N3 goes to
the heart ot a
conspiracy that would
turn Africa into
a slave-empire!
THE SOCIETY OF NINE





THE CULT OF THE LEOPARD!
"He senses blood, W. Carter: I believe it is your blood
he smells. That is truly unfortunate. I shall have to kill
him. No cat can remain in capfivity who has tasted
human blood."
"You're breaking my heart," I hissed.
A sadistic smile broke out on his lips. Carefully, with one
eye still down the steps, he moved from the head of the
stairway.
"Vadu has always been my favorite pet," he spat. "But
since he must die, it is only fair he get a last meal.
Please, Mr. Carter, I wish you to walk down those
steps."
In answer, another rumbling roar carried up from the
stairwell. My belly iced over at the thought of facing
death at the leopard's jaws..
NICK CARTER IS IT!







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A OIVISON Of CHARtFR COMMUNICA'IONS INC.
A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY
SOCIETY OF NINE
Copyright 0 1981 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in
a review. without permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Charter Original.
"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of the Condé Nast Publica-
tions. Inc., registered in the United States Patent Office.
First Charter Printing April 1981
Published simultaneously in Canada
Manufactured in the United States of America
246809531






CHAPTER ONE
Teeming wasn't the word for Algiers. Boiling was
more apropos. Set between moderate Morocco to the
east and Libya to the west, and slightly left of crazy, it
boiled in the North African sun.
And I, Nick Carter, boiled along with it, even under
the sidewalk canopy of the Café Liberation. Shielding
my eyes were glasses of the darkest lens available, but I
still squinted beneath them at the glaring sun as it
danced off the multicolored tiles of the café's tiny
veranda.
Hot?
Hell, yes, it was hot, making me all too aware of my
own sweat as it seeped through the white linen of my
shirt and painted dark patches across the slightly over-
sized white jacket I was wearing.
I checked my issue wristwatch with the special
doodads that did special things.
Three-twenty.
My contact was now twenty minutes late. "Illat's
never a pleasant omen, but then no reason to get the
jitters, either. I downed the last few swallows of a sweet
mint tea, and allowed my eyes to wander.
"Ihe surroundings were anything but frightening.
ne café itself covered most of the sidewalk of one of
the large avenues leading into the Casbah. Around me
sat a mixture of business types and tourists, none of
whom showed any particular interest in me. All were
either lost in their own conversations, or gaping at the
endless parade of Arabs, Bedouins, and ass-pulled
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carts plodding their wares up this final block to the
walls of the old city.
In the distance I could hear that unmistakable pot-
pourri of chatter and music that signified their goal. *Ihe
Casbah, the world's oldest shopping center.
"Would the gentleman care for more tea?"
His voice took me three inches out of my chair.
As my eyes leaped up to his face, the waiter's puz-
zled expression quickly gave way to a smile that re-
vealed random gaps where teeth should have been.
"More tea, monsieur?"
C'Oh, yes! Yes, of course, " I sighed, using French.
fte language had lasted, even though the French
hadn't. "Merci, another tea, please."
He darted off, leaving me to gather up what remained
of my composure.
Back to the watch.
Three twenty-two.
Clever, Carter. All of two minutes since you last
checked. When you start looking once a minute, they
hand you a gold-plated timepiece and retire you to a
comfy condo in Florida.
Jumpy? Yeah, I was, and there were a lot of reasons
for it. Not the least of which was Algiers itself.
My eyes rolled back to the dusty street and down to
where it disappeared beneath a tiled arch in the old city
wall.
I'd been to them all—Tangier, Rabat, Casablanca,
Fez, even Qaddaffi's stronghold, Tripoli.
But Algiers was unique.
It was a haunting city, a casserole of mixed cultures
that had been left baking in the sun for thousands of
years, until it hardened into ceramic permanence. Any-
thing that unchangeable has got to be just a little bit
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But also mysterious ,
pleasantly mysterious.
Like the figures of two women walking up the av-
enue. Their long djellabas were barely rustling as they
made their way through the moving humanity in short,
petite strides. nieir faces were covered, but the flash-
ing onyx of their eyes beckoned like a muezzin calling
the faithful to prayer.
I have always been a believer in the old adage that the
female is most sensuous to the male when something is
left to the imagination. On that basis, Muslim women
win the championship, hands down, The men of Islam
have immersed their women in a sea of garments,
allowing only a tiny island ofolive skin to peer out from
behind their veils. And yet, in spite of their limited
exposure, Arab women seem able to reach down within
themselves and tell you volumes, using nothing more
than their eyes.
Eyes so soft you could curl up in them.
As the two women neared my table, the one closeSt
to me locked her eyes on mine. There was curiosity in
her gaze, curiosity and incredible youth. I smiled and
gave her a brief nod, fully expecting her to make an
embarrassed retreat.
She didn 't.
If anything, her ICK)k became even more penetrating.
I stiffened slightly in my chair while the deep appraisal
of her stare seemed to shoot right through me. A slight
charge of adrenaline hit my spine, bringing with it the
awareness that I just might be facing my contact.
I was just beginning a quick review of the agreed
upon recognition procedures, when the spell was bro-
ken.
The second woman, suddenly realizing the intensity
of contact between myself and her companion,
straightened up and drove her elbow into the young
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girl's shoulder. The youthful eyes left me, offered
meek apology to the older woman 's glare, and returned
a humble perusal of the street before her.
I settled back once more, and once more consulted
the mocking face of my watch.
Three twenty-seven.
A five minute lapse. Better, Carter, much better.
I couldn't help a small chuckle of embarrassment.
How could I have mistaken eyes that innocent for my
contact? In all my years in this business, I had encoun-
tered hundreds of unknown faces, all with their own
veils of secrecy; but always the same eyes.
Hard eyes, never soft, like that girl 's were. *Ihe eyes
I looked for were like chipped marble, that had no
warmth.
They were the same eyes I shaved with every morn-
ing.
There had been mystery in the young girl's eyes, but
no disguise. Ihe people I dealt with all hid behind a
disguise; either of their own making or someone else 's.
As I did now, in my own sweat, courtesy of Mr.
Willie Geis, New York.
Willie had two major characteristics: one, a wrist
you couldn't keep stiff with an iron bar, and two, a
genius for disguise that had saved my ass on more
occasions than I could recall.
With typical finesse, Willie had turned my hair
from its usual black, to the rusty red hue it now dis-
played. To this, he had added a moustache to match.
Then came the scar, starting at the end of my right
eyebrow and extending down across the cheekbone; a
scar so real a surgeon couldn't dispute it.
The final veil was provided by AXE. My identity:
Liam McDaniel, British citizen and Irish revolution-
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' 'Your tea, monsieur. ' '
"Merci." I pushed two dinars his way from the pile
on the table in front of me.
"l make this tea special, monsieur, just for you,
special. "
I studied the waiter's dark-skinned face uncertainly.
He was beaming like a schoolboy, his head alternating
between bobbing encouragement and quick darts to-
ward my cup.
With resignation I sipped at the steaming mixture
he had brought. The pungent mint of the tea seemed to
fill my head, but along with it came an unfamiliar bite.
My palate struggled to identify the flavor, but with no
success. Only one fact was clear.
Whatever he had thrown into the brew, it was al-
coholic, and it was strong.
' 'To what do I owe this honor?" I gasped.
His smile got impossibly broader. "Algiers is to
relax, monsieur. It is a city of life. I see you are not
relaxed, monsieur, so I say
I relax him!" His
"l did right, monsieur?"
smile drooped somewhat.
"Yes," I chuckled. "You did very right! "
I added two more dinars to his side of the table and
watched him bow away. I sat back, gratefully sipping
the result of my waiter's generosity . . . and courage.
This near the old town was very Muslim, and therefore
very nonalcoholic. His ass could be slinged if the man-
agement caught him moving booze to natives or
tourists.
Nothing had changed. The heat waves still danced
their crazy patterns up from the street. I didn 't let them
hypnotize me, and concentrated beyond them, search-
ing, looking for the unknown.
It was an occupational hazard, part of the business.
Ihe business?
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I work for AXE, a supersecret branch of United
States Intelligence. AXE is an elite club, whose select
members carry the rating of "Killmaster". It's a club
you don't get into easily, and you usually depart in a
coffin, if they find enough pieces to fill one up. You
don't spend as many years as I have maintaining your
membership, and not learn to rely very heavily on your
instincts.
My instincts were very clear: something about this
mission smelled.
I took another sip of my spiked tea, and allowed my
mind to recap all the events that had led me to the Café
Liberation.
It was hard to believe this• whole mess had started
only three days earlier. I had just come off assignment
in California. It seems some rather large quantities of
fissionable material were making their way out of the
nuclear power unit in San Onofre, and reappearing in
Libyan vessels off the coast. As far as most missions
go, this one was cleaned up rather easily; butl was still
due for a week or two of R and R.
And that meant Pam MacMahon.
Pam had been a growing fascination of mine, one of
those rare mamages of beauty and brains that could
make a man start to think serious thoughts. Facially she
was a study in chiseled excellence: perfectly sculpted
bones, surrounded by a halo of dark, silky hair. Physi-
cally she was of medium height, with elegantly tapered
limbs that bordered on slight. But however economical
mother nature had been with Pam 's torso, she had more
than made up for it with a pair of huge breasts that
danced teasingly beneath any gartnent that tried to
cover them.
And they had been dancing so beautifully that after-
noon three days before.
We were midway through an afternoon of tennis.
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What with the antics beneath her blouse, and my expec-
tations of the evening to come, she had me down two
sets to one and was leading five games to love in the
fourü.
I could not have cared less.
Twice before I had attempted to explore the promises
in the lovely lady 's eyes, and twice before the attempt
had disintegrated in an emergency summons from
Hawk. But not this time, I was determined.
She sent the ball sailing toward my backhand, and I
took a bead on it. But a surprising twist of English
turned it back into me; the best I could do was return it
limply into the net.
Set and match.
I moved to the net to congratulate her, basking in the
total radiance of her smile. She had teeth so perfect you
could taste them.
I was about to, when I heard a car screech to a halt
just beyond the courts.
I knew. Don't ask me how, I just knew. Without
lifting my lips from the promise of hers, I rolled to
peripheral vision and knew for sure.
Sedan. Dark blue with a radio that didn't play blues
or rock. It played two-way, from the car to a line that
hooked up to The Amalgamated Press And Wire Ser-
vice.
Just like the logo on its side said.
But to me it said AXE, and I knew, want to or not, I
was off again.
I muttered a brief apology to Pam, and went to meet
the approaching driver. I anticipated the worst, and got
it. Emergency summons: Code Red . . . Immediate.
'IT)at meant not even changing clothes, but I begged a
few seconds reprieve to present my excuses to the lady.
No sooner had I turned around, however, than I saw her
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charging out through the opposite gate in the chain link
fence.
I sighed, the driver shrugged, and together we made
the silent journey to Dupont Circle, the home of AXE
and its dedicated creator, David Hawk.
Dejectedly, I entered the outer office and found
Hawk 's secretary, Ginger Bateman, standing over her
filing cabinet.
Ginger was as firm and as fleshy as the peaches her
home state was famous for producing. But she also
wore an arrnor over that flesh that was harder and far
colder than steel. I'd dented it onco, and even put. a
couple of chinks in it, but I'd never penetrated it.
If anything or anyone could be better endowed than
the lady I had just left, it was Ginger. nat was why it
was so painful when she took one look at me and started
rippling with laughter. •mose ripples did things to her
chest that made me remember what I was missing at
that very moment with Pam MacMahon.
"You're laughing," I said.
s 'I can't help it."
' 'Something just hit me."
S' You look like you just came in from a rerun of 'I
I gave a quick glance to the tennis outfit I still wore,
and searched vainly for a comeback.
' 'Smart ass," was unfortunately the best I could
produce.
She must have sensed my mood, because her next
move was to walk over, put her arms around me, and
give me a light peck on the lips.
' 'Oh, honey," she purred, throwing every ounce of
her Southern upbringing into her voice. "Why, ah
declare, Ashley Masters, you do seem to be in quite a
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state. Now don't y'all worry none. Mah dance card is
yours at the next cotillion, ya heah?"
In spite of myself, a small smile creased my lips. I
stared down into the dark valley of cleavage between
her breasts, and felt Pam's image fog slightly in my
mind.
' 'Why, thank y'all, Louella-Lee. " I did my best to
match her syrupy southern elegance. "Does this mean
ah can be your beau?"
She laughed appreciatively, pressing herself even
tighter against me. "Well, ah don't rightly know,
Ashley . .
. but it does mean you can enter my gazebo
anytime y'all want."
The glint in her eye left no doubt as to her meaning,
and Pam took three more giant steps toward being a
memory. Once more I wondered why it was that I had
never tried to get to know Ginger outside of AXE's
somber surroundings.
As our mutual enjoyment ebbed, I thought I could
sense the same question lingering in her mind. It bee
came even more pronounced as the laughter of our
joking echoed off, leaving only the soft reality of our
touching bcxiies.
Pam who?
I moved my hands around until I could cup her soft
buttocks. "What are you doing for the next hour?"
"Having lunch, ' ' she intoned, "with the secretary of
the Secretary of State . . . right after I let you into the
boss 's office. "
"Did you ever do it in the back seat ofa Gevy when
you were a little girl?"
"No, darling . . . when I was a big girl. And it was
a Cadillac. "
A buzzer sounded and Hawk 's voice barked over the
intercom. "Bateman, get him in here! "
' 'How does he know?" I asked.
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"l dunno," she replied, "but he always does . .
doesn't he?"
"Always."
I reluctantly broke away composing my thoughts for
their entry into Hawk 's inner sanctum. As I neared the
door, Ginger's voice halted me.
C' Yeah." I turned.
An impish smile broke across her lovely face as she
gestured toward my tennis shorts. "Nice buns! " Her
eyebrows began leaping up and down like a poor man 's
Groucho Marx.
"Bitch." I moved through the door into Hawk's
office, doing my best to erase the smirk on my face.
I entered and was immediately hit with three differ-
ent sensations. One, the familiar smells of leather,
mahogany, and cigar smoke that always permeated
David Hawk's office; two, the chiseled features and
flinty eyes of David Hawk himself; and three, the
unexpected presence of a third party.
My gloom quickly turned into relief and pleasure as
the stranger's features registered. It was Davidson Har-
court, one of the finest minds British Intelligence ever
nurtured. We had crossed paths many times in joint
U.S.-British ventures, but mostly at opposite ends of
his desk. Only once had I worked with him in the field,
and his tradecraft proved to be as agile and creative as
his mind.
Harcourt's frail body, diminished even more by the
muted suit he wore, rose to greet me. His eyes revealed
their own delight, magnified behind the thick-lensed
spectacles he always wore. He thrust his slender hand
out toward me.
"I say, old man, good to see you! he said. "Doing
well, I see. Yes, very well indeed. "
"Definitely," I replied. "Very well indeed."
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I clasped his proffered hhd with the care one would
give an injured bird. It was one of those things about
Harcourt; that you always acknowledged his frailty
when, in reality, he could take all you had to give.
That was how he survived
. in a business Of
survival.
' 'Obviously no need for introductions. "
It was
Hawk's rasping voice. He too had risen, more in defer-
ence to his guest than me, I was sure, but the tone in his
voice let us all know that it was a time for business and
not reunions.
"Ihe three of us settled into chairs, and I awaited the
stern tones of Hawk's briefing.
It didn't take long.
"Sorry to pull you off N-3. It's irTegular, I
know, but this one just sort of dropped in on us. I'm
sure you'll see the necessity as we move along. "
"I understand, sir. It must be important. "
c 'It is," Hawk assured. "I suppose it would be best
if Harcourt filled you in on his end first. "
"Yes, of course, " said the Englishman as he shifted
in his chair and opened the briefcase lying on the floor
next to him.
"It all came about two days ago," he began. "It
seems there was a little case of hit and run in one of the
shabbier sections of Soho. Chap's name was Liam
McDaniel. "
Harcourt paused to retrieve a dossier, and handed it
over to me before continuing.
' 'fie local constables traced down his flat, and did a
routine search, of course. But it seems he possessed a
number of rather unroutine items. You 'II see them
listed about midpage. "
My eyes shot down to the bracketed listing. It was
unroutine indeed. (ONE BRITISH MADE SNIPER'S
RIFLE, CUSTOM-BORED, WITH FULL BREAK-
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