Ruby Red Death

Five

Carter walked along the freshly plowed street toward the lift station. The snow was piled high on the sides, soft and powdery.

At the lift station he was relieved to find he was not the only guest who had decided on a midnight run. There were about fifteen people lined up for tickets.

Carter studied them carefully as he waited in line. They were young, the men tall and athletic, and the women attractive in snug-fitting ski outfits.

Ilse Beddick was not among them.

He got his ticket and walked along the railed corridor toward the cars. Again he looked at the sky. There would be a moon before long, not a full one, but it would be too bright for comfort. He decided to remain in the shadow below the big wooden platform until his number was called. He could hear the shuffling feet and laughter of the people above him. Most of the conversation was in Hungarian, with a sprinkling of German.

Carter waited for the last seat and dropped into it while it was still moving. There was no one behind him, and no one who had gone before him had given him a second glance.

At the top, there was a large sign directing skiers to the five runs and indicating their degree of difficulty.

Carter smiled to himself.

Number Two on the north was by far the most difficult. Ilse Beddick had made a good choice.

To a man and woman, the group in front of Carter fanned out to the easier runs. Carter found himself alone at the top of number Two.

He killed a little time by crouching and coating his skis with oil from a hand roller. When he could hear no more chatter from the others, he discarded the hand roller and poled his way over the precipitous lip.

Then he was plunging downward, gathering speed into the first bank. Startled birds exploded from the neighboring pines as he accelerated. He felt the exhilaration of taking the course as fast as he could. A line of trees came up quickly, a flat area unexpectedly dark, shielded from the brightness of the moon.

And he felt ice suddenly under his skis and the sudden burst of speed that came with it. His legs bent lower and he felt the pull on his thigh muscles. The jump, as it came up, was not so high as it was unexpectedly fast, and he made a mental note of it. He sailed into the air, came down on a flat slope that immediately became a traverse of steep bumps and rolls. A right turn came at him and he felt soft snow, leaned into it hard, and took it without slowing.

A line of trees again, longer, the shadows deeper, and hard, blue ice. He saw the green shapes hurtling past as another traverse came up and he went airborne and down, airborne and down again in a twisting path where a single error would mean crashing into the trees and almost certain death.

Coming out of it, the slope flattened, rose, and went into a long schuss that looked deceptively simple as he gathered speed only to find it dotted with bumps and rolls.

Then he saw the sign and leaned into a hard right turn that sent powder swirling in a twenty-foot arc.

The alternate trail was narrower and the snow softer, slowing his descent.

In seconds he saw her figure on a rise in front of him. When she was sure it was Carter, she turned and sped off. He fell in behind. Not more than two minutes later, she left the trail and wove dangerously through the trees.

Carter had to admire her skill. It was all he could do to keep up with her, and his heart was pounding like a trip-hammer.

Then he saw the farmhouse, light in the downstairs windows. It was steep-roofed and loomed large in the moonlight.

The woman slid to a halt and Carter came up beside her. They unbuckled their skis and mounted the steps to the porch. Carter expected some kind of watchdog, and when no one appeared, commented on it.

“Too risky,” she replied. “Only the two of us know about this meeting. Come this way.”

He followed her around to the side of the house. She rapped twice on a pair of French doors, and they entered a large, cozy room heated by roaring logs in a huge fireplace.

In a rocker by the fire was a gaunt man beneath a lap robe. His face was a sickly, sallow color, and his tangle of wiry gray hair was an invitation for nesting birds. He was approaching his sixtieth birthday, but he looked an ailing twenty years older than that.

When he looked up, his eyes were dark and cavernous, but they were also alert, and they assessed all of Carter in one penetrating look.

“Ah, Carter. Please sit down. You’ll forgive my rudeness at not standing. I must conserve as much strength as possible. You see, I am dying.”

Ilse Beddick poured tea for herself and Vinnick, and found brandy for Carter. As she did this, she related the night’s events at the lodge.

“Yes, when I heard you outside, I figured that there had been difficulties. You see, Carter, there are factions in my country, indeed in my own service, who would dearly love to bring me down.”

“I guessed as much,” the Killmaster replied. “But why?”

“I shall get to that, soon,” Vinnick said. “In the meantime, how much did my sister tell you? Oh, by the way, if you wish to smoke, please do. Ilse, find him an ashtray.”

Carter eased into Lorena Zorkova’s story and speeded up, hitting just the high points as he came to the end. He thought the man had fallen asleep, but when he finished, Vinnick’s head came up and his eyes were as bright and penetrating as before.

“Good,” he murmured. “When the Soviets moved in to establish the Communist party, I joined immediately.” Here he paused, a raspy laugh escaping his lips. “I was, you might say, a ruthless, devoted advocate of the new regime.”

“And you became one of its most powerful and feared men,” Carter offered. “Why?”

“Two reasons... survival, and revenge. Now, an answer to your earlier question. I was one of the men who advocated against complete submission to Moscow. To do that, we aligned ourselves with Red China as much or more than with the Kremlin. Because of this, Romania still has some degree of independence.”

A little bell went off in Carter’s head. “All the information you passed to us through your sister?”

“Exactly. Astute of you at last. All of it was a detriment to the other Eastern bloc countries and Moscow. That in itself was a form of revenge for what the Bolsheviks did to my father. My sister was my eyes and ears in the West, as well as my conduit to you. The operation has worked quite well. It has also given my sister a better life in the West. Ilse, more tea, please.”

The woman was at his side at once. Carter studied the two of them. There was obviously a great deal of warmth and affection there. Vinnick sensed Carter’s look, and smiled.

“The nurse, Nanya? Ilse is her daughter. When the time comes, Ilse will join my sister in the West.”

“I take it, then,” Carter said, “that because of your health, our little operation is about over?”

“You are quite right. That is why I sent for you. I wish, for a favor, to put into your hands, Carter, one very large bulk of information. I am sure that your people know that for years the Bulgarians have been putting assassination teams into the West?”

Carter nodded. “It’s part of the KGB’s system to take international heat off them. The Bulgarians are more than happy to become Moscow’s First Directorate trigger people.”

“Yes, quite so,” Vinnick said, nodding. “There is a large segment of the Bulgarian Dajnavna Sigurnost who revel in creative killing. I have the assumed names, occupations, and addresses of each and every team.”

It was all Carter could do to maintain his even expression and his relaxed position in the chair. Already the Bulgarian secret police had pulled off too many political assassinations in the West. It was known that when Moscow wanted someone out of the way, the Bulgarians did the work.

Information of this magnitude would be invaluable. He knew that Washington would go for it at any price.

The Killmaster kept his voice calm. “And the favor?”

The penetrating eyes gazed steadily at Carter. “The night we fled, when Nanya rescued those papers the Soviet sergeant tried to burn?”

“I remember,” Carter said.

“I kept those documents all these years. Eventually, by digging through old Nazi records, Russian files, and current computer records, I was able to piece everything together...”

Carter listened to it all, his admiration for the older man’s tenacity growing with each word.

Two of the documents belonged to an SS officer and his secretary. They were found in an ambushed car with their driver. Another document was the military identification of the sergeant who had led that Russian patrol, Boris Glaskov. And there was one more passport. It was Portuguese, identifying one Greta Bolivar.

“Over the years, I dug and dug. I think that Graf von Wassner was on the way to steal my family’s jewels that night. I think he was intending to run, but was ambushed by a Russian patrol under the command of Sergeant Boris Glaskov.”

“And Glaskov went after the jewels himself,” Carter offered.

“Exactly. And when he got them, he destroyed his own papers.”

“That left the Bolivar passport.”

Vinnick nodded. “It took me years to backtrack the name. Greta Kraussen was an Abwehr agent in Lisbon during the war. She married Heinrich Bolivar in 1942. Because Bolivar’s mother was German, Greta enlisted him in the cause. In 1943, they both disappeared. Their disappearance was reported by their contact officer at that time, one Graf von Wassner.”

“He killed them himself and kept the passports.”

Vinnick nodded. “I believe so. I also think Glaskov escaped to Lisbon with Heinrich Bolivar’s passport. But for years I could not trace a Heinrich Bolivar. Then I got a break. About two years ago, I came across this.” The frail fingers passed across a dog-eared magazine to Carter.

Carter thumbed through the pages. It was turned to an article about mountain rebels in Uruguay. It seem the rebels had come across the border into Argentina and kidnapped three wealthy ranchers and businessmens. The three men had been rescued, and the leaders of the rebel group were hanged.

There was a photograph of the three men.

Vinnick pointed a shaky finger at the man in the center of the picture. “His name is Enrique Bolivar.”

Carter glanced up. “Enrique is Spanish or Portuguese for Henry.”

“Or, in German, Heinrich.” Vinnick smiled. “It took a great deal more sleuthing, but I found the application for name change and a new passport in the records of a small village in the Algarve. Enrique Bolivar is Boris Glaskov.”

Carter took his time replying. “He seems to have done rather well.”

“Quite well, with my family fortune. He has been selling the jewels off one by one over the years to support the building of a sizable empire in Portugal and Argentina.”

Carter glanced from the magazine to Vinnick. “And now you want revenge.”

Vinnick sat back in his chair with a deep sigh and produced a short, slender cigar. Ilse Beddick was on her feet at once.

“Vadim, the doctors...”

He waved her away with a smile, and let Carter light the cigar for him. “Revenge? Perhaps. But more. I have learned a great deal about Glaskov/Bolivar. He was a despicable man the night he had my parents murdered and, in turn, murdered his own comrades. In the years since, he has become an even more despicable man. He deserves to die.”

Carter stood and began to leisurely pace the room. “I have killed many times, Vinnick. But I’m not a paid assassin, even for the prize you offer.”

“I am dying, Carter,” came the measured reply. “When I go, my sister will be alone. As you already know, she is not wealthy. The fees we have charged you for information have not been great.”

“You want the jewels,” Carter said.

Vinnick nodded. “Many of them have been sold, but even more are left. One gem alone is worth a fortune. It is an enormous ruby, called the Heartstone. Because of its great worth, the Heartstone is the symbol of our heritage. It is the crown jewel of the houses of Cimpeni and Romanovsky. If only that one stone could be returned...” He stopped with a shrug.

Carter continued to pace. For what Vinnick was offering, he wasn’t asking a great deal. He was sure Washington would go along with the deal.

“Obviously, you have a plan,” Carter said at last.

“I do,” Vinnick replied at once. “Bolivar is preparing to sell off the rest of the jewels. Through the years, he has been dealing with three men. This is always done through intermediaries. Recently, Bolivar contacted all three of these men. They will be going to Argentina soon to bid on the jewels.”

“Why is he selling?” Carter asked.

“Simple. His wealth and his power are solid now. He no longer has need of them as security, and the cash they will bring will secure him even greater power.”

“It’s logical,” Carter agreed. “I assume I will take the place of one of the jewel merchants?”

“Exactly. His name is Fabian Huzel. He lives quietly in Amsterdam. He looks and dresses like a man of meager means, but he is one of a handful of men in the world who could arrange the financing for a buy of this size. Probably a third of the stolen jewels in the world pass through Huzel’s hands.”

Carter listened as the old man explained how the plan would unfold.

“I assume you have contacts in Amsterdam who could help you make all this happen?”

Carter nodded. “There would be a cost factor, but yes, there are such people.”

“Good. One more thing. Lorena will go with you.”

There it was. Carter looked from Vadim Vinnick to the woman and back again. No, he wouldn’t be required to kill Enrique Bolivar. As soon as they had the jewels, Lorena herself would kill him.

They knew his thoughts, but said nothing.

“All right,” Carter said, “I’ll do it.”

The tension disappeared from the room. Ilse Beddick produced a file on Fabian Huzel, and photographs. She also gave Carter the vast research file that had been amassed on Enrique Bolivar. Together, the three of them went over this material for the next two hours. At that time Vinnick called a halt.

“Needless to say, with my enemies in the Hungarian secret police knowing about you, it will be impossible for you to return to the lodge. You will stay here tonight, and we will continue in the morning.”

Ilse nodded. “Tomorrow I will make arrangements to get you safely out of the country,” she said.

She showed Carter to a comfortable room on the second floor. Everything he needed was there, even a change of clothes and a razor.

The whole thing looked like one very large setup.

“I think,” Carter said, “that you and Vinnick tipped off the Hungarians that an American was coming over.”

Ilse smiled. “You are as astute as your reputation says you are.”

“What would have happened if I had not agreed to this?”

She shrugged. “Your body would have been turned over to the authorities here after I killed you trying to escape. Good night.”

Carter undressed and lay on the bed, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get much sleep.