The Berlin Target

Three

Lisa Berrington's beautiful, usually soft features were set in hard lines as she tooled the little sports car across the Key Bridge from Arlington. Once over the bridge she turned right, onto the Whitehurst Freeway, and took the Wisconsin Avenue turnoff into the heart of Georgetown.

Her dark blond hair glinted in the sun as the wind swirled it about her shoulders. Her blue eyes and delicate features concentrated on the traffic around her. but a close observer would have noticed that her mind was absorbed with more than her driving.

Lisa was beautiful in a refined, classic way. She came from an old, aristocratic Virginia family, and there was nothing brassy or coarse about her, even though, no matter what she wore, her figure turned heads wherever she went.

Now she wore a simple navy skirt, a mint-green sweater set. and a navy and white scarf was draped around her neck. It was hardly the outfit she would have chosen for that day, but she had been in a hurry to leave her apartment when Ginger Bateman had agreed to meet her.

Ginger was not exactly an old friend, but because Lisa had been involved with a couple of AXE-related jobs, she knew the head of that agency's secretary and right hand fairly well.

Lisa hoped she knew Ginger well enough. She realized that the request she was about to make of the woman was pretty bizarre.

She handled the powerful little sports car with precision, driving aggressively and knowledgeably, right hand on the shift, long legs scissoring over gas, brake, and clutch with agility.

In the drive of the Pierre, a popular Georgetown restaurant, she left the motor running and accepted the attendant's hand. The car roared away into the parking lot as Lisa entered the building.

"A table for one, mademoiselle?"

"No, I'm meeting someone… a Miss Bateman."

"Ah, yes. Right this way."

The interior decor was a pleasing mixture of expensive leather, high ceilings and windows, elegant draperies, and lots of greenery.

The maitre d' guided her toward a table for two in one of the smaller dining rooms. They were halfway there when Lisa sported Ginger Bateman's glossy black hair and tall figure.

The woman looked up and smiled. Lisa returned the smile as she slid into the opposite chair.

"Good to see you again."

"Thank you," Lisa replied. "It's been a long time."

"Would mademoiselle care for a drink?"

"One of those will be fine," Lisa said, nodding toward the concoction sitting in front of Ginger.

The maitre d' glided away, and Ginger leaned forward, lowering her voice. "How's Langley?"

"Unchanged. I've been upgraded. I'm a courier now."

"Congratulations."

Neither woman voiced what their eyes were communicating. AXE had borrowed Lisa twice from the CIA for delicate missions. The second time she had almost been killed. Afterward, when she had been returned to the Company, she had been reclassified away from field agent status.

It had hurt, but Lisa had accepted it. Her superiors had feared that she had lost her nerve. Lisa feared the same thing, so she had accepted «white» work and a desk.

Being put on courier duty was a big step back up for her.

The drink came, and the two women saluted each other with their glasses.

"I must say I was a little surprised to get your call," Ginger said, studying the other woman over the rim of her glass.

"Yes, I suppose you were. I need a favor, Ginger… a big one."

"I'll do what lean."

"I need to get in touch with Nick Carter."

Bateman's face turned to stone. Her hard eyes stopped any further mention of AXE's top agent.

"I suggest that we have lunch and then take a drive around beautiful Georgetown."

Lisa nodded. "That might be a good idea."

"Shall we order? The name is French, but they have marvelous German dishes," Ginger said, replastering a smile on her face.

They both ordered a breaded veal cutlet topped with a fried egg and served with fresh vegetables. Ginger mentioned wine, but Lisa demurred, suggesting Perrier instead.

They ate sparingly, moving through the meal with offhand chatter about the mounting costs of living in the nation's capital and the ludicrousness of the latest youth-oriented fashions.

Ginger could see that her luncheon companion was getting increasingly nervous with each passing minute. She passed on dessert and requested the check.

"Let me…" Lisa protested.

"No, I'll put it on the account," Ginger replied with a wave of a hand. "After all, it does look like we're going to be discussing business."

She paid the check and they moved through the front doors.

"What are you driving?"

"An Alfa," Lisa replied. "Convertible."

"We'll take mine. I'll drive… you talk."

Ginger handed the attendant her car claim check, and five minutes later they pulled out of the parking lot and headed north past the Naval Observatory and toward Chevy Chase.

"Is Nick in the States?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"I have his home number. I called it all night long and this morning. There was no answer."

Ginger knew that Carter and this woman had worked together. One look at Lisa Berrington's face and figure told her why she had the number of Carter's Georgetown condo.

"He's not in the country right now, Lisa. You know that's all I can tell you until you tell me more."

"I know," Lisa sighed. "Do you know my sister. Delaine?"

Ginger chuckled. "I know of her. I've seen her picture in the paper a few hundred times. I don't travel in those circles."

"But you do know her husband, Stephan Conway."

"Yes, I know about him."

Lisa smiled and met Ginger's eyes. "File?"

Ginger nodded. There was no need to say more. The CIA and the FBI both had extensive files on Stephan Conway. AXE also held a copy of those files as a matter of course.

Stephan Conway was quite a man, or character, depending on which side of him a person stood.

He had been a youthful computer genius and a student activist in the sixties. He eventually lost his rebellious nature, abandoned his liberal activism, and founded a small computer electronics company, Protec, that grew and grew until Conway was a rich man, even by Silicon Valley standards.

But for him that wasn't enough. With the power and wealth that came with his marriage to Delaine Berrington, he went after huge government contracts… and got them. He began buying up small companies and merging with larger ones all over the world, with himself always retaining controlling interest.

By the early 1980s, the company was the undisputed leader in its field, and the government's chief supplier of electronic radar and missile guidance systems.

This knowledge of modem technology, coupled with his wealth, his worldwide business interests, and the enormous clout of his Washington contacts, had recently shoved Stephan Conway into the political arena.

It was an unannounced fact that he would run for a Senate seat in the upcoming elections.

"I got a call from Delaine last night, from West Berlin."

"Yes?"

"It's driving me out of my mind," Lisa blurted.

"How so?"

"Two reasons, really. First, Stephan himself. As you probably know, our parents left both of us very well off. I have always thought that Stephan married Delaine solely for our family name and contacts and her wealth."

"And now the marriage is going sour?" Ginger asked drily.

"I think it's been going sour right from the beginning, and Delaine is just realizing it. She not only sounded very down on the phone, she also sounded scared… petrified."

Ginger pulled into one of the narrow, tree-shaded streets of Chevy Chase, cruised for another half block, and pulled to the curb.

"Afraid?" she asked when she had killed the engine.

"Yes, very."

"I hate to say this, Lisa, but why Nick? I mean, he's hardly trained to handle domestic squabbles."

"I know that," Lisa replied, her face flushing slightly. "There's something else. Delaine hinted that some friends had shown up from Stephan's past. It happened a few weeks ago in California. There was a terrible fight, and when Delaine approached him about it, he called them 'blackmailing bastards' and said that he had told them to go to hell."

"But that wasn't the end of it?"

"No," Lisa replied. "At least. Delaine doesn't think so. Stephan became more and more nervous. And he began to lock himself in his study late at night and make all sorts of odd phone calls. And when they started on this speaking tour in Europe, he hired four bodyguards."

"Speaking tour?"

"Yes, he's going to five countries for the State Department. He's speaking to rallies, trying to convince them of the wisdom and the safety of the NATO missiles."

"I see," Ginger sighed. "That alone would give him reason to hire bodyguards."

"Yes, I suppose it would. But the last thing Delaine said really shook me up. Last night, just before her phone call, they were at a dinner party with a group of German dignitaries, and Delaine overheard Stephen tell two high-ranking German officials that he was positive there was a plot to assassinate him."

This brought Ginger out of her slouch. "Well, that puts a different light on the matter. But Nick…?"

"I didn't want to go to anyone in the Company. I was afraid they would think I was crazy, especially since Stephan and Delaine do have a domestic problem. And besides, I do know Nick personally, and I know what he's capable of accomplishing. Dammit, Ginger, if you would just speak to your boss…"

Ginger furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in thought. She had a pretty good idea that David Hawk would either laugh until his sides hurt, or explode in anger at the idea of his top operative running off to settle a future senator's domestic problems.

On the other hand, if Stephan Conway were being blackmailed and threatened, it could be a major security bomb.

There was also Lisa herself to consider. She was a highly intelligent woman, familiar with the realities of the espionage game, and normally level-headed and rational, certainly not prone to hysteria. Now her nerves were obviously frayed at the ends, and she apparently firmly believed that everything her sister feared had a basis in fact. If she was this shaken, it warranted at least a cursory investigation.

"I'll tell you what, Lisa. I can't promise much, but I'll do what I can."

"When?"

"First thing in the morning."

"Can't you speak to him this afternoon, or this evening?"

"It's Sunday, and I'm not sure he's even in town," Ginger replied.

And, she thought, even if he were — and agreed to let Carter help — where was N3?

He had gotten Boris Simonov to Istanbul, and the last thing Ginger had heard, they were readying false papers to get him on to England or Paris for interrogation.

"I promised Delaine I would get the first flight out to Frankfurt and then on to Berlin. I'm leaving tonight. If I could, I'd like to know something before I leave."

Ginger shrugged and started the car. "As I said, I'll do what I can."

She drove to Connecticut Avenue and turned south. In minutes they had passed out of Montgomery County and entered the District of Columbia.

Ginger pulled the car over when she spotted a corner phone booth.

"Sit tight."

Lisa nervously chewed on her lip and worried the small purse in her lap as she concentrated on Ginger's face through the clear sides of the booth.

The phone call seemed to go on for an eternity.

When at last Ginger returned, Lisa could feel perspiration flowing down her back, making her sweater stick to her skin.

"You're in luck. He'll see you. But beyond that, who knows?"

"I'll be convincing," Lisa replied with a sigh.

She took great care building his drink, and when she finished, she stood facing him at the bar. There was something special in the way she looked at him. Her eyes dimmed, becoming smoky behind the long lashes, and her full breasts brought a catch in his throat as she took a lazy breath.

"You're afraid."

"Aren't you?" he replied.

"It is too late for fear now, my darling."

She came across the room toward him, tucking the blouse into her skirt with her free hand, making it taut over the lush curves.

"Could I have a cigarette?" she asked, handing him the drink.

He held out the pack, and she plucked a cigarette from it with long, crimson-tipped fingers. She put the filter tip between equally red lips and leaned over toward the flame.

The front of her blouse fell open, and his eyes slid into the deep darkness between her breasts.

His lip quivered and his mouth went dry.

"He is set," she said, looking up at him with bold, appraising eyes. "Half of the money has been delivered. I have already arranged for the other half. He has the equipment. Believe me, darling, it will soon be over."

She tugged him to his feet. She was standing so close that he could feel the faint touch of her breasts on his chest and the heat of her breath on his neck.

"You're shaking, darling."

He was, and he knew it. But now he didn't know if it was from fear of what they were about to do, or the nearness of her body.

"Come, darling… into the bedroom."

She tugged on his arm and he followed her like a robot. As he neared the bed, the fog of desire momentarily left his brain.

"I shouldn't… they'll be waiting…"

"Darling, after tomorrow it will be along time… this may be our last time for a long while."

Slowly she unbuttoned the blouse and revealed the naked body beneath it. Then, deftly, she freed the zipper on the skirt and shrugged, the garments puddling at her feet.

"God," he gasped, "you're so beautiful."

Her breasts were heavy, yet firm and high, creamy white with coral tips that gleamed like beacons of desire. Her shoulders were firm and wide, yet capable of turning to melted butter when the right man put his arms around them. Her ribs poked excitingly against the flawless skin below her breasts, pointing like arrows to her navel, and below.

"Tomorrow," he moaned, stripping the clothing from his own body. "Tomorrow it will all be over."

She oozed back onto the bed and he fell between her legs.

"No, my darling, tomorrow it will just be starting… for us."

Carter fixed a scotch neat and moved to the hotel balcony. The drizzle that had shrouded Paris for the last forty-eight hours had lifted. Now the lights of the city blinked invitingly under a clear, starry sky.

Carter was weary. It had been a long day. But he was also itchy. It had been a good mission, and it had gone well, but he remembered Ludmilla, and for the last few hours he had been wondering how long she would last.

He needed to get her out of his mind.

In the distance he could see the lights of Montmartre and the gleaming dome of Sacre Coeur.

He knew a couple of little cafes around the square up there where he could easily find someone who would chase the thoughts of Ludmilla from his mind. He finished his drink and slipped a tie under his collar. The knot was barely adjusted when the telephone jangled.

"Yeah?"

"Nick, Carpenter at the office."

"Yes?"

"Home calling. They would like you to buzz them back from here."

"I'll be right there."

He cursed, shrugged into his jacket, and went downstairs. It took fifteen minutes to reach the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services offices.

Inside, he punched the proper code into a rear elevator that whisked him to the top floor and the real offices: AXE, Paris branch.

Hal Carpenter waved to him as he entered the computer room. "Use line three on the scrambler phone. It's already open all the way through."

"To whom?"

"To the old man himself."

"Oh, Christ," Carter growled, "there goes my week's vacation."

"Seven-four-seven."

"Ginger, Nick here. What's up?"

"That was quick."

"I'm a slave to command."

"Ill put you through."

Carter waited, and then the gruff, cigar-ruined voice boomed across the sea and half of France. "N3, good job… congratulations."

"Thank you, sir."

"How did the interrogation go?"

"Fine. We have all the contacts, routes, and most of the greedy bastards in the States who were ready to sell. Simonov has agreed to go hot again until the stateside boys can set up a sting."

"Good enough. Where is he now?"

"On his way to London. The MI6 people want to have a go at him tonight. Our boys will fly him out to Andrews in the morning."

"That's what I like," David Hawk said and chuckled. "A neat package. I checked with Alma Control about an hour ago. You asked for a few days."

"Yes, sir. Thought I'd hit Nice, get some sun. Is it off?"

"Not exactly. Remember Lisa Berrington?"

It only took two clicks of his memory bank. "I remember."

"She's got a problem. It's personal, wants to talk to you."

"But she's already talked to you."

"Yes. It's nothing we can do anything about, but we do owe her something."

"Yes, we do," Carter replied, remembering how the woman had looked on the floor of a Hong Kong hotel room with a bullet in her.

It had been an easy mission. No one should have gotten hurt. Lisa Berrington had almost bought the farm.

"I really can't authorize anything, and I won't. But if, after you talk to her, you want to check it out. you can. You're on vacation for a week."

Carter thought of all the beautiful, braless bodies on the pebbly beaches of Nice, and the equally lovely scenery not far away at Cannes and St.-Tropez.

Then he thought of Lisa Berrington.

"You still there, N3?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. You have a number?"

Hawk gave him a stateside number in Alexandria just outside Washington, and he signed off.

"Carpenter?"

"Yeah, Nick?"

"You got anything to drink around here?"

"You know that's against company policy, Nick."

"I didn't ask you about company policy."

"Last drawer down on your right."

It was a cheap brand that Carter hated, but at that point, in that place, it was any port in a storm. At that, it was better than the vodka he'd been slugging down not too many days before.

He poured three fingers in a foggy glass and dialed.

"Hello?"

The voice wasn't recognizable through the distortion on the scrambler line. "Lisa Berrington?"

"Yes."

"Lisa, this is Nick Carter."

"Oh, thank God…"

"I just talked to Washington. I hear you have a problem."

"Lots."

She launched into it, and hardly put a comma or a period in until she was finished. He had wiped out the three fingers by the time she finally wound down.

"That's it in the proverbial nutshell. Not much, huh?"

"I'm afraid not. Why me, Lisa?"

He swore he could hear her swallow hard before she spoke again. "Because you're so damned efficient… and you seem to know so many people all over the world… and Delaine sounded so frightened… I thought you might be able to talk to Stephan and poke around…"

"Whoa, hold it, hold it… slow down, darlin'."

"And if there is anything wrong, I guess I figure you can work miracles. Ginger said you were in Europe. She didn't say where."

Carter thought for a moment, and decided that it didn't matter… now. "I'm in Paris. You said you were coming over?"

"Yes. I'm on Pan Am out of Kennedy at nine forty-five tonight. I was just leaving the apartment to catch the shuttle at National when you called."

"Frankfurt?"

"Yes, with one stop in London. My flight gets into Frankfurt at ten-thirty. I change planes there and arrive in Berlin at one-thirty. Stephan is speaking to an antinuclear convention at one, so I told Delaine I would meet her at the hotel at three."

"All right. What's your Berlin flight number?"

"Nine-two-two."

"I'll be on it."

"Thank you, Nick, so much."

"But if nothing's up, I demand four days of wild night life in Berlin."

"You've got it," she said, managing a laugh at last.

"See you."

"Until tomorrow, then. And thank you again, Nick," she replied, and the line went dead.

"Carpenter!"

"Jesus, Nick, what is it now? I've got four more reports to file before I can eat, and it's almost midnight already."

"Sorry, old buddy. Can you get me out of here to Frankfurt in the morning in time to catch Flight Nine-two-two Pan Am into Berlin?"

"Hold on, I'll check."

Carter sipped another scotch. Minutes later, Carpenter was back.

"You're set. I'll have the tickets messengered to your hotel early tomorrow morning. They'll be at the desk, is that it?"

"That's it."

"What's in Berlin?"

"An old flame," Carter said, and walked out into the Paris night, all thoughts of the two cafes in Montmartre pushed from his mind.