The office in the Lubyanka was a study in Spartan gloom, illuminated only by a single green-shaded lamp on the massive oak desk. General Viktor Andreyeff, head of the KGB's elite Second Chief Directorate, stared at the photographs spread before him. They were grainy, taken from a long distance with a telephoto lens, but the subject was unmistakable. The hawk-like nose, the deep-set eyes, the broad shoulders that suggested a deceptive power.
“He is here,” Andreyeff said, his voice a low, dry rasp. “In our own backyard, and we are playing blind man’s buff.”
Colonel Volkov, standing stiffly at attention, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine despite the chill in the room. “He was spotted near the GUM department store two hours ago, Comrade General. We had a tail on him, but he vanished in the crowds near Red Square. He is a master of disguise. One moment he is a grey-faced bureaucrat in a shapeless topcoat, the next he is just another common laborer lost in the metro.”
Andreyeff slammed his fist onto the desk, making the lamp rattle. “I do not want excuses, Volkov! I want the Killmaster. For years he has been a thorn in our side from Europe to Asia. But to come here, to Moscow... it is an insult. It is a direct challenge to the Party and the State.”
The General stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow-dusted expanse of Dzerzhinsky Square. “If he reaches his contact at the American Embassy, the documents regarding the 'Red Aurora' project will be out of our hands forever. Do you understand the consequences? The Politburo will not be satisfied with reports of 'missing leads'. They will want heads on platters. Starting with mine, and ending with yours.”
Volkov paled. Red Aurora was the most sensitive project in the Soviet Union’s military arsenal—a satellite-based laser system that could blind Western defense networks in seconds. “We have doubled the perimeter guards at every sensitive installation. Every exit from the city—the Yaroslavl Highway, the Minsk Road—is being monitored by the MVD. Every train station is under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“It is not enough,” Andreyeff whispered, his eyes narrowing as he watched a black Zil limousine cruise below. “Carter does not use exits. He creates them. He is not a man; he is a weapon forged by AX. Send the ‘Wolf Pack’ units. Tell them I want him taken alive if possible, for interrogation. But if he resists, they are to terminate him on the spot. No mistakes, Volkov. Not this time.”
“It will be done, Comrade General.” Volkov saluted and backed out of the room.
Outside, the snow began to fall more heavily over the Kremlin towers, turning the city into a white, suffocating labyrinth. Somewhere in that frozen maze, Nick Carter was moving. He felt the cold, but it didn't slow him down. He had a micro-disc in his pocket and a contact to meet in less than four hours. He knew the city was closing in on him, the steel trap of the KGB beginning to snap shut. But Carter had been in traps before.
He adjusted his fur hat, blended into the shadow of an alleyway near the Moskva River, and waited for the signal. The hunt was on.
Основные моменты для перевода:
Lubyanka: Любянка (главное здание КГБ).
Second Chief Directorate: Второе главное управление (ВГУ) — контрразведка.
Red Aurora: Проект «Красная Аврора».
MVD: МВД (милиция, контролирующая выезды из города).
Wolf Pack units: Подразделения «Волчья стая» (спецназ КГБ в представлении автора).Вот Глава 2 книги "The Kremlin Kill":
CHAPTER TWO
The metro station at Ploshchad Revolyutsii was a cathedral of marble and bronze, a monument to the proletariat that felt more like a tomb to Nick Carter. He stood near one of the bronze statues of a partisan, his face partially hidden by the collar of his heavy woolen coat. To anyone passing by, he was just another weary worker waiting for a train.
His contact was supposed to be here five minutes ago.
Carter’s eyes, as sharp as a hawk's, scanned the platform. He didn't look for faces; he looked for patterns—anyone standing too still, anyone moving too fast, the subtle "V" of men closing in.
A train roared into the station, its brakes screaming. The doors slid open, and a wave of people surged out. Among them was a small man in a brown fedora. He walked with a slight limp and carried a tattered briefcase. He paused to light a cigarette near the statue where Carter stood.
"The winter is long this year," the man said in Russian, his voice barely audible over the receding roar of the train.
"But the spring will be red," Carter replied, giving the countersign.
The man didn't look at him. Instead, he leaned against the pedestal of the statue. "They are everywhere, Carter. Andreyeff has put the city under a microscope. You were spotted at GUM."
"I know," Carter said. "Do you have the route out?"
"Not yet. The MVD has blocked the main highways. Your only chance is the railway to Leningrad, but even that is risky. There is a safe house in the Arbat district. Here." The man subtly slid a small, folded piece of paper toward Carter’s hand.
Suddenly, Carter felt a prickle at the back of his neck—the sixth sense that had kept him alive in a hundred countries. Two men in dark leather coats had stepped off the opposite end of the platform. They weren't looking at the trains. They were looking at the statues.
"KGB," Carter hissed. "Go! Now!"
The man in the fedora didn't hesitate. He melted into the crowd heading for the escalators. Carter, however, stayed put for a second longer. If he ran now, he’d lead them straight to the contact. He had to draw them off.
He turned and began to walk calmly toward the opposite exit, his hand sliding inside his coat to the grip of Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger. He wasn't planning on a firefight in a crowded metro station, but in Moscow, plans had a way of changing fast.
CHAPTER THREE
Carter moved with practiced ease through the surging crowd, his boots thudding rhythmically on the polished stone floor. Behind him, the two leather-coated men were weaving through the commuters, their eyes locked on the back of his head. They were good, but they were aggressive, which meant they were confident they had him cornered.
He reached the top of the escalator and stepped out into the biting chill of the Moscow night. The wind whipped across the open square, carrying the scent of diesel exhaust and frozen river water. He didn't head for the main street; instead, he ducked into a narrow alleyway behind the Metropol Hotel.
The shadows swallowed him. Carter stopped, pressed his back against a brick wall, and pulled Wilhelmina from her holster. The cold steel felt reassuring in his palm. A moment later, he heard the frantic crunch of boots on packed snow.
One of the KGB agents rounded the corner, a Makarov pistol already in his hand. He never had a chance to use it.
Carter stepped out of the gloom, the silenced Luger coughing once. The man doubled over, a small dark hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He slumped into a snowbank without a sound.
The second agent was more cautious. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, squinting into the darkness. "Vanya?" he called out hoarsely.
Carter didn't answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Pierre, his small gas-bomb disguised as a cigarette lighter. He flicked the timer and tossed it toward the street. A second later, a thick cloud of incapacitating grey mist erupted, masking the alley entrance.
Under the cover of the gas, Carter scrambled over a high wooden fence and dropped into a courtyard on the other side. He heard the muffled shouts of more men arriving—the "Wolf Pack" was closing in.
He checked the scrap of paper the contact had given him. The address on the Arbat was less than a mile away, but in a city where every window could have an informant behind it, it might as well have been on the moon.
He holstered his weapon, adjusted his fur hat again, and stepped out onto a side street, walking with the slow, dejected gait of a man who had spent too many hours standing in line for bread. He was no longer the Killmaster; he was just another ghost in the Soviet machine.
Лев, как только перенесете этот фрагмент в свой файл — дайте знать. Я буду на связи, чтобы предоставить четвертую главу.
THE KREMLIN KILL
CHAPTER ONE (Full Text)
The office in the Lubyanka was a study in Spartan gloom, illuminated only by a single green-shaded lamp on the massive oak desk. General Viktor Andreyeff, head of the KGB's elite Second Chief Directorate, stared at the photographs spread before him. They were grainy, taken from a long distance with a telephoto lens, but the subject was unmistakable. The hawk-like nose, the deep-set eyes, the broad shoulders that suggested a deceptive power even through the heavy fabric of a winter coat.
“He is here,” Andreyeff said, his voice a low, dry rasp that sounded like sandpaper on wood. “In our own backyard, and we are playing blind man’s buff.”
Colonel Volkov, standing stiffly at attention, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine despite the chill in the room. The General was not a man who accepted failure. “He was spotted near the GUM department store two hours ago, Comrade General. We had a tail on him, one of our best surveillance teams, but he vanished in the crowds near Red Square. He is a master of disguise. One moment he is a grey-faced bureaucrat in a shapeless topcoat, the next he is just another common laborer lost in the noise of the metro.”
Andreyeff slowly stood up and walked to the window. He pulled aside the heavy velvet curtain and looked out at the snow-dusted expanse of Dzerzhinsky Square. Below, the city was a tapestry of grey and white, illuminated by the dim yellow glow of streetlamps.
“For years,” the General whispered, “this man, this ‘Killmaster’, has been a thorn in our side. From the jungles of Southeast Asia to the back alleys of Berlin, he has undone our work. But to come here, to Moscow... it is more than an assignment for him. It is an insult. It is a direct challenge to the security of the State.”
He turned back to Volkov, his eyes cold and hard as Siberian ice. “If he reaches his contact at the American Embassy, or if he meets the subversives we suspect he is here to aid, the documents regarding the 'Red Aurora' project will be out of our hands forever. Do you understand the consequences, Colonel? The Politburo will not be satisfied with reports of 'missing leads'. They will want heads on platters. They will want to know why the entire apparatus of the KGB could not catch one American agent.”
Volkov swallowed hard. He knew that Red Aurora was the most sensitive project in the Soviet Union’s military arsenal—a satellite-based system that could paralyze Western communications in a matter of seconds.
“We have doubled the perimeter guards at every sensitive installation,” Volkov said quickly. “The MVD has established checkpoints on every highway leading out of the city—the Yaroslavl, the Minsk, the Warsaw roads. Every train station, from Leningradsky to Kazansky, is under twenty-four-hour surveillance by plainclothes officers.”
“It is not enough,” Andreyeff snapped. “Carter does not use exits. He creates them. He is a weapon forged by AX, and he must be broken. I want the ‘Wolf Pack’ units activated immediately. Tell them I want him taken alive if possible—I want to know who his contacts are, who the traitors among us are. But if he resists, they are to terminate him on the spot. No mistakes, Volkov. If he slips through your fingers again, do not bother coming back to this office.”
“It will be done, Comrade General.” Volkov saluted, his heels clicking together, and backed out of the room as if escaping a cage with a predator.
Left alone, Andreyeff sat back down and picked up one of the photographs. He stared at the face of Nick Carter. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the Lubyanka, and the snow began to fall more heavily, turning Moscow into a white, suffocating labyrinth. The hunt had begun, and Andreyeff knew that before it was over, the streets of the capital would likely run red.
THE KREMLIN KILL
CHAPTER TWO (Full Text)
The metro station at Ploshchad Revolyutsii was a cathedral of marble and bronze, a monument to the proletariat that felt more like a cold, echoing tomb to Nick Carter. He stood near one of the larger-than-life bronze statues of a partisan, his face partially hidden by the high collar of his heavy, ill-fitting woolen coat. To anyone passing by, he was just another weary Soviet citizen, a cog in the massive machine, waiting for a train to take him home after a long day of tedious labor.
But beneath the coat, every nerve was electric. Carter’s eyes, hooded and sharp, scanned the platform with a predatory intensity. He didn't look for faces—faces could be changed with a bit of putty and a wig. He looked for patterns. He watched for the way a man’s shoulders tensed, the way a pair of eyes lingered a fraction of a second too long on a target, or the subtle "V" formation of a surveillance team closing in on their prey.
His contact was supposed to have arrived five minutes ago. In the world of espionage, five minutes could be a lifetime.
A train roared into the station, its iron brakes screaming against the rails. The heavy doors slid open with a hiss, and a wave of people surged out—men in fur shapkas, women carrying string bags filled with meager groceries, all of them moving with the grey, dejected gait of the Moscow winter.
Among them, Carter spotted a small, bird-like man in a brown fedora and a scuffed leather jacket. He walked with a slight, rhythmic limp and carried a tattered briefcase that looked like it had seen better days during the Great Patriotic War. The man paused near the statue of the partisan, fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette.
"The winter is long this year," the man said in a low, gravelly Russian, his voice barely audible over the receding roar of the departing train.
"But the spring will be red," Carter replied, giving the pre-arranged countersign.
The man didn't look at Carter. He struck a match, his hands trembling slightly, and leaned against the cold bronze pedestal. "They are everywhere, Carter," he whispered, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the damp air. "Andreyeff has put the entire city under a microscope. Word is that you were spotted at GUM earlier today. The 'Wolf Pack' has been activated. They aren't just looking for you; they are hunting you."
"I figured as much," Carter said, his voice level. "Do you have the route out of the city?"
"Not yet. It is too dangerous. The MVD has blocked the main highways—the Yaroslavl is a fortress right now. Your only chance is the railway to Leningrad, but even the midnight expresses are being searched car by car. There is a safe house in the Arbat district. A small basement apartment behind the Vakhtangov Theatre. Here."
The man subtly slid a small, tightly folded piece of paper toward Carter’s gloved hand. Carter palmed it in one smooth motion, sliding it into his pocket.
Suddenly, a cold prickle moved up the back of Carter’s neck—the legendary sixth sense that had kept him alive in a hundred countries and a thousand death traps. He didn't turn his head, but his peripheral vision caught them: two men in dark, heavy leather coats stepping off the opposite end of the platform. They weren't looking for a train. They were moving with a purposeful, practiced stride, their eyes locked on the statues at the center of the platform.
"KGB," Carter hissed under his breath. "Go! Melt into the crowd. Now!"
The contact didn't need to be told twice. He turned and vanished into the throng of commuters heading for the escalators. Carter, however, stayed put for a heartbeat longer. If he ran now, the agents would lock onto him immediately and might spot the contact. He had to draw the heat away.
He turned his back to the agents and began to walk calmly toward the opposite end of the station, his hand sliding inside his coat to find the comforting, cold grip of Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger. He didn't want a firefight in a crowded public space, especially not in the heart of Moscow, but Nick Carter had learned long ago that in the Soviet Union, plans were written in water, and survival was written in lead.
Лев, сохраняйте этот текст. Как только
Вот полный и подробный текст третьей главы. В этой части Ник Картер выходит на поверхность, и начинается классическое противостояние в заснеженных переулках Москвы.
THE KREMLIN KILL
CHAPTER THREE (Full Text)
Carter moved with practiced, deceptive ease through the surging crowd of commuters, his boots thudding rhythmically on the polished stone floor of the station. Behind him, the two leather-coated agents were weaving through the throng with less subtlety. They were aggressive, their faces set in grim masks of determination. They weren't just following; they were closing the gap, confident that their prey was trapped within the granite walls of the metro.
He reached the long, silver-railed escalator and stepped onto the moving stairs. He stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the illuminated exit ahead, but his ears were tuned to the sounds behind him. He heard the heavy breathing of the agents a few steps down, the metallic clinking of their gear. They were waiting until he reached the street—less witnesses, less chance for a stray bullet to hit a civilian.
As he stepped out into the night, the biting chill of the Moscow wind struck him like a physical blow. It whipped across the open square, carrying the sharp scent of diesel exhaust, scorched coal, and the frozen iron of the nearby river. The city lights were dim, obscured by a swirling mist of fine, crystalline snow.
Carter didn't head for the broad, well-lit expanse of Marx Prospekt. Instead, he spun on his heel and ducked into a narrow, shadow-choked alleyway that ran behind the Metropol Hotel. The darkness swallowed him instantly. He moved ten yards in, then stopped, pressing his back against the rough, freezing bricks of a building wall. In one fluid motion, he pulled Wilhelmina from her chamois-lined holster. The 9mm Luger felt cold and solid, a familiar weight in his palm.
A moment later, he heard it: the frantic, uneven crunch of boots on packed snow.
One of the KGB agents rounded the corner, moving too fast, his professional caution overridden by the fear of losing his target. He had a Makarov pistol gripped in his right hand, but he never had a chance to level it.
Carter stepped out of the gloom like a vengeful ghost. The silenced Luger coughed once—a dry, metallic sound no louder than a snapped twig. The agent doubled over, a small, dark puncture appearing in the center of his forehead. He slumped into a dirty snowbank without a groan, his life escaping into the frozen Russian air.
The second agent was more experienced. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, his body half-hidden by the stone corner of the building. "Vanya?" he called out, his voice hoarse with sudden suspicion.
Carter didn't waste breath on an answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Pierre, his small gas-bomb disguised as a common cigarette lighter. He flicked the concealed timer and tossed it toward the street entrance. A second later, a thick, rolling cloud of incapacitating grey mist erupted, masking the alley from the street.
Under the cover of the chemical fog, Carter turned and scrambled over a high, splintered wooden fence. He dropped silently into a small interior courtyard filled with rusted trash bins and the skeletons of abandoned crates. Behind him, he could hear the muffled shouts of more men arriving—the "Wolf Pack" was responding to the silent alarm.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper the contact had given him. He memorized the address in a second: a basement apartment in the Arbat district, behind the Vakhtangov Theatre. It was less than a mile away, but in a city where every window could house an informant and every street corner was a potential trap, it might as well have been across the border in Finland.
He holstered Wilhelmina, adjusted his fur shapka to hide his brow, and stepped out onto a quiet side street. He shifted his posture, drooping his shoulders and adopting the slow, dejected gait of a man who had spent too many years standing in line for basic necessities. He was no longer the Killmaster, the elite operative of AX; he was just another anonymous shadow in the vast, grey Soviet machine.
The hunt was intensifying, and Carter knew that by dawn, the KGB would have half the city under lock and key. He had to reach the Arbat before the steel ring closed for good.
Лев, сохраняйте эту главу. В ней уже чувствуется тот самый стиль шпионского боевика 80-х.
THE KREMLIN KILL
CHAPTER FOUR (Full Text)
The walk toward the Arbat was a exercise in controlled tension. Carter kept to the secondary streets, avoiding the wide, well-lit boulevards where the black Zil limousines and police Gaziks cruised like sharks in dark water. The snow was falling harder now, a thick white curtain that muffled the sounds of the city and turned the streetlamps into hazy yellow orbs.
Every few minutes, Carter would pause in a doorway or near a darkened shop window. He wasn't resting; he was using the glass as a mirror to check his rear. Twice he saw groups of three men in heavy overcoats—KGB foot patrols—searching the side alleys with powerful flashlights. He simply stepped deeper into the shadows, slowed his breathing, and waited until the beams of light passed over him. To them, he was just another frozen lump of Moscow architecture.
As he reached the edge of the Arbat district, the character of the city changed. Here, the buildings were older, their facades crumbling under decades of neglect and harsh winters. The Arbat was a maze of winding lanes and hidden courtyards, a place where the old soul of Moscow still lingered beneath the socialist veneer. It was the perfect place for a safe house, and the perfect place for an ambush.
He found the street behind the Vakhtangov Theatre. It was a narrow, cobblestoned passage, nearly blocked by high snowdrifts. The theatre itself loomed like a dark fortress to his left. Carter identified the building—a three-story grey stone structure with a rusted iron gate leading to a central courtyard.
He didn't go through the gate. Instead, he moved to a service entrance in the neighboring building, climbed a fire escape to the second floor, and leaped across a four-foot gap to a stone ledge on the target building. He moved like a cat, silent and sure-footed, despite the ice. He reached the back stairs and descended toward the basement.
The door to the apartment was unmarked, painted a dull, peeling green. Carter reached out and tapped a specific code on the wood: three quick knocks, a pause, then two more.
For a long minute, there was only silence. Then, he heard the heavy thud of a deadbolt being thrown, followed by the rattle of a security chain. The door opened just a few inches. A sliver of pale light spilled out, illuminating a single, frightened eye.
"Who sends you?" a woman’s voice whispered in Russian.
"The falcon flies at midnight," Carter replied.
The door opened wider. The woman was in her late fifties, her face etched with the lines of a hard life, her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a thick cardigan over a faded floral dress. She gestured for him to enter quickly, her eyes darting to the stairs behind him.
As soon as Carter was inside, she slammed the door and locked it with frantic speed. The apartment was small and smelled of boiled cabbage and old paper. A single radio played low in the corner, broadcasting a turgid symphony.
"You are the American," she said, her voice trembling. "They said you were coming. They said the city is closing down because of you."
"I need a phone," Carter said, his eyes already scanning the room for exits. "And I need to know if the package from the 'Red Aurora' labs has arrived."
The woman shook her head, her hands twisting the fabric of her sweater. "The package is not here. There was trouble at the laboratory in Chimki. The courier... he did not make it. But he left a message. He said the 'Star' has fallen, and only the 'Sun' can find it."
Carter felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. If the courier was down, the KGB likely had the micro-disc, or they were very close to it. "What does the message mean?"
"I do not know," she whispered. "But the KGB... they were here an hour ago. They searched the upstairs apartments. They will be back, American. You cannot stay here."
Suddenly, the symphony on the radio was cut short by a sharp burst of static, followed by a frantic, high-pitched whistling tone. It was a signal Carter knew well. It wasn't the radio station; it was his own short-range scanner picking up a localized transmission.
Someone was using a high-powered walkie-talkie less than fifty yards from the door.
"Get down!" Carter lunged for the woman, tackling her to the floor just as the basement window shattered inward, followed by the hissing metallic canister of a tear-gas grenade.
Лев, на этом моменте заканчивается четвертая глава — на самом интересном! Похоже, «Волчья стая» всё-таки выследила убежище.
THE KREMLIN KILL
CHAPTER FIVE (Full Text)
The tear-gas canister skittered across the floor, spewing a thick, acrid cloud of white smoke. The woman began to cough violently, her lungs rejecting the poison. Carter, acting on instinct, ripped a decorative scarf from a nearby table, doused it with cold tea from a pot on the stove, and pressed it over her face.
"Stay low!" he barked in Russian. "Crawl toward the back door!"
The basement apartment was rapidly becoming a deathtrap. Carter pulled a specialized gas mask—a thin, high-tech membrane—from a hidden compartment in his belt and fitted it over his nose and mouth. Through the swirling white haze, he saw the shadows of boots appearing at the shattered window. The "Wolf Pack" was moving in for the kill.
He didn't wait for them to clear the ledge. Carter reached for Hugo, his specially designed stiletto, with his left hand and kept Wilhelmina in his right. As the first agent dropped through the window, blinded by his own gas and relying on his mask, Carter was there to meet him.
The stiletto found its mark with surgical precision, sliding between the agent's ribs. The man let out a muffled grunt and collapsed. Carter didn't stop to watch him fall. He grabbed the agent's discarded AK-74 and spun toward the door.
The heavy thud of a battering ram echoed through the small room. The hallway door groaned under the impact. Carter knew he had seconds. He grabbed the woman by the arm and shoved her toward a small coal-chute at the rear of the kitchen.
"Go! It leads to the alley behind the theatre!"
As she scrambled up the narrow metal tunnel, the front door splintered open. Three men in tactical gear burst through the fog, their submachine guns spitting lead. Bullets chewed into the wooden table and shattered the radio, sending sparks flying.