The Killing Ground

Four

A car and driver were waiting for Carter at Washington’s National Airport. His weapons had arrived an hour earlier in a diplomatic pouch aboard another flight, that matter arranged by the CIA chief of station in Nassau. Carter had also borrowed some of the man’s clothes.

He relaxed in the back seat of the car as it headed into town and let his mind wander, a luxury he had not permitted himself since that night on the island.

No one on the big island had paid any attention to the fireworks on St. Anne’s, because they themselves were having an independence day celebration, or something. Whatever was being celebrated, St. Anne’s Island Resort could have blown sky high and no one would have paid any attention.

It was odd being back in Washington like this without Sigourney, Carter thought as they crossed into the city on the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Traffic was very heavy around the Watergate across from the Lincoln Memorial, but Carter let himself drift back to the island, to the ten days he and Sigourney had had together.

The driver broke into his thoughts.

“Would you care to stop by your apartment first, Mr. Carter?”

Carter looked up and shook his head. “No,” he mumbled.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said.

AXE headquarters occupied a building on Dupont Circle under the cover of Amalgamated Press and Wire Services. They parked in the underground garage beneath the building, and after passing through several security checks, Carter went up to David Hawk’s office. He again was passed through security, Hawk was buzzed, and Carter went in.

David Hawk was a short man in his sixties. A wide head with a thick shock of white hair sat atop a moderately husky frame. In his day he had been a very tough operative. Even now he hadn’t lost much of his edge. He put his ever-present cigar down and got up.

He studied Carter for several long moments in silence, then shook his head and indicated a chair. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

Carter sat down. “Yeah.”

“You had no warning?”

“None other than your call, sir,” Carter said. It was difficult sitting there like that. He wanted to be out chasing down the U.N. lead.

“There was an overflight of two Cuban Air Force helicopters south of our installation at Guantanamo Bay around four in the morning,” Hawk said. He sat down and flipped open a file folder. “One hour before that, the body of a Cuban national who worked in the Soviet embassy in Havana was dumped outside the front gate at Guantanamo. He had been shot twice at close range.”

“So?”

“He was the one who provided us with the information about Ganin.”

One puzzling item in the whole business came suddenly clear to Carter, and he sat forward. “It was Ganin, and he is after me.”

Hawk nodded. “It’s what we figured, Nick. Ganin is too sharp to have made such a mistake. The information was planted. They were taunting us.”

“They had no intention of killing me on St. Anne’s. They were simply after Sigourney.”

“He wants you to come after him,” Hawk said. “But why? You’ve never had any dealings with the man.”

“I don’t know,” Carter said. He thought back to the dead Cuban on the beach. Lashkin at the U.N. Was he the key? Was Ganin working for this Lashkin? And if that were the case, what or who was the man, that he was going to such lengths to come after one AXE operative?

“What about the attack force, Nick?”

“They were Cubans.”

“You took out three of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you get to question any of them?”

Carter held his silence for a long time. He had never lied to David Hawk. He had never thought such a thing possible, but at that moment he seriously considered it. Ganin was after him. So be it. But the bastard had killed an innocent woman. Either Ganin, or whoever directed the Soviet operative, was responsible. And they would pay.

“I see,” Hawk said softly. He turned in his chair and looked out the window toward the Dupont Plaza Hotel across the circle. “I understand how you feel, Nick. Believe me, I do. But you must understand that we are a nation of laws.”

“I understand, sir,” Carter said. In his mind he was flipping the mattress over and seeing Sigourney’s body for the first time.

“We have our charter, within which our operations are limited. There are certain things we can do, and there are others we cannot,” Hawk said. He turned back. “If we operate under the law, then we can all sleep at night. We can know that what we are doing is morally correct. Our jobs are necessary.”

Carter kept hearing his own words over and over again in his mind: I want you to stay here, in this room, no matter what happens. Christ, he had killed her. She had trusted him. She had... loved him.

“If we use their methods, if we run off with a total disregard for an individual’s rights, then we become one of them,” Hawk continued.

Carter’s head came up, and he met Hawk’s eyes. “I believe I still have fifteen days left on my vacation, sir,” he said evenly.

Hawk’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “You do.”

“I’d like to take them.”

A fragile stillness seemed to descend over the office. Hawk’s lips were pursed, his hands folded together in front of him on the desk. There was so much Carter wanted to say at that moment. But he knew that anything he would say would only serve to worsen an already bad situation. The man across the desk from him was more like a father to him than any man Carter had ever known. There was no person on this earth whom Carter had more respect for than David Hawk. But Sigourney... she shouldn’t have suffered for this business. For all her toughness, for all her bravado, she was one of the innocents.

“Where would you go... if I allowed you to finish the remainder of your leave?” Hawk asked.

Carter considered his answer in light of the manner in which Hawk had asked the question. His boss was being straightforward with him.

“New York, first.”

“And then?”

Carter shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, sir. Europe, possibly. Back to the Caribbean.”

“The Soviet Union?”

“As a private citizen... possibly.”

“In two weeks you would be back?”

Carter nodded.

“During that time, you would not be asking for help?”

“Perhaps I might make a call from time to time, for information. But no covert help, as such.”

“You would be on your own.”

Again Carter nodded.

Hawk reached out to the telephone console on his desk. Carter suddenly realized that the tape recorders that normally operated whenever Hawk was speaking with someone in his office had been turned off. Hawk was reaching for the switch. His hand hovered over the button.

“Is it that important to you, Nick?” he asked.

Carter looked down at his hands. “Yes... she was, sir.”

Hawk flipped the switch, the tape recorder’s green jewel light winked on, and he looked up.

“You still have a bit more than two weeks on your leave, Nick. I suggest you get yourself off somewhere and relax. There’ll be a lot of work for you when you get back.”

Carter got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Hawk’s face. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” He turned and went to the door.

“Nick,” Hawk said.

Carter turned back. “Sir?”

“I spoke with Sigourney’s father. He understands. He’d like to see you... later.”

A heaviness clamped down on Carter’s chest. “Yes, sir. I had intended to talk to him when I returned from my leave.”

“Good luck,” Hawk said, and Carter turned and left the office.

He took the elevator down to Operations, where he stepped into his office and closed the door. At the desk that he used between assignments, he keyed his computer terminal, fed in the proper identification and codes for access to the agency’s restricted data banks, and asked for available information on Arkadi Konstantinovich Ganin, and anything on the name Lashkin connected with the United Nations in New York.

While he was waiting for the information to come up, he opened his desk and took out a pack of his special cigarettes, lit himself one, then put in a call to AXE’s armorer.

“N3 here. I need a couple of gas pellets.”

“In connection with what assignment, sir?” the man asked.

“Clear it with Hawk,” Carter snapped. “I want them here in my office in fifteen minutes.” He slammed the telephone down.

The computer screen began filling with information on Ganin. According to the preface, it was mostly speculation. There was no known description, although whoever had entered the report on the computer estimated a man of Ganin’s reputed abilities would probably be no younger than thirty, and certainly no older than fifty. Listed were a dozen probable assignments attributed to the Soviet operative, all of them spectacular but many of them contradictory. In one instance, Ganin supposedly assassinated a general in the Chinese army in Peking, and yet within six hours he was credited with kidnapping two people in Athens. Impossible.

The latest entry showed that Ganin was probably connected with the new Soviet assassination bureau — Komodel — and had probably participated in an operation on St. Anne’s Island involving an AXE operative.

Nothing new there. Ganin was a mystery man. Not so Lashkin, for whom the computer had a lot of data.

Petr Sergeiovich Lashkin was born in Leningrad in 1935, which made him fifty-one now. He had attended Moscow State University, studied law, and then had joined the army as party adviser. Later he was recruited into the KGB and began his overseas postings. At the moment the man was number two in KGB operations out of the U.N., under the cover of adviser to the Soviet’s Security Council delegation. He was married and had two children; his family lived in Moscow. In New York he was living with his secretary, Lydia Borasova, a woman in her late twenties, in an apartment in Murray Hill off East 36th Street.

Several photographs came up on the printout, showing Lashkin to be a heavyset man with thick dark eyebrows, wide-set eyes, and ponderous Slavic features. There was one photograph of Lydia Borasova, a good-looking blonde.

Carter ripped the photos from the machine and stuffed them into his pocket.

The door opened and Rupert Smith, head of Operations, stuck his head in. “We all heard, Nick. We’re sorry.”

Carter looked up and nodded absently. “Thanks, Smitty.”

“Are you back, or are you leaving again?”

“I’m leaving in about five minutes,” Carter said. He flipped off the terminal and got up.

Smitty glanced at the machine. “Lashkin’s name is flagged. Your query came up on my terminal.”

“Something I should know?”

“Are you on to something that I should know about?” AXE’s Operations chief asked. He was a very sharp individual. He and Carter got along well, and the man never pulled any punches.

“Not officially.”

Smitty seemed to consider the answer for a moment. “Unofficially, then, I thought you’d better know that Lashkin is being posted back to Moscow.”

“Has he left yet?” Carter snapped, coming around his desk.

“Not for a couple of days, as far as we heard. He evidently has things to clear up with the Security Council. Are you going after him?”

Once again Carter found himself in the position of having to consider lying to an old friend. He didn’t like it, but Ganin had neatly maneuvered him into the corner.

“Don’t ask.”

Smitty hesitated a moment. “Have you spoken with Hawk?”

“A few minutes ago.”

A young assistant from Armory came up and Smitty stepped aside. Carter took the small package containing two of the deadly gas bombs, and the young man left.

Smitty wanted to say something else, but he just shook his head. “Good luck, Nick.”

“Thanks,” Carter said. He brushed past his colleague and started across toward the elevators.

“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Smitty called to him.

Carter glanced over his shoulder.

“Watch your back, Nick.”

“Right,” Carter said.

Carter took a cab to his apartment in Georgetown, where he showered, changed clothes, and packed a few things in an overnight bag. Afterward he fixed himself a sandwich and a beer, and while he sat at the kitchen table he methodically cleaned and oiled Wilhelmina, cleaned and oiled his stiletto, and taped one of the gas bombs high on his inner thigh, where it nestled like a third testical.

Normally when he traveled, his weapons went into a large cassette recorder/radio. He was bringing the radio along this time as well, but he would be wearing his weapons. He was not going to get caught short in New York.

The last time he had been in his apartment, Sigourney had cooked him a wonderful meal. Afterward they had lain in each other’s arms. The memory just then was very painful for him, hardening his resolve to go after Ganin and whoever was running him.

Finished with his tasks, he called ahead to have his car pulled out of storage and readied. An hour and a half later he was heading out of Washington, D.C., on Interstate 95 toward New York City, the restored Jaguar XK-E purring smoothly, the radio playing soft music, and hard thoughts marching through his mind one after the other.

By two he had gotten around Baltimore with its heavy traffic and bad highways; by three, Trenton; and a few minutes after four, driving hard all the way, he passed under the Hudson River through the Lincoln Tunnel.

Crosstown traffic was heavy, so it was nearly five before he made it to the U.N. complex and managed to find a parking place across the street from the Secretariat Building.

Already a number of the diplomats and staff people were leaving work for the day. Carter pulled out the photographs of Lashkin and his secretary, studied them, then sat back to watch and wait.

One thought had nagged at the back of his mind on the trip from D.C. Lashkin was not a man of enough clout to run an operative such as Ganin. Which meant that either Lashkin was a red herring, or the man’s cover was even better than had been thought.

The Cuban on the beach at St. Anne’s, knowing his life was probably over, had spit out Lashkin’s name. What did it mean?

It was barely five-thirty when Carter spotted the KGB officer and his live-in secretary coming through the gate, and he sat up.

It was definitely Lashkin; there was no mistaking him even from this distance.

He and the woman were saying something to each other, and then they climbed into the waiting cab.

Carter started his car and was about to pull out when he spotted a dark gray Chevrolet turning up First Avenue from 42nd Street. It pulled in behind Lashkin’s cab, and as they passed, Carter got a good look at both men. They were husky, their features heavy. Definitely Russian. Lashkin had bodyguards.

When there was a break in traffic, Carter slammed the car in gear and hurried after Lashkin and his entourage.

They turned on 45th Street, and three blocks later headed back south on Lexington Avenue, Carter just making the light behind them. There was little doubt in his mind that Lashkin and the woman were heading to their apartment, but now it was a question of just how closely the two gorillas would stick with their charge. He decided it would give him a certain perverse pleasure to go through them, though he didn’t want to make waves this early in the game. He simply wanted to talk to Lashkin, find out what his part was in the business, and if possible, confirm that it was indeed Ganin who had struck on St. Anne’s. Afterward... Carter let the thought trail off.

At 36th Street they pulled up at the corner, Lashkin and the woman getting out of the cab, the gray Chevrolet holding back.

Carter passed them slowly, and in the next block pulled into a loading zone, jumped out of his car, and hurried back.

Lashkin and the woman had just turned the corner, and they went into a small apartment building. The gray Chevrolet came around the corner and pulled up at the curb, and one of the men got out. The car pulled away and continued down the block, while the bodyguard lit a cigarette and looked across the street. It looked as if he would be staying there for a while. Most likely the other bodyguard would park the car somewhere, then take up station at the rear of the building.

According to the computer’s data, Lashkin’s apartment was on the top floor of the four-story building, at the front. He and Lydia Borasova would be saying their tearful goodbyes now, with Lashkin scheduled to return to his wife in a couple of days. They’d probably prefer to be alone. With luck they’d remain upstairs in their apartment for the night.

Carter crossed the street, and at the corner of the next block he pulled up short as the gray Chevy pulled into a parking spot. The driver got out, locked the door, then crossed the street and went through a gate that led through a brick wall. Evidently there was a rear access to Lashkin’s building.

Carter glanced at his watch. It would be dark soon. He wouldn’t be able to do much until then, except get ready and decide what he was going to do.

One goon was in the front, one in the back. Lashkin was well covered. Carter walked back to his car, got in, and found a legal parking place on the next block. He found a quiet corner in a local bar and had a drink.

Ganin and his people had come ashore and killed Sigourney. They had had a chance to kill him as well, but they did not. A mistake, or on purpose? One of the troops got left behind. Another mistake, or part of the plan? Under questioning, the man blurted out Lashkin’s name.

How much of it was a setup? Carter wondered. And if this was some sort of an involved scheme to maneuver Carter into a vulnerable position, how much farther would it go?

Lashkin would have some of the answers. And tonight, he’d talk.