Ник Картер: The Liquidator

“Sorry,” I said tersely. “Anyway, we were just heading back to D.C. when you... ah... spotted us.”

He grunted. “Mmm. Fortunate for all of us that we did, I suppose. If you’d been anywhere else but this end-of-the-world island I doubt we’d have made contact. But it was worth the attempt, and it worked. You’ll have to send the young lady to wait for you by the car.”

I didn’t ask why, just turned and nodded to Monica. To give her credit, she didn’t pout or protest. She just waved and trotted away.

Hawk didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “We need you in Washington right now, Nick; I won’t go into details until we’re back at the office, but the fact that I came here myself should tell you how important this matter is.”

“I see.” Not that the old man was just a desk commander, but you don’t often see the head of one of the world’s most important intelligence organizations out running errands.

“Does the young lady drive?”

“Yes.”

“Good. She can return the car to Washington then. You’re flying back with me.”

“I can drive and get there by nightfall.”

“Too late. By this evening you’ll be on your way.”

“Where?”

“Later. Get in the helicopter, and we’ll drop you out by your... fortunately conspicuous vehicle.”

I shook my head. “I’ll hike; it’s the least I can do after making the girl do it.”

Hawk gazed at me for a second, sucking on his cold pipe. “Don’t tell me,” he said with a twitch of the lips that served him for a smile. “Are you becoming a gentleman these days?”

There was no point in answering.

Monica took the news decently, though she made it clear she didn’t like the idea of missing the rest of our vacation. “I’ll see you as soon as I can,” I told her, meaning every word of it; girls like Monica are a rare find, especially for a man in my business. I grabbed my luggage, kissed her goodbye, and climbed into the helicopter. She waved once, then took off as if ready to race us all the way to Washington. The way she drove, I wouldn’t have bet against her if it hadn’t been for that long, slow ferry ride.

Hawk didn’t say another word to me until we were in his office at AXE headquarters on Dupont Circle. Behind the front of a worldwide news service lies a complex of sterile little offices, all painted the same depressing shade of jailhouse green and lit by endless rows of pale neon tubing. Hawk has one of the few window offices, but that doesn’t make it any more cheerful; it faces a blank brick wall that’s almost within touching distance.

I sat down in the hard, straight chair across from his plain steel desk. As usual, there were only a few neatly stacked folders on it, a couple of ordinary black telephones, plus the one you can’t see, a red one in a special compartment built into the side of his desk. Like Hawk, the office was strictly for business. No one was ever encouraged to linger and pass the time of day.

“You’re getting jumpy, N3,” the old man remarked.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just because a... let’s say... voyeur decides to take a closer look at the action on top of that dune, you acted as if you were in fear of your life.”

“If you hadn’t checked out my car first, I might have taken you for just another Peeping Tom. But either way, I’m no exhibitionist, so I would have gotten out of there no matter what I thought you were.”

Hawk nodded abruptly, struck a kitchen match and put it to the reeking bowl of his pipe. “When was the last time you sailed a boat, Nick?”

I had to think a moment. “The last time I was down in the Bahamas. Four months ago.”

“What sort?”

“Just one of those little catamarans the hotels rent out.”

“Nothing larger?”

“Not... let me think. Not since last summer. A friend of mine over on the Eastern Shore has a forty-two foot yawl. We spent a few days cruising the Chesapeake in her.”

“Handle the boat yourself?”

“Sure. You know I can sail. I wouldn’t try to skipper a 12-Meter in an America’s Cup race, but I can get by in just about anything one man can normally handle.”

“Yes, it’s in your file. Navigation?”

“That’s in the file too.”

He nodded. “Alex Zenopolis.”

I started to say something about my file again, but then the name penetrated and stopped me like a stone wall. “Alex,” I breathed. “It’s been years since I heard that name.”

“Well, he’s turned up in reports now and then since he defected to the Reds. Evidently worked himself up faily high in their intelligence apparatus.”

“I don’t remember seeing any of those reports.”

“Be grateful you’re in the field so much you’re not required to read every report.”

I was grateful, but wasn’t about to say so. “Too bad I didn’t see them; Alex and I were friends for a while.”

“Yes, I recall.”

“So what about him now?”

“Evidently he wants to come out.”

It was my turn to nod; I didn’t have to ask questions.

“Last night,” Hawk went on, “one of our men posted in Greece along the Albanian border received a hand-carried message purporting to be from Zenopolis. It was promptly passed on here.” Hawk opened the top folder and shoved a flimsy sheet of paper across the desk.

The message was understandably cryptic; all it said was that Alex Zenopolis, formerly of Greek intelligence, would personally contact U.S. agents in Greece within a week or so. Time and place to follow. Then he gave a signal of acknowledgment to be broadcast over a standard frequency at certain times.

I handed it back to the chief. “Do we have any idea where he is?”

“The last we heard, he was serving with some sort of liaison group operating between Yugoslavia and Albania.” Hawk permitted himself a wintry smile. “You can imagine the delicacy of that sort of operation.”

“I don’t remember Alex as being the diplomatic type.”

“No. On the other hand, we probably know less about what goes on inside Albania than we do about Red China.”

“So you think he might have something important to tell us?”

“There’s always that possibility. On the other hand, all he says is that he wants to contact us. Personally.”

“Which means face to face. In Greece.”

“And perhaps he merely wants to return to the fold.”

I shrugged. “All right. Either way, he should have something of interest to tell us.”

“Possibly a great deal.”

“You have anything more to go on than this message?”

“Not really. But I’m rather anxious to receive the next one he sends.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime you are going to take a crash course in sailing and navigating.”

“I don’t get it.”

Hawk got up from his creaky swivel chair and went to the row of gray steel filing cabinets that are the office’s only adornment. From a drawer he pulled out a rolled map, took it to the burn-scarred conference table behind me. I joined him there.

“Here,” he said, “are the Balkan states. Greece, Albania, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, and Romania. Now our man, the one who received the message, was posted here.” He pointed to a spot close to where the borders of Yugoslavia, Albania, and Greece all come together. “You’ll note that there’s a large lake here, and all three countries share its shores. In very mountainous country.”

He didn’t have to explain. “Is there much border traffic along there?”

“Surprisingly little, considering the difficulty of guarding the terrain. But such an area would present many opportunities for a skilled and experienced man.”

“What about the messenger boy? Anything on him?”