Ruby Red Death

Two

The present time

The electric train from Salzburg droned through the storm and sent the snowflakes spinning crazily in its wake, but nothing could prevent their piling on top of the already deep snow. So far, the train had made good time in spite of the whiteness in the high mountain passes. Fortunately, there was still no wind to create the impassable drifts so common to the Tyrol. The air was unbelievably dry, and the snow was light and fluffy. It was as though the great cloud bank, drifting slowly into western Austria, had stopped, hemmed in by the Alps, and now was trying to shake off its tons of snow in order to raise itself high above the peaks that held it captive and drift on again into the heart of Europe and beyond.

Nick Carter gave up staring out the window, and glanced at his watch. The train would arrive in Kitzbühel in another twenty minutes, a full two hours late because of the storm.

No matter.

The message hadn’t specified a time, only a date. It had come through the usual contact in Paris, and, as usual, was cryptic: Very important I see you in person. Evening of the tenth, my chalet, Kitzbühel. Lorena.

Lorena was Madame Lorena Zornova. Carter had met her ten years earlier, in Vienna, through an equally cryptic message:

My name is Lorena Zornova. I am a refugee from Budapest, a defector, if you wish to call it that. I wish, in the future, to pass information on to you, only you.

“Why me?” Carter had asked, when they had finally met.

“Because my contact in the East knows of you and thinks you can be trusted.” To his surprise, she popped off several operations he had undertaken in Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia.

“All right,” Carter said, and nodded, “your information is good. What do you want in return?”

“A modest fee, enough to live here in the West.”

“That’s reasonable. I think it would be no problem.”

A contact and drop was set up through Paris. And the information she provided was good, pure gold. When it was something really big, Carter would go to her in person. Some of those meetings had taken place in tropical, exotic locales.

Lorena Zornova was not a young woman but she was all woman, and exceedingly beautiful. It was only natural that she and Carter would eventually share more than information.

But even in bed he had never learned a shred of knowledge about her past. That was a closed book, with only a hint of anything to come.

“One day I will ask you a very big favor. By then you will owe me several big favors. When that day comes, perhaps then you will know the real Lorena.”

Carter had never complained. Neither had David Hawk nor AXE. One intelligence coup followed another through the years as a result of her information.

It had been three years since Carter had last seen her in person.

Carrying just a small overnight bag, the Killmaster stepped from the train into blinding snow. He turned left out of the station and into the back streets of the village. The snow seemed to get heavier with each step from a motionless gray sky.

He stopped for a minute and stood at the corner of a narrow street and listened. There was no traffic of any kind, and the absolute quiet was unnerving. The snowflakes gathered on his bare head and coated his eyebrows. He tried to peer through the snowflakes and penetrate the wall of gloom around him, but he couldn’t see more than a radius of twenty feet.

He kept walking until he heard music, and then followed the sound until he saw the window with a lighted stein.

Inside, it was warm and practically empty. The bartender was a giant of a man in height, with a girth to match.

“Schnapps,” Carter said, and waited until it was poured. “I just got off the train. I need a taxi.”

“Hotel, right across the street.”

“No, I need to go a way outside the village.”

“Ach, on a night like this?” He shook his head, seemed to think on it for a moment, and leaned forward. “You’ll pay?”

“I’ll pay.”

Two minutes later, Carter was back on the street heading four houses down for “old Kirchner’s.” It seemed that Herr Kirchner ran a car-for-hire, and that he was the only one greedy enough to go out on a night like this.

Carter found the house, knocked on the door, and waited.

The door was opened by a short, stout Hausfrau with grayish hair. She looked surprised.

“Ja? What do you want?” she said.

“Is Herr Kirchner at home, please?” Carter asked with a smile. “I would like to talk with him.”

The woman hesitated a moment. “I will see if my husband is awake yet. He works late, you know,” she added. “Wait here.”

She closed the door and left Carter standing in the snow. It was several minutes before the door opened again and a man stood on the threshold. He was only half dressed. His nightshirt was bulging over his pants. He was dough-faced and shapeless.

He squinted at Carter. “Ja?”

Carter explained his needs and the chalet by name without naming its owner.

Kirchner blustered, waved his hands pointing at the falling snow, and in no uncertain terms declared that Carter was crazy.

The Killmaster held up an American hundred-dollar bill. The man snatched it and pointed to a vintage, open Jeep at the curb. “Wait.”

Carter chuckled to himself as he swept the seat with his hand. If anyone from the other side was keeping track of Lorena Zornova’s visitors, he thought, he was leaving a trail a mile wide.

Carter managed to step from the Jeep even though his legs were frozen. The last of the great foul-weather Grand Prix drivers, Hans Kirchner, roared off just as Carter rescued his bag.

He managed to wade through the thigh-high snowdrifts and ring the bell of the chalet. She must have seen the Jeep arrive because the door opened at once.

“I didn’t think you’d make it.” Her voice was low, husky, and the words came out as if Garbo had announced that she wanted to be alone.

“Some of me didn’t, I think,” Carter muttered. “I’m frozen.”

Lorena laughed. “You should have dressed warmer.”

“Lorena, are you going to leave me standing out here all night?”

“Sorry.”

She stepped aside and he entered the hallway. The door slammed and she took his coat. Her lips brushed his cheek.

“Good to see you.”

“Brandy, woman,” he growled. “Now.”

“This way.”

Carter followed her down the hall and into a small sitting room, cozy, with a roaring fire. He watched her pour brandy into two large snifters.

She looked good.

Did he expect three years would change her appearance? Not Lorena. Her face was a little grave, there were shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes, and she had gained a pound or two, maybe. But she was still the same.

The thick blond hair spilled down from her head over her shoulders, every lock shining and in place. The contours of her face were soft and delicate, the skin pale and clear. The mouth was a red banner across her face, unfurling at the lower lip in a gentle pout.

The dress she wore was of softest wool with a gently draped back. It molded itself lingeringly to her ample curves, then flared slightly so that it swirled as she walked.

“You’re staring,” she said as she handed him one of the snifters.

“Don’t I always?” he shot back with a grin. “Salud.”

They touched glasses and sipped the brandy. Carter shivered and moved to the fire. She sank into a vast, pillow-bedecked sofa, the crossing of her legs a whisper of sound.

Carter again raised his glass. “Old times,” he said.

“And old faces,” she replied.

“Change that old to familiar and I’ll drink to it.”

She laughed. “You look much nicer when you smile.”

They drank.

She put down her glass and took a cigarette from a black lacquer box on the coffee table, offering him one. He got them lighted with very little shaking of numb hands and sat down.

Lorena studied him. “I’ll guess you’ve taken on about a pound a year,” she said. “Three pounds.”

“Eight,” he replied. “Pounds, that is.”

“Otherwise,” she continued, “you don’t look much different. Except in the eyes. Mature? Grave?”

“Cynical.”

Immediately her face closed. “Yes, aren’t we all.”

“You want to tell me why the hell you dragged me across the Alps in a blizzard?”

“Must I, right now?” she replied, making a face.

“You wanted to see me right away, remember?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But you haven’t even bothered to kiss me hello.”

Carter cocked his head to one side. “This doesn’t sound like Lorena Zorkova.”

“No, it doesn’t...”

“But—” He shrugged, and leaned forward to brush his lips across hers. “There.”

“Christ, Nick,” she groaned, “you’re so damn romantic.”

“I know. Speak to me.”

She crushed her cigarette in an ashtray, fell back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. “It’s a long story, Nick. I starts in 1944. I was just a year old.” She paused and opened her eyes to stare at him for a second. “Now you know I’m a middle-aged woman.”

“You’re being coy again.”

“Sorry.” She smoothed her dress and shifted her position. “Of course, my real name isn’t Zorkova.”

“I never thought it was,” Carter replied.

“Have you ever heard the name Romanovsky?” “Several times. It’s a common Russian name. We probably have two hundred Romanovskys in our files.”

“Prince Valentin Romanovsky?”

Carter thought for several minutes, then shook his head. “No, but that wouldn’t be unusual. After the revolution, there were damn few princes around.”

A smile curled her lips and her eyes narrowed to slits. “So true. Prince Valentin Romanovsky was my father. Princess Sophia of Romania was my mother. I also have a brother, Sergei.”

“Was, and have?” Carter said, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

“My brother is still alive. My parents are dead. That’s where the story begins...”

For the next hour, Carter sat transfixed as she told him the events of that evening so many years before. He didn’t move until she paused. Then he took her glass, liberally filled it and his own, and resumed his seat.

“What happened then, after the Russian sergeant raped your mother?”

“My father went mad. The Russian left the room. By then his two men had searched the house. They hadn’t found me in the upstairs rooms. When the shooting started, my nurse hid both of us on top of the canopy above my bed.”

Here she paused and took a long drink of brandy. Carter lit fresh cigarettes for them both and let her take her time.

“My bedroom had two doors, one into the hall, the other directly into the family chapel. We saw the sergeant remove the jewels from the rear of the altar. He brought them into the bedroom and carefully compared them to a list he had. When he seemed satisfied, he hid the jewels in his clothing and built up some twigs and papers in the fireplace. He was about to light it, when two soldiers appeared in the doorway. He asked them if it was done. Both of them nodded. Then he killed them, both of them. He sprayed both of them with his rifle, his own comrades.”

“You remember all this so clearly?” Carter asked.

“Not really. I was only a baby, and by then my nurse, Nanya, was covering me with her body to make sure I wouldn’t cry out. But later, I heard every detail many, many times.”

“Go on,” Carter said.

“The Russian dropped a match to start the fire, and then bolted from the room. Nanya dropped to the floor and rushed to the fireplace. For years after that, she told us that she never really knew why she saved the papers the Russian was trying to burn. Something just told her to do it.”

“What were they?”

“I’ll get to that. There was more shooting from the front courtyard. Nanya rushed to the window. The Russian sergeant had killed his other two comrades. Nanya watched him ride off in the sleigh that was supposed to have taken us to the sea.”

“And your parents? Your brother?”

She continued as if Carter hadn’t spoken. “We waited in the bedroom for nearly an hour before going downstairs. My brother was babbling, but Nanya got the story out of him. The two soldiers had come into the room right after the sergeant had left. One of them shot my mother and father. He was turning his gun on my brother, when the other soldier stopped him.

“He shouted in Russian that he would not be a party to the killing of children. The other soldier just shrugged and they left the room, letting my brother live.”

Suddenly she stood. “As you can tell, all of this is very depressing for me. There are three things I need when I am depressed... drink, food, and sex. We have had drink. Now I will make us some sandwiches. I’ll be right back.”

She returned in no time with a tray of food and two bottles of good Romanian lager. They ate in silence, Carter mulling over the story thus far, and not hiding his curiosity to hear the rest of it.

At last she pushed her plate away and continued.

“Nanya hitched horses to another sleigh. She bundled the two of us into it and headed north, into the mountains. She knew the countryside well. We were able to avoid the retreating Germans and the advancing Russians. In two days’ time we reached her village, Vailia, near the Russian border.”

“And obviously survived,” Carter murmured.

“Oh, yes, thanks to Nanya. Vailia was a partisan village. Nanya’s family accepted us without question. We were given the identity cards of two children of neighboring families who had recently died.”

“So you grew up in Vailia?” Carter said.

“Yes. I became Lorena Zorkova.”

“And your brother?”

“Sergei became Vadim Vinnick.”

Carter paused with the bottle of lager halfway to his lips.

Vadim Vinnick was the all-powerful head of the Romanian intelligence service.

Carter stood under the shower, letting the hot water finish thawing the cold from his bones.

In his mind he went over every word of Lorena Zorkova’s story. At first he had thought it farfetched. Then, when she had gotten to the kicker, the punch line, he found himself wanting to believe every word.

“My brother wants to meet with you, face-to-face.”

“That could be tricky, in Romania,” Carter had replied.

“He knows that. You can get into Hungary unnoticed?”

“Yes.”

“Then he can get you into Romania.”

“Great. Why?”

“I’m afraid he will have to tell you that. Remember, many years ago I told you that one day I would require a favor?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

He had stalled, but he knew he would go. Somehow it seemed to be in the cards. And, besides, if he met face-to-face with a man as high up as Vadim Vinnick and got back out, it had to prove profitable.

He dried his body, wrapped a towel around his hips, and entered the bedroom. Lorena was stretched across the bed. The lights had been dimmed and she had changed into something sheer and feminine.

He remembered her earlier comment. “I hope you’re still depressed,” he quipped.

She laughed, a light, ringing sound in the still room. “Yes, very depressed.”

She slid from the bed and Carter closed the distance between them. When he kissed her she did nothing at first, neither responding nor withdrawing. Then Carter put his arms around her, bringing her close, and she snatched out at him with surprising passion, pulling him to her and forcing herself against him. They parted finally, both breathless.

“I am glad my brother contacted me when he did. You see, I wanted to see you myself. I feel like a nun in this village.” Her voice was low, husky, full of unmasked desire.

She came forward, kissing him again, but more gently this time, without the former urgency. When it was over, she stepped away from him, breathing heavily.

She took the wispy gown and pulled it slowly up over her thighs and hips, and then slid it over her head, all in one easy movement.

She was nude except for a tiny piece of cloth on her hips. The thighs were downy-soft, the sweep of curve from hip to waist was stunning, the breasts were ripe and inviting. She smiled at him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her mouth partly open.

“Well?” she breathed.

Carter grabbed her and pulled her against him, and then they were kissing again, his mouth exploring her hot one, his hands finding the beautiful curves of her flesh.

She pulled away, gasping for breath, her eyes slightly glazed over now, her body trembling gently. “Take me,” she murmured.

She fell to the bed. Carter discarded the towel and joined her. He found her seeking tongue, and the golden thighs, and the hot flesh of her body pressed insistently against him.

She took his hand and put it where she wanted it to be, around her breasts first, where she left it for a long time, her eyes half closed and her breathing becoming heavy, and then down, parting for him.

He manipulated her with his fingers and then moved his head downward. With a cry she raised her hips to meet him.

“Harder, yes, harder!” she cried out, bucking and groaning under his lips.

Then she pulled him up over her. She was wetly ready, sighing as he entered her. At the beginning they both stopped for a moment, resting briefly, and then started again in perfect time, unhurried. She was slightly ahead, moving faster, urging him on at the very last.

He strained to catch her, and did, so that they exploded together. She screamed out and clutched at him, burying her face into his shoulder and murmuring, “Oh, oh!” over and over again.

He awoke first, morning giving broad shapes and forms to the trees outside the window, deep grays with touches of white, as though they were part of a giant canvas. He looked across at Lorena. She lay on her side, facing him. The sheet had slipped down to reveal her left breast, beautifully round, deeply full, the delicate pink circle tipping it. He swung from the bed, went into the bathroom, showered and shaved, and dressed. She was awake when he came out, sitting up with the sheet wrapped around her.

“Sleep well?” He smiled affably at her.

“Quite,” she replied, and grinned.

“I’ve got a scrambler device with me. I’ll call Washington.”

“And tell them what?” she asked.

“That I’m going over.”

He wasn’t sure as he turned away, but he thought her smile was just like the one on the cartoon cat that ate the canary.