Agent Counter-Agent

Three

The next morning I asked Collins, the agent in charge of the CIA operation, to check with the West German Embassy to find out whether they had a girl named Ilse Hoffmann working there. It was Sunday, and the office was closed, but Collins knew the German ambassador personally and was able to call him at his home.

The ambassador said there was a girl named Ilse Hoffmann employed there, and he gave a description that convinced me she was the girl I'd met the night before. The ambassador had sent his deputy to the reception and had told him he could take another member of the staff. Probably Ilse had expressed an interest in going, and the deputy had taken her.

I tried to remember who'd been sitting beside Ilse at the dinner. I seemed to remember that she'd been flanked by middle-aged men. Either of them could have been the deputy. The fact that she was alone later when she approached me was not remarkable in itself. It was natural that she'd want to find more interesting company.

Collins tried to contact the deputy at his home, but there was no answer. The fellow was probably out enjoying himself on his day off.

The girl seemed to check out, but that didn't make me any less suspicious. I still had a bad feeling about this assignment. Hawk had made some recommendations to the CIA and the Venezuelan Security Police. Security now seemed tighter, but the feeling didn't go away. Hawk had it, too. It's not very scientific to have premonitions, but in my business you learn to pay attention to gut feelings. They can develop from a series of small facts that don't amount to enough to jar you on a conscious level but turn on a red light somewhere deep inside you. I don't know. I just know that I've saved my life many times by following my hunches.

Maybe it didn't have anything to do with the girl or even with the man I'd seen at the café and possibly at the palace. It might be something unrelated to them, lurking deep in the shadow of my subconscious. But the girl, and the mystery man were reason enough to be on my guard, premonitions or no premonitions.

I had lunch at a cafe near the Plaza Ibarra and just off Avenida Baralt. A parade passed while I ate, and I had a good view of it. There were dancers in costume, floats, papier-mâché heads on poles, and bands. People were out having fun, and I began to relax a little.

In early afternoon I met Hawk at the restaurant, as instructed. He was sitting outside in the sun, wearing a bright blue sport shirt, open at the neck, with a loosely knotted blue scarf. On his head he wore a navy blue beret, cocked jauntily to one side. He looked like an aging Hemmingway character. I suppressed a smile and sat down across from him at the small table.

"Make yourself comfortable, Nick, and don t make any cracks about the get-up. I'm trying to blend into the holiday crowd."

It was still the same old Hawk under the beret. He pulled out one of his long Cuban cigars, bit a chunk off one end, and spat it out. Then he stuck the cigar in his mouth and turned it slowly, moistening it. The cigar seemed incongruous with the beret and shirt. Finally he lighted it and began sucking it into glowing life. It was a kind of ritual with him, and it never ceased to amaze me.

"You're beautiful, sir," I said, despite his admonition.

He shot a hard look at me. "Not as beautiful as that raven-haired beauty I saw you dancing with last night. What do you think this is — a paid vacation?"

"She insisted," I said. "She seemed quite interested in me."

"Yes, I know," he said. "You've either got it or you haven't." He gave me a wry grin.

"Actually, she put me on my guard," I said, remembering. "I had her checked out this morning but she seems to be okay."

"Anything else interesting at the reception?" he said, working hard at the cigar. "I mean, besides the girl?"

I told him about the man and my encounter with the Venezuelan Security Police. "Of course, I can't be sure it was the same man," I said. "Or if it was, that he has anything to do with the threat. There isn't necessarily anything wrong with a man going to the same café and reception that I went to in the same day. Maybe I'm just jumpy."

A waiter came, and we both ordered Pernod. We didn't resume our conversation till he'd brought the drinks and left again.

"The girl practically asked me to meet her at the bullfight this afternoon," I said when he was gone.

Hawk's eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"She said she's an aficionada."

Hawk began chewing on the cigar, his lean face somber, his bony frame hunched over the table. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd get there if I could. But I have other things on my mind. I want to get back to the palace this afternoon to see what I can find out about my mystery man."

"That's a refreshing attitude," he said, trying not to smile. "I sometimes get the impression that you have a difficult time squeezing work into your busy sex life."

"Just stories circulated by bitter KGB men to discredit me," I smiled.

He grunted. "Actually, when you get on a case you are very tenacious. But I want you to be especially careful on this case. It may be very dangerous for you."

"Any theories?"

He sat there pensively for a minute before he spoke. The warm afternoon sun glistened on his gray hair and touched his face with color. "Nothing special. But if that man who attacked you at the training center was KGB and if he should happen to be the fellow you've seen here twice, it could mean they're setting you up for something."

"With a little luck they could have killed me at the training school."

"Maybe that wouldn't have suited their purpose," he said slowly. He looked up at me. "What time does that bullfight start?"

"At four. It's supposed to be the only event in Venezuela that starts on time."

He glanced at his wristwatch. "You have plenty of time to make it."

"You want me to meet the girl at the bullfight?"

"Yes, I do. I think we'd better find out just what her interest in you amounts to. If it's strictly amorous — well, enjoy yourself, but be discreet. If it's not, we want to know about it."

"All right," I said. "The corrida it is."

"Report back to me tomorrow morning. I'll be viewing the Picassos at the Museo de Bellas Artes at ten a.m. tomorrow.

"I'll be there," I said.

If you've never been to the Nuevo Circo at three-thirty p.m. on a Sunday in festival time, you'll never know what complete chaos looks like. There are so many aficionados milling around that it's practically impossible to walk from one point to another without having to fight your way through them. There are scalpers everywhere, selling tickets at twice or three times the normal price. Vendors of all kinds clog the open area in front of the arena, and hundreds of pickpockets are hard at work. I had a hard time finding a scalper with a ticket for the shady barrera section where Ilse had said she would be sitting. Front-row tickets aren't easy to come by during festival time. But finally I got a ticket and went in.

Inside the atmosphere was completely different. It was still noisy, but there was a land of hushed expectancy in the crowd, very unlike pregame time at American football games. I found my seat, which was right down by the ring, where you can see everything at close range. Just then a bugle sounded, and a man on a horse rode across the ring and doffed his hat toward the presidential box. He was the official in charge, and he was obtaining permission from the president of the bullring to proceed with the corrida.

I looked around for Ilse, and after a few minutes, I spotted her, sitting just two sections over. She hadn't seen me. A man renting cushions came down the aisle beside me, and I bought one. Without a cushion those stone bleachers can be pretty uncomfortable. For a few minutes the two seats beside me were empty, but then an English couple came down and took them. The parade of toreros was over, and the band had stopped playing. A silence had fallen over the bullring. I glanced over at Ilse again, and she seemed to be looking around for me.

Then a gate opened, and a big black bull came thundering out of a chute. The bullfighters stood behind the barrier and watched somberly as the bull charged the burladero shield just in front of them, smashing into the wood and splintering it loudly. Ilse's favorite, Nunez, was one of the men watching. He was the first torero on the bill.

The English lady beside me seemed to be all right through the initial veronicas and rodillazos with the big red cape, because it was all so colorful and pretty. And she actually seemed to enjoy the graceful banderilleros. But she started to get pale when the bull knocked the picador's horse down and almost gored the picador. Nunez fought the bull, and his capework was good, if a little flashy. Finally he went in for the kill, and the blood flowed. On the first try the sword hit bone, and he had to pull it out. But the second attempt was more successful — the blade went in clean. Nunez' cuadrilla chased the bull in circles till it fell to its knees, and the matador finished it off with a dagger at the base of the skull. Then a team of mules came out and dragged the crimson-splattered carcass past us on the way out of the ring. By then the English lady had had enough. She was really green as her husband led her away.

Núnez was taking his bows around the ring. He had been awarded an ear more out of respect for his reputation than for his performance. He hadn't deserved it for that fight. His capework had been pretty good, but he hadn't killed the bull well. Instead of going in over the horns, which is necessary for a good kill but requires a certain amount of courage on the part of the bullfighter, Nunez had stabbed at the animal like an apprentice butcher.

After the shouting died down a little, I called to Ilse. She turned at the sound of my voice, and I waved to her.

"There are empty seats here if you'd like to join me," I yelled.

She didn't wait for a second invitation but immediately started to make her way over to me. Ilse was wearing a short suede skirt and matching vest over a sheer white blouse. As she moved, the skirt revealed her long, tanned thighs.

"I am afraid my favorite torero had a bad day," she said as she sat down beside me. I gave her my cushion.

"Doesn't everybody occasionally?" I smiled wryly.

She returned the smile and dazzled me. Maybe he will do better on his second bull."

"I'm sure of it," I said. "I'm sorry to have left so fast last night. But I saw a man I knew, and he was leaving."

I watched her face for a reaction, but there was none. I was sure she had seen the man, too, and I wondered if she knew him. But if she did, she wasn't showing it.

"I know that business comes before socializing," she said. "Unless the socializing is business."

I smiled. "Well said."

You can tell when a woman wants to go to bed with you, even if she's trying to hide it from you. Mostly it's the way she looks at you and the gestures she makes with her hands and body. Sometimes she comes on strongest when her conversation is anything but seductive. She can be telling you to get lost or explaining the latest theory in thermodynamics. But her body, her chemistry, always gives her away. Ilse kept talking about the fine points of bullfighting, but I could tell that she wanted me as much as I wanted her. Even if she had ulterior motives for wanting to see me, I found myself looking forward to the evening.

The second bullfighter was just coming out to work his bull, a big, fine bull from one of the best ranches. The torero was an unknown, but he was taking chances to please the crowd.

"Olé! Olé!" they yelled.

"He's good," Ilse said.

"Yes." I watched him execute a mariposa, making the cape flutter like a butterfly. "Do you know any of the toreros?"

"Not personally," she said. "Even though I like to watch them perform, they are not my kind of men, you know. Anyway, Latin men usually do not appeal to me."

"How long have you been at the embassy," I asked, changing the subject.

"Since my arrival in Caracas, almost a year ago. I thought I wanted to see the world."

"And now you don't?"

She turned those blue eyes on me and then looked back to the ring. "It can be… lonely for a girl in a strange city this size."

If that wasn't a green light, I'd never seen one. "You went to the reception last night with a bachelor," I said.

"Ah, Ludwig." She laughed. "He is a nice man, but he likes to collect butterflies and read long books on ancient history. I am not even sure he is interested in girls."

We exchanged smiles. "Do you work for him?" I asked. I knew that Ilse Hoffmann did not.

She did not look at me but kept on watching the torero. "No, not for Ludwig. For a man called Steiner."

The answer was right, but I still wasn't satisfied. "I know Hamburg quite well. Where did you live there?"

"In the north of the city. On Friedrichstrasse. There is a park nearby."

"Oh, yes. I know the area. Did you live there with your parents?"

"My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was very young," she said.

That was true, too. The ambassador had mentioned to Collins that Ilse Hoffmann was an orphan.

I m sorry.

We watched the bullfight. I bought two drinks from a vendor, and Ilse seemed to be enjoying herself very much. Nunez appeared again and performed better than on his first try. There were just two bulls to go, and the word was that they were immature calves from a second-rate ranch.

"Why don't we leave now and have a drink together somewhere?" she offered.

I looked into her blue eyes and saw the invitation there again. "Sounds great," I said.

We had a drink at a nearby cafe, and then I took Ilse to dinner at El Jardín, on Avenida Almeda. After we had finished our dinner, she asked me back to her apartment for a drink. Because I still hadn't figured her out and because the 'seductive promise in her eyes had really gotten to me, I went.

She had a large apartment just off the Plaza Miranda. It was furnished in period Spanish, with some excellent antiques. There was a small balcony overlooking a narrow street.

When we got inside, Ilse turned to me, and standing very close, said, "Well, here we are, Scott."

Her lips were soft and full and within easy reach. I closed the small distance and kissed her. She responded warmly, as if she had been waiting all day. She pulled away reluctantly.

"Make us a drink while I change," she said.

She disappeared into the bedroom. I poured us a couple of cognacs from a crystal decanter, and by the time I'd finished, Ilse had returned. She was wearing a long, clinging robe that didn't leave anything to the imagination. She dimmed the fights, then came over to me and took a cognac.

I had taken off my jacket while she was in the bedroom and hadn't bothered to hide the Luger and stiletto. I watched the look on her face when she saw them. I'd hoped it would be surprise, and it was. But I couldn't be sure it was genuine.

"What is all this, Scott?" she said.

"Oh, just weapons," I said in an offhand manner. "We have to take extra precautions at the embassy when there's something like this conference going on."

"Yes. Of course," she said.

I took in every detail of her body through the clinging material of her robe. I put my drink down. I hadn't even tasted it, but somehow that didn't seem important at the moment. Ilse took a sip of hers and put it down, too. I slipped my hands around her small waist and pulled her to me. Somehow the robe heightened the effect. No small curve or sweep of flesh was hidden from my touch. I kissed her again and she pressed urgently against me as my hands moved over her body.

"Oh, Scott," she said.

I reached down and slowly unbuttoned the robe, letting it drop to the floor. She stood very still, looking into my eyes. Her body was even more spectacular than I'd imagined. Her breath came shallow, moving her full, round breasts. I removed my holster and stiletto sheath and dropped them on a small table near a wide couch behind us. She helped me undress, then went over to the couch and lay down on it.

"Come over here, Scott," she whispered.

I went to her. We lay together on the sofa, and the exciting aroma of her perfume filled my nostrils. Her warm flesh was in my hands and the sweet taste of her was on my lips. She moved insistently against me as my hands and lips covered the swell of her breasts, caressing the erect nipples. Her hand was on me, and it was guiding me to her, and then there was a hot sweetness engulfing me. Her hips undulated against me, and her legs locked around my back. She made low, sensual noises in her throat as our passion mounted. Then she gave a harsh cry, and her soft flesh trembled violently as I exploded inside her.

A little while later, Ilse got up to get our cognacs. I lay relaxed and satiated on the couch, sprawled out full length. If this was what Ilse had to offer in return for my doubts, it seemed pointless to go on worrying about her.

Still, I watched her carefully and at the same time kept my eye on my weapons on the nearby table. I let Ilse take a drink of her cognac before I took one.

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked me after I had taken a sip.

"The drink or the entertainment?" I asked. Just then I began to feel a little dizzy.

"The entertainment," she smiled back.

"It was first class." As I sat up on the edge of the couch beside her, I felt my arms getting heavy.

"I enjoyed it, too."

I was really beginning to get tense. I was feeling dizzier and weaker, and there was no reason for it. Unless Ilse had drugged me.

"What the hell…" I said. The words just wouldn't come.

Ilse didn't say anything. She moved slightly away from me.

I looked over at her. I was suddenly very angry — with her and with myself. I had let my guard down, in spite of Hawk's warnings and my own doubts.

"You bitch!" I said loudly, the words echoing strangely in my ears. I slapped her hard across the face, and she fell back on the sofa with a muffled gasp.

I got up and reeled drunkenly. I grabbed my clothes and began pulling them on. "What's your real name?" I asked, trying to zip my pants.

She looked at my weapons but didn't have the courage to try for one of them. She wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth. "My real name is Tanya Savitch," she said.

I had my shoes on now. I took a step toward the table where the Luger and stiletto lay and almost fell on my face. I grabbed for the table, but I knocked it over and it crashed to the floor I steadied myself on the arm of the sofa, standing over the girl named Tanya Savitch.

"And you work for the KGB," I said.

"Yes. I am sincerely sorry, Mr. Carter," she said quietly. "I like you."

I glared at her and saw two Tanyas. "It was the cognac, wasn't it? But you drank it yourself. And I watched you when you went to get the glasses. What did you do, stuff yourself with an antidote earlier?"

"It was not the cognac," she said almost unhappily. "It was the lipstick. And I have a hypnotic immunity to its toxic effects."

"Hypnotic…?" I couldn't finish the question. I felt the swelling darkness overpower me, and then I hit the floor.

I didn't care about the weapons any more. I just wanted to fight the blackness and get out of the apartment. If I could even make it to the corridor, somebody might help me. I somehow found enough strength to get back on my feet and stumble toward the door.

Just as I reached it, it opened, and two men stood there. One a short, bald thug, had a stupid grin on his face. The other was the man I had seen at the cafe and the palace, probably the one who'd held the gun on me back at the training school in Washington. Their faces blurred as the drug really began working. The taller of the two, the one who had plagued me since Washington, stepped toward me.

"You appear to be a little under the weather, Mr. Carter."

I took a clumsy swing at him. He ducked away easily, and I fell against his stocky companion, who grabbed me and held me up for a moment, then hit me hard in the side of the head.

I went falling back into the apartment, landing on the floor again. As the short, stocky man stood over me, I grabbed at his legs and pulled them out from under him. He hit the floor beside me. I could just barely hear the Russian obscenities. The tall man came over and kicked me in the side.

"Don't hurt him," I heard the girl say. "There is no need to hurt him." The voice seemed to come from the other end of a long tunnel or maybe from the other side of the world.

The tall man swore loudly at the girl. The stocky man stumbled to his feet. The vertigo was getting worse and worse. I tried to get to my knees but fell back heavily onto my side. The thing that kept running through my mind was that they had come to kill me. This had been a plot to assassinate AXE's top agent, and it had succeeded. But neither of the men had guns out.

"You think that what we're going to do to him won't hurt him?" The stocky Russian gave an ugly laugh. He kicked me hard in the ribs. I groaned and fell onto my back. I heard the girl named Ilse Hoffmann and Tanya Savitch deliver some well-chosen words to the stocky man. Then the voices faded away and became a dull buzzing in my ears.

A minute later the blackness returned, and there was no pushing it away this time. I was suddenly falling, falling through a bottomless black space, my body turning slowly as I fell.