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professional assassin.
I thumbed through the thick pile of papers be-
hind each picture. There were assignment sheets,
medical histories, biographies, and press clippings.
Just about everything I would need for a complete
background check.
"Nick, can we get out of here?" Laufen asked,
tugging at my sleeve. "If I don't get out of these
wet clothes, I think I'm going to catch pneu-
monia. "
"Just a few more minutes," I promised. "I want
to make copies of these and return the originals to
the files." I was tempted to remind her that she had
insisted on coming along, but I decided to let it
pass.
"There's a Xerox machine down the hall. You
might as well let me make the copies—God knows
I've had enough practice. "
The big copier made a quiet humming noise that
was barely audible unless you were standing by it.
Lauren fed the photos and papers in while I held
the flashlight and we soon had full copies of all
three folders. I slipped the whole packet into an
envelope I'd brought along and tucked it under my
belt. If we did run into anyone, I wanted to have
my hands free.
We quickly replaced the originals and began to
thread our way through the desks, back toward the
stairs. It was then that I heard it—the sound of
footsteps almost masked by the hard, drumming
noise the rain made on the windows.
"Down," I whispered, pulling Lauren to the
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floor. We were behind a big metal desk with the
rear wall of the building just a few feet in back of
us. The stairs and elevator were both on the other
side of the room, so our location made an ideal
observation point with a fairly small risk of being
discovered. Of course, I wasn't taking any chances.
I'd already drawn Wilhelmina; thp 9mm Luger felt
cool and comfortable in my hand.
The footsteps grew louder as they reached the
top of the stairs. There were two people coming up,
one heavy-footed, the other light. I peered over the
desk just as they reached the top. In the darkness
they were nothing more than vague, shadowy
forms.
"Turn on a light," a deep, gutteral voice de-
manded. "I'll be damned if I'm going to break a leg
tripping over all this crap. " The words were harsh
and forceful, with just the slightest trace of a
Spanish accent.
"Okay, you don't have to shout," a woman an-
swered.
I heard a click and one of the desk lamps came
on, casting a pale cone of light on the two figures.
One of them I knew and one of them I didn't.
The man was squat and powerfully built, with
broad-shoulders and a barrel-chest. His face was
squarish and craggy, featuring thick brows, a bro-
ken nose, and a drooping moustache that didn't
quite hide the hard set of his mouth. In the
lamplight his face looked like the crudely carved
stone head of an Aztec deity—-one of their many
cruel and uncompromising blood-gods. He was
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wearing a rumpled gray suit and a heavy overcoat,
the front of which was stained with cigarette ash.
The pink rosebud pinned to his lapel was withered
and brown at the edges.
"Let's get on with it, bitch. I don't have all
night."
"Sure, Hector, whatever you say. "
I'd recognized the woman he'd called "bitch" as
soon as the light went on. It wasn't difficult, con--
sidering that I'd been looking at her picture only a?
few minutes earlier. Gail Huntington looked even-
beeter in person. The black-and-white photo'
couldn't capture the warm chestnut color of her
shoulder-length hair or the depth of her luminous/
green eyes. It also didn't hurt that she had a figure
that would make any man stop and stare. The blue!
jumpsuit she was wearing hugged the contours of,
her body like a second skin. Now I could see why
Lauren had developed an inferiority complex
working there.
I watched as the American model leaned overl
one of the desks and detached a plastic-wrapped
bag tapped beneath it. She carried it over to the
man called "Hector," holding it out in front of her
at arm's length. I had a feeling that she didn't want
any physical contact with him.
"The weight feels right," he said, hefting the bag;
with one hand. "I don't think you'd be stupid/
enough to try and short me. You wouldn't look
nearly so pretty after they fished your bloated body
out of the Seine. Comprendo?"
"I'd never do anything like that," she said quick-
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ly. Her voice was dry-throated and crackling with
fear.
"How reassuring," Hector said, grinning. "As
long as you remember that, we won't have any
problems. Because I settle them all the same way——
swiftly and eternally."
The hand he'd kept in his overcoat pocket came
out holding a gun. It was a German-made Sauer-
Selbsladepistole, a 7.65mm automatic that they'd
stopped making after the war. He held it low and
to the side, not quite pointing at her. Still, he only
needed to move it a few inches for a perfect stom-
ach shot.
"Can't you put that away?" she asked meekly.
"Please , Hector."
He smiled, exposing uneven teeth stained with
nicotine. "It makes you nervous, no? I like it when
people are nervous, they listen better that way.
Now I want you to pay close attention to what I'm
going to say."
She nodded silently, her eyes never leaving the
gun.
"The rendezvous I told you about before is defi-
nite now. The consul is anxious to meet you and
it's going to be big. A real killing, unless you screw
it up."
"I won't, Hector. I promise you everything will
be perfect."
' 'It had better be. Now get going. When I leave
here in five minutes, I want you to be halfway
home."
Without speaking she headed for the stairs,
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pausing only once for a quick, frightened glance
over her shoulder. I listened as the sound of her
footsteps faded into silence.
Hector put the plastic bag down and lit a
cigarette. Ilis other hand was still loosely gripped
around the vintage automatic.
I slipped my arm around Lauren and pulled her
close. She'd been shivering ever since we'd
crouched down behind the desk. Whether it was
from her wet clothes or Hector's presence, I
couldn't be sure. Most likely, it was a combination
of both.
When five minutes had passed, Hector ground
out his second cigarette on the desk top and slipped
the package into his overcoat pocket. He took a
slow, careful look around the room and thcn
switched off the light. Lauren and I listened to his
heavy tread on the stairs and then, a few seconds
later, the sound of the street door closing.
I helped Lauren up and tucked Wilhelmina back
into my shoulder hoister.
"What an evil man," she said in a hushed voice.
"Have you ever seen him before?"
She shook her head. "He isn't someone you're
likely to forget."
When we reached the street I saw his broad back
about a block and a half ahead of us. He was
headed south, walking at a leisurely pace in spite of
the rain. We closed the distance to a couple of hun- •
dred feet and followed him for three blocks until he I
entered an apartment building on Rue de Belgrade..
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Standing in the shadows, I watched the lights go on
in the third-floor front apartment. It was a pretty
good guess that our friend Hector was home for
the night.
"I'm freezing," Lauren complained. "Can we go
back to the hotel now, Nick?"
"I have to make a phone call first, but there's a
café down there on the other side of the street. I
think we both could use a double Remy to fight off
the chill."
It was near closing time and the café was
almost empty. The man behind the zinc poured us
generous doubles and gave me a jeton for the
phone. While I made my call, Lauren pulled up a
chair next to the big pot-bellied stove that heated
the place. When I looked back over my shoulder, I
saw she was smiling again.
"This is N3," I said after I'd exchanged the rec-
ognition code with the woman who answered. "l
want round-the-clock surveillance, effective imme-
diately, on number 16 Rue de Belgrade and
number 20 Avenue Gabriel." I went onto describe
Hector and Gail Huntington, and told the field-
office operator that under no circumstances were
the agents to come in contact with the two subjects.
I hung up the phone and sat there for a moment.
Our trip to the agency had turned up more than I
expected, but it also gave me some new questions to
find the answers to. Like, who was Hector and
what were he and the American model up to? And
what did the bag contain—narcotics, explosives, or
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something else? Three words that Hector had
spoken kept running through my mind-—"ren-
dezvous, consul, killing. " Maybe I'd already föund
my assassin.
54







Chapter Seven
The bedside phone rang a few minutes after nine. I
picked it up quickly before the noise could waken
the tousle-haired figure lying next to me.
"Allö. "
"Bon jour, M'sieur Carter. This is the concierge
speaking. I hope I didn't disturb you, but you
asked to be informed the moment your car arrived.
I'm happy to say it's here. I took the liberty of hav-
ing your driver put it in our garage. If you like, I
can send the keys up to your room."
"Thanks, but I'll be coming down in about fif-
teen minutes. Don't bother to have the attendant
bring it around. I'd rather take care of that my-
self. "
"Whatever you wish, M'sieur Carter."
I was glad to hear it had finally arrived. When
Hawk had ordered me to Paris, I'd had to leave the
Ferrari 512 Boxer down in Naples and take the
first available flight. Before I'd left, I'd made ar-
rangements with Dave Harris, an old friend and
ex-North American Racing Team engineer, to
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drive the car up for me. It was a favor he'd been
more than willing to do. When I'd bought the
twelve-cylinder Ferrari, I'd let him spend a few
hours behind the wheel. It was a classic case of love
at first sight. Even though we were good friends, I
wasn't surprised that he hadn't waited to say hello.
There was probably some car he wanted to look at
here in Paris. Dave had always related better to
cars than to people.
"Morning," Lauren said in a soft, sleepy voice.
"Good morning. I've got to go out for awhile.
Why don't you sleep in?"
"Excellent idea," she muttered, smiling at me
with half-closed eyes. She sighed once and rolled
over on her stomach, her long legs kicking back the
covers.
I knew I was beginning to care too much for this
lovely and vulnerable woman. It was an occupa-
tional hazard that comes from too many nights
spent in dark doorways and too many face-to-face
meetings with sudden death. God knows, I'd had
more than my share of women—beautiful, exotic,
and talented women. But there was something spe-
Cial about Lauren. I didn't look forward to the day
when it would have to come to an end.
After I'd showered, shaved, and dressed, I had
just enough time left to gulp down a cup of room
service coffee. Neither Bellows nor Monroe, the
field agents in charge of the surveillance teams, had
phoned in yet, which meant that nothing out of the .
ordinary had taken place. Still, I was anxious to be •
there myself. And I'd decided the Huntington
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stakeout would be first on my list.
Her file had made for some very interesting read-
ing. First, there was her background. According to
her personal data sheet, her mother had died in
childbirth and she'd been raised single-handedly by
her father, Sergeant Vincent Huntington, an Army
weaponry instructor. She'd participated in numer-
ous rifle and handgun competitions, and had won
nearly a dozen trophies by the time she was seven-
teen.
The other thing that had caught my eye was of a
rather different nature. Written at the top of her
employment record in thick block letters were the
words: "Refuses to work with blacks of any na-
tionality." The single word "blacks" had been un-
derlined three times for emphasis.
The marksmanship and the racism fit in per-
fectly with the profile I'd been developing of our
unknown assassin. Add the scene I'd witnessed last
night and it made an even stronger case against
her. I certainly wasn't eliminating Christine Calton
and Ann-Marie Michaels yet, but Gail Huntington
was far and away my leading candidate.
I spotted the Ferrari the moment I walked
through the garage door. Harris had backed it into
a corner slot where it was less likely to get clipped
by a careless driver. The 512 is a sleek-and graceful
two-seater with a low roof and a steeply slanting
windshield and hood. Mine was British racing
green in color. The car was too conspicuous to use
for tailing jobs, but unparalleled when it came to
precision driving and speed. It could go from zero
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to seventy in 6.8 seconds with a top speed of one
hundred and sixty-four mph.
I eased it out into the flow of traffic and headed
north on Avenue Montaigne. Like Rome, Paris is
one of those cities where drivers are not noted for
their courteous attitude toward pedestrians. They
prefer flicking their brights to using their brakes. It
sometimes makes crossing the street a real test of
your running ability.
I crossed the Champs Élysées through the
Rond Point and turned right on the Avenue
Gabriel. Number 20, where Gail Huntington lived,
was a small but well-kept building with a porte
cochére gateway and a cobblestone courtyard in
front. I drove by slowly but didn't stop. In my rear-
view mirror I caught a glimpse of Steve Woodriss,
an AXE field operative attached to the Paris office.
He was sitting in a blue Renault parked directly
across from the building. If he'd seen me, he did
nothing to acknowledge it. I drove two more
blocks down Gabriel and parked the car opposite
the British Embassy.
"Nick, old boy. They told me you'd be dropping
by. How are you?"
"Fine, Steve," I said, sliding into the front seat.
"How about yourself?"
"Couldn't be better, thank you. The American
girl took off half an hour ago with Monroe tailing
her. Left me here to keep an eye on the place."
"Any activity?"
'*No, it's been as quiet as a country churchyard. "
Some people think that vodka doesn't have any
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odor, but Woodriss literally reeked of it. I'd caught
the full power of his sour breath when he'd turned
to answer my questions. On the seat beside him
was a brown paper bag just about the right size and
shape to hold a pint.
"Care for a nip?" he asked when he saw me look-
ing at it. "I know it's against the regs," he added
quickly, "but I've got to have something to keep the
old circulation going."
"No thanks, Steve."
' 'Suit yourself," he said, turning his red-rimmed
eyes back to the building.
It's never pleasant to watch someone falling
apart. Woodriss had been a good agent once; not
Killmaster level, but a solid and capable field man.
That was before the Khmer Rouge got hold of him
back in '75. He'd been heading out of Cambodia
with important information about troop move-
ments in the interior. When we'd finally gotten him
out two months later, there wasn't a whole lot left
of the man we'd known. The physical scars even-
tually healed, but time didn't seem to help what the
Khmer Rouge had done to his mind.
AXE always takes care of its own. Hawk gave
him a desk job in Paris when he was well enough to
go back to work. He'd been there ever since then,
shuffling papers and gradually drinking more and
more. He could still handle the daily routine, but
they rarely sent him out on even a simple sur-
veillance assignment unless they were understaffed.
"Cigarette?" Woodriss offered, holding out a
pack of Craven A. I would have preferred my own
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custom brand, but I took one just the same. He
already felt bad enough that I'd caught him drink-
ing; there was no need to make him feel worse.
His hand trembling slightly, he lit us both, and
tossed the match out the window. The cigarettes.
were only one of the British mannerisms he had.
Other more obvious ones were his neatly trimmed
"regimental" mustache and the Harris tweed
sports coats he wore year round. Actually, he was
Anglo-American, since his mother was from Lon-
don and his father from Baltimore. He'd gone to
one of the better English schools and always took
a great deal of pride in wearing the school tie. If he
hadn't been recruited by AXE, it could have just as
easily wound up working for Britain's M15.
"You know I'm taking an early retirement," he
said, breaking the long silence. "End of the year.
I've already put a down payment on a small house
on the Costa del Sol. I don't think I'm going to
miss this much. A few people like yourself maybe,
but that's all. I'll give you the address and if you're
ever down that way, you can stop by for a visit."
"I'd like that, Steve."
"So would I." He smiled and turned his face
back to the window.
Suddenly, a big truck moved out of the traffic,
pulling in close to us. It stopped a few feet in front
of the Renault, wedging us between two parked
cars and blocking off our view of the building. The
gold lettering on the side read Cygne Meubles, but
if it was a furniturevan, they'd certainly picked an
odd place to park.
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I slipped Wilhelmina out, keeping the Luger low
and out of sight.
"Nick," Woodriss said quietly. "I'm not armed.
I'm sorry, but I didn't think it would be that kind
of job."
I cursed him silently, but said nothing. I was too
busy watching the rear-view mirror. Three men
were approaching us from behind. They were wear-
ing workman's coveralls, but I don't think they'd
ever moved any furniture. It's not easy to carry a
sofa and a Stoner light machine gun at the same
time.
The tight formation fanned out, with one of
them hanging back while the other two moved up,
one on either side of the car. They stopped when
the muzzies of the A1's were level with the open
windows.
"What's the meaning of this?" Woodriss de-
manded. He sounded like a shocked British tourist
who'd just found a dead moth floating in his soup.
But our friends weren't buying it. The one cover-
ing Steve prodded him with the gun and said, "Out
and keep your
of the car .
. slowly please . . .
hands up where I can see them."
He spoke with a thick Spanish accent, Colom-
bian possibly or Venezuelan. Both he and his two
partners were short and muscular, with swarthy
complexions and thick black hair. From their high,
angular cheekbones and full lips, I guessed that
there was more than just a trace of Indian blood in
their ancestry. They opened the car doors for us so
we could keep our hands at eye level.
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When I'd realized that we didn't have the fire-
power to take them on, I'd slipped Wilhelmina un-
der the seat. Anyway, one gun would have been
useless against three light machine guns at close
range. They had the momentary advantage and I
wanted to keep it that way. If we played this right,
it could possibly lead me straight to the embassy
assassin.
"Don't think I won't inform the proper author-
ities," Woodriss said in a quivering voice. He was
still playing the outraged innocent, trying to gain
information and keep them off balance at the same
time. ' 'If you think you're going to get away with
this," he went on, "I have to warn you that .
The rest of the sentence was lost as the butt of the
Stoner came crashing down on his face.
Woodriss staggered against the side of the trunk ,
his broken nose pouring out blood. He wobbled a
bit, but managed to stay on his feet. Slowly, so that
the move wouldn't be misinterpreted, he eased out
the handkerchief from his breast pocket and
staunched the bleeding.
The gunman who'd clubbed him smiled and the
other two smiled back at him. He was fast and he
knew it. Much faster than I'd expected.
They herded us to the rear of the truck, where
one of them jumped up on the tailgate and un-
locked the twin steel doors. He stepped back about
ten feet and motioned us up. "Move it,"
the man
behind me ordered, just in case I hadn't gotten the
message.
We climbed in with the other two following at a
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safe distance. Then they closed and bolted the
doors. From the outside it had looked like a nor-
mal moving van, but the dim light from the single
Coleman lantern showed me they'd made one ma-
jor interior alteration. Soundproofing. The walls,
ceiling, floor, and doors were all covered with a
thick layer of sound-absorbing tiles.
We were on one of the busiest streets in Paris,
only a few blocks away from the British and Amer-
icanembassies, and yet they could have started fir-
ing all three Stoners and no one would have heård
a thing. What we'd walked into was nothing less
than a killing ground on wheels.
"I see you're admiring the modifications," the
one who had entered first said, smiling. "It was my
own idea, and I think, you'll have to admit, a fairly
ingenious one. We've used it on several occasions
with great success."
"I'm sure you have," I said, looking at him more
closely. He was slightly taller than his two compan-
ions and his features were more refined. But what
really set him apart was his speech---clear, unac-
cented Middle American.
"University of Minnesota," he said as though he
had read my thoughts. "My father and brothers
went there also; it's a Rodrigo family tradition. But
enough talk about myself. Which one of you would
like to start explaining why you were watching
Mademoiselle Huntington's apartment?"
"That's ridiculous," Woodriss protested. "l
wasn't watching anyone's flat, I was merely waiting
for a friend—Mr. Carter here. We were about to
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take off when you blocked in my car."
"How unfortunate," Rodrigo said, grinning. 'VA
very nice story except for one detail. You've been
parked across from the apartment since three this
morning. Nobody waits for a friend that long. "
I could see this wasn't getting us anywhere and
that the conclusion to our little chat had already
been predetermined. Whatever we said, Rodrigo
intended to terminate us right here in the middle of
Paris. Still, I needed to keep him talking if we were
going to have any chance at all of surviving.
"I think I'd better explain our real reason for
being here," I said with quiet resignation. "It might
help if you took a look at my wallet first."
"All right," Rodrigo said, "but take it out slowly
and keep both hands out as you approach me."
I did as he asked. Rodrigo took the wallet from
my hand and motioned me back. He studied it for
a moment and then tossed it on the floor.
"Amalgamated Press and Wire Services," he said
slowly. "l fail to see what that has to do with the
situation. "
"It's very simple," I said. "Both Woodriss and
myself are working on an article, an exposé really,
detailing what goes on behind the scenes in the
modeling business. I'm sure you know what I mean
—models being forced to sleep with agency clients,
orgies, drugs, all-expense-paid junkets. Not that I
think Miss Huntington is involved in anything like
that,"
I added quickly. "It's just that as a fellow
American I'd hoped she'd be able to help me make
a few contacts. I called her several times, but she
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refused to meet with me. I thought maybe if we met
face to face, seemingly by chance, she might be
more willing to talk."
Rodrigo stared at me for a moment and then
laughed. "You show more imagination than your
friend, Mr. Carter, but your story is still full of
holes. Why didn't Woodriss here go after Gail
when he saw her leaving this morning? Another
man followed her, but he just stayed where he was
and continued to watch the house. You see, we also
had someone watching Miss Huntington—some-
one who was already here when your two friends
arrived. "
"Perhaps you're with a rival news service?" I
suggested. I didn't mind playing dumb, just as long
as I could keep him talking.
"Hardly, Mr. Carter. I have a great deal of mon-
ey invested in Gail and like any good business man,
I like to keep an eye on my investments. Perhaps
now you'd care to have one more try at explaining
yourself?"
I shook my head. "l told you the truth. If you
can't accept it, then there's nothing else to say."
I'd stalled long enough to accomplish what I had
in mind. The single Coleman lantern had given me
the idea. It really only illuminated a small area of
the van and if I could position myself where part of
my body was in shadow, I'd be able to gradually
ease Hugo out of my chamois arm-sheath and into
my hand. I could have done it easily by flicking my
wrist, but that would have taken a split second, a
split second I couldn't spare. I had to have it in my
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hand when we made our move. OtherwiseÄhe
Stoners would cut us down where we stood.
I'd managed it with the press card. After I'd
handed it to Rodrigo, I'd moved back close to
where I'd been standing before. Only now I was
about a foot and a half closer to the wall. My right
arm and shoulder were just outside the light spill.
With my captor paying more attention to Rodrigo
than to me, I soon had the pencil-thin stiletto rest-
ing comfortably in my hand. Now all I had to do
was signal Steve so we could move in unison. But
we hadn't worked together in years and I couldn't
think of one damn code word that would send him
into action.
"This is very disappointing," Rodrigo said soft-
ly. "l had hoped that one of you would be a little
more forthright. Because I am going to find out
why you've been spying on Gail. After Juan and
Fredrico finish with you, you'll be begging to tell
me. They always enjoy these things—the simple
pleasure of primitive amusements—but believe me
you won't enjoy it. Is there anything else you want
to say, Carter?"
There was, but not to Rodrigo. I had finally
found the right word for Steve: "Harrow."
We both dived at the same time. I came in low,
under the muzzle of the Stoner, burying Hugo to
the hilt in the Indian's stomach. He screamed and
twisted as I raised him over my head, his legs kick
ing frantically. The A1 slipped from his grasp, let
ting loose a burst of rapid fire as it clattered to the
floor.
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I hurled the dying man at Rodrigo, who fired
wildly, stitching a bloody line across the flying
corpse. The impact of the body knocked him to the
floor and sent the Stoner skating across the tiles.
At least for the moment, Rodrigo was out of the
game.
I turned just in time to see the other Indian snap
Woodriss's neck. It made a sharp cracking sound
and then his watery blue eyes went dead. The Indi-
an let him fall to the floor and turned to face me.
We were both about six feet from where one of
the Stoners lay between us. I began to move slowly
forward with Hugo in my hand, the long, thin
blade smeared with blood. The Indian grinned,
reached behind his back, and came out with his fist
wrapped around a wicked-looking ebony-handled
dagger.
He went into a crouch as we closed in on the
machine gun, his knife hand feinting and jabbing. I
knew what he was trying to do—-he was trying to
keep me from looking at Rodrigo. There'd been
just enough time for him to recover and shove the
body off. Maybe he was already bringing the
Stoner into firing position.
I raised Hugo and threw it in a spinning arch
that drove it into the Indian's chest just below the
breastbone. He Ict out a shrill, piercing scream as a
crimson stain began to spread across the front of
his coveralls. He tried to pull the stiletto out, but
his legs buckled and he hit the floor with an echo-
ing crash.
I dove, rolled, and came up with the Stoner in
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my hand. I swung it toward the rear of the van
where I knew Rodrigo would be waiting for me.
But it turned out I was wrong. He wasn't waiting to
blow me away and he wasn't still pinned beneath
the dead Indian—in fact, he wasn't there at all.
I held on to the Stoner and probed the shadows,
walking a complete circuit of the van. There was no
place for him to hide; just a few packing cases scat-
tered about, none of them large enough to conceal
a man. Then I saw it—a thin strip of light about
three feet long where the floor and wall came to-
gether.
I moved in from the side and cautiously pushed
the wall above the line. It gave way under my hand
and daylight flooded the interior of the truck. A
built-in escape hatch. Rodrigo had decided not to
hang around and see how the fighting came out.
He'd done a "rabbit" on his friends, turning tail
and scurrying to safety even though the odds were
on their side.
Turning away from the escape hatch, I walked
over to where Steve lay sprawled out on his side. I
rolled him onto his back and closed his bloodshot
eyes. Then, almost without thinking, I reached
down and straightened the school tie he'd always
been so proud of. During the last few years, he
hadn't been much more than a burn-out shell of a
man who drank to keep his ghosts at bay. Still, he
hadn't lost his nerve or tried to make a run for it.
Despite everything that had happened to him, he
would never be one of the Rodrigos of this world.
I left Woodriss and pulled Hugo out of the!
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Indian's chest, wiping the blade clean on his cov-
eralls before I slipped it back into my arm-sheath.
tit was time to get out of this charnal house on
wheels. I retrieved my wallet and pushed open the
escape hatch, jumping down into the sun-filled
Gtreet.
I walked back to the Renault for Wilhelmina
nnd then made a phone call in a nearby café. In
hbout ten minutes, two men in work clothes would
come and drive the "furniture" van away. Steve
would get a decent, if somewhat quiet burial, and
maybe the AXE lab crew would come up with a
:ead or two from their examination of the truck.
"Harrow," I said under my breath as I crossed
the cobblestoned-courtyard of number 20 Avenue
Gabriel. I'd known Steve would move on that
word because it meant so much to him. Harrow . .
the name of the English school he'd attended.
69








Chapter Eight
I stood outside Gail Huntington's door and liv
tened to the sound of the bell fade back into s
lence. That was the third time I'd rung it. Eith
she wasn't back yet or she wasn't opening the d
to unexpected callers. It didn't make any differen
to me. I knelt down and picked the "burgla
proof' double-lock system in just under tw
minutes.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, r
vealing a circular foyer with a polished marb
floor and twin Empire side-tables, each one bea
ing a large vase of freshly cut flowers.
"Miss Huntington,"
I called out, movi
through the archway and into the living room.
also was deserted, but the furnishings told m
something about the owner. There were pillows e
erywhere, large and small ones in different shad
of pastel silk. "I hey were piled up in corners a
scattered over the couch along with almost a doze
fur and sheepskin rugs. She was obviously the kin
of woman who liked things soft, comfortable, an
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not too far out of reach.
Then there were the ashtrays. Every one I saw
was filled to overflowing with crushed-out butts,
each of the filters ringed with deep-red lipstick
smears. Maybe she was a lousy housekeeper or just
damn nervous. Considering the way Hector had
treated her last night, nervous seemed the most
likely choice.
There was nothing unusual about the guest
room, kitchen, or bath, but the master bedroom
had several interesting touches. Like a fully
stocked wet bar in one corner and the huge mirror
suspended over the king-sized bed. She hadn't had
a chance to make it before she left. The pale-blue
I satin sheets were rumpled and twisted as if she'd
spent a restless night. Next to it on the floor, an
empty Moet bottle floated on the surface of a
water-filled ice bucket.
I had a feeling that she spent most of her time
here and it seemed as good a place as any to start
a thorough search. Ten minutes later I knew I'd
been right when I found the false-bottomed an-
tique dresser. It took me a while to figure out how
to open it, but finally I twisted one of the rosette-
carved knobs and a deep wooden tray slid out.
There was nothing feminine or soft about its
contents: a Russian Dragunov, one of the few semi-
automatic rifles specifically designed for sniping;
and three handguns—a Luger, a snub-nosed Colt,
and a single-action Smith and Wesson .357. All
four of them were perfect weapons for killing at a
certain range. I checked over each of them care-
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fully; they were all loaded, spotlessly clean, and in
perfect working order. There were also four full
boxes of ammo stacked in the drawer beside them.
The innocent explanation, the one her data sheet
provided, was that she was just a "gun nut" who/
liked to test her marksmanship in competitive(
shooting events. But her little arsenal was also,
something else—it was every type of weapon a proe
fessional assassin would ever need.
I put everything back the way I'd found it and
slid the drawer back into place. It took me an hour
to search the rest of the apartment, but I didn't
turn up anything worth a second glance. It was
almost noon, time for me to collect the Ferrari and
drive over to the other stakeout.
I locked up, using the picks again, and had just
slipped them back in my pocket when I heard th
sound of the elevator doors sliding open.
I quickly put my finger to the bell as a cool,
feminine voice asked, "What the hell do you think
you're doing?"
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Chapter Nine
I turned around and smiled. "Miss Huntington?" I
asked tenatively.
"Yes, I'm Gail Huntington. Now would you
mind telling me what you're doing here? The con-
cierge has instructions not to let anyone past the
desk without phoning me first. And never," she
added tersely, "to allow anyone up here if I'm not
home."
"I didn't see any concierge," I said, shrugging.
That was true enough; I'd picked the lock on the
service door and come up the back stairs. "I would
have waited in the lobby," I went on, "but since we
had an appointment, I figured you were expecting
me."
"Appointment?" She repeated the word with a
puzzled expression on her face.
"Yes," I said, smiling again. "Don't you re-
member? I'm Nick Carter, Amalgamated Press and
Wire Services." I flipped open my wallet and held
it out so she could see the ID card.
"l still don't understand," she said slowly, but
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there was no hostility in her voice now.
Seeing her close-up for the first time, I couldn't
help wondering how anyone that beautiful could
have anything in common with Rodrigo and Hec-
tor. But then, money and politics make for some
pretty strange relationships. On this morning she
was dressed in beige slacks and a rust-colored silk
blouse that complimented her shining chestnut-
brown hair. She wore surprisingly little makeup for
a model, and the only jewelry she had on was a
simple gold chain around her neck. I guess when
you look that good, you don't need a lot of extras.
"I called you last month," I continued, "and we
set up an interview for noon today. It's for the arti-
cle I'm doing on successful American women
working in Paris. Does that sound familiar?"
"Frankly, no. Not that I doubt your word," she
added quickly. "It's just that I've been very busy
lately and sometimes these things slip my mind. If
it won't take too long, I'll be happy to talk with
you."
"Half an hour at most. "
She fished a ring of keys out of her shoulder bag
and unlocked the door. "After you," she said, step-
ping to the side. She'd moved just enough to let me
by, but not without brushing up against her. If that
was the way she wanted to play it, it was fine with
me. I slid past, my leg grazing her thigh. She'd
done it casually, but it was one of the most sexual
split seconds I'd ever spent with my clothes on.
"We can talk in the living room," she said, lead-
ing me across the foyer with her hand on my arm.
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"I usually have a glass of wine around this time of
day. Would you care to join me?"
"Thanks, but don't go any trouble on my ac-
count."
"It's no bother," she said, flashing me a warm
smile. "Just make yourself comfortable and I'll be
right back."
I watched her make a graceful exit, her hips
swaying gently as she strode through the arched
door that led to the kitchen. Pushing some of the
pillows aside, I settled down on the couch and lit a
cigarette. I needed a minute or two to think this
thing through.
She'd fallen for my "appointment" story, or at
least it seemed that way on the surface. But there
were a few other factors to be considered. Like the
strong possibility that she was the graveyard sniper
who'd blown Julot away and that she recognized
me as the man who'd come to meet him. Or that
she'd been in contact with Rodrigo and had let me
talk my way in.
The transition from hostile to more than friendly
had been a little too sudden for my taste. Maybe
the smiles, the wine, and the come-on were all a
part of her act. If so, she was damn good at it. I'd
been in this type of situation many times before.
About one out of every six had turned out to be a
setup—-an attempt to get classified information, or
else to terminate me. I'd probably know within the
next hour: business as usual or just another victim
of Carter's boyish charm?
I heard the tap of her heels returning from the
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kitchen. I quickly unstrapped Wilhelmina and
Hugo and slipped them under a pillow. If she was
going to try some more body language on me, I
didn't want to have to take time out for awkward
explanations. But if things turned sour, the Luger
and stiletto were still close at hand.
"Now that didn't take so long," she said, re-en-
tering the room. She was carrying an open red bot-
tle of Pouilly-Fuissé in one hand and a pair of
long-stemmed glasses in the other. "Will you pour,
Nick?" she asked, offering me the bottle.
"My pleasure." I filled both glasses to the half-
way point, leaving room enough to savor the bou-
quet. There was another, stronger scent nearby.
Gail had daubed on perfume, a heady, exotic fra-
grance that reminded me of the jungle. She also
had decided we were now on a first-name basis.
"You don't have to rush with the interview," she
said softly. "I phoned the agency and told them to
cancel my afternoon shooting. I thought it was the
least I could do under the circumstances. I'm usual-
ly not that rude, or forgetful. Honest."
"You don't have to apologize," I told her. "It's
just as much my fault. I should have called you
yesterday and confirmed it. I really appreciate your
giving me the extra time."
"l wouldn't have it any other way," she said in a
breathy whisper.
The message was clear enough. If I wanted her,
I could have her. And I did want her, even if the
phone call she'd just told me about was to Rodrigo
and not to the Agency Castel.
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She picked up her wine and sat down beside
me. At close range her perfume was almost
overpowering. Images flashed through my mind——
a dark, sweltering rain forest; a jaguar stalking its
prey; a rough stone altar. All of them seemed ap-
propriate for Gail Huntington.
"Well," she said pleasantly, "what would you
like to know? I've done a number of interviews be-
fore, but everyone seems to have a different set of
questions. Some of which I wouldn't answer, even
for you."
"Don't worry," I said, laughing. "I'm doing this
for a family-oriented magazine. Since we have
plenty of time, why don't we start at the beginning?
The agency told me something about your
background. .
. that you were what we used to call
an 'army brat' and that as a teenager you were a
prize-winning handgun and rifle shot."
"That's right. My father was an Army weaponry
instructor. While the other girls on the base were
still playing with dolls, he had me out on the range
blasting away at targets with his .45 service re-
volver. Since he couldn't have a son," she said,
grinning, "he had to settle for a tomboy."
"He must be very proud of you."
"If he were still alive he would be," she said in a
cold, flat voice. "He died five years ago. He was on
his way home one night when three black bastards
jumped him in the base parking lot. They razored
him so bad that he bled to death before they could
get him to a hospital."
The bitterness and hatred there was so intense I
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could almost feel it. Her eyes burned with rage un-
diminished by time.
"Did the MP's catch them?" I asked softly.
"Yes, and it's lucky they did because I was out
looking for the sons of bitches myself. But the
MP's got to them first. They had a trial, even
though that kind doesn't deserve it. All three of
them pulled ten years hard time with a dis-
honorable discharge at the end of it. But that
wasn't nearly enough as far as I was concerned.
They should have shot them, right?"
Instead of answering the question, I quickly
asked another. ' 'Was it a random act of violence or
did some kind of motive come out at the trial?"
"Motive, shit,"
she said harshly. "They were
three recruits, just backwoods trash. My dad had
been having a little fun with them during gunnery
practice that morning. I guess a few of the boys got
carried away, roughed them up a little. But hell, it
wasn't anything to get crazy over."
There wasn't much I could say. I'd been in the
Deep South too many times to accept her story at
face value. In spite of all the new laws and reforms,
there were still a few twisted types left who liked
their "fun", most of it failing under the categories
of arson, assault, and rape. The real shame of it
was that the South had changed. There were just
some people too afraid to change with it.
"Pour me some more wine," she said, holding
out her glass. ' 'Every time I start talking about my
father's death I feel like bustin' loose, squeezing the
trigger on an M-16 and not easin' up until the mag-
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azine is empty. I guess we'd better not talk about it
anymore," she added in a softer voice. "And I
don't have to tell you that everything I just said is
strictly off-the-record."
"Don't worry," I assured her. "I wouldn't even
consider writing about something as personal as
that. What I'm after is a profile, not an exposé."
I refilled both our glasses, emptying the bottle.
"Tell me," I said casually, "do you get to do much
competition shooting over here?"
"None at all," she answered quickly. "I don't
really have the time anymore. In fact, I sold my
gun collection before I moved to Paris. I can't even
remember the last time I held a gun, let alone fired
one."
"Too bad," I said, trying to sound disappointed.
"It would have made an interesting angle for the
story."
One thing about Gail—she lied well. If I hadn't
uncovered her personal arsenal, I would have
sworn she was telling the truth. That didn't make
me feel very comfortable about the phone call
she'd made from the kitchen.
"Losing interest?" she asked. I think she meant
it to be seductive, but there was a petulant under-
tone to the question.
"No," I said, grinning. "I was just lost in
thought for a moment."
"Thinking about me?"
"No one else," I answered truthfully.
"You know you could have been a model your-
self, Nick. Not the pretty-boy type—your face has
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too much character for that. No," she said softly,
'fit would have to be something rough and mascu-
line."
She put down her wine glass and began to slowly
run her fingertips over the contours of my face.
"Rough and masculine," she whispered again,
"that's what attracts me."
I slipped my arm around her and pulled her
close. Our lips met, gently at first, but then we
began kissing with a kind of wild hunger. Her
mouth was dry and hot, her tongue eager and prob-
ing. She squirmed in my grasp, brushing against
me in a slow, sensuous rhythm.
Pushing me away, she suddenly stood up on the
couch. She teetered a little on her high heels until
she balanced herself with a hand against the wall.
"Watch," she said in a throaty whisper.
Her nimble fingers quickly undid the buttons on
her blouse. She pushed it back off her shoulders,
letting it fall on the floor. Wiggling her hips, she
slipped out of her slacks in even less time. She
wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her long,
supple body was evenly tanned to a deep golden
brown.
The discarded blouse also had concealed a broad
silver armband that encircled her arm just above
the elbow. It was crude beaten-silver, probably
hammered out by some local Indian craftsman in
the Andes. A single rough-edged piece of jade had
been mounted in the center.
"That never comes off," she said with a mocking
grin. Standing over me with her hands on her hips,
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she looked like an Amazon, or some savage and
defiant goddess about to accept a sacrifice from her
followers.
I undressed, palming the tiny gas bomb attached
to my thigh as I slipped out of my trousers. I
tucked it behind a cushion, reached out, and pulled
Gail down onto the couch.
There was nothing gentle about our love-mak-
ing. We came together, our bodies coupling in
furious, unthinking abandon. Gail twisted and
moaned, her arms locked around me and her long
onails digging into my back. The rhythm built
quickly to a pounding, savage tempo. She looked
up at me with her mouth in a half-open smile, her
deep green eyes bright with pleasure.
We slipped off the couch and onto the floor.
Both of us were glistening with sweat now and
holding on to each other all the more tightly.
In the frenzy of climax we knocked over the
empty wine bottle. It hit the table edge with a loud,
sharp crack and shattered over the rug. Neither
Gail or I even bothered to look in that direction.
We were still together, motionless now; the room
strangely silent except for the short, shallow
sounds of our breathing.
When we drew apart, she padded into the
bedroom and came back with a thick white bath
towel. "Dry yourself off," she said, tossing it to
me. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
I nodded and returned her smile. I had a feeling
she was headed for the shower and I was starting to
wonder why I hadn't been invited along. We'd al-
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ready ruled out modesty, so maybe it was just
something she preferred doing on a solo basis.
Another possibility was that the time had come
for something unpleasant to happen. Now was cer-
tainly the ideal moment for it. My weapons were
all tucked away under the pillows and I was naked,
something that always gives the clothed assailant a
psychological advantage.
I retrieved the Luger and briskly rubbed myself
dry, knotting the towel around my waist when I
finished. Traffic noises floated up from the avenue,
while down the hallway I heard the sound of a
shower being turned on full blast.
I dressed quickly, putting all three of my weap-
ons back in their proper places. I was still half ex-
pecting Rodrigo or Gail herself to make a sudden
reappearance. Not carrying wine this time, but her
nasty little snub-nosed Coltl Maybe it sounds para-
noid, but unless you're prepared for all the possi-
bilities your chances of surviving in this business
are pretty bleak.
"You were good," she said, emerging from the
hallway some ten minutes later. "I might even say
excellent, but I'd have to get to know you better
first. "
I suppose she meant it as a compliment. Only her]
tone of voice made it sound as though she were
passing judgment on the Pouilly-Fuissé we'd had
earlier. At least I had gotten a better-than-average
rating.
"So were you," I said quietly. I knew she'd exs
pected me to say something in return and besides
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iif you like them wild, it was an accurate enough
Jappraisal.
Gail tossed back her head and laughed. "I al-
fready know that, Nick. Still, it's nice of you to say
(SO."
"My pleasure. Don't let it go to your head,
f though."
We both laughed and Gail crossed the room to
isit next to me on the couch. Her shower had
y washed away the jungle scent, leaving her smelling
fresh and clean as a schoolgirl. She'd put on a
'white-silk wraparound robe and had pinned up her
: hair at the back. The savage goddess was once
again a sophisticated Parisian woman.
"I guess the modeling business has given me
tmore than my share of ego," she admitted with a
trueful smile. "It's hard to keep it under control.
(Feople are always telling you you're gorgeous . . .
I beautiful
perfect. After awhile it becomes
almost impossible to accept anything less."
"I understand," I said, holding out my cigarette
case. "In fact, it's a good angle for my story, if you
don't mind my using it?"
"No, that's fine. As long as you don't make me
look like too much of an egomaniac," she added
quickly.
"Don't worry, I promise I won't."
She took one of my cigarettes, her hand trem-
bling as she fumbled with the metal clip that holds
them in the case. She could barely keep it steady
when I lit it for her—the end dipped and danced in
and out of the flame.
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After the way we'd spent the last hour, I would
have expected her to be more relaxed than any-
thing else. Now, suddenly, Gail Huntington had
very bad case of the shakes.
"You'd better go now," she said quietly. "If you
call me later in the week we can set up a time for
finishing the interview."
"Whatever you say." I could feel the room tem-
perature rapidly dropping to below freezing. This
was certainly a very changeable lady. I leaned over
and kissed her chastely on the forehead. In return
she gave me a weak, half-hearted smile.
"Talk to you soon," I said, rising to my feet.
"So long." The two words came out in a barely
audible whisper.
I had my hand on the doorknob when I heard
her call out my name.
I quickly retraced my steps. She was sitting
where I'd left her just a moment. ago, only now she
had her arms wrapped around herself as if she were
shivering from the cold.
"Is there something wrong, Gail?"
She stared at me; from the look in her eyes I
knew she was making some kind of decision.
"No," she said finally, "there's nothing wrong. I
thought you'd forgotten your cigarette case .
that's all. You'd better get out of here now,
please."
It was a feeble, transparent lie. Nothing at all
like her earlier performance.
On the way downstairs I couldn't help thinking
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DLit how she had called my name. I'd never heard
poken quite that way before. With desperation
d fear is the best way I can describe it.
85










Chapter Ten
I spent the rest of the afternoon with the stakeou
team covering Hector. Before I arrived only twc
things had happened worth noting: one dull, the
other very interesting.
"He went out to lunch," Bellows informed me ir.
his usual laconic manner. "Came out of the build*
ing at exactly one and walked directly to a restau-
rant four blocks away on Rue Valadon. That
the first time any of us had seen him since we took
up our positions last night."
"Did anything happen at the restaurant?" I
prompted. Getting information out of Jeff Bellows
took patience—lots of patience. Still, I had asked
to have him assigned to the stakeout because h
was the most accurate and painstaking surveillance
man we had in the Paris area.
"He ate," Bellows said finally.
"Snails, a
casserole, and half a carafe of Tavel to wash it
down. O'Neil got a seat at the bar and kept him
under observation the whole time. The only time
Hector spoke was when he ordered his meal from
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the patron. When he finished he walked straight
back to his apartment."
"l hope that's not the interesting item," I said
with a rueful smile. "I'd really hate to hear the dull
one. "
Bellows shook his head and took another minute
to relight his pipe with that "flame-thrower" light-
er of his that had already charred away half the
bowl. There was no point in prodding him. It only
made for a longer wait in the end.
"He had a visitor," Bellows continued when the
pipe was finally drawing right. "A male in his mid-
to late-thirties, five-ten, stocky, with bone struc-
ture, skin, and hair color suggesting mestizo an-
cestry. He was wearing a tan raincoat over
workman's coveralls. Also, he walked as though he
were experiencing pain or discomfort. If I were to
hazard a guess, which I rarely do, I'd say he'd been
in a fight recently."
"l can put a name to your man," I told him.
"Rodrigo. He and a couple of his hoods killed
Steve Woodriss about three hours ago."
After a moment's silence Bellows said, "1'11 keep
that in mind." He and Woodriss had been friends.
The way he spoke the simple phrase made it sound
like a death sentence.
"This is a hands-off operation," I reminded him.
"At least for the time being."
Bellows nodded and went on with his report.
"Rodrigo arrived at two-fourteen and rang
Hector's apartment from the lobby. Hector came
down to meet him and the pair walked around the
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gardens of the Champ de Mars for about twenty
minutes. I couldn't risk getting anyone in close
enough to eavesdrop," he added apologetically,
"but from the way they were gesturing I'd say both
men were highly agitated. When they split up, I put
O'Neil on Rodrigo and followed Hector back to I
the apartment myself."
"Does their garden stroll suggest anything to
you?" I asked.
"We're obviously thinking along the samel
lines," Bellows replied with a wan smile. "They're
more afraid that Hector's apartment is bugged
than they are of being seen together. Otherwise,]
why talk in a public place when you can do it in
"Exactly. Here's what I want you to do, Jeff.]
The next time our friend goes out, check the place
for bugs. If an electronic sweep doesn't turn any
up, then plant one of our own. If you do find some,
then leave them and try to locate the listening post.
Clear enough?"
"I'll handle it personally."
I sat with Bellows in the tiny Austin for two
more hours. Apart from acquiring a strong
aversion to the maple-scented pipe tobacco he
smoked, I got nothing for my troubles. Finally I
gave up, collected the Ferrari, and headed back to
the hotel.
The streets were clogged with commuter traffic.]
I ignored the blaring horns and curses that were
standard fare in the Paris rush hour, concentrating
instead on what had happened that day. Despite
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the noise, the city had a calming effect on me.
Overhead, the low skyline glowed with sunset color
that was broken only by the Eiffel Tower and the
white-stone basilica of the Sacré Coeur.
One thing I knew for certain now—that Gail
Huntington, Hector, and Rodrigo were all con-
nected in some way. Linking together what I'd wit-
nessed last night at the Agency Castel, the "death
truck" incident, and my encounter with Gail, the
whole thing added up to a conspiracy. But a con-
spiracy to what end? There were still too many fac-
tors that didn't set right. The embassy assassina-
tions were the work of top-flight professionals.
Would they use someone like Gail with her
volatile, unstable nature and frequent mood-
swings?
In spite of the way he had set up the truck,
Rodrigo, too, was an amateur. A real pro would
have searched me and found Hugo strapped to my
arm. Hector was a hard case, an enforcer with
more muscle than brains. So if they were the group
that had been terminating Third World diplomats
so successfully, then who was the master planner,
the puppeteer concealed in the shadows who pulled
all the strings?
It was a question I would have to answer soon.
The Arab oil summit was only two days away.
I garaged the Ferrari and went up to my room.
Wes Dryer was sitting on a window ledge at the
end of the corridor. He smiled, waved, and came
forward to meet me.
"Anything happening?" I asked.
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Lauren's shadow for the day shook his head.
"She only left the room once to pick up some
cigarettes and a paper at the counter in the lobby. "
"Okay. Thanks, Wes, I'll take over now. You're
back on duty at the same time tomorrow."
As I turned to unlock the door, the lanky field
agent put a restraining hand on my arm. "Nick,"
he said, grinning, "is this really a top security tail-
job or just some pretty lady you're worried about?"
"A little of both," I admitted, smiling. "But that
doesn't mean you shouldn't take it seriously. She's
been through a lot and I'm still not sure there isn't
more to come. I wouldn't have asked you to be
here if I didn't think she needed round-the-clock
protection. "
"I wasn't questioning your judgment," he said
defensively. "If you say she needs watching, that's
good enough for me." Before I could say anything
else, he turned on his heel and hurried down the
stairs.
I found the object of our conversation sitting out
on the balcony. She was dressed in her suede jeans,
accompanied by one of my shirts with the sleeves
rolled up. When she heard my footsteps behind
her, she jumped up and ran into my arms.
"Nick," she said breathlessly, "I've been so wor-
ried. I expected you back hours ago. When you
didn't phone or anything, I was sure .
well, I
thought something had happened to you."
I held her close and kissed her. Lauren's repri-
mand made me feel strangely domestic, like some
overworked husband who'd stayed too late at the
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office , totally forgetting that it was their night to go
out to dinner. It was a pleasant feeling, but one I
could never really experience unless I retired from
AXE.
Of course, I'd have to find the right woman, too.
Lauren? I already knew that I was more involved
with her than I ever wanted to admit to myself.
Was there any truth in what Wes Dryer had hinted
at? Was my desire to protect her professional or
personal?
"I'm sorry I'm late," I said truthfully. ' 'I'm
going to make it up by taking you to a very posh
diplomatic reception. I'll even spring for an eve-
ning gown, though I'll have a hell of a time explain-
ing that to the old guy who vests my expense ac-
count."
"You're forgiven." she said, kissing me again.
"But we'd better get moving—the shops are only
open another two hours."
91









Chapter Eleven
Somalia is one of Africa's newest countries and
also one of its poorest. So I wasn't surprised when
their consulate turned out to be a modest three-
story brick building on Rue Lecourbe.
Even the Rollses and Mercedes lining the curb
looked a bit out of place this far over on the Left
Bank. But it was definitely where the reception was
being held. The sounds of polite conversation and
clinking glasses drifted from the open windows on
the second floor. And over the main entrance the
country's blue and white flag rippled and swayed in
the breeze.
"That man's staring at me," Lauren complained
in a low whisper. But I could tell from the smile on
her face that she was enjoying the attention. In her
low-cut evening gown she was worth staring at. It
was a deep red silk that left her back and shoulders
bare while the soft, flowing fabric emphasized the
graceful contours of her body.
"Want me to have a word with him?" I asked. It
really wasn't a serious question.
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"No," she said quickly. I looked back at the
chauffeur who'd been eying her. He grinned and
tipped his cap. Paris.
"Your invitation, sir," requested the tall black
man guarding the door. I handed it over, noticing
when he reached out to take it that he was wearing
a gun and shoulder holster under his suit coat.
With four diplomats dead already, he probably
wasn't the only member of the staff carrying a con-
cealed we apon.
"Just take the elevator to your right," he said,
stepping aside to let us pass. "The reception is on
the second floor."
Upstairs, the doors opened onto a noisy,
crowded room. Among the babble of voices I rec-
ognized at least half a dozen languages that I was
fairly fluent in. Most of the men and women were
in formal attire, but there were also guests dressed
in galabeyas and brightly colored African dashikis.
A few heads turned as we entered the room, then
quickly looked away again when they realized we
weren't important.
The room itself was a curious blend of Eastern
and Western cultures. The crystal chandelier,
heavy drapes, and furniture were typical of
diplomatic decor, but the wall decorations were
strictly Somalian. There were carved native staffs
and spears, bright squares of hand-woven fabric,
and one entire wall lined with long wooden prayer
boards.
"Look," Lauren said, tugging at my sleeve.
"There're Ann-Marie and Christine. And I think
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they're heading our way." I turned in the direction
Lauren indicated and got my first look at the two
women. It was difficult to say who was the more
beautiful.
Christine Dalton was a statuesque blonde with
icy pale-blue eyes. Dark and intense were the best
ways I could describe Ann-Marie Michaels. Her
hair was thick and black, cascading down to her I
shoulders in curls. Neither one of their photo-
graphs did them justice.
"Who's their escort?"
"I don't know," Lauren whispered. Both models
were with a tall, white-haired man who was wear-
ing a tuxedo. As the trio drew nearer they all
smiled.
"Lauren, what a surprise to see you," Christine
Dalton said in French. "I didn't realize you moved]
in these lofty circles. "
"Then you must have a very limited social life,"
Lauren retorted. She wasn't about to let the blonde
model get away with anything.
"Nice to see you, Lauren," Ann-Marie •said,
deftly slipping in-between the two combatants.
"Don't mind Christine. She saw a wrinkle this
morning and it's soured her entire day."
Lauren and Ann-Marie laughed while Christine
silently glared at them. To help ease the tension, I
stopped a passing waiter with a tray-load of chame
pagne and handed out glasses to everyone.
Christine tossed hers back in one gulp and
grabbed another one from the retreating waiter.
"What a lovely gown," she said, looking Lauren
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over from head to toe. "Something like that must
have cost an entire month's wages. It must be dif-
ficult to save that much on an office girl's salary.
Or did your patron buy it for you? For services ren-
dered," she added softly.
I knew it was going to happen. With a flick of
her wrist, Lauren threw her champagne in
Christine's face. A moment of stunned silence fol-
lowed.
"Bitch," Christine said through clenched teeth,
"you'd better start looking for a new job tomor-
row. Because I'm going to make sure you're fired
from the agency."
"I quit yesterday," Lauren said, smiling. That
wasn't really true, but I knew she didn't want to
give Christine the satisfaction of having her dis-
missed.
The tall blonde accepted a handkerchief from
her escort and began to dry her face. The cham-
pagne had caused little damage; her make-up was
streaked in a few places and there were a couple of
spots on her turquoise silk dress. Still, she was star-
ing at Lauren as if she would like to murder her.
Ann-Marie Michaels noticed it too. "Why don't
we get another drink," she suggested, slipping her
arm through Lauren's. "It's cooler out on the
balcony and we can talk there. That is," she added,
smiling at me, "if your handsome escort doesn't
"Go ahead," I said in English. "I'll come out
and join you in a while."
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As the two women began to tread their way
through the crowd, the white-haired man said,
"Please excuse my manners. I don't believe we've
been introduced. Colonel Victor Épernay."
"Nick Carter." I grasped the gloved hand he ex-
tended and found it stiff and unyielding. An
artificial replacement, plastic or possibly wood.
"A souvenir of Dien Bien Phu," he explained
with a tight smile. "Monsieur Carter, Made-
moiselle Dalton." The cool blonde acknowledged
the introduction with a brief nod.
"Were you also in Indochina, Monsieur Carter?
Or as you Americans now call it, Vietnam? I only
ask," he added, "because you have that hard, com-
petent look about you. The look of a veteran."
"I spent some time in Southeast Asia," I an-
swered evasively. I had come to the reception for a
look at Christine and Ann-Marie. What I'd seen so
far was interesting, but I didn't want to get side-
tracked listening to war stories or a lecture on
France's former colonial glory.
"Perhaps Monsieur Carter would find the con-
versation more stimulating if he'd lost a brother in
the war as I did?" Christine said softly.
"That was twenty-seven years ago," Épernay
quietly reminded her. "l remember because I was
there, but you weren't even born then, child."
"Don't talk down to me," Christine said angrily.
Before the Colonel could defend himself, she
turned away and was lost in the crowd.
"Deserted on all sides," Épernay said with a
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weary smile. "Christine was always a sensitive
child, and a spoiled child in many ways. Her par-
ents died in an automobile accident less than a year
after she was born. Christine was raised by a maid-
en aunt who gave her all the comforts, luxuries
even, but not much in the way of real affection."
"Then she feels her brother was part of a family
she never had?"
The Colonel nodded. "He served under me in
Indochina. Not a bad soldier, but not a great one
either. In her mind, Christine has turned him into
this noble and heroic figure. Actually, that's how
we came to know each other. She found out I was
her brother's commanding officer and came by to
visit, wanting to know what I could tell her about
him. Perhaps because of her beauty, I told her pret-
ty much what she wanted to hear."
"I don't blame you," I said, grinning, "but I'm
surprised to find her here. Her brother died defend-
ing the colonial way of life. Somalia was a former
colony of both the British and the Italians. If she
feels that strongly about it, she can hardly have
much love for Somalia or any other emerging na-
tion. "
Epernay shrugged. "Women. I'm almost seventy
and I still don't understand them. I know that
doesn't answer your question, Monsieur Carter,
but it's the best I can do. Perhaps she comes to
keep an old man company. At least I'd like to think
so."
J decided it was time to change the subject.
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