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—one Kiltmaste .
KILLMASTER #219
The Master Assassin


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SEEK AND DESTROY
was the game, and Nick Carter was the tar.
get. He took cover when he saw a four-
man motor patrol.
Three soldiers beat the bushes, searching
for him. The fourth stayed at the jeep,
manning its swivel-mounted .50-caliber
machine gun. He died with Carter's blade
in his back.
His three comrades turned just in time to
see Carter swinging the machine gun their
way. They were sieved by a rapid-fire
burst.
Even as they dropped, a truck full of
troopers rounded the bend, coming head*
on to run Carter down



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PROLOGUE
Perlman carefully parted the spears of jungle grass
and looked out across the clearing. It was empty.
He sat back on his heels. For the past half hour
he'd been running. Now his legs hurt and his
breathing was heavy. He wanted desperately to relax,
to let the old hulk collect itself for a while, but there
wasn't time. Not yet. Not until he was safe.
He eased his breathing so he could listen for
sounds. Monkeys chattered in the trees. Somewhere a
macaw cried. He listened harder, but it was no use.
His heart was beating too fast. Beyond that, all he
could hear was the roar of his own pulse.
It looked safe though, he thought.
Still, he didn't move. They could have anticipated
his direction, gotten ahead of him somehow. They
could be waiting for him this very minute, lying in the
innocent-looking grass, watching to pick him off.
He sniffed the air, wondering. These men were the
best in the world at what they did. He had seen them
ferret a man out of the jungle and kill him in a matter
of hours. Younger men, well armed, stood no chance
against them. They could track a snake over hard




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NICK CARTER
ground or smell out a quarry at a distance of miles.
They were more a part of the jungle than the animals
that lived in it. More alert, more aware, individually
and as a group, than the big predator cats. Perlman
knew this better than anyone. He knew it because he
had trained them.
The wind ruffled over the clearing like a breaker
on a green sea. "Come on, you old fart," he said
aloud. "On your feet. You're not dead yet."
He staggered up, and on shaky legs he stepped out
onto the clearing. He half expected to hear a shot and
feel the hot bite of a nickel's worth of lead some-
where on his tired body, but all was quiet.
At the far end of the open area was a ruined tem-
pie. The jungle vines had all but reclaimed it, leaving
only a stone shell that stood on the clearing's edge
like a leafy igloo. He loped to the door and went in.
The grass inside was damp and cool. He settled
himself against the wall opposite the entrance and
waited to catch his breath.
Spires of black smoke stood over the trees in the
swatch of daylight visible through the door opening.
The camp was burning. His camp. It had taken
months to construct, the materials laboriously trans-
ported over mountains and through jungle, and it
had taken only minutes to destroy. His dream of cre-
ating the perfect conditions in which to train the per-
fect soldier was not as ephemeral and intangible as
that black smoke.
Suddenly he remembered. After his headquarters
had blown up, he had grabbed a gun from the rubble
and stuffed it into his pants. He had had no time to
study it closely; he'd simply grabbed it and run. He
pulled it out now and examined it.
It wasn't a gun. At least not the killing kind. It was
a flare gun and not even a good one of those. The fir-
ing mechanism was badly rusted, and the one flare
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that had been loaded in the breech was so old, splits
had formed in its casing and its charge was leaking
out. It was from the survival kit he'd had on the shelf
over his desk. In the confusion, he hadn't really
looked at it.
Dammit! he thought. Now he didn't even have a
weapon. What chance did he stand against men
whom he had trained for months?
"None," he groaned aloud to the old walls. "I'm
as good as dead."
He lay his head back against the mossy stones,
convinced he'd come to the end of the road. What a
bitter turn of the cards, he thought. So much left to
do. So much already done that needed changing.
He thought of the woman he'd left behind, his wife
in Washington. She had never understood what
drove him, yet she had loved and pitied him anyway.
A ground swell of self-pity filled Perlman's chest,
quicky changing to anger.
It was all Zack Anderson's fault, he thought, rail-
ing bitterly against the man who had been his second-
in-command. The bastard had betrayed him. If he
ever got out Of here, he'd kill him. Yes, he would. If
he ever got out of here .
Loud chattering of monkeys overhead broke into
his thoughts. Something was nearby. He held his
breath, trying to listen. The wind sighed. Somewhere
out in the jungle a parrot called to its mate. Other
than that, still nothing.
He moved quickly to the door. The wind was blow-
ing from the south. The jungle was thick in that
direction, a tangle of weeds and vines, impassable for
most men without a machete. For most men, but not
for the soldiers Perlman had trained. They could find
paths where even the animals were stymied, ease their
way through the thickest knots of foliage without
making a sound.




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He put his nose in the breeze and gently sniffed it.
It had a taste, although very faint. Something warm-
blooded was in those trees. He doubted it was a
leopard. Only extreme hunger would force a leopard
to hunt in broad daylight, and there was plenty of
game this time of year. No, chances were much better
it was a man.
He watched the green mass in the south. Twice he
thought he saw movement. Then a head suddenly
poked out from under a netted helmet woven with
bits of fern. Two eyes made a quick reconnoiter of
the area.
The old man knew him immediately. It was one of
the hotshot recruits Anderson had brought into the
camp. He found them in the slums of Buenos Aires,
Quito, and Montevideo. They were street fighters,
more interested in enhancing their personal reputa-
tions than learning to work as a team. But Perlman
had taught them. Gently, over a period of time, he'd
taught them.
How the man had come to that clearing, Perlman
could only guess. He'd probably strayed from the
main body of searchers. But one thing was certain: he
was alone. He'd have insisted on that. He'd want to
think he was good enough to take the Old man out by
himself.
Perlman ducked behind the wall. The way he saw
it, he had two options. He could run or he could
fight. Running would cost a lot of his endurance.
He'd already run farther today than he had in a long
time, and even though his body was strong for his
age, more prolonged exertion might exhaust him.
On the other hand, he had very little to fight with.
Only a rusted flare gun and his wits. He did, how-
ever, have the element of surprise. He doubted the
other man had seen him.
What was more, he knew the area. And the jungle




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What was more, he knew the area. And the jungle,
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
if asked properly, might even be coaxed to help him.
He turned and crawled back through the temple to
a place where the wall had collapsed. An opening
there offered an exit, and in a few seconds Perlman
was outside, cautiously pushing his way through the
undergrowth.
He figured the recruit had come from the direction
Of camp and was moving through the area toward the
large rocks in the east. It was an obvious place for a
man to hide. The rocks were honeycombed with
caves, and Perlman had been on his own way there
when he'd become winded and had to stop.
If the recruit were headed for the rocks, he would
probably take the animal run that skirted the clearing
from the south to the east. That was the most direct
route and offered the least resistance. It would bring
him in a very few minutes under some large over-
hanging trees. Those trees would be the ideal place to
surprise him, and it was toward them that the old
man now moved.
He still had no real weapon. He had put the flare
gun back in his trousers, but he was reluctant to use
it. Its condition was such, he feared that should he
fire it, it might go off in his hand. But the problem
was not insoluble. This was South America, and the
jungle could be made to give up its secrets.
As he crept along, he kept a sharp eye on the trees.
He was looking for a particular species that grew
in abundance in this part of the world. Finally he
spotted one not a hundred yards from the chosen lo-
cation of his ambush.
It was a short, woody bush of the genus Strychnos,
which the Indians called 'ithe tree of death." It
looked like ordinary jungle scrub, but running
underneath its smooth bark was a sap that if boiled
for the proper amount of time and mixed with the
correct thickeners, yielded a gummy paste, the tiniest



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underneath its smooth bark was a sap that if boiled
for the proper amount of time and mixed with the
correct thickeners, yielded a gummy paste, the tiniest
6
NICK CARTER
dab of which, when introduced into a man's blood-
stream, paralyzed his heart and lungs in a matter Of
seconds.
Perlman took out the flare gun and dismantled it
until nothing was left but a section of the barrel. One
end of the section had a very sharp edge. Taking the
sharp end, he ran it down the narrow trunk of the
bush, curling up a long piece of bark. This he threw
away, and employing the barrel end again, he
scooped up a good amount of the sap underneath.
He wasn't going to be able to make all the
elaborate preparations the Indians did, but those
were mostly superstition anyway, he figured. There
did remain, however, the question Of how to in-
oculate his opponent, and for a minute Perlman gave
this serious thought.
He had no knife. He did have the sharp barrel and
several other pieces of the flare gun, but none of
these were really suitable. Besides if he attacked with
nothing more than a piece of metal in his hand, his
adversary might guess what he was up to, and Perl-
man had decided it would be far better if the poison
came as a surprise. This meant he was going to have
to use something small and innocuous.
An idea suddenly struck him. He pulled off his
shoe and undid the laces. The lace ends were tipped
with plastic collars to make threading easier, collars
that when torn off were hollow inside and fairly
sharp, sharp enough to pierce the skin.
He removed the collar from the end of one of the
lace ends and, with a stick, filled it with sap from the
barrel piece. Then he inserted the collar end-first be.
tween his index and middle fingers so that when he
made a fist, it protruded. It was perfect. Enough to
mark a man, but not enough to be easily seen.
Now he was ready.
He approached the trees with a great deal of cau-



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THE MASTER ASSASSIN
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tion, being careful to stay downwind, moving only
through the plants that were wettest and least likely
to give away his position.
It didn't look as though the young soldier had been
by. The foliage was unbroken, and as he came up to
the tree, he caught a glimpse of an anaconda slither.
ing into the weeds. The snake would never have
stayed if the other man had been through.
Now came the hard part. Perlman grabbed two of
the lower branches and began to hoist himself up. He
had been sixty-four on his last birthday, and right
now he felt every year of it. Hand over hand he
pulled himself up, his arms and shoulders ablaze with
pain.
It took several minutes to position himself over the
path. He lay flat on the branch, just as the anaconda
had no doubt been doing. keeping the lowest possible
profile, and he began to wait.
It didn't take long. From down the path came the
sound of legs brushing against ferns. Perlman tensed.
The shoelace end was wedged firmly between his
fingers, and he squeezed it a little to make sure.
The young man appeared, walking quickly. He
had a machine gun in his hands and his head was
turned toward the clearing. No doubt he'd seen the
temple, figured it was a good place for the old man to
be hiding, and was looking for a rear entrance.
When he came under the tree, Perlman slid off the
branch. He let his body weight do most of the work,
wrapping an arm around the young man's neck as he
tried to pull him to the ground.
The young man cried out, jabbed an elbow into his
attacker, and tried to spin out of the hold. But it was
no use. The old man had timed the fall perfectly. The
young soldier fell back and Perlman ground his fist
with the poison-filled lace end into his face.
No sooner had they hit the ground, when the
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young man sprang up, spun around, and pointed the
machine gun at his aging foe who was still lying in a
heap.
"So here you are, you old fool," he sneered, rub-
bing the blood from his cheek with the back of his
hand. ' 'What's the big idea, anyway? Falling out of
trees and trying to bloody my nose. We did that in
grade school. "
A few seconds, thought Perlman. It only takes a
few seconds. Got to keep him busy, keep him from
shooting me for a few seconds.
"l was merely showing you how easy you would be
to overcome in the jungle."
"Horseshit!"
spat the recruit. "Who overcame
who? Get on your feet!"
The old man rolled onto his side. A pain shot up
his leg and connected with another pain in the small
Of his back.
"I'm afraid I can't. I hurt myself when I fell."
"You're stalling. Get up! i'
The pain was acute. The slightest movement of the
leg brought a tongue of fire up his side.
The young man bent down to investigate, but ap-
parently he overestimated the distance. He fell way
forward, almost tumbling into the underbrush. And
when he tried to correct himself, he staggered back,
falling with a thud against the tree.
"Agghhh," he grunted, shaking his head brutally.
"What the hell? What the hell did you do to me, old
man?"
Seconds. Mere seconds.
"What's going on?" The young man tried to stand
again, but the world must have been spinning in his
head. He careened one ways then another. Finally he
ended on all fours, staring with blank horror at the
ground as the contents of his stomach emptied onto
the grass.
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
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Perlman watched. He had seen the poison work
before and it seemed as though it had acted faster.
Maybe there was something in all that mumbo jumbo




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again, but the world must have been spinning in his
head. He careened one ways then another. Finally he
ended on all fours, staring with blank horror at the
ground as the contents of his stomach emptied onto
the grass.
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
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Perlman watched. He had seen the poison work
before and it seemed as though it had acted faster.
Maybe there was something in all that mumbo jumbo
Of the Indians that hastened the effect.
With great difficulty the young man pulled himself
erect. When he turned to Perlman, his eyes burned
with hatred.
"Poison. " The word came out slowly with super-
human effort. He staggered toward his gun, which
was lying several feet away where he had dropped it.
What had happened? Perlman wondered. Was the
poison weak for some reason, or was this young bull
of a man so well trained, so physically strong, he was
able to defy its effects?
He gripped the gun with both hands and stood
again. Perlman could only lie back and watch. Eyes
bulging, every muscle straining, the young man
retraced his steps to Perlman.
' 'You die," he said. and fell across Perlman's
torso.
Perlman was pinned. He struggled to throw off the
weight, but it was as though the young man were a
ton of dead meat. Besides that, every way he twisted
opened a new vista of pain.
Finally, he grabbed a handful of the young
soldier's hair and twisted the head. The neck also
twisted, then the upper body. One arm and a
shoulder slipped off. The release of pressure brought
a flood of relief, but it wasn't enough, He had to get
out completely from under him.
He grabbed the young man by the back of his shirt,
then tried rolling. But he couldn't roll. Whatever
he'd done to his back, the damage was total. It
seemed as though he couldn't move at all.
Still, he grunted and strained. Twenty seconds of
exertion, twenty seconds rest. It was during one of
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exertion, twenty seconds rest. It was during one of
the rest periods, after a particularly strenuous period
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NICK CARTER
of exertion, that the young soldier's hand flopped to
the ground and a moan passed his lips.
Perlman stared at him in horror.
The head swiveled. The eyelids parted like curtains
on a den of confusion. The pupils struggled to focus.
"You die!" he said again, although it was not clear
if he could see his intended victim.
Miraculously, he sat up. The gun was still in his
hand. He leaned over and pushed the barrel into
Perlman's face.
"You die!" he shouted once more.
The old man slowly closed his eyes. The image of a
woman appeared in his mind. A woman he hadn't
seen in three years, but looking as she had thirty
years earlier. His wife. "Margaret!" The thought
formed, but the word was stillborn.
The gun roared like a cannon and everything was
blown to oblivion.










ONE
Brrinngggg! Brrinngggg!
Carter's hand fumbled over the objects on the
night stand.
"Oh. Nicky," breathed a sleepy female voice very
near his ear.
He shifted his position to get more reach. The
mattress sagged, pressing a soft, warm, nude female
body all along the length of his right side.
Carter found the phone and picked it up.
'SNnnnmph, " he mumbled into the mouthpiece.
"Got time for a little office work tonight, Nick?"
asked a chipper voice. It was Walworth down at
AXE.
"What time is it?" asked Carter. The words felt
sticky. He ran his tongue around the inside of his
mouth. It tasted like wet felt.
"Three-thirty. The old man's in on this one. He
wants to see you. Pronto."
"The old man" was David Hawk, founder and
director of operations for AXE. AXE was a world.
wide organization with tremendous power, a super-
secret intelligence service for the U.S. government,
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NICK CARTER
•moortant man.



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which made Hawk a very important man.
' 'He's there now?" asked Carter.
'i Yes, but he doesn't want to discuss anything over
the phone. "
The woman was awake now. She had propped
herself up on an elbow and was looking down at him
as he talked. The dim light from the window fell on
her lower breast and left a shadow that looked like an
artsy black and white photo. Carter ran his finger
gently down its contour.
"You going to meet me at the door?"
' 'Yes, the usual arrangement, " said Walworth.
The woman smiled, then ran her tongue seduc-
tively over her upper lips, and Carter mentally cursed
Alexander Graham Bell. He had met her in an ele-
vator a few days before, and since then they'd seen
each other several times. She had been a charming
dinner companion and now had shown herself to be
just as delightful in bed.
She bent closer and pressed a kiss on the matted
hair of Carter's chest.
"You're coming in, then. Carter?" Walworth
pressed him. ' 'We can expect you in
The blonde's head had shifted lower on his body.
She was at his navel now, her tongue darting in and
out.
"In what? The usual thirty minutes?"
"Better make it an hour," said Carter.
It had been raining, and although it had stopped
several hours earlier,• the streets of Washington,
D.C., were still wet. The big radial tires of Carter's
new Porsche 944 splashed through a puddle as he
pulled to a stop on Dupont Circle.
The area was deserted. The big office buildings
that fronted the circle were dark and quiet. He got
out, wrapped a cashmere sport jacket around his
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
shoulders, and trudged up the street.
13
When he came to the Amalgamated Press and
Wire Services Building, he turned in. Amalgamated



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heWthfOUg a pu e as e
pulled to a stop on Dupont Circle.
The area was deserted. The big office buildings
that fronted the circle were dark and quiet. He got
out, wrapped a cashmere sport jacket around his
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
shoulders, and trudged up the street.
13
When he came to the Amalgamated Press and
Wire Services Building, he turned in. Amalgamated
was the front for AXE.
He slipped a plastic ID card into a concealed slot
beneath the building plaque by the door, and in a few
minutes Walworth appeared,
" 'Evening, Nick," he said as he opened the heavy
glass door.
"You mean 'morning,' " Carter growled.
"Guess so. The old man's upstairs. "
Carter started into the dark lobby. After a few
steps, he noticed Walworth still waiting by the door.
"Aren't you coming?" he asked him.
Walworth shook his head. S' The old man wants to
see you alone."
The small private elevator was waiting for him at
the other end of the lobby. Carter got in, fitted his
specially made key into the lock, and leaned back
while the compartment rumbled upward. A few min-
utes and a few ID checks later, he stepped into the
thickly carpeted offices of David Hawk.
The place lopked deserted. The big oak desk was
empty, as was the leather-upholstered conversation
pit. The TV was on, tuned to an all-night cable news
program, but no one was watching it. Then he saw
the familiar glow of Hawk's cigar stub on the other
side of a pair of glass doors. The doors were open.
He crossed to them and stepped in.
This was the solarium, the room in his office suite
Of which Hawk was most proud. The walls and ceil-
ing were glass and there was an abundance of plants.
It was nice during the day, fresh and clean like a
Japanese garden, but at night a transformation took
place. The stars shone through the dome overhead,
creating a magical backdrop, and below, the lights of
the city spread out like gems in a jeweler's case,




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creating a magical backdrop, and below, the lights of
the city spread out like gems in a jeweler's case,
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NICK CARTER
millions of brilliant distinct points all the way to the
horizon.
Carter had never failed to be moved by this sight.
It always filled him with awe, and that feeling came
over him as he stepped onto the narrow white gravel
path and crunched his way to where Hawk was sit-
ting.
"Hello, Nick," the white-haired man said. "Want
"I've had enough of that tonight. How about
some coffee? "
y 'Pot's brewing on the bar. Help yourself. Refill
this while you're at it. "
Hawk handed him an empty tumbler and Carter
carried it to the bar. He poured himself a cup of cof-
fee and fixed Hawk's drink. When he got back, he
found the old man staring absently out at the lights.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Hawk mused.
"Yes, sir," said Carter. sitting. "The monuments
especially. You wanted to see me? Walworth said it
was something important. "
"It sure is, Nick. It might not seem like it, but the
fate of our place in this hemisphere could very well be
affected by it."
' 'What is it, sir? What's happened?"
"General Stroessner is dying."
General Alfredo Stroessner was the strongman
who'd been running Paraguay for the last thirty
years. His death would no doubt create a political
vacuum in that country, a vacuum many factions
would try to rush in and fill. But how did this affect
AXE? It sounded to Carter like a CIA problem.
Then it suddenly dawned on Carter what Hawk
was driving at.
"Oh, Christ," said Carter. s 'I almost forgot. Perl-
man's got his camp in Paraguay."
"Bingo," said Hawk, taking a pull at his drink.
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"Perlman has been running his illegal training camp
in those jungles for three years. So far, he's managed
to steer clear of the government by bribing the right
people. But when the government collapses, Perl-
man's little scam is going to come to an end. i'
"And Perlman will be highly exposed.
' 'Right, "
said Hawk. ' 'And it's going to look a
little funny having an American hidden away down
there, teaching every Tom, Dick, and Harry who
wants to learn, how to blow up airports and assassi-
nate political figures. "
"He should have been eliminated long before
this, " Carter stated emphatically.
"He should have been, Nick, but he wasn't. "
"Why not, sir? Surely the people in a position to
know foresaw the danger this man represented to our
reputation. Not to mention the many people he's
trained who've come back to haunt us. "
"There is no question that a decision should have
been made and Frank Perlman should have been
eliminated long ago. The fact that he wasn't, I'm
sure, is causing palms to sweat tonight all over this
city. But that's gossip-column stuff. We've got big-
ger problems. "
"Perlman's base represents a military installation.
His base isn't big by any means, but neither is the
Paraguayan army. What's more, even though he's
isolated, he's strategically placed. If things went bad
in Paraguay, Perlman could become a political
factor. He might even be able to tip the balance of
power for one side or the other. And this wouldn't be
good. It doesn't sit well with our critics abroad when
our military personnel turn up in positions of power
in foreign countries, especially countries we consider
to be our friends."
"But Perlman's a renegade, sir. He left in a huff
NICK CARTER
after they refused to promote him and then he started
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after they refused to promote him and then he started
that mercenary camp of his. You can't really con-
sider him part of the military."
"I'm afraid those things are easily forgotten, Nick.
Besides, between El Salvador and Nicaragua, we
can't afford another problem in still another Latin
American country."
"So Frank Perlman is going to be eliminated, is
that it?"
"Yes, that's it. You know him, don't you?"
Carter hastily threw back a gulp of what was now
lukewarm coffee. "Yes, sir."
0There's nothing much more to tell. He was my
first instructor in unarmed combat. I liked him."
"I'm going to have to have all of it, Nick."
Carter set down his cup with a sigh. "Well, I more
then liked him. I admired him. I think everyone who
worked with him did. He'd spent a lot of time in
Japan after World War Two, and he had that Japa-
nese sense of total duty. To live—for him—was to
fight, and to fight efficiently and with honor was the
highest ideal a man could reach for."
"Could you kill him?"
Carter hesitated. He feared that if he answered too
quickly, Hawk might doubt he was telling the truth.
On the other hand, he knew if he had to, in the line of
duty, he would kill Frank Perlman.
"Yes," he said finally.
"All right, let me give you the rundown. We figure
it's not going to be any great problem getting you
into the camp. Perlman isn't there right now. He's
off overseeing the building of another camp even fur-
ther in the interior. Our reports say he's been spend-
ing a lot of time there lately. It's a kind of pet project
of his.
"Meanwhile, his camp is losing money. Several of
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
17
his biggest clients haven't paid him, and you can
imagine that once these men are trained, it's hard to
get your money. What's more, damage during the
rainy season was extensive. He's had to make repairs



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Deensp
ing a lot of time there lately. It's a kind of pet project
of his.
"Meanwhile, his camp is losing money. Several of
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
17
his biggest clients haven't paid him, and you can
imagine that once these men are trained, it's hard to
get your money. What's more, damage during the
rainy season was extensive. He's had to make repairs
and that's cost him plenty. This could be the reason
for the secondary camp. At any rate, Perlman is near
to being broke.
"We're going to set you up as Phil Royce from
Colombia. We have people in Bogotå working on it
already. You're an American who's made a fortune
dealing cocaine. We need a lot of hype here, so lay it
on thick. You're an old friend of Perlman's and
you're down there looking for an investment op-
portunity. That ought to get you the red-carpet treat.
ment.
' 'When Perlman gets back, he'll recognize you im-
mediately, of course, and the game will be over. Then
you'll have to kill him quick and get the hell out of
there. "
' 'What about the camp?"
"Leave it. We don't want anyone shouting Ameri-
can intervention at us. Just kill Perlman and get away
as clean as you can. "
"What happens if Perlman wants to leave volun-
tarily? It's possible—once he understands the politi-
cai situation—he might want to give himself up. "
Hawk studied the ice cubes in the bottom of his
glass for a moment. "You're not going to have a
problem with this, are you, Nick? I know you have
some feelings for Perlman. I selected you for this
assignment because of your unflagging devotion to
duty and all that, but also because I figured that if
you knew Perlman, the chances of making a mistake
in identity were minimized. But if you have doubts,
don't want you to go. The slightest hesitation
down there could mean your life and it could mean a
botched assignment. "



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botched assignment. "
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NICK CARTER
' '1 know that. sir."
"Everyone has a time to die, Nick. This is Perl-
man's."
' 'I know that, sir. Don't worry."
Hawk regarded Carter sharply. won't," he
said. "You'd better get going. I'm having a suitcase
made up for you—everything you'll need for the co-
lombian fiction and a large amount of cash, plus let-
ters of credit from a bank in Bogotå. They'll hold
up as long as no one checks too close. I'll have it sent
around to your apartment."
"Yes, sir," said Carter, and he got up, shook his
superior's hand, and left his office. The dark, rain-
slick Washington streets seemed especially dreary.









TWO
Hawk's plan called for Carter to fly to Bogotå,
spend the night, then fly to San Pedro, Paraguay, the
next day. This second flight was something of a milk
run, and although he boarded at 4:00 A.M. Bogotå
time, it wasn't until late afternoon—while they were
waiting to take off from Santa Cruz, Bolivia—that
the pilot came on the scratchy intercom and an-
nounced the next stop would be Asunciön, then San
Pedro.
Carter had spent the day landing, waiting on run-
ways, and taking off again, and he was exhausted.
His last fellow passenger had deplaned in Santa Cruz
and he was alone on the plane. He iay his head back
on the seat of the old-fashioned four-engine propeller
aircraft and dozed.
He couldn't have been out more than ten minutes,
when he awoke and found he was no longer alone. A
man had boarded and was sitting two seats up on the
other side of the aisle. Carter pulled himself to full
wakefulness.
The plane took off in its usual precarious fashion
and Carter absently watched out the window as the
20
19
NICK CARTER
ground receded beneath him. A body suddenly set-
tled into the seat next to him and Carter looked over
directly into the eyes of the newcomer.



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wakefu ness.
The plane took off in its usual precarious fashion
and Carter absently watched out the window as the
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19
NICK CARTER
ground receded beneath him. A body suddenly set-
tled into the seat next to him and Carter looked over
directly into the eyes of the newcomer.
He was Hispanic, dark-eyed and black-haired,
going slightly bald on top. On his lap was a briefcase.
He opened it wide enough for Carter to glance in and
see a CIA identification card. Carter checked the
photo and read off the name. "Mendoza?" he said.
"Si. Is it all right if we speak in Spanish?"
"Si, said Carter, shifting his mental gears into
that language.
"l have additional information on the camp. The
'target' isn't there. I suppose they told you that."
"He's at some secondary camp, deeper in the
bush."
"Si. As a matter of fact, he's been spending more
and more time there. Our analysts feel that this is
evidence of his advancing madness."
"Madness?" asked Carter.
"Si, senor. Colonel Perlman is completely insane.
J assumed they had told you that. Not that it's
unusual; a man spends so many years in the jungle,
it's hard to be anything but crazy.
"They didn't tell me he was crazy."
"Why else would he go off for months at a time
and live in a deserted outpost far from human con-
tact?"
"l haven't the faintest idea. "
('Well, take it from me, the man has lost complete
touch with reality. The primary camp is now in the
hands of a man they call Colonel Zack Anderson.
We've done research on him, but so far we haven't
been able to turn up a thing. He speaks fluent English
and Spanish, but he's not North American or Latino.
One of our researchers has suggested he may be Mid-
dle Eastern. At any rate, he's a stickler for discipline



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as•u ggestecnetnayO
dle Eastern. At any rate, he's a stickler for discipline
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
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and a nut on esprit de corps, if you know what
mean."
"I know the type. Where are you getting all this?"
"We infiltrated. Not very successfully, I'm afraid.
We haven't heard from our contact in several weeks.
He's dead, most likely."
"So you haven't anyone in there now?"
Before Mendoza could answer, the cockpit door
opened and the copilot emerged. He nodded as he
made his way down the aisle. CWBuenos dias, " he
said, smiling.
"Buenos dias, " replied Carter and Mendoza.
He walked past and disappeared into the toilet
compartment at the rear of the plane. Mendoza
waited until the man had finished and returned to the
cockpit before continuing.
"That's right, Senor Carter," he whispered. "I'm
afraid you 'II be on your own. "
"I'm used to it,"
said Carter. "Got anything
else?"
"No, that's it."
"If you'll excuse me, then, I think I'll get a little
shut-eye before we land." Carter moved his seat back
down a bit and folded his arms across his chest.
He hadn't any more than closed his eyes, it
seemed, before he felt a strong hand on his shoulder,
shaking him. He looked up and found it was the co-
pilot.
"We have arrived, senor. This is San Pedro."
Carter looked around. Mendoza was gone.
"Thank you," he told the copilot. Then he stood up
and began to gather his things together to leave the
plane.
He didn't take what Mendoza said about the state
of Perlman's sanity very seriously. It sounded like



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the kind of speculation CIA analysts were prone to
chew over on coffee breaks. Perlman's motives were
certainly obscure, but that didn't mean he was crazy.
On the other hand, the information that Perlman
was not in camp and had not been there in months,
and that they had lost a contact in the last few weeks
and feared him dead, worried Carter. It sounded as if
complications were brewing, and the last thing he
wanted on this assignment was complications.
The man behind the desk at the hotel was very pa-
tient. He explained to Carter that Perlman's camp
was sixty miles downriver and that although boats
traveled upriver all the time, none went down, "Only
Indians go downriver," he explained.
"Then how am I to get to the camp?" asked
Carter.
The hotel man shrugged. Clearly, it wasn't his
problem.
Carter opened his wallet, which was stuffed to the
point of being unfoldable with Paraguayan currency.
"Money," he said, "is no object."
The clerk's eyes grew big as Carter handed over a
thousand-guarani note.
"Surely, senor, we can find someone willing to
make the journey," he said, taking the note and
stuffing it in his breast pocket with a smile. "Have a
pleasant night tonight and leave tomorrow to me. "
I should think so, thought Carter, after that little
incentive.
The accommodations were typical, considering
how far from civilization he'd come, but they were
clean and the bed was adequate. Carter slept through
the night only to be awakened in the morning by a
loud knock at the door.
"Who is it?" asked Carter sleepily.
"Your boatman, senorl"
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
23
Carter pushed aside the mosquito netting, went to



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Carter pushed aside the mosquito netting, went to
the door, and opened it.
The man was a middle-aged Paraguayan with a
frayed straw hat. When he smiled, he displayed an
array of bad teeth.
"l am ready to go, senor, whenever you say."
S 'What's your name?"
"Juan."
"All right, Juan. I'll be down in a few minutes."
Juan's boat, it turned out, was an eleven-foot flat-
bottomed skiff wide enough for Carter, his luggage,
and one other passenger, had there been one. On the
stern hung a tired-looking twenty-horsepower Evin-
rude.
"This is going to take us sixty miles downriver?"
Carter asked when he saw it bobbing at the pier.
"Si. It is all downhill, is it not, senor?"
"Yeah, right. Downhill. How much is this little
trip going to cost me?"
"Ten thousand pesos, senor."
"That's five hundred bucks!" exclaimed Carter.
"You don't make that in a year down here."
"It is a very dangerous trip, seåor. The river is full
of rapids, and the jungle, sehor, is full of Indians. "
"I get the picture," said Carter, resigning himself.
He threw his suitcase on board and climbed into
the bow. Juan followed, seating himself in the stern.
He pushed the boat away from the pier and struggled
to start the motor. This was a complicated process of
wiggling gas lines, checking oil valves, and pulling
several times on a starting rope that was worn to
shreds in several places. It started, finally, and they
chugged out into the current.
Carter pulled his suitcase onto his lap, opened it,
and began fishing around inside. He grasped his
9mm Luger, affectionately dubbed Wilhelmina—
everyone needed at least one faithful, dependable
24
NICK CARTER
lady, Carter figured—and placed the gun on his lap.
The Paraguayan's eyes fixed on it as Carter closed
the suitcase.



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Carter pulled his suitcase onto his lap, opened it,
and began fishing around inside. He grasped his
9mm Luger, affectionately dubbed Wilhelmina—
everyone needed at least one faithful, dependable
24
NICK CARTER
lady, Carter figured—and placed the gun on his lap.
The Paraguayan's eyes fixed on it as Carter closed
the suitcase.
"l may need this if the trip is as dangerous as you
say," Carter said casually, strapping the holster
around his chest.
"Si, senor, " Juan said lightly, but Carter had the
distinct impression the sight of the gun made his
companion decidedly nervous.
The hotel clerk had been right. There was no boat
traffic at all in their direction. After no more than a
mile, San Pedro disappeared completely, replaced by
a wall of foliage that seemed to go on forever.
The river moved through the jungle like a huge
liquid snake, meandering this way and that with no
apparent purpose, taking the small boat with it.
By noon the temperature was well over a hundred.
Carter got out a floppy fisherman's hat he'd bought
that morning, dipped it in the river, and put it on.
"Hot, eh, sehor?"
" Incredible. No matter how many times I come to
the tropics, I always forget about the heat."
Juan pulled something out of his pocket. "Here,"
he said, passing it over.
It was a slender metal object, a flask, much used
from the look of it. Carter unscrewed the cap and
sniffed the contents. "Phew! What's in it?"
"Cana. A local drink. Very powerful. Very re-
freshing on such days. "
Carter threw back a mouthful. It tasted like warm
pancake syrup, but with an underlying dryness like
brandy. Carter guessed the alcohol content was very
high.
"Not bad,"
said Carter, taking another swig.
"Where do you get it?"



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"We make it here in Paraguay. It is the traditional
drink of my people."
Carter handed back the flask. "I'll have to remem-
ber to pick some up before I leave."
Overhead, the sun blistered the sky. It twinkled on
the river in white-hot dots. Insects hummed even over
the sound of the Evinrude. Near shore, Carter no-
ticed, a dragonfly hovered over the water, its body as
wide as a man's index finger. Waiting, waiting.
Carter's eyes suddenly lost their focus. He blinked,
trying to readjust them, but couldn't. Everything was
a blurred haze.
"Hey, Juan," he asked, "what the hell is that
drink again?"
' 'Cana. We distill it from sugar cane. Very po-
tent. "
i' I'll say.
A powerful fatigue fell over Carter. His head felt
heavy. His arms and legs felt as though they were an-
chored to the boat. He looked up and found the
Paraguayan regarding him with amused interest.
"You put something in my drink," he said, fight-
ing to enunciate.
His voice sounded odd, slurred and mumbled.
Juan's face pantomimed mild surprise.
' 'You doctored my drink, dammit! What did you
put in it?"
'81 don't know what you mean, senor."
Carter pulled Wilhelmina from her holster. She
seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He held the gun
in his lap for a second, trying desperately to over-
come the mind-altering effects of the drug, then he
aimed it at Juan. The boatman stared back, a twitch
of apprehension in his eyes.
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NICK CARTER


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"We make it here in Paraguay. It is the traditional
drink of my people."
Carter handed back the flask. "I'll have to remem-
ber to pick some up before I leave."
Overhead, the sun blistered the sky. It twinkled on
the river in white-hot dots. Insects hummed even over
the sound of the Evinrude. Near shore, Carter no-
ticed, a dragonfly hovered over the water, its body as
wide as a man's index finger. Waiting, waiting.
Carter's eyes suddenly lost their focus. He blinked,
trying to readjust them, but couldn't. Everything was
a blurred haze.
"Hey, Juan," he asked, "what the hell is that
drink again?"
' 'Cana. We distill it from sugar cane. Very po-
tent. "
i' I'll say.
A powerful fatigue fell over Carter. His head felt
heavy. His arms and legs felt as though they were an-
chored to the boat. He looked up and found the
Paraguayan regarding him with amused interest.
"You put something in my drink," he said, fight-
ing to enunciate.
His voice sounded odd, slurred and mumbled.
Juan's face pantomimed mild surprise.
' 'You doctored my drink, dammit! What did you
put in it?"
'81 don't know what you mean, senor."
Carter pulled Wilhelmina from her holster. She
seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He held the gun
in his lap for a second, trying desperately to over-
come the mind-altering effects of the drug, then he
aimed it at Juan. The boatman stared back, a twitch
of apprehension in his eyes.
26
NICK CARTER



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work for?" Carter de-
do you . . .
manded. A wave of dizziness passed over him, and he
put a hand on the gunwale to steady himself. Juan
rose to his feet.
"No, you don't!" said Carter, thrusting the gun at
him.
Juan sat down.
' 'What did you use on me?" Carter demanded
again, fighting to keep his wits. "And how much?"
Juan didn't answer. His dark eyes shone under his
straw hat. The insects chorused, the sun seemed to
have stopped in the sky. The whole landscape seemed
to be waiting.
"What are you waiting for me to do?" Carter
rasped. "Fall over in my tracks?"
Juan didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the
gun.
They'd come to a wide place in the river. The
shorelines had fanned out and diminished in size,
leaving them skimming over a broad expanse of what
looked like mud-colored glass.
Carter knew he had to act, but his perfectly trained
muscles refused to respond. He stared out at the trees
slowly passing.
This was Juan and they were in a boat. The gun
was out because he didn't trust Juan. Juan had done
something, but what? What had he done? Panic
seized him as he tried to remember. Something dan-
gerous. The boatman had shown himself to be dan-
gerous.
Carter shook his head, regathering his scattered
thoughts. He knew that he was in serious trouble,
that he must force himself to overcome the drug. Re-
flexively, his hand tightened on Wilhelmina.
Juan was standing now, looming threateningly
over Carter. As the Paraguayan made a sudden move
toward him, the boat lurched violently. Carter closed
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
27
his eyes involuntarily as the horizon dipped up and
down. but he opened them as he felt a tug on the big



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that he must force himself to overcome the drug. Re-
flexively, his hand tightened on Wilhelmina.
Juan was standing now, looming threateningly
over Carter. As the Paraguayan made a sudden move
toward him, the boat lurched violently. Carter closed
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
27
his eyes involuntarily as the horizon dipped up and
down. but he opened them as he felt a tug on the big
Luger.
"No!" he said forcefully.
With an almost superhuman effort, he willed his
muscles to finally obey him and wrenched the gun
away from Juan. The clumsiness of his action sent
both men sprawling, but at least Carter was still in
possession of his weapon. He picked himself up off
the gunwale of the boat and automatically fell into a
shooter's crouch, the gun held straight out in front of
him with both hands.
Juan had also picked himself up, and was smiling
gently.
' 'Give it up, senor," he said. "You can't last much
longer. The drug I gave you is an Indian one. Very
potent. "
"What are you talking about?" demanded Carter.
His ears were ringing and his knees seemed strangely
weak. He felt on the verge of collapse.
Carter looked out at the river. Juan had the steer-
ing stick settled into a notch of the steering gear,
keeping the boat on a straight course, but the river
ahead swept dramaticaily to the left. If they main-
tained their direction, they would soon run aground.
All this came to him in a jumble. He couldn't even
be sure it wasn't all a hallucination. At any rate, it
was painful to think. Juan's voice brought him back
to reality.
"Don't do this, senor."
Carter could understand why Juan was worried. A
fight between them would capsize the boat. But he
certainly wasn't going to give in without a struggle.
However, at that moment he didn't even feel like
standing. He wanted to sit and rest. Put his head on
the seat maybe and sleep. Sleep, he suddenly realized,
was one of the most important factors of life. With-




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standing. He wanted to sit and rest. Put his head on
the seat maybe and sleep. Sleep, he suddenly realized,
was one of the most important factors of life. With-
28
NICK CARTER
out sleep a man couldn't survive.
S 'No!" he shouted, and shook his head, trying to
throw off the stupor.
He leaped forward and threw Juan into the bow of
the boat. But the Paraguayan had once more grabbed
the gun, and he dragged Carter down with him.
Carter came out on top, but the gun was still be-
tween them. Neither one had managed to control it.
Juan tried desperately to pull the gun away. but when
he realized he couldn't, he pushed the muzzle under
Carter's chin and tried to work his finger onto the
trigger. It took all of Carter's strength to keep the
gun pointed upward.
Meanwhile, Carter could feel the vibration of the
motor and the stuttering of the water as it hit the
hull. How long? he wondered. How long before ....
Juan jerked the gun again, this time thrusting it
against Carter's side. Carter's hand jealously covered
the trigger guard, but the boatman's thick, coarse
fingers were insistent. They kept prying at his grip,
trying to break it. Carter tried to concentrate all his
strength in that one hand, but it was no use. His
brain was churning. It couldn't hold a thought for
long. He was on the brink of passing out.
The thick fingers broke through. They wedged
themselves onto the trigger.
Carter was able to push the gun away just in time.
The muzzle flash was blinding. The burning powder
sprayed his chest.
The gun began to insinuate itself in his direction
once again. Juan was twisting it back and forth,
looking for a weakness in Carter's defense.
So strong. Carter couldn't believe a simple boat-
man could be so strong. Juan's wrists bulged, his
forearms rippled with muscle.
Between them the gun trembled, balanced on a
knife edge. Meanwhile, Carter's mind spun. His


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29
sense of balance was starting to go. He felt dizzy and
his vision was getting black around the edges. It was
only a matter of time.
A shudder went through the boat as something
solid hit the hull, followed by the sound of splinter-
ing wood, then the entire craft bolted from the water.
For a brief second it was airborne. It made a quarter
turn, then landed with a jolt.
Water was everywhere. Juan, the gun, the boat—
Carter lost track of everything as water flooded his
nose and mouth.
He was spinning physically as well as mentally
now, down in the swirling eddy. For a moment he felt
he had no will left to fight it, then his head broke
the surface and he got a gulp of air. This one gulp
seemed to revive him. The cold water was clearing his
brain. The darkness that had threatened to engulf
him began to recede.
He opened his eyes. The sunlight glinted on the
surface of the water. He looked for the boat but
couldn't see it. Then he looked for Juan. The river
seemed to have swallowed everything.
The current was strong here. The river had picked
up speed. It was flowing along swiftly and dragging
Carter with it. The water suddenly dipped, flinging
Carter down, then propelled him forward with in-
credible quickness.
The first rock he hit surprised him. It was hidden
under the froth and looked to be nothing more than a
place where the water smoothed out. It caught him in
the chest and knocked the wind out of him. He tried
to catch hold of it, but years of being pounded by the
river had left it bowling-ball smooth. He slid over its
slippery surface like an otter down a slide.
The second rock was more visible, an ugly fist of
stone protruding well over the waterline. Carter saw
that the jet he was riding was sweeping him directly
30
NICK CARTER
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NICK CARTER
toward it. He threw himself to one side and began
clawing frantically, trying to avoid it.
It was hopeless. The water had him in its grip. It
tossed him back and forth effortlessly. It flung him
up, and then he came down squarely into the rock's
face, hitting his chest and knocking his head hard.
The current deposited him in a calm spot. He hesi-
tated there only a second, then the river pulled him
again and he was off.
He didn't try to avoid any more rocks. The blow to
his head had left him almost unconscious, and he'd
lost the ability to fight. He rode the tide the way a
man rides the air after jumping from a bridge,
heedless of what may come to meet him.
Suddenly something caught his arm. His progress
in the torrent stopped. Carter's head bobbed up long
enough for him to catch a glimpse of what it was: a
small, brown-skinned man. The little man's long,
sinewy arms looked capable of almost anything, and
one of these arms had Carter by the wrist,
Undressed, Carter weighed about 175 pounds; his
wet clothes and shoes added at least another dozen.
But the small brown-skinned man seemed to have no
trouble holding Carter against the swirling water.
Then he pulled mightily and brought Carter's hand
far enough onto the rock for him to find a handhold.
Then the man let go.
Now it was up to Carter. With every ounce of his
strength, he slapped his other hand onto the rock and
held on. Straining, he pulled himself up until the rock
was below his waist and his upper torso was out of
the water. Then he flopped onto the rock's warm
dryness and for a moment lay savoring the relief
flooding through him.
Finally he remembered his benefactor. He sat up,
but he was alone on the rock. In fact the river was
deserted. Nothing but foliage and rolling water
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
everywhere. Then he saw a branch move by
water's edge.
He scrambled to his feet. Several large stones
31
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flooding through him.
Finally he remembered his benefactor. He sat up,
but he was alone on the rock. In fact the river was
deserted. Nothing but foliage and rolling water
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
31
everywhere. Then he saw a branch move by the
water's edge.
He scrambled to his feet. Several large stones pro-
truded from the water about a leap apart. He jumped
to the first, then the second. This method only took
him so far. Then he grabbed a tree limb and began to
shinny. He had to hurry. He didn't want whoever it
was to get away. After all, when a man saves your
life, you've got a right to thank him.
He reached the bank and found a crude path,
nothing more, really, than a trail of matted weeds.
He began to jog down it.
The path was apparently well used by the jungle
animals. The undergrowth parted on either side and
it skirted most of the tangled trees.
In a short time he scaled a narrow ridge, and ahead
of him, through the leaves, he spotted four brown
figures.
"Wait!" he called out.
The figures broke into a run. Carter started after
them, but by the time he got to where they'd been,
they were gone without a trace.
Sadly, he turned and started back toward the river;
he'd given up all hope of ever finding his rescuer.
When he came to the base of a small knoll, the path
turned sharply upward and disappeared in the trees,
In its center, directly ahead of him, nude and poised
perfectly still, was one of the most beautiful young
women Carter had ever seen.
"Hello," he said.
Without a word, she turned, and in a second, she
was gone.








*
THREE
Carter trudged back to the river that had almost
taken his life. He was exhausted. He needed time to
think. A rock stood well above the swirling cataract.
He climbed onto it and stretched out in the warm
sun.
There were many factors to consider. Part of his
problem was that he didn't know where he was.
Somewhere on the river was a supply depot for Perl-
man's camp. Members of Perlman's training teams
of ten waited there. Carter had thought it would be
the perfect place to make contact. But he had no way
of knowing now if he'd already passed the depot or
not.
Another factor was that his suitcase had gone with
the boat. The money was in it—the reason for Juan's
having drugged him, Carter was sure—along with the
Colombian identification, Now he was going to have
to try to talk his way into the camp and hope they
took him at his word,
Survival was now the main order of business, he
concluded. He had no idea how far downriver he'd
come and no supplies. Only the Paraguay remained.
He would follow it upstream. If he reached the sup-
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THE MASTER ASSASSIN
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THE MASTER ASSASSIN
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ply depot first, fine. If he came to San Pedro first, he
would wire for more money and start again.
This decided, he felt better. He lay back and in a
short time, he was asleep.
He was awakened by the unmistakable click of a
gunbolt. His eyes popped open. Poised in the air
above him was the cavernous barrel of an Uzi sub-
machine gun. On the other end was a young man who
looked as though he'd just stepped off the beach at
Da Nang. A pair of ammo belts crisscrossed his chest
and on his head was a World War II-type pot helmet,
netted, with pieces of fern stuck through it.
"On your feet," he growled in Spanish.
Carter got to his feet slowly. He didn't want to
make any quick moves. The kid looked nervous
enough as it was.
"Who are you?"
"Name's Phil Royce. I'm looking for Colonel
Perlman."
' 'Sergeant!"
the kid called loudly. "Come see
what I found!"
Out of the underbrush stepped four more soldiers,
all in full combat uniform and all carrying Uzis.
Their apparent leader, a dark-skinned man with a
pencil-thin mustache, swaggered to the water's edge,
his face puckered with anger.
"What the hell's all this shouting, Gallegos?"
"See? I found him sunning himself like some
stinking snake. "
The sergeant stared at Carter. "Bring him here,"
he snapped.
Gallegos nudged Carter with the barrel of his gun,
and Carter jumped onto the riverbank, making a
three-point landing on his hands and one knee. Four
more clicks sounded as bullets entered the breeches
of four more Uzis.
The sergeant put the muzzle of his gun to the back
34
NICK CARTER
of Carter's head. "Over there," he said, motioning




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NICK CARTER
Of Carter's head. ' 'Over there," he said, motioning
toward a stump that was separated from the other
foliage. Carter got up, walked to it, and sat down.
"Says he wants to find Colonel Perlman." said
Gallegos, jumping down from the rock himself.
This brought amused smiles and knowing looks
from the other three soldiers.
The sergeant looked at his men sharply. "Shut
up," he said. "I'm doing the questioning." Then he
turned to Carter. "What is your name?"
Carter told him, then he asked, "Are you from
Perlman's camp?"
"l didn't say I knew any Perlman,"
said the
sergeant gruffly. "Besides. I'm asking the questions.
What's your business with this Perlman?"
' 'I'm a friend of his. I've come to look the place
over. I want to see if maybe it's worth a little invest-
ment."
'S You have money?" asked the sergeant, giving
Carter a sidelong glance.
' 'I had money. Until my guide stole it from me. He
took my suitcase, my identifications even a gun I
had. "
"You should be more careful, senor. This guide of
yours, he was a San Pedro locaP"
"Yeah, name of Juan."
The sergeant nodded to one of his men, who took
an object out of his pack and threw it on the ground.
It was a frayed straw hat.
'Found him floating two miles downriver. Back of
his head blown off. I'd say it was probably a forty-
five caliber. "
Carter gave a low whistle. "Now, who do you sup-
pose would do a thing like that?" he asked, looking
hard at the sergeant.
The sergeant exchanged a quick smile with his
men. "l haven't the faintest idea."
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
"Did he have my money on him?"
' 'Not a cent."
"That figures," said Carter.
"You have more money? How much more?"
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e asked, looking
pose wou o a t Ing et at.
hard at the sergeant.
The sergeant exchanged a quick smile
with his
men. "l haven't the faintest idea."
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
35
"Did he have my money on him?"
' 'Not a cent."
"That figures," said Carter.
"You have more money? How much more?"
"Enough. I've been running cocaine out of Co-
lombia for the past two years. Made a fortune, too.
But I'll do my talking to the colonel."
The sergeant's gun barrel came up sharply under
Carter's chin, knocking the Killmaster's teeth to-
gether. "You'll talk to me, or you won't leave this
jungle alive. Now, where is the rest of the money?"
"In Bogotå," Carter said, straining his words
through tightly closed jaws. "I have to wire my
bank."
"I see," said the sergeant, slowly withdrawing his
gun. "Well, Senor Royce, I guess you've come to the
right place. We're from Perlman's camp. Out on sur-
Vival maneuvers. You can come along with us if you
like. "
"Thanks,"
said Carter, testing his bruised chin
with his finger.
The sergeant introduced his men: a Russian named
Revsky; another Latino, stubbornly taciturn, who
looked to be still in his teens and had "Velasquez"
stenciled above his pocket; and a North American
named Patterson. And Gallegos. Carter looked at
Patterson expectantly, waiting for some acknowl-
edgment of the fact that they were compatriots. but
Patterson only turned away. The sergeant's name, it
turned out, was Tiez.
The introductions over. the men shouldered their
packs and began hiking inland, away from the river.
Tiez took the lead, hacking at the underbrush with a
long machete, with Carter directly behind him and
the four other men taking up the rear.
As they walked, Carter told Sergeant Tiez some-
thing of what had happened, how Juan had drugged




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thing of what had happened, how Juan had drugged
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NICK CARTER
him in order to rob him, then had left him in the
river.
"You are a lucky man, sefior," said the sergeant.
"You got out of the river just in time. Another
kilometer and the river falls about a hundred meters.
It is a pretty sight, but you would have been crushed
to death, I'm afraid."
Carter paused and thought he could hear the falls
over the humming of the insects. He gave a moment
of thanks to his unknown savior.
As the soldiers walked, no one spoke, and yet
Carter had the distinct impression they were very
aware of each other. Orders were given with a nod of
Tiez's head or a movement of his eyes, then carried
out immediately. They were well trained, he thought.
That was for sure. Perlman's stamp was all over
them.
Eventually they came to a low place where an er-
rant branch of the river had flooded, bringing with it
the debris of the forest. Huge logs of cypress and
teak lay tangled together like a child's game of pick-
up-sticks, forming a gridwork over the ground. The
ground itself was little more than thick silt. When
Carter stepped into it, he sank up to his knees.
"Better stick to the high road," said Tiez, pulling
him up onto the mass of cypress branches. He turned
and continued on his way, scrambling over the tree
limbs like a monkey. The others followed, as did
Carter.
This method of travel was rather slow. After
twenty minutes they were still only halfway across
when one of the men, the young Latino named Velas-
quez, suddenly leaped forward onto a log next to
Carter, pulled his gun from his back, and fired into a
nearby tree.
At first Carter thought he was playing some kind
of game, then the foliage began to rustle loudly and
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Carter saw what the young man had been shooting
at. A dark body flashed into view below the branch,
hung for an instant, and fell.
The others began to move methodically in the di-
rection of the fall. Carter followed them.
When they reached the spot. the body lay sprawled
face-up on a tangle of branches, and Carter saw who
it was. Below him, half his face all but blown off,
was the brown-skinned man who had saved him from
the river.
"Nice shooting," the sergeant said to Velasquez.
"You plugged him through the head."
"Wait a minute," said Carter. "What's going on
here? It seems to me you just murdered this man in
cold blood, for no reason that I can see."
"Not man," corrected Tiez, "Indian. The govern-
ment considers them a nuisance, so we do the gov-
ernment a favor and kill them whenever we can. Be
careful," he cautioned the others,
"he may have
friends. "
"I'm afraid I still don't understand," said Carters
catching the sergeant by the arm. "You mean you kill
these people wholesale, whether they bother you or
not?"
"What's so hard to understand? They're a nui-
sance and the government wants them eliminated.
Cheaper to do that than pay for their deportation to
another part of the country. They used to pay a
bounty on them, but Amnesty International made
them quit. Velasquez, why don't you show Sehor
Royce your trophies?"
Velasquez grinned and held up a strip of leather
with small objects strung along it like beads. They
were heads, shrunk to an eighth their original size,
their mouths and eyes sewn tightly shut.
"He didn't kill all those," Tiez hastened to ex-
plain. "We found two on another Indian. They like
38
NICK CARTER
to kill each other, too. Sometimes I think they'll get
ahead of us and kill each other off before we can get



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e asquez grinne an e up a stnpo eat er
with small objects strung along it like beads. They
were heads, shrunk to an eighth their original size,
their mouths and eyes sewn tightly shut.
"He didn't kill all those," Tiez hastened to ex-
plain. "We found two on another Indian. They like
38
NICK CARTER
to kill each other, too. Sometimes I think they'll get
ahead of us and kill each other off before we can get
to them."
Carter swallowed his angry words. The sight Of the
man who had saved his life, lying shot with a hole in
the side of his head, brought a taste of bile to his
throat.
Tiez seemed to sense this. "Newcomers don't al-
ways understand this sort of thing," he said. "You
have to live here a while."
Carter cleared his throat. It wasn't going to be easy
to speak without his voice giving away how he felt.
"Does Colonel Perlman condone this?" he asked
hoarsely.
"Sure."
Wrong, thought Carter. At least not the Colonel
Perlman he once knew. Either these men were acting
on their own initiative, or Frank Perlman had done a
lot of changing in the past fifteen years. Maybe he
had gone insane.
Carter started to say something further, but Tiez
grabbed him roughly on the shoulder and motioned
for him to be quiet.
The others seemed to sense something too. With
no apparent communication between them, they split
up, each taking a different direction, and began
scurrying silently over the rigging of limbs and tree
trunks.
Carter watched, amazed. They moved like agile
chimpanzees, using their hands and feet both, until
they were a good distance away. Then suddenly one
of them dropped down behind a mass of dried moss
and river weed. Shouts filled the air, and three more
scantily-clad Indians—a woman, a young boy, and a
girl of about eighteen—tried to make a run for it.
Unfortunately, they ran right into the other sol-
diers. The Uzis all spit fire.




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girl of about eighteen—tried to make a run for it.
Unfortunately, they ran right into the other sol-
diers. The Uzis all spit fire.
THE MASTER ASSASSIN
39
Caught in a hail of bullets, the woman fell through
the branches into the mud below and was half swal-
lowed up. She lay on her back, her dead eyes staring
up at the sun.
The boy became entangled among the dead limbs,
and Velasquez wasted an entire clip of ammunition
severing his arm at the shoulder so he, too, would
fall.
The girl quickly saw the futility of trying to escape
and timidly stood still, facing them. Having nothing
left to shoot, all guns turned to her.
Carter recognized her at once. Trembling on the
tree limbs, five machine guns waiting to cut her
down, stood the doelike creature who had stopped to
stare at him on the path.
Gallegos leveled his weapon at her. But apparently
Carter wasn't the only one to be struck by her
beauty. As the young man was about to pull the trig-
ger, Tiez swept down from a branch and kicked the
gun.
"Let's not be hasty." said the sergeant.
Gallegos looked at him as though he were crazy.
The sergeant shinnied down until he was level with
the girl. She was shaking like a rabbit. The entire
branch vibrated.
He put up his gun and approached the girl cau-
tiously, his hands cupped out in front of him like a
naturalist who'd found a wildflower sprouting in a
thicket of thorns. "We don't want to damage this
one," he said.
From his belt he whisked out a crude pair of hand-
cuffs that from where Carter stood looked as though
they'd been fashioned from a vine. With these in one
hand, he reached out with the other and touched her
arm.
The girl recoiled as though she'd been burned.
Tiez was undaunted. He moved still closer, whis-




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