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know they'll find you eventually. It's only a matter
of time."
I don't know how much of it he heard. His eyes
were locked into a hypnotic stare, the object of
which was the pile of burning money.
I turned back and glanced at it myself. The bills
crinkled and blackened in the dancing flames. In
another minute or so there would be nothing left
but a small pile of smoldering ash.
"Move it," I bellowed.
That shook him out of his trance. He pulled him-
self up from the floor and shuffled over to the
door. With his hand on the knob, he turned and
said in a pleading voice, "Can I have my gun back,
I'd almost forgotten about the Walther I'd taken
away from him. I knew he didn't have the nerve to
try and use it on me. Maybe he wasn't going to run,
but take the quick way out instead. I slid the little
PPK out of my belt and tossed it over to him.
Whatever he wanted it for, it wasn't my concern
anymore.
I had other things in mind. Since this obviously
was a dope deal and not an assassination attempt,
I still had my embassy killer to track down.
I watched the Daimler man slip out the door and
heard the sound of his car driving off a minute lat-
er. At least I'd learned one thing tonight—it always
pays to trust your instincts. Despite all the evidence
to the contrary, I'd always felt Gail wasn't the as-
sassin I was looking for. Now I knew the reason
why.
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"You really whipped him through the hoops,"
Gail whispered as I crouched down beside her. The
wound in her shoulder had stopped bleeding, but
her eyes had a faraway, glassy look to them. She
wasn't dying. She was just doped up halfway to
dreamland.
"Where are your track marks?" I asked curtly.
She looked up at me and sighed. "Under the sil-
ver armband I always wear. That's why I didn't
take it off when we made love yesterday. I didn't
want you to see them, Nick."
'V You can't hide them all the time," I said quiet-
ly. "What do you do when you're on a modeling
"Cover them up with make-up," she answered
softly. Her hand reached out and her long, tapered
fingers wrapped themselves around my wrist.
didn't mean to shoot at you, Nick. I didn't even
know it was you until after I'd fired, It's lucky my
aim isn't too good anymore."
"How the hell did you get into this mess?" I de-
manded gruffly.
' 'Through Rodrigo. He got me hooked on am-
phetamines first. I'm not saying I wasn't willing; I
needed them at the time to keep my weight down.
He'd just give me another handful whenever I
started to crash. Then he got me 'chipping' smack
and it wasn't long before I needed to shoot up
twice a day or I'd be climbing the walls. That's
when I found out he wasn't giving it away."
"What did you have to do in return?" I asked
gently.
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She looked up at me and tried to smile. "Sleep
with some diplomats Rodrigo wanted to get a han-
dle on. He had a camera rigged in my bedroom.
When some of the older married men got a look at
the pictures they were more than willing to do any-
thing he asked. Of course, as diplomats they didn't
have to open their bags for customs inspection and
he used them to smuggle heroin and money too."
"What about the guy who was here tonight?"
Gail let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Kimmler,"
she said contemptuously. "Nobody had to black-
mail him into it. He came to Rodrigo looking to get
in on the action."
I was relieved to hear it. The man I'd called
"Daimler" hadn't acted like an innocent victim of
blackmail and I was glad I hadn't treated him like
one.
"Later," Gail continued in a weary voice,
"Rodrigo told me I would have to front for the
operation, too. Handle all the pickups and de-
liveries on my own while he and his right-hand
man, Hector, watched from a safe distance in case
there was trouble. He even had my guns shipped
over here so I could carry them on the job. I hadn't
touched them since my father died," she added in a
whisper.
I reached down and picked her up, moving my
arm so that her head rested comfortably on my
shoulder.
"You going to carry me off on your snow-white
charger?" she asked me softly. "Nick the knight
errant, slayer of Hispanic dragons, rescuer of
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doper damsels in distress."
"I'm taking you to the American Hospital in
"I have a doctor friend
Neuilly," I informed her.
there who can help you kick the habit and go
straight, so you can start living your life like a hu-
man being again. It won't be easy and it'll take a
long time. But you're not so far gone that you
couldn't do it if you wanted to."
"I do want to," she whispered. "I wanted to tell
you about it yesterday afternoon. Don't ask me
why; I guess you just looked like someone I could
trust. That's why I called you back as you were
leaving. Then when I saw you again, I just couldn't
get the words out."
"I understand," I said gently.
I carried her along the deserted road, the breeze
blowing her soft, fragrant hair in my face. When
we reached the Ferrari I tucked her in the passen-
ger seat and drove back to the cottage to collect all
the hardware.
All the things that had puzzled me about Gail
fell into place—the radical mood-swings, the guns,
the tricked-out bedroom. Even the overflowing
ashtrays were clear to me now: the compulsive
smoking of an addict sweating it out until her next
fix. If she had the kind of guts I thought she did,
there never would be a "next" fix.
I sensed she was telling the truth about how
Rodrigo had victimized her. If the flics found out
about her part in the operation, I would use what
influence I could to keep her out of prison.
It was nearly nine before I dropped Gail off in
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the hospital parking lot. I would have liked to have
taken her in myself, but I couldn't exactly hang
around to explain the gun wound to the cops.
Instead, I phoned my doctor friend and watched
from the shadows on the opposite side of
Boulevard Victor Hugo as a pair of attendants car-
ried her in on a stretcher. She was in safe hands
now.
This morning I'd watched a terrorist group die in
an explosion and this evening I'd busted a dope
ring.
Now alt I had left to do was find an assassin and
enough missing weapons to start a war.
153
Chapter Seventeen
Like a replay of the previous night, there was once
again a message waiting for me at the concierge's
desk.
At least there was nothing mysterious about this
one. It was written in the neat, sloping handwriting
I knew almost as well as my own. "If you should
return before eleven, " it read, "then meet me at the
Café Renard Rouge." There was no signature,
just a bold letter "H." That was the way my boss,
David Hawk, always signed notes and memos.
I had plenty of time so I decided to stop off at
my room first. Earlier that evening I'd noticed that
the stitching on my shoulder holster was beginning
to come loose. It was a minor thing really, but
sometimes your survival can depend on something
as insignificant as a couple of worn-out threads. I
didn't have another shoulder rig in my luggage , but
I did have an ankle holster I occasionally used
when I wanted to carry a second handgun. It would
have to do until I got the other one repaired.
When I entered my room, I knew almost imme-
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idiately that Lauren was gone. There was a stillness
labout the place, an emptiness that made it sudden-
'ly seem like just another lonely hotel room.
It was turning out to be my night for notes. I
:found Lauren's pinned to the pillow: "Dearest
iNick," it began, "l have returned to my apartment.
i When you have finished whatever it is you came to
Paris to do, you'll find me waiting there for you.
'Take care of yourself and don't keep me waiting
'too long. Love, Lauren."
I was partly relieved and partly disappointed
•that she had finally taken my advice. I folded the
i sheet of cream-colored hotel stationery and tucked
it into my jacket pocket. At least I knew where she
Nd'as and that she'd have round-the-clock protec-
stion until this terrorist thing was finally resolved.
I slipped out of my jacket and unbuckled my
:snoulder holster. From the look of the seam where
the two straps crossed over, it was bound to give
,way after a couple more wearings. I found the
ankle job at the bottom of my suitcase and
strapped it around my right leg. I had to readjust
the velcro fittings a couple of times before it felt
comfortable. After reloading Wilhelmina, I tucked
her away in her new home. I wasn't entirely satis-
fied, but it would just have to do for the time being.
I'd already parked the car in the garage for the
night, so I decided to walk the short distance to
Boissier's café. Considering what I'd been
through that day, I felt surprisingly fit. I knew a lot
of it was due to the adrenalin I had worked up dur-
ing all the action at the cottage. For the moment it
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was overriding all my "invalid" pains, but as soon
as it stopped flowing, the aching and throbbing
would start up again.
Paris always has been one of my favorite cities
for walking. Tonight I just strolled along like a
tourist taking in all the sights. The sidewalk cafés
were crowded with couples of all ages, heads close
together under brightly colored umbrellas while
overhead neon signs spelled out their messages in
glowing, vibrant shades. I passed old crones hawk-
ing the Loterie Nationale, their voices a shrill coun-
terpoint to the sounds from the cafés. Every few
blocks the shadowed doorways housed a prosti-
tutee Young or old, they beckoned me with the
same wary eyes and the kind of smile that hadn't
changed since the Stone Age.
I crossed to the Left Bank via the Pont des In-
valides, one of the thirty-two bridges that span the
Seine as it flows through Paris. Another ten
minutes of walking brought me to the doorstep of
the Café Renard Rouge.
As usual, Boissier was packing them in. The mix
of people here was a little bit different, though,
from the standard Parisian café. There were stu-
dents, of course, and artists who wore their paint
and clay-stained jeans like some kind of badge of
office. But right along with them there was a siz-
able percentage of petty criminals. They were dif-
ficult to spot—the rumpled but flashy clothes, the
low-voiced conversation, the way their eyes flicked
over the room every few seconds as if they were
anxiously waiting for an overdue friend.
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A thick blue haze of cigarette smoke hung over
the tables like a cloud. In the far corner a gaudy-
looking juke box blared out the latest French ver-
Sion of an old American rock tune. Boissier wasn't
behind the bar. The man who was, turned away
from the espresso machine just long enough to
point me in the right direction.
I found my boss and the burly Frenchman in a
booth at the back, a nearly empty carafe of
calvados centered on the table between them.
"Nick," Boissier's booming voice greeted me.
"Now our evening is complete. Sit down and let me
have a look at you. David here says you've col-
lected a few cuts and scrapes since I saw you this
morning."
I slipped in next to Hawk and grinned at Boissier
as he slowly assessed the damage with his blood-
shot eyes. "You'll live," he pronounced finally,
"but not without a shot of calvados. Jean," he
bellowed, "another glass and a fresh carafe, too.
We have some serious drinking to do here."
A harried waiter appeared with both items in
something like thirty seconds. I'd always known
there were advantages to owning your own bar.
"How was your trip?" Hawk asked me quietly.
"Interesting," I replied after a moment's hesita-
tion. "Not exactly what I'd expected, but interest-
ing just the same."
He nodded silent understanding and turned back
to our host. That was all either one of us could say
in front of a third party. Even though Boissier was
one of my boss's oldest friends, it would be a fla-
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grant violation of AXE regulations to talk about
an assignment in his presence. Hawk's question
had merely been a way of checking to see if I had
anything I urgently needed to tell him.
As for Boissier knowing about my "accident,"
that was only logical. First, it was Boissier's tip
that had sent me to Vitry and second, the news of
the explosion had been in all the evening papers. It
was only natural that he ask Hawk if I'd been in-
jured. And since the state of my health was hardly
top secret, Hawk had answered him truthfully.
"Drink up," Boissier prompted, "I've got anoth-
er eight barrels of this stuff in the cellar. You're
lucky you didn't get here any earlier, Nick," he
said, turning to me with a wolfish grin. "You
would have had to sit around and look respectfully
bored while two old windbags told lies to each oth-
er about how they ran the Germans out of France
single-handed. Isn't that right, David, mon ami. "
"Yes, André." There was a certain wistfulness
in the simple answer that I had never heard in
Hawk's voice before. It went along with the way
they said each other's names, first names, a rarity
with Hawk; and the surprisingly calm expression
on Hawk's normally aggressive features.
I knew exactly what it was. The look of an old
man remembering his youth.
"It was simpler back then," Hawk said re-
flectively. "Everything seemed so clear-cut, so
black-and-white. You knew who your enemies and
allies were and you knew the job that had to be
done. It isn't that way anymore," he said, pausing
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( to blow a spiral of smoke toward the ceiling. ' 'It's
more gray than anything else and alliances change
faster than the weather. Sometimes I really miss
those years," Hawk added quietly.
"So do I," Boissier said chuckling, "but I think
we both have very selective memories. The good
i times we recall, but not the bad."
After that the conversation took a less phil-
osophical turn and I listened as the two of them
swapped stories about some of the crazier things
I that had happened to them during the war. There's
one about Hawk, three French girls, and a tank
that he'd already made me swear an oath not to
repeat
We left the café around eleven and headed back
to the hotel at a leisurely pace.
"At least that's one suspect eliminated," Hawk
said after I'd given him a report of the evening's
events. "It's also my opinion that the group wiped
out by this morning's explosion was the one re-
sponsible for the assassinations and the weapons
smuggling. Their race and politics certainly fit the
pattern and if there were another group like that
operating in Paris, I'm sure Boissier would know
I about it."
"I'm sure you're right," I agreed. "But we still
1 need to find the girl and the missing weapons. Do
you think there's less of a threat now as far as the
Arab oil conference is concerned?"
"IÆSS," Hawk replied curtly, "but one we certain-
ly can't ignore. We still have to wrap this affair up
with all due speed." He paused at the railing of the
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bridge and tossed his cigar stub into the dark
"I found out something interesting
murky water.
tonight," he said casually. "That Ann-Marie
Michaels is the granddaughter of a woman who
used to work with Boissier and me in the Re-
sistance. A very pretty girl as I remember, code
name Crescent. "
"Maybe you'll get a chance to look her up before
you leave Paris," I suggested.
"No," Hawk said quietly. "The Gestapo caught
her back in '43."
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Chapter
110%
Eighteen
When the phone woke me the following morning, I
immediately noticed two things. One, the empty
place where Lauren had slept on the other side of
the bed, and two, how high and bright the sun was
in the morning sky.
I looked at my watch on the bedside table. A
quarter past eleven. I'd slept a lot later than I'd
intended to and my head felt groggy, as though
someone had wrapped my brain in a thick layer of
cotton wool.
I scooped up the phone on the second ring and
grunted hello.
"Nick," a familiar voice greeted me, "this is Jeff
Bellows. I'm in Christine Dalton's apartment on
Rue le Nötre. You don't have to rush, but there's
something here I think you ought to see."
"Like what?" I demanded. But Bellows, in his
usual laconic manner, had already spoken his
piece. I was talking into a dead line.
I eased myself out of bed, took a quick shower,
and dressed. My head still throbbed and my mouth
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felt dry, as though I'd been drinking all night in-
stead of just for an hour, I decided it was probably
the mixture of Boissier's apple brandy and the in-
juries I'd sustained from the explosion. Still, It
bothered me that my thinking and reflexes weren't
nearly as sharp as they should be.
The midmorning traffic was light and I made
good time driving to the Rue le Nötre. It's a tiny,
block-long street on the Right Bank of the Seine,
just where the river begins to curve southward
again. On the opposite bank I could see the Eiffel
Tower, its gray metal skeleton rising almost a thou-
sand feet above the Champs de Mars.
Christine Dalton lived in one of those small, ul-
tramodern apartment complexes. You see them all
over the world now. Built fast and without too
much care. The kind of place where the walls are so
thin that you can hear your next-door neighbor's
breathing.
I rapped on her door and waited while Bellows
scrutinized me through the peephole. A half-sec-
ond later the bolt slid back and he opened the door
just wide enough to let me slip inside.
' 'Why all the precau!ions?" I ask him gruffly.
' 'You expecting someone besides me?"
"You'll see," he replied. That's what I liked
about Jeff. He never used three words when two
would do.
The place was a modest, L-shaped studio. A
couch, a couple of director's chairs, and a table—
surprisingly spartan for someone who made big
money as a top fashion model.
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But the real surprise was around the corner
where Bellows was leading me. Christine Dalton
herself.
She was stretched out on the narrow bed with
her eyes closed. I'd seen enough of them to quickly
realize that she wasn't ever going to be opening
those ice blue eyes again. Not in this world, any-
way.
On the night table next to her was an empty
barbiturate bottle and a glass. They were standing
in front of a photograph in a heavy silver frame. I
recognized the ruddy, blond good looks of the man
in the picture.
He was one of the terrorists I'd seen blown to
bits yesterday morning in Vitry.
My eyes moved back to the peaceful-looking fig-
ure on the bed. She was dressed in a quilted blue
robe; no make-up, jewelry, or other extras. There
was a slight half-smile on her lips. Of all the people
I'd seen die since I'd come to Paris, she was the
only one who looked as though she might have en-
joyed it.
"Any signs of a struggle?" I asked abruptly.
Bellows sighed and shook his head. "I checked
out the body before I phoned you. Everything
coincides with the obvious conclusion, Nick. Sui-
cide."
"This is all very convenient," I said skeptically.
"Maybe a little too convenient. That picture by the
bed is a photograph of one of the terrorists I saw
die yesterday. It makes for a very pat scenario, a
real soap opera episode. Grief stricken over her
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lover's death, beautiful assassin takes her own life.
I can practically see the headline in the Midnight
Globe. But I still don't buy it," I snapped.
"That's because you haven't seen everything
yet," he answered with a complacent smile. He
took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed the
chewed-up stem toward the floor. "Lift up those
boards in the corner," he suggested.
As I bent down I saw that they were already
loose. Four long pine planks, each one about six
inches wide. I pried up the nearest one and found
myself looking at the launching component of a
Redeye missile.
"Well, well," I said softly. "This does cast things
in a different light."
"I thought you'd say that," Bellows replied
smugly. "Along with the missile, I've so far un-
earthed two dozen M-16s, nightscopes, grenades,
and a lot of very sophisticated communications
equipment. Unless I'm mistaken," he added, 'Call
those items were on a list of smuggled arms that
we've been trying to trace."
"You're right," I informed him, "but there's one
thing you haven't told me. What are you doing
here in the apartment?"
Bellows shrugged and gave me a foolish grin. "I
know I was just supposed to stake the place out,"
he said quickly, "but i started getting worried
when I hadn't seen the girl in over sixteen hours. I
guess I was afraid she'd given me the slip," he ad-
mitted quietly. His pudgy features had taken on the
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expression of a ten-year-old caught with his hand
in the cookie jar.
"So you decided to check it out," I prompted.
"l know it was against orders," he said, turning
away from my stern-eyed gaze. "When I got here I
found the door unlocked, a common trait of sui-
cides, particularly women who want their bodies
discovered before the decaying process sets in. I
saw the body and called you right away. I decided
to do a little poking around while I was waiting for
you to arrive and that's how I uncovered the weap-
ons cache. "
"l don't know whether to reprimand you or
thank you," I said evenly. "Probably the latter,
since this seems to tie up all the loose ends. I ques-
tioned the suicide at first; we all know how easy it
is to fake something like that. But even if people
were able to slip in and out without you seeing
them, there's no way they could have planted all
this hardware here overnight."
Bellows nodded silent agreement. t' What do you
want me to do now, Nick?"
"Sit tight," I told him. "I'd like to have some of
our lab people go over this just to make sure we
haven't missed anything. When they're finished," I
added, smiling, "you can call the police from a pay
phone with an anonymous tip about a dead body."
When I left the apartment, I knew I had a call of
my own to make. I stopped in a little bar tabac and
got a jeton for the phone from the man behind the
counter.
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"You just caught me on my way out," Hawk's
crisp voice stated after We had exchanged hellos.
"I'm glad I did, sir. I've got some news I think
you'll be very happy to hear."
He listened patiently to my report of the
morning's events. When I finished there was a brief
pause. I heard him strike a match and draw a deep
breath. He was lighting up another one of his "El
Defectos." I could almost smell the foul odor over
the phone line.
"I'm satisfied," he said finally. "As you know,
the oil summit starts today. I spoke to their secur-
ity people an hour ago and they've got the place
sealed up as tight as a mummy's tomb. If what they
say is true, it would be impossible to get any kind
of weapon in there without it being detected."
"Is there anything you'd like me to do?" I asked.
"Yes," he said gruffly. "Take a couple of days
off and rest. And don't think I'm going soft," he
added, chuckling, "l just want you fit enough to be
in East Berlin on Thursday."
Before I could ask him why, he hung up the
phone.
166
Chapter Nineteen
My first act of freedom was to stop at a café for
an overdue breakfast of coffee and croissants. Fill-
ing my stomach seemed to help my headache, too;
by the time I'd finished my second café au lait it
had diminished to a dull, but not very painful
I throbbing.
I lit a cigarette, tipped back my chair, and began
debating what I should do with my two days of
leave. Naturally, all my plans included Lauren. It
would be interesting, not to mention pleasant, to
see how we got on without anyone shooting at us
or chasing us. I had a feeling we'd both enjoy the
change.
We could leave town and stay at a country inn.
There was a wonderful one, the Hötel d' Angle-
terre, in Chantilly. I hadn't been there in years, but
I could still remember the taste of the chef's spe-
cialty, turbot in bérnaise sauce. Even closer to
Paris there was Longchamps, the world-famous
racetrack, or we could spenda day on one of those
double-decked tourist boats that cruise up and
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NICK CARTER
down the Seine. Whatever we decided on, I'd make
sure we left ample time for Ijamour.
I tossed a bill down on the marble-topped table
and headed for the car. I still had a few minor
things to take care of back at the hotel. After that,
I'd phone Lauren and we could get my two days of
"R and R" underway with lunch at Maxim's.
As I eased the Ferråri into the traffic flow, I
couldn't help feeling a certain dissatisfaction with
the way this assignment had resolved itself. Of
course, I was glad it was over. No question about
that. I guess what really bothered me was how little
I'd contributed to the successful completion.
All through the case I'd been a step or two be-
hind my quarry. Kind of like a long-distance race
where you never quite manage to catch up with the
lead runner. I located the terrorist group and be-
fore I could question them they all die in an ex-
plosion. While I'm closing in on Gail Huntington
and the drug ring, the real assassin is committing
suicide. And part of the missing weapons cache is
found under her floor, tying all three incidents toe
gether into a neat little package.
Where was I all that time? Getting shot at,
chased, attacked with knives, or blasted through
the air. Not exactly fun, but nothing I hadn't been
through countless times before. The problem was I
should have been able to handle all of that and stil
uncovered the terrorists and Christine Dalton.
Maybe it was just the way these things work ou
sometimes. Coincidences, timing, matters beyon
my control. Or possibly there was a simpler an
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swer. One that I didn't wanuo admit even to my-
self.
I was getting too old for the game.
Why not? It happens to everyone sooner or later.
I wasn't any more timeless or indestructable than
the next man down the line. Perhaps a year from
now I'd be using a desk and telephone instead of
Hugo, Wilhelmina, and Pierre. No more Killmas-
ter status. N3 retired for good.
I parked the car in the garage and went up to my
room. During the short elevator ride, I managed to
quell some of the frustration I was feeling. I even
was able to half convince myself that I was just
having a bad day. Finally I, decided to shelve this
kind of thinking until after I'd finished my leave.
There was no point in spoiling my two days with
Lauren. I could never be sure when I'd see her or
Paris again.
I turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
The three men stood in a half-circle, the muzzles
of their M-16's all pointing at the same target—me.
For a moment we were motionless, silent. They
knew I was considering all my options and discard-
ing them just as quickly. They also knew that there
was nothing I could do that wouldn't get me killed.
Instantly.
I said impishly. "If there's some
"Bon jour,"
problem about the hotel bill, I'm sure we can work
it . . e"
"Cut the crap," the one in the center com-
manded in French. He was in his early fifties and
had a weathered, sun-blackened face and a distinct
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military bearing. If I only had one guess, I would
have said he was a veteran of the Algerian conflict.
The two men flanking him were younger, but cut
from the same mold. Hard, competent profession-
als. Their cold, narrow eyes said they'd done this
kind of thing many times before.
"Now, Monsieur Carter, reach out very slowly
and pull the door shut behind you."
I followed the older man's instructions. When I
finished, he smiled at me as if I were some three-
year-old who'd finally learned how to tie his shoe-
laces.
"That's good," he said with a soft chuckle.
"Next, I'd like you to lace your fingers together
behind your head."
Why not, I decided. Maybe I'd get another
yellow-toothed smile.
When I assumed the position, the man on the left
put down his M-16 and began to disarm me. He
took Hugo first, then he dropped to his knees and
slipped my Luger out of the ankle holster. He
hadn't even bothered to pat down my torso for a
shoulder rig. He knew where I kept my gun.
"All right," the old man said. "Now that that's
finished, there's someone in the next room who
wants to talk to you, Carter."
I nodded wordlessly. They didn't have to tell me
who it was. I already knew who was waiting on the
other side of the door.
170
Chapter
110%
Twenty
"Nick, mon ami. You don't look very surprised to
see me?"
"I'm not," I replied evenly. "One of your men
did something that gave you away. A minor mis-
take, but sloppy tradecraft just the same."
"And what was that?" he demanded. His red-
rimmed eyes were intense with anger.
"The ankle holster,"
I said coolly. "Your boy
went straight for it; he had been told where I kept
my gun. Since I only switched it from my usual
carrying place last night, it had to be you. You're
sharp enough to have noticed the change and
you're the only person outside the organization
I've seen since I made it."
André Boissier tossed back his head and
laughed. There was an odd, maniacal edge to the
sound that reminded me of the laughter I'd once
heard while visiting a lunatic asylum outside Bue-
nos Aires. Not that I thought Boissier was ready
for one. My guess was that he was long overdue.
When it had died down to a soft chuckle he said,
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"That's very astute of you, Nick. But I'm afraid the
revelation came a little too late to be of any help to
you. Or to David Hawk."
"Hawk?" I repeated. My throat was suddenly
dry and tight. I swallowed hard, trying to get the
words out. "Is he dead?" I asked in a broken whis-
per.
"Not yet," Boissier answered. "I figure he'll last
two weeks, maybe three. I sold him to the Chi-
nese," he explained with a wolfish grin. "One
slightly used senior intelligence officer in exchange
for a large shipment of assorted weapons. Not a
bad deal," he added lightly. "But I know the Chi-
nese will want to get full value out of my old com-
rade in arms. They have a way of getting informa-
tion out of a man . . . well, I won't bore you with
the details. Let's just say there isn't much left when
they're finished."
"You son of a bitch," I muttered through
clenched teeth. "Where is he now? On his way to
Boissier shrugged. "l suppose there's no reason
for me not to tell you. Because we both know there
isn't the faintest chance of your leaving this room
alive."
I'd been waiting for him to say it. Not that it
wasn't something I hadn't already figured out for
myself.
The burly Frenchman was seated twenty feet
away from me on the opposite side of the room.
And like his three friends, he was toting an M-16.
If I tried to rush him, I'd be dead before I got half-
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way there. I also knew that someone with his expe-
rience wouldn't let me edge my way any closer. I'd
lost my Luger and stiletto, and in a situation like
this, Pierre, my tiny gas bomb, was useless. With-
out some kind of weapon I was as good as dead
already.
"No, Hawk isn't in transit yet," Boissier contin-
ued. "The Chinese are going to pick him up at an
abandoned air strip outside Vernon in a little more
than an hour from now."
"Why?" I asked quietly. I asked partly to stall
for time, but I really did want to know why we'd
both been betrayed by one of my boss's oldest and
closest friends.
"For France," the old man bellowed. "For the
new order and glory our revolution will bring to it.
Too long my country has been wallowing in the
mire of bureaucracy, held back by cowardly liber-
als and compromising weaklings. We've been
stripped of our rightful colonies and what have we
gotten in return? A flood of racially inferior scum
who take jobs away from honest Frenchmen be-
cause they're willing to work for a few francs a day.
Under the new order," he said fanatically, "all of
that will come to an end."
This is just an old lunatic raving, I told myself.
Even with the weapons and manpower, nothing
like that could actually happen. Then I suddenly
remembered where I'd heard Boissier's words be-
fore. From films and recordings of a former house
painter who rose to world power. A man who had
conquered France himself once. A man whom both
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Boissier and Hawk had fought against in their
younger days.
If it could happen once, it could happen again.
"You'll never pull it off," I told him.
"Yes I will," he answered fervently. "I have
arms cached all over the country, enough arms to
start a revolution and enough men to carry them.
In half an hour a massive explosion will wipe out
the entire delegation to the Arab oil summit. All
attention will be focused on that, on Paris. The
army and national guard will be mobilized, sent in
to help handle the situation. While they're looking
in the other direction, my men will rise up and take
over key military installations and communica-
tions centers all over the rest of France. It's a
simple but effective ploy," he added, smiling. "l
used it numerous times on a smaller scale during
the Resistance. "
"You'll never get a bomb anywhere near the oil
conference," I said smugly. "Their security is vir-
tually impenetrable. "
All this got me was another burst of insane
laughter. "Now it is impenetrable," he said when
the spasm had subsided, a 'but a year ago there was
no security at all. You see, mon ami, I've been plan-
ning this day for a long time. During the last fifteen
months we've planted huge charges of plastique in
a dozen major hotels and government buildings all
over Paris. The bomb at the Georges V, where the
Arabs are meeting, has been there for more than a
year now, patiently waiting for the day I would
have a use for it. Ingenious, no?"
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In spite of myself, I nodded wordless agreement.
"The rest of the charges," he continued, "will be
triggered later today. Then Paris will be in such
turmoil that no one will even be aware that we've
taken over the rest of the country." He paused and
reached down for something beside his chair. I was
tempted to make a try for him, but his other hand
kept the M-16 trained steadily on target.
' 'A drink to victory," he said, hoisting a bottle of
calvados. He tilted it back and took a long pull, a
tiny rivulet of liquor running down his grizzled
beard. "To victory," he muttered again, wiping his
mouth with the back of his sleeve. He wedged the
bottle between his legs and stuck the cork back in.
"Finish it off," he said, tossing it on the bed. "I've
I got to keep a clear head. And don't try throwing it
lat me," he cautioned. "You'll be dead before it
ever leaves your hand. "
The warning was hardly necessary. A bottle of
apple brandy wouldn't be of any use to me, not
against an M-16. Or would it? The plan that was
forming in my head was almost as crazy as
Boissier's plot to overthrow the government.
But I had to try it.
"Thanks," I said smiling. I perched on the edge
of the bed, uncorked the bottle, and drank. The
fiery warmth of the brandy flooded my body and
eased some of the tension that had been building
steadily since I entered the room. I pushed the cork
back in and put the bottle down beside me. "Mind
if have a cigarette?" I asked casually. "Last wish
of a condemned man and all that."
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"Go ahead," Boissier replied, grinning. "But
any fast moves and I squeeze the trigger."
I nodded compliance and slowly eased out my
cigarette case and lighter. Along with them I pulled
out the folded white handkerchief I always carry.
Slowly I used it to wipe the sweat from my face. I
tossed it down on the bed and lit a cigarette with
equal slowness. "You were behind everything," I
said with a hint of admiration in my voice. "l
should have realized it from the beginning."
"But of course, mon ami, " said Boissier. "All the
assassinations, the explosion at Vitry (in which I
intended you to die by the way), Christine's sup-
posed suicide. They were all the work of my peo-
ple."
"I'm sure you're telling the truth," I said, "but
there are a couple of things that I can't figure out.
First, why kill diplomats from other countries
when you intend to take over France? And second,
if Christine wasn't an assassin working for you,
then how did you manage to plant that cache of
weapons while my people had the building under
surveillance? A Redeye missle isn't exactly some-
thing you can carry in under your coat,"
I added
wryly.
He beamed at me like a teacher about to explain
a simple equation to a particularly slow student.
"The assassinations served a dual purpose," he
began. "Primarily they were done to cause a state
of unrest in the country, but also to focus the in-
telligence community's attention on the killings
rather than on my real work, the smuggling and
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dBtribution of arms on a massive scale. If it hadn't
bcen for that acodent at the airport," he flared,
'none of you would ever have caught on."
"And the arms jn the gjrj's apartment?"
'"lhey'd been there for months," he said, chuck-
ltng, S X -Tjrjstlnc and Ann-Marie were close friends,
Ann-Mane had no trouble getting hold of the
Dalton girl* % keys long enough to duplicate them.
When Shc was out of town one weekend, we smug-
g)ed them in and hid them under the floor boards.
I don't think shc ever realized they were there. It
made for a convenjent depository close at hand
and whcn we needed a dcad assassin . . . well, the
v:tup was too good not to use."
' berets only one woman left,"
f said softly.
' 'Ann-Marie."
else?" said Boissier shrugging. "While
(jail was busy makjng herself look like the assassin,
a bit of luck J had no part in, Ann-Marie quietly
and skillfully terminated all the necesqary people.
Such a cheerful, considerate girl on the surface, the
last person you would imagjne to be a professional
assassin."
"he handling the oil summit, too?" I asked
softly.
"No one else, mon amie She's in the press room
on the floor below the conference. Ann-Marie is
impersonating a journalist and part of her equip-
ment is naturally a tape recorder. Built into that
recorder a 'small, short-range transmitter that
tngger the bomb. " Boissier looked at the clock
on the mght table and smiled. "The Georges V is
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NICK CARTER
only a few blocks away. We should hear the blast
in about fifteen minutes."
I had to move fast now. I didn't have much of a
chance, but I had to try it. Nothing else stood be-
tween Boissier and the bloodbath he was about to
unleash on an unsuspecting France.
"You think there's a place in your organization
for me?" I asked eagerly. If I could only keep him
talking for another minute or so, I might pull it off.
"No," he answered regretfully, "l really don't
think so. You're a good man, Carter, but I'd never
be able to completely trust you. For the good of the
cause, you'll have to be eliminated."
I gave him what I hoped was a look of resigna-
tion and took a long pull from the bottle of
calvados. I put it down and wiped my mouth with
the handkerchief, spitting out the unswallowed
brandy as the cloth passed over my lips. I put the
sodden handkerchief on the bed and muttered a si-
lent prayer that Boissier hadn't caught on to what
I was trying to do.
"A final cigarette?" I asked in a voice that
cracked with tension. If he denied the request I'd
never get out of this room alive.
He stared at me for a moment as if he were
trying to come to a decision. I took a deep breath
and fought to keep my pounding heart under con-
trol.
"One," he snapped. "After that we must say au
revoir."
I picked up my case slowly, took out one of my
custom-made cigarettes, and put it in my mouth.
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My left hand was wrapped around the neck of the
brandy bottle. With my right I scooped up the
lighter and handkerchief.
It was now or never. I jumped behind the bed.
Boissier had expected me to come at him, not
hide. The small edge of surprise allowed me to take
cover before the M-16 stitched the wall behind me
with a burst of rapid fire.
Working at top speed, I centered the cork on the
calvados-soaked handkerchief and slammed it
back into the bottle. I thumbed my lighter into
flame and touched it to the cloth. It erupted into a
twisting blue-gold flame.
Bullets pounded into the bed now. In another
second Boissier would cut me down with the M-16.
I leaned back and heaved the bottle as hard as I
could.
The explosion sounded tremendous in the con-
fines of the room. I heard the sound of shattering
glass, then a horrible high-pitched scream. A heart-
beat later the M-16 hit the floor with a hard,
metallic thump.
I looked up and saw Boissier dancing wildly
around the room, his head, torso, and arms en-
veloped in a sheet of flame. The Molotov cocktail
I'd thrown blind must have hit its target directly.
Trying vainly to put out the blaze, he staggered
onto the balcony. He no longer looked like a man,
but a charred mass of burning flesh instead. His
mouth was open wide in a single, constant scream
of agony.
Boissier hit the balcony railing and toppled over
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it. The scream diminished as he plunged to the
street and struck the pavement with a sickening
thud. I watched as a group of gape-mouthed pass-
ersby gathered around the motionless form.
Now that Boissier was dead, I had no more time
to waste on him. I'd picked up the M-16, expecting
his three henchmen to come pouring into the room
with guns blazing. But they must have taken off
after turning me over to their leader because when
I eased open the door to the adjoining room, it was
empty.
I hastily collected Hugo and Wilhelmina, and
then ran down the corridor toward the lobby stairs.
I only had a few minutes to get to the Georges V
and stop Ann-Marie.
Another bit of knowledge wrenched at my gut
like a gnawing animal. Whether I stopped the girl
or not, I'd still be too late to save Hawk.
180
Chapter Twenty-One
I screeched to a halt in front of the canopied en-
trance and leapt out of the Farrari.
"Leave it here," 1 snapped at the startled atten-
dant. "Keep the motor running and don't let any-
one touch it."
Before he could frame a reply, I pressed a hun-
dred franc note in his hand and bounded through
the ornate double doors. I got about three feet be-
fore a half-dozen men in khaki uniforms formed a
tight circle around me. They were members of the
CRS, the Compagnie Républicaine de Sécurité,
France's elite paramilitary police.
"Where do you think you're going?" the one
with the officer's stripes demanded.
I grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about barging in
like that, but I'm late for the conference. If you'll
just direct me to the press desk, I'll check in proper-
ly."
He stared at me for a second, then held out his
hand. "Your identification, Monsieur."
I sighed and handed him my wallet. He studied
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the Amalgamated Press card and then compared
the photograph on it to my face. Precious seconds
ticked by while he scrutinized my features.
I toyed with the idea of telling him why I was
here. But I knew he probably wouldn't believe me
and if he did we'd have to go through the proper
channels before any action was taken. By then it
would be too late.
"The press desk is at the rear of the lobby," he
said, handing me back my wallet. "Two of my men
will accompany you there and after you've checked
in, escort you to the press room."
I muttered a quick "merci" and slipped out of
the circle. Two of the heavily armed CRSflics took
up positions on either side of me. Hawk had been
right when he said security was tight.
I waited impatiently while a man at the desk
gave my press card a second close inspection.
Finally, he filled out a plastic pin-on badge with
my name and handed it to me. With my two guards
flanking me, I headed for the elevator.
I looked at my watch. If Boissier hadn't been
lying, I had two minutes left to stop the girl.
My heart almost stopped instead when I saw the
familiar frame of a metal detector. There were ten
CRS's grouped around it, all toting MAS-52 ma-
chine guns. I knew there was no way I could make
it through without their discovering my Luger and
stiletto. If I tried to make a run for it I'd never
reach the elevator alive.
"Hang on a second," I muttered in French. "I
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think I left my wallet back at the desk."
"Allons, " the guard on my right snapped. Allons,
roughly translated, means keep moving. In case I'd
missed his meaning, he prodded me with his
truncheon in the direction of the metal detector.
That was it. I was finished.
As I neared the heavily guarded frame, I heard a
voice calling my name. I spun on my heel as Gener-
al Clarke Willoby slapped his hand on my shoul-
der.
"Damn, Carter, it is you," he bellowed. "I
thought these tired old eyes were playing tricks on
me. Let's get out of this dump and get ourselves a
drink."
"I'm trying to get in, " I said quickly. "And I've
got to get through that metal detector without
being stopped. It's a national security matter," I
added hastily.
"Say no more, son," he said, slipping his arm
around my shoulder. My two watchdogs had al-
ready melted back into the crowd. We walked
through the metal detector together, setting off a
wild clammering of bells.
A CRS man stepped in our path, his machine
gun at port arms. Willoby looked at the man with
cold, steel-hard eyes. The flic's glance dropped
away taking in the "spinach," the NATO insignia
and the stars on the General's shoulders. He quick-
ly saluted and stepped aside. Who says rank
doesn't have its privileges?
We rushed through the open elevator doors and
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I jammed the button for the seventh floor, where
the press room was. I had less than a minute to
stop Ann-Marie.
"I don't know what the hell's going on," the gen-
eral said, ' 'but you can count on me, Carter. I'm
not the kind of man who forgets. Not ever."
What the general was referring to was an inci-
dent that had taken place in Bogota some eight
years ago. A KGB hit team had been sent in to
"terminate him with extreme prejudice." I'd saved
Clarke Willoby from that as well as from a plot to
discredit him and end his military career. Obvious-
ly, he still felt he owed me one. Luckily, he was
here at the perfect time for me to collect.
After what seemed a lifetime, the doors opened
on a crowded press room. Most of the reporters
were staring upward, their eyes glued to the closed-
circuit TV monitors that broadcast the action from
the floor above, along with a printout that ran
along the bottom of the screen translating the Ara-
bic into French and English.
My eyes urgently scanned the room and stopped
on a blonde-haired woman. She was one of the few
people who wasn't looking up at the monitors.
Even though the hair coloring and thick glasses
didn't match, her general build was very much like
Ann-Marie's. More importantly, she was holding a
tape recorder in her hands.
"Ann-Marie," I shouted.
Her head snapped around and she saw me. Her
eyes went wide with recognition as she began to
frantically push the buttons on the recorder.
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I brought Wilhelmina out and aimed just as she
dove back into the crowd. Someone screamed as
she pushed people out of the way. She was heading
for a CRS man, but not for protection.
When she reached him she grabbed the gun from
his holster. He tried to collar her, but she darted
out of the way. People started hitting the deck as
she swung the heavy automatic in my direction.
I squeezed the trigger.
Ihe bullet hit her in the face, plowing a path of
spattered blood and bone through her beautiful
features. The gun fell from her grasp as her body
jackknifed and crashed to the floor.
The impact had knocked her wig askew, freeing
a tangle of rich, dark curls. The tape recorder lay at
her feet. As the reporters began to crowd around
her, I pushed them aside.
"Listen, Willoby," I said urgently, "because I
only have time to explain this once."
185
Chapter Twenty-Two
As I reached the outskirts of Paris, the traffic
began to move a little faster. For ten frustrating
minutes I'd been trapped in a congested tangle of
trucks and cars. Leaning on the horn did no good;
something up ahead of us was causing a massive
tie-up. My hands drummed a nervous tattoo on the
steering wheel. I smoked a cigarette and lit another
one from the glowing butt.
Finally, the long line started moving again.
When I cleared the entrance ramp I swung the
Ferrari onto the shoulder of the road and stomped
on the gas. As advertized the 512 Boxer went from
zero to seventy in less than seven seconds. I fought
to keep the wheel under control as I sped along the
sloping embankment. Spraying a backwash of
gravel in my wake, I passed a long line of vehicles
that became little more than a multicolored blur.
I saw an opening up ahead and piloted the Fer-
rari back onto the blacktop. Shifting gears, I
pushed the speed up to ninety.
I knew I was racing against time and losing. I
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had about fifteen minutes left in which to cover the
forty miles to Vernon. At top speed the Boxer 512
could do up to one hundred and sixty-four mph. I
had taken her up to the max only once before, on
a track outside of Florence. But those had been op-
timum conditions, not a pot-holed and badly main-
tained French highway.
I would have to try it. I knew I'd never be able to
live with myself if I didn't.
David Hawk. My boss and, in a way, my oldest
and closest friend. The one unchanging constant in
a shadowy world of violence and mistrust.
I shifted again. The speedometer needle climbed
with my acceleration. One hundred and ten
twenty . . . forty . . . one hundred and sixty.
The road was like an endless black ribbon now,
the landscape a smeared rainbow of colors. The car
shook violently as the shocks fought to absorb the
jolts from the scarred and pitted blacktop.
At least I had two lanes to work with and an
open stretch of highway up ahead. If I was going to
get there in time to rescue Hawk, I couldn't even
afford to slow down for anything.
Before leaving Paris I'd hastily told General
Willoby about the bomb in the Georges V, the oth-
er bombs Boissier had boasted of, and his plans for
an uprising all across France.
The general had listened without interruption
and promised me he would alert the CRS, the
armed forces, and the police. With his NATO sta-
tus, he was the one man I knew who had the clout
and connections to cut through all the red tape and
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get the job done before it was too late.
I'd considered asking him to send a chopper out
to Vernon. But mobilizing American army troops
on French soil could easily turn into an interna-
tional incident with world-wide repercussions.
Also, I knew how Hawk felt about involving mili-
tary personnel in one of our operations. Clarke
Willoby he could accept because of the enormity of
the situation and my one-to-one relationship with
the man. But a chopper combat squad? As Hawk
had told me countless times before, "If AXE can't
do it on its own, no one can."
But this was something different. His own life
was in danger now. In spite of that, I was positive
he would want me to handle it on my own.
I spotted a farm truck up ahead of me straddling
both lanes. There wasn't enough room to pass on
either side. Not at the speed I was going.
I leaned on the horn. But as the Ferrari ate up
the distance between us, I realized the driver had
no intention of pulling over to let me pass.
Forty feet behind him, I eased up on the gas a
fraction and swung onto the shoulder of the road.
I passed the truck at one forty-five and swerved
back onto the blacktop.
The sound was like a gunshot.
I felt the right rear of the car begin to sink and
heard the flapping sound of a rapidly deflating tire.
I knew, with sickening certainty, I had a flat.
I downshifted and braked to a gradual stop.
Leaping out onto the embankment, I saw I'd been
right. The right rear tire was a misshapen wreck.
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I pulled out my tools and spare, pried off the
hubcap, and started to work. My hands moved
quickly; I'd performed this familiar task hundreds
of times before.
I kept resisting an almost overpowering impulse
to look at my watch. Work on the tire, I told my-
self. Don't think about Hawk. Just work on the
goddamn tire and get out of here.
I pushed the Michelin X WX into place and fin-
ished the job. I'd wasted three, almost four minutes
and I had less than that left to get to the airstrip on
time.
I knew I'd never make it, but I had to try.
I jumped back into the car and quickly brought
Ihe Ferrari back to top speed. If the pickup from
Boissier's men went off ahead of schedule, Hawk
might already be airborne by now, on his way to
mainland China via a route of short country-to-
country hops until they reached a secure base.
There a jet would be waiting to take him on the
long, final leg of a journey from which there would
be no return.
As I reached the outskirts of Vernon, I slowed
just enough to scan the passing landscape.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw it. A
dilapidated wooden tower rising above a flat
stretch of open grassland. That had to be the old
airfield Boissier had referred to.
I swung the car onto an unpaved access road and
floored the accelerator. As I rounded a sharp bend,
I caught my first glimpse of the plane.
It was taxiing down the runway, a pale blue
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Beechcraft Bonanza building up speed for take-off.
There wasn't any time to consider the options. I
could only think of one thing to do. And it could
wind up getting us all killed.
I aimed the Ferrari toward the speeding plane
and floored the accelerator.
I hit the undercarriage with a deafening crash.
The impact sent me hurtling against the
dashboard. A big hunk of the fuselage shattered
the windshield, showering me with broken glass.
With blood streaming down my face, I pulled
myself out of the Ferrari. Shots bit into the ground
behind me. I swung around with Wilhelmina in my
hand and squeezed off three rounds at a man
crouched on the wing.
His eyes widened in shocked surprise as the slugs
tore open a gushing red hole in his chest. The gun
fell from his hand as he slumped forward, draping
himself over the wing.
I looked back and saw that the two men in the
cockpit had died when the car struck the plane. If
Hawk was still alive in there, then why didn't he
come out? I knew it was only a matter of seconds
before the whole damn mess went up in flames.
As I raced for the plane, he appeared in the
doorway. He was staggering badly, one hand
clutching his forehead where a dark trickle of
blood oozed between his fingers.
"Hawk!" I screamed.
He looked up just as I grabbed him and tossed
his thin body unceremoniously over my shoulder. I
ran for my life, for both our lives.
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I'd gone about two hundred feet when the car
and the plane exploded into a huge ball of searing
orange flame.
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Chapter
110%
Twenty-Three
It turned cold the morning they buried Boissier.
The sky overhead was a deep slate blue and the air
was thick with the promise of rain.
Only a few dozen people turned up at the tiny
hillside cemetery. Most of them were old, wrinkled
veterans of the Resistance who'd fought with
Boissier and Hawk in the dim, distant days of their
youth.
A wind came up as they lowered the casket into
the grave. It sent up a cloud of dust from th
mound of fresh-turned earth and the priest's high
pitched lament was drowned out by its wailing.
When the brief service was over, the mourners
slipped away one by one until only Hawk and my-
self were left.
"Sir,"
I said putting my hand on his arm, "I
think we'd better head back to the city. It's going
to start pouring any second now."
"Why don't you take the car," Hawk said quiet-
ly. "I'm going to stay here awhile and I'd like to be
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alone. Don't worry, Nick, I'll catch a taxi and meet
you back at the hotel."
I walked back to the car where Lauren was wait-
ing for me as the first drops of rain began to fall.
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