The Killing Ground

Twelve

The elevator was still on the eighth floor. Carter reached inside, punched the button for the lobby, then continued down the corridor to the stairwell.

Just inside the door he waited for a moment as the two German cops skidded around the corner. They looked up at the elevator indicator, then one of them pulled out a walkie-talkie. They had someone in the lobby, just as Carter had thought they might.

He turned and hurried down the stairs, taking them recklessly two and three at a time.

At the bottom he holstered Wilhelmina, straightened his jacket, and stepped out into the main corridor where he headed across to the lobby.

The desk clerk spotted him halfway to the front doors, but he was so stunned for several crucial seconds that he said and did nothing.

Two cops waited by the elevator, which was just opening as Carter made it to the front doors. The clerk came alive at that moment, shouting and gesturing toward the door.

The doorman suddenly stepped up. Carter stiff-armed the big man, stumbling and nearly falling in the process, then raced across the street, down the block, and into the university grounds, the sounds of whistles and distant sirens beginning to fill the night.

Because of the hour — it was a few minutes after ten — and the weather, the university was deserted. Carter followed the sidewalks through the trees and gardens, passing ornate baroque buildings and statues, finally emerging on the other side of the complex.

The huge cathedral on Miinsterplatz rose up tall in the misty night sky, as did the town hall building just beyond it.

He managed to make it across the broad street and down a narrow avenue that led over to another main thoroughfare just as a police car, its blue lights flashing, its siren blaring, screamed around from Adenauerallee.

Carter ducked into the shadows of a shop doorway as the police car passed, then he hurried across the main avenue and down another side street.

It took him nearly forty minutes to make it to the hotel near the railroad station where he had left Lydia.

There were no suspicious-looking characters outside, and no police were there — yet. Nevertheless, Carter went around to the back of the hotel, pulled down the fire-escape ladder, and scrambled up to their third-floor room.

The curtains were half open, the room in darkness. But Carter could see that no one was inside. Lydia was gone.

The window was unlocked. He shoved it open and climbed inside. Closing the curtains, he flipped on the lights.

The room was empty. A chair by the writing desk was turned over, as was the wastepaper basket.

Lydia was gone. The German police had been nothing more than a diversion to keep Carter busy. It meant that they had been spotted by Kobelev’s people, had been followed here to this hotel, and once Carter left they had grabbed the woman.

It was the same business that was used on St. Anne’s. Sigourney had been killed during a similar scenario. Christ! The same damned pattern, Carter thought. First, Kobelev created a signal that caused Carter to come running. Next, he engineered a diversion. And in the end — in the Caribbean, in New York, in Paris, and now in Bonn — Kobelev had his way.

In frustration, Carter took the small room apart piece by piece, looking for something — anything — that Lydia might have left behind. Any kind of a sign or clue as to what had happened there. But he found nothing.

He stood, finally, by the window looking out. Kobelev’s tactics were as simple as they were sophisticated.

First the unmistakable flag, and then the diversion.

It was the puppet master’s game. It was time now, Carter decided, to play the man at his own pace. He had invented the rules; Carter would now use them. And with a vengeance.

He made sure the room was neat and tidy, then he slipped out the window, down the fire escape, and around the corner to the train station.

The last train out for the evening would be departing in a few minutes, at midnight, for Munich, which was exactly where Carter wanted to go.

Kobelev would not want him stopped in Bonn, so he was certain the police had not been tipped off about the run-down hotel. The police had been nothing more than a means of prying Lydia loose from Carter’s grasp.

He only hoped that Kobelev had not yet had her killed. He suspected the Russian would ultimately use her as the bait for the final confrontation.

Carter bought a one-way ticket, first-class, boarded the train, and exactly at midnight it pulled out of the now nearly deserted station and headed east back through the city, before turning south for the eight-hour run to the capital city of Bavaria.

He settled back, alone in the compartment, the lights out as he watched the countryside slip by. He was nearly a hundred-percent certain that remaining in Bonn would have accomplished nothing for him. If Ganin had ever been there, which he seriously doubted, he would be gone by now. Lydia would be gone as well.

They would all be heading to wherever the killing ground was located. The final confrontation would come very soon, only Kobelev was in for a nasty surprise before it happened.

The train stopped in Frankfurt for twenty minutes a few hours later. Carter cautiously got off and went upstairs to the vast terminal, at the early hour nearly deserted except for the maintenance crew.

At one of the telephone kiosks he placed a credit card call to Smitty in Washington, D.C., and before the Operations chief could make any objections, Carter passed on some hurried instructions and hung up.

From vending machines Carter bought a couple of beers and a sandwich, then reboarded the train. A few minutes later it pulled out of the station for the long haul down to Mannheim, Stuttgart, Augsburg, and finally Munich.

After he ate, he managed to get some sleep until the cold dawn broke gray over the German countryside. In the small pull-down sink in his compartment, Carter splashed some water on his face, then rang the porter for coffee and the morning newspapers.

There was no mention in the Frankfurt newspaper about the incident in Bonn, but then Carter would have been surprised had there been anything. He searched for something else in the newspaper’s international section, finally spotting what he took to be a possibility. An American NATO adviser and his wife, whose first name was listed in the paper as Lydia, were killed when an avalanche suddenly roared down over a high pass road sweeping their car over the edge. One witness reported hearing a large bang, such as the noise an avalanche cannon might make. The report, however, had so far been unconfirmed.

The incident occurred late yesterday near Innsbruck, the Austrian skiing town barely a hundred miles south of Munich.

Carter put the paper down. If the Innsbruck mention were another Kobelev flag, and he expected it was, the puppet master would be expecting him to make his way there immediately.

Carter smiled inwardly, his eyes hard and cold. He would go to Innsbruck, all right. But not right away. First he was going to strike back in Munich. Fie was going to draw Ganin back into Germany. He’d play them at their own game.

It was raining and gusting in Munich when Carter got off the train and stepped outside the ornate railway station. Charlie Mann, his AXE contact in Munich, was waiting at the curb in a battered BMW sedan.

Carter crossed the broad sidewalk and climbed into the car. Immediately Mann pulled away from the curb and headed past the Frauenkirche, the twin church towers symbolizing the city.

“All hell has been breaking loose overnight,” Mann said.

“Anything from Bonn?”

Mann nodded. “Hawk’s been on the horn with the head of the German Federal Police. They want you pretty badly. Seems you roughed up one of their top cops.”

“Anything happening here in Munich?” Carter asked.

“Not a thing, although I suspect that’s about to change.”

“Not until I have a shower and a shave. Did you bring the things I asked for?”

Mann nodded over his shoulder toward the back seat. “In the leather bag. The Bonn police have your things impounded, including a very curious cassette recorder with an unusual circuit board arrangement.”

Carter used the recorder to transport his weapons through airline security systems. If the police had taken it apart, they’d know what it had been used for. It meant they’d know he was armed with more than the Luger.

They drove in silence for the next few minutes. Mann had circled the central downtown area twice before he headed up the Schützenstrasse, very near the railway station they had just left.

“I’ve got you booked at the Excelsior — not the best in town but certainly not the worst. It’s quiet.”

“Have you got my passport?” Carter asked.

Again Mann looked at him. “It was the one thing that made Smitty nervous.”

Carter said nothing.

“The Bonn police have your Scott passport, but Smitty couldn’t understand why you wanted a passport in your own name. It’ll be like a big neon sign for the opposition.”

Carter nodded. “Exactly.”

“I see,” Mann said. “Are you going to need some help here in town?”

“Only under two conditions, Charlie. The first is that you do exactly as I tell you. No questions.”

Mann nodded. “And the second?”

“No matter what happens afterward, you make no attempt to follow me or to offer any further assistance.”

Again Mann nodded. They pulled up to the hotel. “What’s the target?”

“The Soviet compound,” Carter said. “I want to light a little fire under them tonight.”

Mann whistled. “All hell is going to break loose, not only with the Russians but with the German police.”

“I hope so,” Carter said. “I sincerely hope so.” He got out of the car, and Mann handed out his overnight bag. “I’ll meet you in front of the Hofbräuhaus at eight o’clock sharp.”

“Right,” Mann said. “I’ll have the rest of the things with me then.”

Carter got a front room on the first floor. After he had shaved, showered, and changed into some clean clothes, he cleaned and oiled his weapons.

It was nearly noon before he went downstairs, had a light lunch and a beer in the restaurant, then rented a car and headed northwest past the magnificent Schloss Nymphenburg, once the summer residence of the kings of Bavaria.

A half mile beyond the palace’s vast flower gardens and park, Carter cruised slowly by a Romanesque compound partially hidden behind tall stone walls.

This was the Soviet compound from which the trade delegation, on semipermanent assignment to Munich, operated. It was also where many of the Soviet consul’s functions were maintained, and where many of the Aeroflot and Tass employees stayed. It had also long been known as an operations center for KGB activities in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. To this point the Germans had tacitly accepted the compound’s existence because it was easily watched. The Germans and the Americans felt that if they closed the place down, KGB operations outside of Berlin would go underground, and would be much more difficult to monitor.

The compound was surrounded on three sides by park and forestland. Only at the front was it open.

Carter parked his rental car a few blocks beyond the compound, and then as if he were simply a tourist out for an afternoon stroll in the park, he circled around to the back, to within fifty yards of the compound’s walls.

From where he stood, Carter could just see the back of the main building within the compound. The roofline bristled with various antennae, all pointing east, back toward the geostationary satellite the Soviets used for communications relay with Moscow.

A West German Air Force helicopter suddenly clattered into view just over the treetops. Carter stepped back against a tree so that he would be out of sight from the air, and watched as the chopper slowly made a pass over the Soviet compound, then disappeared in the distance.

From what Carter understood, these flyovers happened every two hours around the clock. He glanced at his watch. It was just two o’clock. It meant another flyover would be scheduled for four o’clock; then at six, eight, and ten, and throughout the night.

He turned away and went back to his car. At the ten o’clock flyover, the Soviets would be in for a surprise. A very large surprise.

Carter spent the remainder of the afternoon sightseeing, and generally making sure that if anyone wanted to tail him, it would be easy.

Shortly after seven he returned to his hotel, collected his things, and checked out. He told the desk clerk that a change of plans had necessitated his immediate departure for Garmisch-Partenkirchen, the resort town about fifty miles south of Munich, famous for its proximity to the Zugspitze, Germany’s tallest mountain.

He had the clerk call ahead and make reservations in his name at the Alpina, a luxury hotel. Then he left a large tip and headed out of the city.

Six blocks from the hotel, he speeded up, and after twenty minutes of driving, sure that he had not picked up a tail, he doubled back, arriving in front of the Hofbräuhaus just at eight.

Mann was waiting for him. Carter pulled up beside the AXE resident’s car, and wound down his window. Mann leaned over and cranked down his own window.

“Meet me at the compound, in the park just beyond,” Carter said. “But make sure you’re clean.”

“Right,” Mann said.

“Did you bring the things?”

Mann nodded. “Hawk called.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Carter said, rolling up his window. He crashed the gearshift into first and took off.

For the next half hour he concentrated on his driving, making absolutely certain he was not picking up a tail.

Mann was just pulling into the park area as Carter showed up.

It was very windy now, and cold, but the rain had eased to a misting drizzle, perfect for cover.

“No trouble?” Carter asked.

“None. You?”

“I’m clean,” Carter said. He and Mann quickly changed into black jump suits, darkened their faces, and then pulled on the small packs Mann had brought along.

They headed immediately into the woods on a diagonal line that would bring them to the Soviet compound’s back wall.

“What about security?” Carter asked as they walked.

“It’s always been light. We don’t bother them, except electronically, and they don’t display any hardware.”

“They must maintain a perimeter watch.”

Mann nodded. “They usually have one or two men on the outside. But I couldn’t tell you their schedule.”

“Armed?”

“Probably.”

They hurried the rest of the way in silence, eventually coming within sight of the ten-foot-high wall, where they crouched behind a tree to watch and listen for a few minutes.

Carter checked his watch. It was just past nine-thirty, which meant they had less than thirty minutes to get in, do their thing, and get back out before the West German Air Force chopper made its routine pass.

There were a couple of lights on in upstairs windows of the compound building. Other than that the place was mostly in darkness.

Carter and Mann made it the rest of the way to the wall, and Mann boosted Carter up so that he could see over the top. Several cars were parked near what appeared to be a large service garage, and a light shone from around front. Other than that there was nothing to see.

Carter pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the wall, then, lying flat on his stomach, he reached down and helped Mann up and over the top.

Seconds later they both had dropped inside the compound and were racing to the back of the main building.

Mann pulled a grappling hook and line from his pack, and without hesitation he tossed it up, the hook catching on the edge of the roof three stories above.

“You’ve got everything you need in your pack,” Mann whispered, looking around. “I’ve got the detonator radio. They’re standard radio-controlled fuses, with plastique bricks.”

“Stand by,” Carter whispered. “If we have some company, shut them up, but don’t kill anyone.”

“Right,” Mann said.

Carter quickly climbed up the rope, and at the top he rolled over onto the roof in the midst of the communications and surveillance antennae.

He looked back over the edge, but Mann had disappeared, probably on a scouting trip.

Working as fast as he could in the darkness, Carter attached plastique charges to all seven of the compound’s antennae, inserting a radio-controlled fuse into each of the charges.

With eight minutes to spare he was again at the edge of the roof. Still Mann was not back. Carter eased over the eaves and quickly scrambled down the rope. With a quick flip on the line he had the grappling hook retrieved. He coiled the line and stuffed it into his pack as he headed around the corner on the run.

Charlie Mann was crouched in the shadows beside the building. He urgently motioned for Carter to get down.

“Two guards out front. They’ve got the fence line to the side covered,” Mann whispered.

Carter spotted the two Russians leaning against the side of a truck near the front of the building. They were talking.

Time was getting short. They were going to have to be out of there before the chopper came for its flyover.

Carter and Mann eased back around the corner, then stood up and headed in a dead run straight back away from the compound building, then around the corner of the service garage where they clambered over the wall.

With less than three minutes to go, Mann pulled the detonator out of his pack and set it for discharge as they hurried through the woods back toward their cars.

They had just come to the edge of the woods when the sound of the chopper’s rotors came to them over the breeze.

Mann stopped and looked back as Carter peeled off his dark jump suit.

“Hold it,” Carter said. “Hold it!”

The chopper came directly overhead, and a couple of seconds later it was directly over the Soviet compound.

“Now!” Carter snapped.

Mann cranked the switch, and an instant later a large explosion lit up the night sky.

“That’ll give the bastards something to think about,” Carter muttered.

“And the West Germans aren’t going to be exactly overjoyed either,” Mann said.

He and Carter raced back to their cars, tossing the packs and other things into the trunk of Mann’s BMW.

“Good luck, Nick. It’s been an interesting evening,” Mann said.

They shook hands. “I’ll clear you with Hawk when the dust settles,” Carter said.

“Was it worth the trouble it’s going to cause?”

“It was worth ten times as much trouble, my friend.”

“Good enough for me,” Mann said. “Take care, pal.”

“Right,” Carter said, and he jumped into his car and headed toward the E6 that led down to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, not turning on his headlights until he was well away from the now furiously burning Soviet compound.

Kobelev would put two and two together, and understand that the business tonight had been Carter’s work. He would also find out within hours — if he didn’t already know — that Carter would be at the Alpina Hotel.

Carter grinned. But that was just the beginning. He was going to play Kobelev’s game back at the man in spades. Before this weekend was over, Sigourney’s death would be avenged. When it came time for Carter to speak to her parents, he would have something positive to say to them.