Agent Counter-Agent (2 page)

It was signed simply "The Spoilers." The entire message, including the signature, was pasted up from magazine clippings.

The ashen-faced karate instructor came over to me from the dead man. When he spoke, his voice was cool. "Was that left by these men?"

"That's right," I said.

"May I see it, please?" he asked in his instructor's voice.

"I'm afraid not," I answered.

His face filled with anger. "Now look here, Carter. This unfortunate incident occurred on school grounds. And you have some explaining to do."

I stuck the paper into my jacket pocket. "David Hawk will get a full report."

Everybody at AXE answered to Hawk, even this man's boss at the training center. I suspected that the instructor resented the fact that I reported directly to Hawk. As I started past him to retrieve my stiletto, it looked like he was going to try to stop me.

"Do you think you can take this paper from me?" I asked with a sarcastic grin.

He hesitated for a minute. I knew he wanted very much to accept the challenge, but he was aware of my rank. That single fact frightened him in spite of his black belt in karate.

He moved aside, and I retrieved the stiletto. I cleaned the blade on the dead man's back and returned it to its sheath. "You can take the body to the training center," I said, "but leave it there till you hear from Hawk. And don't remove anything from his pockets."

The instructor just stared hard at me, resentment written all over his face.

"In the meantime, exercises are over," I said. "No more skulking around in the shadows tonight."

I turned away and headed back toward the buildings. I had to get a call through to Hawk right away.

A couple of days later Hawk and I sat at a long mahogany conference table at AXE headquarters with the head of the CIA, the chief of the National Security Agency, the Secret Service boss, and the director of the Venezuelan Security Police. Hawk had asked these men to meet with us because their agencies were going to provide the security for the Caracas Conference.

Hawk was at the head of the table, speaking through a huge, smelly cigar. "You all have copies of the message before you, gentlemen," he said. "If any of you wish to examine the original again, I have it right here." His spare frame seemed electric with energy, and his hard, icy eyes looked out of place in his jovial Connecticut-farmer's face. I noticed, as I had many times before, that when Hawk spoke, people listened carefully — even these notables.

"There is no lead as to who wrote it?" the CIA chief asked. He was a tall, sandy-haired man with piercing blue eyes and the manner of a five-star general.

"I'll let N3 answer that," Hawk said, shifting the cigar in his mouth.

I folded my hands in front of me on the table. I can't stand these bureaucratic meetings, especially when I have to answer a lot of questions from intelligence brass.

"There's no way to trace the materials that they used for the message itself," I said. "We've checked out the paper, envelope, clippings, and glue, and it's all common stuff that they could have bought at any one of a thousand stores in the area."

"What about the men themselves?" asked the Secret Service head impatiently. He was stocky and blondish, with streaks of gray starting at the temples. He looked very nervous.

"The man I killed turned out to be a shoe salesman in a large department store here in Washington. No leads. He hasn't got a record with any of our departments or with the police. And all I can tell you about his friend is that he's a tall guy with a European accent."

"Russian?" the NSA man asked. He was an older man with white hair and a long, jutting chin. He was doodling on the note pad in front of him, but he watched my face intently.

"I couldn't tell for sure," I said. "It might have been a Balkan accent. And of course it could have been phony."

The Venezuelan drummed his fingers on the table. He was a big man with an olive complexion and dark, heavy eyebrows. He was the man who had successfully protected the Venezuelan government during a series of attempted coups a while back, and he was obviously worried now. "Then we have no idea who is behind the message," he said slowly, in his thick accent.

"I'm afraid that's the present situation," Hawk admitted. "Even the signature doesn't mean anything to us."

"If it were up to me, I wouldn't worry about it," the NSA chief said. "The whole thing is probably a hoax of some kind."

"Or just some men with a grudge against AXE," the head of the Secret Service commented. "Amateurs who can be handled easily if they show up in Caracas."

"I don't see the Russians or Red Chinese going about an assignment in quite this way," the man from the CIA said slowly. "But then, it's almost impossible to guess how the KGB and the L5 will conduct themselves in any given situation."

"The hard, cold fact remains," Hawk said, "that there is a threat to the conference. The note talks of humiliation and embarrassment, not just disruption. And it is specifically addressed to AXE. What kind of embarrassment would particularly affect my agency, gentlemen?"

There was a short silence. Finally, the CIA chief spoke again. "Your people are often brought in where an assassination attempt is expected," he said, "to block their executioners with yours." He glanced in my direction.

"That's right," Hawk said, sitting back in his chair and glancing around the table. "So if AXE is to be embarrassed at this conference, it's just possible that someone is planning to assassinate our Vice-President or the Venezuelan President or both."

There was a buzz of conversation around the table. The head of the Secret Service regarded Hawk somberly. "I don't see how we can draw that conclusion from the note, David," he said. "I think you re exaggerating its importance."

The NSA man got up from his chair and started pacing back and forth beside the long table, his hands clasped behind him. He looked like a retired British colonel, striding down the room. "I think we're all taking this thing much too seriously," he argued. "The damned note could be a practical joke."

Till now I'd purposely kept quiet. Hawk wanted to hear everyone's opinion before we expressed ours. But now I thought it was time for me to speak up.

"It's a little too well planned for a joke," I said quietly. "Remember, these men managed to gain access to the AXE training-center grounds. And they knew my name and managed to find me there. The one with the accent, who gave me the note, said exactly this: T suggest your people read it carefully and seriously. "I looked around the table. "He didn't sound like he was kidding."

"If I'd killed a man in such a situation, I would want to interpret the whole thing pretty seriously, too," the Secret Service man said acidly.

I couldn't afford to lose my temper. "One of the men held a revolver on me while the other worked me over," I said coolly. "If you'd been there, you certainly would have taken it seriously. I used my knife because I had to stop the man, not because I love killing."

The Secret Service chief just raised his eyebrows and gave me a patronizing smile. "No criticism of your judgment was intended, Mr. Carter. I'm just trying to point out that the intelligence services receive such notes regularly. We just can't afford to take them all seriously."

The Venezuelan cleared his throat. "That is true. But this one seems different to me. And where there is any possibility of an attempt on the life of my President, I cannot take any chances. I intend to double my guards at the Palacio de Miraflores during the conference. And since your Vice-President may also be in danger, I strongly suggest you take extra precautions, too."

"I've just spoken with the Vice-President," the CIA chief spoke up. "He isn't concerned at all. I've told him that all four agencies will have men there, anyway, and he feels that is sufficient."

Hawk looked back at the Secret Service man, who was pressing his clasped hands against his mouth. In spite of his cynical remarks, he was obviously aware that he had the primary responsibility for the life and personal welfare of the Vice-President.

"What do you think?" Hawk asked him.

He regarded Hawk seriously. "Well, I have to admit, it is the lives of the principals to the conference we're talking about here, at least potentially. I'll put extra men on the Caracas trip to match Venezuelan security."

"Good," Hawk said, chewing the cigar. He ran a hand through his gray hair, then took the cigar out of his mouth. "As for AXE, we would not ordinarily have an agent at this land of meeting. But since AXE was specifically mentioned in the note, I'm sending my top man — Nick Carter — to the conference." He waved a hand toward me. "The Vice-President thinks it would be a good idea if I accompanied him, so I'll go, too."

The CIA chief looked from me to Hawk. "We'll arrange for security clearance for both."

The man from the NSA shook his head slowly. "I still think you re off on a wild goose chase," he said sardonically.

"It may be that," Hawk admitted. "And of course there is a third possibility." He paused, enjoying the suspense. "A trap," he continued, sticking the cold cigar back into his mouth. "The note says that it is particularly AXE that will be humiliated. And that the whole thing is an open challenge to AXE. Maybe somebody wants N3 or me over there for some ulterior motive."

"Then why go?" the NSA man argued. "I would think this is one you'd be happy to sit out."

Hawk chewed the cigar. "Except that that's not the way I operate," he said. "I don't like the idea of hiding my head in the sand and hoping a threat will go away or that someone else will take care of everything for us."

"We welcome your presence, señor Hawk," said the Venezuelan.

The CIA man turned his intelligent, serious eyes on me. "I hope your trip turns out to be uneventful," he said.

I grinned at him. "Believe it or not, I hope so, too."

It was Holy Week in Caracas, and the whole city had turned out for the festival. There were bullfights, parades with colorful floats and everyone dressed in bright regional costumes, concerts and exhibits, and dancing in the public squares. Caracas was letting its hair down for a good time. And yet it wasn't the bright, zany carnival mood that stayed with me as I settled into my room at Hotel El Conde just six days before the conference. It was the cold, spooky feeling of the stiff wind whistling through the narrow cobblestone streets of the old part of the city. I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that the city was trying to tell me something that the festivities concealed from the casual observer. Something evil.

Hawk had taken an earlier flight and was already in the city. He'd thought it was best for us to go separately and stay at different hotels.

I was to contact Hawk at a small restaurant near the American Express office at nine that evening. That gave me a few hours on my own, so I went to a kiosk at the corner and bought a newspaper and a bullfight sheet. I took the papers with me to a nearby sidewalk cafe, but I decided to sit inside because of the wind. I ordered a Campari and drank it while I read all the stories on the conference, wondering if that forum would be making real headlines before this was all over.

After I'd finished with the paper, I studied the bullfight news. I'd always enjoyed a good
corrida.
When you're in the business of killing and trying to keep from being killed and you five with death — violent death — the bullfight has a special fascination for you. You go, pay your money, and sit in the
barrera —
front row — seats. And you know that there will be a death in the ring, maybe even the death of a man. But whether death strikes the bull or the man, you know that — at least this time — you'll walk out alive. No matter who dies, it isn't you or an enemy you've had to kill. So you sit in your paid seat and take it all in with a sense of detachment you know you'll have to shed as soon as you step back into the world outside the arena. But during the spectacle you can actually enjoy death, smug and aloof from the death that stalks you on the streets.

While I was reading the bullfight paper, I glanced up and noticed a man watching me.

I looked quickly back to the paper. I didn't want the man to know that I'd seen him. I held my eyes on the page and sipped the Campari, watching the man out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting at a table outside, looking at me through the window. I'd never seen his face before, but it occurred to me that his general build was like that of the man with the gun who'd attacked me back at the training center. It might just be the same man.

But there are probably a thousand men in Caracas built like that one. I picked up a movement and glanced up again. The man was dropping some coins on the table, getting ready to leave. As he got up, he looked very quickly at me again.

After the man had gone, I threw some coins onto the table, tucked the paper under my arm, and started out after him. By the time I reached the street, the heavy traffic had blocked him from view. When the traffic cleared, he was nowhere in sight.

Later, at the restaurant near the American Express office, I told Hawk about the incident. As usual, he was chewing on a long cigar. Hawk is a real patriot, but when he has a legal chance to get a hold of a good Cuban cigar, he really can't pass it up.

"Very interesting," he said, thoughtfully, blowing a smoke ring toward me. "It might not mean anything, of course, but I think that we had better proceed with extreme caution."

"Have you been to the White Palace, sir?" I asked.

"I stopped by earlier today. There are a lot of people there, Nick, but there is very little organization. The security people seem more excited about the festival than the conference. I have a bad feeling about it."

"I got the feeling without even going there," I admitted.

"I want you to go to the palace tomorrow and have a long, unobstrusive look around. You have a keen nose for trouble. Use it and report back to me here tomorrow afternoon."