradually the enormity of the situation
dawned on him. It was a setup, but probably a very solid
one. Whoever was behind it had probably been planning
it for a long time.
But who was responsible? He didn't trust Turner to
handle the investigation. He didn't even trust Hume.
"Leave me alone," he said.
"But we have to---"
"Leave me alone!" he shouted.
When Turner had closed the door behind him, Carreau
walked to a small office adjoining his bedroom. Several
telephones in various colors filled one side of the desk.
With tears sliding down his cheeks, he picked up a
scarlet one and waited for an answer.
"Let me talk to the president," he said.
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TWO
Nick Carter reached for his custom-blended cigarettes
on the night table, lit one with his gold Dunhill, and blew
smoke to the ceiling. Carol Yao lay beside him, her
breathing even, small beads of sweat slowly drying on
her pale skin. She was a beautiful woman, tall for a
Chinese, her hair black, her eyes a warm brown, her
body athletic. She had spent a two-week refresher at the
AXE training facility in Virginia not far from Washing-
ton. As the new head of the Hong Kong station, she had
been called in by Smitty, their chief of Operations, to
pick up on all the new data compiled since her last
refresher.
Carter was relishing the memory of their lovemaking,
when the phone rang. Carol uncoiled like a startled cobra
and was immediately alert.
"Yes?" Carter an»vered on the second ring.
"Hawk wants to see you," a female voice said without
preliminaries. It was Ginger Bateman, Hawk's right
hand and invaluable assistant.
"Urgent?" he said.
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NICK CARTER
"Urgent enough to pack Carol off to her hotel. Tell her
to go straight to her hotel, do not pass GO, do not collect
two hundred dollars; she's already had the brass ring."
"Very funny. I'll be about an hour," he said, hanging
up.
"Ginger?" Carol asked.
"And she knew I was here?"
"Right again. "
"Damn! I swear that woman made a point of finding
out if I came here."
He put out his cigarette and rolled toward her, taking
her in his arms. "Just a little game she plays. No harm,
really. "
don't like it," she said, putting her arms around his
neck and crushing her breasts against his chest. "No such
thing as privacy in this game."
"Coming from a culturally inquisitive Chinese lady
from Hong Kong, that's a joke," he said with a laugh.
"I'll teach you to laugh," she said, swinging on top of
him.
"Teach me well," he chuckled as she straddled his
thighs, her hands on his shoulders. "I'll tell them that the
traffic was bad," he added. "But this will have to a
short lesson. "
While the tulips in Ottawa, the cherry trees
that were almost a national treasure in Washington were
not yet in full bloom. Carter wheeled his restored Jaguar
XKE from his Georgetown brownstone across the P
Street bridge to Circle. One of the buildings on
the circle was the home of Amalgamated Press and Wire
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Services, the front for AXE, a supersecret organization
formed years earlier by David Hawk at the suggestion of
the president. AXE handled covert operations too sensi-
tive for any of the services controlled by the Director of
Central Intelligence. The DCI knew of the group's
existence, and he sometimes authorized cooperation
between the CIA and AXE, but he had learned long ago
not to dig deeply into Hawk's operation or step on
any toes. AXE was to remain anonymous to the rest of
the intelligence community.
Carter parked the racing-green Jaguar on Church
Street. With the fluid motions of a jungle cat, he climbed
from the low-slung vehicle and walked to the Amalgam-
ated Press and Wire Services offices. A number of
young female heads turned to watch the handsome
dark-haired man pass toward the back of the main floor.
He palmed the sensor at the elevator and when it
recognized his print, he entered and rcxle it, express, to
the inner sanctum.
Ginger Bateman was atX)ut to wave him in but he
stopped, obviously wanting something from her.
"You're late," she said with a tight smile. "I won't
ask for your excuse. "
"And you won't get one. What's the mood this
morning?"
"He seems concerned. He didn't confide in me."
"What's your guess?"
"I don't guess. Something is going on in Canada."
Carter knocked and when he heard the familiar grunt,
he pushed open the door. Hawk stood looking out on the
traffic below. With the light framing him, his full head of
white hair looked very bright.
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Carter had worked with the crusty older man from the
beginning. He was Hawk's prize agent, the Killmaster,
coded N3: designated to kill in the service of his country.
"You called, sir?" Carter said, standing in an almost
military manner.
Nick. Sit down," Hawk said, waving him to a
chair.
A cigar, its ash an inch long, was clamped between
browned teeth, its smoke curling to the ceiling. If Hawk
were to retire, Carter mused, it would take a crew of
painters a week to get rid of the smell of cigar smoke
from the whole uprEr floor.
"Our president and Prime Minister Carreau are good
friends," Hawk said, seating himself behind the desk and
blowing another cloud of smoke to the ceiling.
"Common knowledge. "
"You didn't listen to the news yesterday or this
morning?"
"No," Carter admitted somewhat guiltily. "Something
in Canada?"
"Someone put two bullets in the premier of Qu&c
while he was placing a wreath at the War Memorial in
Ottawa yesterday morning."
"Parisant is dead? Isn't the referendum just a few
weeks away?"
"Thirteen days. The leader of the Parti Québecois was
assassinated in Ottawa two weeks before the issue was to
be settled. "
Carter took a deep breath. He picked one of his
monogrammed cigarettes from a gold case and added his
own smoke to the blue haze of the room. "A setup to
make sure the vote would go their way?" he ventured.
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"The separatists have the most to gain," Hawk said.
"But in the process they lose a figurehead they can't
replace. "
someone thinks he can fill Parisantis shoes. "
"Guy Lafontaine, the deputy premier, will succeed
him. He's got to be Hawk said. "But they
think they've got the killer in custody."
"A sacrificial Iamb?" Carter asked.
"No. It's Jules Carreau."
"Carreau? A relative of the prime minister?"
"His son."
Carter was silent for a moment, drawing deeply on his
cigarette. He let the smoke out slowly and sighed. "Why
"Jacques Carreau doesn't trust James Turner. "
"But he's been head of the RCMP for years."
"But he's not Carreau's man. And his hands are dirty,
or Carreau has tried to prove they are."
"What about that relatively new division, the Special
Security Service?" Carter asked.
"Carreau managed to get a bill through Parliament for
the SSS when the RCMP were under investigation.
Something like our CIA scandals."
"So why not have their SSS handle the ball?"
"There was a lot of controversy when the bill was
passed. It gave them almost unlimited power of search
and seizure. No need to show probable cause."
"And they've abused it already?" Carter asked.
"There's a case pending right now," Hawk said,
lighting the butt of his cigar that had fizzled out. "It
seems they seized seven Sikhs in Vancouver on suspi-
cion of murdering a visiting Indian VIP. The seven
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NICK CARTER
turned out to be completely innocent. The SSS violated
their rights under their new constitution."
"But it was not enough to discredit the whole SSS."
"It's getting close. Under someone called Filbert
Hume, they've acted like fascis!s. There are too many
arrests that look like political manipulation and not
enough against organized crime. The press are on their
backs and the public's in an uproar."
"Who guarded Carreau and Parisant?" Carter asked.
presume they were together?"
"The SSS had the job, but the RCMP had some
periphery duty."
"So they both blew it."
Hawk was up and pacing as he often did, "Filbert
Hume was a political appointment. It seems the Canadi-
ans are as stupid about that as we are. When we appoint
a new DCI and he's not effective, we at least have
deputies in place who can handle the job. With a new
service, they didn't have established deputies. So they
were in trouble from the start."
"What's my cover?" Carter asked. "I'm sure you've
got something devious planned. "
"You'll be a U.S. Navy commander. Nicholas Carl-
son. It's all set up with the Navy people and Thomas
Niles,' our ambassador to Canada. Sound familiar?"
"If it works
"Military attaché to the CAF, the Canadian Armed
Forces. You'll be assigned officially in three weeks and
you're looking over the territory."
"You're right. The cover does sound familiar. Thai-
land, wasn't it?" Carter said, remembering the case well.
"We don't have much time on this one
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"Before the referendum .
thirteen days. "
"I'm working out of the embassy, of course."
19
"Right across the street from the Parliament Build-
ings, not a hundred yards from the assassination site."
*Who knows atk)ut me at the embassy?"
"Only the ambassador, Niles, a good man. He knows
how to keep his mouth shut," Hawk said. "You're
unofficially G-2, military intelligence. They've got one
of theirs on staff, a woman, Lieutenant Commander
Sprague." He consulted a file on his desk. name's
Jean, She's been briefed, thinks you're G-2."
"What about the CIA?" Carter asked.
"Keep clear of them. Sprague has her own communi-
cations," Hawk said, rolling the cigar to the other side of
his mouth.
'*Sounds like my kind of assignment," Carter said.
"Keep clear of the RCMP, the SSS, and the CIA. But be
sure to save poor Jules Carreau from a fate worse than
death. "
"Get out of here," Hawk said, coming as close to a
laugh as he ever managed.
The F-15 pilot dropped an urgent parcel off at the
Plattsburg air base, topped up his tanks, and flew on to
the Canadian base at R(XkIiffe. Lieutenant Commander
Sprague's car was pulled up on the tarmac. Under his
flight suit, Caner had his full dress whites on, a
concession to a meeting with the ambassador if that was
laid on. As a visitor, he'd in street clothes most of the
time.
Commander Sprague hopped from the nondescript
staff car, saluted smartly, and introduced herself. Carter
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returned the salute, slid in the passenger side, and eyed
his driver. She was a blonde with eyes like clear ice. Her
uniform was cut severely, but as an ex1Ert he knew that
the body underneath was well proprtioned and athletic.
Jean Sprague attempted to hide what nature had so
generously given her. Apparently, she scorned makeup
or anything that would reveal what she really was, a
beauty.
Carter liked what he saw. She appeared to be a
no-nonsense woman and Carter figured he'd need that in
the brief time frame he'd been given.
She drove out of the airport and got on the road toward
Ottawa. "You'll be staying at the Chäteau Laurier.
You've got a suite there—all diplomatic treatment. It's
Old World, but very central. You'll be able to walk from
the embassy."
Carter nodded, and figured now was as good a time as
any to pump Jean Sprague. "What should I know before
I plunge into this mess up here? I need a crash course. "
She took her eyes from the road for a second to look
at him, then concentrated once more on the traffic.
"Have you ever heard of Robert Boisvert?"
The name didn't ring any bells. "No. Who is he?"
"Minister of foreign affairs and deputy prime minis-
ter," she replied.
"He's right up there. What about him?"
"He's sleeping with Marie Carreau, the prime minis-
ter's wife."
Carter turned toward Jean. "Is it common knowl-
edge?" he asked intrigued.
"Not that I know of. "
"What about Turner and Hume? Their people keep
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tabs on the PM's wife, don't they? Don't they provide
"Boisvert and Marie Carreau are thrown together
often. Jacques Carreau is a rxrson. Hess away a
lot, travels all over the country."
"I thought the prime minister had to attend sessions of
Parliament," Carter said.
"The prime minister—or his deputy," Jean informed
him.
Carter thought about this for a moment, then asked,
"What about the separatists? Do you know Guy Lafon-
Jean nodded. "I've been to Qu&c City several times
and he's here in Ottawa surprisingly often. "
do you assess him?" Carter asked, lighting a
cigarette.
"Ruthless. Boisvert is ambitious, and I think he sleeps
with Marie Carreau for pillow talk, but Lafontaine is
worse. If you want my gut feeling, I wouldn't put it past
him to have had Gilles Parisant killed so he could take
over. He's more militant than Parisant could ever have
been. "
This was a real rogues' gallery, Carter thought. "Tell
me about Turner. "
"A career policeman. Came up through the ranks. He
had no use for politicians who don't understand his job
fully. "
did he and the RCMP get into trouble?"
"Turner ran the department like the last days of
Hoover. He was too autocratic and stepped over the line
too often. Carreau pared him down to size."
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NICK CARTER
"There must have been bad blood when Carreau set up
the SSS and appointed Filbert Hume to head it."
Jean gave a harsh laugh. "That's putting it mildly.
Turner and Hume have been at each other's throats from
day one. We're just one big happy family up here, and
that's not all of it. Tim Loomis is the CIA station chief.
He doesn't approve of my posting, and works very hard
keeping a wall between us, Cooperation isn't in his
vocabulary. Hess just going to love you."
"So we'll work around him. Tell me about Jules
Carreau. "
"He's a brilliant kid," Jean said. "He seems to favor
his father's line, but he's going through a radical stage
right now. He's eighteen—it's only natural."
Carter grunted agreement. "I remember reading that
the prime minister was really left wing in his student
days."
Jean nodded. "He'd been to the Soviet Union three
times by the age of twenty, and he went into politics
before he was thirty."
"Does he still lean to the left?"
"Not so you'd notice. I think it was just a youthful
phase. "
Carter crushed his éigarette out in the car's ashtray.
"What about the local police?"
u Now, that's where you might have a little luck," Jean
answered promptly. "Walt Tanks is the chief of police
here in Ottawa. Fred Saunders is the chief of the OPP,
the Ontario Provincial Police. Tanks has claimed juris-
diction and that's been upheld. Saunders is a friend of
Tanks's and has offered his CID people."
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"How do they feel about us amat American help in
Jean shrugged. "Indifferent. Unless we get in the way
seriously, we can have sorne latitude. Ambassador Niles
knows more about that."
Carter stared out the window for a while, digesting all
that he'd just Feard. He had a Jot of work to do, and only
twelve days in which to do it. He couldn't afford to waste
a minute.
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THREE
The boy stood beside the matron, wanting to hold her
hand, her dress, anything to give him courage, but he
knew he couldn't. He had to be brave. They had taught
him to be brave, but the couple standing in front of him
looked so severe. He hugged a stuffed bear to his breast
and sought comfort from his small friend.
The woman was stick-slim. She held herself stiffly, her
mouth a straight line through compressed lips. Her
forehead, under a tightly wound braid of mouse-colored
hair, was furrowed. Her eyes, green orbs staring at him
through wire-rimmed glasses, seemed cruel.
The man was shorter and rounder, He didn't look fat,
just round and hard. He was dressed in dirty overalls
still streaked with sheep dung. The boy had heard the
man explain that he didn't have time or money for
frivolous pursuits. He too looked mean. His bullet head
was without a singlehair. His ears were close to his
head as if afraid to stray. The lines across his forehead
and at his mouth were formed from long hours of venting
displeasure.
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NICK CARTER
The boy had been told that this second set of parents
would teach him discipline and hard work in his new
land, It would last a year—more if he needed it. Maybe
they would be better than they looked. The last couple
had been cruel, the ones who .had brought him out
during the fighting in someplace called Hungary. They
had locked him in a basement closet at night, beating
him, overworking him. At the school deep in the Urals
where he'd been trained before immigrating to Québec,
they'd told him it would be difficult, but it was all for the
good of the party.
He couldn't remember when he'd not been at the
school. He'd been an orphan. In a wide sweep, looking
for talent, Directorate S of the First Chief Directorate,
the Illegals Directorate responsible for placing agents
under deep cover in strategic positions throughout the
world, had tested him. He'd scored so high, they
planned for his future as if he were a national treasure.
He spent three interminable years at the first school. He
could field strip a Kalashnikov with the best of them.
They'd taught him about grenades, how to make a crude
bomb or a Molotov cocktail, how to infiltrate. But most
of all they'd told him of the "Canada plan," although
they never gave him all the details. He'd learned English
and French until he was accent-free in both languages.
He was a jewel in the crown of the Komitet Gosu-
darstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the KGB.
From the beginning, he knew that he would live with
three couples in Canada at different times. They never
told him why. The, last would be upper middle class,
cultured, politically active. He would be a nephew they
adopted when the second couple were killed in an
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accident. His papers would be in perfect order. He
would be schooled by his new parents, constantly super-
vised, moved carefully through early political affilia-
tions, and finally run for office in a backwater
community in Québec.
He would be knowledgeable, cultured, and through
the auspices of Directorates, his parents would have
become moderately rich. When the Directorate, or some
mysterious control he had not met, thought the time was
ripe, his parents would disappear in a boating accident,
leaving him a comfortable estate and a perfect back-
ground. From the time of their deaths, he would be on a
loose rein. His Soviet control would be available but not
obtrusive. .
As he woke now in the luxurious bedroom, his wife
tEside him, he smiled, as he did every day upon awak-
ening. He was in a world of his own, a false world, yet
in the real world he was a man of power, respected by his
community and throughout the country.
He looked ahead to the job at hand. Parisant was dead.
His death had been engineered with skill, possibly by
Directorate S. He had no way of knowing. His own plans
had been advanced by the killing. Parisant had been in
the way. The uproar would tE loud and long, but Jules
would not suffer. They would not be able to pin
Parisant's death on Carreau's son and he would be
released. He made a mental note to get word out that the
boy was to be off limits.
Nick Carter arrived at the embassy in a cab. Thomas
Niles had someone with him. His secretary introduced
herself.
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NICK CARTER
"I'm Nancy Flanders. I've been with Ambassador
Niles on his last three postings," she said, holding out a
hand. She was overweight, on the far side of forty-five,
and undeniably plain.
But Carter saw beyond the outer woman. The hazel
eyes were alert. An intelligent woman lurked behind
those eyes, a woman he knew it would be wise to
cultivate as a friend. She'd make one hell of an enemy.
"So you're the new military attaché,"
she said,
appraising him. "Welcome to Ottawa, Commander Carl-
son. I was under the impression you weren't due for a
few weeks."
Before Carter could answer, the opened and
Niles was showing a man out. "Commander Carlson?"
Niles said, holding out a hand. "Meet Tim Loomis, one
of my advisers. "
Loomis held out a hand. Carter took it. The two men
sized each other up as oryly two professionals could.
Neither had a doubt that the other was some kind of
spook. Carter had the advantage of Loomis; Jean had
filled him in. Loomis would have to cierEnd on his
instincts. Typical of the breed, neither man spoke. They
nodded, their handshake lasting only a second or two.
Then Carter was inside and receiving a hearty hand-
shake behind the closed door. "I'm very happy to have
you here, whoever you are," Niles said, smiling as he
slipped behind his desk.
Carter decided to listen.
"That sounds strange, I know. I asked the president
personally for the best man he could send. I didn't want
more CIA involvement or help from any other agency
controlled by the DCI," he explained quickly.
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He was a man who did everything quickly. While he
talked at a rapid pace, his hands were busy with pzFs
on his desk, his eyes roamed over Carter missing
nothing, and the foot folded over one knee was beating
time to a silent rhythm. The ambassador was above
average height, handsome in a boyish way, yet gray at
the temples. Carter imagined that women found him
attractive.
"And here you are, some kind of superspook from an
agency that even I haven't heard of," he concluded.
"It has its advantages. What have you told your
staff?"
"Nothing. You are what you say you are. Navy
records back up your story."
"And Nancy Flanders?"
"She knows no more than anyone else."
"Is this room clean?"
"Loomis has it swept twice a day. "
"And you trust Loomis, of course."
Niles a key from his desk and unlocked a drawer.
He out an electronic sweeper, state of the art,
flipped the switch, and moved around the room with
professional ease. It was luxurious, as the office of an
American ambassador should be. Original oils were
hung strategically, subtly lighted. Several groupings of
chairs were spotted throughout the huge room. A fire-
place, unlit, surrounded by shelves holding hundreds of
leather-bound books tCX)k up one whole wall.
"That's very good. But anyone can find it in your
desk. "
? "No one has. I've got my own security system," Niles
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said with a grin. "I also have a backup and I use it every
second day. "
"So you don't trust Loomis."
Niles went to a side table and poured two coffees:
"How do you take yours?" he asked.
"Black.
"Loomis might be the best they have," Niles an-
swered, returning to his desk with two cups on a
Iaquered tray, "but I donst trust the Company. There
have been too damned many foul-ups—too many men
playing god. "
Carter couldn't agree more. He'd worked with a lot of
good CIA types, but he'd met too many who were off
center. He agreed with Niles. In something as delicate as
this, you didn't want a bull in your china shop. "What
about the Canadians?" he asked.
"I assumed you'd been briefed."
"I prefer to hear it from you."
Niles smiled enigmatically. He was a veteran of the
diplomatic wars and obviously pleased to deal with a
man of Carter's caliber.
"It's not a good situation. It's too bad, really. I think
James Turner is a good sort. But he's not Carreau's man
and that's two strikes against him before he ever came to
bat," Niles said, sipping his coffee. "He'd as an
administrator before Carreau came to power. One of his
deputies was running his department like the Gestapo.
Two cases ended up in the Supreme Court with all the
attendant publicity. "
"And Turner took the flack."
"The boss man usually does."
"Is he basically a good guy?"
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"I think so, but the image is gone, so his teeth are
pulled. "
"Tell me about Hume."
"Carreau's man. Or he was. The prime minister has a
majority so strong it's almost vulgar. He managed to get
a bill passed to form a secret service of his own to replace
the RCMP CID people. They have almost unlimited
power. "
"Not very democratic," Carter muttered.
"Hume put himself in trouble almost righi away. With
the new Bill of Rights here, every lawyer is tying to
make a name for himself testing it. "
"I don't see how the PM got the bill past the senate."
"There you go. We haven't bothered to understand
their politics enough—until now, that is," Niles said,
walking to the table and refilling his cup. He moved with
the same urgency even when carrying a full cup of
coffee. "The senate is a pork-barrel mechanism. The
members are appointed by the current prime minister.
Only once to my knowledge has the senate opposed a
bill. "
"Rubber-stamp politics. "
"Something like that. It helps explain the possibility
of the SSS in a democracy," Niles said, then switched
the subject. "The local police are damanding jurisdiction
in the Parisant killing. The park where he was found is
within their territory. They have Jules Carreau in one of
their jails. "
"Where? Do you know?"
Street near Bank. Three blocks from here."
"Do you know the local people?"
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"I trust Walter Tanks completely. Walt's a man with
unquestioned integrity in my book."
"He's the chief?"
ØRight. Fred Saunders is commissioner of the Ontario
Provincial Police. That's like our state police."
"How do they get along?"
"The usual departmental jealousies," Niles said, "but
I trust Fred Saunders. He's a good cop. Walt trusts him
too. Use him if you have to,"
"Will you contact them?"
"I will now that I've met you," Niles replied.
Thomas M. T. Niles was a career diplomat, but
diplomacy had not always been his strong suit. In the late
sixties he'd been a shavetail lieutenant. He'd been
assigned to a Captain Charlie Beckwith shortly after
Beckwith returned from Bradbury Lines in England after
a year with the Special Air Service's 22nd Regiment. At
the time, they had been the best antiterrorist fighting
force in the world. Beckwith was filled with hope for the
immediate formation of an even tEtter American force.
It would take more than fifteen years of disappointment,
interservice rivalries, and political interference before
he'd finally formed Delta Force.
But the first few months with Beckwith had been an
eye-opener to Niles. He'd learned more ways to kill in
two short months than he'd ever dreamed rxjssible. He
was a language specialist. Beckwith had great hopes for
him. But a fall on the difficult obstacle course at
Beckwith's base had finished a promising career. Niles
still walked with m slight limp, one leg shorter than the
other.
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Now he looked up at the man in front of him as Carter
prepared to leave. The brown eyes across the desk met
his for a moment and he saw the kind of man he hadn't
seen since he left Beckwith. He suppressed a shudder.
*lim Loomis sat in a small office at the rear of the
building on the first It was lined with metal mesh,
a perfect foil for listening devices. When he or one of his
people swept Niles's office twice a day, they then used
their detectors on this office, their general office, and
their communications room.
Loomis was everyone's image of the perfect CIA
man. He was tall and athletic, his dark hair perfectly
groomed, his conservative suit immaculate. He had just
hung up from talking to Nancy Flanders and he was
furious. Niles had informed her that Commander Carlson
had permission to carry a gun. The Navy man had no
right to carry arms! He was here as an observer! Damn!
Something stank here, he thought. For Niles to issue
such an order meant that he didn't trust his own chief of
station to handle the Carreau situation. It also confirmed
his suspicions that Carlson was one hell of a lot more
than he was supposed to be.
"Frank!" he shouted. "Get your butt in here!"
Frank Brown was a black man, Loomis's second in
command. He was tall and handsome, usually in a good
mood, but he wasn't smiling at the curt summons. He
stood in front of Loomis's desk without speaking.
"You heard we've got a new naval attaché?"
"In three weeks, yes."
"He's already here. Something about him having two
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NICK CARTER
weeks' leave and deciding to spend it getting to know
Ottawa.
"The guy's either too damned eager for his own good,
he's nutsy or he's not what he's supposed to be."
Loomis looked up at his colleague. Brown was smart.
He'd go a long way in the Company. But right now
Brown was second in command. Loomis wasn't the kind
to care whether a man might be his boss someday and act
accordingly. He dealt with the here and now.
"I want some of our people on this guy. I want to
know where he goes and what he does."
"We're spread thin now, Tim. What's so hot about this
"I've just been told by Mr. High and Mighty that the
guy will be armed at all times. How do you like that shit?
And he's going to clear it with Tanks and Saunders,"
"So I was right. He's not what he's supposed to tE."
"I knew that before I called you in here, asshole. Just
what the hell do you think he is?"
"He could be G-2. I can check that out. Wouldn't
the first time I've seen a G-2 type working in civilian
clothes, carrying a piece," Brown said, his brow fur-
rowed. "He's got to be something special, maybe one of
the superspooks we've heard about."
"Well, I want people on him at all times. I want his
room at the hotel bugged. I want him assigned a pool car
and I want it wired for sound and direction. I want this
guy blanketed. "
"If he's special, won't he have some heavy clout?"
Brown asked, leaning his hands on the desk.
'"I don't give a shit. If the flack comes down, it comes
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down. In the meantime, I don't want him to fart without
my knowing. You get that bastard on tape, you hear?"
Brown left the office and went back to his cubicle with
a thoughtful frown on his face. He'd been with the
Company for five years, had climbed fast, but had never
run into anything like this. He was no fool. He knew that
secret agencies existed and he knew why. The Company
was too big and unwieldy. It had too many men like
Loomis in control. The guy he'd been told to put a
blanket over was probably here on direct presidential
order. Sure. It made sense. The American president and
the Canadian prime minister were good friends. Carreau
had probably asked for help. With Turner and Hume to
deal with, Brown would have done the same thing.
Carreau hadn't called Niles for Loomis's help. He'd
called the Oval Office and this new guy showed up.
So what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Brown
wondered. If he crossed Loomis, he'd be in the smelly
brown stuff up to his knees and he wasn't well enough
established to take the flack. Talk to Niles? If that
backfired, he'd be in it up to his neck. Talk to the new
guy, what was his name? Carlson?
If he was right and the president sent the guy up here,
there was no way he was going to mess him up. Shit!
Like his daddy used to say: "Nothin's ever easy, son.
Not one damned thing's ever easy."
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FOUR
Carter left Niles's office, nodded to Nancy Flanders,
and was about to leave the embassy, when a tall black
man stopped him. He was about Carter's height, out-
weighed him by twenty pounds, and from the fit of his
dark suit, the poundage was all muscle.
"Tim Loomis would like to see you," the man said.
"I'm Frank Brown, Mr. Loomis's assistant."
Carter took the hand that was offered. His senses
picked up a special message from this man, senses that
were an integral part of the Killmaster's bag of tricks, a
kind of antennae that never failed him. He picked up two
things: one, the assistant station chief didn't like Loomis;
and two, he was available as a bypass to CIA help.
He shook the hand warmly, sending out his own
message. "Nicholas Carlson. I'll be working here full-
time in three weeks. "
"They tell me you're on vacation now," Brown said,
leading Carter back to the CIA offices. "Seems to me
you'd choose a better place."
"You married?" Carter asked.
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"Yes. Got two kids."
"So we don't think alike. I've got no ties and I've
done the Club Med scene and the European fleshpots,"
Carter lied. "I thought Ottawa would be a welcome
change. "
"If you need help with your 'welcome change,' let me
know," Brown chuckled.
They'd reached Loomis's office. The chief of station
didn't get up or offer a hand. He looked busy, which was
his specialty whether he was busy or not, and he looked
annoyed. Carter couldn't tell if Loomis was perpetually
annoyed or whether his standing there was the cause of
the man's irritation. He knew he'd find out soon enough,
won't need you on this, Frank."
When they were alone, Loomis wasted no time.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
Carter wasn't impressed by the man or the obvious
antisurveillance gadgets surrounding him. He'd met too
many good men to be fooled by a phony. The good ones
went about theiV jobs quietly, didn't draw attention to
themselves, and kept the tools of their trade out of sight.
But he decided to play out his hand and act the innocent.
"Vacation. You've got a problem with that?"
"The problem is, it's all bullshit."
Carter sat back in his chair and put his face in neutral.
"What's this shit about you carrying?" Loomis
snapped.
"A habit. How often do you travel light?"
talking about you, not me."
"I don't want trouble, Loomis, but I've got clearance
and that's it for me."
"You keep your nose clean, you hear? I don't want to
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hear about you coming within a mile of my operation.•
You got that straight?"
Carter hoisted himself out of his chair. "l can see
we're going to work well together," he said. "See you
around. "
The police building at Albert and Bank streets was a
two-story building separated from its closest neighbor by
an empty lot. While it was downtown, the streets were
almost deserted after dark. The area was quiet until a
long line of chanting protesters marched along Albert
from the War Memorial where Parisant had been killed.
Each man and woman carried a torch overhead. The
shadows cast by the flames painted weird shadows on the
empty buildings as they passed.
Police on duty came out to see what was going on.
The marchers came on, slowly, until they had surround-
ed the building.
"Send him out!" one of the men shouted in French.
"We want the killer of Gilles Parisant! Do it now!"
They all began to chant at once: "We want Carreau!
We want Carreau! We want Carreau!"
The chant continued until a sergeant came out of the
front door with a shotgun. He fired both barrels into the
night sky and shouted at the marchers in both English
and French. "You will all be arrested for disturbing the
peace if you don't disburse. "
They didn't hear him over the noise they were
making. But the shotgun had its effect. Some of the men
reached inside their shirts and two of the women slipped
their hands under their skirts. They came out with wine
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bottles filled with gasoline. Each bottle had a rag stuffed
down the neck.
The action was uncoordinated but effective. Torches
were dipped to the wicks of the Molotov cocktails and
the bottles were thrown at the building. Some broke
against the brick walls and spread flame in all directions.
Others hit the bars of the windows and spread flame
across the glass to drip off the sills to the street. Two or
three missed the bars and crashed through the glass. The
police outside had to duck inside for cover as flames
roared about them.
As if on signal, the crowd off running. They were
in groups of eight or ten. Far enough down the streets to
avoid detection, pickup trucks pulled into view and raced
away with the demonstrators.
The police building, a downtown precinct with its own
jail, was an inferno within seconds.
Carter passed Brown's office on the way out. The big
man waved him in. "You get the standard lecture?" he
asked, his handsome face split by a grin.
"I think he embellished it some," Carter said, prepar-
ing to sit.
The phone rang and Brown answered it. His forehead
furrowed and his expression changed. "Shit! Where they
got him?"
He waited for an answer and slammed the phone
down.
"What is it?" Carter asked as Brown headed for the
door.
"Separatists set fire to the jail where they've got
Carreau. "
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Carter took off after Brown. They hopped into an
agency car that was in a diplomatic parking spot and
were moving within ten seconds of the call. The ride
took all of one minute before they pulled up on the other
side of the street from the flaming building.
It was too soon for a crowd to have formed, The fire
department sirens could be heard in the distance. Brown
and Carter raced into the front door. .The heat was almost
unbearable.
"Where's Carreau?" Brown asked a sergeant who was
held back by the flames.
"In back. Second floor: We need masks and tanks to
get through the smoke. The fire department—
Carter took off running to the back of the building. He
opened a door momentarily and took in deep lungsful of
air. Through long years of yoga practice, he had trained
himself to hold his breath for four minutes or more.
The back stairwell was almost free of smoke but was
filling fast. The smoke worked on his eyes until they
were watering so much he could barely see. Carter took
the stairs two at a time and ran into an officer who was
walking in circles, holding a handkerchief to his eyes.
"Where's Carreau?" he shouted, losing the precious
breath he'd been holding.
"Who the hell are you?" the man rasped.
"I've got to save Carreau. Where is he?"
"He's down at the end of the corridor. I couldn't get
to him. I'm not giving him up—" The man coughed deep
from his gut. could tE the one who started—-" He
couldn't finish as the smoke filled his lungs.
Carter grabbed the keys from the man's belt and raced
down the corridor as the officer toppled over.
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His lungs burned but he couldn't get any air until this
was over.' A wall of fire spread across the corridor in
front of him where a guard's desk and chair burned
furiously. All of the cells were empty. He reasoned that
nothing could be feeding the fire on the other side if only
cells occupied the rest of the floor,
Carter ran through the flames suffering nothing more
than singed hair and eyebrows. Within seconds he was
through and in another area of cells, but he saw no one.
At the far end, a figure was sprawled on the floor of a
cell. Carter tried three keys before he found the right
one. He didn't waste a second. His lungs were burning
fiercely and his head throbbed as the lack of oxygen
starved his brain.
He hoisted the young man in a fireman's carry and ran
back the way he had come. The wall of fire was worse
than before. The desk was one mass of flame, the wood
crackling as it expanded and split.
Carter didn't hesitate. The added weight was taxing
his strength. He rushed through, tripping over the chair
he couldn't see in the flames. He and his burden hit the
terrazzo floor and skidded ten feet before they were
stopped by a body.
The air was better near the flcx»r. The Killmaster knew
this, but he had to carry Jules Carreau out and crawling
wasn't going to do it. He felt for a pulse, first Carreau,
then the officer. They were both alive. He hoisted
Carreau on his shoulder and dragged the officer to the
stairs.
His head was spinning. He had lost all. sense of
direction. Even with his stamina, the task was much.
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As he took the first step down, he lost his balance. The
three bodies tumbled to the bottom and lay still.
He couldn't remember when he'd been so mad. In all
the years he'd worked carefully to improve his position
and preserve his identity, he'd never seen anything
handled as badly as this. For the Carreau boy to have
been killed would have damaged their cause. The unde-
cided votes in Québec, the Anglos who were too lazy to
fight the referendum, the new immigrants who didn't
want to take sides, they would all have been swayed by
such foolishness.
He went to his bedroom to make the call. As he keyed
in the number, he idly fondled a small stuffed animal on
the bed.
"Oui?" a voice answered.
"You fool! Trying to kill the Carreau boy could have
ruined us!"
"Try? Isn't he dead?"
"No. He's in hospital, Didn't you get my message?"
"Yes, but I thought .
you know .
I thought
so dramatic a death
with him out of the way
the party would rally around us."
"We have the party, you fool! If he'd been killed, too
many undecided votes could have swung the wrong way.
Don't you ever use your head?"
just thought—"
"I'll tell you what to think about. If you ever pull
if you ever pull
anything against my orders again .
anything like that again without checking with me first,
you are a dead man. You got that? A dead man!"
He slammed down the phone and sat for a moment
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breathing hard. It would all be overfor him soon. One
man could accomplish just so much. He'd undermined
the RCMP and the SSS. He'd brought the referendum to
a head. When they won, he would have been at the game
long enough. It would be time for him to disappear, time
for the KGB to stage a fake accident for him.
Before he went back downstairs to his family, he
wondered how he would be mourned in Canada after his
death. It would be great sport to see the funeral, hear the
eulogies, and know the irony.
The first thing Carter felt when he 01rned his eyes was
a burning in his throat, He tried to put his hand to it, but
the hand was bandaged.
"You're awake," a sweet voice sounded near his ear.
"How do you feel?"
"Water," he croaked.
"I've got a mixture you should swallow slowly. It will
soothe your throat. "
"Where am I?"
"St. Vincent's Hospital. We were the closest," the
nurse said.
Another body in white loomed over him. A flashlight
was shone in one eye than the otheru "How do you feel?"
the doctor asked.
"All right. My throat is pretty raw."
"It's a damned miracle you're alive at all."
He was interrupted by Thomas Niles who'd come
rushing in as soon as he heard voices. "How is he,
Doctor?" he asked, almost out of breath.
"Fine. He's going to be all right, Mr. Ambassador,"
the doctor said. "It's a miracle if you ask me. Sore
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throat, but no damage to the lungs. Singed hair, super-
ficial burns to the backs of his hands. That's it."
Niles came to stand beside Carter and smiled. "You
did a fine job, Commander. One hell of a fine job."
"How's Carreau?" Carter whispered. He knew his
voice would not be the same for a few days.
"Remarkably well. He's not as well as you, but he'll
recover fully with a few days in here."
"What about the other one?" Carter asked. His brain
was fuzzy on details. "I seem to remember another one. '9
"He's better than both of you. Sitting on the edge of
his bed telling his chief that you saved his life."
Carter waved off the comment with a bandaged hand.
"Keep the photographers away from me. I can't .
understand. No pictures," Niles said. "The only
bad part of this is the spotlight on the hero. Hard to
avoid, I'm afraid. "
"The only way is for you to get me out of here
secretly." Carter pulled off the bandages and examined
his hands. They were blistered but not badly burned. He
walked to the small washroom and looked at his face,
holding the open back of the hospital gown with one
hand.
The singed eyebrows weren't bad and the singed hair
would be easy to correct with a razor blade. "I'm getting
dressed," he announced. "Will you arrange a car, sir?"
"Not so fast. The prime minister is down the hall
visiting his boy. He wants to see you."
"Won't the press trail after him?"
"I suppose you're right. "
"He's the one who called the president in the first
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place. Carreau's got to know how important it is for me
to keep in the background."
"There's a reception at his home tomorrow night. I'll
introduce you there," Niles said. "Wear your dress
whites. And, Carlson, you did one hell of a job tonight. "
Carter slipped into the nondescript car that was parked
out back. Brown was driving. "How's the hero?"
"Stuff it, Frank. Let's get out of here, okay? I've got
one hell of a headache and a throat that feels like it's
been barbecued."
"How about some twenty-year-old scotch?"
"Sounds like it might be a solution."
"I know the bell captain at your hotel. No sweat,"
Brown said. He concentrated on his driving as he turned
off Bronson Avenue, past the spires of Christ Church
Cathedral, on to Spark Street and finally Wellington.
The morning traffic rush was over. They circled the War
Memorial and slipped into the hotel driveway in min-
utes.
"You're in Walt Tanks's good books, Carlson. Man,
I've never seen a man so happy with anyone."
"The guy just lost a precinct house," Carter said as
they climbed the six steps to the door held by a
uniformed doorman.
"An old relic of a building. The point is, he didn't lose
a man, thanks to you. And he'd have been in it up to his
hips if the kid had been fried."
"You've got a way with words, you know that?"
Carter said, grinning.
Brown chuckled. "Just trying to make you feel better.
Anyway, one drink and live got to get back. Our friend
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Loomis is a class-A bastard. He's pissed off that I took
you with me last night. Now you're the fair-haired boy
and he can't ride herd on you."
tell you to call off my surveillance?"
"How did you
"It figures. I can't work with a tap on my phone and
the room bugged, Frank," Carter said, his voice sound-
ing more normal with use. "Can you arrange that?" He
had no intention of worrying about listening devices.
He'd use Jean Sprague's setup at the embassy to call
Hawk, and her apartment for most other calls. If they
tried to follow him to her place, they'd get one rude
awakening.
"Can do. You see the PM yet?"
"I'm supposed to see him at a reception tomorrow
night, or is it tonight? I'm still a little confused. Have to
check with Niles."
Brown stayed for a drink, tried to pry information out
of Carter about his past, and finally took off.
Carter took off his shoes and lay back on the bed,
setting his mental alarm for one hour. He closed his eyes
and was asleep in seconds.
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FIVE
The scene at 24 Sussex Drive was in sharp contrast to
the morning Gilles Parisant was driven to his death. Cars
lined the long circular drive. Car jockeys worked furi-
ously to relieve owners of their vehicles or direct
chauffeurs to parking in the rear. Scores of men in
business suits helped with the traffic or stood at strategic
locations, their eyes scanning the arrivals.
The house was ablaze with lights. Carter realized it
wasn't intended to fulfill the functions of the White
House. Many official functions, the biggest, most im-
pressive ones, were held at the home of the Governor
General, the Queen's official representative. The official
functions at Sussex Drive were more intimate, less
formal, with lower-echelon embassy people.
Jacques and Marie Carreau were near the front door,
not obviously greeting guests, but close by to catch the
eye of the ones they especially wanted to talk with. The
game of politics was never-ending.
Carter entered with Jean Sprague on his arm. He was
in dress whites with a chest full of ribbons. Jean had
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decided to wear a formal gown, her reasoning being that
a couple in uniform would look t(X) stiff. He decided she
had done it out of vanity and he was glad. She was an
asset to any man, a beauty, and particularly attractive in
the long black sheath that was cut low in the back and in
the front.
Jean pointed out the prime minister and his wife.
Marie Carreau was wearing a marigold-yellow gown that
contrasted beautifully with her dark hair. Carter remem-
bered what Jean had told him in the car, about Marie and
the deputy prime minister. She was definitely an attrac-
tive woman.
Ambassador Niles was at Carter's elbow as they
moved ahead with the crowd. He guided them to the
Carreaus after only a brief welcome and a compliment to
Jean.
The prime minister of Canada looked directly into the
eyes of the man from AXE as they were introduced. He
seemed to have the ability to shut out the world when he
wanted to concentrate on one person. Carter had noted
the same ability in the president. Up close, he could see
the fatigue lines around the man's eyes and mouth, a trait
shared by men with too much responsibility.
"You are the man who saved our boy," he said, his
voice showing emotion.
Marie Carreau's eyes widened at the statement. Her
face blanched as her gloved hand went to her mouth.
Then she cupped Carter's face gently in her hands and
kissed him on one cheek, then the other. Her eyes were
moist. It was an emotional moment for her. "Thank you.
Ihank you," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't even
know who you are."
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"Commander Nicholas Carlson of the United States
Navy, my dear," Carreau recited. -"And if I'm not
mistaken, this is Commander Sprague."
"I'm so grateful," Marie went on, taking his hand.
She turned it over and saw the ugly red blisters Carter
had trying to hide. "I'm sorry, Jacques," she said,
her voice breaking. "I have to go to my room for a
moment. "If anything had happened
"I understand," the prime minister said as she turned
to leave. "Come with me, Commander Carlson," Car-
reau said quietly. "I'd like to see you alone,"
Carter followed the leader of the Canadian people to a
small den not far from the main reception hall.
"I think it best if we speak alone," Carreau said. "I'm
sorry, my dear."
"Jean is my colleague, sir. I don't believe anything we
will talk about is out of her field. "
"As you wish," he said, leading them into a cozy,
book-lined den. "A drink?" he asked.
Scotch," Carter said. "Two cubes."
"And you, Commander?"
"That will be fine.
The prime minister poured for them and sat in a large
winged chair. "My call to your president has paid off
already Even if you can't help with the murder of my
friend, you have done more than I can ever repay."
"Forget it, sir. What can you tell me about the man
who will succeed Parisant?"
"Guy Lafontaine? He'll be more difficult to deal with,
more militant. "
"Do you think he might have been behind the attempt
on your son?"
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Carreau thought about the question as he sipped his
drink. never been convicted of a crime, but
"But what?" Carter prodded.
"I've always thought he was behind some of the early
the bombings in the sixties."
separatist activity
"It seems to me he's got the most to gain by Parisant's
death. Is his position secure?" Carter said. He glanced at
Jean. She seemed content to listen for the moment.
"He has opposition, but I believe he can ride it out,"
Carreau said. "He's already been confirmed as the
interim leader. "
"What about your second in command?"
"Robert? What about him?" Carreau asked, his brow
furrowing for the first time.
"Robert Boisvert. I've studied our files on him. He
seems too gcx)d to be true," Carter said. "Sometimes the
pillars, the lily-white ones, they're the ones with most to
hide. "
"Does your file show any flaws?" Carreau asked, his
voice rising slightly.
"No," Carter admitted. He knew he was on thin ice
here and he veered off. "I can see that both Turner and
Hume would have scores to settle with you, but I don't
see what killing Par'isant would do to help them."
"They're both good men, Commander Carlson. Mis-
guided perhaps, infatuated with power, but both good
men. "
"But either man could do you irreparable harm by
killing Parisant," Carter countered.
"Perhaps. But is revenge enough? It seems to me that
power, an increase in stature, would be more of a
motive," Carreau said, putting down his glass and
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pulling at his beard thoughtfully. "Attempting to kill my
son was the act of a stupid man," he said after a long
delay,
"I've got my own theories on that," Carter said.
to explain?"
"I think I can explain it," Jean broke in for the first
time. "Killing Mr. Parisant might rally the hard-core
separatists around the party, but they would have gone to
the polls anyway. Something with far more effect on the
referendum would have been the death of Jules Car-
reau.
"How do you figure that?" Carter asked.
Carreau just sat back, his eyes on Jean admiringly.
"I've followed the polls carefully. The Liberal party in
Québec is Mr. Carreau's best tool. They have thirty
percent of the vote while the separatists have forty. That
leaves thirty percent undecided with eight days to go."
"Nine," Carreau corrected. "But you are on track. Go
ahead. "
"The callous murder of Jules by separatists might jog
the undecided voters, the Anglos who are holding back,
the ethnic populations who have kept out of it."
"While the death of Parisant would not?" Carter
asked.
"No one would believe that the prime minister would
be stupid enough to kill Parisant, an old friend, to swing
the vote," she said.
"So who's our best bet?" Carter asked.
"I think Mr. Carreau has an enemy he doesn't
recognize—a brilliant enemy. But that doesn't explain
the blunder at the jail," she went on. "Maybe the master-
mind has stupid lieutenants. It's happened before."
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"Too far-fetched. Who would the mastermind be?"
Carreau asked, drinking the last of his scotch.
"I don't know," Jean admitted. "It's all theory. But I
don't think the man—or woman——who arranged for the
killing of Gilles Parisant is someone obvious."
"I'd like to meet Lafontaine and Boisvert," Carter
said. "Are they here?"
"They are," Carreau said, getting to his feet.
"I know them. Perhaps it would be less obvious if I
introduced you," Jean said, also rising, following Car-
reau's lead.
"What about Turner and Hume?"
"They are here. Do you know them, Commander
Sprague?" the prime minister asked. She nodded. "I
agree it would better, less obvious, if you introduced
the commander. "
They entered the main hall without Carreau. He left
from a different door to make their meeting less obvious.
"That's Robert Boisvert with Marie Carreau," Jean
said, steering them toward the couple.
Marie Carreau had completely recovered her compo-
sure. Her eyes were shining as she talked animatedly to
Boisvert. The man was younger than Carter expected,
somewhere in his early forties, with dark brown hair and
a wide face.
As they approached, Boisvert's dark blue eyes fo-
cused on them. Here was another man of authority,
Carter thought. He had the same look of extreme
confidence a president or a prime minister would have.
One other thing was obvious. He did not have their look
of fatigue, the look that spoke of overwhelming con-
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cerns. On the contrary, his face was unlined as if he
hadn't a care in the world.
"Oh, Robert!" Marie exclaimed as they approached.
She pronounced the name in the French way, Ro-bare.
"This is Commander Carlson, the man who saved my
Jules. A real hero."
Boisvert turned his intense gaze on Carter, sizing him
up. No sign of either gratitude or recognition was
present. The look was entirely neutral, which seemed
strange to Carter at this stage. Boisvert held out a hand.
"Well done, Commander. " He had uttered the words for
Carter, but his eyes were on Jean.
"And this is another commander," Marie said, her
introductions uncertain for a woman in her position.
"May I introduce Commander Jean Sprague. She is with
the American embassy. "
"Such responsibility for one so beautiful," Boisvert
said, taking her hand and bringing his lips close to it.
"Are you against women in the service, Mr. Bois-
vert?" Jean asked.
"19m not a chauvinist, if that's what you mean,"
Boisvert countered. "It just seems such a waste."
"That, Mr. Boisvert, qualifies you eminently," she
said, laughing. "I'm surprised at you, a politician."
With the last word on the subject she led Carter away
to an uncrowded part of the room. They picked up cups
of punch on the way.
"She's in love with him," she announced in a whisper.
"What?" he exclaimed. It was the last thing he
expected to hear: "How could you know?"
"Female telegraph. I don't need another woman to tell
me. Marie managed that by herself."
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Carter was not immune to any emotion. He'd seen it
all. But he was surprised. What Marie Carreau was
doing was dynamite. He had to sort out the motivations
of such a liaison. Who started it? Who had most to gain?
It put Boisvert in the running for a full investigation.
"Carlson!" a voice boomed from behind them. At the
same time, a huge hand slapped Carter on the back,
spilling half his cup of punch on the light gray carpet.
Carter turned to see a bear of a man standing over him.
He was well past fifty, his hair in a crew cut, his
shoulders massive, but in proportion his belly won hands
down. The craggy face was smiling, showing even
yellow teeth. "Chief Tanks. You saved my ass."
A second man was with the chief of police. He hung
back until Tanks had his say. He looked more like an
intellectual, his narrow face partly concealed behind
old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses. His penetrating
eyes were an eerie light green.
"This here's Fred Saunders," the loud voice of the
chief went on, no interruption. "Good friend.
He heads up the Ontario Provincial Police.
Carter couldn't take the hand offered by Saunders. His
own was captured in the huge paw that had clapped him
on the back. Tanks held on to it while he went on about
what the rescue had meant to him, how grateful he was,
and if there was anything he could do .
They said
all the trite things and the big man finally let go of
Carter's hand.
Saunders took it and shook it with care. Carter noted
that the man had seen the damage from the fire and was
not about to cause him pain. He suspected that not much
was missed by those green eyes.
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"I echo Walt's feelings. We'd have had one mess on
our hands without your intervention.
"I was in the right spot at the right time. Anyone could
have done it. "
Saunders said, sounding completely out of
character for the moment. "If I can ever do anything for
you, you damn well let me know."
"1 will."
"I'm available to you, Commander. I don't imagine
how I could ever help you, but if I can
Jean steered him away. "I think we'll take Chief Tanks
in small doses," she whispered into his ear as she clung
to his arm. "Oh. There's Lafontaine. I don't know the
crowd he's with. You want to barge in?"
While she asked the question, the crowd around Guy
Lafontaine left him. Carter wheeled Jean over to the
older man before he was surrounded by well-wishers
again. It wasn't every week that a man was elevated to a
seat of power that controlled a population the size of
New York City.
"Mr. Lafontaine," Carter said. "May I present Com-
mander Jean Sprague of the American embassy?"
"Enchanté, mademoiselle," the acting premier of
Québec replied. "Et vous, monsieur?"
"I am Commander Carlson, also of the embassy,"
Carter answered in French, since the leader of the
separatists seemed so inclined. "We've both been anx-
ious to meet you."
"Ah. And why is that?" the .tall man asked. He was
very slim. His clothes seemed. to hang as if still on
hangers, the points jutting out at his shoulders. He
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vaguely reminded Carter of a stooped scarecrow. Or a
large-beaked crane wearing a suit.
"Your climb to power in Québec has not escaped the
attention of our people south of the border," Carter went
on. "If you do separate, we are concerned about our
relationship. "
"And what is your field, Commander?" Lafontaine
asked with an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
"Military, sir. But that doesn't stop a man from
thinking. What do you think of the Jules Carreau affair?"
he suddenly asked, changing the subject.
Carter watched for a reaction and got one. It was
almost imperceptible, but it was there. Above the man's
large nose, his eyes narrowed slightly with displeasure.
The question was whether he just didn't like to talk about
the subject, or whether he had anything to do with the act
itself.
"He is a lucky young man, which is more than can be
said for Parisant. I find the entire matter most distress-
ing. "
"Of course," Carter said, letting it drop. Lafontaine
fascinated him, as did Boisvert. He had small dossiers on
them both but had to learn more. He decided to make a
call on both of them at their homes, preferably when they
were both away.
He squeezed Jean's arm slightly and started to lead her
away. "Bonne chance," he said in parting. "Good luck."
"Pas de chance, Commander," Lafontaine retorted.
"Luck has nothing to do with it."
"What was that all about?" Jean asked when they were
far enough away.
"Just feeling each other out. He's our main suspect in
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the Parisant assassination. He suspects I'm a predator on
his trail."
"A perceptive man. He's also a very furtive man. My
French is lousy, so I just watched him. "
"That one is more than just furtive. I think he's
capable of anything. I'll have to find out what makes him
tick. "
"I see Turner and Hume standing together, " Jean said.
"Want to corner them now while you have a chance?"
"Let's call it a night. What do you say?" he asked. He
wanted some time alone to think about what he'd
learned. The idea of unraveling two more complicated
characters didn't appeal to him. He'd do some checking
on them and meet them at some other time.
If there was time. Time was his enemy now. He had to
get to Parisant's killer and do it before the polls opened
for the referendum, preferably in time for the evening
news the night
"Would you like to come over for a nightcap?" Jean
said as they waited for their car.
"Can I have a rain check?" he asked. "There's
something I've got to do."
"Okay, how about a steak at my place tomorrow
night?" she said.
"You're on. ;
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SIX
The car rental desk was still open at Carter's hotel. He
obtained the most common model available, got a map
of the city, and drove south on Bank Street to Highway
31. It was one of the busiest routes to the airport.
Boisvert's estate was south of the airport on the road to
Morrisburg. Frank Brown had given him directions.
Carter stopped at a farm lane well out of town and
changed into black fatigues. His weapons were strapped
in place outside, easy to reach. A flashlight
hung from his belt. A small leather case, one of AXE
wizard Howard Schmidt's specialties, was in a hip
pocket. It contained three vials of drugs: lethal, debili-
tating, and Pentothol. He also had a pair of Schmidt's
laser detectors. They fitted over his eyes like a piece of
space traveler's equipment, secured around his head by a
strong rubber strap, The most unusual item for him was
commonplace, a pair of leather linesman's gloves.
The night sky had been clear when Carter left the
center of the city, but it had clouded over in the past half
hour. Every few hundred yards he had to use the flash-
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light at the entrance to one of the estate properties to
identify it. They were beginning to line the highway on
both sides.
Boisvert's property was closed off to visitors by a pair
of steel gates. A gateman's hut stood to one side inside
the gates. Its windows were dark. A closed-circuit
camera was mounted on a post to the left.
Carter parked in the shadows well away from the
gates. Brown had provided no information on Boisvert's
security. Since no one was on the gates, Carter assumed
the grounds were patrolled by dogs or crisscrossed by,
lasers.
The fence posed no problem. Inside the grounds he
scanned for lasers and found none. He waited for a few
minutes, listening. He was not worried about time. He
had left the party early. Boisvert would probably stay to
the end, but he had no guarantees.
While he was listening, a drumming sound reached
him faintly. As the sound increased, it was accompanied
by labored breathing. Carter turned to face the sound. He
assumed a fighting pose, his legs spread slightly, his
knees flexed, his arms held out in front, the fingers
spread.
When the attack came, it was lightning fast. With no
more than a grunt of effort, the pit bull left the ground
and dived for his throat. Carter saw the open mouths the
teeth like a row of spearheads shining in the night.
He reacted instantly. Moving slightly to his left, he
caught a paw in his right hand and fell backward as fast
as he could. His arm whipped the dog forward, using the
canine's weight to propel him against the wall.
The animal was just stunned. Carter was on him
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he could move, pressing the nerves at the side of
the powerful neck until the eighty pounds of fury
subsided.
The drumming of paws came at him again. This time
he wasn't able to maneuver. He grasped both sides of the
dog's mouth in his leather gloves and pressed the
writhing body against the wall until he could get a hand
free to render the dog unconscious.
He fell to his knees breathing heavily. The dogs were
stretched out in front of him. He gave himself a few
seconds to recover, then carefully injected each animal
with enough of the debilitating drug to keep it out of
action for an hour. If he couldn't do the job in an hour,
he figured, he should switch professions.
Carter pulled himself to his feet and moved out of the
shrubbery near the wall. The house was dark except for
one light in a second-floor window. The building was a
gray stone Tudor, two stories. It looked spacious and the
four-car garage to one side added to the appearance of
size.
Moving quickly from the wall to the house, Carter
examined every room on the ground floor. He saw no
one. Completing the circle, looking in the last window,
he heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter. A brief
flash of light cast a glow on the stone wall near him.
A guard. The man was having a smoke. Carter
stepped carefully to the edge of the wall and looked
around. A husky man stood in the shadows, his back to
the house.
One of Carter's objectives was to leave no clues that
the house had been visited. The dogs would recover and
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show no sign of his presence. The guard was another
matter.
The smoker stood next to an arbor. Annuals had been
potted in the last few days and hung from the arbor
lattice near the man's head. Slowly, Carter crept along
the wall. At the last second, he left his feet, catching the
man with a karate chop on the way down. He gave the
inert form a short dose of the drug, then pulled the
largest pot from its hanger, wrapped it with a doormat,
and smashed it next to where the man lay.
Again he waited for a few minutes, listening carefully.
He heard nothing. The door behind the guard was
unlocked. He crept in and made a quick circuit of the
lower floor to be sure the guard had no company. Again
he detected no lasers, so he folded the uncomfortable
goggles and put them away.
Carter stole up the long stairway at the front of the
house feeling vulnerable so out in the Only one
door had a light under it. He grasped the handle and
turned slowly, easing the door inward until he could get
his head in a position to see. The housekeeper was sitting
in a reclining chair, a book loose in her hand, her head
against her chest.
He eased the door closed.
Only one other room was occupied. Two children
slept in twin beds in one huge room. The clouds had
cleared. Moonlight was streaming through flower-
patterned curtains. The children slept under the watchful
eye of an assortment of stuffed animals, bears and
giraffes, camels and pandas, slim and fat animals, old
and new animals, in all the colors of the rainbow.
Carter slipped into the master bedroom and went
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through a desk and two end tables, careful to leave them
as he'd found them. Nothing was obviously out of the
ordinary. Nothing except a tattered old stuffed animal
that rested against a pillow on the bed.
He slipped downstairs and searched the desk in a room
that had to be Boisvert's den. Again he found nothing.
He wasn't surprised. Boisvert would be stupid to leave
anything incriminating at home. If he was involved in
the Parisant affair, he'd have to be very careful.
On the way out, Carter took a minute to go through the
guard's pockets. Apart from the usual money and credit
cards, all in the name of Karl Jones, he found nothing.
The man had a weapon, a police special, again nothing
out of the ordinary. One thing was unusual, but it didn't
hit Carter right away. The suit, the cloth it was made
from„ it wasn't exactly Nonh American.
So what was it? While he pondered the mystery, he
heard one of the dogs approaching. It was shaking its
head from side to side, almost recovered. It seemed to be
oblivious of Carter. Instead, it went to the guard and
whined, trying to push the man's head so he could lick
the face.
The guard groaned. The second dog appeared and
growled low in his throat. Headlights appeared at the
gate and soon were starting up the drive.
It was time to get out.
On the way to Jean Sprague's apartment the following
evening, he picked up a tail and let them follow him until
he felt sure they were Loomis's people. Once he was
sure the men in the car following him weren't on the
other side, he lost them in the market area, knifing
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through protesting pedestrians and whipping into the
Holiday Inn parking lot at George and Dalhousie streets.
When the frustrated CIA men passed the lot, trying to
pick up his trail, he headed to Jean's using a roundabout
route through Rockliffe Park and Manor Park.
He was just turning on to St. Laurent Boulevard a few
blocks from the apartment when he noticed a car he'd
seen downtown and again in Rockliffe Park. Now it was
turning on to St. Laurent with him. Loomis's boys were
better than he thought. They must have had at least one
parallel car on him, he figured. Carter didn't think
Loomis had that kind of manpower.
Carter cut into the Rideau High School parking lot and
circled to make sure the lot was empty. With his
headlights turned off, he drove back toward the entrance
just as the other car turned in.
It was always the same. Two agencies of the same
government spending good money fighting each other.
Usually he let it go, kept out of their way, but this time
he was going to flush them out.
The other car drove alongside. As it passed, an ugly
face peered out at him. The face was grinning as a
massive hand holding an oversize gun appeared. Two
flashes erupted from the gun, but Carter didn't see them,
He had rolled to one side and out the other door. As the
other car started to turn, he got off three quick shots. One
9mm slug from Carter's Luger ripped through a sleeve
and the shooter's gun clattered from a shattered hand.
The other two shots sheared through metal at the rear of
the car.
The tank blew. The spread of burning fuel was so
quick, the two men were engulfed. The dc.X)rs opened but
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they didn't appear. Instead, the flaming car careened
toward a chain link fence, coming to rest against it, the
flames climbing to the night sky.
Carter ran to the gun, picked it up, and headed back to
his car. He took off without lights and didn't stop until he
was six blocks away in the Belgate Shopping Center
parking lot.
He examined the car. Both side windows had been
open. The shots must have passed straight through. He
examined the gun. He hadn't seen one like it for a long
time—a Graz Buyra. They had been popular with the
KGB years ago. This one had seen years of hard use.
The man who had used it had been an old hand at the
game.
Carter wondered if perhaps he'd been too quick to
send them to a fiery grave. He could have learned
something from them. The encounter byought up a lot
of questions. Why was the KGB on to him? Was the tail
the result of his visit to Boisvert's house? He remem-
bered Karl Jones's suit. A KGB guard at Boisvert's
estate .
? Things just didn't make sense.
One bothersome question was Jean's safety. The
incident had happened a few blocks from her place. He
drove for a half hour, making sure he wasn't followed.
Finally, when he felt safe, he spotted a phone booth and
pulled over. He dialed Jean's number and she answered
on the second ring.
"Something's happened," Carter said as soon as he
had her on the line. He told her about the attempt on his
life and the KGB gun. He warned her to keep her eyes
open and promised to call her the following day.
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"Let me talk to Guy."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"Just tell him to get his ass to the phone. He'll know
who it is."
The caller waited for a few seconds. He was impatient
and held his temper in check as well as he could.
"I told you never to call me here," Lafontaine said.
He sounded out of breath.
"I'll call you where and when I want, " the caller said
in Russian. "Now listen and listen well. Some of your
people blew it tonight and they're dead."
"Dead?" Lafontaine said, still sounding out of breath.
It wasn't unusual. He had a tendency to hyperventilate
when talking to his control. "What happened?"
"They were following the American Navy com-
mander. "
"And he killed them?"
"That's how it looks, " the caller said at the other end.
"What does that tell you?"
"That the commander isn't what he's supposed to be.
A naval attaché wouldn't get to our people. Not unless
he's had special training."
"More than that. He'd think twice about shooting and
being killed in the process. This one is good. He's very
good. "
"What do you want me to do?"
"The glorious new leader of the separatist government
of Québec doesn't know what to do," the caller said, his
voice dripping with sarcasm. "You find out who this
American is and what he knows. You exploit his weak
spots. You do exactly what we trained you to do. "
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"What if I'm exposed? I can't take chances now.
We're too close."
"Listen well, Guy Lafontaine. If you can't figure out
how to neutralize this one man, you are no use to
us—none. Now get the hell on with the job, comrade."
The line went dead, leaving one man at the other end,
in Québec City, breathing hard and starting to sweat.
"I love you," the woman moaned into his ear as she
lay beneath the body of a man in the canopied bed. The
bodies were stark white. Neither had seen the sun for
months.
"We said we wouldn't talk about love," he growled. It
was difficult for him to talk as the sensation filled his
loins and threatened to send him over the top too soon.
"Oh, Bobby, I've got to leave him soon," she said,
her breath coming in short bursts. "I can't stand not
being with you every night."
ßCan't .
Marie . .
not yet," he said, unable
to wait any longer. He moved over her, fulfilling the act,
sending her to a new height of pleasure while satisfying
himself.
They lay together, not speaking, until their breathing
returned to normal. It pleased Boisvert that this was the
prime minister's bed. It pleased him that Carreau was a
fool and still confided in his wife most of his inner
thoughts. The man he would replace one day was an
unsuspecting ass.
It would be over soon, he told himself. When the
separatists made all Carreau's efforts ICX)k like the
ineffectual attempts of a fool, it would be the beginning
of the end for the man who had stood in his way for so
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long. And it would be the beginning of real power for
him, for Robert Boisvert.
He rolled off her, their skin parting reluctantly. She
clung to him, pressing the length of her against him.
"What does Jacques plan to do about Lafontaine? Will
he try to undermine him in the next few days?" he
whispered into her ear.
"I don't want to talk about him now."
"I know, But I have to help him all I can. What has he
planned?"
I want to talk about us. Will we be together when
this is over?"
"Soon after. I promise. I don't want to be apart any
more than you."
"Have you talked to your wife?"
"No reason to until Jacques knows."
"I'll tell him when he gets back," she said, her
excitement mounting.
"Not yet. Let's get the referendum over with. Just
another week. "
Promise?"
"Promise. Now, what about Lafontaine?"
"Jacques isn't worried about Lafontaine. He has
another plan. Bernard Fornier has something on Lafon-
taine. He's going to spring it at the last minute."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he said, pulling
away from her.
She clung to him. "I just learned last night. Jacques
was overwrought
you know
the horrible
thing that happened to Jules. He just blurted it out last
night, the business about Fornier."
"Does anyone else know?"
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"No. Apparently Fornier has the material in his safe at
home. He's saving it for the last minute."
Boisvert let her move her hands over his body while
he thought of his next moves. Fornier was the Liberal
party leader, the opposition party in Québec. He had a
strong following who would vote against the referen-
dum. "What is it they have? Do you know?" he *Rked.
"He didn't tell me. Really, Bobby, he didn't tell me. "
"You must know something
some hint."
"Just that it's very bad. Lafontaine's connected to a
foreign government in some way. I don't know how."
"How did Fornier come across it?"
"The QPP commissioner, He's a Liberal sympa-
thizer: "
"The new one, Georges Plante?"
"No. The one who died last month, the one Plante
replaced. Jacques said something about him being the
end of the line, whatever that means. "
He rolled back over her again and brought his lips to
hers. "I don't think I could have been able to stand the
pressure here without you, dear Marie," he said, caress-
ing her breasts.
"Oh, Bobby I can't wait for this whole mess to be
over. Promise me I won't have to wait much longer. "
"I've never lied to you, my love. It will all over
soon.
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SEVEN
With six days to the referendum, Carter was no closer
to the solution than he had been the day before. All he
knew was that the KGB was involved. And all that told
him was that one of the principals was working for them.
They'd either turned him, or he'd been in place for a
long time.
On his way to talk over their day with Brown at his
rural home in a district called Nepean, Carter spotted a
car following him along Merivale Road. He took no
evasive action, but looked for a place to make a quick
move and turn the tables on his pursuers.
The car was a Lincoln Town Car, not uncommon in
the capital. Suddenly, the Lincoln veered to the left,
pulled alongside Carter's smaller car, and tried to force it
off the road.
Carter slipped his Luger into his right hand, but before
he was able to a window, the big cår turned sharply
to the right. The smaller car's right front wheel caught in
a soft shoulder. Despite the Killmaster's effort to stay on
the road, the car careened to the right and into a steep
ditch.
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Dazed from a gut-wrenching blow from the steering
wheel, Carter felt strong hands pulling him from the car.
He shook his head, mustered all the strength he had, and
put everything into a hard right. It met the soft belly of
one of his pursuers. As he turned to grapple with the
second man, he had only a brief look at the cruel face
before something crashed against his skull. His face hit
the mud of the ditch and the distant streetlights faded to
black.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by one
massive headache. He was in the back of a car, face-
down, the feet of the two men resting on him. He wasn't
sure how far they traveled. In about ten minutes he felt
a needle in his left arm just before the car stopped. In a
daze, he remembered being pulled from the car and
dragged to a small aircraft. The airfield appeared to be
small, the tower almost insignificant. He was tossed in
the back of the aircraft with a collection of duffel bags
and as sensation started to fade, he heard two engines
cough to life and run up to takeoff speed.
That was all he remembered.
The sun was bright in his face. He was in a room,
bound to a chair, the sun streaming through the windows
that were covered only by sheers, a gauzy material that
was useless against the sun.
His mouth was dry from the drugs. He had no idea
how long he had been out. They had taken him with just
six days to go, He wondered how many were left.
Carter was able to move his head freely, though the
more he moved the more his head throbbed. He bent his
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head and rubbed his beard against the shoulder of his
shirt. The stubble felt like no more than a day's growth
of beard.
The door opened and three men came in. Two held
submachine guns. They were Kalashnikovs of Finnish
manufacture. Trust the KGB to stick to guns they knew,
Carter thought. The third man was short and fat, his
three chins competing with each other for space between
his jawbone and chest. He was without hair, a domed
butterball with the pink complexion typical of the dedi-
cated gourmand.
"You are feeling better, Commander Carlson?" the fat
man asked in French.
"I've felt better."
French is excellent. It pains me to detain you
this way. But you should not try to be what you are not,
Commander. It will get you in trouble every time. "
The fat man seemed to have all the time in the world.
Carter knew who he was but wasn't about to reveal that
information. Jean Sprague had described in detail all the
players he hadn't met. This one was Serge Savarin,
second only to the new leader of the separatists. That
fact, plus the ride in the twin-engine plane, confirmed
that he was somewhere in Québec. Savarin could not
afford to be far from the seat of government. Carter had
studied maps of the city. The commercial airport was in
Ste. Foy. He'd bet that they were within a few miles of
the airport.
"I'm not sure what you are getting at. Who the hell are
you ?
"That, mon ami, is not the question. You are the
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question mark and we intend to find you just who you
"You're in big trouble, whoever you are. I'm a citizen
of the United States. I have diplomatic immunity."
"A joke," the fat man laughed, his belly almost
shaking him off balance. Then he recovered, his face
set grimly. "My friends are skilled at making people
talk. They are crude fellows, not like the men in white
coats and soft hands from Serbsky. "
So Savarin knew about the Serbsky Institute, the
Soviet's notorious training school for interrogation spe-
cialists. That fact alone condemned him. He knew too
much to be a recent convert. The statement was also
good news in a way. Carter dreaded only one thing that
the Soviets could do to him under interrogation: they
could fry his brain with drugs they had developed that
went beyond the Geneva Convention's rules. More than
one AXE agent had been rescued only to spend the rest
of his or her life as a vegetable. He could take any kind
of physical torture they could dish out, but the thought of
drugs at Serbsky almost gave him nightmares.
Savarin left the room and the two big men went to
work.
"Get the hand generator, Yuri," one said, assuming
Carter couldn't understand Russian,
The one called Yuri left the room for a few seconds
while the other untied Carter. He didn't allow the man
from AXE enough freedom of movement to do any
damage before his partner returned.
"The wires are all tangled, Gregor. It will take time. "
"Damn! I will do it. Take off his pants."
The one called Gregor held the Kalashnikov in the
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crook of one arm while he untangled the wires that
looked like a group of electrodes with alligator clips at
each end.
Carter steeled himself for a painful session. It was
reassuring to know that he'd endured torture like this
before without being broken, but unnerving to know in
advance the excruciating effect of electrical currents run
through the most sensitive parts of the body.
"Pull up his shirt, Gregor ordered, clamping alligator
clips to the terminals of the generator:
Carter had been retied so that his feet were secured to
the legs of the chair and his arms around the sides. He
was naked except for a shirt pulled up to his chin and a
pair of socks.
Gregor approached, a wicked grin on his face. "This
may sting a little, Amerikanski," he said in heavily
accented English as he clipped one terminal to Carter's
left breast and the other to the skin of his scrotum.
"Turn the rotor, Yuri," Gregor said. "Take the needle
to fifty volts only.
Carter was surprised that they were using a hand-
cranked generator. It seemed crude.
The big Soviet agent turned the handle but nothing
When he came up to the speed he wanted, he
flipped a switch.
The current shocked Carter, even at the low voltage.
He stiffened as searing pain coursed through his abdom-
inal muscles from his nipple to his crotch. The muscles
went into spasm. Long after Yuri stopped cranking, the
pain persisted as the muscles knotted.
Gregor nodded to his partner. "One hundred."
Yuri cranked faster. The pain reached out beyond the
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cramped muscles to explode in every nerve ending of his
body. He looked through watery eyes, almost expecting
to see flames shooting from his skin, but it was all
sensation. It was as if a torch had been thrust into his
crotch and another into his chest.
The bonds kept him from straightening like a board.
The raw hemp chewed into his skin everywhere it
touched, as his body fought the current.
"Enough, Yuri. We will be patient and wait for our
friend to tell us what we want to know. "
"Go to hell!" Carter ground •out through his teeth.
Even his- jaw ached from grinding upper and lower
together. During the worst of it, he had bitten through the
inside of his cheek and blood ran from the corner of his
mouth.
"Who are you, Commander Carlson? Your real name,
please, and the organization you work for," Gregor
asked with obscene politeness as he adjusted the clips on
either side of Carter's scrotum. "I'm waiting," he said
when Carter was silent.
"Go to hell," Carter muttered again, preparing himself
for what was to come.
Yuri didn't wait for a command. He cranked the
handle furiously.
Carter saw the needle pass then all he saw was
white light. Every nerve in his body screamed out as the
pain ripped through every cell starting at his crotch. It
threatened to blow the top off his head as he felt the
pressure build.
Then everything went black as if someone had thrown
a light switch. The last thought Carter had was of life and
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death. At times like these he never knew whether he
would awake.
"You have the commander?"
"Yes. He's with two of our men."
"What has he told you?"
"Not a thing yet. But he will."
"What do you mean, you weak-kneed bastard?" the
voice of control asked. "He's not some kind of super-
man. I want to know everything he can tell you in the
next hour. I'll be waiting."
"But
he's unconscious now. He's stronger than
anyone we've ever encountered. It
it's going to
take time."
"You're a disgrace to the party, Savarin. All right. It's
nine o'clock. Call me at midnight. "
Carter one eye and, with pain searing his
eyeball, he opened the other. The room was dark except
for one bare bulb over his head. Every muscle was sore
from the spasms that had passed through his body. The
muscles of his abdomen were no longer knotted, but
they, along with his testicles, bore the brunt of the pain.
He moved carefully Pain wracked his tortured body,
but he had to move. The rope at one wrist was so tight he
couldn't feel his hand at all, but the other had some play.
It had been loosened by the gyrations he'd been through
as the current surged through him.
He tried to wiggle the wr'ist free. It wouldn't come. He
tried harder. The rope slipped partway off his wrist, but
the effort cost him the battle. He passed out again.
When he came to again, he didn't know how much
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time had passed. Nothing had changed in the room. But
his one hand was still free.
He couldn't free the other wrist. _He bent over with
difficulty, his groin screaming with the effort. He
reached the rope of one ankle. It took him at least fifteen
minutes to free it. The other ankle took longer. He
worried about the time it was taking, but he couldn't do
any better.
Slowly he was able to swivel around so that his free
hand was working on the rope around his left wrist.
He heard footsteps while he was still working on the
impossibly tight knots, The door handled turned. Yuri
stood inside the door, his Kalashnikov slung over his
shoulder, a stunned look on his face.
With every bit of strength he had left, Carter spun
around, his left hand still secured to the chair. The seat
caught the Soviet agent under the chin and lifted him off
his feet. Carter fell to the floor, part of the splintered
chair still attached to his left hand.
He heard feet pounding up stairs not far from the door.
With every muscle in his body crying out in pain, he
pulled the gun from the Russian's shoulder. He was still
on the floor, fumbling with the gun, when the door burst
open and Gregor stood over him.
The safety was finally off. He shifted the gun, holding
the trigger guard in his right hand, the stock against his
right leg, then squeezed.
The gun sprayed 7.62mm steel-capped missiles to the
far side of the room at the rate of more than seven
hundred a minute. Gregor was thrown back against the
door, his body stitched with bullets. The gun continued
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to roar in Carter's weakened hand until the banana clip
was empty.
The Killmaster tried to sit up, to defend himself
against any possible attack, and looked to see what had
happened to Yuri.
Gregor had slid down, against the door, painting the
faded wood with his blood. His companion lay on the
floor, blood oozing from his nose, mouth, and ears.
Carter figured he must have shattered his skull when he
hit the floor. He looked at Carter as his eyes glazed. His
mouth started to work, but no words came out as his
head slowly fell to one side.
Carter gained strength from the sight, He was able to
sit up and go to work on his wrist. When he was free, he
crawled to the door and felt for a pulse. Gregor was
dead. To his surprise, Yuri's heart still beat faintly.
Carter sat with his mouth next to the dying man's ear.
Yuri. It is your last moment. Time to confess," he
said in Russian.
The bloodied mouth tried to move but nothing came
out.
Carter moved closer. He strained to hear if the breath
that Was expelled was a last confession.
"Hunger ,
"Say it one more time," Caner urged.
"Hung
Carter felt for a pulse again and found none.
In the mesh-enclosed room that was Loomis's office,
the regular features of the tall CIA station chief were
twisted as he raged at Brown. The black man sat, his
face a mask of hate.
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"Where the hell is he? What the hell's he doing?"
Loomis barked.
"I don't know. He disappeared yesterday."
"I blame the schoolyard fiasco on him. That bastard's
doing exactly what I specifically ordered him not to do.
He's making waves all over the damned place."
"But he's at least getting some results. We know the
men in the car were foreign agents," Brown countered.
"We're not sure of that. We don't know who they're
tied in with. Shit!"
"We're farther ahead than before he atTived," Brown
reminded him.
"And you've been working with that slippery
bastard," Loomis accused. '"I told you to keep an eye on
him, not help him."
"I haven't helped him directly," Brown lied. "Can I
pull off the surveillance now?"
I want them covering Sprague's apartment, the
prime minister's house, and his damned hotel."
"I think it's a waste of time."
"I don't give a damn what you think! And you know
what that brings up? It seriously compromises your
performance review. You won't work in a decent station
in the Company if you don't shape up."
"Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough? Now get the hell out of here and
find Carlson and bring him back here!"
Brown moved from the chair, happy to be dismissed.
"Tell Sprague I want to see her," Loomis shouted at
Brown's back.
Jean was walking down the corridor when she heard
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her name. She knocked on Loomis's door. "Did I hear
my name mentioned?"
"What the hell are you doing at my door?"
She looked startled. "I was just passing."
"Sit down and tell me what you know about this
Carlson," he growled at her. His face, normally a picture
of confidence and authority, was suffused with a light
crimson flush.
"Why?"
"What the hell do you
to, that's why!"
? Because I ordered you
"I don't work for you, Loomis. You can't bark at me
like the others," she said, getting to her feet.
"Where is he? What's he doing," Loomis asked,
calmer.
"I don't know."
"You've spent some time with him. What did he tell
"Listen, Loomis, what he does and what he may or
may not tell me is the business of the ambassador and our
superior officers. You want answers, call Niles," she
said as she stormed out.
In the corridor away from Loomis's office, Brown
stopped her and handed her a fresh mug of coffee.
"Don't let him get to you," he said.
"I can handle myself,"
"I heard. I envy you."
She sensed a hesitation in him. "Do you want some-
thing, Frank?"
"You've gotten close to Carlson. So have I. He seems
to trust both of us and he's got Loomis pegged all the
way. "
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'*I'm worried about him. He's dropped out of sight."
"My God! You don't think .
"He's either on to something he couldn't tell us about,
or they've got him."
They walked back to her small office and closed the
door. He turned on a small radio and sought the static
between stations. He motioned her to stand with him. "I
think this is a lot bigger than Loomis suspects. I think
Carlson is a lot more than he wants us to believe."
"So why tell me?"
"He trusts me. We're working together. I think he
trusts you. If he calls you, I want you to give him a
number he can get me at day or night."
"And can I trust you, Frank, or are you another
Loomis, a man out for your own glory?"
"If you haven't figured that out yet, Jean, then we're
wasting each other's time."
She smiled at him and whispered over the static. "I'll
tell him. What's the number?"
Carter found strength enough to pull on his scattered
clothing and push Gregor's blood-covered body away
from the door. He went back and searched through their
pockets for identification. He found none, but he didn't
need any more proof that they were KGB or that Savarin
was one of them. If Savarin was a foreign agent, did that
make Lafontaine one of them? What he needed was
proof to show someone else, enough to convict Lafon-
taine or Savarin, certainly to discredit the separatists
before the election. Right now it was just his word
against that of the powerful politicians.
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He around. The rest of the house was a
shambles. It was a two-story frame house set off by itself
in a rural setting. The bedrooms were filled with dis-
carded clothing, the beds' mattresses on the floor. The
kitchen was littered with half-eaten meals. Ants and
cockroaches outnumbered the human occupants by thou-
sands to one.
In the room set aside for television and reading, Carter
found his weapons and watch in the drawer of an old
dresser. He also found several sets of car keys and a pile
of small-denomination Canadian bills. With a feeling of
confidence he'd not experienced for many hours, he
reclaimed his possessions, and walked to the door
feeling more like a whole person.
The yard was overgrown with weeds. No vehicles
were in sight. He found an old lean-to closed to the
elements by two wooden doors on rusted hinges. When
he opened them, they creaked loudly in the still night.
The musty smell that hit him told of dampness present
for many years.
An old Jeep Commando sat on the dirt floor, covered
with dust. He tried all the keys until he found one that
fitted, knowing he'd be damned lucky if the motor
turned over. Sure enough, the motor protested weakly,
wheezed, coughed, and died.
He waited a moment and tried it again. It moved less
sluggishly, turned over sporadically, then with one loud
cough, it caught and started to even out.
Carter backed out of the old shed and headed down a
long, dusty lane. A quarter-mile ride took him to a
country road, the old Jeep coughing and backfiring all
the way.
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Left or right? The odds were about even. He scanned
the sky for some pollution. It seemed less clear to the
right so he headed into the sun, the fading evening sun.
It must be the end of the fifth to the last day.
He kept track of the mileage, and came to a small
town after sixteen kilometers, almost exactly ten miles.
The general store had an ancient telephone booth next to
the cracked cement steps out front.
He dialed Jean's number in Ottawa.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Are you sure your phone's clean?"
"1911 have to chance it. Do you have a number for
Frank Brown?"
"Are you all right?"
"I am now. Can you get his number for me?"
She gave it to him. "Where are you, Nick?" she asked
again.
"I'm not exactly sure, but I'll be back in Ottawa
tonight. I'll be in touch."
He hung up and dialed Brown's number. The two calls
took all the quarters he was able to get from the taciturn
old storekeeper.
"It's me. Jean gave me the number."
"Good. It's the only clean one here. A buddy and I
monitor it," Brown explained. "Where the hell are
"The storekeeper tells me it's just a crossroads two
miles west of St-Augustine-De-Québec," he replied.
"Just a minute. I've got a map," he said. He was gone
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for no more than ten seconds. "I've got it. That's just
east of the Ste. Foy airport."
"I thought so. How are we going to play this? I have
to get back there fast. "
"I'll call Saunders. Hess got a close friend in the
Québec Provincial Police. They'll probably pick you up
by helicopter."
"Good. One more thing. They held me at a farm-
house. It's exactly ten miles east of the general store
where they'll find me."
"They need body bags?"
"A couple. Lafontaine's right2hand man, Serge Sa-
varin, was there, but he didn't stick around."
Brown whistled. "You got anything to tie Lafontaine
to them?"
yet, but he's on the top of my list now."
"We'll work on it. In the meantime, hold tight. When
you hear a helicopter, move off to a flat area away from
the store. They'll be QPP officers. They'll take you
to, "—he consulted the place called Vanleek
Hill. We'll be waiting for you."
"Thanks. I appreciate the service. Just five days to the
referendum, right?"
"Nope. Four."
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EIGHT
Brown and Saunders left him in a safe house the OPP
chief had set up for his own CID. It was north of Ottawa
in Gatineau Park. The communication was by radio.
They left an old Land-Rover for him in case he had to get
out fast.
AXE's international computer communications net-
work picked up his signal. He gave the electronic voice
his codes and the codes for Hawk's private number.
"Nick," Hawk came on. He seemed out of breath.
it going?"
Carter filled him in on recent events, including his
problems with Loomis.
"Yeah, I'd heard that he was a hardass. Just a minute.
Howard's with me. He might as well hear this first-
hand," the crusty old chief of AXE said, pressing the
button forloudspeaker broadcast of the call.
Howard Schmidt handled Records at AXE headquar-
ters. He was also the gadgets specialist and the weapons
expert. As if that wasn't enough, he was also in charge
of Recognitions. A longtime friend and confidant of
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Carter's, the only time Schmidt's company wasn't wel-
come was when he sat Carter down for a session on
personnel, noting the changes to agents on the other side,
"Good. Howard can help on this one."
"Shoot," Schmidt said.
"Two KGB musclemen were working for Serge Sa-
varin outside of Québec City. "
"The name rings a bell, but run him by me again,"
Hawk said.
"He's Lafontaine's right-hand man. That means
Lafontaine could be the brains behind the Parisant killing
or Savarin is pulling the strings," Carter suggested. "Do
you have anything on him, Howard?"
"Small potatoes. He was identified as a Communist
sympathizer years ago, but he's been clean since."
"What do you think, sir?" Carter asked his DOSS.
"You're on the scene, Nick. It's your baby. Savarin
complicates the issue. We can't assume Lafontaine is
involved directly."
"Looks that way. But I've got a feeling we've got
something deeper here," Carter said. %afontaine's too
obvious, and I don't think he's too bright."
"What are you getting at?" Hawk asked.
"Someone else is pulling his strings."
"Someone from Moscow?" Schmidt asked.
"No. Someone here—someone with power—someone
with some kind of master plan."
"I'll go along with that," Hawk said. "Your hunches
usually pay off. Follow them."
Carter told them about the last word of the dying
Soviet agent.
'*It sounded like Hungary. But I don't get
the connection. "
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"Unless they've got a deep plant that came in from
Hungary," Hawk mused.
"Something in my files could help," Schmidt sug-
gested. "I remember hearing about a plot about the time
of the Hungarian uprising. The Soviets were to plant a
mole in Ottawa at an early age—a young kid—and bring
him along under cover in Canada," Schmidt went on. "It
didn't prove out way back then, and just surfaced when
one of their agents defected a few years back."
'VThe timing fits," Carter said. "But who could it be?"
"The defector told us a ten-year-old boy was brought
in by a Hungarian couple during a large influx of
refugees in 1956," Schmidt said. "It was a confusing
time."
"You should pull the file and give Nick the rest right
away," Hawk said. "We've got only four days."
"Will do," Schmidt said. "But more is coming back to
me. The defector said the first couple taking care of the
boy were to be killed in a car accident."
"Bloodthirsty bastards," Hawk muttered. "After all
this time I still can't get used to their methods."
"He was taken as a foster child by a second couple,"
Schmidt continued. "After they were drowned in a
boating accident, we learned that the accident was a hoax
and they'd been deep plants there for years."
"So where's the boy?" Hawk asked.
"The story was all after-the-fact to us," Schmidt
explained. "He was legally adopted by a third couple.
The records of the adoption agency that suposedly placed
him were lost in a fire in 1960. "
"That's it?" Carter asked. "You don't have anything
tangible? A picture? Fingerprints? Anything?"
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"I'll pull the file, but you've heard everything I've
got."
Carter knew Schmidt's memory well enough to be-
lieve him. "Damn!" he said. "You've just confirmed
how important this man is. Have you ever heard of them
protecting someone with three layers, three families?"
"No. It's a first for me," Hawk admitted.
And if it was a first for Hawk, it was probably a first,
Carter thought. "They had to kill the first family. They
were too close to the source—very expendable," the
Killmaster said, as if thinking aloud. "The second family
was probably recalled and reassigned. They could be
anywhere. And the third couple? Who knows? They
could still be working deep cover here if they're alive. "
"This isn't getting us anywhere," Hawk grumbled.
"How are you, Nick?" His tone more solicitous. "Were
you badly hurt at all when they took you?"
That was a question Carter never answered directly.
"I'm still in action," he said.
"Call if you need anything," Schmidt said.
"Everything's intact, Howard," he said as he switched
off.
One hell of a mess, he thought to himself. What was
the possibility that something could have surfaced here
in Canada at the time? After all, they were closer to the
action than his friends in Washington.
There were too many unanswered questions, he re-
flected. How had the separatists managed to go so far,
and why now?
He picked up the transmit key and flipped on the set
again. He turned to a frequency Brown had given him.
"Can you get both Tanks and Saunders for a brain-
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storming session?" he asked. "I've come up with some-
thing new that could help. s"
"I'll try. Don't leave the cabin for a couple of hours.
I'll get back to you."
Brown had supplied Carter with a bottle of Chivas
Regal, and Carter had been nursing it over the past few
hours. He sat for a long time recalling every scrap of
information he had on the case, deciding on his next
move. He couldn't count on the chief of the Ottawa
police or the head of the Ontar'io Provincial Police to
come up with something concrete. He'd have to get it for
himself.
All he had was Savarin, or possibly Lafontaine, He
also knew he had only three days. Carter was sure the
man would feel secure if the referendum went his way.
Québec would then become a free entity. He could
probably sew up the QPP, effectively his own military,
and he'd be a dictator. He or Lafontaine. No one could
touch him after that—not legally.
Time passed slowly, While he was thinking, a light on
the radio blinked, its red light flashing.
"Yes?" he answered cautiously.
"Frank asked me to call. He was able to pick up both
Tanks and Saunders. They should almost be there by
now. "
"Who is this?"
"Frank told you only one other man uses this radio.
That's me. You don't have to know who I am. "
Carter switched off. The man was right, and he was
smart. He began to plan his questions.
He had just finished organizing his thoughts, when he
heard tires on gravel. He slipped his Luger from beneath
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his left arm and sneaked out the back door. He watched
as a black GM Jimmy came to a stop and the three men
he'd been expecting climbed from the car. He walked
around to the front, returning the gun to its holster.
The big man with the crew cut and massive belly
smiled at the sight of the gun. "You expecting some
varmints, pardner?" Chief Tanks joked. The second man
stared at the disappearing gun through his black-rimmed
glasses.
Brown followed them up to the cabin and closed the
door. Carter offered them scotch and had no refusals.
ul've been talking to my people," he started.
"They've come up with an interesting hypothesis.." He
told them what he'd learned from Howard Schmidt.
"Interesting," Saunders mused, stroking his chin.
"I've heard the story too."
"Where?" Carter asked immediately.
"A friend with the RCMP saw a file. A good friend.
A woman with total clearance."
"Who shall remain nameless," Tanks said, laughing.
A great deal of what Tanks said was punctuated with a
laugh.
"But who has control of the archives? Exactly what do
we need?" Brown asked.
"Pictures," Carter said.
"But the kid was maybe ten or eleven at the most.
He'd be in his middle forties now," Brown noted.
"And that in itself narrows the field," Carter said.
"We've got little time for speculation," Tanks added.
"All right. Anything you can get. But particularly
pictures," Carter said. "I've decided to go after Savarin
and Lafontaine,"
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"Alone?" Brown asked.
"I work best that way."
95
"There's something you ought to know," Brown went
on, his face a mask, his emotions hidden. "We can't
locate Jean Sprague. She's just dropped out of the
picture. "
Carter felt the shock grab at his gut. "Any ideas?" he-
asked.
men were seen with her near her place. We
didn't get the licence number," Tanks offered, his tone
subdued.
"I've got three addresses for Lafontaine. One seems
promising," Brown offered.
"Did Loomis have anything to do with her disappear-
ance?" Carter asked.
"What the hell kind of a question is that?" Tanks
asked.
"Look. I have to eliminate all possibilities," Carter
explained. "Loomis could be pumping her. She hasn't
been gone very long."
"I'd say no on that score," Brown said. "First, I've
had men on Loomis since you became the man of the
hour. Second, he's got too much at stake to blow it on
such a stupid move. "
"Let's hope he thinks that way," Carter growled.
"Well, what do you need?" Brown asked.
"One helicopter painted black and someone I can trust
to fly it."
"That'll be my pleasure," Saunders said. "I'll have
someone on it in a minute," he said, reaching for a
telephone.
"Don't forget the file on the mole," Carter reminded
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him. "The sooner we get a look at that RCMP file the
better. "
"One last thing," Tanks said, holding his hand over
Saunders's hand on the phone. "We keep Turner and
Hume out of it. If we're dealing with a mole, let's keep
it to the people in this room,"
"Agreed," Carter said. "But hold off on the helicop-
ter. I've just had another idea. Is it B)ssible to get
clearance from all services and your Department Of
Transport radar people?"
"No problem," Saunders said. "I give you a special
OPP code and radio frequency, I'll cover it with Québec
if you want. "
"I want.
"It's done. What do you have in mind?"
"I might have my own vehicle. What if I wanted it
brought in by C-31 transport from Washington?"
"No problem," Saunders said. "When?"
"Tonight. "
Carter coded in his identification to the AXE computer
again. "Get me Howard Schmidt even if you have to
drag him out of the shower." He didn't wait long.
"Nick? That you again?"
"Yeah, Howard. And I'm short on time. They've
taken Jean Sprague. "
"The G-2 woman at the embassy?"
"The same. I've got to get to her fast. How's the
secret chopper you've been working on?"
"Strange you should ask. We test-flew her today."
"I want her here as fast as you can manage. I've got
clearance for a C-31 flight into Ottawa tonight."
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"You've got it."
4,nd Howard, I want her to be flat black."
97
"We'll paint her in flight. The C-31 's big enough. No
problem. "
you perfect the silent mode?"
"You can't hear her from fifty feet away when you use
the silent mode. But you've got to get her down below
fifty knots to make it work. "
"No problem. What about payload? Can I take a
passenger?"
"Now, that could be a problem. She's a one-man
plane and loaded with weaH)nry. Unless you want me to
strip her
"I want all the firepower I can get."
"I could take off two pods. How big is the
passenger?"
"One-twenty. "
"You've got it."
"Stick some C-4 plastique and timers in the chopper.
Better include a couple of lethal Pierres."
"Isn't that enough? I could conduct a one-man war
with that load."
"And if I know you, that's exactly what you'll be
doing. "
Saunders had supplied the precise locations of Lafon-
taine's three main strongholds in Québec. The old
Lafontaine estate was located across the road from the
College of Jesuits on Boulevard Ste. Cyrille. It was as
old as the college, built of gray granite and almost as old
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as the Jesuit sanctuary. The outer fringes of the city had
long since surrounded it.
The second location supplied by Saunders and his
QPP friends was a farm outside of the town of St.
Adolphe, no more than twenty miles northeast of the
city. The third location was within the boundary of a
provincial park almost sixty miles directly north of the
city. Saunders's contacts described it as an old ranger
station that Lafontaine had bought for a song when a new
building was built for the park rangers.
Carter was flying between and Québec
City checking out Schmidt's new toy. It had originally
been a Bell 680-LHX that was revolutionary in its
capability for silent flight even before Schmidt got his
hands on it. All weapons systems contracted into com-
partments within the body. From a distance it didn't look
any different than a traffic helicopter from a local TV
station up for a routine perusal of the major highways.
The firepower was awesome, although Carter didn't
expect to use what he had. With two missile launchers
removed to accommodate another passenger, he still had
six Penguin air-to-ship missiles and two pods of rotary
60mm cannon. In a compartment directly beneath his
feet he had a cluster bomb that would glide to within a
couple of hundred feet of the ground before releasing
fifty smaller bombs that could decimate a regiment.
Carter was not a soldier. He was not on a seek-
and-destroy mission, His job was to uncover the mole,
discredit him, and preserve the continuity of government
for his country's best neighbor. But first, he had to find
Jean and make sure she was out of danger.
He was dressed as he had been on his earlier sorties.
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He still had the black fatigues. Wilhelmina, his 9mm
Luger, and Hugo, a pencil-thin stiletto, were strapped in
place, in plain view. The only personal weapons not in
evidence were the pair of miniaturized gas bombs he
wore, one strapped to each inner thigh. Many years
earlier, he'd dubbed the type of bomb "Pierre." He
usually carried only one, but he had a hunch one would
not suffice on this trip.
Québec City came at him sooner than he expected. No
one had challenged him. Obviously Saunders had done
his job well. The Bell 680 was equipped with electronic
monitors and a computer to display every square mile of
North American territory in a grid pattern. Carter looked
up the grid coordinates for Québec, and the city was
spread out for him on a dull green screen.
An arrow traced his flight along the electronic map.
He followed Chemin Ste. Foy and cut across to the
College of Jesuits at Monk Avenue. Carter went into
silent mode, then switched on another monitor that
showed him the landscape immediately below. The old
Lafontaine homestead was well outlined.
He circled for a better visual sighting. The place
looked deserted. He switched on the infrared heat
sensors and viewed a third monitor. Four people were
evident, two on the grounds and two in the house. The
two on the grounds were patrolling. One in the house
was in the kitchen; one was in a bedroom obviously
asleep, probably Mrs. Lafontaine.
Carter decided that he would be wasting his time at the
city house. It was poorly located to be the center of
activity for a big subversive operation. He turned to port,
switched to full power, and headed for the farm.
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The farm was miles from any other farm to the north
of St. Adolphe. His heat sensors told him that ten people
occupied the house and grounds. Carter knew he'd have
to go down. Howard Schmidt's equipment was state of
the an, but it couldn't tell him if Jean Sprague was one
of those ten.
In silent mode he made a visual sighting of the
farmhouse. It was surrounded by a high fence with what
looked like barbed wire on the top. The inside of the
perimeter was too small for him to land undetected, so he
picked a clearing about a mile away and headed for the
house on foot.
Looped around one shoulder was a scaling rope and
under his arm was the floor covering from the bottom of
the chopper. He wore the goggles Schmidt had designed
to detect laser surveillance.
The grounds were quiet. His chopper's sensors had
told him that three of the sources of body heat were
outside the house. He chose the most remote corner of
the property he could find and swung the scaling rope to
the top of the fence. It caught on the razor-sharp slices of
steel that were more deadly than barbed wire.
The chopper's floor mat shielded Carter from the
fence as he dropped silently to the ground. Remembering
the dogs on Boisvert's property, he was wary. But after
ten minutes of waiting he heard nothing that would
suggest canine patrols.
The goggles were not detecting surveillance lasers, so
Carter pocketed them and headed for the house. Near the
back door a huge figure stood stock-still, his eyes
surveying the grounds.
Noiselessly, Carter slipped closer. He was next to
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invisible with his black clothes and the black greasepaint
on his face,
The man's back was to the house. There was no way
Carter could get around him.
Carter slipped Hugo to his right palm. He held the
blade and flipped the needlelike stiletto on a direct line
with the man's heart. With speed that would challenge
the best sprinter in the world, Carter caught the body
before it hit the ground.
He went through the man's pockets. The most obvious
clue to the man's nationality was a Makarov automatic
pistol. The second clue was the man's suit. The poorly
tailored suit could only have been made in the Soviet
Union. He retrieved the stiletto, wiped it clean, and
slipped it in its chamois sheath.
The discoveries made things easier for him. If the
guard was KGB, this was a KGB hideout all the way.
He opened the door of the farmhouse with caution, his
Luger in his hand, a silencer screwed on its barrel.
A man inside saw the open, saw the silenced
Luger, and drew a gun from his waistband. Carter fired
before the other man could pull the trigger.
On the ground three men sat playing cards in a
back room. They were drinking vodka and shouting out
their play in Russian.
Carter slipped inside the room and leveled his gun at
them. "Your names and rank, please," he said.
They looked at him as if he were mad, then the oldest
of them, the senior man, laughed aloud and went for his
gun in a coat nearby.
Carter shot him through the head, spraying the others
with blood and brain matter. "Your names and rank,
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please," he repeated, waving the Luger at them, insisting
they remain seated.
No one spoke. Carter sat in the chair deserted by the
dead man. He reached into the fold of his fatigues. "The
last time," he said. "Your names and rank."
One man was about to speak, but the other chopped
him across the throat with the back of his hand.
Carter twisted the two halves of the tiny bomb, took a
deep breath, and dropped the lethal orb on the floor.
When the two men slumped where they sat, he went
through their pockets. These were not drones. One was
a captain from the dreaded First Chief Directorate, a
killer. He must have been extremely confident to carry
identification.
The other man carried no identification. He had no
weapons. His hands were soft. He had the smell of fresh
soap and alcohol about him. A doctor perhaps? The fir•st
man he shot also carried no ID.
Carter had no more time to speculate. Five down and
five to go.
He closed the door on the lethal gas and stood in the
hall breathing deeply and listening to the sounds of the
house. It was still. He decided to try the bedrooms. He
snaked up the steps to the second floor. One after the
other he tried the three bedrooms and the bathroom, but
found no one.
A narrow stair led to the top floor. Halfway up it he
heard what sounded like someone snoring. As he drew
nearer, the sound increased and he had no trouble
locating the room. As a precaution, he checked the other
rooms and found them empty. A couple occupied the last
one. That brought the total to seven.
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Carefully, he removed Howard Schmidt's drug case
from a hip pocket. He filled a syringe with a drug that
would knock these two out for an hour or more, and
carefully plunged it into the man's arm. Before he could
react to the slight prick, the big, raw-boned man was in
dreamland once again.
The wife awoke and stared into the barrel of the gun.
"I won't hurt you," Carter said in French.
The woman remained silent. '*Do you work with
them?" he asked.
"We are simple farmers, monsieur. They are worse
than animals. "
"This will not hurt you. Don't worry." Before she
knew what was hapfrning, Carter had injected the
syringe and she was asleep in seconds.
Carter returned to the ground floor and looked for an
entrance to a basement. Suddenly he heard a very faint
voice; it seemed to be coming from a floor below. He
found a basement door and charged down, his gun in
hand. A frightened man was bleating into the mike of a
long-range radio.
I found two of them dead. Something's
Carter put a 9mm slug through his head and turned off
the set. Before he could react to a noise behind him, he
felt something rip through the muscle of his left arm,
then heard the bark of a gun.
The blast turned him to face the snarling features of a
small man holding a gun that seemed like a cannon in his
small hand. Carter fired before the man could, get off
another shot.
That made nine. Carter into a dark corner and
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tied a handkerchief around the wounded ann before he
went on.
The cellar smelled like a cross a locker room
and a barn. He peeked around the corner from his hiding
place. He saw no one but the two dead men.
He crouched down and sat f6r a full five minutes,
listening.
Nothing.
Then, faintly at first, he heard moaning, and a
scraping sound from a room nearby.
Cautiously he crept nearer to the sound. He opened the
door a crack and peered inside. A man lay on a cot.
Carter the door wider and went in, covering the
man with his gun. He must have presented an awesome
sight to the man cringed against the wall for he moaned
louder.
The man, obviously a prisoner, was very slim. His
clothes seemed to hang on him, jutting out at his
shoulders. The man's nose was his strongest feature.
"Mr. Lafontaine. What are you doing here?"
"Who are you?" the gaunt, unshaven face asked.
"Commander Nicholas Carlson. We met at the Amer-
ican embassy a few days ago."
"Impossible. I've here
a long time. I don't know you
I don't know . . .
"You've nothing to fear from me. I'll take you out.
Can you walk?"
"I think so."
Carter helped him up the cellar stairs and led him out
the front door. He left the scaling rope and took the
weakened man through a back gate. He practically had to
carry him the last few hundred yards.
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The helicopter stood ready.
105
"Do you know where the chief of the provincial police
"Of course.
"Good. I want you in his house until this is over. I
don't want anyone to know you're alive. "
"Why, for heaven's sake?"
"It's a long story, Mr. Lafontaine," Carter explained
in French. "Someone is taking your place. Impersonat-
ing you. Someone very dangerous to your country."
"Will you have Jacques Carreau call me?"
"I promise, but it might be a few hours. Will you sit
tight until you hear?"
don't feel up to much else."
"Gocxl. I've got something else to do first."
-"Who are you? Who do you work for?"
"I'm with the prime minister's special staff," Carter
lied. He didn't have time for explanations. Time was
very short.
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NINE
Alone in the chopper, Carter felt he was back on track.
Physically, his arm ached a bit, but otherwise he felt
pretty good. At the moment he had the advantage. He
had the helicopter and they didn't know he was on their
trail. Savarin would have tipped his people off, but they
didn't know he was on the way to Lac Gregory.
With uncanny accuracy, the grid map monitor told him
where the lodge was located. He circled the lodge, -a
rather small log building on the south shore of the lake,
without seeing any sign of life. It was daybreak and the
days were draining away all too fast.
He turned on the heat sensor and scanned the monitor
at an altitude of a hundred feet. The chopper was in silent
mode.
It didn't make sense to him. The sensors picked out
too many heat sources that were human bodies. Some
came in sharply as if in the lodge. Others were less
sharp, as if on another level. Some bodies seemed to
give off faint images as if they were some distance away,
deeper, in some kind of lower basement.
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The most puzzling images were those not located
within the confines of the lodge itself, or below it. Some
seemed to be some distance from the lodge. Perhaps
there was a cayern, Carter figured. They had either
connected the basement to a natural cavern or carved one
out. Whatever it was, it existed and had to be investi-
gated. And was that where they had taken Jean? If the
answer to that was yes, the next question was how to get
her without running into every guard they had. It looked
as if there were at least twenty rEople down there. He
decided to make another swing over the lodge before
going in.
He studied the heat sensor monitor until his eyes were
bleary from the green images. The bodies seemed to be
on three levels. Everyone moved at one time or another
while he watched, except one. It was in a room on the
second level, probably a basement. They seemed to
leave that one alone. Maybe they had too much to do
before the referendum. Maybe it wasn't Jean, just
someone like Serge Savarin who had work to do at a
desk.
Enough speculation. He had to go in.
"You're telling me you had him under control and he's
escaped?"
"I don't know how he did it. Yuri and Gregor are
dead. What the hell will I do now?"
"What indeed? He knows who you are and your
connection to us. "
"But he might not have told anyone."
"Don't be naive. It seems to me that this one is too
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professional not to keep his people informed. Where are
you
"At the lodge."
"Keep everything running smoothly. Don't leave the
lodge. I'll try to get more help there as soon as can."
"I don't like the fact that he knows about me, " Savarin
whined.
"Nor do I, Serge. Nor do I. If we were home, you
would be on a one-way trip to a very cold climate."
'*It's still going to work. Believe me. Two more days
and no one can stop us."
"You'd better keep on thinking that, Serge. You'd
better make it work."
Carter set the chopper down a few hundred yards from
the lodge. He had memorized everything he'd seen on
the monitors and he was as well equipped as the wizardry
of Howard Schmidt could make him. The laser-sensor
goggles were in place. The rucksack full of plastique was
no more than a slight burden. His favorite weapons were
snug in their usual places. In the early mist of morning
he looked like something black and ominous from outer
space.
No one was outdoors. Carter soon learned the reason.
A pattern of laser beams crisscrossed the ground for fifty
feet from the old, moss-covered log building.
It was too light for cover. The beams were t(X) close
for a headlong rush to the house. Some were too high to
climb over. Some were too close together to allow him to
crawl with the rucksack on his back.
At one point he felt like going back to the chopper and
unloading all six missiles on the lodge and then exam-
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ining the remains. But he had two good reasons why that
would be a bad move. One was the probability that Jean
was in the building. The other was a natural curiosity.
This could their headquarters. He had to see what they
were hiding there.
It was dangerous, but he unstrapped the rucksack and
started across the labyrinth of beams. It took him a good
half hour, and when he'd finally made it, he was soaked
with sweat. He had crawled on his belly, slipped bent
half double between some beams, and hurdled others
with inches to spare. It was a miracle that no one had
seen him from the lodge.
He stopped near the front door to collect his thoughts.
No surveillance cameras were in sight. Whoever was
inside must have extreme confidence in the laser beams.
The lone body he had seen in the monitor was at the
back and one level below the ground. Somehow, he'd
have to get there first.
Hundreds of miles away in Ottawa, Robert Boisvert
sat in Prime Minister Carreau's office going through
some papers he had to sign as deputy prime minister.
Carreau's secretary had left them before she'd gone
home late the night before. They had to be ready for the
morning session. Thoughts of Marie Carreau kept inter-
fering with his work. The affair had been exciting at
first—the delicious risk of taking her almost under the
eyes of the SSS, the newness of her as a lover, the
information she had supplied that had moved his plans
ahead much faster.
Unlike Carreau, Boisvert was not an early riser. It was
not unusual to see Carreau arrive to start the business of
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the day at six, but that was not for his deputy. Eight was
a better time for Boisvert, or even nine. The bell to call
members into session never rang before ten and he
always had time, at least an hour, to prepare for what
usually turned out to be a boring day.
But this was different. Carreau was making a swing
through the western provinces to shore up party confi-
dence. Boisvert ought to know: he was with Marie in the
prime minister's bed the night before.
He was thinking about her foolishness, her stubborn
desire for them to divorce their spouses, when he thought
he heard a commotion in the hall. Marie would not
venture out of the Sussex Drive residence for their
dalliance. He'd tried often enough to get her to try a
hotel or even a rented apartment, but they were both so
recognizable, and she had to deal with her SSS guard. It
always seemed strange cuckolding the most powerful
man in the country in his own bedi
The commotion outside grew louder, then suddenly,
the door flew open and two hooded men burst in, each
with an automatic pistol in his hand.
He felt as if a horse had kicked him in the shoulder,
and he went down behind the desk. The firing continued,
spraying the room over his head with what seemed like
hundreds of rounds. He felt a sharp pain in his foot and
pulled it, bleeding, behind the desk with him.
Other shots were fired, not the steady rhythm of the
small-caliber pistols, but the sharp bark of individual
shots from larger guns.
Finally all was still. A security man was crouching
over him.
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"Are you all right, Mr. Boisvert?"
. one of my feet," the deputy
"My shoulder .
prime minister managed before he passed out.
The paramedics and the house doctor were there in
seconds. Boisvert regained consciousness as they placed
him on a stretcher, an intravenous tube in his right arm.
As he was carried from the office, he saw the two
gunmen in their own pools of blood near the door. Down
the hall, blankets covered three bodies that he assumed
to be SSS men assigned to protect him.
"Call my wife," he whispered to the physician, a man
he'd known for years. "And keep Mrs. Carreau away
from the hospital."
The doctor, an old hand at Parliament Hill, understood
and couldn't agree more.
Carter found that few of the lasers had their origin on
the walls of the house. A pathway two feet wide allowed
him to roam. He made his way to the back of the old
structure easily. Against the back wall, a cellar door, the
kind made of wood that folded out and up like two barn
doors, was the only way in. They were covered with wet
leaves that had obviously fallen the winter before.
Hugo slipped between them, giving Carter a purchase
to pull. One rose ponderously, making enough noise to
wake the dead.
Carter slipped inside and was immediately accosted by
a huge guard with a Kalashnikov cocked and ready.
Carter was lucky: the guard was like a robot and had no
orders to fire inside the house. The big man's hesitation
gained him a vicious karate chop to the neck that would
keep him out of action for a few minutes.
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Next to the guard, a door was closed. Carter opened it
and breathed a sigh of relief. Jean was in her bra and
panties, tied to a bed, her feet attached to the foot of the
bed, her wrists tied by short lengths of rope to the bed
posts above her head,
"Are you all right?" he whispered. "Did they drug
"No," said, shaking her head. "I'm stiff, but I'm
okay. "
"I'll cut you loose in a minute."
He hoisted the guard and brought him inside. Then
Hugo went to work on Jean's bonds. When she was free,
he slung the guard on the bed while she hunted for the
rest of her clothes.
The red vial was the one he sought. Pentothol. It never
failed. He plunged the needle in the man's arm and
waited for it to take effect.
Jean joined him at the bedside when she was dressed.
"What do you intend to do?" she asked. "The place is
crawling with types like him."
"They must have something immediate planned or
they wouldn't have left you alone. I want to know what
it is."
He the man's face softly from side to side.
"This is Colonel Popolov, KGB. Your rank and name,
quickly," Carter said, using his best Muskovite dialect.
formerly of
corporal
"Boris Spastovski .
Imperial Guard. "
the .
"You must have been a bad boy, Boris, to be sent to
this outpost."
"What are you asking him?" she said, poking his arm.
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He put a hand over her mouth. "I don't want him to
hear another voices" he whispered in her ear.
"Why are the others not in here with the woman?" he
asked, turning back to the guard.
scx)n. They .
"They will be here
stairs
meeting room. "
"And the others?"
in the cavern."
"Guards .
"How many?"
five. Anatole was taken out sick." He
"Six. No .
moaned and thrashed about. Carter held him still.
«)ne more question. Where is the meeting?"
"A colonel
you don't know?"
"I've just arrived to take command. Now tell me or
you're going under the lash. You've been under the lash,
Corporal?"
back of the hall
. turn right."
"Upstairs .
Carter switched to the orange syringe and put the man
out for hours, then he led Jean up the steps. At the top he
turned right and heard the sound of voices, A guard
turned from the door and spotted them, but Hugo was out
and jutting from the man's jugular before he could act.
Blood ran from him, spurting on his chest. Jean moved
past Carter, caught the man, and eased him to the
ground, the blood pouring over her. Carter pulled the
knife from the dead man, wiped it clean, and slipped it
back in place. He drew his gun and whispered for Jean to
stand back.
With the speed of a leopard, Carter opened the door
and stood with the silenced gun covering the group.
They had been speaking in French, but the room was
silent now as every eye was upon him.
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Savarin was at the head ofthe table, his dome-shaped
head shining under the fluorescents above. Carter
handed the gun to Jean and walked calmly to the man.
He jerked him from his seat and hauled him along the
side of the room and tossed him into the hall. Then he
told Jean to back up slowly until she was in the hall,
never letting the Luger waver.
When she was through the doorway, he tossed his
second tiny bomb onto the table in front of the remaining
men and slammed the door shut, holding it against the
pressure of their attempted escape until he felt no more
resistance.
"What did you do to them?" Jean asked.
Carter said nothing, now Ik)inting his gun at Savarin.
"You killed them?"
"As they would have killed us," he growled. "C'mon,
ean, we've got work to do."
Savarin blubbered on the floor at their feet. He was
incoherent, begging for his life. Carter hauled him to his
feet. "How many guards in here?" he asked.
"Six," Savarin rasped through the spittle running from
his mouth.
"That makes five left," Carter said as if to himself.
"Now you are going to show us every part of this place,
very nook and cranny."
"Shouldn't we get out of here?" Jean whispered.
"You've broken their back and there are still four or five
uards. "
"I'd take you back if it were over," he explained. "But
e've just met the drones, the ones that make it work. I
ound the real Guy Lafontaine a prisoner in another of
heir safe houses. So we have an imposter running loose.
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He could be the brains Or he could be a pawn. We still
don't know."
"I'd still like to get out of here."
"Hang in there, Jean. Something tells me we've just
struck gold here. We've got to check it out."
She pulled herself together. "All right. Let's get it
over with. "
"How are you with weapons?"
"I've had all the courses."
"Good. First we go after the guard's automatic rifle,
then we go fishing," Carter said, leading the way down
the stairs, pushing the terrified man in front of him as a
shield.
Jean picked up the Kalashnikov from the floor of the
hall and wiped it clean. She flipped off the safety,
chambered a round, and followed Carter down the stairs.
"Never mind the other rifle, This one will do."
Carter smiled over his shoulder and led her to the
cellar room where he'd found her. A guard was bending
over his fallen comrade. Savarin called out. The man
turned to tE met by a 9mm bullet from Carter's Luger,
and went down across the bed.
Jean took the two AK-47s they had been armed with
and emptied them. She went through the guards' pockets
and came up with a well-used Makarov pistol. She slung
an AK over her shoulder and held the Makarov at her
side confidently. "Lead on, Commander," she said.
"Let's see what this menagerie has to offer."
"What are we going to find here?" Carter asked
Savarin.
The man was beyond coherent speech. His eyes had
glazed over and his breathing was rapid and shallow.
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Carter pulled out the orange syringe and put Savarin out
for the count.
"Looks like it's just you and me, pal," Jean said.
Carter could see that Jean was scared out of her mind,
which was entirely natural for someone not accustomed
to work in the field. He admired her bravery and would
tell her so after they got out of this.
Carter found an earthen stairway to an underground
cavern. It was narrow and steep, shored up with old
timbers.
"Watch your step," he cautioned her.
While Carter had his attention on the uneven stairs, a
guard appeared at the bottom. A shot filled the small area
with sound. The Makarov barked near his ear and the
guard went down.
"I owe you one," Carter said as he raced for the
bottom.
"Call it even," she said, out of breath.
"No surprises now. We've got two or three other
guards down here and they know they have company,"
he said, crouching behind a crate.
One man came running and Carter got him through the
head with one shot from Wilhelmina. A second shot rang
out and Jean shrieked at his side.
Carter looked around but couldn't see where the shot
came from. He swung heavy crates around them and
pulled the woman near him to examine her wound,
At first he couldn't see it and he'd thought he'd looked
everywhere.
She groaned.
"Where are you hit?" he asked, his tone urgent. They
were still in great danger.
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"None of your damned business," she said, wincing.
He turned her over. The slug had creased her along the
cheek of her rump. It had shocked her but she'd be all
right.
"Brother Schmidt will have included some surgical
dressings in the pack." He took the rucksack from his
shoulders and produced a sterile dressing complete with
antibiotic salve. "Put this on while I look for who shot
you. "
Carter crawled from behind the crates and searched
the lodge from top to bottom without finding anyone.
"Any luck?" Jean asked when he returned, looking a
hundred percent better.
"No. Let's look over this place together. They've got
to be hiding something here," he suggested.
They began with the cavern, exploring in the dim light
of a few naked bulbs, "Look at this," Jean said after
they'd been searching for a few minutes.
"Money," Carter said. "A printing press. There's got
to be billions of phony dollars in this pile. What the hell
"Maybe to flood the market? Topple the currency
standard of the country?" she offered.
"Bizarre but possible. Let's see what the hell they've
got here besides funny money. "
In one corner of the huge cavern Carter found a
mountain of publicity designed to foment separation and
revolution. "Come look at this over here," he called to
Jean. "Soviet propaganda, Mountains of it. They've
already got their propaganda machine at work. "
"This will make Cuba and Nicaragua look like child's
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play," Jean said, scanning some of the literature. "Come
look at this chart on this wall."
"My God!" Carter breathed. "It's a plan to ring the
United States with missile bases just hundreds of miles
from the border. "
you'll never be able to show your little find to
anyone,"
a voice from the top of the stairs said.
"Good-bye, Commander Carlson, and you, too, Com-
mander Sprague. It was a pleasure."
The figure of Lafontaine's double stood at the top of
the stairs. Carter reached for Wilhelmina, but the man
suddenly disappeared and a bundle of dynamite sat at the
top of the stairs, it's fuse aglow.
Carter pulled Jean behind a pile of printed matter as
the blast shook the cavern. They were thrown backward
against a mountain of counterfeit money as the lights
went out.
They were separated.
Dust was everywhere.
The explosion had buried them alive.
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TEN
As the silence enfolded them, all Carter could hear
was Jean coughing from the dust that descended every-
where. It was pitch dark.
"What will we do?" Jean asked as she crawled to the
sound of his voice.
g We sit and think. "
"But we've got to do something. "
"We sit and literally let the dust settle," he said,
holding her with one arm. They were resting against
what had been a pile of phony hundred-dollar bills.
"This place is big. We've got enough air for a while."
"But the referendum is just two days away," Jean
reminded him.
"It's okay. We've got enough evidence here to kill the
referendum. "
"It's not going to do us any good if we suffocate."
"Close your eyes and sit back. Let me think for a
minute," he said.
"Have you got a lighter?"
"Yes. Why?"
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"We can start a fire so we can see. We truly have
money to burn. "
"A fire would use up all the oxygen. Just let me think
for a minute. Sit back and get your night vision. If
there's any light in here, let your brain find it."
Carter shut his eyes and let every fiber of his being
relax. It was as if the woman wasn't there and he wasn't
trapped in an underground tomb. He was back up in the
chopper looking at the monitor that outlined the strata of
the cave for him.
He remembered the stairs leading to the lower level
where they were. The Soviet team had to have drilled
some ventilator shafts into the cavern so they could
work. But where?
His mind went over the images as the chopper had
circled the lodge. Two narrow vents showed on the
screen. They were at the far end, the east end.
"There are two vents at the far end of the cavern," he
said. "Can you see any better now?"
"Yes. It's amazing. When they gave us night vision
training at the academy, I thought it was all bull," She
said. "How do you know about the vents?"
"I'll tell you later. Now, let's move it."
He felt his way cautiously past piles of debris to the
back of the cavern. A faint cool breeze greeted them
when they got to the far wall.
"You were right! We can get out of here!" she said
excitedly, grasping his arm.
"Not so fast. These air vents could be too narrow for
us to get through."
Jean scrambled up the sloping side of the cavern to
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meet the breeze head on. She couldn't get more than her
head in the hole.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" she said, slipping back to the
cavern floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Look around for a long pole," he said softly. "We
need a long pole and some kind of hooks. "'
"What the hell good will that do? We're trapped in
here!" she cried.
"Just do it, okay? Trust me," Carter said, putting his
hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her.
They went their separate ways. Carter could hear her
rummaging through the piles of material that was piled
up everywhere. He found some metal rods and a role of
copper wire.
"Any luck?" he called to her.
"I've got three hooks, but I can't find a pole."
"Never mind. Meet me back at the vent," he called.
When they met at the vent, she looked a mess. Her
blond hair was filthy and hung limply to her shoulders.
Dirt and tears had streaked her lovely face. Sweat had
plastered her blouse to her back. He knew he had to look
at least as bad. The black fatigues were sticking to him
and the dust was making him sneeze.
"What have you got?" he asked.
"Stevedore hooks. I suppose they used them to shift
the bales of paper. "
"Perfect," he said, producing the long rods and the
wire.
"Do you know how to splice these together to make
one long rod?" he asked.
"Sure. But what's it all for?"
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He pulled the rucksack off his back and showed her
the plastique and timers.
"All right! That should do it. Do you always come so
well equipped?"
"Used to a Boy Scout," he told her. "We've got a
whiz of a weapons man. He insists I'm prepared at all
times. "
"When you get back, give him a big hug for me."
She started the awkward job of splicing the into
one long ple. When she was finished, she ran it up the
vent and was able see the tip in the sunlight at the far
end. "Do you think anyone's around outside?" she
asked.
"I doubt it. They think they've got us out of the way,
and the phony Lafontaine's got plenty to do in the next
two days. "
"Do you think he's the head man?"
"It's hard to say. Probably," he said as he finished
work on the last of three timed plastique bombs.
Carter tied a bomb to each of the wooden handles of
the three hooks. He set the first bomb to go off in fifteen
minutes. With a hook made of double strands of copper,
he attached the first bomb and ran the rod up the vent to
within a few feet of the top. He set the other two for ten
minutes and five, then slid the second up to a point
halfway from the top. The third he hooked into the dirt
close to the bottom.
"That's it. We've got about three minutes. Let's get as
far from the vent as we can. "
They lay together, flat against the far wall behind a
pile of crates.
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"Is this going to work?" Jean asked, shivering in his
arms.
"No problem. We've got about a minute before the
lowest one goes. Keep your mouth open a little so the
pressure doesn't hurt your ears, and relax."
The first explosion rocked the cavern. Earth flew in
every direction. When the dust began to settle, Carter
moved quickly to see the damage. "Stay here," he
ordered.
The plastique had blown a huge hole at the base of the
vent as Carter had planned. If he'd planned the operation
in reverse, starting at the top, gravity might have been
his enemy and plugged them in the cavern permanently.
The next two explosions, five minutes apart, shook
the cavern violently. Carter stayed with Jean until the last
of the swirls of dust settled. They like a couple of
moles when it was all over, but the cavern was much
brighter. A hole ten feet wide enabled them to crawl to
the surface.
"We've got a problem," Carter said when they got to
the top.
"What now?" Jean asked, lying in the grass, breathing
deeply and still blinking from the light.
"I've got to go down again."
"Why? What for?"
"I saw a pile of heavy steel cable down there. I need
it. "
"But . . . " was all she got out before he disappeared
down the jagged hole.
Within minutes Carter appeared, dragging the cable.
"Help me to get this around the haystack over there," he
said.
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Jean just looked at him as if he were crazy.
"We can't leave the hole uncovered," Carter ex-
plained. "I've got an idea. Just help, okay?"
They ran the cable through the huge stack of dried hay
until they had it cradled in the heavy cable.
"Wait for me here," he told her, running for the
woods.
Jean Sprague stood, stunned, her mouth (WI, as the
sleek black chopper swung out of the woods over her
head and settled next to the haystack.
"Will this be able to lift the hay?" she asked.
to my resident genius, it won't, but he's
always leaving too much of a margin for error. "
They hooked up the steel cable and Carter took the
ship up a foot at a time. They had to move the hay about
a hundred feet.
The small chopper strained, but the huge pile moved.
It moved slowly, spilling hay as it was dragged along the
ground. With one last effort, it settled into the hole
leaving only a slight indentation in the pile as if it had
been consumed by a herd of cattle.
Jean applauded Carter's ingenuity.
Carter unhooked the cable and dragged it deep into the
woods. When he returned, he slipped into the pilot's seat
and patted the floor behind him.
Jean hopped in and strapped herself in. "Let's get out
of here," she said.
Near the safe house where Carter had met with
Brown, Saunders, and Tanks earlier, the Killmaster
found a small stream, peeled off his fatigues, and dived
into a pool created by logs that had fallen across a
narrows downstream.
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Carter swam lazily in the small pond, feeling the
grime and sweat float from his body. The cold water was
refreshing and cleared his mind for thinking about what
he would have to do next.
He heard his name being called from the water's edge
and saw Jean. "May I join you?" she asked.
"Be my guest," he responded, swimming a few
strokes toward her.
As unselfconsciously as if they were longtime lovers,
she took off her clothes and dived into the water, cutting
the water with smooth, even, effortless strokes. After a
few minutes she turned and swam toward him. Her arm
reached out and her hand brushed his shoulder.
Carter held her hand there, forcing her to stand in the
chest-deep water. Their nude bodies were inches from
each other. Jean stared at the scars on his torso and he
watched her pale blue eyes roam over his body. Then she
looked up at his face. Suddenly the air was electric with
sexual tension. She walked a few steps toward shore,
and the water level was soon below her breasts. Water
dripped from their tips, her nipples puckered with the
cold. She held her arms out to Carter, not saying a word.
He walked to her and she pressed herself to him with
a gasp. Carter put his hand on the back of her head and
brought his mouth to hers. Jean's tongue was alive, and
her fingers pressed into his back. When they broke,
Carter ran his lips across her forehead and down her
cheeks, licking the rivulets of water that dripped from
her blond hair.
Then he picked her up and carried her to the grassy
bank surrounding the pond. He placed her gently on the
ground, then lowered his body to hers. She embraced
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him fiercely, the terror of her abduction and escape
having transmuted itself into a frantic desire.
"Oh, Nick, I was so scared," she whispered into his
hair.
"I know, Jean, I know," he breathed as his mouth
sought hers once more.
She pressed her hips against him, then spread her legs
so that he could get even closer to her. She savored every
second as he eased himself into her. Then she began
moving slowly, sensuously, as if she wanted this to last
for hours.
The feel of her body under him, surrounding him, was
almost more than Carter could take and still maintain
control. Her breasts had their own rhythm, sometimes
touching his chest, sometimes not. Her legs were now
wrapped around his waist, pulling him into her with a
commanding urgency.
Finally, he moved his hands under her, taking her
thrashing hips in his hands and holding her steady for his
final assault. He drove deeper into her until a shrill,
half-muted scream tore from her lips as her body moved
in one long, continuing shudder. Then the fury of his
thrusts brought him to his ultimate destination, and Jean
pressed her legs and hands against the small of his back
as if she could never get enough,
They lay on the grass for a while, Jean resting her
head on Carter's shoulder. Carter dozed off for a few
minutes, and when he woke, he decided they should get
back to the cabin. They left their filthy clothes at the
pond and walked back to the house nude. They found
jeans and flannel shirts in a closet and got dressed.
Carter walked into the main room and sat down at the
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rustic dining table. He tuned the radio to the AXE
channel. "You didn't hear this, okay?" he warned Jean,
looking her straight in the eye.
She nodded.
"This is N3. Give me Hawk, Priority One."
The computer-controlled communications system
worked instantaneously.
"How's it going, Nick? I've been trying to reach
you. "
"I've been tied up," he said, explaining everything
that had happened to them.
"Keep out of sight. I'll have the C-31 flown to
Plattsburg to await your orders. "
"Good. I might still need the chopper. I'm going to get
my friends together again for a briefing. "
"Are you at their safe house?"
"Yes." He gave Hawk a frequency to call.
"If you need anything, call. Day or night."
The statement was superfluous, Carter knew. But he
knew it was hell to be sitting at the other end of an
operation.
"It might be a gocxl idea to get Carreau and Niles in
the picture soon, Time's running out."
"Will do. I've got a few items to handle first." He
signed off and called the number Brown had given him.
"Where the hell have you been?" Brown asked.
"A long story," Carter said brusquely. "I want you to
get Saunders and Tanks up here again. And keep it a
secret. Jean and I are dead as far as anyone knows."
It took them about three hours to appear on the scene.
They hadn't all been available, and they'd stopped to
buy a few supplies and a large bottle of Chivas.
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They shook hands all around, huge smiles of relief on
their faces when they saw Jean.
"We thought you were dead for sure," Saunders said.
Carter filled them in on what had happened at the
lodge. He told them about Savarin and the phony
Lafontaine. "We were lucky to get out," he said at last.
"They're warned now and they'll be doubly danger-
ous," Tanks grumbled.
"I'm not so sure. I've got the real Lafontaine hidden
away. And the phony thinks we're dead."
"Is Carreau still away?" Jean asked.
couldn't cancel the western swing," Saunders
said. "He's leaving it up to us."
"I've got this feeling that something's very wrong,"
Carter said. "l believe Lafontaine's merely a figurehead.
Savarin was a puppet working for him. Someone bigger
is behind this," he went on as if thinking out loud.
"What about Boisvert? If the PM is killed, he's the next
in line, right?"
Saunders, Tanks, and Brown looked at each other,
then turned to Carter.
"Something I should know about?" Carter asked.
"Boisvert's in the hospital. He took a slug in the
shoulder and one in the ankle," Brown told him.
"How? When?" Carter demanded. "Don't leave any-
thing out. "
"Boisvert was working early at Carreau's desk, and—"
Brown began.
"Is that normal?" Carter interrupted.
"No. He's never in until eight or nine. But he was
signing correspondence the PM would normally sign."
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"But why in Carreau's office?" Carter persisted. "And
why earlier than usual?"
"Because the letters were on the PM's desk. And
Boisvert had his own work to do as well. He also had to
act for the PM during the House session."
"Okay," Carter conceded. "How was it done?"
"Two men in ski masks armed with silenced Uzi
automatics. They killed the three SSS men in the hall,
then they burst in and unloaded at least two clips each at
Boisvert, "
"So why isn't he dead?" Carter asked, suspicious.
"The shoulder shot knocked him down and the desk
shielded him. One ankle stuck out. He took one slug
there," Brown explained.
"Any chance this could have been a setup to make
Boisvert look good?" Carter asked.
"Not a chance," Saunders said, shaking his head.
"You should have seen the room, particularly the re-
mains of the desk. "
"All right. I'll take your word for it," Carter said.
"But I want you to give this some thought. Terrorists are
not the brightest people in the world. Their leaders might
be, but the man with the gun is usually a brick or two
short. "
"What are you getting at?" 'Tanks asked.
. "Carreau is at his desk early every day. The hit men
plan on a specific day. They're comic-book types—these
guys don't read the or listen to the news. The fact
that Carreau was out of town could have escaped them. "
"So?" Tanks asked.
"So the hit was set to go and it went. The fact that it
was Boisvert was pure accident. He could still have been
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one of the bad guys and they screwed up," Carter said.
"I've seen it before."
"This is wheel-spinning," Saunders objected. "I've
known Boisvert since his first election. He's about as
clean as they come."
"So squeaky-clean that he sleeps with Carreau's wife
to pump her for everything he can get," Jean said.
"Who told you that?" Saunders demanded.
"Everyone knows except Carreau. I'm surprised we
haven't heard it on the evening news," Jean said dryly.
"l had no idea it was so public. I'll talk to him,"
Saunders said.
"Did you bring what you had on the Hungarian
exodus?" Carter asked.
Saunders a manila envelope and spread a few
pieces of on the table. They all pulled their chairs
closer to get a tEtter look.
Carter picked up a copy of an old snapshot. It was a
photo of the family Howard Schmidt had told him about.
He looked at it for a long time. "Something about this
rings a bell," he said, passing it first to Brown, "Does it
mean anything to you?"-
"Kid of atxyut ten or eleven and two adults," Brown
said slowly, describing the photo as he stared at it.
all look unhappy. The kid's holding a battered old
suitcase and a stuffed animal. The guy's in overalls; his
work boots are old-fashioned and worn. The woman's
old before her time, her hair in a braid around her head.
Typical immigrants. "
"Not so typical," Carter contradicted him. "They
were trained by the KGB. The couple was subsequently
killed by the Soviets because they knew too much. The
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kid was passed off to another couple, Communist party
members, who added to his education. Their deaths were
faked and the kid was formally adopted. "
"How do you know so much?" Saunders asked,
amazed,
"Our people had a defector who dropped this on them
years ago. It was covered with the RCMP at the time and
nothing came of it."
"So we can trace the adoption back," Saunders said
hopefully. "We've got records—"
"Burned in 1960," Carter cut in. "You've got noth-
ing. "
"So this kid grew up in this country and could be a
m)wer right now?" Brown asked.
"You can tEt on it. His adoptive parents were proba-
bly two of the best. They would have brought him along
expertly. No question that the party supplied all the
money they needed. If we didn't know Carreau's back-
ground, the kid could be him," Carter concluded.
"Lafontaine's too old," Jean added.
"Not with makeup," Carter reminded her.
"So what have we got?" Saunders asked.
"The Hungarian Revolution was in 1956. The kid was
ten or eleven. That would make him somewhere in his
mid-forties today," Carter said. "I suggest we concen-
trate on every man with power in this country, particu-
larly in Ottawa and Québec, who could be or could look
like a man of forty-three to forty-six.
"There's something about this picture, " Carter mused ,
again studying the faded photo. answer is in this
picture. Can you make a copy for me, Fred?"
"You can keep that one. Everything here is a copy. "
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"What are you going to do?" Brown asked. "You're
supposed to be dead,
"I don't know yet," Carter said. "But have someone
send me a makeup kit just in case. i might want to
wander around Ottawa. I'd like to get inside the house on
Sussex Drive. I'd like to get inside Boisvert's house
again. Who knows?"
"Anything else?" Brown asked, his tone showing the
respect he was gaining for his new ally.
"A couple of tranquilizer guns, pistols, and several
darts. Better get me a camera with special fast film and
an ultraviolet light.
"How the hell could you let it happen?"
"He had some kind of special helicopter. "
"Where is he now?"
"Buried inside the cavern."
"How much air does he have?"
"Indefinite. We had two vents cut into the cavern."
"Can he possibly get out?"
"No way. I personally exploded the only way out. The
whole stairwell caved in."
"Did anyone go back and check on them?"
"Yes. They're still in there."
"All right," the voice of authority said. "We don't
need the material in the cavern until after the referen-
dum, Keep a guard on the place. What about the ones we
los t ?
"Expendable, " the phony Lafontaine said.
"Good. Then we have no real change of plan."
"Good luck, sir. " Lafontaine said.
"Fool! Luck doesn't have one damned thing to do with
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it. Planfor the future, comrade. I will not always be with
you. Planfor the future and the glory of the state."
"Yes, comrade. Is there anything else?"
"No. I don't want to hear from you until we have
brought the Anglos and the rabble to their knees."
The line went dead. The man who was posing as
Lafontaine sat for a moment wrapped in thought. I will
not always be with you, the leader had said. A cold chill
ran up his spine. It would be impossible to imagine life
without his direction. It had been so long.
The private line on Thomas Niles's desk rang twice
tEfore he picked it up. "Yes?"
"I'm not at all pleased with the progress. The whole
thing blows in two days."
"I know, Mr. President. Commander Carlson has
dropped out of sight. We're not getting reports from
him. "
A silence followed. "All right. I have other ways of
finding out. "
A moment later, the phone rang at Hawk's bedside.
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Jean Sprague was a beautiful woman. Carter watched
her as she stood by the window of the cabin looking out.
Her long blond hair was wet. She had stood under the
ice-cold shower until the tank was empty. Her skin was
covered with goose bumps. She stood, hipshot, shiver-
ing, gripping her elbows to her sides. Suddenly she
headed for the bed, then pulled the down quilt over
them. "Hold me tight," she said, looking up at him, a
question in her expressive blue eyes.
"What happens now?"
"I warm you up and we—P
"I don't mean that," she said, digging a cold elbow
into Carter's ribs. "I mean with the Soviet thing
with Lafontaine. We can't sit tight here and do nothing. "
"I'm not sitting here much longer. When Brown gets
back
. . . " Suddenly he stopped as something clicked
in his brain. He knew it was bound to happen. Some-
thing had been nagging at him since he'd seen the
photograph. He sat up and turned on the light.
"What is it?" she asked.
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"Look at the picture," he said, excited. "See the teddy
"It's old-fashioned, right?"
"Sure. But the picture was
"I've seen that teddy bear recently. In Ottawa."
"What? Where?"
Carter's face was one huge grin now. "Our mole made
one major error. They all do. He just couldn't let go of
the past. "
"What in God's name are you talking about?"
"The stuffed animal. Older and a little the worse for
wear," Carter said, obviously pleased with himself.
"Will you please tell me exactly what you're talking
about or I'll scream? I swear!"
"When I was at Boisvert's house, he had this very
stuffed animal on his bed. He's probably been hanging
on to it as his last link with the past."
Are you sure?"
"Sure? Damned right I'm sure. He sleeps with Marie
Carreau and we both know he could do better if he
wanted a little extracurricular activity. He's deputy PM.
Jesus! They all take orders from him. Trouble was, he
was Mr. Clean. Everyone looked right past him for the
villain."
"So what will you do? Tell Carreau?"
"The PM's already defended him. He's the fair-haired
boy. "
"Not after sleeping with Marie."
As they talked, a car pulled up in the patch of crushed
stone near the front of the cabin. They both grabbed for
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their clothes and met Brown at the front door. Carter sat
his friend down and told him the new development.
"So what's next? We've got to stop the bastard,"
Brown said.
"Have you had people on him?" Carter asked.
"He's at home, asleep, right now. "
"All right. I'm taking the chopper to his place. Did
you bring what I asked for?"
"It's in my car."
"Get it. I'm going to get a picture of him in his bed
with the stuffed animal, then you can do what you want
with him. "
Carter changed into his soiled black fatigues, which
he'd retrieved along with his shoes before they'd gone to
bed, and blackened his face.
"What should I do?" Jean asked.
"You've got to keep out of sight until we've got him
and his cronies. A day or two."
He kissed her and headed for the door, when a red
light on the radio began flashing.
"Yes?" Carter answered.
"I'm glad I got you. Everyone's pressing for answers.
Are you going to make it?" Hawk asked.
Carter filled him in, including his latest intention.
"Give it a couple of hours and we've got him with at
least twenty-four hours to spare. "
"I hope so. The president is really hot about this one. "
"Tell him it's in the bag. Even if we don't get Boisvert
before the referendum, we've got the evidence in the
cavern. That should do it."
Carter signed off and met Brown at the car. He stuck
the loaded tranquilizer guns in his belt, examined the
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ultraviolet-light camera, and headed into the woods to
the chopper.
The ride to Boisvert's house took less than fifteen
minutes. The area was remote enough that in silent
mode, he was able to put the chopper down in a meadow
nearby and sneak to the house without detection.
This time he didn't wait and listen for the dogs. He
knew what to expect. The first one came at him in a rush,
his mouth looking more like that of a jungle cat than a
dog.
The dart took effect almost immediately but not before
the animal had torn off half his sleeve. It was the same
with the second dog. It came at him in one long leap,
taking the dart in the mouth but still coming on. Carter
caught him by one paw and smashed him against the wall
until he was still.
The Killmaster reloaded the two pistols right away. He
couldn't assume that Boisvert hadn't detected his first
sortie into the grounds and set up a few more surprises.
He was right. A third dog, a Doberman, came at him
without warning. It took him by the arm and one
of the guns free. Carter managed to hold on to the other
gun and fire it at an extreme angle.
He nissed. The dog had transferred his attention to
Carter's throat, but it was to other forms of attack.
As he would have with a man, he kicked the dog in its
testicles. While the dog howled and ran in circles, Caner
retrieved the pistol and put a dart in the dog's hide.
So muchfor stealth, Carter thought. There Was no way
the guards were going to unaware of his presence after
all the racket with the dogs.
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With a dart pistol in one hand and a silenced Wilhel-
mina in the other, Carter moved out of the bushes near
the wall as he approached the house.
A guard's silhouette was near the building, partly
distorted by a heavy growth of ivy on the stone walls.
Carter froze, a dark wraith under a cloudless sky. A gun
hand appeared, then a man. Knowing any of Boisvert's
men would be KGB and some of the best, Carter didn't
hesitate. He took him out with a shot to the head, then
finished him off with a 9mm slug in the heart.
It was quiet all around the house. He knew that one
other guard would be on the lookout for him, so he froze
against a wall and waited.
He waited fifteen minutes. If the man was good, he
was doing the same thing. Another ten minutes passed
and still Carter waited.
His patience paid off. A large black shape loomed out
of the darkness. Carter couldn't see his face. He used the
dart gun and the man crashed to the ground like a
wounded hippo.
Carter went through his pockets. The guard had no
identification, but the Killmaster didn't really expect to
find any.
No lights had gone on in the house, but Carter knew
that didn't mean anything. Carter crept in as cautiously
as if he suspected someone to be waiting. For all he
knew, there could be more guards poised to attack.
Carter checked the camera. He had tested it and was
familiar with it. He knew he could get a picture in the
dark that WOUId have as much detail as a daylight shot.
He snaked up the steps to the master bedroom.
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Boisvert was in the bed, but the stuffed animal was
nowhere in sight.
Carter put down the camera and searched for the toy.
He found it under a robe on a nearby chair and B)sitioned
it in a place of honor beside its master's tranquil face.
The shot was not difficult. Carter turned on the black
light, then adjusted the camera's focus and aperture
setting. He three shots, close up, at three different
settings before he was satisfied.
The rest was no problem. He descended the stairs
slowly, keeping his eyes open for other guards.
He had just reached the and was turning the
handle, when two muzzle flashes partly lit the hall. He
felt a sharp pain in his head and went down. As he hit the
floor he thought of the time. One day to go and he'd
blown it, It was his last thought as he felt himself falling
into a black void.
Brown stood over him in the cabin. He looked
worried. Another black face stood close to him, his
attitude more professional.
"How do you feel?" Brown asked.
"How the hell do you think I feel? My head's going to
crack open, and I blew the assignment," Carter mut-
tered, bringing a hand to his head.
A hand held a cold compress against his head and he
noticed Jean for the first time.
"What day is it?" he asked.
"Still one day before the vote. We should go on the air
tonight," Brown said.
The other man put a to Carter's chest.
"You were lucky, Commander," the man said. "A crease
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on your left temple and a bullet hole through your left
flank. Not bad at all, really."
"We've got to talk alone," Carter told Brown.
Brown nodded to the doctor. Jean stayed.
"Did you take over the lodge and the cavern?" Carter
asked.
"The QPP have it roped off. We're bringing the
evidence out now. "
"So Tim Loomis knows?"
"He's taken over, as you might expect. He's taking all
the credit. "
"Hess welcome to it. What about the camera?"
"Gone. "
"That tears it. Is the teddy bear gone too?"
"You guessed it."
"His wife might testify," Carter suggested.
"She and the kids are gone. It's a dead end."
"No way," Carter said, working his brain until the
jackhammer inside threatened to burst out. "What about
Lafontaine—the phony one, that is."
"I forgot about him. We've got him. "
"Good. So the referendum should be voted down, but
the mole is on the loose to do what he will," Carter said.
"Where is Lafontaine number two?"
"Ottawa. The OPP jail."
"Have him flown here by chopper right now. And ask
your doctor friend to stick around."
"Mike Grange? Sure. "
"Thanks. So get moving, okay?"
Carter was restless until "Lafontaine" was brought to
him. Against Grange's orders and Jean's urging for him
to rest, he got out of bed and tested his legs. After some
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mild yoga exercises, the headache disappeared. "I'm
famished," he announced.
Carter, Grange, and Jean were finishing up a huge
plate of ham and eggs when the man calling himself
Lafontaine was pushed into the room by Brown. He
looked older than when Carter had first seen him. All the
bravado had leaked out of him. He seemed a shell of the
man Carter had met at the Sussex Drive reception.
Carter pulled out his small leather case. "The red one
is Pentothol, Doctor. Don't get it mixed up with the
green vial or we'll lose our patient," he said for the
prisoner's benefit.
"I'm not sure I want to be involved in this," Grange
said.
Caner to Brown.
"Mike, this man is either a Soviet spy trained in the
Soviet Union or someone they recruited here and trained
here. He was going to make the referendum in Québec
work, then he was going to do the same out west,"
Brown explained patiently. "This man might know
something about the most dangerous mole this country
has ever known. Do you need to know more?"
"Who's the mole?"
"The deputy PM."
"Robert Boisvert? Are you sure?"
"We're sure."
Grange thought about it for a few minutes. His face
was grim. "I'll do it," he finally said. "Hold his arm."
Doctor Grange squirted a drop of fluid from the
syringe, then injected a few drops into "Lafontaine."
The tall man squirined as the needle went under his
skin. He lcx)ked like an old actor, his makeup smudged,
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hair askew, as if he'd been through the performance of
his life. After the shot, he was motionless for a long
time. Grange gave him a few more cubic centimeters.
"You work for Boisvert?" Carter asked.
The man didn't answer right away. It was as if he were
undergoing some inner battle. he finally said.
"Boisvert works for the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy
Bezopasnosti?"
Carter had been speaking Russian. He tried the ques-
tion again in French.
"Yes."
"Where is he now?"
g At home."
"He is not at home," Carter said. "He shot me at his
home and took off with his family."
The man seemed genuinely disturbed. Grange gave
him a few more cubic centimeters of the drug.
"Where would he go?" Carter asked.
The man didn't answer, but he was restless and fitful
as if holding something back.
"Did he have an escape route?" Carter asked, leaning
closer to her ear. "Was one of your subs waiting in the
St. Lawrence?"
The man struggled with the question for a long time.
All his training went against giving out anything incrim-
inating. He looked as if he were going through the
tortures of hell. Sweat drenched him. "James Bay," he
finally said, his garbled.
"Say that again. What bay?" Carter had heard well
enough, but he wanted it on the tape that Brown had
running close to the man's head.
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a new base
Eskimos all killed
"James Bay. Power, He has a base .
of operations. "
small Inuit town
off. Town called Nemiscau."
"What's he talking about?" Brown asked.
Carter waved him to silence. "Is it the power supply
Québec is selling to America?" he a4ced.
going to wire all the dams .
"Nemiscau
Boisvert been here long
best man we ever
had
fooled them all. "
"But what about Nemiscau?" Carter prodded.
if they
find out who he
"Last assignment
was. Go out .
a blaze of glory. Blow all the bloody
dams. "
"He's going to blow all the dams?" Carter asked.
"There now
probably started to wire them
already. "
"Jesus!" Brown said. biggest hydroelectric
project in the world! Québec's got enough surplus to
supply half of the United States.
"And this was going to be his last hurrah," Carter said
in disgust,
"It wasn't enough to-split the country and
open it up for Communism, the bastard was going to
destroy one of the best natural resources on the conti-
nent."
"It's like him," Saunders said. "What a hell of an
exit. "
Brown reached for the radio.
"Who are you calling?" Carter asked.
"The armed forces. They'll blast the damned base out
of existence. "
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"Let's think this through," Carter said. "If he's got all
the dams wired, or even some of them, maybe he can fire
them by remote control. "
"So a massive raid would do no good," Jean offered.
"There's something else we've got to think about."
"What's that?" Brown asked.
"I'd bet half I own that he's got one of their nuclear
subs cruising James Bay right now waiting to pick him
up. "
Carter reached for the radio and coded in his identifi-
cation to the AXE computer.
"Get me both Hawk and Schmidt on this line right
away," he said, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.
"You never heard this conversation," he said to the trio
with him. They nodded in unison.
"I've got Howard with me. What's going on up there,
N3?" Hawk asked impatiently.
"Bear with me, sir. We've got the referendum thing
sewn up. You can relay that to the president."
"That was your job. What's so urgent now?"
"The mole—the one you told me about, Howard—
turned out to be Robert Boisvert. "
"The deputy prime minister? Well, I'll be damned,"
Hawk said. It wasn't often that he was taken completely
y surprise.
"He's skipped, but we have information that he's got
ne big bang left in him before he leaves us."
"Where is he?" Hawk asked.
"A place called Nemiscau. It's centrally located some-
where in the middle of all the dams the Québecois have
•uilt up there," Carter said. '"We don't want any big
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heroics. No big noises. I've got to go in with Howard's
Bell 680 as silently as I can."
"Or the bastard will blow all the dams," Hawk
finished for him. "What can we do?"
"Two things. Pull all the strings you can and get me
satellite shots of the area around Nemiscau. I've got to
pinpoint the exact location of his camp. I'll need a
refueling tanker on my tail all the way."
"Anything else?" Schmidt asked.
"We think Boisvert may have a rescue sub in James
Bay. What you can do is get our Joint Chiefs to
coordinate with the Canadian Armed Forces for some
choppers, something like P-3C Orion sub chasers to
comb the area for a possible escape submarine. Saturate
the waters around Charlton Island with sonobuoys. I'd
like to see a buoy dropped every hundred yards to be sure
we pick up any sonar pings. You'd better tell them to
cover the mouth of the Rupert River and blanket it the
same way. Tell them to stay clear of the Nemiscau area
and not to attack until I'm finished with Boisvert. I don't
want Boisvert tipped off. "
The silence on the other end lasted only seconds. "I'll
have to check this one out. I don't think the president
will want to sink a Soviet sub," Hawk said as if to
himself.
"Explain the situation to him, sir. Try to get him to see
it your way."
"Well, however it goes, good luck, Nick," Hawk
said. Caner could hear in his voice that his superior
feared for the life of his best agent.
"You're going in alone again?" Jean asked when he
cut the connection.
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"It's the only way."
149
"You're crazy, you know that? You're always trying
to the damned hero. Why can't you take a force with
you?" she asked, her feelings for Carter obvious.
Brown and Grange tried to look busy and turned away.
Grange packed his bag and Brown took him out to the
car.
Carter went to her and held her close. "It has to be this
way. Anything else could spell disaster." They held each
other in silence for a few moments.
"Will I ever see you again?" Jean whis1Ered.
"I've got to go now, Jean. But I'll probably get a few
days to myself after this job. Can you take a few days off
the n ?
"Sure. "
u I'll call you. One way or the other, I'll call you."
He kissed her on the forehead, looked into those
ice-blue eyes once again, and released her. As he headed
for the door his mind was already on the next phase of
this crucial assignment. The Soviets in Canada.
damned close and too dangerous. Boisvert was probably
one of the best-kept secrets in the Soviet arsenal and
Carter had to get him.
He had to.
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TWELVE
Over Waswanipi, a small town according to the grid
maps that flipped up on his monitor on command, Carter
noted that he was getting low on gas. He called in the
tanker.
"Bell 680 calling Wetnurse. You read?"
"Loud and clear. We've got you on radar two hundred
miles ahead. "
Carter adjusted his radar for a wider scan. He picked
up the big ship at the edge of his range. "I'm ready when
you are."
The big tanker crept forward on his radar and within a
half hour had up the chopper's tanks.
"When do you need a refill?" a voice from the native
of a southern state asked.
"On the way back. Tomorrow or the next day."
"We'll be relieved before that. We have orders to keep
a tanker in the air over this area until further notice, " the
mellow voice said. "You sure got some clout, man."
"I'll call you from the mouth of the Rupert when I'm
leaving. "
"Good hunting. Over and out. "
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When they had gone, he felt alone. The smell of
aircraft fuel dissipated in seconds. He settled back for a
long last leg.
While the tulips were blooming in Ottawa, a sight that
had given him much pleasure, he had long since crossed
the snow line. He hadn't planned on this. It would make
the satellite scan almost impossible. If and when he
found Boisvert's base at Nemiscau, he wasn't dressed
for what was to come. He knew he'd have to confront
Boisvert face-to-face.
On the Eastmain River, fifty miles north of Nemiscau,
Robert Boisvert was leading a dozen long-range snow-
mobiles on a roundabout route to the living quarters of
the men who served the huge dam. Moscow had worked
its wonders as usual. Department Five, the Executive
Action Department, apart from being responsible for
political murders around the world, was divided into
nine internal departments, each handling a specific part
of the globe. Department One handled Canada and the
United States. His control was the general in charge of
Department One. Boisvert knew that the Technical
Operations Directorate, an unnumbered and highly se-
cret arm of the KGB's far-flung operations, had played a
large role in what they called Operation Blackout.
Boisvert held up his right hand and the column
followed him behind a snow-covered knoll a few hun-
dred yards from the Quonset hut. Smoke poured from its
single chimney. It was probably occupied.
Leading the party, Boisvert unslung his AK-47, the
Soviet-made Kalashnikov, a submachine gun that was
probably one of the best known in the world. Its
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banana-shaped orange plastic clip held thirty rounds of
7.62mm steel-jacketed slugs. He held it at the ready as
he approached the thick wooden doors.
The men with him •were all in fur-lined coats with
matching parkas. It was at least ten degrees below
freezing, though spring was on the way. The men were
Spetsnaz, the deadliest killers in the world. Boisvert was
not in their class, but he had received a few weeks of
training at their camps while supposedly on vacations in
other parts of the world. He could hold his own in
hand-to-hand combat with most men.
The Quonset hut was quiet. Boisvert pressed his ear to
the door. He heard a Mozart symphony playing faintly.
He quickly flung the door and jumped to one side
as three of his men followed, taking cover behind tables.
The three men inside leaped up, surprised. They were
hosed down by 7.62 bullets and flung against the walls
of the hut, their blood leaving odd patterns on the
corrugated metal walls.
Boisvert and his men figured that the rest of the men
were at the dam. Moscow had reported a crew of eight.
Boisvert destroyed the radio in the shack, then led his
men to the powerhouse, making sure they could not be
seen from the windows. With the same deadly precision,
they entered the cement building and killed the three men
sitting at the huge console of dials. This time they used
knives to silence the workers. They had-been told not to
fire their weapons within the powerhouse. An errant slug
could damage a meter dial and warn of trouble. Again,
the radio was destroyed.
The remaining two men had to be deep in the bowels
of the dam. Boisvert had led his men to two other dam
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sites and the situation was the same. The workers were
like sitting ducks. They were not armed. No one ex-
pected an attack on remote power dams.
The steep steps to the lower reaches of the dam took
the leader five minutes to negotiate, even in his superb
physical condition. At the lower level, he found the last
two workers. He signaled to the men following him. As
if their job were as simple as mailing a letter, they
dispatched the two unarmed men. They ignored the dead
men, pulling off their packs, each knowing the task he
had to perform.
Within fifteen minutes all the plastique explosive was
set at strategic locations. Outside, two snowmobiles
towed huge sleds of TNT to the base of the damn at the
level of the ice. They were covered with snow and left in
place. The whole dam would be fired when ihey were
ready. Boisvert's crew had four dams to work on. Each
dam was similar. Each job had been planned down to the
last detail. Time was essential. This one was finished. It
was getting dark. Tomorrow was another day.
At 24 Sussex Drive, all the lights were on. Men
scurried in and out like ants. Television crews were at the
gates but were not permitted in.
Filbert Hume, the head of the SSS, had taken over.
Despite his reputation, this was his prerogative. Hume
was a small man in stature but not in personal esteem, at
least not in his own opinion. He acted like a dictator,
trying to bar Tanks from the house, but was pushed aside
by the massive physique of the chief.
"I want to see her," Tanks demanded.
"This is my jurisdiction. I will not permit—" Hume
started.
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%isten, you little prick. I've never seen you do one
damned thing to give you the right to command," the big
man fumed, his face beet red. "You're a damned civilian
and you keep the hell out of my way." He waved the
coroner and his forensics team in behind him and started
up the winding stairway at one side of the foyer.
Mar'ie Carreau was lying on her back, a sheet covering
her from head to toe. The coroner took the sheet from the
top of her head and peeled it back to her knees. He
examined her quickly for external wounds, then concen-
trated on her eyes. Her hands had been placed across the
slight bulge of her stomach and her eyes were closed.
The eyes told the story. The medical man carefully
rolled her head to one side and waved Tanks over. "One
shot through the head just above the spine. An execu-
tion. Small-caliber gun. Probably a twenty-two and
probably silenced. "
"Boisvert." Tanks turned to one of his men. "Get the
butler: "
When the quaking man appeared, his face pasty as he
viewed the body, the coroner quickly replaced the sheet.
g Who was here?" Tanks demanded.
"Just Mr. Boisvert."
"He came often?"
"But she told me it was all right."
"Answer the damned question. Did he come here
Often
g Yes."
"While Mr. Carreau was away?"
"Yes."
"Get the hell out of here. "
Brown had managed to gain entrance and was at
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"Take it easy, Walt. We all knew it was
going on. We can't play the role of saint now."
"I know. But the bastard! The rotten bastard! He
didn't have to do this. "
Frank Brown was a compassionate man, but he'd seen
this before. "It's never easy , Walt. The guy was a pro.
One of the best. Killing her would be like swatting a
fly. "
"But he had a wife and kids, got married right here in
Ottawa. Wife's the daughter df a former senator. I was at
the christening of one of the kids."
Frank Brown stood stock-still for a moment like a
block of stone.
"What is it?" Tanks said, noting the odd expression on
Brown's face.
"You've gone over the Boisvert house?" Brown
asked.
"I took Loomis on a quick tour. Then I got this call,"
the big man said.
"Let's make another tour. "
Tanks left the coroner and his men in charge, made
sure that Hume restricted his activities to guarding the
grounds, and took off for the Boisvert estate.
It was not at all as Caner had seen it on his two
nocturnal visits. The gates stood open. The kennels were
deserted, as was the rest of the house.
"You take the upper floor and I'll look around down
here," Tanks suggested.
In ten minutes they met at the bottom of the stairs,
puzzled that they had found nothing.
"Have you called Mrs. Boisvert's family?" Brown
asked.
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"From the study," Tanks said. He held out his hands,
shrugged, and shook his head.
"And they haven't heard from them," Brown con-
cluded. "I don't like this, Walt,"
"A guy couldn't just
you know."
"I think this one could. Let's check the basement."
It was a two-story house. From the gates it didn't look
imposing, but it contained more than ten thousand square
feet of living space on each floor, a gray stone Tudor
valued at about three million. The furnishings were ex-
pensive, all bought -from exclusive stores around the
world, the walls hung with valuable paintings and
tapestries.
The basement stairs were constructed below the back
staircase to the second floor. The walls were cement,
mostly unfinished. Boisvert had one of the best wine
cellars Brown had ever seen. He also had a room-size
walk-in freezer of the type used by commercial butchers.
They found them in there. Gretchen Boisvert was laid
out on a shelf much as Marie Carreau had been. She was
clothed. A similar small-caliber bullet hole was barely
visible through her long blond hair.
The children of Robert Boisvert were on the floor at
the back of the freezer. Their heads had been bashed in
by a blunt instrument. They were in pajamas, as if
bludgeoned in their beds.
Tanks stumbled from the room. He sat on an upturned
bucket, his massive flanks protruding on either side. He
held his head in his hands trying not to bring up his last
meal.
"How could a man do that to his own kids?" he
croaked.
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'"He wasn't a man," Brown answered. He was furi-
ous. If Boisvert had been close by he'd have been a dead
man, strangled by the CIA's assistant chief of station.
"He was a monster. A monster!" His voice reverberated
from wall to wall in the cool basement until the minor
echoes died and they were alöne with their own
thoughts.
Finally, after a long hesitation, Brown moved to the
stairs. "I'm going to tell Carter. He's got to know what
he's up against."
In the cockpit of the Bell 680, Carter had begun to feel
the cold. This crate had not been built for subarctic flight
and neither had he. His teeth almost chattered as he
answered his call sign.
"Bell 680."
"Where are you?" Brown asked. He was still shaken
and he was still angry.
"I'm about halfway across Lake Evans. Won't belong
now," Carter reported. "You weren't supposed to call
me. I was going to report in. What's up?"
"The man's a psycho, Nick. You've got to be very
careful. "
"I didn't expect this to be a picnic. What's on your
killed Marie Carreau before he took off."
"Not But I don't suppose she could have
told you much. "
"You sound like one cynical bastard," Brown said.
"Is that all you can say?"
"I'm sorry. But it's not unexpected in my game. He
couldn't risk keeping her alive. He might have let
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something slip and she could identify him," Carter said,
trying to be as sympathetic as he could.
"Okay. Try this on for size. The bastard shot his wife
and laid her out in their basement freezer, and the kids
were bludgeoned to death while they slept and also put
down there."
Carter was silent for a few moments before he
responded. ØYou're right," he said quietly. "A psycho. "
Neither man said anything for several seconds, then
Carter asked, "You hear anything about my satellite
"They don't hold out much You might be able
to pick up some smoke, trace it back to the shack. "
"He's not that stupid."
"Yeah. Insane but sharp."
"Someone had better tell my president. I'd prefer it to
be my boss," Carter said. "I can't call him, but I can
give you the general code for our computer. "
"What do you want me to tell him?"
"Just the facts. Tell him I thought he should know."
"Will do," Brown said into the mike. He sounded
sincere and a little frightened. "Be careful, Nick. The
guy's a maniac and who the hell knows what kind of
organization he might have up there. One guy doesn't
blow up a bunch of dams with a few sticks of dynamite. "
David Hawk sat back in his chair, his feet on the
corner of his badly scarred old desk. The desk had seen
many pairs of shCX2S over the years and as many new
pairs of heels. Ginger Bateman had just left for the day
but not without leaving a fresh pot of coffee and the usual
remonstrations about too many cigars and far too many
cups of coffee.
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He hadn't eaten all day. His favorite maitre d' had not
seen him at lunch. He had growled at everyone who
dared to cross his threshold. The haze of cigar smoke
that circled near the ceiling had rarely been so thick or so
foul.
This Canadian thing was going haywire. He'd told the
president they'd beaten the referendum threat and the
chief executive had been given all the cooperation he
needed for the James Bay encounter.
It was Marie Carreau•s murder that got to him. It was
going to affect the president profoundly. He and the First
Lady had been fond of the Canadian prime minister's
wife. Hawk knew it was his duty to tell the whole story.
That and the carnage that had taken place at the Boisvert
home.
It sometimes made him wonder if they could have a
mole as close to the top as Boisvert had been in Canada.
Hcx)ver had been paranoid about it, as had McCarthy.
The Hoover files had been notorious for including
everyone in power or who might come to power. He'd
even suspected the Kennedy clan.
Finally Hawk cleared his mind of extraneous thoughts
and picked up the special telephone he kept in a locked
drawer. It was a very private line. The moment he picked
it up it rang at the other end.
"Yes?" an alert voice asked.
"I have to talk to him."
"Your code?"
"Donovan. "
"Just a minute, Mr. Hawk. He's asleep in his chair.
You're sure we have to wake him?"
Hawk didn't answer. The question was rhetorical.
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Filbert Hume was still in control at the executive
mansion, but Saunders was in control of the investiga-
tion.
"I haven't been able to muzzle the press, but I've
managed to keep the news from the prime minister," he
said as he paced his offce.
"And how the hell did you manage that?" Tanks
asked.
"He flew all the way to Vancouver to mend some
fences with the local party leaders there. He was on his
way to the Yukon before we learned about Marie. "
"And his aides kept the news from him up there."
"I plan to meet his plane tonight and talk to him in the
VIP lounge," Saunders said. "How the hell do you tell a
man his wife's been murdered? Worse. How do you tell
him the man you trained to replace him was an enemy
agent, a man who seduced his wife?"
"I don't envy you. Christ! You should have seen
Jules's face when I laid the news on him," Tanks said,
shaking his head.
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"Where is he now?"
"With relatives in Hull. Goddamn shame. Marie was
a friend at one time. She was just a down-to-earth kid
when I first knew her. She hated all this VIP shit. "
"I'm beginning to hate it myself. I've decided this is
my last year, Walt. How about you?"
"Yeah. Too many young smart-asses sitting at com-
puters trying to solve crimes without dirtying the soles of
their feet. Time for me to get out of it."
The door opened after a sharp knock. An aide stuck
his head around the door. ØThe PM's plane is a half hour
out."
Saunders's shoulder slumped as he stopped pacing.
"Thanks, Jim. I'll be right with you."
Boisvert sat in the middle of his temporary headquar-
ters acting out the role of a colonel of the Spetsnaz.
Eleven men stood around him. The twelfth was at the
console of a short-range radar installation.
"We play this one no different from the others. Is
everything ready?" Boisvert asked.
"All the snowmobiles are at the front door. The
sleighs are loaded," a young officer replied in their
native tongue.
"A sighting coming in from the south," the radar man
interrupted.
Everyone froze in place. They hadn't seen a living
soul that hadn't been designated as a target since their
arrival.
"What does it ICX)k like?" Boisvert shouted over the
quiet.
"Small aircraft. Two hundred knots. It's not on a
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direct line for us, so it probably won't spot us. I suggest
we let him pass us by."
"To hell with that. He could pick us up on the trail,"
Boisvert said. "What if it's a heavily armed gunboat? We
wouldn't have a chance. "
The men poured from the Quonset hut. Two of them
shouldered SAM rcx•kets that had been dropped off by a
nuclear sub along with most of their equipment.
They could hear the sound of the craft now. The
characteristic throb of rotors became distinct.
"A helicopter," Boisvert said. "Blow it out of the
sky. "
The Bell 680 came in at an angle and was upon them
they expected. It passed to the east while the
SAM rocket experts tracked it in their sights.
"What the hell are you waiting for? Fire!" Boisvert
screamed.
Two missiles cannoned from the shoulders of the
Spetsnaz before they were completely ready. They flew
past the 680 so close that Carter was unable to control the
airflow around him. The chopper bucked right and left as
he fought the controls.
"You missed!" Boisvert accused, facing up to the two
professionals, his face mottled red with rage.
"Colonel!" one of the others shouted. "The aircraft
crashed. Look!"
They all turned to see a ball of flame in the distance,
rising from behind an ice-encrusted knoll. The sound
reached them like a clap of thunder:
They raced for their vehicles.
"Stop!" Boisvert commanded. "We don't have time
for games. No one could have survived that crash."
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Boisvert stood before them, an imposing figure, a man
bent on making his last battle count as much as possible.
The third dam was on their schedule for today. "Mount
up and follow me."
The two men sat alone on two folding chairs in the
middle of a deserted hangar. Clearing the VIP lounge
would have advertised the presence of the prime minister
and the head of the Ontanio Provincial Police in confer-
ence. This way, Saunders's men kept everyone away.
Carreau sat with his head in his hands. He'd been
silent for a full minute. "How did Jules take it?" he
asked.
uHard. I took him to your sister's in Hull."
"Good. She'll comfort him if anyone can."
Saunders sat, one hand on his friend's shoulder, ready
if needed but saying as little as possible.
"She wasn't a bad woman, Fred. I left her alone too
much. "
"I understand.
"I didn't allow myself to get close enough to her in the
end, It was natural she'd turn to Robert." Carreau sat
with tears streaming down his face. "I knew about it,
you know. I let it go on." He sat wrapped in his own
thoughts, speaking as though to himself. "I thought he
was just ambitious," he went on painfully. "Oh, yes. I
knew. "
The OPP chief sat, surprised but determined to be a
listener.
"I -wasn't a good lover. At first I was, but the
pressures, the schedule, the resrx•nsibilities, you know,
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it was just too much. I didn't have the energy for her. So
I let it go on."
He raised his head and wiped his forehead and eyes
dry with a clean white handkerchief. only thing
that hurt was that everyone knew and thought I was a
fool. I didn't think I was a fool: I had more important
things to think about. But now .
Saunders had held back on the other murders. Even
now he wasn't sure he should tell it all at the same time.
"There's something you haven't been telling me.
What is it?" Carreau demanded. "Have you lied to me
about Jules?"
"No. It's something else."
"You might as well tell me. How much worse could it
"Boisvert murdered his own wife and children before
he left."
Carreau sat on the uncomfortable chair in the huge
hangar, alone with this One man. He tried to absorb the
enormity of what he had just heard. He'd survived every
kind of mud that politics could sling at him, He'd seen
his national police force go sour. He'd almost wept when
Hume and his SSS let him down. And he'd lost what was
left of his drive when Gilles Parisant fought him to split
the country.
But this. He'd never experienced anything like this.
"He's been your nemesis from the
Jacques," Saunders said rather formally. "Everything
that happened to damage your career was engineered by
him. He was sent here as a child for that purpose."
"And it ended with him killing his own family? What
kind of a monster could do that?"
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"It isn't over," Saunders said quietly.
"Oh, my God! Save me from anything else! What else
could the madman do?"
Saunders explained the James Bay threat. "Carlson is
on his way up there now. He's requested the U.S. Navy
have sub chasers in the waters to cut off Boisvert's
retreat. "
"You're telling me that this man, this monster, is still
at work? He wasn't satisfied to ruin my life, to destroy
his family, he's about to destroy the James Bay Project?"
"His farewell gesture. There's never been one like
him, and there probably never will be again. Makes
Philby seem like a saint by comparison."
Carreau started to laugh, the hysterical laugh of a man
who has lost control.
Saunders was about to go to him, to hold him, but
Carreau shook his friend off. Typical of his courage over
the years, he gained control of himself. "How much does
the president know?"
%AII of it. He has dealt only with Carlson and the man
who runs Carlson. And the secretary of the U.S. Navy,
of course, although the secretary knows only the military
necessity. "
Carreau thought about the great respect the two
leaders had for each other. He wondered if the American
president would censure him for a fool. But then, he'd
had problems of his own. Men like them were targets.
"Get the president on the line for me."
Saunders waved a hand, and an aide ran across the
expanse of the hangar with a telephone. Saunders pulled
out the antenna and keyed in the numtErs for the White
House. The Oval Office had been told to the call.
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Carreau took the phone, a weary man at the end of a
battle.
"Jacques. What can I say?" the president said. "My
wife sends her deertBt sympathies. It's a very bad time
for you. We can only imagine how you must feel."
"Thank you. It's good to know you're both thinking of
me." Carreau paused for a moment. "They really know
how to go after you, don't they?"
"You know the Soviets made you their target," the
president reminded him.
"I'll never kid you about McCarthyism again. It's a
great temptation now."
"None of us knows who we can trust, really, Jacques.
We've got to live with it every day. Now, what can we
do to help you?"
"I've been told that you have military hardware in my
waters. "
"Your aides authorized it, Jacques. "
"Give them hell! Just give them hell for me!"
"We'll only be able to harass the sub if we find it."
"Let me try to tell you exactly how I feel at this
moment, " Carreau said, getting up, the phone pressed to
his ear, his lips close to the mouthpiece. "I don't give
one good goddamn about diplomacy, Those bastards sat
in Moscow and planned all this before I was through law
school. They planned to split this country and hurt
anyone who got in the way. Now I don't give a shit about
one stinking submarine. All I want to hear is that
Boisvert is dead and that any Soviet rescue sub is at the
bottom of James Bay. "
The president had never heard his friend so angry.
"The secretary of the Navy will be pleased to hear your
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sentiments. I'll have one hell of a time explaining this to
Congress, but maybe you're right. Moscow has to be
taught a lesson. "
"Thanks for your support. I don't want to talk any-
more. You understand. Give my Jove to your wife. Give
her a hug for me. All of this isn't worth two cents
without your woman. "
Carreau sat for a long time after Saunders had taken
the telephone from him. He wasn't conscious of anyone
around him, a man entirely within himself.
Then he shook himself like a dog coming out of the
water and stood. "Let's get out of here, Fred. Thanks to
that Carlson fellow, we've still got a country to run."
The two missiles had been so close they set up shock
waves on either side of the chopper. A more experienced
pilot might have righted the craft right away, but it took
Carter a few miles.
While he was fighting the controls his mind was at
work. He'd stumbled across Boisvert's camp. He'd been
too close for the missiles to zero in on him for some
reason. If they had been heat-seeking missiles, they
hadn't had time to tune him in. If they had been
radar-controlled by the operators, he should have been
dead. Maybe something spooked them and they fired too
soon. Either way, he felt damned lucky.
But now they knew he was there. He thought for a
moment and decided on a ruse that he hoped would
work. When he had control of the chopper once again,
he turned in a wide arc, armed one of his missiles, and
fired it into a knoll a few miles from Boisvert's camp.
The explosion was spectacular. A huge ball of flame
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and smoke curled into the sky, visible for miles around.
Would they go for it? Would they believe he had
crashed? He brought the chopper down not far from the
explosion and crept up the knoll, his binoculars around
his neck.
It was cold. Carter wasn't prepared for the below-
freezing weather in this part of the country and wondered
how they controlled the flow of water for hydroelectric
pwer all year. But that was the least of his worries.
When he reached the crest of the knoll and focused in on
Boisvert's camp„ he saw men mounting their snowmo-
biles.
He was glad he'd brought the M-16 rifle from the
chopper. He'd just decided he'd better fighting them
from the chopper, when he noticed they weren't coming
his way. In a convoy of about a dozen snowmobiles,
some with sleighs attached, they headed away from him.
His 'Vcrash" had obviously fooled them.
Carter went back to the chopper and brought up a
viewing of the locations of all the dams on his console.
Boisvert couldn't have been here more than one day.
They might have planted explosives at one or two at the
most. If they'd blown them, he'd have known about it.
He figured they were going to blow them all at once,
which gave him time. And it gave the U.S. Navy more
time. The gods of war were finally looking on his side
with favor. As he walked back to the chopper he felt
tEtter, stronger, and more confident than he had in a long
time.
His first job was to search Boisvert's camp. The
Killmaster took the M-16 from the rack at the back of the
680 and started the long trudge to the Quonset hut. There
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was no way he could cover his tracks. No way he could
sneak up on them. Not one tree or bush stood between
him and the deserted building.
As he came closer, the safety off his rifle and the
selector set at three-shot burst, he noted that smoke still
curled from the-chimney. It was the smell of a
stove and it had not been fed recently.
All the way to the hut he had kept low to the ground.
Now he crawled from window to window around the
corrugated metal building. No one had been left on
guard. He opened the unlocked door and entered
quickly, his M-16 at the ready.
The hut was a complete surprise. Once a trapper's way
station, it had been set up with a dozen Norwegian camp
cots, each immaculately tended as if this were the base
for an elite group. Not one item was out of place. A
corner had been partitioned off for the leader. It was
Spartan, except for the picture of the head of the KGB,
obviously the man's current god. A metal bucket in one
corner contained a soiled square bandage from a wound,
and a long roll of gauze covered with dried blood.
Boisvert's wounds hadn't slowed him down, but the
evidence of his presence was conclusive.
The man from AXE found one thing that was of use to
him. An extra box of cold-weather gear had been
and stored in a corner.. In minutes he was dressed as
warmly as the enemy. He found a spare Kalashnikov,
loaded it, and tossed the M-16 as far as he could into the
snow.
Out back, a small shed contained spare parts for the
snowmobiles. Two spare machines were gassed and
ready to replace any that broke down. Carter started one
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of them and tested it by obliterating his tracks halfway
back to the knoll. He retraced his path and started to
follow the tracks of the enemy.
Jean Sprague was bored and worried. She was stuck in
this damned cabin and he was out there looking for
Boisvert. It was so unfair. She didn't know anything
beyond what was on the radio news. She didn't even
know what Frank Brown was doing. He had promised to
keep in touch, but it had been forty-eight hours and he
hadn't called.
Frustrated, she flipped on the radio and scanned the
dial until she picked up a news broadcast from Ottawa.
"We have no further information on the bizarre
killings of Marie Carreau and the three members of the
Boisvert family. Yesterday we reported that the deaths of
the children had been particularly brutal. We do know
that all four were killed by Deputy Prime Minister
Robert Boisvert.
"There is no additional news out of Sussex Drive.
Prime Minister Carreau is now home, but he will not talk
to anyone. Jules Carreau, formerly accused of Gilles
Parisant's murder, has been released. His whereabouts
are unknown.
"Last in this brief update, voters flocked to the polls in
Québec to block the referendum. Reporters on the street
have concluded that the revelations that a foreign IN)wer
was trying to manipulate the referendum brought all the
undecided voters out of the closet.
"We will have a full news report at ten tonight."
Jean turned off the radio and just sat, staring out the
window. She'd been in G-2 for almost ten years and
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thought she'd heard almost everything—everything bu
a foreign agent killing his family to cover his tracks.
She walked to the front door to get some fresh air.
When it was open, she leaned against the doorframe, he
mind picturing the family of Robert Boisvert.
Jean closed her eyes and whispered to the emptiness o
the woods:
"Oh, Nick .
you !
where are you? I'm so frightened fo
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FOURTEEN
Nick Carter was seated on the fastest snowmobile that
Bombardier of Montreal could produce. It was the
commercial model of the machine professional racers
souped up for the sport that was sweeping snow country.
Without apparent difficulty, he was following the tracks
of a dozen other machines.
It was an overcast day but the white blanket covering
the landscape was enough to make snow goggles
a must. Through their lenses, everything looked vaguely
yellow.
The ride was as bumpy as it was fast. At times the
machine took off from a ledge to sail ten to twenty feet
through the air to land with most of its weight on the
front skis. The back would follow with a bone-jarring
thud as the spinning rubber track hit the snow and
churned ahead. When he was airborne, the sound of the
motor reminded Carter of a boat slipping off a wave and
its propeller running free for a few seconds. He had to
remind himself that this was a deadly serious business
and not a joyride.
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Suddenly the tracks of his quarry split up into two
groups. Carter followed the group heading to the left and
soon saw the massive dam looming up in front of him.
He wasn't prepared for the size of the structure. It
seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, a monolith
that made the work of the ancients in Egypt pale into
insignificance. It was incredible to conceive that the
Québec government had built six this size.
He followed the group that headed for the control
building at the top of the dam to the left. He was on a
frozen lake with hundreds of millions of gallons under
his track. The dam operated all year round, taking in the
water from beneath the ice and directing it through its
huge tunnels to flow out in a fairyland of ice on the other
side.
Carter made a wide sweep of the control tower,
coming around at a high point where he could see all the
action. Boisvert's men were spread out. Some were in
the control house. Others were at the base of the dam on
the side where the water flowed from two of the tunnels.
One snowmobile stood off by itself, a small sleigh
attached.
The Killmaster managed to bring his machine within a
couple of hundred yards of the isolated snowmobile
without being seen or heard. He walked down the path
made by the machine's tracks to the sleigh, keeping his
eye on the action around him. He had his coat zipped low
enough to grab for Wilhelmina. The AK-47 was slung
over his shoulder.
The sleigh was covered with a tarpaulin that was laced
down. He slid to his out of sight of the others and
unlaced part of one side. A rectangular piece of elec-
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tronic gear sat in the middle of the sleigh, a device Ca.rter
had never seen before.
It was definitely a radio transmitter, but very unusual.
Why so many terminals and switches? he wondered.
Someone was walking toward him. This was no time
for a confrontation. He slid the open tarpaulin,
eased out his Luger, and slipped into a slow yoga
breathing rhythm.
The footsteps stopped at the other side of the machine.
The man bent and unlaced the tarpaulin on part of the
other side. A hand slid in and set a frequency on one of
the many dials. Suddenly Carter understood: this was a
whole series of frequencies that could be controlled at
once. But why?
The man's hand was white and soft. The glove he
replaced after lacing up the tarpaulin was expensive,
definitely not KGB issue. Carter guessed he was looking
at the hand of Robert Boisvert.
It tCX)k all his willpower to remain where he was. Until
he knew how the transmitter box worked, a confronta-
tion could jeopardize the entire James Bay Project. The
Soviet crew could have started its work before Boisvert
showed up. Most of the dams could already be wired.
While he was considering his action, Boisvert turned
and started toward the dam. Carter could hear automatic
weapons chattering in the control building. Good men
were dying in there, but he could do nothing,
He 01Ened the flap and looked at the huge transmitter
again. The casing was secured on the outside by a series
of slot screws. He had to have a look inside the console.
Hugo slipped into his palm. Slowly, his fingers stiff
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from the cold, he loosened the screws and pulled off one
side.
The only thing he could see at his side was a circuit
board. At one point all the circuits came together in a
short row of minute gold filaments. They crossed over
two plastic frame supports at that point. The two
supports were only about a sixteenth of an inch apart.
Carter made sure the battery supply. was turned off,
then drew the razor-sharp point of his stiletto through the
filaments. At that point, the break was almost impossible
to detect.
His hands were almost totally numb with the cold. He
fumbled with the screws, making sure that no scratches
were discernible in the plastic around the screw settings.
This had to be the master control box. Satisfied, he laced
the tarpaulin as he'd found it and retreated to his own
machine.
At the crest he'd chosen for his work, he could see a
group of men heading into the bowels of the dam. More
defenseless Canadians would die down there, but he
couldn't act while the whole Soviet crew was spread out.
If he failed now, they would scatter or succeed. He
wanted to be sure they had no escape route. That would
be his next chore.
The day had passed much more quickly than he
expected. The only good thing about that was the
progress of the enemy. They could only work on one
dam at a time, He felt secure now. There was no way
they could blow the dams without their master control
box, and they'd never find his little job of sabotage.
Carter headed back to Boisvert's base camp. He had to
take the chance of another search and he was going to
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return the snowmobile, The hut was deserted and the fire
had gone out. He searched thoroughly for a backup
master control box but found none. He was in the clear.
He parked the machine he'd borrowed and headed back
to the chopper.
Carter started the helicopter and let it warm up. The
uneven rhythm of the motor bothered him. There was no
way he wanted to be stuck here. He checked his fuel. It
was low; he'd have to call up the tanker soon. He just
hoped he had enough fuel to do what he had to do.
Slowly, in silent mode, he circled to the west and the
huge body of water that was James Bay. When he was
thirty miles out, he activated an automatic scanner to
pick up the transmissions from the P-3Cs that were
working the bay near the mouth of the Rupert River.
When he picked up their chatter, he joined in.
"Bell 680 calling Orions. Commander Carlson head-
ing due west into your space."
"Commander Wright of the frigate Samuel Morris," a
voice of authority came on. "We have you on our scope,
Commander. You came within an ace of a missile up
your tail. "
g I have you on radar. Estimate I'm ten miles your
psition. Permission to land. "
"If you didn't, we'd be downright insulted," Wright
said.
Carter knew the object of the exercise was more to get
him in their guns and verify his identification than social.
"We were told to expect you, Commander," the
frigate captain added. "We were also told you're not a
professional chopper pilot. Do you think you can get
down here without sinking us?"
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Carter was within sight of the frigate. It was like
nothing he'd ever seen before. He'd seen four or five
hunting as a pack on exercises, each with its own P-3C,
but this one had four pads aft. It also bristled
with missiles from every angle.
"What kind of freak boat are you commanding,
Commander? I've never seen anything like it.
"Experimental. You think you can get down here
without putting this baby on the bottom?"
It wasn't the best landing Carter had ever made, but he
survived. The swells were four to five feet ten miles out
in the bay. He had to hover for a full minute before he got
the hang of it.
In the wardroom, Carter sat with Wright, the two men
alone. He had a cup of hot black coffee in front of him
laced with an ounce of brandy. He hadn't felt this warm
for many hours,
what the hell's going on, Commander?" Wright
asked.
"Nick would be easier. "
"Josh," Wright said, holding out a callused hand. It
had strength behind it.
Carter told him the almost unbelievable tale of the
men who were dying at the power stations and who was
behind it.
"I suspect he's got a dozen SÆEtsnaya
Naznacheniya behind him."
"What the hell's that?" Wright acked in his Texas
drawl. He was as tall as Carter, bald except for a ribbon
of black that he appeared to shave every few days. His
eyes were the bluest Carter had ever seen and he had a
jaw that looked as if it has been carved from granite.
"Crack Soviet troops. They've got thousands of them
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like our Delta Force people. You've heard of them as
Spetsnaz. "
"Your Russian pronunciation is perfect, Nick. You
some kind of spook?"
"Just a good ole boy like you doing the job Uncle Sam
gave me."
Wright's brow furrowed. Carter knew the other man
had him He sure as hell wasn't an ace chopper
pilot. He glanced at his Rolex. It was time he was
leaving. "I need some help," he said, draining his
coffee.
"Another cup first?"
"No. I have enough trouble staying airborne as it is."
"What can we do?"
"I need fuel."
"That's automatic, You'll be refueled already. We
don't have your brand of hardware, though. "
"I've got enough ammunition for what I want to do.
How are your people coming with their hunt?"
"We know he's down there. And he's not going away.
We've had some soundings, but he's a crafty son of a
bitchi "
"But you'll get him."
ØAbsolutely guaranteed," Wright replied. "When are
you coming back?"
"Two, maybe three hours if there's still daylight."
"We'll have him by then."
"I think it's time to call in the reserves. What have the
Canadians got up here?" Carter asked.
"Couple of chopper squadrons at Kapuskasing. "
"How far?"
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Wright consulted a chart. "Five hundred miles.
Maybe three hours to target."
"Call them and get them up here. Have them check
out every one of the dams. The ones still in radio contact
will still be manned. The others .
"These Spetsnaz going to blow them?"
"They think so, but I've got them sabotaged. Now
I've got to clean them out. If I miss any, tell our friends
from Kapuskasing to look for stray snowmobiles heading
out."
"Good luck, Nick. When you're finished, come back
and see our show."
"Will do. Hey, Josh, a question: What are you doing
up here in James Bay anyway?"
"Shakedown. Just lucky, I guess."
"And what is this can you're sailing?"
"Make a bargain with you. It's as classified as hell.
But if you tell me who you are and who you really work
for, I'll personally show you all the specs."
Carter smiled and picked up his coat and gloves. "I'll
be back when you've got your sea monster. Don't run
out of those things you're dropping in the water. What is
each one worth?"
"The sonobuoys? You don't want to know. "
When he was on his way to the camp to see if the
Soviets had called it quits for the day, it was almost six
in the evening and the sun was starting to get close to the
horizon. He'd have to make it quick, whatever he was
going to do. And he didn't know what that was yet.
When the sun went down at this latitude, it dropped like
a stone and the nights were black as a miser's heart.
Unless the clouds cleared
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Carter widened the scope of his radar and saw the
beginning of a cold front coming in front from the west.
It was very close. The sky behind it was clear.
Good. All the better to see you by, as the wolf said.
And he felt like a wolf right now. The interlude with
Commander Wright had not changed the fire that burned
in his gut. Boisvert was the worst kind of cold-blooded
killer, a robot of a man who executed every order from
Moscow as if programmed. The men he led were not
much trtter. They had trained on live men and women
from the gulags of SitEria. Their cold steel had not
tested on straw dummies.
It was time they felt the cutting edge of that steel.
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FIFTEEN
The Bell 680 Carter was flying was sleek and fast.
Even as an inexperienced chopper pilot, he recognized
its B)tential. He'd had his hands on chopper controls for
a few hundred hours, but that didn't qualify him for star
status.
All the weaponry was concealed. A bank of toggle
switches at his right hand brought them into play when
needed. In the meantime, his airspeed wasn't slowed by
the multiple racks of Penguin antiship missiles and the
rotary-type cannon.
In less time than he imagined, Boisvert's camp came
at him out of the diminishing light. The cold front had
come and gone. Stars had just started to peek from the
darkening blue.
Carter circled the camp in silent mode. All the time
Spetsnaz were inside. Smoke poured from the chimney.
It was probably dinnertime. He armed himself with the
thought that they would be gloating about shooting down
hydro workers.
He counted the machines parked outside. They made
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it easy for him. In usual Spetsnaya Naznacheniya preci-
sion, the machines were lined up in two rows of six with
the leader's out in front, the small sleigh still attached.
The circle complete, he moved off for a missile run,
wishing he'd had more experience with this kind of
weaponry.
He activated all weapons systems and felt the drag on
his speed. Then he flipped the front faceplate of his
helmet down and adjusted the electronic viewer that
showed up as a green set of rings:
The hut was dead center in the rings. The range was
five hundred yards. He pressed the triggers on missiles
one and six felt the shudder.
"I am proud of you, " Boisvert said. The man who had
been deputy prime minister of Canada was a colonel in
the Spetsnaz. He sat at the head of the makeshift table,
a cup of coffee in his hand.
The most senior of his men was a lieutenant, The
others were all noncommissioned officers chosen for the
job. It was felt that the would make them
better leaders.
Every man at the table was' a dedicated machine,
capable of killing in a hundred ways, with weapons or
without. They_ were silent under their commander's
praise. They were not expected to respond. Praise was a
rare commodity. They cleaned their plates and kept their
thoughts to themselves.
The two missiles struck the hut at both ends of the roof
and blew out th)th sides of the building. No one inside
moved from the hut as Carter brought the
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around for a better look. Debris flew in all directions. At
first it appeared that he had killed them all in the first
run.
Then a few began to stagger outside. They were dazed
as they weaved in and out of the machines, each man
intent on finding his own. He counted a half dozen. They
mounted their snowmobiles and prepared to take off.
Carter banked to the right and lined up the row of
machines in his sights. He squeezed the twin triggers of
his cannon mounts. They started to rotate, spitting out
60mm shells at the rate of more than three hundred a
minute.
Two rows of explosions, each about a foot apart,
headed for the snowmobiles. Five of them had pulled
away and missed the rain of steel. The other seven were
demolished.
Carter tcx)k off after one of the escaping soldiers. At
first his aim was off, and the shell exploded in front of
the machine. He corrected and was too short. Finally, as
he corrected again, he saw the gas tank explode on the
machine as the soldier fell off and rolled in the snow
leaving a trail of red.
He was going to break off and let the incoming
Canadian squadrons take care of them, but his blood was
up. The Killmaster went after the next machine now
hundreds of yards away and ran a string of cannon shells
along its path on the first pass.
He hated this kind of fighting. He'd prefer to be up
close, facing the enemy, steel against steel, than see
them go down as if by remote control, tin soldiers
bowled over by a strong wind.
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The last of the strays were destroyed and Carter
returned to the hut. Men staggered near the gutted
building as if they were too shocked by the first blast to
try for their machines. The ones that came close to
succeeding found their machines to be piles of twisted
metal.
Boisvert's machine was missing. Carter scanned the
surrounding blue-white landscaÆE for it, but it was
nowhere in sight. It was getting dark. The stars were out,
but the moon was in the first quarter and no help as a
beacon.
He turned away and came back to loose one of the two
remaining Penguin missiles. It hit the center of the hut,
blowing out the remaining walls. The men who had been
standing were nowhere to be seen, either dead or covered
with debris or snow.
Boisvert. He was the only one Carter wasn't sure of.
Where the hell could he have gone in such a short time?
The Killmaster took the chopper in a half-mile circle and
didn't see Boisvert's machine. He saw plenty of tracks
but couldn't tell which one was Boisvert's.
Carter tried a circle search a mile from the ruined hut,
then a mile and a half, but he had no luck.
He decided to start from scratch and returned to the
hut. He hovered over the destroyed building for a
minute, keeping high enough so as not to disturb the
snow, and scanned the surrounding area.
One track led off where Boisvert's machine had been
parked. Carter took his craft up to a half mile and traced
the track. It led off as far as Carter could see.
Slowly, like a giant bird stalking its prey, he used the
machine's silent mode and a slow rate of speed to follow
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the trail. It led toward the dam he'd visited earlier in the
day.
Boisvert's snowmobile was a speck on the horizon
ahead, slowly growing in size as Carter gained on it. The
sheer face of a cement wall loomed up in front of them.
It was time for the showdown.
Carter brought the chopper in close. Boisvert couldn't
hear the aircraft for the noise of his own machine. He
was being given a rough ride by the ice that had churned
upward around the lake as it froze and compressed. The
sleigh pulled by the Bombardier machine sped along
on its flexible umbilical.
Carter brought the around to one side to
attract Boisvert's attention. He could barely see the
man's eyes through the yellow protection of snow
goggles.
The Killmaster circled in front of Boisvert and
blocked his path, the multiple pods of cannon facing the
Soviet agent. They were empty, but Boisvert had no way
of knowing that.
Both men were desperate to win.
Boisvert stopped. He sat for a moment trying to think
of something to do. He climbed from his machine,
unslung his AK-47, clicked off the safety, turned it to
full auto, and aimed at the Plexiglas bubble, all that was
between him and his tormentor.
Carter started to react, but the hail of 7.62mm steel-
capped slugs was already leaving the muzzle. He lost his
grip on the control bar and the chopper bounced on her
skids.
The rain of steel hit the plastic faster than Carter could
protect himself. The bullets rained against the chopper's
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bubble at the rate of seven hundred a minute. In less than
five seconds Boisvert stood with an empty clip. All thirty
rounds had hit the bubble.
Carter put his hands back on the control bar. He was
as stunned as Boisvert. Lexan. That was the only answer
he could think of. Lexan, the material that like
Plexiglas which had been developed for the space
program. It had been used in many countries to build
"popemobiles" after the attempt on John Paul II's life in
St. Peter's Square. It was being used in diplomatic
limousines. Why wouldn't they use it in a prototype
helicopter that had so many other revolutionary features?
Carter started to laugh. By rights he should be dead
because he'd been too arrogant. The laugh was more
mild hysteria than humor. But nothing was funny in this.
He faced a master spy, a merciless, brutal killer, a man
who had fooled the world's most astute politicians.
Boisvert had slapped another orange-colored banana
clip in the Kalashnikov and was moving off to port where
he could get a shot at the motor.
Carter lifted the Bell 680 a foot off the ground and
turned to face him. This time as the bullets came at him,
he watched them bounce off the Lexan like pebbles off a
stone wall.
Boisvert screamed out his frustration and threw the
automatic weapon far from him. He ran back to his
snowmobile and started to unlace the tarpaulin from the
sleigh as fast as he could. His gloves impeded him. He
threw them from him in disgust and went at the
again.
Carter set down on the snow, opened the door of the
chopper, and walked across the snow to his enemy. The
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snow was crisp under his boots. He'd removed his
gloves. Wilhelmina was in his right hand.
Boisvert was working on the switches. and dials
furiously.
"The stupid thing! Made by peasants!" he screamed in
Russian, unaware of the gun on him.
He worked furiously, then kicked at the black box in
his fury.
"It won't help to curse or kick, Robert Boisvert, or
whoever the hell you are. I got to your black box earlier
t(xiay," Carter said in perfect Russian. "A few small
problems with the circuits. "
Boisvert didn't turn, although Carter could see every
muscle tense. He screamed an oath, kicked again at the
box, and on the reverse thrust of his leg, lashed out at
Carter with a karate kick, sending the Killmaster's Luger
flying.
Boisvert then turned to face him, his face grim. "So
you sabotaged the transmitter. So be it. When I have
killed you I will rig another method." As he spoke, he
drew the commando knife all Spetsnaz carried.
"You're all alone, Boisvert," Carter said, his eyes
never leaving the eyes of the killer. "All your men are
dead. The United States Navy is taking care of your
escape route." He stood leaning slightly forward, feet
apart, waiting for an attack. "It's all over for you."
"But now I have your magnificent aircraft," Boisvert
said smiling. "Did you think I couldn't fly it? Do you
think I have only one escape route?"
Carter maintained eye contact. He could tell better
from the man's eyes what he was going to do. The knife
was an incidental.
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Boisvert rushed but slipped slightly. Caner was able to
duck but not before the double-edged knife had slashed
through his left sleeve and drawn blood. It from
his fingers, spotting the pristine snow where he stood.
"It's just a matter of time, American. Die like a man.
No man kills and lives to brag about it."
"I've killed Spetsnaz before and haven't bragged, and
I won't start now," Carter said, his voice calm.
With a wild war cry, Boisvert came at him, feinting to
the left but swinging the knife to the right. Again he
sliced through Carter's sleeve and the blood came in a
steady stream; turning his left hand crimson.
The next charge caught Carter going the wrong way.
The knife missed him, but Boisvert's knee caught him in
the crotch.
The Killmaster went to his knees in the snow, the pain
radiating from his groin. He couldn't see where Boisvert
was. Was he behind him? He tried to swivel his head, but
the pain jumped up and grabbed him, causing red flashes
to explode before his eyes.
The snow had hardened when the cold front came
through. Carter's hands were numb with cold. His blood
crystallized as it hit the ground. He tried to rise but
slipped and slid sideways, ending up on his back.
Boisvert stood at Carter's feet, looking down on him
with hatred shining from his eyes.
"I'll show you a
maneuver we practiced at the gulags, American. It
would amuse you, but unfortunately you will be dead,"
the Soviet-trained mole said as he raised himself up on
his toes.
Again he screamed a kind of war cry as he launched
himself at Carter. As he flew through the air, the wicked
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knife in his right hand, he blocked out the last of the
light.
At the last second, Carter managed to slide enough to
miss the full weight of the madman as he came straight
down, parallel to the ground.
The Spetsnaz blade slashed through Carter's jacket, a
quarter inch of skin at his flank, and the ice below.
The two men were nose to nose, brown eyes looking
into dark blue. Boisvert's face registered surprise. A
trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth. Carter
had plunged Hugo's blade through Boisvert's parka into
the man's back.
"And that was a new trick for you," Carter said, his
voice ' adopting the tone the other man had used a
moment before. "Compliments of all those poor souls
you practiced on in the gulags."
He rolled the dead man over, pulled Hugo from its
resting place, and cleaned the long blade and the hilt.
With pain still pulsing from his groin, he walked slowly
to retrieve his Luger. In the cockpit of the chopper he
a moment to apply a pressure bandage to his arm
before he revved up the engine.
He took one more ICX)k at the body spread-eagled in
the snow, then pulled at the control and took off.
It was dark as he headed to the mouth of the Rupert
River. He turned the rheostat for the monitors as low as
they would go. The cabin glowed a dark green.
Far off in the distance he could see a bright glow. As
he came closer, he could see the outline of the sub. The
lights were from the frigate. She had the crippled nuclear
sub in the beam of a half-dozen halogen lamps.
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Nothing moved on the sub. She listed to one side a
few degrees.
"Bell 680 calling the Samuel Morris,"
In a moment a familiar voice hailed him. "Frigate
Samuel Morris, Nick. We've got the bastard! Blew him
out of the water!"
Josh Wright sounded excited and he had every right to
be. He was the first skipper of his generation to hunt and
kill a Soviet sub.
"We've been waiting for you. You finished up
"All finished.
"We've been saving her for you. Their crew is all on
board our ship. Got any heavy weapons left?"
"One Penguin and a cluster bomb. I'm no-: sure they'll
make any difference to the sub."
"Why don't we find out, Nick? We'll keep clear."
"Where are your Orions?"
"All tucked in and tied down. The Canadian squad-
rons are over the mess you left at Boisvert's camp.
You're free and clear to take your best shot."
"Over and out," Carter said, taking the 680 a couple
of miles to the north out of range of the lights. He had
some second thoughts. Shooting at sitting targets wasn't
his style. But the president had ordered the sinking as a
lesson.
The conning tower of the Soviet sub was in his sights.
He pressed the release for his last Penguin just as a gust
of wind hit the chopper. His shot was wild. It veered off
to the bow of the sub and hit at the waterline.
The huge sub went up as if it had been hit by an atomic
bomb. The hull split, and a huge blast of orange and red
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flame lifted Carter and his craft in an He lost
control for a moment, then brought her around for a
second look.
The water was churned up for a half mile around. The
Samuel Morris was bobbing up and down like a cork, her
powerful halogen lights shifting alternately from the
heavens to the black water.
"Jesus! What the hell halwled? There's no way a
Penguin missile could do that!" Commander Wright
exclaimed.
"You tell me. You're the sailor."
"She must have had a crack in her hull and you hit it.
They carry some conventional warheads. The Penguin
set them off. "
The great hull of the craft was beginning to settle.
"Take her up about a mile and let your cluster bomb
go. Give me ten minutes to get out of the way." The
voice of Josh Wright came through loud and clear. "Just
let her go. She'll set her own altitude and disburse the
cluster, It's probably a hundred-and-thirty-pound CD, so
she'll have fifty individual bombs in her."
"How far will they disburse?" Carter asked.
"Maybe you'd better let her go from about half a mile.
She'll disburse for about five hundred yards.
Carter took the Bell 680 to a half mile off the broken
sub and activated the last of his weapons. He could see
the big white bomb coast toward the sub, its nose angled
slightly downward. Then she opened and burst, throwing
fifty small bombs in a wide circle.
They all explcxled on contact. Carter had never seen
anything like it. Water churned up to a height of fifty feet
in a circle of at least five hundred yards.
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Then all was stilt. Nothing showed on the water that
the lights could pick up.
"You got enough gas to make it home?" Wright
asked.
a mother hen meeting. me, code name Wet-
nurse.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Nick. Let's get the
hell home."
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