Ник Картер - Agent Counter-Agent

“Ah, Mr. Carter!” he said when he saw me.

“Señor Santiago,” I responded, fighting to keep my cool.

“Everything is going well, isn’t it? It seems that our precautions were unnecessary, after all.”

“It does seem that way, sir,” I said tightly. A clock ticked in my head. It must have been about eight minutes to one. I had to get away from him.

“I am certain everything will be all right,” he said. “I have a good feeling about it. Have you seen señor Hawk?”

“Not since early this morning,” I lied, wondering if my face gave me away.

“Well, I am sure I will find him. And I will see you both later to congratulate you on such a successful day.” He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Very good, sir,” I said.

He went back into the office room, which seemed to be some sort of annex to the security headquarters. I breathed a sigh of relief and walked on down the corridor to the conference room. I checked my watch, and it said five to one.

I stood across from the open doors, as I’d been instructed to do. Across the hall there were four guards on duty, the same ones who’d been there that morning. They knew me, so I wouldn’t have any difficulty getting past them. Just two more minutes to go. An aide came down the corridor and showed his credentials. The guards let him into the room. There were security people all over the place, moving around in the corridor and standing inside the conference room.

I looked up and down the corridor. I was in a lot of pain. The tension and the pressure in my head were mounting rapidly as the minutes passed. I knew the pain wouldn’t go away till I’d destroyed my enemies. Yet I had an awful feeling that somehow this was all wrong. It was a gut feeling, a vague, nagging sensation that seemed to come from a hidden corner of my brain. It didn’t make sense — any more than anything else that had happened in the past few days. But whatever the feeling was, it was beginning to tug at my conscience even as the urgency of my mission was overwhelming me. I felt as if there were a terrible struggle going on inside my head, and it just might drive me crazy if it didn’t stop soon.

I was beginning to wonder if my contact had been detained. But then I saw him — a dark-haired Venezuelan in a conservative navy-blue suit and red tie, coming down the corridor toward me. He looked like an ordinary member of the palace staff, but he was wearing the white carnation in his lapel and carrying the carafe.

My heart pounded wildly against my ribs. In a minute he was beside me, handing me the carafe. “Señor Carter, the conference director asked me to bring fresh drinking water to the conference room during the noon recess.” He spoke very loudly, so that anyone around us could hear him. “Since you have special clearance, would you mind terribly taking it in for me?”

“Oh, all right. I’ll take it,” I said condescendingly.

“Gracias,” he said. Then, in a harsh whisper, “!Viva la revolución!”

The man walked quickly back down the corridor. I stood there with the carafe in my hands, overwhelmed by terrible doubts and confusion. I had to take the device into the room. It was too late to think of the other feelings. The most important thing in the world, in my life, was to carry that carafe into the conference room and put it on the table.

I went to the doorway.

“Hello, Carter,” the CIA man there said. “What do you have there?”

“It seems the conference director wants fresh water on the conference table,” I said casually. “And I’m the errand boy.”

The CIA agent looked at the carafe. A Secret Service man grinned at me, then also took a look at the carafe. They seemed satisfied. The Venezuelan policemen nodded for me to go ahead and take the carafe into the room.

I carried the carafe inside. Another Secret Service man eyed me as I took the almost empty carafe from the table and replaced it with the one I’d carried in.

“What’s all this about?” he asked.

I grinned at him. “You wouldn’t want the conference members to have to drink stale water, would you?”

He looked at the carafe and at me, then grinned back. “Glad to see they’re making constructive use of you AXE people.”

“Very funny,” I said.

I picked up the old carafe and propped it under my arm, then glanced back at the one I’d just placed at the center of the conference table. And I heard the words echoing in my brain:

The device will be tuned to the proper frequency by remote control after the afternoon session has begun. Within minutes it will have killed everyone within hearing range.

I turned and left the room.

Outside, I stopped beside the security guards. “I wonder what I’m supposed to do with this?” I said to them, feigning impatience.

“There’s a service closet just down the corridor,” one of the Venezuelans said.

“Maybe you could sweep the floor while you’re at it, Carter,” the CIA man at the door laughed. “There’s probably a broom in the service closet” He grinned widely.

“What is this. The CIA Comedy Hour?” I asked sourly, as if their jokes bothered me. I couldn’t have cared less what they said or did, just as long as they didn’t suspect that the biggest security break in years had just been pulled off right under their noses.

I carried the old carafe down the corridor to the closet. Aides and officials were beginning to drift back into the conference room. I looked at my watch and found that it was already quarter past one. The stars of the show, the Venezuelan President and the American Vice-President, would be arriving in a few minutes. And before long the afternoon session would be getting underway. And nobody inside the conference room would suspect that the remainder of his life could be measured in minutes.

Everything was going according to plan.

After I’d disposed of the carafe, I drifted back down to the conference room. I was just in time to see the Venezuelan President and the American Vice-President coming down the corridor together, the Americans hand resting on the Venezuelan’s shoulder. They were flanked by Secret Service agents. As I saw them disappear into the conference room, I was overcome by hatred and revulsion.

Inside, photographers were getting some last-minute shots before the conference resumed. It was rumored that some important economic agreements had been reached during the morning session. Undoubtedly they involved financial aid to the Venezuelan regime in return for permission to install American military bases. Without my intervention, this monstrous tyranny would go on forever.

I had just taken up my position across from the still-opened doors when suddenly the chief of the Venezuelan Security Police appeared beside me. This time his face was somber.

“Mr. Carter, one of your NSA agents just reported to me that you spent a few minutes in the conference room.”

I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The pressure rose again in my head, making my temples throb horribly.

“Yes, sir,” I said. My mind raced ahead. Maybe they’d checked and found that the conference director hadn’t ordered the fresh water. Or a cautious agent might have found the device by just inspecting the carafe. They might already have removed the device from the room.

“Did everything appear normal to you?” he asked.

The tightening in my chest relaxed a little. “Yes. Everything seemed all right.”

“Fine. Would you mind coming with me for just a moment? I would like you to look at this revised list of people with security clearance. It will not take long.”

I felt it would be all right to deviate from my instructions to this extent. The conference room doors weren’t even closed yet. Anyway, I didn’t see how I could refuse. When the chief of the Venezuelan Security Police asked you to do something, you did it. I followed him into the security annex not far from the conference room. A Venezuelan policeman was there when we entered, but he walked out immediately, leaving me alone with the man I hated almost as much as the men I was about to destroy.