Hawk really was tired. He placed his unlighted cigar in an ashtray and knuckled his eyes. “Topcon is a shadowy organization, Nick, apparently tightly-knit and carefully policed. It may be the best private spying outfit set up since Gehlen formed his in Germany after the war. And we can’t identify the person who heads it. That sort of information has eluded us.”
“I know. I could make a couple of stops in almost any large city in Europe and come out with the addresses of the local Soviet and British intelligence chiefs, but Topcon is a different matter entirely. I couldn’t give you the name of anyone who works for them.”
“And I suppose you’ve been wondering when AXE would challenge this outfit and try to find out who runs it.”
I grinned. “I’d like the job, if that’s what you mean.”
“Nick, Topcon has the precious little gadget shown in those photographs. They’ve put it up for auction.”
Hawk opened the folder again and took out a newspaper clipping which he passed to me. “Before I go on, I want you to read this news item.”
I frowned as I quickly scanned the clipping, which was from an Italian language newspaper. The story was very brief. It reported the stabbing death of a traveler named Carlo Spinetti. The murder had been committed on a railroad platform in Trieste. Police were looking for two men who perpetrated the crime while stealing Carlo Spinetti’s suitcase.
“What’s the connection between this and the rest of what you’ve told me?” I asked Hawk.
“The killers weren’t interested in the contents of their victim’s suitcase. They wanted a travel sticker that was on the bag. A sticker that concealed a microdot with valuable intelligence on it.” Hawk took the clipping back, shaking his head. “Carlo Spinetti wasn’t even aware he was carrying it.”
“Without his knowledge, he was being used to transport stolen data?”
“That’s right. And Topcon was responsible. They’re using the railroad to smuggle information, to carry stolen secrets out of the free world and behind the Iron Curtain. They use the Orient Express run from Paris to Sofia, by way of Milan, Trieste, and Belgrade. We’ve been watching the airways closely, so they developed another pipeline.”
I was fitting the various bits of information together. “And you think the electronic device Topcon stole is going to be carried along that pipeline.”
“Most of what I’ve told you comes to us from a Bulgarian defector named Jan Skopje. He’s informed us that Topcon has the gadget and plans to take it to Sofia aboard the Orient Express. One of Russia’s people, a top KGB man, is scheduled to meet a Topcon agent aboard the train to make a deal before they arrive in Sofia. You, Nick, are to meet Skopje in Paris, pick up any other details you can, and intercept the merchandise before it changes hands.”
I took another look at the photographs of the device. “Okay.”
“I brought you to Washington with the intention of assigning you to locate the monitor. At that time, I didn’t know who had it. Then the Skopje business started breaking, so I had to delay a decision.”
“I understand. And now time is breathing down our necks. I have to get to the device before the Russians do.”
“While you’re doing that, if you should just happen to blow the lid off Topcon, I wouldn’t be exactly unhappy.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.” I stood up. “Any further instructions?”
“You’re going up against the KGB and Topcon. And Lord knows who else might horn in hoping to get hold of that monitor. So watch your step, Nick. I’d hate to lose both the monitor and you.”
I promised that I’d try to save him that embarrassment.
Two
It was late afternoon of the next day when I arrived at Orly Airport near Paris. The weather was cool but clear, and the taxi ride to the Prince de Galles Hotel at 33, Avenue George V was very pleasant. Paris looked the same, except for the ever-burgeoning traffic on the streets. There were a few buds on the trees that lined the boulevards. I remembered some of my favorite streets with nostalgia: the Rue Reaumur with its ironwork balconies, the Montparnasse area, and the lovely Rue du Faubourg Poissonniere that led down to the Folies. But I had no time for any of that now. I had to find Jan Skopje.
By dark I was checked in at the Prince de Galles. I called Skopje at the number he had given us and reached him. His voice was deep with a thick accent and tense.
“Come to the Three Graces Square near the Folies,” he told me. “At seven. The sooner the better, as you Americans say.” There was a small nervous laugh. “I will be at Duke’s Bar, just down the block from my hotel.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Before I left the hotel, I checked the Luger I called Wilhelmina. I considered such precautions to be among the reasons I was still alive while a couple of Killmasters who had preceded me were listed as Cold War casualties in a special file Hawk kept in a locked drawer of his desk.
Testing the stiletto I called Hugo, I flexed my left arm. The deadly little knife slid neatly from the arm scabbard and down into my hand. I nodded to myself, satisfied that I was as prepared as I could be for what lay ahead, and then I went down the stairs and out into the spring sunlight.
I had an early dinner at the Chez des Anges Restaurant on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg coq au vin, oeufs en meurette, and a balloon glass of excellent Burgundy wine. Then I took a taxi to the Place de la Republique.
Because I knew the area and because I felt like being particularly cautious that evening, I walked the rest of the way. There were a lot of strollers already on the streets, and I was glad to mingle with them and lose myself. I saw a large knot of young people enjoying the spring night around the Belleville Metro station. Then I walked under the crumbling archway that had once closed off the Cite de Trevise and found myself in the small square that Skopje had mentioned. It had the look of old Paris — a tiny park with a fountain.
There were three hotels on the square, all small, and Duke’s Bar was situated in one of them. I went in and looked around. The place was deserted — obviously the way Skopje had wanted it. I found him sitting at a table near a rear door that led to a back room. I walked over to him.
“Flowers are blooming at the Tuileries,” I said.
He studied my face. He was a tall, lanky man with a sallow face and dark rings under his eyes. “It will be an early spring,” he said carefully.
I sat down across the table from him. We were alone in the place, except for the waiter at the bar. “I’m Nick Carter,” I said. “And you’re Jan Skopje.”
“Yes. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carter.” His manner was even more nervous than his voice had been on the phone. “We must make this meeting brief. I believe they have found out where I am living. I don’t know what they have in mind, but I don’t want them to see me with you.”
“Bulgarian agents?” I asked.
“I am not sure. They might be Topcon men. They...”
A waiter came and took our order. Skopje waited until he had brought the drinks and left again before he resumed the discussion.
“There is a man watching my hotel,” he said quietly. He looked over his shoulder toward the swinging doors of the back room where the waiter had just disappeared. Then he turned back to me. “The stolen device will be taken aboard the Orient Express two days from now at Lausanne, Switzerland. The train stops there in early morning.”
“Why Lausanne?” I asked.
“Topcon headquarters is in Switzerland. I don’t know where.” He watched the front entrance of the place closely. The waiter came back into the room and went to the bar.