Hawk was waiting at the end of the landing strip in a long, dark limousine. As soon as I had transferred from the jet to the car, the redheaded pilot waved his hand, turned his aircraft around, and took off for the carrier. There were two men in the front of the limousine — the chauffeur and, I guessed, another AXE agent. I knew we must be facing a serious crisis, since Hawk almost never revealed the identity of one agent to another. Hawk tapped on the glass partition that separated us from the men in front, and the limousine rolled across the airport.
“Well, N3,” Hawk said, staring at the window, “I assume you have no new information to report.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” I said, but I did tell him about the duplicate cruiser at Whiskey Cay and my rescue. I added, “Of course there’s no way to prove how they got the information. Maria Von Alder may not be involved at all.”
“H’mm,” was Hawk’s only response.
We rode in silence for several Seconds before Hawk turned and said glumly, “The chapman of the Russian Communist party is due to arrive here at JFK in approximately six minutes. He’ll be meeting with some of our people in a hush-hush session at the U.N. before he flies back tomorrow. We’ve been given responsibility for his safety while he’s here. That’s why I needed you back so urgent.
It was my turn to mutter, “H’mm.”
The limousine had slowed down, and now it stopped beside one of the airport runways, where a large crowd of people and cars were waiting. Hawk leaned forward and pointed to a giant Turbo-jet that was descending from the leaden skies. “Our visitor is right on time,” he remarked, glancing at the pocket watch he wore on a chain strung across his vest.
As soon as the Russian plane stopped on the runway, airport personnel quickly rolled steps up to the cabin door, and the Soviet party chairman emerged. He was followed from the huge plane by several other Russian officials, and at the front of the steps the whole group was immediately surrounded by police and security officers — both Russian and American — and escorted to a waiting line of cars. When the procession, led by a phalanx of New York motorcycle police, drove off, our limousine was directly behind the Soviet chairman’s car. Soon we were entering the gates of the United Nations, with its long stately row of flags flapping briskly in the chilling wind.
Once inside the building, the whole group was quickly whisked into one of the private security-council chambers. It was a spacious, windowless room with seats arranged in tiers, like an amphitheatre for spectators, with a podium in the center, where the Soviet chairman and his party and the United States security adviser and his assistants took their places. Hawk and the other AXE agent and I had seats in the first row of the tiers, next to the Russian security police, who had accompanied the Soviet leader from Moscow. Behind us were city, state, and federal law-enforcement agents. The meeting was, of course, closed to the public.
The two men communicated through an interpreter, who translated in whispers from one to the other so that nothing that was said could be heard where we sat. It was like watching a play in pantomime and trying to guess what the actors were saying from their gestures.
At first it appeared that both men were angry and suspicious. There was a lot of frowning, scowling, and fist-banging. Soon the anger gave way to puzzlement, and then I could see that the two men were becoming more friendly. Apparently they were beginning to realize that neither country was behind the bizarre incidents.
Soon after, the meeting began to draw to a close, and both the Soviet chairman and the U.S. security adviser were standing to shake hands.
Then one of the men in the Soviet chairman’s own party — later I learned that he was the Russian ambassador — took a step toward the Communist chairman. He was holding a grenade that he had pulled from his pocket. The man unpinned the grenade and dropped it on the plush carpet directly at the Russian leader’s feet.
In the split second of frozen horror that followed not a sound could be heard in the room. I could see the pure terror on the face of the Soviet chairman as he gazed down in helpless fascination at the lethal, activated grenade lying at the tips of his shoes. In an instinctive reaction I drew my Luger, Wilhelmina, from the holster, but Hawk grabbed my arm. Actually, as he had been quicker than I to see there was nothing I could do. A bullet would only explode the grenade faster. There wasn’t even time for the Russian leader to move from the spot.
At that moment, with every person in the room paralyzed, the Russian ambassador — the man who had dropped the unpinned grenade — flung himself on top of the explosive. There was a muffled blast; the grenade’s deadly power was smothered by the man’s body. His body was blown apart, his head torn from his torso.
The repercussions of the explosion staggered the Soviet chairman and the others on the podium, but otherwise they were unharmed. Hawk and I immediately hustled the Russian and American delegations from the room to the waiting limousine outside. Arrangements were hastily made for the U.S. security adviser and his staff to return to Washington and for the Russian party to go to the Soviet Embassy and remain there until they left for Moscow.
Meanwhile, emergency police ambulances and the N.Y.P.D. bomb squad began to arrive at the U.N. with a contingent of newspaper reporters and photographers. The private security council chamber had been blocked off by U.N. police, but Hawk and I were allowed back inside where the sheeted remains of the Russian ambassador were being loaded onto a stretcher. Already, members of the Russian security police and American agents were preparing to trace the recent movements of the ambassador.
A call was placed to the White House, and the President was informed of the affair. Before that conversation ended, Hawk was called to the phone to talk with the President. When he came back, the AXE chief’s face was gray.
“That was a near disaster,” he said, shaking his head. “The President has advised me that we will receive a full report on the Soviet ambassador’s movements as soon as the investigations turn anything up. But we already know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Just two nights ago,” Hawk said, “the Soviet ambassador was a guest at a party thrown by Helga Von Alder and her mother at Helga’s Park Avenue apartment.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, startled.
Hawk nodded toward the other AXE agent who had accompanied us in the limousine from Kennedy. “Agent Z1 was at the party. Since I knew it was impossible for you to keep an eye on all the Von Alder women at once, I’ve been using him on the case. I want you two to get together at once so he can give you the details about that evening. Afterward, I want you to work on Helga Von Alder. And…
“Yes sir?” I asked.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about the urgency of your mission. There must be a link somewhere between this business and the Von Alders. Find it, no matter what it takes.”
Four
Hawk went on alone to the New York AXE office, leaving Z1 and me to talk together. After spending most of the day in the jet flying from Whiskey Cay and in the car driving from JFK, I felt I needed a workout at the gym. I suggested to Z1 that we go to the athletic club for a game of handball while we talked.
Neither of us, of course, knew the others real name. Z1 himself was about my age, a couple of inches shorter and several pounds heavier, with straw-colored hair and a fair complexion. As soon as we had changed into gym clothes and started our game, I saw that he was a worthy handball adversary. He had a clumsy, flat-footed lope on the court, but he hit the ball with murderous power so that it bounced around like a ricocheting bullet and kept me moving.