Ник Картер - Agent Counter-Agent

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“WE WILL BURY YOU!”
The Communist threat had never seemed so real! AXE had barely assigned Killmaster to his new mission when the message came from “the spoilers” — they were threatening to deal a death blow to American international influence.
It was clearly a job for Nick Carter — the most lethal of his career. For AXE’s top Killmaster was destined to play the lead in the diabolical plot.
What had they done to him? Had they really turned AXE’s most valuable agent against the very powers he was sworn to protect? It wasn’t until Nick came under the spell of the sensuous Russian operative that he began to understand how he was being used. But was it too late? Did his mind already belong to the KGB?

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“Do I really get to leave this place late today?”

My question took him by surprise. But after a brief pause he answered, “Yes. Tonight you will be ready.”

“Good,” I said. “I hate confinement.”

“So do we all,” he said deliberately. “But we must make sacrifices for the good of the revolution. Isn’t that so?”

I nodded. Kalinin smiled tightly and left.

I fell asleep for a while. Suddenly I heard my own scream. I sat upright on the cot, soaked with perspiration and shaking all over. I ran a trembling hand over my mouth, staring at the opposite wall. It wasn’t like me to be afraid — I knew that much about myself. It must have been the drug they were giving me. I’d had another nightmare.

I’d seen the ugly faces from the dark room and heard the harsh, evil voices. It was all mixed up with images of myself. I was stalking through a dark alley with a Luger in my hand. I turned a corner, and suddenly an enormous, warped face loomed up in front of me. It looked like the President’s and yet wasn’t his — it was a deformed face hanging suspended in the blackness. I fired the Luger over and over, but the hideous face only laughed at me. The mouth opened, threatening to engulf me. The long, sharp teeth were coming at me. That was when I’d screamed.

After a light lunch I was taken back to the room with the machines — the orientation room, they called it. The technician had warned me that this session would be different, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. Tanya met me in the room as the technicians were strapping me into the chair.

“This will be unpleasant,” she said. “But it will be over before you know it.”

“I thought of you earlier,” I said. “I asked for you, but they said you were too busy to see me.”

The men finished strapping me in and went over to one of the machines. They hadn’t used that one before. It had a small control panel, but there were dozens of blinking colored lights on its counter.

“What they told you was true,” Tanya answered.

“Will I see you again after I leave here?”

She looked away. “Perhaps. It all depends on the outcome of the mission.”

“I don’t know anything about the mission,” I reminded her.

“You will shortly.”

They used different attachments this time — a wired metal band across my chest and a new headpiece. Tanya saw to it that everything fit properly and then left the room.

They turned the lights out, and I saw more pictures in the blackness. The images were even more real than the ones I’d seen that morning. They hadn’t given me an injection this time, but I knew that the effects of the morning dosage still hadn’t completely worn off.

The President appeared in the room. He was walking through a crowd, waving and smiling evilly. As soon as the image appeared, the headband began doing something to me. An awful pressure started building up in my head, and the pain became almost unbearable. As I watched the images move, the agony increased. I struggled to get free, opening and closing my mouth and squinting my eyes hard against the pain. It just kept getting worse till I thought my head was going to explode. A scream welled up in my throat. A man separated himself from the crowd and ran toward the President, swinging a huge machete. The blade connected, decapitating the President, and his head went flying into the crowd, spewing blood everywhere. People laughed and jeered.

The pain disappeared, and I felt only the sweet emptiness of physical comfort. The President was dead, and the world was saved from his tyranny.

I hoped the session was over, but it wasn’t. Another scene filled the room, with the President making a public speech. The pain came again, and I braced myself against it, coiled inside to steel myself against it. But it overwhelmed me. This time the awful pressure in my head was accompanied by stabbing chest pains, as if I were having a heart attack. I heard myself scream, but the pain didn’t go away. A man pointed a pistol at the President and blew the back of his head off. The pain subsided immediately.

But again the room filled with images, this time of the American Vice-President. He was riding in a black Cadillac in an official parade, and I knew that the Venezuelan President was in the car in front of him. The Vice-President was wearing an expensive pin-striped suit, gesturing to the crowd in an imperialistic manner. The pressure came again, but this time there was no tightening of the chest, just the terrible pain in the head. In a sudden explosion of smoke and debris, the Vice-President’s car was demolished by an unseen bomb, and everybody in the automobile was killed. A second violent explosion reverberated in the room, and the Venezuelan President’s car disintegrated. The pain was gone for good.

I slumped in the chair as they unstrapped me and disengaged the apparatus. Dr. Kalinin was beside me, but I didn’t see Tanya.

“The worst is over,” he said to me.

When he was through prodding me with his stethoscope, he helped me out of the chair and walked me down a corridor to an ordinary projection room. The far wall had a screen built onto it, and there was a booth at the back of the room for the projector.

Kalinin slapped a loaded Luger into my hand. I looked at it dully, still numb from the brutal session. It was the gun I’d been shooting in my nightmare.

“The drug has worn off by now,” Kalinin was saying to me, “and your reactions to the various stimuli during this part of the preparation will be quite natural. You will keep the gun, and you will do whatever you feel like doing.”

I just stared at the big automatic. It was a German gun, I knew, but somehow I associated it with the United States. While I was still trying to figure it out, the room darkened and the film began. These were real pictures, probably taken during the last couple of days at the preconference meetings. The film showed the President walking down the path in front of the Palacio de Miraflores, with the American Vice-President beside him. There were cameramen all around them, and the President was talking casually with his American visitor.

As the figures on the screen appeared to move toward me, an overpowering feeling of hatred rose in my chest, and I became aware of an uneasy feeling in my head, a feeling of great discomfort. The pain increased with the feeling of complete revulsion. I didn’t see the screen anymore. The men walking toward me became very real. I raised the gun in my right hand and pointed it at the two figures. I aimed at the President first. I was trembling with hatred and pain, and sweat was pouring down my forehead. I squeezed the trigger. The figures kept walking toward me, undisturbed. I was furious. I fired the gun over and over again, and black holes appeared in a tight pattern on the President’s chest. In a minute I was pulling the trigger on an empty chamber. Still the two figures kept coming toward me. I hurled the automatic at them, and then in a fit of rage, lunged toward them. I hit something hard and fell heavily to the floor.

The lights came on, Kalinin helped me to my feet. I was breathless and exhausted. Now that the film was over the pain and anger drained away from me.

“Very good,” Kalinin was saying in a sugary voice. “Excellent, as a matter of fact.”

“I want... out of here,” I said to him.

“All right,” he said. “We shall not need you until later today, when you will have your final session. You may return to your room.”

They took me back to the white room with the cot, and I lay down heavily. It seemed as if several agonizing, sleepless days had passed since I’d gotten up that morning. I fell asleep for a while. But this time there was no nightmare. Instead, I had a very detailed dream of Tanya. She was nude and in my arms. The warm softness of her body was engulfing me, consuming me with desire. Every sense was aroused — I heard her lovely voice and smelled the intoxicating scent of her perfume. And throughout the dream, in the heat of her passion, she kept saying to me, “I am sorry, Nick. I am sorry, Nick.”

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