Ник Картер - Agent Counter-Agent

I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. Was I hallucinating, or had it just been a strange dream? It must have been a dream. I was in some foreign country, a desert country. I was running down a dark, cobblestone street, and I was chasing a man. I held a long, black gun in my hand, a German make, probably a Luger. I was shooting at the man and trying to kill him. He turned and fired back at me, and I felt a searing pain in my side. The gun in my hand suddenly turned into a short-handled axe. Then I woke up.

It was an odd dream. I had no memory of being in any country except Venezuela and America. And I had never shot at a man in my life. Or had I? None of it made any sense to me.

When morning came, they brought me a tray of food, and I ate ravenously. After I’d finished, I examined my face in a mirror. At least it was familiar. But it did not seem to be a face that went with Rafael Chávez. I took a look at the clothing they brought in for me, but I didn’t recognize it. The pockets were empty, and there was no identification. About an hour later Menéndez came and took me back to the room with the wired chair and other equipment.

“Good morning, señor Chávez,” the girl who called herself Tanya greeted me. “Are you ready for another treatment?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, eying the machinery. “But is all this necessary? I’d like to know what kind of treatment I’m getting.”

“Please,” Tanya said, showing me to the big chair. “You must trust us, señor Chávez. We are your friends.”

I sat down in the chair, but I felt uneasy. I wanted to get out of this building, to roam the streets of Caracas, to return to my apartment on Avenida Bolivar. I was sure those familiar sights would bring back my memory and make me well. I promised myself that if this session didn’t bring results, I’d go straight home.

“Now, just relax,” the man called Kalinin told me. “I am going to give you a mild sedative.” He stuck a hypodermic into my forearm.

A name flashed through my mind. Nambulin. Where had I heard that before? Before I could think any more about it, I began to feel a deep euphoria coming over me, and I lost interest in the word and everything else.

Someone adjusted a headpiece on me. I didn’t mind. A minute later I heard Tanya’s voice.

“You want to close your eyes. You will close them on the count of five.” She counted, and my eyes closed. There was a sudden burst of color in the blackness, and I heard some odd music that somehow seemed familiar. The voice ceased, but the colors and music kept on, pulling me down and down. I felt as if I were on an escalator. Then another voice came from inside my head. The voice was telling me all about myself. Every small detail, from the date of my birth to my recent activities in the leftist movement to free Venezuela from the tyrannical imperialism of the United States. There were images of specific scenes. When it was over, I had a detailed picture of my past. My amnesia was cured.

I was a member of a political group called the Vigilantes, whose aim was to overthrow the Venezuelan government and to set up a leftist regime with the help of the Russians. I had been recruited several months back and had been injured a couple of days ago in a demonstration at the American Embassy.

Tanya began to speak again. “Your leader has asked us to inform you that the ranks of the Vigilantes are thinning because of cowardly desertion in the face of brutal police tactics. Therefore, action is required now. You have been chosen to carry out the action.

“Venezuela has become much too dependent on the United States,” she continued. “The United States buys about 40 percent of Venezuela’s petroleum exports, which gives the Americans an economic death grip on Venezuela. The President of Venezuela and his capitalistic government must be destroyed before they turn the entire country over to the Americans. A plan has been devised involving the forthcoming Caracas Conference.

“The conference will be a meeting between the President of Venezuela and the Vice-President of the United States. It will afford a unique opportunity to strike out against both these enemies of the people. You will be advised later as to the nature of the plan and the details of how it is to be accomplished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. When you awake, you will remember in detail all I have told you and all you have heard and seen while in the deep trance. If questions arise in your mind about details, your subconscious will provide the answers and fill in any gaps that may bother you. You will not question your identity as Rafael Chávez, nor will you doubt the validity of his political philosophies.”

A few minutes later my eyes opened naturally, and I remembered Tanya counting backward from five to one. I also remembered everything about my past life. Whatever they’d done to me, it had worked. I had completely recovered from my amnesia.

“How do you feel, comrade?” Tanya smiled.

“Quite well,” I answered. “The drug made me remember. I’m to take part in a mission against the Caracas Conference, I remember it now. Will I be ready?”

“You will be ready,” she said.

Kalinin turned away and went over to a technician at the far end of the room, leaving Tanya and me alone. “Have you and I... do we know each other better than I remember?” I asked. I had a fleeting image of Tanya lying nude on a sofa.

There was something in her eyes, then her face broke into a small smile. “I hoped you would remember. We had an evening together. Don t you remember it?”

“Not really,” I said. “But the glimpse I got makes me wish I could remember more.”

She laughed softly. “Perhaps we will have a few moments together again before you must leave the clinic.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” I said.

Even though I felt completely well, they insisted I stay in my room and rest. I thought about Tanya for a while. Strange. My mission was the most important thing in my life, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about this extraordinary girl.

When I wasn’t thinking of Tanya, I was trying to reconstruct the past I had almost lost because of the accident. And as I tried to remember, a small incident came back to me. I was running barefoot into a mud house on the outskirts of Margarita. Then I remembered the house was my home, and the pretty, black-haired woman named Maria was my mother. She and my father had both died when I was nine. Not long after that I had come to Caracas, where I’d lived with relatives and studied to become a civil servant.

There was still something strange about it all. I could remember things about my past, but those things seemed unreal, the mental pictures faded and misty. And when I stopped thinking about them consciously, they just disappeared into oblivion and didn’t seem a real part of me. Surprisingly, my most vivid memories were of the few years I’d spent in America, working on a loading dock.

I spent the entire day in my room. That night Tanya came to see me. She came in quietly and closed the door behind her. I got up from the edge of the cot, where I’d been reading a newspaper about the Caracas Conference. She was wearing a stethoscope and had a clipboard in her hand.

“May I take your pulse?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She held my wrist in her small, soft hand. Our eyes met, and she looked away quickly. She made a notation on her chart, then stuck the stethoscope on my chest and listened for a minute.

“Do you feel any nausea?”

“No.”

“Any sweating during sleep?”

“Not that I remember.”

My eyes moved from her full lips over the sensuous curves of her body. Again the tantalizing image flashed through my mind — Tanya lying nude on a sofa. Her next question seemed psychic.