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ONE
By the time Tony Polteri crossed the Tiber the second
time into the Trastevere section of Rome, he was sure he
wasn't being followed. Even if he were followed up to that
point, losing a tail in the tiny, winding back streets of Tras-
tevere would be simple.
He parked in a narrow alley and walked the few remain-
ing blocks to the square in front of the Church of St.
Maria.
Night had descended on the city, but in the narrow
streets running off the piazza, streetlamps, neon signs,
glaring automobile headlights, and blazing outdoor restau-
rants frustrated the darkness.
In the middle of all of it, staying in the shadows as he•
made his way around the piazza, Polteri felt isolated.
He had always felt isolated from what he thought was
most people's reality—nine-to-five workdays and clothes
for the kids and a mortgaged house in the suburbs and bills
for the new car. Polteri existed in a shadow world, with
fear his constant companion and himself his only ally. But
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in an odd way Polteri also felt isolated from this shadow
world, aloof from it, as if he didn't really belong, as if he
were an observer, not a participant.
He was successful, and because of his success he felt
apart. But now the diamond-tough edge of reality was slic-
ing into this illusion, breaking it up. He was a participant,
all right. And soon he might die the way many did—in a
gutter with a bullet in his brain, alone—not remembered,
because he was never really known.
He saw her immediately. Sister Gianna of St. Maria of
the Holy Martyrs. She was kneeling in prayer before a
statue of the Virgin.
Out of boyhood habit rather than conviction, Polteri
crossed himself as he passed through the center aisle and
slipped into a pew directly behind her to wait.
Despite the coarse cloth habit and the wimple that cov-
ered all but her starkly white face, she was still quite beau-
tiful, with strong Latin features and wide-set dark eyes.
Even after all the years, it was still hard for Polteri to
see her as Sister Gianna instead of Joanna Santoni, the
prettiest senior at St. Catherine's.
He had been in his first year of law school when they
met and fell in love. They couldn't marry; there just wasn't
enough money. For two years they suffered, grabbing time
together whenever they could. And then the worst thing
that could happen, happened. Joanna Santoni, the pride of
her family, the most devout girl in her parish, got pregnant.
Joanna Santoni, whose two brothers were priests and who,
as a child, had thought of becoming a nun, was going to
have a child, and she was unmarried.
Her mother had a nervous breakdown. Her two brothers
shook their heads, and her father went to the local don in
Providence for help in killing Tony Polteri.
Polteri and Joanna bought a simple gold band and, even
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though both of them knew the marriage was doomed,
eloped. They told no one, and went about their lives as
before. The child—a daughter—was born with a defective
heart. Joanna named her Antonia, after Tony. The baby
lived barely a year.
"It's our punishment, Tony," Joanna had said. "We'll
live with it for the rest of our lives."
At the death of their granddaughter, Joanna told her par-
ents about her marriage. Her father pulled strings and ob-
tained an annulment. Joanna Santoni entered a convent and
Tony Polteri went to Vietnam.
Suddenly she seemed to sense his presence. She crossed
herself and backed away from the Virgin.
"Hello, Tony. It's been months."
"I've been busy." He kissed her on both cheeks.
"Let's go out into the courtyard. I want a cigarette."
"That's permitted?" he asked.
She smiled. "Everything is permitted now, even giving
ourselves cancer. You don't look good, Tony."
He shrugged. "I've been under a bit of a strain."
"My brother wrote. He said the flowers on Antonia's
grave were beautiful. "
Polteri snorted. "With all the money I send that old thief
Rosselli, they should be."
They sat on a stone bench that curved around a foun-
tain. He lit two cigarettes and handed her one of them.
"Just like in the movies, huh?" She looked at him and
smiled.
"Yeah, kid, here's to you." They both laughed and then
fell silent for a moment, Polteri putting his thoughts to-
gether. "I'm going to have to go away."
"For long?"
He nodded. "A very long time."
She looked away, 'TII miss our lunches."
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He laid his hand on hers where it rested between them
on the bench. "Is that all?"
"No. The years have mellowed everything, Tony. We're
as close as two friends can be, you know that."
'SI know." He withdrew a thick envelope from his inside
jacket pocket and set it in her lap.
"What's this?"
"Business."
Her dark eyebrows came together as she hefted the en-
velope. She didn't know what Tony did. She assumed his
business was very successful since over the years he had
given nearly a million dollars to her order's children's hos-
pital fund.
"But what should I do with it?"
"Joanna .. i" He paused. It was the first time in years he
had called her Joanna.
"I'm going to write you every month. The letters will
come from a lawyer in Geneva. His name and address are
there on the envelope. If a month goes by and you don't
receive a letter from me, I want you to take that envelope
to that lawyer."
Her eyes clouded. "Tony, you're in trouble, aren't you."
He mashed out his cigarette and field-stripped it. "Let's
just say I could be."
"Can I help? You've done so much ..
"You can help by doing exactly as I say. You will, won't
you?"
"Of course I will."
He stood and tugged her to her feet.
"I've got to go
now.
He kissed her cheek, and then something made him
brush his lips over hers. "My God, I'm perverse."
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"How so?" she said, smiling, a tear squeezing from the
corner of her eye and running down her cheek.
"I always wanted to kiss a nun. Good-bye, Joanna." He
moved away, but stopped when she spoke again.
s 'Tony, when did you make your last confession?"
He paused, then shrugged. "Don't remember."
She moved to him and pressed something into his hand.
"Go to confession, Tony," she whispered.
When he turned she was hurrying away across the court-
yard, her head bowed.
He opened his hand. She had given him a rosary, and
dangling from it, next to the cross, was a plain gold ring.
Polteri's second destination that night—and his last call
in Rome—was near the Piazza Venezia. It had once been
an elegant old palazzo. Now it looked like a huge pile of
dark stone alongside the more modern business district that
had grown up around it.
Shunning the ancient elevator that rarely worked, Pol-
teri walked up the five flights of stairs to the top floor. He
dropped the brass knocker twice and waited in the drafty
hallway, smelling the dampness and the sharp tang of garlic
in the air. Light footsteps sounded inside the apartment and
the door was opened quickly.
The girl who opened the door looked to be in her middle
twenties. She wore a blue denim short-sleeved shirt that
was much too big for her everywhere but around the
breasts, and a pair of white shorts that appeared to be glued
into place, She stood no taller than five two or three, her
long black hair tied back into a ponytail that reached down
almost to the inside of her knees. Her shapely limbs were
tanned to a creamy mocha.
Her face was beautiful. High forehead and straight nose,
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the end of which flared into delicately winged nostrils. Jet-
black eyes which, round and clear, looked as if they could
shift from iceberg cold to sun-hot lava with the snap of a
finger. Eyes which, as Polteri made contact with them now,
stirred feelings in his groin that he knew he had no busi-
ness feeling at the present moment.
"Come in quickly," she said in a husky, petulant voice.
Polteri slid through the opening into the foyer of the
apartment. She closed and locked the door behind him.
"This is foolish, very dangerous," she whispered sharply
"I know," he replied, "but it couldn't be helped. There
was no time to set up a meet anywhere else."
"This way," she said with a sigh.
He followed her into a long salon whose windows
looked out onto the elaborate, starkly white war memorial
of Victor Emmanuel II. The memorial faced the Piazza
Venezia, where Italians had once gathered to hear Musso-
lini's trumpetings. Beyond it stretched the Roman Forum,
and then the incredible bulk of the Coliseum, glowing
under its barrage of electric lights.
"Would you like a drink0"
Her nervousness at his being in the flat told him she
didn't mean it.
"No, there isn't time. I have a great deal to do. Benja-
min Rivkin is going to talk."
Her eyes opened wide and her hand instinctively
reached for a cigarette. Polteri lit it and one for himself.
He noticed that his hand holding the lighter trembled
slightly. Bad sign.
"How do you know?"
"As investigator of the shuttle ring that brought Rivkin
and the other spies in, I was notified. A memo was sent to
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my office in Vienna this morning. I got it through the of-
fice here in Rome."
"How do you know they have turned Rivkin?" she
asked, puffing nervously on the cigarette.
"He specifically asked for a top agent familiar with Eu-
rope. My guess is he's going to give some of my people—
the ones he knows—in exchange for something."
"That's ridiculous. In two, not more than three weeks,
Rivkin will be back home, in Russia. The trade is being
worked out right now."
Polteri crushed out his cigarette and smiled. "I know. I
think that's what he's going to trade for. I think Rivkin
wants to stay in the United States."
Her face flushed, as he knew it would. No true Russian
and party member wanted to admit that one of his
comrades didn't want to return to blessed Mother Russia.
She began to pace.
"How did you bring Rivkin in?"
"Vienna, of course. Then he was moved to Madrid, on
to Paris, and then through London where he was handed
over to your people."
Polteri waited in silence while she paced the floor,
lighting one cigarette from the tip of another, and glancing
at him every moment or so.
"So Rivkin can name three of your people?"
Polteri nodded. "Rev Babbas in Madrid, Saul Charpek
in Paris, and Norman Evron in London. If they get those
three, they'll get the other four as well. And, of course,
one of the seven will break down and lead them to me."
She stopped her pacing and stared straight into his eyes.
"We cannot let that happen,"
Tony Polteri stood and strolled across to the terrace that
overlooked the heart of ancient Rome. It was beautiful at
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night, its pillars and broken statuary bathed in spotlights
and thrown into pale relief by moonlight.
And the cats. He couldn't see them, of course, but they
would be there, hundreds of them prowling for food, mov-
ing insolently through the night. Polteri had often gone out
and fed them.
He had often fancied himself as one of them.
He would miss Rome, and her. He would miss Vienna
and his trips to Budapest and Vela. He would miss Europe,
and his women.
Hell, he would even miss the cats.
She was at his side, her fingers on his arm. "Porchov
will handle it. He always has."
Polteri shook his head. "Not this time. The agent
they're sending to see Rivkin is Nick Carter. He's a bull-
dog. He won't give up. They were getting close anyway.
With Carter on it, it will only be a matter of time."
"No one man can stop an operation as large as this."
"This one can. You don't know Carter. I do." He placed
his hands on her shoulders. "We had a good nine-year run.
We made one hell of a lot of money. It's over."
"I'm afraid so," he replied, starting for the door.
"Tony, wait. Let me call Porchov. Talk to him."
' Too late, luv."
"Tony, stop right there."
He turned, and just shook his head when he saw the
silenced Beretta in her hand. "I wondered just whose side
you would be on when it came down to the nitty-gritty."
"l have no choice."
"Then I'll give you one," Polteri replied. "When I set
this whole thing up nine years ago, Porchov insisted on no
records, no lists of those I brought across, legal or illegal. I
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agreed. Well, I lied. There is a master list. Every name is
on it. Still think you'll shoot me? I don't think Porchov
would like that."
He waited until she lowered the gun to her side, and
then threw her a kiss as he went out the door.
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Two
The grilled, narrow windows of the special interview
room at Leavenworth let in very little of the Kansas sun.
Nick Carter let his eyes roam around the room without
moving his head. There would be a camera somewhere,
and at least two microphones. It was common procedure at
all federal prisons to photograph and tape any and all inter-
rogations. In the case of a convicted spy like Benjamin
Rivkin, it was an absolute must.
But there were reservations about the photos and tapes.
AXE chief David Hawk had laid down the ground rules
that morning in Washington before Carter had left.
"For now, Nick, your eyes only and your ears only.
Confiscate the video and the sound tapes right after you
talk to him. M16 and the Mossad are already aware that
Rivkin wants some kind of a deal. If there is any kind of
leak, I want to know our trump cards before Israel and our
U.K. brethren do."
Carter heard footsteps on the steel plate in the corridor,
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and turned toward the door in anticipation. He was looking
fonvard to meeting this man.
Rivkin was a Russian Jew, born in Moscow. Early on,
he had been a committed Zionist, speaking out against the
Soviet government. He was one of the most outspoken
among the refuseniks, and for this had spent a year in the
Chistopol prison in the Urals, and another year in a Siber-
ian gulag. Finally he had been retried and exiled into the
Jewish refugee program.
What, Carter wondered, had the Kremlin offered him—
or threatened him with—that had made him spy for them
after he got to the West?
The door opened and Benjamin Rivkin shuffled
through. He was a short, gray man, unobtrusive and retir-
ing in nature. He seemed to blend into the room, the city,
and the world around him. Only his eyes, alert and specu-
lative, indicated the intelligence behind the monochromatic
facade. Now his round face wore an expression of a man
who has discovered that the total does not equal the sum of
the parts. In his quiet, almost colorless voice, he intro-
duced himself and offered his hand.
"I will not ask for your credentials. I assume you have
them or you wouldn't be in here now. And if they were
forged and you were an Israeli assassin, I would already be
dead. "
Carter couldn't suppress a smile. "Shall we get down to
business?"
"No," Rivkin said.
What
"I assume this room is wired?"
Carter hesitated and then nodded. "It is."
"Then I insist we talk somewhere else, in the open, the
countryside."
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"That's highly irregular. "
"So is what I have to tell you."
"I could wear a wire," Carter replied.
"You could, but I will search you."
"You're asking for a lot, Rivkin."
"I know."
Carter left him in the interrogation room and went to the
warden's office. He made a call to Washington to obtain
the proper permission and requisition an unmarked prison-
vane An hour later they were driving through the rolling
farmland of Kansas, with two plainclothes guards in the
front seat.
"This looks like a good spot," Carter said, and they
stopped.
Carter left his coat and his shoulder holster rig with his
9mm Luger with one of the guards.
"You sure you don't want this?" the guard asked,
dumbfounded.
Carter shook his head. "Some farmer might get the
wrong idea if he saw it. And, besides, if I can't run a man
like Rivkin down, I'd better pack it in."
The guard shrugged. "Up to you. Just remember, if you
get out of our sight, he's all your baby."
Carter held his hands straight out from his sides so Riv-
kin could pat him down. He found nothing.
"You are an honest man, Carter."
"Sometimes," the Killmaster replied, "when it serves
my purpose. Shall we walk?"
They climbed over a low chain link fence into a recently
plowed field, and began to walk in adjoining furrows. The
sky was on fire with a blue brilliance that was almost
blinding. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky.
Rivkin took a deep breath of the crisp, fresh air heavily
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laden with the tang of a recent light snowfall. "It is indeed
a beautiful country. "
"It is," Carter said. "We'd like to keep it that way."
Rivkin chuckled. "I sincerely hope you do, believe me.
The bureaucrats are negotiating a trade for me, aren't
Carter nodded. "It's my understanding that they are very
near to reaching an agreement."
Rivkin stopped and faced Carter. "I don't want to go
back. "
Carter kept a straight face. Hawk had already guessed
that Rivkin wanted to turn. The question was, did he have
anything to offer in return for asylum and a new identity in
the United States? Carter asked him as much.
Rivkin sighed. "Truthfully, not enough for a fine house,
a car, and sufficient funds to live out my days in luxury.
But I don't need that."
"What do you need?" Carter asked.
"A new identity, a social security card, driver's license,
a birth certificate, and a few hundred dollars."
"That might be done. Where would you want to go?"
"Eugene, Oregon. I met a woman about a year ago, a
Canadian. She owns a small liquor store there. We would
like to get married. I can rather fancy myself as a liquor
store clerk for the rest of my life. After all, I'm rather an
expert on vodka."
"We didn't know about her," Carter said.
"They don't either. I was very careful."
Carter lit a cigarette and broke up a clod of dirt with his
toe. "You would be under spot-check surveillance for a
year, perhaps two."
"As long as they're discreet."
"You could never get a passport," Carter said, "never
leave the country."
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'SAh, you think that would be a problem? That's the last
thing I would want to do."
"Okay," Carter said, "what have you got?"
Rivkin started walking again. He shoved his hands
deeply into his trouser pockets and screwed his face into a
mask of concentration. Carter moved beside him. in si-
lence. He didn't want to rush the man. Through the inter-
rogation, the trial, and since, Rivkin had said nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Almost anything Carter learned from him now would bé
useful.
"I'll start when I came over. I suppose your people are
wondering how that was accomplished."
"Very much so, especially considering your record as a
refusenik and the number of fellow Jews you helped con-
vince the government over there to release."
Suddenly Rivkin laughed aloud. "That is the brilliance,
the sheer genius of the entire operation. We Russians have
patience. I worked on the cover for six years before I left
Russia. As you know, I even spent two years in prison."
"And you were eventually released into the Jewish refu-
gee program. What did they hold over you, Rivkin, or
what did they promise you—a Jew—to work for them
when you got into the West?"
Rivkin turned and faced him squarely. "Nothing, Carter.
They didn't have to. You see, my real name is not Benja-
min Rivkin. It's Boris Bablenkov. And I am not a Jew."
Scowling, chewing the butt of an unlit cigar to a shred,
David Hawk listened intently as Carter reiterated practi-
cally verbatim the Killmaster's interview with Benjamin
Rivkin né Boris Bablenkov. A tape recorder in the AXE
chief's desk was rolling. The tape would be transcribed the
moment the meeting was over, but from the scowl on
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Hawk's face Carter knew he would be moving before the
last word was put on paper.
At last Carter took a break and Hawk filled the pause
with a groan. "So there was a pipeline to get field agents
into the States."
Carter nodded. "And into most of the other NATO
countries as well. From what Rivkin said, it's so well or-
ganized that young Russian agents take years to establish
their Jewish backgrounds before coming over."
"Then," Hawk said, "they are built up when they arrive
so there will be no hint of anything shady when they take
their final post."
Carter nodded. "In Rivkin's case, he was shuttled to this
Rev Babbas in Madrid. There, he established himself as a
bookkeeper with the Babbas company. After a certain
riod of time, he accepted a better job offer from one Saul
Charpek in Paris. His association with Charpek gave him
an in with international banking circles. From there it was
on to London, where, with the help of Norman Evron he
formed his own investment counseling firm
Hawk jumped in. "And then it was an easy matter to
make the jump to the United States, where, in the guise of
foreign investment in real estate he bought land close to
every military installation we have."
"And," Carter added, "built a lot of low-cost housing
for military personnel. It's impossible to guess how much
information he acquired through the relationships he
made."
"My God," Hawk growled, "he could be the tip of the
iceberg."
"He probably is," Carter said. "Rivkin believes that it's
been going on for nine or ten years. It's hard to say how
many agents they have put in place. He only had three
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names, but he's sure they have at least one man in every
country in Europe as part of the chain."
Hawk discarded the soaked cigar and readied another
one. "And Rivkin seemed to think that they weren't Mos-
cow controlled?"
"That was the impression he got. It's an independent
organization. Moscow foots the bills, of course, and pays
well for every agent settled in place."
There was a light rap on the door and Hawk's second-
in-command, Ginger Bateman, moved briskly and busi=
nesslike into the room. "I've got background on the three
of them, but it's short and very sketchy."
"Let's hear it," Hawk said.
"All three of them are refugees. Charpek and Evron
came out of Russia, Rev Babbas out of Poland."
"How long ago?" Carter asked.
"Eleven years," Bateman replied. "l ran everything we
had on them through the computer. Nothing links them
together, even knowing one another. But there is one
screaming similarity. Babbas was in the restaurant business
in Madrid, and failing. Saul Charpek emigrated to Israel
and was eventually asked to leave. Evidently he was a bit
of a con man and an embarrassment. Norman Evron owned
a small bookmaking operation in Brighton. He got hit
pretty hard, couldn't satisfy all his clients, and lost his
license. Now comes the similarity. About ten years ago,
each of them started his own firm. Rev Babbas in clothing
manufacturing, primarily military uniforms. Saul Charpek
went into the arms business, and Evron started his invest-
ment banking business in London. All of them were heav-
ily capitalized and became quite successful. Since then
they have been model citizens."
Hawk and Carter exchanged a long, knowing look.
Carter spoke. "Moscow."
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"I think we can infer that," Hawk said. "But if Rivkin's
right and they are free-lancers, then there must be some
control. One person or group of persons is guiding the
agents to them for placement and money collection and
disbursement."
Bateman jum1Ed back in. "I've instructed our people in
London, Paris, and Madrid to dig some more on the three
of them. Should I have them put under surveillance?"
"No," Hawk said, "not yet. We don't want to tip them
yet. This ring has been on the burner for a couple of years.
Didn't the CIA have a man on it?"
Bateman nodded. "Tony Polteri in Vienna. So far, he
hasn't come up with anything concrete."
"But he must have something," Hawk said. "Fax what
we have to him, and alert him that N3 is on his way. We'll
work together on it. All right with you, Nick?"
Carter nodded. "What about Rivkin?"
"I've already got the go-ahead. They'll transfer him to-
morrow night. Bateman ."
"Yes, sirO"
"Get Nick a flight to Vienna tonight. Also, get a list of
every Jewish refugee agency operating in Vienna, even the
private ones. None of them may be involved, but they'll
have to be checked."
"Right away. Anything else?"
"That's it," Hawk said, and turned to Carter. "Nip this
fast, Nick. And get records. If they've been at it nine or ten
years, God only knows how many like Rivkin they've put
in place."
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THREE
The rusted, hand-painted sign illuminated by a bare yel-
low bulb read Trattoria Bellini. There were several motor-
bikes and three cars in front when she parked.
Walking from the car to the door, she looked different
than she had in the flat with Polteri, more like the streets of
Rome. She wore a long black leather coat over a white
sweater and loose black skirt. A pair of knee-high black
boots completed the costume.
The trattoria was the restaurant, bar, and meeting place
for the farmers of the area. A half dozen of them, sturdy,
red-faced men in black woollen suits and mud-caked boots,
sat at wooden tables with bottles of wine before them,
puffing on pipes and listening to a frail, bearded old man
who was playing a violin. The room was warm, and
smelled of strong tobacco, garlic and stewing tomatoes. It
was the natural place to stop for a rest between Florence
and Rome. They had used it before to meet.
She spotted Maxim Porchov at a small table along the
rear wall. With his wide peasant face, his dark mustache,
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