The Killing Ground

Fourteen

Carter drove back into Garmisch-Partenkirchen and bought some bandages, gauze, and an antiseptic cream, then he went to his hotel. He cleaned up and afterward bandaged the wound in his side. It was superficial but painful.

In his mind’s eye he kept seeing Ganin going over the edge. He kept seeing the blood on the platform rail. It bothered him that he hadn’t actually seen the Russian’s body. But surviving such a fall was a total impossibility. Yet something nagged at the back of Carter’s brain. Some little thing he was overlooking. But he was too tired now to pursue it.

When he was ready he went downstairs to check out and pay his bill.

“Ah, Herr Carter,” the desk manager said. “You received a telephone message just a minute ago.” The man handed across a slip of paper.

Carter opened it and read the message. It was from Kobelev in Innsbruck: We’re waiting for your arrival... Lydia and I. Only wish dear Sigourney could have been here as well.

Kobelev couldn’t know that Ganin was dead. Not this soon. Yet he had to know that Ganin had come to the Zugspitze gunning for Carter.

The message had to be nothing more than Kobelev covering all the angles. On the chance that Carter either killed Ganin or somehow escaped, this message would be one more incentive to lure him to Innsbruck.

“Is something wrong, Herr Carter?” the manager was asking.

Carter looked up. “On the contrary,” he said, forcing a smile. “Did the caller leave a return number?”

“Nein, mein Herr. I’m afraid not.”

“It doesn’t matter. But if he should happen to call back, tell him I’m on my way.”

“Of course, sir,” the clerk said.

“Danke,” Carter said, and he left the hotel, climbed into his car, and headed southeast this time, back up into the mountains toward the Austrian border at Schamitz, barely fifteen miles away.

Sooner or later the carnage at the top of the Zugspitze would be discovered. It was important that he be out of the country before then. He was reasonably sure the woman clerk would remember him, and it wouldn’t take the police very long to track him back to the hotel.

Once he got to Innsbruck he was going to have to ditch the car. Keeping it would make it too easy for the Austrian police to catch up with him.

Carter was tired, and it seemed as if every bone in his body ached. He had begun the assignment without fully recuperating from the last. And he had collected his share of bumps and bruises during the past few days.

Ganin was dead. That thought kept running over and over again in his mind. Surely Kobelev would not be alone in Innsbruck. He would have his lieutenants. His goons would be around him, and they would be especially alert once it was learned Ganin had been killed.

If Kobelev were dug in at his chalet, he would be impossible to approach without placing Lydia in extreme danger.

As Carter drove, a plan began to formulate in his mind. Fight fire with fire; play Kobelev at his own game with audacity and arrogance. In the open where anyone who cared to could watch.

Kobelev would be lured out of his rat’s nest just as he had lured Carter all across Europe.

At the border Carter’s papers were checked, and he had to purchase additional liability insurance in order to drive in Austria. On the other side he exchanged the last of his German marks and some American dollars for Austrian shillings, then continued through Seefeld and Zirl in a heavy snowstorm, arriving in the lovely town of Innsbruck by early afternoon.

To the north was the Nordkette range of the Alps, and to the south, the Tuxer range; the city nestled between them. Carter had been here before some years ago, and he remembered that on a clear day the view from Innsbruck’s main street, the Maria-Theresienstrasse, was magnificent.

Because of the early snowfall there was an air of excitement in the city. Soon the winter ski season would be in full swing, and the city would bustle with activity.

Parking his car downtown, Carter went to a couple of ski equipment and clothing shops, and outfitted himself with some very good equipment and expensive clothing.

Then he drove to the railroad station and checked his overnight bag and new purchases in several lockers. Finally, he drove the car back across town, where he parked it in a back lot at the university.

Carter caught a bus back to the station, where he retrieved his bags, then he stepped outside as if he had just arrived by train.

A taxi pulled up and Carter got in, ordering the driver to take him out to the Schlosshotel in Igls, which along with Axamer Lizum — where Kobelev was apparently staying in a private chalet — was a part of the Innsbruck winter sports area.

The hotel was a luxury spa for very wealthy people who wanted to come for the hot baths, various mineral and salt cures, and of course for the skiing and the Innsbruck night life.

Carter checked in with a lot of fanfare, opening an account with an unlimited ceiling on his platinum Carte Blanche.

“Are any of the slopes open yet?” he asked the clerk in the palatial lobby.

“Yes, sir, here, and of course at Axamer, the upper slopes have been opened,” the clerk said, eying Carter. “But may I suggest, sir, that you first avail yourself of our hot mineral pool, and perhaps a series of muscle toners.”

“Indeed,” Carter sniffed. “Why did you think I came here in the first place?”

“Of course, sir.”

The bellman helped Carter up to his beautiful rooms on the third floor, the view from which on a nice day was probably magnificent.

Carter tipped the man extremely well, then ordered up a bottle of champagne and a quarter pound of beluga caviar with toast points, grated onion, egg, and lemon.

Next he called the desk and arranged for a tailor to be sent up immediately.

While he was waiting he put Pierre in a drawer in the night stand beside the bed, and Wilhelmina under the pillow. He missed his stiletto.

His food and wine came within ten minutes, followed immediately by the tailor, who efficiently took his measurements.

“I’ll need a tuxedo — plain, black, single-breasted — in time for this evening’s dinner. And I need a blazer, a tweed sportcoat or two, and perhaps a couple of business suits. I’ll leave fabrics to your discretion,” Carter said.

Unfazed, the tailor was writing it all down.

“Of course I’ll need shirts, ties, shoes, accessories.”

“Very good, sir. Your luggage, perhaps, was lost?”

“By the stupid Germans.”

The tailor raised his eyebrows knowingly. “It shall be as you wish, sir.”

When the tailor was gone, Carter poured himself a glass of champagne and helped himself to the caviar. Very quickly the word would spread: an American is at the Schlosshotel. Very rich. Eccentric. Name is Nick Carter.

Kobelev would hear, and sooner or later he would have to come out himself to see.

Later in the afternoon, Carter spent a half hour scouting around the hotel, looking for bolt-holes for himself in case Kobelev made a frontal attack and tried to corner him.

Aside from the easy climb down from his balcony, he discovered several alternate means of escape. The hotel was very large. Stairways, corridors, and elevators seemed to be placed at random.

Back in his room he called for a masseur, who arrived within minutes pushing a long, padded table that he set up by the window.

He was a large man, Spanish, and very powerful. He did not speak a word as he arranged Carter on the table and began.

His touch was gentle and very professional, and soon Carter began to feel like a human being again.

The man was careful when he came to Carter’s various wounds and bruises, and a half hour later when he was finished, and Carter sat up, he nodded.

“You have certainly been around, Señor Carter,” he said. “Your right knee needs some help. Perhaps I will return tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” Carter said noncommittally.

A half hour after the masseur left, the tailor returned with his tuxedo, shoes, a couple of formal shirts, and the other accessories.

“Your other things will be ready first thing in the morning, Herr Carter,” the man said.

Carter tried on the suit. It fit perfectly. “My compliments,” he said.

“One must look one’s best for dinner here,” the little man said, then he turned on his heel and left.

At seven Carter dressed for dinner, strapping on his Luger and positioning the little gas bomb. Downstairs, before he went into the bar, he made reservations at the front desk, for skiing on the upper slopes at Axamer for first thing in the morning. The hotel car and driver would be ready out front at eight o’clock sharp.

Then he went inside, ordered a scotch, and sat at the end of the bar, from where he had a clear view of the entrance to the lobby.

By now Kobelev would have to know about Ganin, and he would certainly be aware of Carter’s presence in Innsbruck. The next move would be the Russian’s, either that evening, or certainly the next morning sometime on the slopes.

Carter had given the man a choice: there at the hotel, or out on the slopes of the mountain somewhere. It would be dangerous. But Carter wanted the man drawn out.

The barman had moved to the opposite end of the bar, and he was talking on the telephone. He looked down toward Carter, then unplugged the telephone and brought it to him. He plugged it in behind the bar.

“A telephone call for you, Herr Carter,” he said, holding out the instrument.

Carter looked at him for a moment, then nodded and took the phone. The opening shots already?

“Carter here,” he said.

“Ah, Nicholas,” Kobelev said. “You are enjoying your stay? I understand the Schlosshotel is lovely.”

“I’ve come for you,” Carter said softly.

“Yes, I know. And I’m delighted that you arrived safe and sound, though I do feel sorry for poor Arkadi. Unfortunate, that.”

Carter said nothing.

“You did create quite a stir in Germany, you know. First in Munich, and then at the Zugspitze. And I tried to capitalize on it, you know, but to no avail. Your David Hawk is quite good.”

“Tell me, are you returning to Moscow so that you can kill little children in safety?” Carter taunted. “I mean, now that you no longer have Ganin to run your errands?”

Kobelev laughed. “On the contrary, Nicholas. Tomorrow I expect to see you at the slopes over here. I’m quite looking forward to it, you know. I still have not forgotten my daughter, or the Orient Express. It’s taken me two years to recover. And I am a man who never forgets.”

Carter had made reservations for skiing less than ten minutes earlier. It meant that Kobelev had people at the hotel who were watching him. Probably someone at the front desk.

“What do you want, then? Why wait until tomorrow?”

“The impatience of youth,” Kobelev sighed. “I wish you to be fit. To be well rested for our encounter in the morning.”

Carter looked up at that moment in time to see Lydia Borasova coming through the doorway from the lobby. She wore a low-cut sequined evening dress and a short sable jacket thrown casually over her shoulders. Her blond hair was done up. She looked lovely.

“I’ve sent along a little present for you. To the victor goes the spoils, I believe you once said.”

Lydia spotted Carter at the bar and came across to him. She was trying her best to smile for the benefit of the other people at the bar, but Carter could see she was barely holding on.

“Enjoy her for tonight, Nicholas. Believe me, enjoy the whore, because by noon tomorrow both of you will be dead.” Kobelev hung up.

“It was him?” Lydia asked, sitting down next to Carter.

Carter hung up the phone. The bartender came to collect it, and he placed a cocktail napkin in front of Lydia.

“Madam?”

“Vodka,” she said. “No ice.” She turned back to Carter, her eyes glistening. “He is crazy with rage. He killed my father, and he promises to kill my mother unless I do as he says.”

Carter touched her hand. “I’m sorry...”

“They came to the hotel. There wasn’t a thing I could do. God, I am so frightened, Nick. He has others in Germany. When they told him you had killed Ganin he went berserk. It was terrible. I thought he was going to kill me then and there.”

“What happened?” Carter asked. “Why did he let you go?”

“It’s no use, you know,” she said. Her drink came. She tossed it back and pushed her glass forward for another. The bartender complied, then moved off to the far end of the bar.

“He has people here at the hotel?”

She nodded. “This town is his,” she said. “He has at least a hundred men and women in his entourage. You can’t go anywhere or do anything without them knowing about it.”

“What about the Austrian police?”

“He’s got them as well, somehow. They won’t touch him unless he becomes so obvious as to involve a private citizen. They are happy to let this be solely between you and him. And he will kill you; there is no doubt in my mind. He has the people.”

“But he’ll want to be present. He’ll want to see it happen.”

“Yes. He wants to pull the trigger himself. All he can talk about is you.”

Was it too much? Carter wondered. Kobelev never did a thing without a very good reason. Had he sent Lydia to lull him into a false sense of security for the night?

Kobelev could talk about no one else other than Carter? Was it so? Once again, Carter got the feeling that he was missing something. Missing some piece of information crucial to his own survival. But what?

Lydia was studying his face as he thought.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is Ganin dead?”

Carter started to answer yes, but then he held off. Was Ganin dead? He saw the man go over the edge. He saw the blood on the rail.

Suddenly another thought crossed his mind, and he went cold. Suddenly he realized just what it was that had bothered him. Ganin. Christ, is it possible?

In his mind’s eye he went back to the Zugspitze. He put himself in Ganin’s spot. Ganin turned around at the edge of the roof and smiled. He smiled! He had a means of escape worked out.

In his mind, Carter let himself fall over the edge. The balcony railing came up at him, and he grabbed it. An instant later, a split second later he swung himself under the balcony to a platform, or perhaps to a beam on the supporting structure. Beneath the balcony!

After Carter had left, Ganin had climbed up, taken the cable car down, and stolen one of the staff cars parked behind the cable car building.

Ganin. Alive. It was just possible.

“What is it?” Lydia asked, alarmed. She had read something of that in his eyes.

“Ganin is alive,” Carter said softly. “Or at least there is a very good possibility he is alive.”

Lydia’s hand went to her mouth. “I thought—”

“Kobelev is convinced I believe Ganin is dead. Tomorrow he says the confrontation will come. He sent you along, and that was his mistake.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tonight I supposedly will be lulled into a sense of false security. You and I will be so happy to see each other that I will be off my guard. He did the same thing last time with... Sigourney.”

“Ganin will come here? Tonight?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Lydia looked away, pale. “I’ll never escape. It is impossible.”

“No,” Carter said. “Ganin and Kobelev will never leave Innsbruck alive. They’ve made a fatal mistake.”

She looked into his eyes, wanting to believe him, but she finally looked away.

They had a lovely dinner in the hotel’s excellent restaurant, and Carter made a great show of fawning all over Lydia as if he were a starved lover and could hardly wait to get her upstairs in bed. He also seemed to be drinking a great deal of wine.

Afterward he tipped too heavily, and he and Lydia made sure they were spotted crossing the lobby and taking the elevator up to his room.

The information would get back to Kobelev. Immediately. Ganin, in turn, would be set loose. But Carter was sure that if Ganin were alive, and in any kind of shape to come there, he would have to be a changed, much more cautious man. That, too, would be the assassin’s undoing.

Two suitcases were stacked in the middle of the bedroom floor.

“They’re mine,” Lydia said. “I had them sent up.”

“Could there be explosives...”

She shook her head. “I thought the same thing. I packed them myself.”

For the next twenty minutes, Carter methodically checked the room from top to bottom, making sure there were no listening devices, no bombs or hidden booby traps of any kind, and then he double-locked the main door, shoving the heavy living room couch in front of it. In the bedroom he made sure the windows were locked and the drapes pulled closed. With great effort he managed to move the massive wardrobe, built of solid oak, in front of the windows. It wouldn’t stop a determined assassin, of course, but it would slow him down and deny him a noiseless entrance.

Lydia watched him work with wide eyes. “Do you think this will stop him?”

“No, just slow him down,” Carter said. “Buy us some time.” He peeled off his clothes and took a quick shower.

When he came out, Lydia was sitting cross-legged on the floor smoking one of his cigarettes and drinking a glass of champagne. She had tossed her jacket aside, and her dress was hiked up to her hips.

“They could have poisoned the wine,” Carter said, coming across to her.

“Not his style,” she said.

Carter sat down beside her, and she poured him some champagne, and held the cigarette to his lips so that he could take a puff.

“A celebration,” she said. “One way or another I will be free within twenty-four hours.” She laughed. “Either he kills us, or you kill them. And then my worries will be over.”

It was the fatalistic Russian attitude. It was common.

She leaned over and kissed Carter, lightly at first, but then she placed the cigarette into the rest of her champagne, set the glass aside, then got up on her knees and pulled off her dress.

She wore no bra, and her nipples were erect. She slid out of her panties, and pressed Carter back on the carpet, pulling off the towel he had wrapped around his waist.

“Live or die,” she said seriously. “It does not matter. I want you to make love to me now, Nick Carter. For the last time, no matter what happens.”

They kissed deeply, and then she worked her way down his chest, across his stomach, finally taking him in her mouth.

Carter reached down and undid her hair, pleasure coursing through his body, as she did magical things with her tongue, lips, and fingers, trying to lose herself in lovemaking.

She sat up suddenly, tears streaming from her eyes. “I need you,” she said in Russian. “Please?”

Carter rolled her gently over onto her back, and she opened her legs, pulling him to her, and they made love, slowly at first, but then faster and harder with more urgency, until Lydia cried out in passion and fear at the very end.