The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Two

When I stepped off the 747 at Dulles International Airport I was met by a silent young man who whisked me to a waiting limousine. He maneuvered neatly through the morning traffic to pull up finally in front of an unremarkable building on Du Pont Circle.

I recognized the man who came out the door as I entered. He was the President’s top national security adviser. He was not smiling. The people in the lobby — a magazine vendor, browsing customers, a guard at the elevator — seemed average enough unless you looked closely at their eyes. Then you saw the hard, no-nonsense scrutiny that shows in the eyes of trained government agents on duty. Full security was in effect at AXE headquarters.

I presented my credentials three different times, had my face scanned by telecomputer and my palm print verified by an electronic sensor. Finally the electronic and human watchdogs were convinced that I really was Nick Carter, AXE Agent N3, rating Killmaster, and I was allowed in to see David Hawk.

He sat in his frayed leather chair, chewing on one of the long cigars he almost never lit His steel-blue eyes betrayed no emotion as he nodded me into a chair across from him.

“I can’t understand,” he said, “how you continue to look so abominably healthy, considering the life of debauchery you lead between assignments.”

I grinned at the old man, who sat ramrod straight, looking more like a man in his fifties than his seventies. “The secret is always to think pure thoughts,” I told him.

“Sure it is,” he said. One side of his mouth quirked slightly, which was the closest thing to a smile that ever appeared on his leathery New England face. Then he went dead serious. “Nick, we’ve got deep trouble.”

“So it seems. You said we received a message yesterday.”

“That’s right. The man claims he and his people are responsible for the Mumura explosion and they are prepared to destroy our cities one by one.”

“Who is the man?” I asked.

“Anton Zhizov. I believe you know the name.”

“Of course. Number-two man in the Russian Miliary High Command. I thought you said none of the big powers were involved.”

“The Soviets deny any responsibility for Zhizov. As you know, he’s been the leader of the militant hardliners in the Kremlin. He’s been increasingly unhappy with the growing detente between our countries. Apparently he’s pulled out on his own. He took Colonel Gorodin of the Red Army and some navy personnel who didn’t believe in peaceful coexistence. They also seem to have gotten away with a large supply of Russian gold.”

“And Zhizov thinks that with a few nuclear weapons they can conquer the U.S.?”

“What he’s counting on, our experts believe, is that once he’s muscled us into negotiations or blown up several of our cities, the Soviet government will switch its policy and back him up.”

“Do you think the Russians would do that?”

“I don’t even want to speculate on it,” Hawk said. “Our only concern now is that Zhizov must be stopped. The President has indicated there will be no discussion of surrender. If Zhizov is telling the truth — and we’ve got to assume that he is — his bombs are already planted in a number of American cities.”

“You said New York is the first target. Did Zhizov give us a time deadline?”

“Ten days.” Hawk’s eyes flicked at the open page of his desk calendar. “We have nine days left.”

“Then the sooner I get started the better. Do we have any leads?”

“Just one. An agent in Los Angeles working with the Atomic Energy Commission saw the secret data on the Mumura explosion and the message from Zhizov and contacted us Just a few hours ago. The agent says she has information that may be valuable and asks that we send a man out so she can deliver it in person.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “did you say she?”

Hawk bit down hard on his cigar and frowned at me, but I detected a twinkle in his eyes. “I don’t know how you fall into these things, Nick, but yes, the agent is a woman. A very attractive one, if we are to believe the picture in her dossier.”

He slid an eight by ten black and white photo across the desk.

The face that looked up at me had high cheekbones, large pale eyes set wide apart, and a mouth that showed a hint of humor, all framed by rich blonde hair that flowed loosely to her shoulders. I flipped the photograph over to check the vital statistics. Rona Volstedt, Age 26, Height 5’7’’, Weight 115 pounds.

I gave the picture back to Hawk.

He said, “If I had luck like yours I’d make my fortune at the racetrack and retire in two weeks.”

I grinned. “As I told you, I owe it all to thinking pure thoughts. Do you want me to get started right away?”

“You’re booked on a one P.M. flight for the Coast. Before you leave, drop in at Special Effects. Stewart has some new toys to show you.”

As usual, Stewart was fussy and meticulous about showing me his latest developments, but since his “toys” had saved my life more than once, I let him present them in his own way.”

“You will observe the small fire burning behind the glass partition,” Stewart said by way of greeting.

“You’ve done it this time, Stewart,” I said. “You’ve invented fire!”

He ignored my remark and went on. “These round white pills in my hand are a refinement on our familiar smoke pellets. I will demonstrate.” He shoved one arm through the mouth-like rubber seal in the partition and tossed one of the pellets into the fire, quickly withdrawing his hand.

There was a soft, popping sound, and a blue haze filled the small sealed room.

“That’s it?” I asked, a little disappointed.

“As you can see,” Stewart said as if I hadn’t spoken, “the smoke appears to be very thin, barely coloring the air and apparently no hindrance to vision or actions. However, I’d like you to take a very small sniff.”

Averting his face, Stewart pried apart the rubber lips of the seal with his thumbs. Any smoke that escaped was too thin to be visible, but I went ahead and took the smallest possible inhalation. Instantly I was coughing and sneezing. Tears blinded my eyes, and the lining of my nose and windpipe seemed to be on fire. Some fifteen seconds after Stewart had closed the seal the symptoms cleared up and I was able to breathe and see again.

“Powerful stuff,” I said, noting that Stwart seemed Just a little bit smug about my discomfort

“The effects, as you perceive, are quite temporary,” he said, “but the smoke from one pellet can immobilize everyone in an average-size room within three seconds. Now I’d like you to try this.” He handed me what appeared to be an ordinary linen handkerchief.

“You want me to blow my nose?” I asked.

“A superfine mesh is woven into the cloth,” he said. The corners will attach behind your head to provide a mask against the effects of the smoke.”

I pulled the handkerchief across my nose and mouth and pressed two corners together at the back of my head. They stuck to each other and kept the mask in place. I opened the rubber seal on the glass partition and took a small experimental whiff, then breathed in deeply. The acrid smell was still there, but this time I had none of the unpleasant effects. I closed the seal and took off the handkerchief-mask.

“Good work, Stewart,” I said, and meant it.

He tried not to look too pleased. “I have one more little item here that you might find useful.” From a drawer he took a brown leather belt and held it out in front of me like a proud father displaying his new baby.

Taking the belt from his hands, I said, “Stewart, you must be slipping. That is one of the most obvious phony buckles I’ve seen in years. It wouldn’t fool a professional agent for ten seconds. What’s inside, a Captain Midnight decoder?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

Something in Stewart’s tone told me he was ahead of me, but just the same, I examined the trick buckle, quickly finding the tiny spring latch that opened the hidden compartment. I popped it open and there was a sharp report as a paper cap went off in the buckle.

Stewart said, “In the real model there is a small explosive charge inside instead of a cap. Not powerful enough for much destruction, but quite capable of killing or crippling the sharp-eyed enemy agent who has taken it away from you.”

I took half a dozen of the smoke pellets and the handkerchief-mask and traded my own belt for Stewart’s trick model. I took the tools of my trade out of the small bag I’d brought with me — Wilhelmina, my 9mm. Luger, and Hugo, my double-edged, razor-sharp stiletto. I put the Luger into an FBI-type belt holster and the stiletto into a specially constructed chamois-skin sheath that I strapped to my right forearm. With just the right flex of my forearm muscle, Hugo would drop hilt-first into my hand. I slipped my jacket back on, picked up my bag, and headed for the street to grab a taxi for Dulles. Killmaster was back in business.