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"What about Ann-Marie?" I asked. "Don't tell me
you're cornering the market on beautiful fashion
models. "
"No," he said, laughing. "Ann-Marie came with
her young man who works in the Ministry of De-
fense. I know her well through Christine, though.
A charming girl, very considerate and generous. As
much a peacemaker as Christine is a trouble-
maker. "
"No colonial hang-ups?"
"l doubt if she even knows enough to find
Somalia on the map. Ann-Marie is more interested
in a good time than in politics. Sometimes," he
added wistfully, "I wish Christine had the same
good sense."
I was about to ask him another question when I
caught sight of a familiar figure on the other side of
the room. I excused myself and began to work my
way through the crowd. The party was in full swing
now and I lost track of my objective twice before I
finally managed to catch up with her.
"Gail," I said, tapping her on the shoulder.
She whirled around, the welcoming smile on her
face tightening into a hard line as she recognized
me. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Carter, the reporter. What
are you doing now," she asked, "trying to round
out your story by barging in on my social life?"
I shook my head. "I just came over to say hello.
You seemed upset when I left this afternoon, so I
wanted to make sure you were all right."
"How considerate,"
she said with a mocking
smile. "But you really needn't have bothered. I
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have Rodrigo here to take care of all my problems.
I believe you two have already met?"
I'd been aware of someone standing behind me
ever since I approached Gail. I turned around and
saw the stocky mestizo, who'd exchanged his cov-
eralls for a tuxedo and ruffled shirt. His right hand
was thrust deep in his pocket, wrapped around
some object. Possibly a gun.
"How's the trucking business?" I asked him.
He glared at me, then forced himself to smile.
"Ah, the famous American humor. I hope your
friend, the Englishman, enjoyed our meeting this
afternoon. "
"He's dead," I said quietly. "I'm surprised that
you don't remember. Of course, you were in such a
hurry to leave that it probably all seems pretty
vague to you. If you're still wondering what hap-
pened to the guy you left behind," I added, "you
can stop wondering now."
€ 'A momentary advantage, Carter. Why don't
you make the best use of it and leave Paris to-
night."
I was suddenly getting very tired of this amateur
tough act. I reached out and grabbed his arm just
above the elbow, my fingers locking in on the pres-
sure points.
Rodrigo began to squirm, trying to break my
grip with his free hand. I twisted him around and
pushed the other arm behind his back. His face
began to turn red and he sucked in air in noisy
gulps. In a second or two he would begin to scream
from the pain.
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I eased up on the pressure points and yanked his
right hand out of his pocket. A Smith and Wesson
Airweight came tumbling out after it. I caught it
before it could hit the floor and tucked away the
"purse gun" in my dinner-jacket pocket.
"Did you have to do that?" Gail asked angrily.
"You want some advice? Find somebody else to
take care of your problems. "
I turned back to Rodrigo, who was gently
massaging his arm. "A momentary advantage," he
repeated. "Things will be different when next we I
meet."
"Rodrigo," I said, smiling, ' 'you've been watch-
ing too many American gangster movies."
After meeting the Avenue Gabriel gang again,
the air out on the balcony seemed particularly fresh
and clean. I found Lauren talking to a tall, impos-
ing black man. Ann-Marie Michaels was nowhere
in sight.
"There you are," she said, waving me over.
"Nick, this is Ali Agabar, the consul general. He's
just been telling me something about his country. "
"Boring you is more like it," he said with a deep
rumbling laugh. He was about a half-inch taller
than I, with broad shoulders and a pot belly that
strained the buttons on his tuxedo jacket. His
round ebony face was intelligent and friendly; his
clipped British accent the only reminder of his
former rulers.
"But I wasn't bored," Lauren protested.
"Perhaps not," said Agabar. "But I have to
watch myself constantly. I find it easy to get carried
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away extolling Somalia's numerous virtues. Nice
meeting you, Mr. Carter. Now if you'll excuse me,
I must circulate among my other guests. "
"What a charming man," Lauren said as we
watched him walk away.
"I'm glad you've been enjoying yourself. What
happened to Ann-Marie?"
Lauren shrugged. "She probably went to look
for her boyfriend. She was here when I started talk-
ing to Monsieur Agabar, but when I turned around
to say something to her she was gone. Will you an-
swer a question for me, Nick?"
"If I can."
"Did you know Ann-Marie and Christine were
going to be here? And Gail, too; I saw you talking
to her before you came out here."
"l assumed that they would be," I answered
truthfully. Unless I was mistaken, there was an
edge of jealousy in Lauren's voice.
"Then this really isn't our evening," she contin-
ued. "You're here because they're here."
"I could have come by myself," I said, slipping
my arm around her waist. "But I thought you'd
enjoy this."
"l am, Nick. But the point is—"
Whatever it was, she never got to finish it. Sud-
denly the lights went out, in a split second the
crowded room was in total darkness, as if someone
had slammed down the lid on a coffin.
"Stay here," I said, grabbing Lauren's arm.
'I This is the safest place for you until the lights
come back on."
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I took out my Luger and began to move
cautiously forward. People were already beginning
to spill out onto the balcony. The crowd inside was
restless, milling aimlessly about. I heard giggles,
apologies, and curses in a dozen or more tongues.
So far, no one had panicked. I wondered if they
realized this was no ordinary blackout.
I cleared the French doors and started to work
my way toward the center of the room. My
progress was even slower now that I was inside. I
tucked Wilhelmina in my belt so I could have both
hands free; a few seconds later, I used them to
catch a woman who'd tripped and nearly sent us
both sprawling to the floor.
"Your attention please!" The deep booming
voice was Agabar's. As far as I could tell, he was
on the opposite side of the room from me, about
fifteen feet away. The crowd quieted down quickly,
everyone standing still.
"First,"
he continued, "please accept my
apologies for this momentary inconvenience. My
staff assures me that it is merely a burnt-out fuse
and that the lights will be back on in another
minute or so. As soon as they are the party will go
on as before. Please stay and enjoy yourselves.
Thank you."
Several people applauded the brief speech and
there seemed to be a collective sigh, an easing ofl
tension in the room. Many of those present had L
been at the scene of one or more of the diplomatic
murders. Any unexpected occurrence, especially a
blackout, was bound to make them edgy.
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It was beginning to look like I was wrong. I'd
immediately assumed that the power failure was
part of a plan, a deep cover for yet another as-
sassination. But so far there were no signs that any-
thing like that had happened.
Overhead, the chandelier lights flickered once,
twice, and then came back on for good. The crowd
let out a ragged cheer and started moving again,
mostly toward the bar. Everyone began talking,
but then suddenly stopped as a loud, piercing
scream cut through the din like a knife blade.
I turned toward its source. An elderly woman
was sobbing on some man's shoulder, and just
beyond her three men were bending over some-
thing on the floor. I pushed my way through the
crowd and finally saw what it was.
Even in death, Ali Agabar looked imposing. His
face was solemn, almost stern as it stared up at the
ceiling. His two big hands were clutched around
the triangular wooden handle of an icepick. I
couldn't see the blade at all. It was buried to the
hilt in his chest, where it had undoubtedly
punctured his heart on contact.
"Mon Dieu," Lauren whispered, suddenly ap-
pearing at my side.
"l don't think God had anything to do with it,"
I told her. "We'd better get out of here before the
gendarmes arrive. "
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Chapter Twelve
When I collected my key at the concierge's desk I
found he had a message for me, too.
"A gentleman is waiting to see you in the Bar
Anglais, Monsieur Carter."
"A gentleman?" I repeated. "Did he leave his
name? Can you describe him?"
He shrugged apologetically.
"I'm sorry,
Monsieur, but he arrived before I came on duty.
That is all the information I have. If you like, I can
have them page the bar and ask for—
"No," I said, cutting him off. "Thanks, but that
won't be necessary. " Very few people knew I was
staying at the Plaza Athénée and I wasn't expect-
ing any of them. At least I wouldn't have far to go
to find out who it was. The Bar Anglais was one
floor below the main lobby.
"I've got to meet someone," I informed Lauren.
She'd stopped off at the newsstand for a pack of
Disque Bleu and had missed my conversation with
the concierge.
"Am I included in the invitation?"
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' 'No, you're not." I said it in a hard, firm tone
that implied we weren't going to debate the issue.
She looked at me, letting the silence build for a
few seconds. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll go up to
the room and wait for you. Not that I need the
practice. Unless you've already forgotten, I spent
most of the day doing just that."
"This is business, Lauren." I pressed the key in
her hand. I wanted to say more, to try and explain
to her just what was at stake. But I forced myself
not to.
In the espionage business caring too much is just
another bad habit, like excessive smoking or drink-
ing. A little indulgence is good for you, but go
beyond that and you lose the edge that keeps you
on top. I knew I was beyond the "reasonable"
point with Lauren and now was the time to draw
the line. "Don't wait up for me," I said with the
widest smile I could muster.
"I may not be back
until sometime tomorrow. If you should get rest-
less, you can go back to your apartment. I think it's
safe enough now."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said in a near whis-
per. "But before you go, there's something I want
to tell you. When I saw Agabar's body, wasn't
shocked. A little upset maybe, but that was about
it. I'm starting to get used to seeing people die. And
even worse than that, I'm starting to get used to
you."
It was a good exit line and that's what she used
it for. I watched her cross the lobby in long,
graceful strides, her head held high and defiant. I
NICK CARTER
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wasn't quite sure what to make of her parting re-
marks. They were sufficiently cryptic to let her do
whatever she wanted and still have the satisfaction
of having "told me off."
I hadn't been lying when I'd said it was safe for
her to go back to her apartment. But I hadn't ex-
actly been telling the truth either. There was still a
strong possibility that her life was in danger, espe-
cially now that she'd been seen with me at the re-
ception. But I also knew that I'd be moving too fast
during the next few days to give her the kind of
protection she needed. Any field agent could do the
job better simply because that was all he'd have to
do.
I used one of the lobby pay phones to make the
arrangements and then took the elevator down to
the Bar Anglais.
As the name implies it is an "English bar," a bit
of the other side of the Channel right here in• the
heart of Paris. And they'd done a proper job of it,
with dark wood paneling, comfortable leather
armchairs, and a Scottish tartan rug.
There must have been a shortage of homesick
Anglos because the place was nearly deserted to-
night. I paused in the doorway and let my eyes
wander around the room. Two salesman types in
animated conversation, a tourist party of four, and
a bored but beautiful "lady of the night." Even in
the best hotels they can't keep them out. I've
always had a suspicion that they don't really want
to.
I was beginning to think that my nameless friend
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had given up and gone home, when I noticed a thin
blue spiral of smoke rising above one of the chairs
in the back of the room; No one else appeared to
be anxiously awaiting Monsieur Carter, so I de-
cided that it was worth walking over just to make
sure.
I passed the prostitute on the way. She quickly
worked up a warm smile for me, along with a
meaningful glance from the deepest amber eyes I'd
ever seen. There was nothing cheap about her; in
lact, her simple-looking beige skirt and jacket were
the work of one of the city's top couturiers. I know,
oecause I'd seen the exact same outfit while shop-
Ding with Lauren that afternoon. That, along with
Che diamond earrings she was wearing, would have
out me back almost three months' pay. I shook my
nead—regretfully, I hope, because she really was
Gtunning—-and continued on toward the back of
rhe room.
I smelled him before I saw him. Or rather, I
should say I smelled it. There's only one person in
r.he world I know who smokes those God-awful,
foul-smelling cigars.
My boss, David Hawk.
I circled around the high, winged-back chair
for my first look at him in more than three weeks.
d'd finished a job in Italy before this assignment
and hadn't expected to see Hawk until I was back
the States.
"I hope you're not surprised," his raspy voice
greeted me. "Because surprise is an element I like
reserve almost exclusively for the other side. If
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you follow my meaning, Nick?"
"Yes, sir. I do." Hawk had always said that a
Killmaster should be ready for anything and
always expect the unexpected. The "other side" he
referred to was•a catchall term for whomever we
happened to be fighting at the moment—Russians,
Chinese, Baader-Meinhof, PLO. Sometimes the
names changed so fast I couldn't keep track of
them all.
"Sit down," he said, nodding toward the vacant
chair across from him. "It's good to see you again,
Nick, but I wish it were under different circum-
stances. "
I looked at him without speaking. The last part
of what he'd just said gave me a cold, uncom-
fortable feeling all the way down my spine. The di-
rector of a super-secret intelligence agency like
AXE doesn't fly clear across the Atlantic merely to
see how you're getting along. On those rare occa-
sions when he does leave his desk, it's usually to
pull someone off an assignment.
Why? Because he's not good enough anymore.
Hawk fixed me with his flinty eyes and smiled. "I
can tell by the look on your face what you're think-
ing, Nick. And I'm happy to say you're wrong. My
presence in Paris isn't a reflection on your perfor-
mance so far, but rather on the gravity of the situ-
ation."
"I have a feeling there's something that I don't
know about yet."
"Yes," he said quietly. "And it isn't welcom
news. The customs officials made an interestin
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discovery this morning out at Charles de Gaulle
Airport. A transport plane in from New York was
off-loading a cargo of fifty-five gallon drums. The
drums were marked and invoiced "industrial sol-
vents," but when a fork-lift backed into one by ac-
cident, the lid came off and the contents spilled out
on the tarmac. What it was," he concluded in a
grim voice, "was fifty-five gallons of RXD packed
in gel. And the other twenty-nine drums contained
- exactly the same thing."
RXD. The initials sounded harmless until you
found out what they stood for—cylotrimethylene
trinitramine, one of the most lethal and unstable
plastiques ever made. In fact, it's so dangerous to
t transport that it's been categorized as a Class-A ex-
making it illegal to ship on any kind of
»plane.
It was only pure luck that the accident didn't re-
i sult in a massive explosion. The amount of RXD
•Hawk was talking about could have taken apart
I the entire airport.
"That's only the first part of the story," Hawk
'continued. "After they made the discovery, the
French very wisely allowed the drums to be de-
i livered to their destination. Of course, they weren't
Ithe original drums," he added with a dry chuckle,
' 'but the best substitutes they could come up with
ion short notice. Two Mercedes trucks picked up
I the bogus cargo at one and drove it about one hun-
dred kilometers south of Paris to a town called
Étréchy. Their destination was an auto parts
warehouse just outside the town limits. Naturally,
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the customs and internal security people tailed
them from the airport, and when the delivery men
started unloading, they moved in."
"And found?" I couldn't help asking, even
though I was fairly certain I wasn't going to like
the answer.
"A nearly empty warehouse. I know that doesn't
sound particularly frightening," Hawk said in re-
sponse to my puzzled expression, "but believe me,
Nick, it is. There were just enough items left to
clearly indicate what had been going on. Those
items included a Redeye missile, a case of M-16's,
radio monitors, infrared night vision scopes, en-
coding devices, and thermite pencils. I think you
see what I'm driving at?"
"A clearing house," I said softly. The implica-
tions of what Hawk had been telling me were just
starting to come together in my mind. The total
effect was devastating.
"Exactly so," said Hawk with a grim nod. "The
auto-parts cover was perfect for shipping weapons
all over the country. And from the look of all the
dismantled packing crates and such, enough 'hard-
ware' must have passed through there to outfit a
couple of small armies. What the French found
was probably the last lot waiting to be shipped out
with the RXD. There was no one at the warehouse
and the truck drivers clearly didn't know what was
going on. Their instructions were simple: pick up,
deliver, and unload. They were well-paid for it in
advance."
Hawk paused a moment to relight his mangled-
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looking cigar. "The problem is that we don't know
where any of it went. The French looked over the
trucking company's records, which show that
they've been hauling similar loads of cargo to the
warehouse in Étréchy for more than a year now.
Where it went from there is anyone's guess, al-
though I'm sure it's still in the country. Otherwise,
why all the elaborate smuggling if they intended to
ship it elsewhere?"
That was a good point, but also a disconcerting
one. Arms had been pouring into France for over a
year and still none of them had surfaced yet. Some-
one was stockpiling with something more than just
a little sniping in mind. The capabilities of some of
the items Hawk had listed made my blood run
cold.
The Redeye was a prime example. It's a small
shoulder-launching missile with its own heat-seek-
ing device. Anyone with minimal training and a
Redeye could wipe out a 747 in midair.
"Did the French find anything that links it to the
diplomatic assassinations?"
Through a cloud of swirling cigar smoke, I
watched Hawk shake his head. "Instinct," he said
quietly. "That's really what I'm going on. The as-
sassinations and the arms smuggling are both the
work of professionals, top professionals, I might
add. We'd be foolish to think that there wasn't
some connection between the two operations. Now
that you know the worst of it," he concluded with
a wintry smile, "bring me up to date on your own
activities."
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Over a couple of glasses of vintage Armagnac, I
did just that. Hawk listened patiently, his cool, ap-
praising eyes never leaving me. Maybe it was only
jet-lag, but he looked tired almost to the point of
exhaustion. His stern face was drawn and pale, and
his slender shoulders looked as though they had
the weight of the world on them.
Hell. Neither one of us was getting any younger.
Still, I was glad Hawk had come to Paris, even with
the bad news that had brought him here. If things
started getting hairy, and I was sure they would, he
was the one man in the world I knew I could rely
on.
"Where were the three possibles?" Hawk inter-
rupted me. I'd just finished telling him about
Agabar's murder. Of course, the "three possibles"
were Gail, Christine, and Ann-Marie.
"Nowhere near the body. Not that that makes
any difference," I quickly added. "Agabar was
probably killed right after he made his little speech
about the lights. The assassin used the sound of his
voice to locate him in the dark. It was fairly easy to
predict that he'd make some kind of announce-
ment concerning the blackout. But the lights didn't
come back on until roughly three minutes after he
finished speaking. Plenty of time for the assassin to
put a lot of distance between herself and the body. "
"You still say 'herself,' implying that you contin-
ue to regard these three women as our principal
suspects." He paused and looked down thought-
fully at his smoldering cigar. "I don't want to start
second-guessing you," he said, meeting my eyes
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again, "but if you're wrong, Nick, the conse-
quences could be disastrous."
"The Arab oil summit?"
"Precisely. Whoever this terrorist group is, they
obviously have an intense hatred for former colo-
nies, Third World countries—any emerging nation
ruled by nonwhites. So far they've murdered five
diplomats, not a large number when you think of
it. But then, many of these countries only have a
small percentage of the population with the educa-
tion and abilities for these top government jobs.
They're not just killing people," Hawk said
harshly, "they're trying to wipe out a country's
future. And with all the tension in the Middle
East," he concluded, "l don't see how they could
pass up the oil summit."
"I'm sure it's one of the three, sir," I said as con-
fidently as I possibly could. It didn't bother me
that Hawk questioned my judgment. That was part
of his job as director of AXE—to probe and poke
at our theories, to look at the reasons behind each
decision. Only this time I had next to nothing to
offer him. Possibilities, coincidences, suspicions.
But not one thing strong enough to clearly identify
our assassin and the organization she worked for.
With her handy home arsenal, Gail Huntington
was far and away the front runner. But it still
didn't sit right with me. There was something else
there, something else I couldn't quite put my finger
on.
"It's getting late," Hawk said, rising wearily
from the chair. He flipped open his worn cowhide
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wallet and dropped a couple of bills on the table.
"You'd better wait about ten minutes and then go
upstairs. It's all right if we're seen together, but
there's no point in taking unnecessary risks."
"Where are you staying, sir?"
"Right down the hall from you. So if Lauren is
still there, try not to keep me awake all night."
With a cynical parting smile, he turned and
walked out of the bar.
114
Chapter Thirteen
"I know where they are," André Boissier said.
"You 're positive?"
Ile nodded his massive head and grinned. "And
that's not even the best part of it, mon ami. The
information isn't going to cost you a single franc. "
It was ten the next morning and I was back at Le
Rénard Rouge. As just like my previous visit, the
chairs were still stacked up on the tables, the
calvados flowed freely, and Boissier looked like he
had the great-grandmother of all hangovers.
"It usually doesn't work that way," he contin-
ued, "but my informant happens to be someone
who owes me le grand faveur. So I was able to se-
cure this for you without any money changing
hands."
"You're entitled to the ten thousand," I said rea-
sonably. ' 'It isn't coming out of my pocket,
André. "
I usually don't try and give AXE money away.
But in view of the long-standing friendship be-
tween Boissier and Hawk, I felt I had to make
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some effort. All it did was make Boissier angry.
"You don't understand," he roared. ' 'It isn't a
matter of money. I'm happy to do it for my old
comrade in arms, for David. I guess I'm just sen-
timental. Like senility, it comes with old age."
He probably was, but glaring down at me with
those bloodshot eyes he looked about as sentimen-
tal as a Kodiak bear on the rampage.
"l know he'll appreciate it," I assured him. "Not
to mention my own thanks."
That calmed him down enough to r»ur us both
another shot of calvados. He tossed his glass back
in a single gulp and wiped his grizzled red beard
with the back of his hand.
"Do you know Vitry?" he asked, leaning closer.
I was glad we had the bar between us. His breath
smelled like a badly run distillery.
"Yes," I admitted, ' 'but I've only driven through
it a couple of times." It was one of those places you
only visited if you had to. Vitry was a shabby
working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of the
city, a part of what the French called the "red
belt," a ring of proletarian Communist enclaves
surrounding Paris. If you really wanted to spend a
depressing day, Vitry was the perfect place to do it
in.
"This is the address," Boissier continued. "l
don't think you'll have much trouble locating it.
It's right off the main thoroughfare, Rue du Bois. "
He pushed a scrap of paper across the scarred
mahogany bar. Printed on it in clumsy block letters
were the words and numbers 14 Rue de la Croix.
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Street of the cross. For a moment I wondered if
there might be something prophetic in the name. I
folded the piece of paper up and tucked it away in
the breast pocket of my tweed jacket. I'd already
memorized the information, but I was still very
curious about Boissier's anonymous tipster. If the
note was in his handwriting, it was worth hanging
onto for awhile.
' 'Any idea what kind of a building it is?" I asked.
"Or how big a welcoming committee I'm going to
find there?"
"No, mon ami. " He shrugged his broad shoul-
ders and poured out more calvados. "All I know is
that's where the terrorist group is operating from.
The same ones respohsible for the diplomatic as-
sassinations. Now drink up," he said, clapping me
on the back. "l don't want you driving on an emp-
ty stomach."
It wasn't exactly the best advice in the world, but
I drained my glass anyway. The sharp apple bran-
dy had a real kick to it. It warmed my insides, re-
minding me of Lauren and another kind of
warmth. She'd been waiting for me when I'd gone
up to the room last night. I hadn't spoken to Hawk
this morning, so I didn't know whether we'd kept
him awake or not.
If I had, I knew I was going to hear about it.
Just as I reached Vitry, the slate gray sky opened
up and the rain began drumming out a message on
the roof of the Renault. I flicked on my lights and
wipers and slowed down to a crawl as I tried to
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read the street signs. The rain didn't help any. I
hadn't been expecting it and had left my trench
coat back at the hotel. I should have known better.
After all, this was Vitry.
I'd decided the Ferrari was a bit too conspicuous
for this neighborhood, so I'd rented a Renault two-
door and left the 512 Boxer in the safekeeping of
the hotel garage. I'd tried to contact Hawk before
I'd left, but he wasn't in his room and hadn't left
any messages for me with the concierge.
Since it was my decision, I elected to make this a
solo operation for two reasons. One, because
AXE's manpower in the Paris area was already
overextended. Last night, Hawk had assigned tails
to all three of my "lovely" ladies and dispatched
another team to try and trace the weapons flow
from the warehouse in Étréchy.
And second, I worked better alone. I could re-
connoiter the sight and see what there was to see. If
it turned out to be a false alarm, at least no one else
would have wasted any time on it. And if it were
the real thing, I could always call in a backup team.
Vitry's streets were long, straight, and boring.
They were lined with shabby-looking stores, ga-
rages, and whole blocks of off-white apartment
houses that looked like they'd started falling apart
before construction was even finished. Because of
the dark sky and heavy morning rain, the sodium
street lamps were on. Their pale, glowing light
made everything look just that much more grimy
and neglected.
I finally found the Rue de Ia Croix. I parked and
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locked the rental car, then walked another two
blocks with the rain seeping down my upturned
collar. There was no one in the street except for
three skinny boys kicking a soccer ball around a
vacant lot. But I could feel a hundred eyes watch-
ing me from behind the dirt-streaked windows
overlooking the street. This was not a neighbor-
hood that welcomed strangers.
I walked by number 14 deliberately, only allow-
ing myself a quick, casual glance at the building
itself. The sign above the stable-like doors was
lopsided and warped from too many years of ser-
vice. In peeling red and gold paint it spelled out the
legend: CIRQUE DE HIVER, which translated into
"winter circus." The smells had stayed behind, but
I was pretty sure that the circus had packed up the
elephants and left town a long time ago.
I continued around the block and down the
street running parallel to the back of the building.
By now I was soaked to the skin, my tweed jacket
and tan slacks wrinkled and dripping. The only
solace was that it made me blend in a little better
with my surroundings.
About midway down the block, I ducked in an
alleyway. If my calculations were correct, it should
have been leading me right up to the back of
number 14. The alleyway dead-ended into a tall,
wooden fence. I shimmied over the top, ripping my
jacket in the process, and landed in a narrow
courtyard.
J recognized the silhouette of the circus building.
Now that I was where I wanted to be, all I had to
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do was figure out what to do next.
The back of the place looked even more
dilapidated than the front: a single steel door with
a broken cage-light over it and a rusty fire escape
that ran all the way up to a dormer-style fire door
on the roof. The roof itself was a sloping mansard
affair covered with rotting gray shingles. There was
a skylight at the top, but I doubted if I could reach
it without breaking my neck.
I decided my best bet was the fire door. The rust-
pocked iron stairs creaked and groaned under my
weight. They were slippery from the rain and I had
to hold onto the railing with both hands or risk
losing my footing. If someone had started shooting
at me then, there wouldn't have been much I could
do about it.
I finally made it to the top. The fire door looked
like it hadn't been opened in years, but on the other
hand there didn't seem to bc any kind of lock on it.
J twisted the knob and pulled. Nothing.
I braced my feet against the door and gave it a
real tug. The knob came off in my hand and my
momentum carried me back against the railing and
almost over it. But at the last second my hand
locked around a slippery iron rung and I saved my-
self from a forty-foot drop down to the concrete
courtyard.
I'd managed to hang on to the knob, too. Not
knowing what else to do with it, I slipped it inside
my jacket pocket.
It was time to try a different approach on the
door. I used the screwdriver blade on my pocket
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knife, working it gently but firmly back and forth
along the opening between the door and the frame.
When I'd loosened things up a bit, I put more
leverage on it. The fire door popped open with a
I sharp metallic sound that was muffled by the fall-
ing rain.
I eased Wilhelmina free of my shoulder holster
and moved cautiously forward into total darkness.
I reached out with my other hand and touched dirt-
encrusted canvas. A cobweb broke over my face
and all around me I could smell years and years of
accumulated dust. I was walking along a narrow
wooden board, which Wasn't the easiest thing to do
in the dark—-especially when you don't have the
slightest idea where it's taking you.
After about fifteen feet, I saw a dim, murky light
up ahead. As I got closer I also saw what I'd been
walking along: the top tier in a set of bleachers that
slanted steeply down to a small circus ring some
forty feet below. At one time this had probably
been the off-season home of some third- or fourth-
rate traveling circus and carnival show.
There were still a few remnants of the former
tenants—a broken trapeze rig dangling from the
ceiling; a herd of wooden carousel horses stacked
against the wall, their sleek lines obliterated by a
blanket of dust; and, down in the ring, a unicycle
with its huge wheel twisted out of shape.
The clowns and high flyers were long gone, but
the place was far from empty.
I counted seventeen men and women. The shad-
ows could have held twice as many more, but that
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was all I could see from my vantage point. They
were dressed paramilitary style in a mixture of
khaki, olive drab, and jungle camouflage jackets
and trousers. None of them looked alike except in
two respects: they were all white and they were all
carrying Russian-made Kalashnikov Assault
Rifles.
They were sitting around in small groups, some
talking, some reading, while others just held onto
their rifles and tried to look tough. The acoustics
were rotten. I couldn't hear anything more than a
few disjointed words. But from the pitch and tim-
bre of the voices, I was sure they were English-
speaking. The majority of the group had deeply
tanned skin with the kind of ruddiness that usually
means a British Isles or Northern European back-
ground.
Of course, it was all guesswork on my part, but
I thought I knew who they were—Rhodesian or
South African terrorists.
They certainly looked the part. And their white
supremacist politics and strong commitment to the
colonial lifestyle were the perfect opposite to the
views held by the five murdered diplomats.
Naturally, like any theory, it had its holes—the
biggest one being, what were they doing in France?
They'd see a lot more action right on their own
home front. So why were they hanging around an
abandoned circus when they should have been out
patrolling the bush? I'm sure they applauded the
assassinations, but they didn't do much to further
their spécifique cause.
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The other hole was that I didn't see any of my
'ree suspects among the half-dozen women
•esent. Still, she might walk in any second with
er AXE tail right behind her. It was a comforting
tought, but I didn't want to start indulging in day-
eams just yet.
Instead, I put Wilhelmina away and sat down on
e bleachers to watch the show. I'd seen more
nan a hundred groups like this one, small, dedi-
Hted, fanatical. Half of them joined just because
ney had some half-assed romantic image of them-
Elves centered around battle fatigues and a gun.
Don't get me wrong, though, I took them very
eriously. Too many times I'd seen what a well-
rmed group that size can do in the way of death
Ind destruction.
For the moment they seemed to be merely biding
neir time. I decided to do the same. As soon as the
ain let up, I would sneak back out and call in a
jackup team. We'd be able to take most of them
{live, at least I hoped so. After a few hours with the
nterrogation specialists, I was sure that any of the
urvivors would be more than happy to tell us the
dentity of the embassy hit woman.
I was beginning to shiver in my sodden clothes.
felt like having a cigarette, but I couldn't risk at-
racting anyone's attention. If I could wrap this up
his afternoon, I'd probably be able to squeeze a
veek's leave out of Hawk before he sent me chas-
ng to some other hot-spot halfway round the
flobe.
I already knew what I'd do with it—spend it
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right here in Paris with Lauren. Long, ric
gourmet meals and long, rich, gourmet nights
bed.
Someone down below must have been psychi
because two of the women put down the
Kalashnikovs and began to pass out lunch. E
eryone got the same thing: a small bottle of wine,
sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and a candy b
for dessert. I suddenly realized how hungry I h
become.
I was considering going down and asking for ju
one bite when a massive explosion sent me hurtlir
into oblivion.
124
Chapter Fourteen
I It was trying to kill me—the it being a thick, swirl-
iing, greenish-gray fog that had me pinned to the
'wall like a butterfly on a velvet board. I couldn't
jmove my arms or legs and the pressure against my
:chest was going to split it wide open in a few more
seconds.
The fog filled my mouth and lungs, leaving me
? gasping for air. I tried to fight it off, but nothing I
did seemed to help. Someone had severed the line
of communications between my body and my
'brain. I was paralyzed, defenseless, and about to
die.
Hands reached out of the fog to taunt me, long,
slender hands with carmine-tipped nails. They
; stayed just out of reach, with whatever they were
connected to hidden somewhere deep in the smoky
mist.
Just as I was about to go under, the fog began to
recede, slowly at first and then quickly, as if a great
rush of wind had blown it all away. I blinked my
eyes and started fighting my way back into the real
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world. The wall I'd been pinned against was actual€.
ly the floor of the circus building. And the sinister.
choking fog was nothing more than the years oi
accumulated dust the explosion had unsettled.
I remembered about the explosion now. I wat
obviously doing fine. But for a while—I still didn'l
know how long—I'd been out of it, lost in som€
other place halfway between dream and reality.
The nightmare quality of it left me with a cold
uneasy feeling. My helplessness and the beckoning
hands seemed like messages from my sub
conscious. They had been very feminine hands.
One or all of my suspects? Whatever I'd bee
trying to tell myself, I hadn't gotten the messagc
across very well.
I'd already wasted enough time on my mind; i
was time to check out the Carter body. I felt stiff al
over. I tried to push myself up from the floor an
a wave of pain brought me right back down again
I sucked in air and gave it another shot. Thi
time it wasn't nearly as bad and I managed to mak
it up to a sitting position. My arms and legs fel
numb, but with slow, gradual movement the
began to limber up.
Even though I'd survived, I probably didn't loo
it. I needed a mirror to assess the damage to m
face, but the rest of me was singed, dirty, an
ragged beyond recognition. There were cuts an
abrasions on my chest and arms and a nasty gas
below my right knee. I also had the familiar taste o
blood in my mouth. Apart from that I was th
same old indestructable Nick.
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The others hadn't been as lucky. Rising
awkwardly to my feet, I looked around at the
carnage: bodies burned and mangled so badly that
they no longer looked human, severed limbs and
that sweet-sick odor that would hang in the air
even after they'd been carted away in plastic body
bags. It was the kind of death that made you glad
there were no survivors.
I'd been too far away to get the full impact of the
explosion. From the force and the blasting pattern,
it looked as if plastique had been used. Possibly an
earlier shipment of RXD from the warehouse in
Étréchy?
Working with something that unstable, they
could have easily caused the explosion themselves.
If not, then who did? Ever since I'd started this as-
signment, I seemed to be winding up with two new
questions for each answer I found. Miraculously,
it my AXE issue watch had also survived the blast. It
was only eleven-twenty. Less than an hour and a
half since I'd left Boissier's cafe. It really seemed
I like a hell of a way to start the morning.
I walked up a splintered staircase and out the
E back door. In the distance I could hear the urgent
wail of sirens. They were becoming so familiar
r now, I almost couldn't imagine Paris without
t them.
Naturally, since this was Vitry it was raining
harder than ever.
127
Chapter Fifteen
"It looks like a map of the Russian front," the doc-
tor observed with a wry smile.
He was talking about my body, which he'd just
finished ministering to. In the process he'd patched
me up in about seventeen different places, topping
each one off with a thick layer of gauze and band
ages. He'd also determined that there were no
bones broken and that I'd be fine after a few days
of total rest.
"Rest," he repeated, C 'that's the best thing I can
prescribe for you. Your wounds aren't severe, but
your body has had a tremendous shock. I can't
take responsibility for what might happen if you
don't follow my advice."
"1'11 bear that in mind," I told him.
I guess I didn't sound very convincing, because
he scowled at me and snapped his black bag shut as
if he were anxious to collect his fee and return to
the company of more sensible people who actually
took his advice.
He was a tall, cadaverous-looking old geezer
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with water gray eyes and a white Van Dyke beard.
I never found out his name or where Hawk had
gotten him from. He certainly wasn't the hotel doc-
tor. That would have involved too many unneces-
sary and embarrassing questions.
When he left my bedside, Lauren took his place.
She'd been hovering over me ever since I'd re-
turned to my room by way of the hotel's service
entrance. Since I might want to stay at the Plaza
Athénée again some time, I figured it was the
least I could do.
"Comfortable?" Lauren asked. She put a cool
hand on my cheek and then leaned down to kiss
me. Suddenly, I was feeling a whole lot better.
"I'm fine," I said, pulling her down next to me.
She let out a gasp of protest, but quickly settled
into my arms, her long, supple body molding itself
to mine.
I was just about to start laying the groundwork
for my own best prescription when someone
knocked at the door. Not exactly what you'd call
perfect timing.
"It's probably Hawk," I told her, "and don't
forget to button up that blouse before you answer
it."
"Cochon, " she cursed me, grinning.
As she crossed the room, I picked up my Luger
from the bedside table. I was fairly sure it was
Hawk who'd arranged to pay off the doctor and
who was now probably stopping by to see how I
was doing. But then the way things had been going,
I didn't want to take any chances.
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"I hope I didn't interrupt anything," Hawk's
gruff voice greeted me from the open door. "But
it's imperative that we talk."
"No, come on in," I told him.
Lauren's face had turned a bright red when
Hawk had said "interrupt," but she greeted him
cordially and even went so far as to pull a chair up
to the bed for him. They'd met earlier over my bat-
tered body and I think she wasn't quite sure what
to make of him yet.
"I have some things to attend to," she an-
nounced diplomatically. "I'll come and look in on
you later, Nick." She strode into the adjoining
room and closed the door firmly behind her.
"Intelligent girl," Hawk commented. "Now tell
me, do you feel up to handling the rest of this mis-
"Yes," I answered truthfully. "I may not be able
to move as fast as I usUally do, but other than that
I should be fine."
' 'Good," he said curtly, "because I think we
both know it would be impossible to replace you at
this point in the game. I don't know what I'd have
done if you'd died in that explosion."
If I hadn't known Hawk as long as I did, I might
have thought that last part was a bit cold. But
Hawk isn't cold so much as logical. We had a job
to do and there was a lot more at stake than one
man's life.
"Now tell me what happened," Hawk contin-
ued, "and don't leave out any details."
My report took almost two hours, covering
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•everything from Boissier's phone call right up to
the moment I collapsed on the hotel bed. Probably
out of deference to my health, he only smoked one
of his famous ' 'El Defecto" cigars. When I finished
the recital he looked none too happy.
"What do you think?" he asked abruptly.
I shook my head. "It still doesn't make any sense
to me. I really don't see what any terrorist group
would hope to accomplish by murdering five dif-
ferent diplomats from five different countries. I re-
alize that they're important men, but they're not
heads of state. None of their deaths are going to
throw their countries into a revolutionary turmoil.
There just doesn't seem to be any point to it, sir.
And that," I added, "is what's been bothering me
ever since I started this assignment."
Hawk nodded agreement. "That's true enough,
but many of these radical groups assassinate peo-
ple just for the publicity value, the media exposure
they're so sure of getting in this age of instant com-
munications. "
"Then why hasn•t anyone claimed the credit?" I
countered.
Hawk was saved from answering by the phone.
He picked it up on the first ring, grunted hello, and
listened intently to what my caller had to say.
"You'd better get dressed," he said, hanging up
the receiver. "Gail Huntington is on her way out of
Paris, and according to her tail, she's heavily
armed. "
131
Chapter Sixteen
"Come in, N3, come in."
Through the crackle and static I recognized Jake
Talbert's voice. He was the field agent who'd taken
over the Huntington surveillance job after Steve
Woodriss had died.
I scooped up the receiver with my free hand and
said, "This is N3. Go ahead; I read you."
"Subject is now parked outside a cottage on the
Place Napoleon Bonaparte, two blocks south of
the Hotel de L'Aigle Noir. Instructions?"
"Sit tight,"
I told him. "l know your location
and should be there in about fifteen minutes. Over
and out."
I returned all my attention back to the road. I
was on the main highway heading south toward
Lyon, the Ferrari humming along at a steady
eighty miles per hour. Rolling hills, farmland, and
industrial complexes merged into one long shadow
outlined by the last rays of the setting sun. Traffic
was sparse and because of the Ferrari's speed capa-
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bilities, I was less than a quarter of an hour behind
Jake and the girl.
He'd radioed me once before when Gail's silver
Mercedes sedan turned off at the exit for Fon-
tainebleau. It's one of the prettiest towns in France
with its chåteau, gardens, and fifty thousand acres
of forest that were once the private hunting pre-
serve of the country's monarchs. I knew the hotel
Jake had mentioned. I'd eaten an excellent
saucisson de homard there about three years ago.
The only unanswered question was what was
Gail doing in Fontainebleau that required a .357
and a Dragunov automatic rifle. Jake had seen her
put both weapons in the car before she left Paris.
Not in the trunk, but on the front seat where they
were in easy reach.
Of course, the obvious solution was that Gail
Huntington and our lady assassin were one and the
same. But that still didn't quite hang together right.
The embassy killing had been done by someone
with exceptional tradecraft. If it were indeed Gail,
then why hadn't she bothered to conceal the gun
and rifle? It was an elementary precaution, some-
thing you'd expect even the rawest recruit to do.
I shifted uncomfortably in the low-slung leather
seat, trying to find a position that minimized the
pain. It was a hopeless task and I gave it up when
I saw the Fontainebleau exit just ahead on my
right.
I nosed the 512 down the off ramp and passed
through the quiet town at a respectable thirty-five
mph. The Hotel de L'Aigle Noir was directly
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across from the chåteau. I cut the engine after I
passed it and glided another hundred feet until the
car was in the deep shadow of a plane tree.
Further down the block, I saw Talbert's Renault
and beyond that, pulled up in front of a thatched-
roof cottage, Gail's silver Mercedes.
Night had fallen and a strong breeze rustled the
leaves of the plane tree. Overhead, a full moon was
obscured by clouds. Staying deep in the shadows, I
worked my way over to Talbert's car.
Jake nodded a silent hello as I slipped in beside
him. "We've got company, Nick, further up the
road on the other side."
My eyes turned in the direction he was pointing
and I saw the dim outline of a compact car, a
Datsun or Toyota probably. It was too dark for me
to be sure.
"There're two men in it," Talbert continued. "I
sneaked up for a closer look about ten minutes
ago. They're just sitting there pretending to be in-
visible. Which isn't easy," he added with a soft
chuckle, "because one of them keeps lighting a
cigarette about every five minutes."
As if on cue, I saw a pinpoint of light flare up. A
half-second later the compact was dark again.
"At least we're not dealing with pros," I ob-
served. "Any other activity?"
"Nada. I got a feeling the party isn't complete
yet. Otherwise, what's everyone still sitting around
in cars for?"
I'd come to that same conclusion myself. There
was an air of expectancy about this setup, in fact
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about the whole damn assignment, that was start-
ing to get on my nerves. I wanted to do something
for a-change. In every encounter so far, I'd been
reacting rather than acting. It seemed as though the
enemy was always one step ahead of me. And, like
the taunting hands in my dream, just out of reach.
"I'm going to scout around," I said casually.
Talbert shot me a quizzical glance and then
turned his eyes back to the Mercedes. He was a big,
broad-shouldered guy with the battered face of an
ex-boxer. He looked like the kind of man you'd
expect to find working as a bouncer in a second-
rate Paris nightclub. That's why he made such a
good field operative. Few people ever realized that
there was a hundred-forty IQ behind that rough-
and-tumble exterior.
I got out of the car and stretched. My muscles
were stiff and sore; although the pain had eased up
a bit, I knew I wouldn't be functioning anywhere
near top form tonight.
I scrambled down into a shallow drainage ditch
and began to work my way toward the compact.
I'd only gone a few feet when I heard a car door
slam. Like a reflex action, Wilhelmina filled my
hand.
I turned toward the source of the noise and saw
Gail heading for the cottage. The moon had come
out from behind the clouds, its light accenting her
soft, shining hair and the straight hard line of the
Dragunov nestled in the crook of her arm.
Talbert crawled down the embankment and
landed beside me. "She's going inside," he whis-
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pered. In the darkness I could see the outline of a
Colt Cobra .38. Like myself, Jake had decided it
was time to get his gun out.
I whispered back. "I'm going to
"I saw her,"
move in as close as I can to the cottage. I want you
to do the same for our two friends in the car. Just
keep an eye on them for now. If they start any-
thing," I paused and grinned at him, "use your
own good judgment."
Jake nodded silent understanding. Staying in a
low crouch, I moved along the ditch until I was
opposite the cottage. I crawled back up the em-
bankment and parted the high grass for a better
view. There was a light in the cottage window now,
a warm steady glow behind the net curtains.
I glanced over at the other side of the road. I
thought I saw Jake weaving in and out of the shad-
ow pools, but I really couldn't be sure. For such a
big man, he moved with surprising grace and
speed.
I was about thirty feet from the cottage now,
about as close as I was going to get without the risk
of being spotted. There was no cover any closer in,
just a freshly mown lawn sloping down to the em-
bankment and a graveled driveway that ran from
the street to the cottage.
I settled into the tall grass and weeds and waited
for something to happen. Waiting is an integral
part of my trade, but I can't say I enjoy it. My main
objection is that it gives you too much time to
think, too much time to remember. If you're trying
to figure something out, you start second-guessing
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yourself. And if you start thinking about the past,
there always seems to be more bad to remember
than good.
Thc luminous hands of my watch were posi-
tioned at exactly eight o'clock when I heard the
sound of a car turning into lhe street. Only ten
minutes had passed since Gail had entered the cot-
tage.
The quiet purr of the engine grew louder and I
turned just in time to see a sleek black Daimler
swing into the driveway. Spraying gravel in its
wake, it came to a stop behind the Mercedes. The
running lights went out, but not before I caught a
glimpse of the license tag on the rear bumper. It
wasn't an ordinary plate, but a specially lettered
one issued only to members of the diplomatic com-
munity.
I'd been wrong. It wasn't the first time, not that
that made me feel any better. All too clearly I re-
membered telling Hawk last night that Gail Hunt-
ington just didn't fit in with my profile of the as-
sassain. Now I had the girl, the gun, and what was
probably a diplomat right under my nose. Unless
there was some other explanation, my evaluation
of Gail had been way off the mark.
The driver's side door of the Daimler opened
and a tall figure stepped out onto the gravel. His
back was to me so that all I really saw was a
charcoal gray overcoat with the collar turned up
and a black Homburg hat. His gloved right hand
was wrapped around the handle of an attaché
case. He closed the car door, extinguishing the in-
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terior light, and walked slowly up to the cottage.
"Entrez. " It was Gail's voice that issued the one-
word invitation. The door opened just wide enough
to admit him and the Daimler man slipped inside.
I would have liked to have given them some time
alone, just a minute or two to see what would hap-
pen, but I couldn't risk the possibility of another
dead diplomat.
Even before the door started to close, I was on
my feet and running. Each step Sent a shock wave
through my battered body. It was almost shut
when I hit the sturdy oak planks. The door gave
way under the impact of my shoulder and I hurled
my way into the room in a low crouch.
A gunshot chipped away at the whitewashed
wall just above my head. I brought the Luger
around in an arc and squeezed the trigger.
Gail Huntington screamed as the bullet tore into
her shoulder. The two hands clutching the
Magnum began to convulse and then the long-bar-
reled gun fell to the floor with a clatter.
I swung Wilhelmina toward the other side of the
room where the Daimler man was bringing a
Walther PPK into the action.
"Drop it," I ordered, "I'm here to save your ass,
not waste it."
His hazel eyes mirrored confusion and I hastily
repeated the command in French. He leaned over
and put the automatic down on the flagstone floor.
His other hand kept a tight grip on the brown
leather attaché, holding it close to his side as if he
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were afraid I was going to make a grab for it.
With my Luger still aimed at his chest, I •col-
lected the two handguns and slipped them through
my belt. I had to look for the Dragunov, but I
quickly found the rifle propped up against the
mantle where a broad band of shadow had kept it
hidden but close at hand.
Gail was moaning softly now, her head bowed
low so that her long chestnut hair spilled over her
face like a mask. Her arms were wrapped around
her knees in that same "little-girl-lost" position I'd
left her in the day we made love. Blood flowed free-
ly from the wound in her shoulder. For no reason
that I could think of, I was glad I hadn't killed her.
A burst of machine-gun fire shattered the si-
lence. I gave the Daimler man a meaningful glance.
From the look on his face I knew he'd gotten my
message: Don't try anything if you want to live.
I yanked open the cottage door and dove for
cover. The machine gun stitched a ragged line
across the mantle, shattering the mirror above into
a shower of flying glass. I poked my head around
the door frame and drew another furious blast.
One thing was certain, I wasn't going to get in a
shot from my present position.
Luckily, in my scramble for cover I'd landed on
the window side of the cottage. It wasn't much of a
spot for returning fire either, but it worked in well
with the plan that had been forming in my mind.
I moved toward the window, pausing just long
enough to pull the plug on the lamp that would
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have silhouetted me like a sitting duck. So much
for the easy part. The rest of it depended on timing
and luck.
I smashed a windowpane and squeezed off a sin-
gle round. The answer was immediate, a barrage of
heavy fire that left a huge jagged hole where my
hand had just been. As bullets continued to pock
the opposite wall, I raced back to the door and
took aim.
The first shot hit Rodrigo in the face, shattering
his cheek into a bloody eruption of flesh and bone.
His mouth made an O of surprise as he fell forward,
collapsing on top of the Stoner Light machine gun.
A final spasm rippled his body before it settled into
an awkward sprawl.
I couldn't be sure, but I think he'd seen me out
of the corner of his eye during that frantic split sec-
ond he'd tried to swing the Stoner back to the
door. I'll never know for certain, but I hoped he
had. That's how much I hated the man.
If Rodrigo had been one of the pair in the com-
pact, then I had a feeling that Hector was his miss-
ing partner. Probably the smoker, I thought, re-
membering his heavy cigarette consumption the
night I first saw him at the Agency Castel. But
where was he, and, more importantly, where was
Jake Talbert?
I glanced back at Gail and the Daimler man. She
hadn't moved, but the shallow sound of her breath-
ing told me she was still alive. The Daimler man
was huddled in the corner, his dark gray topcoat
streaked with dust. He'd lost his Homburg during
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the excitement, exposing a dome as pink and
hairless as a baby's bottom. His wary brown eyes
looked up at me and then quickly back to the floor.
Neither one of them was going anywhere. Gail
couldn't run and Daimler looked too frightened to
try it. I decided it was safe enough to leave them on
their own for a minute or so.
I picked up the Russian-made sniper's rifle and
stepped out into the cool night air. Now that the
shooting had stopped the street seemed quiet,
almost too quiet. There were no other dwellings
nearby and the Hotel de L'Aigle Noir was far
enough down the road so that the sound of the
gunfire would have been fairly dimmed by the time
it reached there. No one had called the flics, I rea-
soned. Otherwise they would have been here by
now.
I worked my way toward the road, my eyes con-
stantly scanning the moonlit landscape. I heard a
rustling in a clump of bushes to my right and
swung the Dragunov into firing position.
"Nick, don't shoot!"
Jake Talbert's voice was a welcome sound to my
ears. I dipped the rifle toward the ground as he
came staggering out of the bushes. His suit was
torn in three places, the left sleeve dangling by a
couple of threads. That, combined with his bruised
and battered face, made him look the sole survivor
of a train wreck.
"You okay?" I asked, hurrying up to meet him.
"I'm fine," he said, waving me back. "It just
looks a lot worse than it really is. You should see
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the other guy." With a nod of his head he indicated
the cluster of laurel bushes he had just emerged
from.
At first I didn't see him. Then my eyes zeroed in
on two feet projecting out of the shrubbery. Fol-
lowing the scuffed wingtips, I pushed aside the
bushes and saw Hector stretched out on the
ground, just as dead as his pal Rodrigo. The cause
of death wasn't hard to guess. Jake's powerful
hands had made a strong, lasting impression on the
mestizo's bull neck.
"I was starting to worry about you," I said,
hunkering down next to Jake. He was sitting on the
grass now, using his tie to wipe the worst of the dirt
from his face.
' 'So was I," he admitted, grinning. "l don't think
I've ever taken on a tougher son of a bitch in hand-
to-hand combat. It was real close there for a while,
Nick."
"What exactly happened?"
"Well," Jake said with a sigh, "when the shoot-
ing started inside the cottage the two guys in the
compact headed that way on the run. Both of them
were armed with Stoners and I knew I couldn't
take more than one on at a time without getting my
butt blown off. " He nodded toward the Colt Cobra
lying beside him in the grass. The .38 wasn't exactly
an even match for two lightweight machine guns.
"So I jumped the guy bringing up the rear. They
were far enough apart so that the other one didn't
hear him go down. I got the Stoner away from him
and then we went to it." Talbert paused and shook
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his head in disbelief. "He didn't have much formal
training but he sure put up one hell of a fight. By
the time I finished him off, the shooting was over
and you were out here looking for me. I guess I
didn't do much of a job as a backup," he added
dismally.
"You were great," I assured him. It was only a
small lie and it would go a long way toward restor-
ing his self-confidence. "I've got some unfinished
business inside," I said, standing. "I don't think
the gendarmes are going to be paying us a visit, but
if you could tidy up the landscape a bit, we could
both breathe a little easier. "
"I'll get right on it," Jake said, pulling himself to
his feet. I knew I could count on him to take care
of the bodies and the car, and it would help take his
mind off the way he'd handled the mestizos.
Walking back to the cottage, I couldn't help feel-
ing a certain letdown myself. I hadn't exactly called
all the shots right on this one. And even though I'd
caught my lady assassin, it didn't give me much
satisfaction. No matter how many different ways I
fitted the pieces together, it still didn't make any
sense. But then terrorism itself was senseless. I
guess I'd just have to live with the fact that my in-
stincts had been wrong for once.
I said softly. I had
"The good samaritan,"
crossed the threshold to find the Daimler man lean-
ing over Gail. He jumped at the sound of my voice
and spun around.
"I was only trying to help," he said in heavily
accented English. Maybe he was, but I hadn't seen
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eyes that guilty in a long time. "Stand up," I said curtly. To hasten the process I prodded his spine with the barrel of the Dragunov. He yelped and leaped into the center of the room like a child's spring-up toy. But even my little poke hadn't served to loosen his hold on the attachf. He clutched it to his chest as if it were the last life preserver on the Titanic. "Put down the case," I demanded. He shook his head uncertainly. "Diplomatic im-munity," he explained in a choked whisper. "You cannot force me to do anything against my will. I'm completely protected by diplomatic immuni-"Is that so," I said lightly. "Funny thing is, I don't see anyone else around here except you, me, and the girl. Now unless you want me to blow you apart from that case," I growled, "you'd better put it down on that table now." His eyes registered total fear. He started to say something and then changed his mind. With trem-bling hands he put the attaché down on the table. "Open it," I snapped. It took a while because his fingers were shaking too much to unlatch the twin gold clasps on the first couple of tries. Finally, he accomplished the task and raised the lid. Considering the contents, it had been worth the wait. The attaché was packed solid with money. Thick, paper-banded bundles of United States cur-rency. All of the notes on top were crisp new hun-
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dreds. Gauging the size of the case, there could be
almost half a million there if the other bills were of
the same denomination.
"Don't tell me," I said, smiling. "They're giving
a waffle iron away with every new account at the
local bank and you just couldn't pass up a bargain.
Right?"
He looked more confused now than anything.
"Waffle iron," he repeated slowly. His Middle-Eu-
ropean accent was heavier than before.
"Never mind," I snarled with irritation. "Just
tell me what you're doing with all that cash."
"A business transaction," he replied in a falter-
ing voice. ' 'Nothing that concerns you, monsieur.
Merely a simple business deal I have undertaken
on behalf of my government."
"And what kind of business does your govern-
ment have with her?" With a curt nod I indicated
the wounded girl propped up against the wall. This
whole incident wasn't turning out anything like I
thought it would. For openers, it was beginning to
look less and lesser still like a setup for an as-
sassination.
"I'd rather not go into that," he answered with a
thin smile. "Obviously, it can't be concluded to-
night, so if you don't mind I'll be on my way now."
Confidence had returned to his voice and his hands
barely trembled as he snapped the attaché shut
and picked it up from the table. But if he thought
1 was going to let him just walk away without an
explanation, then he was clearly overdue for a trip
to Fantasy Island.
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dreds. Gauging the size of the case, there could be almost half a million there if the other bills were of the same denomination. "Don't tell me," I said, smiling. "They're giving a waffle iron away with every new account at the local bank and you just couldn't pass up a bargain. Right?" He looked more confused now than anything. "Waffle iron," he repeated slowly. His Middle-Eu-ropean accent was heavier than before. "Never mind," I snarled with irritation. "Just tell me what you're doing with all that cash." "A business transaction," he replied in a falter-ing voice. "Nothing that concerns you, monsieur. Merely a simple business deal I have undertaken on behalf of my government." "And what kind of business does your govern-ment have with her?" With a curt nod I indicated the wounded girl propped up against the wall. This whole incident wasn't turning out anything like I thought it would. For openers, it was beginning to look less and lesser still like a setup for an as-sassination. "I'd rather not go into that," he answered with a thin smile. "Obviously, it can't be concluded to-night, so if you don't mind I'll be on my way now." Confidence had returned to his voice and his hands barely trembled as he snapped the attacIM shut and picked it up from the table. But if he thought I was going to let him just walk away without an explanation, then he was clearly overdue for a trip to Fantasy Island.
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"You're blocking the door, monsieur." For a diplomat this guy really had an eye for detail. I leaned the rifle against the wall and grabbed a double-handful of the Daimler man's coat. Suddenly I was feeling very undiplomatic. "Talk to me," I growled, slamming him against the wall. "And if you say 'diplomatic immunity' or 'business transaction' just once, I'm going to knock your teeth down your throat." His head bobbed up and down in frantic agree-ment. It was nice to know we'd finally found a way to communicate. His shoulders began to sag and I gave him a gentle shove, just enough to keep him standing. We both looked down in response to the thump-ing noise. The blue plastic bag had landed at my feet. I looked up and saw the corner of its mate protrud-ing from Daimler's overcoat pocket. It seemed I had shaken something more than words out of him. With one hand I kept him pinned to the wall while I used the other to extract the second bag. It wasn't light; close to a pound, I guessed, hefting it in my outstretched palm. I scooped the other one up from the floor and carried them to the table. The Daimler man didn't look as though he had the energy left to make a run for it, but I unholstered my Luger as an additional discouragement. He shuddered when I tore back the heavily taped seal. A fine, white powder spilled out onto the
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table. I was pretty certain what it was, but I wanted to be sure. I moistened the tip of my finger and picked up a minute quantity. The taste was unmistakable. Heroin, smack, horse, or snow. Whatever you called it the end re-sult was the same dark, twisted agony of addiction. I'd seen too many wasted and strung-out kids to feel anything but anger. There was frustration, too, because no matter how hard the drug enforcement people cracked down, it just seemed to keep hitting the streets in even greater amounts. Well, this was one shipment that wasn't going to make it to the market place. The cottage was modern enough to have indoor plumbing. With Wilhelmina in one hand and the smack tucked under my arm, I herded Daimler into the tiny bathroom. "Lift up the seat," I snarled. "No," he screamed, "you can't . . ." I cut off his babbling by raking his spine with Wilhelmina's barrel. "Now do it," I commanded him. With trembling hands he lifted the toilet seat. "We can make a deal," he said urgently, "if only monsieur would listen to reason." His whining was starting to get on my nerves. I held the open bag over the bowl and watched it empty into the rust-colored water. I tore open the second bag and repeated the process. I glanced at Daimler and saw tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. A real sentimental bastard was my diplomatic friend.
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"Bon voyage," I said softly. I yanked the chain on the overhead tank and smiled as nearly half a million in heroin was sucked into the French sewer system. "Let's go," I prodded Daimler. "There's one more thing we've got to take care of." I think he sensed what I was going to do next. In spite of the Luger, he began to claw at my sleeve. I whirled around and clipped him on the jaw. The • blow sent him staggering into the middle of the room where his legs folded under him. He hit the floor with a thud, a thin trickle of blood snaking down from his gaping mouth. "I know it isn't the right season for it," I said cheerfully, "but a good fire always makes things so much cozier." I picked up the attaché case and carried it over to the empty grate. I thumbed back the clasps and the thick bundles of bills came tumbling out. Look-ing back at Daimler I saw that his face was a frozen mask of horror. "It's not mine," he screamed with sudden anima-tion. "They'll kill me if I lose that money." 1 smiled and scraped a match across the brickwork. "Too bad," I said softly. "You should have thought about that before you got yourself involved in this little stint. I know you didn't waste any time thinking about all the lives it would ruin." I dropped the match into the grate. "You'd better get going," I said, tossing him the empty briefcase. "Because you have to run now and you're never going to be able to stop. We both
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