The Killing Ground

Fifteen

The dawn broke very cold and gray. Carter got up from where he had been sitting in the middle of the living room all night and splashed some cold water on his face.

Lydia had crawled off to bed, but she had not gone to sleep until sometime after four in the morning. It was barely seven now, and she was wide awake.

“He didn’t come,” she said when Carter emerged from the bathroom.

“No,” Carter said. He went into the living room and pulled the couch aside. Then he went to the phone and ordered eggs and sausage and toast, with plenty of coffee for both of them.

Ganin hadn’t come. Which meant he was dead after all, or he had learned his lesson and was waiting until Carter left the security of the hotel.

Back in the bathroom, Carter took a quick shower, then shaved and got dressed in his new ski clothes. Their breakfast came a few minutes later, and after the room service waiter had left, Carter sat down with a cup of coffee and slowly cleaned Wilhelmina.

Lydia watched it all, and then joined him for their breakfast, although neither of them ate very much.

Afterward she got dressed, and they repacked their bags and Carter’s ski equipment.

“What happens now?” she asked. “I cannot remain here like this.”

“No,” Carter said. “You’re going to Munich. Then back to the States.”

“I won’t be able to cross the frontier. I have no passport.”

“You’ll be met,” Carter said. “At Scharnitz. Do you know where it is?”

She nodded. “On the way back to Garmisch-Partenkirchen,” she said. “But how?”

“You’ll see,” Carter said.

They left their room and went downstairs to the lobby, Carter’s right hand in his jacket pocket, his fingers curled around the grip of his Luger.

The desk clerk said nothing as Carter signed his charge slip and checked out.

“Is the car ready to take me skiing?” Carter asked.

“Of course, sir, but I thought...” the clerk said, flustered. After hearing reports of the American’s overindulgence the night before, he was amazed to see him standing this early, let alone ready to ski.

Carter grinned. “I’m meeting an old friend on the slopes. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “I’ll have the car brought around immediately.”

Carter figured the clerk was very likely in Kobelev’s employ.

The Killmaster and Lydia crossed the lobby, and a couple of minutes later the hotel car, a Mercedes 300D, pulled up outside. The driver, a tall, very husky young man with blond hair, jumped out and helped them with their bags.

They headed away from the hotel, and when they were down on the main highway that led over to Axamer, Carter ordered the driver to turn around and make a stop in Innsbruck first.

“Sir?” the driver asked, glancing up into the rearview mirror and not slowing down.

“Innsbruck,” Carter said. He pulled out Wilhelmina and laid the end of the barrel against the base of the driver’s skull. He too probably worked for Kobelev.

“Yes, sir,” the man said. A hundred yards down the road he pulled around, and they hurried back into town.

He directed the driver to pull up in front of the train station, and then he handed his Luger to Lydia. “Hold him for a couple of minutes. I’ll get your tickets.”

“Don’t leave me,” Lydia protested.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Carter said, and he jumped out of the car, went inside, and angled directly over to the telephones.

He placed a call to Charlie Mann in Munich. “Do you know who this is?”

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re the last person I figured I’d hear from today. All hell is breaking loose down here.”

“How fast can you get to Scharnitz with a passport for a woman named Lydia Borasova? Blond. Pretty. Russian.”

There was silence on the line for a moment or two.

“Three hours tops. She hot?”

“Very. I want her back in D.C. as soon as possible. Call Smitty. He’ll know what to do with her.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t ask. Just get to Scharnitz as fast as possible. She’ll be waiting on the Austrian side in the beer garden.”

“Will do,” Mann said, and Carter hung up.

Back outside, he climbed into the car, took the Luger from Lydia, and ordered the driver to take them over to the university.

Keeping his hands out of sight of the driver, Carter carefully passed the rental car’s keys to Lydia, making sure she could see the tag that described the car and gave its license plate number. He mouthed the single word Scharnitz. She nodded.

They got to the university, and the driver pulled over to the curb. Carter embraced Lydia and whispered, “Car’s in the back lot. A friend named Charlie Mann will be waiting for you at the beer garden. Good luck.”

When they parted, Carter glanced at the driver, then back to Lydia. “Your train leaves in a couple of hours. You can stay here at the university, in the library, until then. You’ll be safe.”

She nodded again. “Have a good day skiing.”

“Sure,” Carter said.

Lydia got out of the car and hurried into the university. The driver watched her go, his eyes narrowed.

“Now it’s time for the slopes,” Carter said. “Axamer.”

The driver glanced at Carter’s reflection in the mirror, then pulled away from the curb, back the way they had come.

Twenty minutes later they had turned off the highway and followed the road back up to Axamer, higher up in the mountains.

Around a large curve, they came to the sports complex where in 1964 and again in 1976 the winter Olympics had been held.

There were quite a few cars in the vast parking lot despite the fact that the ski season hadn’t really begun yet. But the recent heavy snowfalls had helped speed things up.

Carter pocketed his Luger as they pulled up to the main building, and the driver turned around to him.

“Listen to me, for what it’s worth,” Carter said. “I’m getting out here. I want you to turn around and drive directly back to the hotel. If I see you again, for whatever reason, I will kill you immediately. No questions, no arguments, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

The young man swallowed hard, his earlier confidence gone under the direct threat. “Yes, sir.”

“Fine,” Carter said, and he climbed out of the car, got his things from the trunk, then without looking back went into the main building. He bought an all-day, all-slopes lift ticket and went outside.

After standing his skis and poles in one of the racks, he put on his ski boots, then walked up onto the balcony where he took a table near the railing and ordered himself a coffee and schnapps.

The overcast had lifted somewhat, although it looked as if it might snow again at any moment. Rising above were the magnificent slopes of the Austrian Alps. From where he sat he could see quite a few skiers descending in zigzag patterns, the lifts rising up into the sky, and off to the west the village with its private, very expensive chalets.

This then, at last, was the killing ground. Today was the killing day. Somewhere very near were Kobelev and his goons. And very probably Ganin, too.

His coffee came, and he sipped it as he smoked a cigarette and watched the skiers rise up on the chair lifts and then descend the slopes.

Ski conditions were wonderful for this early, and there was a festive, holiday mood at the lodge.

Carter stiffened and sat forward. Seventy-five yards away, at the chair lift entry point, a tall, well-built man was getting aboard a chair. It was Ganin. Carter was sure of it.

The chair took off, and Ganin turned around and looked directly at Carter. He waved, and then the lift seemed to accelerate upward.

Carter threw down a twenty-shilling note, hurried off the balcony, quickly put on his skis, and skied over to the chair lift entry point.

He was only fourth in line, and within three minutes of sighting Ganin, he was on a chair going up into the mountains.

On the way up he lifted his skis and checked his bindings to make sure they were set for extremely stiff conditions, then he pulled out Wilhelmina to make sure she was ready to fire.

Ganin, he kept thinking. The man was absolutely incredible. Without a doubt one of the very best Carter had ever gone up against in his long career. Between Ganin’s abilities and Kobelev’s perverse genius, they were an awesome force.

The chair lift followed the slope up at an extreme angle. At times the chair was two hundred feet above the mountainside, while at other times it dropped to treetop level.

Within a few minutes the lodge was lost below in the mist. The chair rose up over the top of a tower, then started to dip down again, closer to the steeply sloping ground.

A bullet whined off the metal armrest beside Carter, and he lurched to the left.

A lone skier below and to the left had a rifle up to his shoulder. Carter violently swung the chair to the right as a second shot snapped by so close that Carter could feel the wind of its passage.

He yanked out his Luger and snapped off a single shot despite the impossible distance.

The gunman lowered the rifle and took off, skiing down the slopes.

Carter looked up a moment later in time to see a helicopter appear out of the mists from the west. The passenger door was open, and someone was hanging half out of the machine, a rifle in his hands.

The chair was fifty feet off the ground at this point. The helicopter was closing in fast.

Without hesitation Carter shoved himself off, ducking low as he fell. For the first moment or two he was in danger of losing his balance, and tumbling, but he managed to straighten out and twist his body around so that he was facing down the slope, and he leaned way out as if he had just launched himself from a tall ski jump scaffold.

He was being fired at from the helicopter as well as from the ground, which was racing up at him with incredible suddenness.

Carter braced himself for the tremendous shock of landing, and when he hit he nearly lost it. An instant later he had his balance and was schussing down the extremely steep slope in excess of seventy miles per hour, the moguls driving his bent knees nearly to his chest, his injured leg threatening to collapse beneath him at any moment.

Slowly, cautiously he began to have better control and began making a wide, arcing turn to the east toward a broad stand of pine, his speed slowing, a huge rooster tail of snow carved by the fantastic accelerations rising high.

The helicopter was directly above him as Carter came to a full stop, falling sideways, end over end, Wilhelmina still in hand.

He looked up at the machine, the howling gale from the rotors so close overhead making it all but impossible to see much of anything.

Carter caught a glimpse of Kobelev himself strapped on the passenger side, hanging half out of the doorway, an automatic rifle at his shoulder. Bullets were spraying everywhere around Carter, but he calmly raised his Luger and began firing slowly, one careful shot at a time into the blinding snow. The first went wide, but Carter was sure he hit Kobelev with the second. The third hit the engine and the fourth a rotor.

The machine suddenly lurched downslope and turned over on its side, Kobelev still hanging half out of the open doorway, and finally disappeared into a broad copse of trees. Seconds later a ball of flame rose from the trees, followed by the harsh crump of a big explosion.

Carter got to his feet, the sounds of distant avalanches set off by the explosion rumbling all around, and spotted a lone skier coming down the slopes from above.

It was Ganin!

Carter dropped back to one knee, brought Wilhelmina up, and took careful aim at the figure speeding toward him. His finger was on the trigger, Ganin was lined up perfectly in his sights, but a moment later Carter lowered his gun.

Not that way, he told himself.

He got up, took off his skis, and stepped aside, the Luger pointed down.

When Ganin got to within a dozen yards of where Carter stood waiting, he pulled up short in a burst of snow and stepped sideways. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside.

“Under the balcony?” Carter asked.

“It was very difficult. I nearly missed,” Ganin said. He held up his left hand. Two of his fingers were bandaged. “Broken.”

Carter nodded. The man was indeed incredible. “Kobelev is dead.”

Ganin glanced beyond Carter, where a few hundred yards down the slope flames rose from the trees. He nodded. “This time you should check to make sure he is actually dead. See the body. Remember Bulgaria.”

“First there is you,” Carter said.

Ganin shook his head. “I have no quarrel with you, Carter. In fact I have a great deal of respect for you.”

“I can’t let you walk away from here.”

“You will shoot me down in cold blood?”

“If need be. There is still the business of the poor Frenchman in Borodin’s apartment building. And the caretaker at Zugspitze.”

Ganin shrugged. “Casualties of war.”

“No,” Carter said.

“I see,” Ganin replied. But then he leaped on his skis and suddenly flashed downslope. “Here!” he shouted.

Carter’s own stiletto came out of nowhere, burying itself to the hilt in his gun arm. Carter fell back, shifting Wilhelmina to his left, and snapped off two shots, both of them hitting Ganin before he got another ten yards, and the Russian went down in a heap, tumbling end over end, for another thirty yards before he lay still.

For a long time Carter remained crouched where he was in the snow, his Luger wavering between the flames still rising from the trees and Ganin’s body.

Was it over? At long last was it finished?

At length Carter painfully got to his feet, stepped into his skis, and unsteadily skied down to Ganin. He pocketed his Luger as he pulled up, and released his skis.

For a second Carter just stared at the Russian. Suddenly he realized Ganin’s boots were out of his ski bindings.

He started to reach for his Luger, when Ganin reared up like some enraged animal, leaping onto Carter, both of them falling back into the snow.

Ganin was extraordinarily strong despite his injuries, despite two 9mm Luger bullets in his back; his fingers curled powerfully around Carter’s neck, cutting off the air.

They rolled over, and as the world began to go dark, Carter gave one last mighty heave, getting his left arm free. He reached around, yanked the stiletto out of his right arm, and plunged it into Ganin’s back.

The Russian bellowed and rose up as Carter yanked out the razor-sharp blade.

Ganin swung his fist just at the moment that Carter drove the blade into the Russian’s throat, then pulled with every ounce of his waning strength to the left.

A huge gush of bright red arterial blood spurted out of Ganin’s neck. He clutched at his throat, and before he fell back, dead, he looked down at Carter, his nostrils flared.

You have won, my friend, he seemed to say. Despite my best, you have won.

Carter lay back in the snow, his eyes closed, his world spinning around. Ganin had been good. The very best he had ever gone up against. But it still was incredible to him to think that Kobelev could have survived the impact on the train so long ago. He had watched the bridge hit the Russian in the back of the head. He had seen Kobelev’s body fall off the train, bounce off the rocks below, and then be swept away in the river.

But the man had survived. His power was awesome.

Another vision came to Carter, this one more recent — Kobelev hanging out the side of the helicopter as it went down.

Was it possible? Had Kobelev survived again?

Carter opened his eyes, and the shock of what he saw was nearly physical. Kobelev, blood seeping from a wound in his chest, a gash at his forehead, and a maniacal look in his eyes, stood there. He held an American made Thompson submachine gun in his hands, pointed at Carter, and his hands were shaking so badly the weapon was likely to go off at any moment.

“Yes, it’s me,” the Russian screamed. He laughed.

Carter held very still. His Luger was out of reach in his coat pocket, and his stiletto was half a foot away from his left hand, lying blade up in the bloody snow.

“This time you won’t get away from me,” Kobelev said. “This will be for my daughter, Tatiana, and most of all for Istanbul.”

The Thompson’s safety was off. Carter could see it from where he lay. Kobelev’s finger was curled around the trigger. One squeeze and it would be impossible to miss. There would be no chance of survival.

“But first you’re going to beg,” Kobelev said softly. He calmly moved the Thompson a little lower, and squeezed off one shot.

The bullet tore into Carter’s left thigh, just below his groin, the force of the impact nearly pulling his hip out of joint, the pain so intense it boiled up into his gut, and constricted his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“You’re going to know real pain,” Kobelev shouted. He squeezed off another shot, this one smashing into Carter’s right foot, breaking his ankle.

“What do you want?” Carter screamed. His only chance now was his stiletto.

Kobelev laughed again, spittle drooling down the sides of his mouth. “You’re going to beg, Carter,” he cried. “You’re going to beg me to kill you. To put a sweet bullet into your brain.”

He fired a third time, this bullet grazing Carter’s left side, breaking at least one rib.

“No,” Carter shouted. “Please!”

Kobelev’s eyes were wide; his madness was like a huge electrical charge energizing him. He danced backward a foot or so. “Crawl to me, Carter! I want you to crawl to me! I demand it. You will kiss my boots, and then I will end it, mercifully, with a bullet in the back of your head. Now! Crawl!”

He fired off a short burst inches from Carter’s head.

“Crawl!”

It was all the opening Carter needed.

“I don’t know if I can move,” he cried.

Kobelev fired another short burst very close to Carter’s head. “Move! Now!”

With all of his strength Carter managed to roll over, his hands outstretched, clutching the snow as if he were trying to pull himself forward. He found the stiletto, the blade slicing into his left hand, but then Kobelev was directly over him, the barrel of the Thompson pressed against the base of Carter’s skull.

“Beg me for death, and I will kill you now,” Kobelev shouted.

Carter had the handle of the stiletto. “No,” he cried weakly, pushing himself half up, and then he slumped facedown in the snow as if he had fainted, but every muscle in his body was bunched up, ready to strike like a coiled spring.

“Beg it of me!” Kobelev screamed. “Beg!”

The barrel of the Thompson moved away, and Kobelev bent down, grabbed Carter’s shoulder and pulled him over.

At that moment, Carter rose up and drove the stiletto to its hilt in Kobelev’s groin.

The Russian reared back, bellowing in rage and pain. Carter scrambled after him, his left leg useless.

Kobelev could not bring the Thompson around to fire at Carter, but he used the heavy weapon as a club, smashing at Carter’s back and head, fighting like the totally insane monster he had become, screaming at the top of his lungs in Russian.

Carter’s fingers sought and found Kobelev’s throat, and he squeezed with everything he had left, the Russian’s eyes bulging as he thrashed around.

It could not last much longer, Carter knew. His own wounds were too extensive. He didn’t have much strength now. Once again his world was starting to go gray and his concentration was reduced to his grip on the Russian’s throat. Again a vision of Sigourney’s body in the ashes of the cabin swam into his mind’s eye. All of it, all of the pain and suffering and killing had been simply to flush out Carter. Nothing more than a vendetta.

There would be others after Kobelev and Ganin. But never could there be such a combination of evil genius and dark purpose.

Kobelev’s body gave a mighty shudder, and then lay still. But for a long time afterwards Carter kept squeezing. This time he must make sure. This time there would be no doubts...