Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Service of the United States of America
Prologue
It was one of those days for Henry Wellsey, Britain's 55-year-old Chancellor of the Exchequer. It started at breakfast when his wife brought up the subject of a holiday again.
"You must have a proper holiday, you haven't had one in over a year. Weekends at Bayberry Hall simply don't count…"
Bayberry Hall, his mother's estate in Yorkshire, didn't count for much with Milicent anyway, he knew.
"You want someplace warm and relaxing. Spain, perhaps, or Italy. Or Yugoslavia… they say the Dalmatian Coast is marvelous."
"They'd probably say I was defecting," Wellsey said dryly, sipping his cocoa.
"Don't be absurd," his wife snapped. "Now don't try and put me off, Henry. You must see about a holiday. I warn you, if you don't, I'll speak to the Prime Minister myself!"
She would too, Wellsey thought glumly, sitting in the back of his Rolls 30 minutes later, and the P.M. was not in a holiday mood. It wasn't going to improve either. There was a special cabinet meeting that morning at the Prime Minister's residence and Wellsey was going to be late. A gray Jaguar and a lorry, arguing — fatally — over the right of way, had the London-bound traffic all tied up. It was liable to be another hour before the police cleared the accident scene.
Wellsey didn't miss all of the cabinet meeting; it dragged on through lunch. The Chancellor left Number 10 Downing Street feeling frustrated, as he so often did lately. International issues always seemed to take precedence over domestic ones. On impulse, he stopped at Cook's for some travel brochures. Maybe Milicent was right; maybe it was time for a holiday.
Back at his office, he'd just settled down at his desk when his secretary came in with the mail.
"Could you bring me some tea, Miss Tanner? I know it's a bit early but…"
"Certainly, sir." Miss Tanner, not too young, not too pretty but efficient, smiled.
Wellsey picked up the top letter and a letter opener — he liked to open his mail himself — but he put them down again and took out the brochures he'd collected at Cook's instead. He leaned back in his chair, studying them. Spain… the Costa Brava… Very nice, he understood, and not crowded at this rime of year, the man at Cook's had said. Italy… Rome… Venice… sinking into the sea supposedly. He shook his head. "Tour the Greek Islands." Now, that was a thought. He'd been to Athens but never to the islands. Mykonos… Lelos… Rhodes… Lovely…
The last thing Henry Wellsey saw in this world was the smiling face of a pretty young Greek girl holding an armful of red, red roses. The high-powered 7mm rifle bullet that entered the back of his head at the base of the skull made a fairly neat entry hole, considering it had to pass through the closed window first, but it smashed on through bone and tissue and when it exited, Wellsey's face disintegrated.
He slumped forward, his blood blending with the red of the roses of Rhodes.
Miss Tanner came in with the tea and found him and could not stop screaming…
One
The night was sticky-hot and airless on the Luxor docks. On one side loomed the wharf buildings, squatting heavily in the blackness. On the other, the Nile slipped soundlessly by on its journey to Cairo and the sea. Beyond the river stretched the desert, a lighter strip between the oily black water and the star-pocked sky.
Waiting on that desolate black waterfront I touched Wilhelmina, the 9mm Luger I carry in a special shoulder holster, to reassure myself. A crawly feeling at the back of my neck warned me I might need her tonight.
I was there on Hawk's orders to contact a small-time smuggler and gambler named Augie Fergus. Fergus had sent a wire from Luxor to the Prime Minister of England saying he had information for sale that might shed light on the brutal assassination of Britain's Chancellor of the Exchequer, Henry Wellsey. Since the British didn't have an agent in the area at the moment, Hawk had volunteered my services.
Fergus had told me on the phone that he would meet me on the docks at midnight. I glanced at my watch; it was already fifteen minutes past. That alone was enough to make me wary, and I was thinking about leaving when I heard a sound in the darkness.
I glanced quickly at a small door leading into the warehouse behind me. It had opened and now a man came out. He was of medium height and growing bald. He wore a grey suit that looked like it had been slept in for a week. But the thing about him that I noticed immediately was his eyes. They were opened wide, bloodshot, and darted furtively left and right, missing nothing. I'd seen those eyes before, on hundreds of men. They were the eyes of someone frightened out of his wits, of someone a step ahead of death.
"Carter?" he whispered, afraid that the night would hear him.
I nodded.
He swung the door wider and motioned me inside. As I entered he pulled a string and the room was flooded with light from a naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. It was a small room, and the only furniture in it was a cracked, stained washstand in the corner and a soiled mattress on the floor. Strewn about were crumpled newspapers and empty brown bags. The heady aroma of garlic and onions permeated the air.
Augie Fergus withdrew a pint bottle of liquor from his jacket pocket and with trembling hands managed to uncap it and drink long, and hard. When he finished, he had calmed down somewhat.
"The information, Fergus," I said impatiently. "What is it?"
"Not so fast," he countered. "Not until I get 5,000 pounds and a private flight to Khartoum. When I get there safely, you'll get your bloody information."
I thought about it, but not for long. Five thousand pounds is a damn cheap price to pay for what he had to offer. I could have London wire the British consulate in Luxor instructing them to give me the money. And hiring a private plane wouldn't be too hard. I agreed to his terms, but warned him what would happen to him if he tried anything funny.
"It's on the up-and-up, mate," he whined.
"Okay," I said. "I'll have the money tomorrow afternoon. I'll fly you out then."
Fergus shook; his head. "Tomorrow night, this time. 'Ell, the whole bloody city's crawling with bastards after me. In broad daylight I'll be spotted."
"Who's after you, Fergus, and why?"
"None of your business," he shot back. "It's got nothing to do with the killing in London. It's personal. Just be here tomorrow night with the money and a way out of here."
"If that's the way you want it…" I shrugged and turned to leave.
"Carter," Fergus called out as I reached the door, "one more thing. If anything should happen to me, go to the Grand Hotel bar in Tangiers. Someone will contact you there with the information."
"How will I know him?"
"Don't worry/ he said, "my person will know you. Just hand over the money and you'll get what you want."
I nodded and left.
I had to wait until morning for the telegraph office to open. When it did, I wired London for the money. Three hours later I got my reply. The consulate had been instructed to release 5,000 pounds to me. After collecting the money I reserved a charter plane at the airport. There were still eight hours left before my meeting with Fergus. I returned to my room, showered, ordered a gin and tonic. Then I went to sleep.
I was awakened by my alarm clock at eight in the evening. I dressed, gathered up the attaché case of money and took a cab to Fergus' hideout.
This time the door was opened by a stranger. He was a short, rather thin Arab wearing a white tropical suit and a red fez.
He said nothing to me but grinned and motioned toward the open door with his left hand; his right, I noted, was stuck in his jacket pocket.
Another man came out, a large heavy Arab wearing the traditional desert garb of kaffiyeh, robe and sandals.
"Mr. Carter?" he said. "Mr. Nick Carter?"
I had not used a cover name with Augie; there had seemed little point. "That's right," I said.
"You have come to meet Augie Fergus."
He wasn't asking, he was telling. I squinted, trying to see better in the darkness. "Right again," I said, watching the thin man with his hand in his pocket. "Where is he?"
The fat man smiled. "He is here, Mr. Carter. You will see him. In the meantime, let us introduce ourselves. I am Omar ben Ayoub." He watched me closely, obviously expecting some reaction. "And this is my associate, Gasim."
"If Fergus is here," I said, ignoring the introductions, "where is he?"
Ayoub, in turn, ignored my question. "You would assist Augie Fergus in cheating his colleagues, would you, Mr. Carter? You would help him leave Luxor without paying his debts."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," I snapped at him. "But I want to see Augie and I want to see him now."
Ayoub's smile disappeared. "All right, Mr. Carter," he said grimly. "You shall see him."
He snapped his fingers and two more Arabs appeared in the black doorway, big husky men in western suits. They were dragging something, the limp body of a man. They dragged it to within a few feet of me and dropped it unceremoniously on the dock.
"Augie Fergus," Ayoub said, satisfaction in his smooth voice.
I looked down at the corpse at my feet, my face expressionless, my stomach tight. It was Fergus, all right. He had been killed with a knife, or some other sharp instrument, and it had happened slowly. The body was badly mutilated.
"Augie found out what happens to those who do not deal scrupulously with Omar ben Ayoub. And now, Mr. Carter, you will find out." Ayoub nodded at the two big men who had dumped Fergus at my feet and suddenly they had knives in their hands, the long wicked-looking kind the Bedouins of the desert carry. I thought of Hugo, the pencil-thin stiletto strapped to my right forearm. But Hugo couldn't do me much good at the moment. Besides the two muscle boys, Ayoub's skinny buddy, Gasim, had that lump in his jacket pocket pointed at me.
The two knife men moved in. One of them was a bit heavier than the other and slower moving, but he came in first. I figured they weren't out to kill me with the first cut. They wanted me to die slowly, like Augie.
Number One came in, swinging the knife at my belly. I jerked back a step and the knife razored through my jacket. I had no time to go for Wilhelmina. The big man swiped at me, again putting his weight behind it. I stepped to one side and punched a short jab into his neck as he went by.
He grunted and whirled back toward me angrily. The second knife man had hovered just a few feet away. Now, with a sudden burst of speed, he came in on my left. He swung his knife low, toward my rib cage. I turned toward him and caught the knife arm, turned the wrist downward and in, at the same time dropping to one knee and throwing the man over my shoulder. He went flying, hitting the dock hard at his buddy's feet, narrowly missing knocking him down.
The first bull dodged, then charged, holding his knife straight out in front of him. I heard Ayoub shout: "Get him; Get him!" in Arabic, and then the bull was on me, the knife stabbing toward my abdomen. I brought the edge of my hand down hard on the outstretched knife-arm as I twisted away from the thrust and heard bone snap. The bull screamed and the knife clattered to the dock. As the man plummeted past me, I chopped at his thick neck and felt vertebrae crunch under the impact. He slammed face down on the dock.
"Kill him! Kill him!" Ayoub was screaming now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Gasim had pulled the gun out of his jacket and was aiming it at me.
The slug missed my head by inches and almost hit the second knife man as he came in. I grabbed his knife arm, twisted, and we went down together.
We hit the dock next to the corpse of Augie Fergus. We rolled onto and over the body, wrestling for the knife, Gasim dancing around us awkwardly, trying to get a shot off, but afraid to fire because he might hit the wrong man.
"Shoot! Shoot!" Ayoub shrieked at him.
I had to do something fast. The Jenifer was on top of me now. I squeezed my knee up, rammed it into his groin. He bellowed, fell to one side. I smashed a fist into his face as he fell. Gasim had stopped dancing now and was aiming carefully at my head.
I flexed my right forearm in a way I had practiced hundreds of times and Hugo slipped into my hand. The knife man was getting up and I hurled Hugo at him. The stiletto turned over once and buried itself in the Arab's throat. As Hugo left my hand I did a quick roll; Gasim's shot splintered wood where my head had been.
I rolled a second time as Gasim fired again. I came up, reaching for the Luger in my jacket.
My first shot missed Gasim's head by inches, but the second slammed into his chest, spinning him into the wall of the warehouse behind him. His gun went flying.
I turned and saw that Ayoub had decided to make a run for it. I didn't want to shoot; I wanted to find out what he knew about Augie Fergus, so I sprinted after him, dived for him headlong.
We went down, hitting the dock together. Unluckily we landed near an iron bar some workman had left on the dock. Ayoub grabbed at it desperately, swung it at me. He meant to crush my skull but the blow glanced off my neck and shoulder. It was enough, though, to knock Wilhelmina out of my grasp and send rockets of pain shooting up my arm.
Ayoub was back on his feet, still holding the iron bar. Wilhelmina had landed somewhere near the edge of the dock. I stumbled over there, spotted the Luger and bent to retrieve it.
But Ayoub, moving surprisingly fast for a fat man, charged me with the bar. He was going to end it once and for all — I could see it in his eyes. I couldn't bring Wilhelmina up in time, Ayoub was moving too fast. As he swung the bar, I stepped aside and let him move on past me. The next minute he was in mid-air over the black water and then he splashed into the Nile.
He came up sputtering. The current was taking him and he thrashed around wildly. Obviously he couldn't swim. His head went under but he came up again, choking. The kaffiyehed head went under once more. Only a few bubbles rose to the surface this time, then the river was tranquil again.
I walked back up the dock to reclaim Hugo. Both of the muscle boys were dead, but Gasim wasn't — I heard him groan. I slipped Hugo back into his sheath and, holding Wilhelmina loosely at my side, advanced cautiously to where Gasim lay near the wall of the warehouse.
When I saw the man's condition, I holstered the Luger and squatted beside him. He stared up at me with glazed eyes.
"What was Augie Fergus to you and Ayoub?" I asked. "If you don't want me to leave you to die, you'd better talk." He was dead already but didn't know it.
He groaned, moving his head from side to side in pain. "Fergus," he gasped, "smuggled… ancient treasures… out of country for us. He was overheard… say… intended leave without paying Ayoub… last consignment. Some… American was to fly him… Khartoum… private plane. Ayoub thought you… that man."
He coughed and appeared about ready to give up. I propped his head up. "And what about the information Fergus had for the British government?" I asked. "Was Ayoub in on that?"
Gasim's glazed eyes searched for mine. "British government?"
I saw no point in being coy about things now. "Yes, the telegram Augie sent the Prime Minister. The information he had about the assassination of Henry Wellsey. Was Ayoub to profit from that?"
"I know nothing… of this," Gasim gasped. "Neither… did Ayoub."
Suddenly he stiffened in my hands, then went limp. He was dead.
I lowered his head and knelt there for a moment in the blackness. By accident I had gotten mixed up in one of Augie Fergus's shady deals — had, ironically, almost gotten myself killed — and I still didn't know anything about the assassination. It was possible, of course, that Ayoub had known something without telling Gasim. But it didn't matter now one way or the other. Both Augie and Ayoub were beyond further explanation or conniving.
* * *
The next day I took a United Arab Airlines flight to Cairo and grabbed the next jet to Tangier. I arrived in Tangier and first took a room at the Grand Hotel, in the Medina, which Fergus had mentioned. I had lunch in a nearby restaurant, mechoui and a Stork Pils beers, then returned to the hotel bar.
I was sipping a Pernod, standing beside a barstool with my back to the dark-mustached bartender, when the girl came in. She was young, dressed in a black sheath and high-heeled sandals. Long straight dark hair fell over her shoulders. She was beautiful the way only young Arabian girls can be beautiful: a dark, earthy beauty with a hint of mystery. She walked in a way that made a man want to reach out and touch her, a hips-undulating, breasts-moving, sensual walk that made an erotic but not vulgar display of her body. I watched as she moved past me, avoiding my eyes, leaving a faint scent of musky perfume in the air. She sat on a barstool about halfway down the bar and ordered a sherry. After the bartender had served her, he moved down to me.
"Every day she comes in like this," he said, noticing my admiring glance. "She orders one drink — just the one — and then she leaves."
"She's lovely," I said. "Do you know her name?"
"It is Hadiya — in Arabic it means 'gift, " he said, smiling through his mustache. "She dances at the Miramar Hotel. Shall I introduce you?"
I picked up my Pernod. "Thanks," I said, "but I'll go it solo."
The girl turned to look at me as I sat down beside her. Her eyes, big and black, were even lovelier close up, but at the moment aloof and wary. "May I buy you a drink?" I asked.
"Why?" she said coolly.
"Because you remind me of five memorable days I spent in Lebanon," I said, "and because it pleases me to be near you."
She looked into my eyes and studied my face for a long moment. "All right," she said suddenly. "You remind me of three lovely days in Gibraltar."
We laughed then together, and her laugh was musical. We exchanged names and some small talk about Tangier, and then the bartender showed up.
"A call for you."
I groaned inwardly. It was Hawk, I knew. His plane must have arrived early. I asked Hadiya to wait for me and excused myself. I took the call in the lobby, for privacy.
"Nick?" The voice was brisk, businesslike, with just a hint of a New England accent.
"Yes, sir. I hope you had a good flight."
"The girls were pretty, but the food was terrible," Hawk grated. I pictured his lean, impatient face, capped by thick graying hair, as he sweated in the Tangier airport telephone booth. "I have only a few hours between flights, Nick, so kiss the girl goodbye, whoever she is, and meet me at the Djenina Restaurant for an early dinner in exactly… one hour and a half."
I acknowledged and the phone clicked in my ear. I stood there for a moment, wondering what Hawk had up his sleeve for me now and whether it would be a follow-up to the Luxor business. Then I returned to the girl. "I have to leave," I said. "Business."
"Oh," she said, pouting prettily.
"But I think I'll catch the floor show at the Miramar tonight," I said. "If it's at all possible."
"I would like that, Mr. Carter." She smiled at me.
I drew back. "I told you my first name, not my last."
"Augie Fergus told me you'd be here," she said.
"How the hell did…"
Her face grew solemn. "Augie called me yesterday afternoon from Luxor. He described you, then said if anything happened to him, I should give you a photograph he keeps in his suitcase in our room."
Somehow, the thought of this beautiful thing belonging to Augie Fergus took me by surprise, and I must have registered it. I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me short.
"Something has gone wrong, then?" she asked.
I gave her the details. She took it all passively, then said, "It must have happened while he was on the telephone."
"What must have happened?" I asked.
"When he was killed. He was saying, 'Tell Cartel that… when the line went dead."
"That's all he managed to say?"
She shook her head up and down.
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing."
"I've got the money here," I patted the attaché case at my side. "Give me the photograph."
"It's in my room," she said. "Meet me tonight, after the show. I'll give it to you then."
"Now I know I'll catch the show," I said.
"Do that," she smiled, then slid off her barstool and walked out.
* * *
I walked to the Djenina Restaurant in the Casbah. Most of my meetings with Hawk were at his offices in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on DuPont Circle in Washington. Rarely did we confer outside of Washington or New York, rarer still outside of the U.S. Hawk had no love for junkets about the globe and ventured abroad only on matters of the most extreme urgency. He apparently had classified his Johannesburg visit — and our Tangier meeting — as urgent.
Hawk arrived a short time after me and we took an outside table. He looked almost English, in a tweed jacket and gray trousers. His face was lined and looked tired and his spare frame seemed even slimmer than usual.
"Bad luck at Luxor, Nick. Damned bad luck. But maybe you'll get something from the girl." He pulled a long brown cigar from his jacket, stuck it into his mouth and chewed down on it without lighting it. "You probably haven't seen it in the papers yet but there's been another assassination in London." He removed the cigar from his mouth and watched my reaction.
"Another government official?" I asked.
"You might say so. This time it's Percy Dumbarton, Britain's Minister of Defence."
I whistled and stared out across the narrow cobble-stoned street, through the slow traffic of robed Arabs and donkey carts to the crumbling old buildings across the way. I started to comment, but just then the waiter returned to take our order. I ordered the Moroccan chicken couscous, and Hawk stuck to steak. Then the waiter was gone again.
"Dumbarton," Hawk continued not waiting for my response, "was one of England's most able leaders. The killer left another note, and it's clear now that the threat in the first note was no idle one."
"You haven't filled me in on that," I reminded him. Hawk reached into his pocket again and handed me two pieces of paper. "Here. I've typed out what the two notes said. Top one's the first one."
I read: "This is to prove we mean business. To prevent the death of other cabinet members, the British government must arrange to pay to us the sum of ten million pounds within the fortnight. Another execution will occur each fortnight until payment is made and the sum will increase by two million pounds after each succeeding death.
"The British government will save important lives, considerable anguish and millions of pounds sterling by immediate capitulation to our demand. When that inescapable decision is reached, a white flag must be flown below the Union Jack atop Parliament. At that signal, a further note will be delivered advising method of payment."
I looked up at Hawk. "Interesting," I said. Then I read the second note, the original of which had been found at the scene of the second assassination:
"You were warned but you did not take us seriously. Now your Minister of Defence is dead, and our demand has risen to twelve million pounds. Is the government of Britain too proud to capitulate? Let us hope not. We will watch for the white flag."
I shook my head slowly. "What do the British make of it?" I asked.
"They don't know what to make of it, N3," Hawk said grimly. "They're literally running around in circles. These were particularly bloody murders and panic is growing in high places. There is talk that even the Queen isn't safe. It's the biggest thing in years. It could literally destroy the British government if they don't find out what it's all about."
The waiter was back with the food. Hawk attacked the steak eagerly, talking as he ate.
"At first they thought it might be one of the international crime syndicates. Or maybe even an ex-con, recently released, with a grudge against official London. Now they think it may be the Russians."
I was skeptical. "Really?"
"It may not be as farfetched as it sounds. The Russians are at odds, bitterly, with several of Britain's top leaders. Dumbarton was one of them. They might be trying to effect a change of government in London — the direct way. It's been done before."
Hawk finished his steak and leaned back. "Maybe Russia is more edgy than we think," he continued. "Dumbarton was pushing the development of a fighter aircraft that would make a MIG look like Von Richtofen's Fokker DR-1. He was also pressing for a bacterial arsenal. British intelligence points to the language of the notes — the repetitive use of 'we' and 'us, the fact that the note paper is the same kind used by a Russian sub-agent in another matter. And, lastly, to the fact that Boris Novosty, who recently showed up in London, has now mysteriously dropped out of sight."
"He's one of KGB's best," I said thoughtfully.
Hawk nodded.
"And that's why you're here. The chief of SOE's Select Missions group and the Prime Minister got together and decided that since you're already in on this thing through Augie Fergus, and especially because Novosty and his people have never seen you, it would be nice if I loaned you to them for a while."
"And thus ends another brief but glorious holiday," I said. "I just wish I had been able to get something from Fergus."
"He may not have had anything," Hawk said. "The most they could find out about the poor devil is that he served as a commando quite a few years back and then went downhill from there. Of course, he might have done some sub-agent work for the Commies and overheard something. At any rate, that's irrelevant now. The British need all the help they can get to crack this. I'm sorry, Nick, that you seem to get all the nasty ones, but that goes along with being so good at what you do."
I acknowledged the compliment. "Thanks. When do I leave?"
"Early tomorrow morning. It's the first flight out." He grinned. "You'll have time to see her again tonight, I should think."
I grinned back. "I was counting on it."
The Mirimar Hotel was a pre-colonial vintage building that managed to retain its european flavor. The club was located at the rear of the lobby. I took a table and ordered a scotch on the rocks. When the waiter left with my order, I scanned the surroundings. The room was dimly lit, with most of the illumination coming from the candles which sat atop each table. The clientele was mainly Europeans in Tangier on holiday, with a smattering of modernized Arabs in western garb sipping Turkish coffee, talking animatedly among themselves.
Just as my drink arrived, the lights dimmed and the show began. The first act was a French singer who went through several numbers bemoaning the heartache of lost loves. She was followed by a procession of belly dancers whose talent was more worthy of Eighth Avenue in New York than the Mid-East.
Finally Hadiya was announced, and a respectful hush settled over the room. The musicians struck up a beat, and Hadiya slid onto the stage from the wings.
She was dressed in the standard belly dancer's costume, but that was as far standard as she was. From the onset it was evident that she was head and shoulders above the average belly dancer. Her abdominal muscles quivered with a control that must have taken years to perfect. Her breasts shook as if they had a mind of their own, and even her arm movements betrayed a grace that was from long ago, when belly dancing was an art rather than the bastardized striptease that it has been relegated to in recent years.
She swirled on bare feet, her body responding to the tempo of the musicians, rising passionately on the upbeats, slowing seductively on the downs. About me I could hear the labored breathing of the male customers as they bent forward to get a better view of her. The few female onlookers glared at her with envy, all the while studying her every movement, trying to copy them for the moment when they could use them in privacy, with their men.
Toward the end of the act the music grew fiercer, but Hadiya kept pace with it, perspiration dripping down her face, following the taut muscles of her neck and disappearing into the deep valley separating her breasts. She reached her peak with a final crescendo of drums, then fell to her knees, her body bent at the waist.
For a minute an awed silence hovered over the room, then, as one, every member of the audience burst into wild applause. Several men stood up, their hands working like pistons — me included. Hadiya acknowledged the applause, then modestly scampered offstage. The hand-clapping gradually subsided, and as if on cue, a collective murmur issued from the customers, each tongue reliving every movement of her act.
I called for my check, paid the waiter and made my way backstage. I was halted in the wings by a burly bouncer who restrained me by placing his meaty hands on my chest. I brushed his hand aside and continued toward the door which, I assumed, was Hadiya's.
I felt the bouncer's heavy hand on my shoulder as I knocked. I was just about to make an argument out of it when Hadiya emerged.
"It's all right, Kassim," she said, and the grip on my body relaxed. I walked into the dressing room, shutting out the fat Arab.
Hadiya disappeared behind a curtain, changed to street clothing, then walked out the door. When we reached the street, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment as I settled in next to her.
Hadiya's place was on the top floor of an old, well-kept building in the silversmiths' quarter, overlooking the sea. She opened the door, let me pass, then followed me in and locked it. Light from the full moon poured through the window. I scanned the living room for traces of Fergus. There were none. It was a female's habitat through and through.
Hadiya poured herself a snifter of brandy, handed me one and sat in the only armchair in the room. I sank into the couch and regarded her over the rim of my glass.
Finally I said, "The photograph Fergus said you should give me?"
She reached into the folds of her dress, and from a pocket pulled the picture. She handed it to me. I studied it. It was an old photograph, faded with time. There were 20 men in it, all wearing desert battle dress, all arranged in a formal group pose of four rows.
"It is Fergus' old commando unit," Hadiya said. "He's in the second row, second from the left. It was taken in 1942, in Cairo."
I turned it to the back, hoping to find something written there. All it bore was the name of the photographer. Whatever Fergus wanted to tell me was in that picture, probably concerning one of the men.
"Tell me about Fergus," I said.
She sipped her brandy. "I don't know anything… about his business, I mean. He was arrested several times for smuggling gold. Once he was questioned by the police about something to do with hashish — I think it was selling it. Other than that, he visited me once, maybe twice, a year. Sometimes he brought me money. Other times he borrowed money from me."
"The suitcase where the photo came from? What else is in it?"
"Nothing," she said. "Just a few old clothes."
I got up, entered the bedroom. The suitcase lay open on her bed. I rummaged through it, finding nothing but a few changes of men's clothes and an old, moth-eaten wedding dress.
"It was my mother's," Hadiya said behind me as I held it up.
I turned to her, questioning her with my eyes.
"It was my mother's wedding dress," she repeated. "She was Fergus' wife."
"His what?"
"His wife. She married him when I was four. Fergus was my stepfather."
Then, for the first time, she betrayed emotion at Fergus' death. Tears flooded her eyes and she buried her head on my chest, her hands clutching my arms. I soothed her the best I could, assuring her that everything would be all right. The tears subsided gradually, and she managed to say, "He was good to me, Nick. He was like my own father. He may have been a bad man, but to me he was good. After my mother died, when I was 10, he cared for me like I was his own daughter."
I nodded, understanding.
We were still standing very close to each other, and suddenly I was aware of a new, different feeling. Hadiya's breasts were pressed against me and I could smell the warm, sweet scent of her hair. My arms moved around her body. I kissed her hard, my tongue snaking into her mouth, exploring it, meeting and entwining with her tongue.
Hadiya reached around behind her and unfastened the buttons of the dress she was wearing. It slipped to her feet. Underneath she wore only tiny sheer black bikini panties that clung to her bronze curves. Her bare breasts which had so excited the tourists at the Miramar a short time earlier thrust outward, full and free, their brown tips erect.
I fumbled for a moment with my own clothing, and then found myself beside that warm, exciting body on the bed. Hadiya's dark eyes glowed softly in the dimness of the room. Her arms pulled me to her and her hands moved down my back.
I kissed her, and now her tongue flicked into my mouth and explored it while her hands caressed me. I laid a row of kisses along her shoulders, moved down to those swelling breasts and finally down across the rise of her belly to the navel that had held a small artificial gem during her dance at the hotel. I lingered at the navel, caressed it with my tongue, and a low moan escaped her.
Her thighs gripped me, and I sought the depths between them. We united with a soft gasp from her. And then those hips that did magic things in the dance began moving in response to my measured thrust. The torrent built inside us. The wild hips thrust and quivered with a primitive rhythm, reaching out for me.
She raised her legs high above my shoulders and I gripped her buttocks with both hands. She moaned as she moved in perfect unison with my thrusts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder, trying to lose myself inside her. Hadiya's hips kept moving with me for a long time, but then she arched her back, her fingers raking my arms, a sharp scream coming from her throat. I shuddered, heard myself make a strange animal sound, and collapsed atop her. I was covered with perspiration. I moved off Hadiya. My head sank into the pillow and I dropped off into satisfied sleep.
* * *
I was wakened by a tugging at my shoulder. I bolted upright to confront a terrified girl.
"Someone's at the door," Hadiya hissed in my ear.
I reached for Wilhelmina, but it was too late. The door burst open and a man charged in. He threw a shot my way. T rolled off the bed, landed on the floor. I grasped the night lamp and flung it, then leaped. I hit him just as he was raising his gun to fire again. The palm of my hand swept upward and caught him under his chin. His neck snapped backward with a crack which echoed off the walls of the room.
I reached for the wall switch, turned it on, and looked at the body before me. The man was obviously dying. Then I glanced at Hadiya. A crimson red blotch was spreading below her left breast. She had taken the shot meant for me.
I lifted her head in my hands. Pink bubbles trickled through her lips, then she shivered and was still.
The man on the floor muttered a groan. I went to him. "Who sent you?" I shook his arm.
"Ayoub," he coughed, "my brother…" and he died.
I fished through his pockets, found only a stub from a United Arab Airlines flight. If he was Ayoub's brother, it was natural for him to track me down. Blood vendettas are a part of life in this part of the world. I had killed his brother, and it was his duty to kill me. It was all so damned stupid, and Hadiya was dead because of it.
Two
My BOAC flight 631 arrived at London Airport at 11:05 of a sunny morning the next day. No one met me because Hawk had not wanted a reception of any kind. I was to hire a taxi, like any other visitor, and ask the driver to take me to the British Travel Association offices at 64 St. James Street. There I would see a man called Brutus. Brutus, his real identity a well-guarded secret, was Hawk's opposite number in London. He was the head of Special Operations Executive's Select Missions Division. He would give me specific instructions regarding the assignment.
I used a password to gain access to the off-limits top floor of the Travel Association building and was met by a two-man military guard in spit-and-polish British Army uniforms. I identified myself.
"Follow us, sir," one of them told me, deadpan.
We moved down a corridor in close, brisk formation, the guards' boots pounding in hard rhythm on the polished floor. We stopped before a large paneled door at the far end of the corridor.
"You may enter, sir," the same young man told me.
"Thank you," I said and opened the door into a small reception room.
I closed the door behind me and faced a middle-aged woman seated behind a desk, evidently Brutus' secretary. But my eyes traveled quickly past her to a truly lovely sight. A girl in a very short leather dress, her back to me, was leaning over a window seat to water a plant in a box outside the window. Because of her position, the dress revealed every inch of her long milky thighs and part of a well-rounded, lace-covered little behind. I liked Brutus's taste in office help.
The older woman followed my glance. "Mr. Carter, I presume," she said, smiling.
"Yes," I said, reluctantly shifting my gaze. As I spoke, the girl turned toward us, holding the small watering can.
"We've been waiting for you," the secretary said. "I'm Mrs. Smythe and this is Heather York."
"My pleasure," I said to Mrs. Smythe, but my eyes returned to the girl. She was blond, her hair cropped short. Her eyes were large and blue, the most vibrant blue I had ever seen. Her face was perfect: a straight, finely-shaped nose over a wide, sensuous mouth. The micro-mini she was wearing barely covered her even when she was standing straight. The brown leather swelled out over a well-rounded bosom above a narrow waist. Her calves were sheathed in brown boots that matched the dress.
"Brutus will see you immediately, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Smythe. "The paneled door on your left."
"Thank you." I gave the blonde a smile, hoping to see more of her later.
Brutus got up from behind a big mahogany desk as I walked in. "Well, well! Mr. Nick Carter! Good! Good!"
His hand swallowed mine and pumped it. He was a big man, as tall as I, and had one of those square British army faces that is all jaw. There was gray in his sideburns and there were wrinkles around his eyes, but he looked like a man who could still lead a military assault force and enjoy it.
"I'm glad to meet you, sir," I said.
"My pleasure, my lad! Distinctly my pleasure! Your reputation precedes you, you know."
I smiled and took the chair he offered me. He didn't go back to his seat but stood at one corner of the desk, his expression suddenly somber.
"We've got a big one here, Nick," he said. "I'm sorry to get you involved in our problems, but you're not well known here for one thing and, frankly, I wanted an experienced man who would have no hesitancy about killing, if it becomes necessary. Our only man of your caliber is inextricably involved in a problem at Malta."
"I'm glad to help," I said.
I gave him the details of all that had happened in Egypt, then surrendered the photograph. He studied it for a while, then agreed with me that whatever Fergus wanted to tell us had something to do with one or several of the men in the snapshot.
"It will take time to track all these men down," he said. "Meanwhile, there is still Novosty."
Brutus began pacing beside the desk, his bands behind his back. "We don't know whether this is the Commies or not. We know Novosty is here for some sinister purpose but it may have nothing to do with the assassinations. We have to check him out, though, and time is vital If you get any other ideas, explore them. Just be sure to check with me regularly."
He reached over his desk, picked up two slips of paper and handed them to me. They were the original notes left by the assassin or assassins. I studied them.
"You'll notice they're both handwritten and by the same person," Brutus pointed out.
"Yes," I said pensively. "Have you had the writing analyzed?"
"No," he said, "but I can arrange it if you like."
I nodded. I was no expert but the scrawling style didn't suggest a cool professional agent to me. Of course, that could be part of the smokescreen. "Hawk said the killings were bloody."
Brutus sighed and dropped into the leather chair behind the desk. "Yes. You understand, we've tried to keep the messier details out of the papers. Wellsey had the back of his head blown off with a high-powered rifle. He was shot through his office window by an expert marksman at some distance. Almost suggestive of a professional hunter."
"Or a professional killer," I said.
"Yes." He rubbed his chin. "The Percy Dumbarton killing was quite nasty. He was stabbed while out walking his dog. The dog's throat was cut too. The note was pinned to Dumbarton's coat. The first note, by the way, was found in the unopened mail on Wellsey's desk."
"Maybe you should just pay the money and see what happens," I suggested.
"We've thought of that. But twelve million pounds sterling is a lot of money even to the British government. I'll tell you frankly, though, there is considerable pressure from the cabinet people and the ministry to pay, nevertheless. We may wind up doing just that. But, for the moment, you have at least a week to develop something."
"I'lll do my best, sir."
"I know you generally prefer to work alone," Brutus said, "but I'm going to assign an agent from my SM Division to work with you on this. The two of you will report only to me. There are other agencies working on this, naturally — MI5, MI6, the Yard and others. They are not to share in any information you develop except through me. Is that understood?"
"Completely," I told him.
He smiled. "Good." He pushed a button on his desk. "Send York in. Miss Smythe."
I frowned. Wasn't that the name of the blonde I'd been introduced to in the outer office…? The door behind me opened and I turned. The lovely creature in the leather micro-mini moved briskly into the room, giving me a big smile as she walked past me to the mahogany desk. She sat on the edge of the desk as if she'd perched there many times before.
"This is Mr. Nick Carter, Heather," Brutus said, smiling at her. "Nick, Miss Heather York."
"We met outside," she said, not taking her eyes off me.
"Oh, good." He looked at me, "Heather is the agent you'll be working with, Nick."
I looked from the girl to Brutus and back to her. "I'll be damned," I said softly.
After filling Heather in about the photograph, Brutus dismissed us. As I reached the door, he said, "Keep in touch. We should have something on the men in the picture in a day or so."
* * *
I took a cab to a small hotel near Russell Square, having recovered slightly from the pleasant shock of finding I was to spend the next week or so with a bundle of goodies like Heather York. Actually, I had mixed feelings about her. Women and espionage don't mix, not the way I play the game. And it was difficult for me to believe that such an exquisite package as Heather could be of much real help finding an assassin. But Brutus was the boss during this lend-lease assignment and I wasn't about to question his judgment.
My orders were to stick pretty close to the hotel during the next few hours while Heather made preparations for us to drive to Cornwall later in the day. The cab driver took me along Pall Mall, past the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square where the tourists were feeding the pigeons at Nelson's Column in the sunshine.
We were coming to the park at Russell Square. The hotel was only a couple of blocks away and I felt like walking a little.
"I'll get out here," I told the driver.
"Right, governor," the man said, slowing the cab.
I paid him and he drove off. I walked past the park, enjoying the autumn sunshine, and finally turned down the side street toward my hotel. A lone black Austin sat at the curb up ahead. As I came up to it, I saw there were three men in dark suits inside. Two of them got out and confronted me, blocking my way.
"Excuse me, old chap, but would you be Mr. Carter, by any chance?"
I studied the man. He was a square, blocky young guy. He looked like a cop… or a security agent. So did his buddy, especially with his right hand snuggled in his jacket pocket.
"What if I am?" I said.
"Then we would be wanting a chat with you," the blocky young man said with a tight grin. "Come along, we don't want to worry anyone, do we?"