White Death

Seven

The names of the areas of Wellington reflected its Maori, English, and American past. Names like Khandallah, Ngaio, Crofton Downs, Kilbimie, and Brooklyn were discouraging to Carter because they showed more than the past; they told of the present enormous size of Wellington. More than 300,000 inhabitants spread in an arc around the bay. And Carter needed to trace one single man, an outsider, who had no record of ever having been in New Zealand.

There was only one logical place to start: Wellington International Airport. He made a circle around the area, then consulted the restaurant and dining guide for bars.

In New Zealand, people drove on the left side of the road, mailboxes were painted royal red and shaped like dollhouses, and once every three years in the general election, prohibition was voted upon. It hadn't passed yet, but bar hours were commensurately short in a nation where the temperance movement could easily get out of hand. The bars closed at ten o'clock.

Nick Carter was mindful of this as he walked along Broadway, head bent against the howling wind, toward the Bayard Stockton Cellar. The international airport was south. Big planes roared in and out of the distance, lights flashing.

It was 6 p.m. The chilly Wellington gale slashed through Carter's suit as if it were gauze. But Carter had slept, eaten a good meal, and was feeling fine, eager to discover what underlay the strange events in New Zealand.

Prepared, he wore his old friends Wilhelmina, Pierre, and Hugo. It was astounding what their presence did for the disposition of a Killmaster.

He pushed open the plastic-covered door to the Bayard Stockton Cellar. Cigarette smoke and stale liquor odors clotted the air. In the entryway was an enlarged color photograph of a sardonic man with red hair. Beneath the photo was typed the inscription "Founded by radio announcer Bayard Stockton, the man with the golden-gravel voice, disappeared Christchurch on assignment, July 1984." The photo and inscription were covered with clear plastic thumb-tacked to the wall. Carter shook his head, and walked down four cellar stops. Not your usual high-class establishment.

The bar was dark, the only light coming from small bulbs hidden behind cheap bloodred lampshades. The wallpaper was red, too, and heavily flocked. Four people sat at the bar, empty stools between each. They'd staked their claims to isolation. Behind the bar was a large painted canvas, a poorly done imitation Modigliani nude. The bar had aspirations. It wanted to grow up to be a whorehouse.

Carter sat on a stool at the end of the bar and loosened his tie. The heater was on. Even in summer, Wellington nights could be cold. His face flushed with warmth and stale air. The bartender looked at him.

"Lion beer," Carter said.

The barkeep nodded, picked up a glass, and slid it beneath the tap. As the beer poured, Carter took in his fellow drinkers: two women, two men.

Each of the men glanced at Carter, furtive, polite. The women stared down into their drinks. Not often in this country did you see women alone in a bar. And they weren't soliciting, just drinking. One had a whiskey sour, and the other a rum and cola. They didn't look like Rocky Diamond's types.

The bartender watched Carter study the women.

The beer came down hard in front of Carter. It sloshed over the side of the mug. The women looked up.

"Nice night," Carter observed, smiling curiously at the surly bartender.

"You looking for someone?" the bartender demanded.

He had brutal eyes, a short pugnacious nose, and cauliflower ears. He'd never been to the Olympics, just on street-corners with too much time on his hands and no common sense. Now he was older and knew better, but he wouldn't pass up a challenge he could create.

"As a matter of fact, I am," Carter said.

"You won't find her here," the bartender said.

The barkeep had it all figured out. In New Zealand, a lady was to be protected. Unlike the United States where the identifying line between lady and streetwalker was blurred by sometimes indistinguishable dress, in New Zealand a whore looked like a tart, and a lady looked like someone's mother. The two women at the bar were either mothers, or wanted to be. Their brows were raised in alarm.

"Your sister?" Carter asked, glancing at the closest of the two women.

"Cousin," the bartender said gruffly. "Drink your beer and get out."

Carter put a twenty on the bar. The bartender was good at jumping to conclusions. Maybe he'd jump a different way if the motivation changed.

The bartender's hand came down on the twenty.

But before he could slide the bill away to the cash drawer, Carter's hand came down hard on top. Surprised, the bartender flinched and tried to pull the money and his hand out from under.

The hand was immobilized.

The barkeep's eyes narrowed. He thought about the situation, his brow wrinkled with effort.

With his free hand, Carter casually picked up his beer and drank.

Again the bartender tried to yank away, but Carter's steely muscles held the fighter to the spot.

Carter put his beer mug down.

"I said I was looking for someone," he said.

"So?"

The bartender wouldn't concede an iota. But his hand had started to sweat. He made occasional furtive attempts to regain his dignity by slipping away.

The four people at the bar stared, not quite sure what was going on.

The bartender knew. He'd played games of intimidation before, his cagey eyes said, but he'd always made sure he had the right role — the bully's role.

"An American flyer," Carter went on. "When he talks, he sounds English."

The bartender licked his lips. Mesmerized, he watched Carter's free hand play easily with his beer, as if there were no strain involved in keeping the New Zealander pinned.

A flush of worry rose up the bartender's bull neck. Even though he used the excuse, he didn't fight for women, honor, or patriotism. He fought because he expected to win. The destruction of others proved that he was real.

"Already got too many bloody Americans around here," the bartender growled.

"English accent," Carter repeated. "Tall man, about my sue Rangy. Likes martinis with a dash of Pernod. Also likes the ladies." Carter nodded politely at the two staring women at the bar. They'd have a fresh story to tell their less venturesome friends, this one about a bearded, uppity Yank. "Sorry, but he's got a big reputation. Very successful at picking women up and getting them to bed. Name's Rocky Diamond." He smiled at the bartender. "I want to find this man," he said pointedly.

The bartender shrugged.

Carter ground the hand painfully into the counter. The bartender tried to bite back a grunt of pain.

"I'd appreciate any leads you can give me," Carter told him. "Either to him, or to someone who saw or knows him."

The bartender clenched his teeth.

"Never heard of him," he hissed.

Then the bartender's hand lashed out. It was a scarred hand, marked by battles more often won than lost.

Carter sighed.

He smashed his free hand into the bartender's jaw. It was a single, perfect punch.

The fighter's eyes widened with surprise. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The beaten bartender crashed back into the Modigliani nude. Bottles of bourbon, rum, and gin smashed to the floor. Flying glass embedded itself into the cheap oil painting.

The barkeep sat down abruptly in the middle of the mess. He fell back against the collapsed liquor shelves. His head, framed by the cauliflower ears, drooped to his chest.

Fascinated, the patrons leaned over the bar to watch as the unconscious man slowly keeled over. His head landed on an unbroken bottle of crème de menthe. He seemed to smile.

Still leaning over, the four turned their faces to look at Carter. They sat back on their stools.

"Any of you see Rocky Diamond? Hear anything about him?" Carter asked.

They shook their heads.

"Don't recognize the name," one man said.

"A lot of tourists here," the other added.

"Sorry," the woman who was the cousin said. Then she smiled. Slightly, but still a smile. She hadn't liked the cousin much either.

Carter grinned. He drained his beer.

"I'll be at the Wellington Arms if you hear anything." He gave them the name he'd registered under.

The bartender on the floor moaned. No one looked.

Carter reknotted his tie.

"What about the money?" the first male patron asked, glancing at the bar.

Carter put another twenty on top of the first.

"Tell him to get boxing lessons."

The wind was a howling gale through the Wellington night. The stars were hidden behind a furling layer of gray and charcoal clouds.

Over the next several hours Carter worked his chilly way up and down Broadway and its sidestreets, going from bar to bar. He ordered a beer at every stop, but finished none of them. He needed to be alert.

It was at times like this that he wished he had a force of agents at his disposal. Or at least an assistant. Anyone to help share the legwork of giving the simple description, and asking the simple question. Have you seen or heard of this man?

His feet were growing numb from the nighttime cold. His nose was frosty. He was again feeling his lack of sleep, but still he persevered through the windy night.

Often a mission was lost simply because of poor foot work. Answers seldom arrived on silver platters. Most often they had to be dug out with a seasoned trowel.

The bartenders, waitresses, and patrons he approached in the Wellington bars and restaurants around the airport tended to be suspicious and closemouthed. Part of it was his scruffy beard. But mostly it was the standard — and normal — reaction.

So, consequently, each time he had to find what would loosen their tongues — bribery, sympathy, coercion, or sometimes, for a lonely drinker, a friendly chat.

The questioning took time, energy, and money, and he was running low on all three. And no one he talked with had met or heard of Rocky Diamond.

It was a half hour before closing time, and Carter ducked his head to reenter the wind-blasted night. The bar he was leaving was the Plow and Angel. The one he would go to next was the Moon Face, two doors away.

His leather-soled shoes snapped on the cold pavement. He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders as the wind pummeled him down the empty sidewalk. Most Wellington citizens had enough sense to be home on a night like this. And to think it was summer.

There was an alley to his left. A black rectangular hole. He rushed past, propelled by the gale.

Still, with his peripheral vision, he saw the momentary flash of the knife's blade within the blackness of the alley's entrance.

He kept moving. Only one more store, a jewelry shop with hand-hammered gold and silver necklaces displayed in the window, then he'd be at the next bar. The Moon Face.

Whoever was in the alley would have to be a lot quicker if he expected to catch someone to rob on this windy night.

Then he heard the feet.

They ran out of the alley, thundering. Ten of them. Dressed in black jump suits. Their faces darkened against the city's lights. Dressed and camouflaged just like the group that had attacked the mountain jail.

Carter grabbed Wilhelmina from the small of his back.

One of them lunged at Carter's legs.

He kicked him off.

They circled.

Carter spun, swinging the Luger.

He caught another one in the neck. His hand was so cold that he hardly felt the violent blow.

The man's eyes rolled up into his head, and he went down uncomplainingly.

But the others attacked, a circle of determination.

Too many. They could afford to have reflexes a little slower than the Killmaster's.

They came in high and low.

Carter lashed with his gun, his elbows, hands, and feet.

It was like fighting an avalanche.

He kneed one in the belly. The attacker doubled over and vomited.

He whipped another across the cheek. The black makeup scraped off a fish-belly-white face that quickly turned red with blood.

They grabbed his aims. Ripped Wilhelmina from his hand. Pinned him against a brick wall. There were too many of them.

Quickly before he broke free, one belted him in the jaw. Another blasted two hard punches to the spleen.

Red and black pain erupted behind Carter's eyes.

"Forget Diamond!" one man snarled.

It was a low voice. Rusty, disguised. English, but a Russian accent.

"What?" He wanted to hear the voice again.

"Go home!" rasped another.

They were black wraiths in the night. Each looked like the other. Thin lipped carbon copies wearing black jump suits padded against the wind. They had revolvers strapped to their legs. They worked in unison, well trained and enthusiastic.

"Silver Dove!" Carter said.

That did it. With machine-gun repetition, the fists hit Carter's face, neck, chest, and belly. Over and over. Punishing him for his knowledge.

He struggled.

They hit harder, an exploding series of pains that left him gasping against the rough brick wall.

"Don't try to follow Diamond!" a new voice warned, finality in the words. "Next time, you're dead!"

To emphasize the point, another attacker grabbed Carter's head and slammed it back into the brick wall.

Hands released Carter. He slid down, every muscle in his body screaming. Warm, sticky blood oozed from the back of his head. The Wellington street revolved crazily. He felt the faintness of the few seconds before unconsciousness.

The attackers stared at him solemnly.

Silently they turned and ran down the deserted street.

The night's chilly cold radiated from the sidewalk. Carter awoke in the brittle stillness of it, knowing he should get up, knowing he'd be stiff, maybe even ill and out of action if he didn't.

Couples hurried past him, sneers in their voices as they circled distastefully away. They thought he was a drunk, or a deadbeat, or maybe worse. A few cars passed, their bright lights sweeping the sidewalk. Music and laughter blared out onto the sidewalk as up and down the street bars and restaurant doors occasionally opened and closed.

Carter stood up. A wave of nausea washed over him. With shaky hands, he dusted uselessly at his jacket. He grabbed for the wall to steady himself.

As another car slowly drove up the street, he stepped into the alleyway. There he found Wilhelmina in an inky shadow. He dropped the Luger into his jacket pocket and stumbled back to the lighted sidewalk. The beating had been expert, designed so the body would not forget.

He patted his pockets for a cigarette. The car was small, yellow. The nausea returned, this time accompanied by faintness. His knees turned to water, but his mind still worked.

The yellow car was a Mazda, and it had slowed to a crawl in front of him.

Suddenly the knees buckled. Dizziness engulfed him. He forgot the cigarette and the yellow Mazda. Once more he fell unconscious to the cold sidewalk.

When he awoke, he was troubled by dreams of being dragged. They were indistinct dreams complicated by his being cozily back in his hotel room bed, the sun shining bright and innocent through the window, and bandages and assorted smelly ointments covering parts of his body.

Gingerly, he stretched. Felt the sore muscles ripple. The pain made him smile. He was alive at least. He moved his bones and joints. Nothing broken.

He flung back the covers and sat up. Nude, he walked carefully, and then with more confidence, to the bathroom.

He relieved himself, then stared into the mirror. White bandages made a patchwork of his bearded face. He pulled the bandages off. Abrasions and cuts, but nothing serious. He returned to his bedside table to check his watch.

It was eleven forty-five. He'd slept a long time, maybe twelve hours. What was necessary to revive his battered body. When professionals go to work on you, recovery isn't fast or easy, but it helps to be in the extraordinarily trained condition of a Killmaster. He looked around the room. His ct was open, the clothes from last night neatly hung. He picked up the telephone.

"Yes, sir?" the clerk from yesterday said from downstairs.

"Any messages for me?"

"I'll check."

There was a moment of silence, then the eager young man was back.

"Nothing, sir. Sorry."

"Did a man driving a yellow Mazda bring me in last night?"

"As a matter of fact, my coworker did mention that. A pleasant fellow. Helped you to your room. Called the hotel doctor."

"Any name? I'd like to thank him."

"No, sir. Said he was just a Samaritan. You'd been attacked by one of the rough waterfront gangs."

Carter sighed. The samaritan was obviously the man in the yellow Mazda. That's where the dragging part of his dream had come from.

As if in a haze he remembered being hauled to his feet and half dragged, half pulled to the small car. He remembered the door's banging shut, opening his mouth to thank his benefactor, then passing out again.

The stranger was a real puzzle, impossible to identify at this point. Carter had never had a good look at the man's face. He didn't know age or even hair color because the man wore the tam-o'-shanter low to the ears. Didn't know the car's license plate. Didn't know why — or whether — the stranger was following him.

"Anything else?"

"Well… there is one more thing. But I don't know whether it's still important…"

"Rocky Diamond?" Carter said, suddenly alert.

"It's not much," the young clerk warned, "but I remembered what you said about asking around, and one of the maids said she'd seen a man like you described. He came in drunk with a woman to visit one of our guests. He ordered martinis with a dash of Pernod at the bar. The maid didn't remember which guest they were visiting. Anyway, they laughed all across the lobby to the elevator. Very undignified, she thought."

"Did the maid hear him say anything?"

"Christchurch," the hotel clerk said, pleased that he could deliver information to a guest who paid so generously. Money may not buy love, but it regularly buys cooperation. "He mentioned Christchurch. The woman hung on his arm and begged him to take her along, too."

Carter grinned.

"I'll be damned," he said.