Operation Petrograd

Four

"We have a casualty here! Carter's been hit!" Scott shouted into the radio.

"Roger that," the operator at their surveillance center in the Hilton radioed. "Where are you?"

"We're heading out of Kojimachi-ku. But I think we might have a tail."

"Do you need some help?"

"Negative, negative," Scott said. He hauled the car around the corner, then shot up a ramp and headed east on the freeway.

"Unit one, give us your exact location," the radio blared.

Scott reached out and shut it off. He glanced in his rearview mirror. "How are you doing back there?"

"I've felt better," Carter said, sitting up stiffly. He looked back the way they had come. It seemed clear, though it was hard to tell. There was a lot of traffic at that hour.

"You were taking one hell of a chance back there," Scott said.

Carter's chest ached where the three bullets had hit the Kevlar vest. "I want my body on the next plane back to the States."

"The box will go out first thing in the morning. But Rishiri might want to see it."

"If your people move fast enough, he won't have the time to force anything," Carter said, taking off his jacket and unstrapping the bulletproof vest. "If you run into too much trouble, call Hawk. He'll be able to pull some strings."

Scott was having some trouble accepting what was happening. "Can you tell me who you're working with here in Tokyo? Who make the arrangements for you to get up to Hokkaido?"

"No, I can't."

"There's no way for me to get in touch…"

"Listen, Scott," Carter said, sitting forward. "I don't want you people trying to come after me. I don't want anyone at my back door. This is going to be difficult enough as it is."

"Crazy, if you ask me."

"Just convince everyone I'm dead."

"Including Major Rishiri."

"Especially him," Carter said.

It was well after nine o'clock by the time Scott dropped Carter off in Hongo on Tokyo's far north side. They had made a big circle around the city to make absolutely certain they were not being followed.

"I can't say as I like this, Carter. If and when you make a big splash somewhere, Rishiri will know I lied to him. It'll be tough working with him after that."

"I know. But this is important."

"Right," Scott said, resigned. "Well, good luck."

Carter just looked at him for a moment, then he shook his head, turned, and walked off.

Hongo was a relatively quiet section of the city at night because this, was the area where most of the schools and colleges were located.

It took Carter nearly ten minutes to find a cab to take him back into the city where Kazuka had left him a small Honda in a parking ramp. He circled the area a couple of times on foot, then got into the car and drove immediately east out of the city.

According to Kazuka, the Hachioji Commercial Aviation Field was all but defunct, its facilities old-fashioned and run-down. A couple of Japanese barnstormers, flying old Steerman biplanes brought from the States, were the only ones to use the field on a regular basis. An old couple lived at the far end of the strip in a small house. They maintained the grass runways, made sure the lights worked, and kept the fuel tanks full.

Carter turned off the secondary highway and drove slowly down the dirt road that led back to the airfield. A mile in, his headlights flashed on the gate, which was open. He stopped. Kazuka had given him a key for the gate. But now it was open.

He got out of his car and walked up to the fence, which was illuminated in his headlights.

The lock hung from a heavy chain. It was open. He picked it up and examined it in the light. It hadn't been forced, though it could have been picked. He looked up. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

Back in his car, Carter doused the headlights, drove through the gate, and headed across the field toward the terminal building, which was dark.

On the far side of the field, he could see the dim lights of the caretaker's house, but on this side of the strip, even the lights on the hangars were out.

Coming around the nearest hangar, Carter spotted a twin-engine Cessna 310 sitting on the apron in front of the terminal building, and he pulled up short.

The plane was dark, and from where he was he couldn't see if anyone was inside or nearby. For a moment or two he just sat there, but then he put the car in reverse and backed up behind the hangar where he shut off the engine and got out.

The Russians had followed Kazuka all over Tokyo. It was possible she had not been able to shake them this time, and they had tracked her out here.

Carter pulled out his Luger but then thought better of it. He stuffed the gun back in its holster. Officially, he was dead. He didn't want the police coming out here to investigate a gun battle. He flicked out Hugo, the stiletto's blade glinting in the starlight as he headed on foot around the hangar.

The building was made of corrugated metal over a wooden framework. It creaked and rattled in the light breeze. Twice Carter was stopped in his tracks, thinking he heard a door slamming. Each time, however, he decided it was simply the wind and he continued.

At the far end of the hangar, he peered around the corner. Kazuka's red Datsun was parked at the rear of the two-story white stucco terminal building. No lights shone anywhere. It was as if that entire side of the field had lost its electricity.

He remained in the shadows for a long time, watching the terminal, but there was no movement. Perhaps he had spooked himself. Perhaps Kazuka had simply forgotten to lock the gate and she was waiting inside for him now. Some inner voice, some sixth sense told him differently, though. This didn't feel right to him.

He turned and went back to a window in the rear wall of the hangar. Forcing it open, he climbed inside, and almost immediately the strong odor of gasoline hit him. The hangar was filled with gas fumes. One spark, one match, and the entire place would go up.

The big service doors at the front of the hangar were partially open, but the wind was coming from that direction, trapping the fumes inside.

From where he stood, Carter could make out something on the concrete floor a few feet in from the door.

Suddenly it dawned on him what he was seeing, and why the hangar was filled with gas fumes. He stepped away from the window and hurried across the hangar to where a man in a leather flying jacket lay facedown in the middle of a big pool of gasoline that had spilled out of the five-gallon jerry can he had been carrying. The back of his head had been shot off. Carter guessed a high-caliber handgun… probably a Graz Buyra, the Russian's favorite weapon of assassination.

He was probably the pilot Kazuka had arranged to take Carter up to Hokkaido. But why had they shot him? And what had they done with Kazuka?

Carter stepped around the gasoline and looked outside, toward the rear of the terminal building across the broad taxiway. The building was quiet and dark. It meant nothing. They could be watching from inside, waiting for him to show himself… unless Kazuka had managed not to tell them whom she was waiting for. In that case they wouldn't be expecting anyone else.

Steeling himself for the shot, Carter slipped out of the hangar and dashed across the taxiway to Kazuka's Datsun.

Nothing happened. No alarms were raised. No shots were fired. No one had come running.

Carefully Carter looked up over the edge of the door at the building. Still there was no movement. Kazuka's keys dangled from the ignition.

Carter moved around behind the car and, keeping low, hurried the last few feet to the terminal where he flattened himself against the wall.

He had to duck beneath the windows to make it to the edge of the building, and he looked around the corner toward the Cessna parked out front.

No one was in the plane. He could see the cockpit clearly from where he crouched. The fuel filler access hatches on both wings were open. Kazuka's pilot had evidently come in, opened the flaps, and was going for fuel to top the tanks when he had been hit.

But what about Kazuka?

Carter made his way to the front of the building, where again he hesitated a moment before he looked around the corner. The gray Mercedes from the airport was parked by the front door a few yards away from the tail of the Cessna. Carter hadn't been able to see the car when he drove up because it was around the corner from the access road. But it also meant that if anyone was in or near the car, or was looking out the front windows, they would not have seen him approach without headlights.

There was still a fair chance they weren't expecting him.

Carter started to step out of the shadows, when someone came out of the terminal, walked around the front of the Mercedes, and crossed to the Cessna.

From his vantage point, Carter could see that the man was probably Russian; he was big and bulky, his features, even from that distance, dark and Slavic.

The Russian climbed up onto the Cessna's wing with some difficulty because of his size, opened the door, and looked inside.

Carter stepped around the corner, and keeping low, he raced across the apron and around the tip of the Cessna's wing. The Russian, sensing someone was behind him, started to turn, when Carter grabbed a handful of his coat and hauled him off the wing, down onto the ground.

The Russian grunted like a pig when his head bounced off the hard ground. He started to reach for his gun, when Carter brought the point of his stiletto up to the man's throat.

"You will lose a lot of blood, comrade, once your throat is cut," Carter said in Russian.

The KGB operative's eyes widened. For a long moment it seemed as if he would try for his gun despite the blade a quarter inch from his carotid artery, but then he sank back, a deep sigh escaping from his lips.

"A wise decision, believe me," Carter continued in Russian. "Who else is in the building?"

The Russian just stared at him.

"I'm disappointed. You have killed my pilot. I found his body. Now I will need a very good reason not to kill you."

The first hint of fear began to show in the Russian's eyes.

"Who else is in the terminal, and exactly where are they?"

"Just my partner and the woman," the man said, his voice low.

"What woman?"

The Russian's eyes narrowed. "The wire services editor. Your friend."

"You were the ones from the airport?"

The Russian nodded.

"Why were you following her around?"

The Russian held his silence.

Carter flicked the blade to the right, opening a small cut in the Russian's chin. The man jerked violently, a small trickle of blood running down his neck.

"I have no patience, comrade," Carter hissed. "I will kill you at this moment unless you answer my questions…"

The Russian, apparently more frightened of the consequences of answering questions than of Carter's blade, heaved to the right, shoving Carter off-balance. Carter tried to bring his knife arm around, when the Russian's meaty fist clamped onto his wrist, bending it backward toward the breaking point. At the last moment, Carter willed his arm to go limp, while he brought his knee around sharply into the Russian's ribs.

Carter's stiletto fell to the ground. The Russian rolled over and jumped to his feet, clawing inside his jacket for his gun.

There was no time for niceties. Carter rolled back and kicked up with both feet, catching the Russian in the groin. The bigger man went down with a grunt, but he had his gun out.

Carter looked up as the Russian was pulling back the hammer, trying to steady his aim. Desperately Carter reached out, his fingers curling around the stiletto's handle. In one smooth motion he flipped the blade toward the Russian with every ounce of his strength, the blade burying itself to the hilt in the KGB agent's chest.

The Russian seemed confused. He could no longer hold up his gun. He looked at the knife jutting from his chest, then back to Carter. He started to shake his head, but he couldn't, and he fell forward on his face. Dead.

Carter looked over toward the terminal as he got to his feet. No one had come out to investigate. Yet.

Quickly he turned the Russian over onto his back, pulled out the stiletto, and wiped the blade clean on the man's shirt.

The Russian had come out to look inside the Cessna. Why? Carter climbed up on the wing and looked inside. The charts were scattered over the passenger seat. The Russian was trying to find out where the plane was headed. One of the charts clearly showed Hokkaido. Once the Russians found out that someone from Tokyo would be flying to the north island — someone connected with the search for the Petrograd chip — they would probably put two and two together and realize that someone was going to make a try for Svetlaya.

Carter turned and climbed down off the wing. Whoever else was inside was going to have to be stopped. At all costs.

Across the taxiway, Carter flattened himself against the wall next to the front door. There were no sounds or lights from within.

He eased the door open, looked down the long corridor, and then stepped inside, ducking low behind a service counter to the right.

A light shone from beneath a door halfway down the corridor. No light was visible from outside. Evidently it was an inside room without windows.

The building was old, constructed in the Western style. Carter suspected it had been used as an American postwar occupation forces air operations center. It was unusual for the Japanese to waste such a field and building.

Quietly Carter made his way down the corridor and put his ear to the door. At first he could not hear a thing. But then he began to make out a soft whimpering sound, as if some hurt animal was cornered inside.

The hair stood up on the nape of his neck, and his muscles bunched up. It was Kazuka!

Carter reared back and slammed his shoulder into the thin wooden door, putting all his weight behind it. The door burst open, half off its hinges.

He took in the scene in an instant.

The room had once been an office. It was in shambles. Kazuka, nude, was lied roughly to a wooden swivel chair whose spring was broken so that it lay back against the wall.

Blood had trickled down her breasts from a series of small cuts, and high on the inside of her thighs were a dozen angry red marks from the tip of a cigarette.

A hand towel had been stuffed in her mouth and taped in place.

"Kazuka," Carter said softly.

She looked up, and desperately nodded to Carter's right as something very hard slammed into the side of his head.

He went down, his knees giving way, and crashed into the desk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a thick-soled shoe coming down toward his face, and he managed to scramble aside.

His ears were ringing, and he was seeing a faint double image. The Russian above him was much larger than the one outside by the plane. His coat was off, his tie was loose, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He was sweating. He was the one who had tortured Kazuka. And he had worked up a sweat doing it.

The thought galvanized Carter. He leaped up on one knee as the Russian stepped back so that he could take another swing with a heavy coat tree.

Carter was too fast for him, though, leaping to the man's inside, the coat tree crashing harmlessly on the desk, splintering the top. Carter hit him twice in the face, the Russian's nose splitting, blood flying.

The Russian was an incredibly strong man. He reared back and shoved Carter away as a giant might swat an irritating fly.

When Carter charged again, the Russian hammered four fast flows into Carter's chest. The Killmaster thought his heart would stop; the room seemed to be filling with a blood-red haze. Still the Russian came after him, hammering his stomach, his chest, and the side of his head.

The Russian lifted Carter off his feet and threw him against the wall. The entire building shook.

Carter fell to his knees. He needed just a second or two to catch his breath, to stop the spinning in his head, the sick, broken feeling in his chest.

He looked up as the Russian turned to pick up the coat tree. The man's image seemed to be wavering back and forth.

Carter managed to get to his feet. The Russian started to turn at the same moment Carter leaped onto his back, grabbing the man's head in both arms and twisting with everything he had left.

The Russian bellowed like a wounded bull. He dropped the coat tree and reared back, slamming Carter against the wall again. Still Carter held on, tightening his grip, pulling the Russian's head farther around.

Now it became a desperate life-and-death struggle. The Russian kept slamming Carter's body against the wall, and Carter kept pulling his head around.

The last thing Carter remembered was looking into Kazuka's fear-widened eyes, and then the room began to go soft, and he was falling.

What seemed like hours later. Carter became aware of a deep pain in his chest, and of the same crying sound as before. Painfully he pushed himself over and opened his eyes.

For a long time he was having trouble focusing on anything, but then it all came back to him in a big rush, and he was able to get to his feet.

The big Russian lay dead on the floor, his neck broken, his head at a terribly unreal angle. When he had died he had lost control of his muscles, and had voided his bowels. He didn't look or smell very pretty.

Carter stumbled over to Kazuka, where with care he removed the tape from her face and the gag from her mouth. She took deep gulps of air as Carter got his stiletto and cut the bonds at her arms and legs.

"Are you all right?" he rasped, barely able to hold himself together.

"I thought you were dead, Nicholas. I didn't know…" Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Are you all right, Kazuka?" Carter insisted, helping Her to her feet.

"They didn't break anything," she said, but it was obvious that she was in pain. "What about you? Is your chest all right?"

"A couple of broken ribs, I think. But we've got to get out of here."

"As soon as their bodies are discovered, they'll know at the embassy where we're headed."

"Someone from the office will have to come out and clean up this mess. They can dump the bodies in the river."

"What about Koji?" Kazuka cried, suddenly remembering the pilot.

"He's dead. They killed him."

"I can't fly…"

"I can," Carter said. "But we've got to get out of here — and right now!"