Chapter One
A burst of three, perhaps four shots—lighter
than 9mm Parabellums, the standard sub-
machinegun ammo these days, the sound could
only be the bottlenecked .30 Mauser round, the
Broomhandle pistole in the "Schnellfeur" or rapid-
fire variation. And only one man I knew carried
the venerable old autoloader—Colonel
Mohammed Achmed Rafik, the bloodlusting ter-
rorist leader of the PLO's Special Operations
Squad. Rafik and his men seemed to delight in
blowing up schools, killing children: mass murder,
and the grislier the better. He was there, along with
his men and at least a half dozen IRA terrorists as
well, behind cover, pot-shotting through the rolling
and swirling Channel fog that blanketed the now-
abandoned suburban London movie lot, trying to
draw my fire in order to target my position. My fist
twitched on the deep-cut checkering of my Luger's
walnut grips. My whole soul wanted to react and
fire back, but I knew better. One sound to pinpoint
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NICK CARTER
my position and two dozen guns would open up
and riddle my body to death.
Soundlessly, I bent over and slipped the canvas-
soled shoes from my feet. The pavement was wet
and cold and in seconds my socks were soaked
through. I could have been standing on the edge of
a fifty-foot well, or by a building wall. There was
no way to tell, because there was nothing to be seen
through the gray, blanketing mass. Somewhere out
there as well—probably on my other side, opposite
Colonel Rafik and his terrorists—was Paul
Hudson of the British Secret Intelligence Service
(SIS), several SIS agents, •and some of the elite
Flying Squad, the Scotland Yard Metropolitan
SWAT Team. If Hudson didn't keep his cool and
started returning Rafik's shots, I'd be caught in a
crossfire. Right now, I'd have bet anything my life
insurance company would have counted me a poor
risk.
As I crept forward, I wondered if Iris Flannery—
the American who collected funds for the IRA that
were supposedly earmarked to help widows and or-
phans, but instead went to buy Soviet explosives
from the PLO—could understand what was in-
evitably going to happen this night as she crouched
somewhere out there in the fog beside Rafik and
his men. Sooner or later, the real shooting would
start and more men would die than she'd likely
have the stomach left to count ...
if she herself
survivéd.
Hudson had uncovered the rendezvous point
several weeks ago, just at the time standard in-
telligence channels had brought AXE the word of
Iris Flannery's contact man. SIS and AXE were af-
ter two sides of the same objective. I was to liqui-
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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date Rafik and the British Secret Service wanted
the arrest or death of the Irish Republican Army
bombers. Both services tacitly agreed that what-
ever happened to the girl as a result would be
•her problem. Something about making her own
bed
I tried to visualize where I was now. How far had
I come from the wall by the main gate, where—
according to the architectural plans and the film
from the observation flight—was I standing now?
How far to go until I reached the half-completed
concrete block wall behind which the bulk of
Hudson's friendly forces were lying in wait?
I had no choice but slowly and quietly to walk
on. I kept Wilhelmina, my pet name for my Luger,
locked close by my torso so no sudden move or
attack would cause me to lose my grip. It isn't like
they do it in the movies—keeping the gun extended
like some sort of saber or Bowie knife just makes it
that much easier for a club or a savage kick to
smash your wrist and disarm you. If anyone
wanted the Luger, they'd get nine jacketed, hollow-
point pills out of her first, and eight more if I had
the chance to swap magazines.
"Carter? It must be you out there, isn't it?" The
voice was that of Colonel Rafik. I kept moving.
"Carter? Nick Carter??? Or perhaps you prefer to
be called Killmaster?" There was a short burst
from the Schnellfeur pistole that came so deathly
close I could hear the slugs whistle past my head.
"How is that pig of a fascist butcher Hawk doing
these days? Too bad you won't be able to give him
my regards. But you'll be dead ... Killmaster!"
And I heard Rafik laugh and then I knew what he
wanted. Opening fire would have cut me down—
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NICK CARTER
but he wanted to be sure it was me. So long as
Hudson's men didn't return fire I still had a chance
10 make it to cover.
Rafik kept laughing. the spot his voice came
from impossible to define in the swirling and foul-
smelling gray mass—like a ghost rising out Of the
earth, a Banshee howling for company in a lonely
grave.
I felt the change in the air around me before I
saw it. A coolness on my right cheek, now spread-
ing across my face, a sudden chill on the air.
A wind!
Caution and quiet were too-time-consuming lux-
uries now. A wind off the Channel would clear the
fog, perhaps in a matter of moments, at least suffi-
ciently to make the killing ground visible, to identi-
fy me as a target. I shot a glance skyward—the
moon was starting to become visible. I started run-
ning.
Rafik's voice changed. "It is him. Carter. Cut
him down!" The chatter of subgun and pistol fire
swallowed the ghostly echo, gilding metal jacketed
slugs tearing at the tarmac near my feet now. A
brief gust of wind—I could see the ragged concrete
block wall. Hudson was standing up, firing a Sten
gun with one hand and waving for me to come on
with the other.
It was time to loose the bit on the Luger. I
popped careless shots over my left shoulder toward
Rafik's position. Stocking-footed still, I was losing
traction on the wet pavement and slipping. Fifteen
feet from the wall, I fell. No time for recrimina-
tions. I rolled and emptied the Lugers then hauled
myself up again and made a last headlong sliding
dash for the wall. Jamming my handgun in my belt,
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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I caught the top of the concrete block structure and
vaulted it, swinging over as the wall beneath my
hands powdered under the hammering of sub-
machinegun fire, my skin stinging from the rock
chips.
I slid down behind the barricade—beside
Hudson, I discovered. And suddenly I remembered
I needed a deep breathe My hands still ached and I
balled them into fists. "You all right, Nick?"
"Hell," and I laughed, "I'm wonderful." I bent
forward and stripped the wet socks from my feet,
pulled my shoes from my hip pockets, and slipped
them on. Rising to crouch beside Hudson, I
charged Wilhelmina with a fresh magazine, jerked
the toggle, and let the first round strip and slide
home into the chamber, then whispered, "In an.
swer to your question of fifteen minutes ago—
before I went out to recon? Well, that is definitely
Colonel Rafik. I recognized the gun, the voice, and
the technique."
"Right," and Hudson turned away. Over his
shoulder he rasped, "Darlington, take your team
along the right flank," then craning his neck past
me, said, "Pembrook? Take your squad toward the
left. And watch out for that no-man's-land our
American friend just came from—no cover for at
least twenty-five yards." With silent and grim-faced
nods. the flak-jacketed young men moved out.
Only Hudson and I remained behind the walled
shelter.
The gunfire from Rafik's position opened up
again. As the last wisps of fog cleared, I could see
Pembrook—the Flying Squad sergeant—take a
burst that doubled him over, apparently catching
him in the legs below the vest's protection. I started
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NICK CARTER
moving. I could hear Hudson behind me, "Where
the devil are you going, man? For God's sake!"
But Pembrook's men were leaderless and I wasn't
being paid to let other guys take chances for me.
Cutting straight across the no-man's-land be-
tween Rafik's position and the wall, a hail of lead
around me like gnats swarming on a warm night, I
waved and shouted to Pembrook's Flying Squad
team, "Let's go! Come on, men!" The only hope of
crossing that killing ground and getting Rafik was
a frontal assault. I hoped Darlington—the leader
of the other team—would back us up.
Rafik's position was behind an enormous
mound of half-rotted sandbags, remnants of the
studio's construction boom that had died, like the
studio itself. One of Pembrook's men behind me
shouted, "Look out, sir," and I turned in time to
see him toss a hand grenade. I dropped, spread-
eagling against the wet tarmac. The explosion rose
and fell. I was up again, as were the others. The
submachineguns from Rafik's position were silent
for a few seconds as we raced to the sandbags, then
they opened up again as we closed. I was the first
man over the top. I lashed out with my foot to
nudge away the stubby muzzle of a Czech Skor-
pion machine pistol, then fired a two-round burst
from Wilhelmina, making the PLO gunman's face
dissolve in a mass of raw meat and bone.
The men of the Flying Squad were right behind
me. I couldn't see Rafik. Suddenly, except for a few
scattered shots, it was all hand-to-hand combat. I
lashed out savagely with my left foot as a PLO man
charged me, my heel driving his nose up into his
brain. Two more men came from my right, and my
right hand hammered outward, its heel missing the
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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first man's nose and driving his jaw up and back.
Starting a wheeling fighting stance, my left foot
drove savagely into his chest, then my right foot.
As he bent forward, my right elbow smashed down
behind his right ear and he was gone. Number two
was coming, a Fairborne-Sykes-style commando
knife welded into his right fist for a downward
thrust. I sidestepped, then ripped Wilhelmina up
and forward, the front sight blade catching in his
cheek and opening a gusher of blood. My left knee
smashed upward to his groin and I stepped back,
finishing him with two jacketed hollow-point 9s
from the Luger.
Now I could see Rafik, the girl Iris Flannery,
and about five other men, at least two of them ob-
viously IRA. They were running toward the
farthest soundstage. If they reached it, it would be-
come a siege and cost more lives than I wanted to
consider—either that or Rafik would talk his way
into a plane out of the country and claim
diplomatic immunity. Whatever way it was cuts I
couldn't let him make the shelter of the building.
Darlington's men were already over the bar-
ricade and finishing the last of the Palestinians
there, Hudson with them—good man. I shouted,
"Pembrook's squad— Follow me!"
Snatching up a ,380 caliber MAC-I l, the sock
still over the silencer, I took off at a run. From the
submachinegun's weight, it felt like the thirty-
round magazine was still pretty much intact.
Rafik and his men had stopped up ahead about
twenty yards from the soundstage they'd been run-
ning toward. I waved my left hand and the men
behind me slowed, then stopped.
There was no gunfire now. Rafik wouldn't sur-
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NICK CARTER
render—that wasn't his way. And seeing me, he'd
know I was there for only one purpose. Suddenly,
Rafik and two IRA men and the girl started rune
ning at a right angle to the soundstage. The PLO
gunmen and a few of their IRA compatriots started
toward us, a ragged line, walking almost in step,
submachineguns at their hips, poised to fire. I
looked over my shoulder at my men—their ruddy
cheeks mottled with camouflage stick, some of
them with blood.
In that instant, Rafik would be lost to me while
his men gave up their lives to stop or delay any
pursuit.
The moon shone brightly above, reflecting from
patches of moisture on the black tarred surface be-
neath my feet. Like gunfighters on a dusty after-
noon in the West, the armed men on both sides
marched quietly toward each other. The electricity
of death was almost palpable in the air we
breathed. The distance diminished by another ten
yards. Soon, there'd be easy SMG range between
my comrades and Rafik's men—and a lot Of dying.
"You're mad!" I could hear Hudson shouting in
the distance behind me. But if it was madness, it
wouldn't cease until it had its fill.
I stared at the lead PLO terrorist. I couldn't see
the eyes themselves, but I could see their set, the
facial expressions. His eyes relaxed, his lips drew
back across his mouth. baring his teeth. The next
move would be the trigger finger. We opened fire
simultaneously. We were in two ragged lines and it
was possible to see--even peripherally—as each
man fired or returned fire, was hit, fell, perhaps
was able to continue firing.
Two of my men went down, one still firing from
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
9
his knees until a second burst shot him through
and he died, without moving more than to drop his
weapon. The borrowed MAC-I I submachinegun I
held was empty and I discarded it, my only remain-
ing gun Wilhelmina the Luger. Hasty shooting
would have been useless. I raised the pistol and
took careful aim—like a target shooter in an in-
formal match—and squeezed off my shots, one at a
time.
My first round caught the PLO squad leader in
his ieft cheek and he died while still on his feet. The
remaining PLO men began turning and directing
their fire at me. I could have been the only man left
by then—there was no time to check. It was as
though I wasn't doing the shooting, just watching
it somehow in slow motion. I just stood there, feet
a little apart, my left hand in my trouser pocket,
my right arm fully extended, the elbow not quite
locked. My second round caught the man im-
mediately behind my first target—this time square-
ly in his chest. The weakness of a 9mm is that it can
inflict a killing wound, but drive right through and
leave the attacker standing long enough to keep
shooting and possibly hit you. And this was the
case now. I had to shoot again. Once more I
touched my trigger finger to Wilhelmina and she
responded—a shot in the neck that burst the
carotid artery and probably smashed the man's
spine.
Round number four—a tall man, probably an
IRA gunman. A hat pulled down low over his left
eye, he was kneeling, an Uzi SMG belching its little
9mm bursts. I felt a searing pain crease my thigh. I
touched Wilhelmina's trigger. The Israeli sub-
machinegun opposite me clattered to the pavement
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NICK CARTER
from the IRA man's hands, and he crumpled back-
ward, both hands going to cover his face. I swept
the Luger across my field of vision. There was one
man—young by the look of him, and an IRA
shooter as well. He threw down his submachinegun
and reached under his dark brown suitcoat. His
hand came out with a revolver. He held it limply at
his side. I lowered the Luger.
He started walking toward me. I moved toward
him as well. I could read his eyes now, and as-
sumed he could read mine. If he was twenty it was
a miracle. The gun he held—I studied it as I
watched him—was a standard Colt double action,
the old medium-sized frame, probably a .38 Spe-
Ciali either a Police Positive or Official Police.
He stopped ten yards away from me, and I
stopped as well. Slowly he raised his revolver to eye
level, and likewise I raised my Luger. The young
man had black hair and freckles, the eyes a bright
pansy blue. The moment before he fired, I saw him
almost imperceptibly but resolutely nod—just
once. I did the same.
We exchanged shots, his creasing the top of my
left shoulder—a miss, for all the effect it had. My
shot was neat, smashing his sternum and driving
the bone into his heart.
I let Wilhelmina sag to my side a moment. I
could hear stirring beside me and the pounding of
footsteps as the others—Hudson in the lead, no
doubt—ran up to join me. I walked over to the
dead boy from the IRA. I tucked Wilhelmina in my
belt and lit one of my gold-tipped cigarettes. Hedg-
ing the years that separated us just a little, he was
young enough to have been my son....
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Hudson and I sat in the backseat of the black
Jaguar sedan, the flasher on its roof sweeping the
battleground we'd lately quit with periodic
splashes of red, in our hands steaming coffee in
Styrofoam cups poured from the thermos Hudson
held clamped between his knees to warm him. A
young corporal I recognized from Pembrookts
Flying Squad detachment—one of the few sur-
vivors—ran up to the car and handed a note to
Hudson. The fellow saluted and Hudson returned
it, but the corporal held the salute until I nodded
toward him. Then he left.
Hudson stared at the note a moment, turned to
me, and said, "Looks like you'll have to leave
Colonel Rafik to our tender mercies, old man. Ap-
pears your chap Hawk is in London and wants to
see you at one of our safe houses on the double.
Most secret, the note says."
I turned back to my coffee and my cigarette.
Even a "most secret" Hawk could wait until a
shower and a medic and a change of clothes made
me feel human again,
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Chapter Two
My hair was still wet from the shower and the
hour was almost 2:30 AM by the time I walked
down the steps of my hotel, snapped my raincoat
collar up against the now returning fog, and
walked across the damp sidewalk to the open door
of the Jaguar. Hudson was once again in the back-
seat. almost as if he hadn't moved since I'd left him
an hour ago—his Mackintosh that had been
stained with blood was replaced by a new one, oth-
erwise identical. I slipped beside him and his chauf-
feur closed the door, ran around to the driver's
side, and brought the motor to life.
"Ready?" Hudson queried me.
"Take me to my leader." I smiled. I wasn't exact-
ly eager to see Hawk or anyone.
The driver wove his way through the back streets
and never once got caught by even an amber light.
We stopped in front of a townhouse, a black
wrought-iron fence bordering it from the sidewalk
and three stone steps leading up to a black door
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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with brass numbers mounted to it over the polished
brass knocker. I noticed a change in the license
plates on the Jaguar as I got out—I'd also noticed
the chauffeur working an out-of-place-looking tog-
gle switch on the dashboard a moment earlier.
I turned, looking back into the car. Hudson had
made no move to get out. "Far as you go?" I
asked.
4' 'Fraid so, Nick. If we get our mutual friend
with the Schnellfeur pistole, I'll give him your re-
gards—don't worry it." Hudson extended his hand
and I took it, then I walked to the stone steps and
climbed them. I started to reach for the door but
didn't have to. An officious-looking butler with a
bulge under the left armpit of his tight swallow-tail
coat was already opening it.
"This way, sir, if you please."
I was going to tell him I didn't "please" at all,
but decided not to bother. I followed him down a
long hallway lined with lamps that had once
burned gas—now converted to small bare bulbs.
The hallway was carpetted with a meticulously
crafted oriental rug, a small starburst pattern in vi-
olet and gold, cut and pieced together into a
runner, the seams only barely visible from obvious
years of wear.
I could smell Hawk's noxious cigar before the
butler opened the office door in front of me. And
there he was, the chief of the US. Special Es-
pionage Agency. Even seated, his build was like the
proverbial brick house, the set of his thick shoul-
ders spelling out, 'Don't mess with me!' He hadn't
seen sixty for more than a few years, and how he
survived living in the fallout zone of his cigar
smoke had to be a miracle.
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Hawk leaned forward across the leather-topped
antique desk and molded the ashes from his cigar
into a glowing tip, then looked at me. "This may be
the most important job I've ever been assigned
throughout my entire career in intelligence." Hawk
always said that. "If you fail " then he paused.
"Close the door," he said as an afterthought. I
closed it, walked over to the chair opposite him,
and sat down. "If you fail " He moved the
cigar back and forth from one side of his mouth to
the other, then stopped. I was waiting for him to
finish his sentence. "If you do fail the entire
European continent will be seized with homicidal
madness, then searing fever, then agonizing death.
Much of Asia will suffer the same fate. If someone
doesn't get around to blaming someone and start
the next world war that way, some one of the af-
flicted who just happens to know which red button
to push in what way will undoubtedly push it. And
since it won't be a coordinated attack, just a
massive launch, there'll be massive retaliation, and
our computers say life will likely just about cease—
we might even knock the earth out of orbit and
hammer it toward the sun. I pumped Paul Hudson
of SIS and discovered you were tired, would have
just as soon put off our meeting until morning. Is
what I've told you sufficient for you to lose a little
s lee
I lit one of my gold-tipped cigarettes and started
a smoke counterattack. I couldn't think of any-
thing to say to him except, "What do you want me
"Kill a brilliant but demented biochemist—
Horst Manfred Rauffmann, Ph.D. Berlin Univer-
sity, 1929, personal advisor in bacteriological war-
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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fare vectoring to Adolph Hitler from 1941 until the
end, then snatched by the Soviets, worked for them
in the Crimea ever since. Not as old as you'd think
—got that first Ph.D. when he was seventeen."
Rauffmann had to be brilliant with a track
record like that, I thought. "What's so vital about
Rauffmann now?" I asked. c 'I mean, why wasn't he
liquidated years ago? I take it a new discovery,
hmmm?"
"You take it correctly." Hawk groaned, his cigar
dead in his fingers now. "We learned about two
months ago that Rauffmann had done two things
—three, really. First, he'd discovered an extremely
potent airborne virus that acted upon the cortex of
the brain and served to create an abnormal
hormonal imbalance changing the human subject
into what laymen would call a homicidal maniac.
But the hormonal imbalance stepped up the
metabolism terrifically, and after a matter of hours
produced raging fever, to which the victim even-
tually succumbed. Second, we learned that Rauf-
fmann was not getting along well with his KGB
masters. Naturally, we decided that it would be the
opportune time to attempt to recruit him, essential-
ly put the lid on his work and retire him—either
that or kill him. We weren't able to do either. But
we did find out that all these years Rauffmann had
been a member of a society of former SS officers.
The group has used numerous names over the
years, most of the time been headquartered in
Latin America.
"Then," he continued, pausing as he relit his
cigar, "Rauffmann disappeared across the border
and into Turkey. At the same time our intelligence
sources in the Nazi Fourth Reich movement in-
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NICK CARTER
dicated a team of top Nazis was on its way to bring
him in from the cold. This was about four days
ago. But Rauffmann was so pressured by the KGB
on his trail, and moving so fast, we missed him and
so did the Nazis. He rendezvoused with the Nazis
somewhere in Istanbul, but in the intervening time
he'd been involved in a freak accident. His car
piled into a carload of Gypsies. They were seen
leaving him off at a hospital just outside Istanbul,
where Rauffmann received emergency attention
for a bump on the head and was released ... before
we could coordinate with the Turkish Intelligence
people. When Rauffmann left the hospital, one of
the attendants noticed him ripping the seat
cushions in his car, searching it inside out. The at-
tendant spoke a little German and made out
enough to figure that Rauffmann was cursing the
Gypsies for stealing from him."
I was starting to get a bad feeling in my stomach.
"The Gypsies stole the bacteria or virus or what-
ever?"
"A virus—there's a difference. And, yes, that's
the only assumption we can work with. By the time
we picked up Rauffman's trail, his car had been
ripped apart even more, and a known Nazi agent
had gone back to the hospital and gotten a descrip-
tion of the Gypsy girl that had brought
Rauffmann's car in. We checked the customs dec-
laration Rauffmann had made when he crossed the
border. There was a small casque of pearls Rauf-
fmann put down as family heirlooms. And Rauf-
fmann still had money to pay for his emergency
treatment. What does that lead you to believe?"
Hawk asked.
"Sticky fingers, obviously. A good Samaritan
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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who helped herself, too. And now the thief—the
girl—has the vial," I said.
' 'And that's not all. The Russians are still after
Rauffmann, and probably know that some Gypsy
girl has the vial. Turkish Intelligence found one of
Rauffmann's Nazi friends with his guts cut out. At
least, we assume it's the Russians who did it—after
making the fellow talk first." Hawk stubbed out
his old cigar and lit a new one.
"So, I should find Rauffmann and kill him, and,
along the way, find the Gypsy girl and get the vial
of germs or whatever back. What about the for-
"Rauffmann has the only copy, and all his notes
—he wouldn't have left them behind for the Rus-
sians. But Rauffmann needs the vial back to pre-
vent the Russians from getting it and breaking it
down chemically. The Russians have never been
exactly fond of the Nazis, and the other way
around, too. I'd bet after Rauffmann uses the vial
on America and Great Britain, he's got an eye on
the Soviet Union. If the Russians have a sample,
they might be able to find an antigen.
"So, your assignment is a bit complex," he said,
staring at me as he stood up, still behind the desk.
"Kill Rauffman, obtain his notes and papers, get
the original vial, evade the KGB and the Nazis,
and rendezvous at an airfield we sometimes use for
clandestine flights in Yugoslavia. Personally bring
the materials to London, where our scientists can
analyze them and destroy the contents of the vial—
neutralize them, what-have-you. We have no
strategic interest that I can ascertain in developing
the formula for our own use, but we need an
antigen and we must see the lines along which
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NICK CARTER
Rauffmannis research has been going. Hormonal
vectoring for such an application is a radical ap-
proach and might just be the tip of an iceberg."
Hawk reached into the top desk drawer, sitting
down again as he did. He slipped a manila file
folder across the desk to me and I took it. There
were no markings on the file—no red star with
"Top Secret" stenciled over it. Inside was a map
showing the location of the Yugoslav airfield, a
photo of Dre Rauffmann that looked as though he
had been about sixty at the time, a copy of
Rauffmann's customs declaration with the rather
sketchy description of the jewel case containing the
"heirloom" pearls (and the vial), and a photo of a
lovely, dark-haired. dark-eyed girl in her twenties.
Hawk apparently was watching as I paused to take
a better look at the latter.
"Her name is Kemalla Bokra, one of the best
people in the Turkish Intelligence community. Has
a relatively thorough knowledge of the Gypsies as
well, I understand. She'll be helping you. Obvious-
ly, try to lose her if it looks like the only way to get
Rauffmann is through straight assassination. What
the Turks don't have to know they won't have to
worry about. Memorize what you need to, then get
the file back to me. Oh—" He hesitated.
"Yes "
"You'll need some sort of code recognition with
the girl. We've agreed on the following .. thought
you'd appreciate it with your fondness for fire-
arms, Sam Colt purportedly composed the little
verse and sent it to a friend, along with a per-
cussion revolver sometime in the middle of the last
century. You'll say, 'Have no fear of any man, no
matter what his size—' "
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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'When in danger,' " I interrupted, Ocall on
me and I will equalize.' "
Hawk laughed. "Encapsulated story of your life,
isn't it, Nick?"
There was more truth to that than fiction, espe-
cially since I was getting the uneasy feeling that this
assignment could wind up as my last chapter.
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Chapter Three
It was nearing lunch time in Istanbul when the
jet prepared to touch down and the stewardess
asked us to remain seated until the plane came to a
full stope I'd asked Hawk to keep me posted as best
he could on what happened with the pursuit Of
Colonel Rafik. It would have been impossible to
minimize the importance of the assignment Hawk
had given me, but in my heart I still wanted to get
Rafik, and, in a strange way, resented circum-
stances having cheated me out of it. I closed my
eyes and could almost still see the sunlight glitter-
ing from the surface Of the Sea Of Marmara as we
approached the southern tip of the Bosphorus. To
the east was Asia, to the west the comparatively
tiny section of modern Istanbul that is Europe.
It was oddly significant that events that might
trigger a final Armageddon were taking place here
—the seat of the Ottoman Empire and centuries
before the Eastern Roman Empire. Seemingly,
since the dawn of civilization Istanbul has been
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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synonymous with intrigue and the unquenchable
thirst for power—whether found in the history
books or the pages of a thriller novel. Somewhere
in the back of my mind I seemed to recall Marlene
Dietrich and a song about the city.... I opened
my eyes as the tires screeched to the runway surface
and the rush of the engines signaled the braking
process. Mechanically, I undid my lap belt and
moved the camera case from the empty seat beside
me onto my lap. There are numerous ways to
smuggle firearms through metal detectors. The
method I was currently using was one of the most
time-proven and reliable. If Wilhelmina the Luger
—or for that matter Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto
—were discovered here in a friendly nation where I
was on an Allied job, there'd be nothing more than
a flurry of difficulty from the customs people,
which my Turkish contacts could easily squelch.
I had my passport ready, but it didn't prove nec-
essary. Waiting at the ramp as I walked off was
Kemalla Bokra, the Turkish agent. Kemal or the
feminine Kemalla had been a popular name in
Turkey ever since 1938 and the death of Kemal
Ataturk—literally Kemal, father of the Turks.
Prior to the reforms he began to inaugurate fif-
teen years before his death, Turks did not carry last
names, or family names. His had been suggested to
honor his tireless work for his people. As I walked
toward her, lighting a cigarette as I moved through
the crowd, I seemed to recall that The Ataturk had
also been reputed to be one of the worst
chainsmokers in history. No one's perfect.. e,
It felt stupid saying the code phrase, especially to
a woman who had Kemalla's looks. "Have no
fear of any man, no matter what his size," I re-
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NICK CARTER
marked trying to make the phrase sound casual
enough.
She smiled, a warm smile that lit her entire face,
and answered, "When in danger call on me and I
will equalize."
"I'm glad that's over, Kemalla. I'm—
"l know," she interrupted, "you're Nick Carter.
There's no need to bother with customs or passport
control. Just follow me. Your luggage—a flight
bag and a two-suiter, I believe—will be ferried to
the hotel."
I was impressed with her thoroughness and I
told her so.
"We try," was her only comment, and that smile
again. A nod to the customs people, a flash Of an
identity card, and we wove our way through the
queues of passengers to a waiting mid-seventies
vintage Cadillac just outside. As Kemalla drove I
opened the camera bag and started piecing togeth-
er Wilhelmina, the pristine 9mm Luger, then re-
trieved the extra magazines as well. Fishing out
Hugo and the sheath I used to carry him up my
sleeve in took a little time.
"You seem prepared," she commented, and then
added, "you'll need it."
"Is that your analysis of the current situation, or
do you know something I don't?" I asked, lighting •
one of my cigarettes and offering one to her.
"Thank you," she said, indicating the cigarette,
and I lit it for her. "I was going to give you this
when we reached the hotel in a few minutes, but
you may as well see it now." She fished in her
handbag a moment and came out with a manila
envelope with a red wax seal on the flap. I took it
as she dodged a heavily laden junk truck that
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
23
looked as though it would self-d%truct at the next
pothole.
I shook the envelope contents laterally and tore
open the side—I'd had a funny experience with a
wax seal on an envelope once.... Inside, on of-
ficial stationery of her agency, was a transcription
of a message from Hawk. He used the right pro
words to begin sentences and the proper salutation
to signal that the message was authentic. I glanced
at the page, then turned to Kemalla. "You know
the contents?"
"Yes."
J looked at Hawk's message again. Colonel
Rafik had indeed escaped from England. Israeli In-
telligence indicated that Rafik had rendezvoused
with a small force—about forty men and women,
heaily armed. Sources also indicated that Rafik
and the PLO knew of the existence of Dr. Rauf-
fmann and his formula. Since they'd last been re-
ported leaving Cyprus, it was obvious that Rafik
was heading toward Turkey. It didn't take a genius
or an intelligence analyst to figure out why Rafik
and his men wanted the formula: to use it against
Israel, probably against Egypt, perhaps the United
States. It was roughly the same battle plan the Na-
Zis had, with the same motivation—racial hatred
and revenge.
"Why are you smiling, Mr. Carter?" She looked
at the message I held in my fingers, then back to
my eyes.
"Was I smiling? Earlier today I'd been lamenting
the fact that this assignment had in effect cheated
me out of something.... Have you ever heard the
expression •you can't have your cake and eat it,
too'? In other words, you must sacrifice one of the
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NICK CARTER
two conflicting goals to achieve the other of them?
Well, this fellow Rafik and my assignment here in
your country—cake and eating it, too, so to
speak."
"You have strange appetites, Mr. Carter."
"Not really so strange.... You'd be pleasantly
surprised. And call me Nick. Kemalla, is it?"
"Yes," she said, the meaning of my remark not
lost on her as she turned her eyes away and pre-
tended to concentrate on the traffic.
€4 What are our plans, by the way? Anymore in.
put on the Gypsy girl we're looking for?" I lit an-
other cigarettet offered her one, and this time she
declined.
"I've searched and narrowed it down to two pos-
sibilities—two camps of the same tribe, really. The
first is the camp of the King of the Gypsies here,
the second is led by his brother. Both are fine men.
They will cooperate with us when they understand
how important this is."
She ground the Cadillac to a halt in front of the
hotel in a "no-parking" zone. If it didn't bother
her. it didn't bother me. A doorman looked at the
car, then the license plate, and simply nodded def-
erentially. She walked ahead of me up the few short
steps, through the heavy, polished brass framed
glass doors, and into the lobby. Oddly, the layout
of the hotel reminded me of the main lobby of an-
other hotel light-years away, in Denver—a high
vaulted central ceiling, rows of gilt-balconied
rooms like layers of a cake opening onto the cen-
tral vault. Ornate chandeliers hung, suspended on
solid-looking brass fixtures high overhead. Perhaps
the chief differences were the furnishings.. Fan-
back chairs, oriental brocade cushions, and orien-
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tal rugs, piled one over the other in some cases,
cushioning the feet to where the marble tile floor
seemed as soft as velvet underfoot. A huge,
bamboo-bladed fan swished lazily and unneces-
sarily in the alcove over the registration desk, the
lobby air-conditioned more expertly than most
modern office buildings back Stateside.
"Mr. Carter's suite," she said, hardly bothering
to look at the clerk. The black-suited, mustachioed
man turned and removed a single brass key from a
honeycombed system of mailslots behind him, then
handed it to her—again, the deferential bow and
polite smile.
I looked quizzically in the direction of the
nearest elevator bank. and she nodded and walked
beside me toward it. Brass-grilled, they were from
a long ago and more genteel age. And like things
generally from that time, once we entered, they
moved slowly. The operator stopped the car at the
fifth floor and I followed Kemalla out. I'd caught
the number from the mailbox and was now able to
match it to the suite dominating the end of the sur-
prisingly wide, polished-wood hallways
Taking the key, but not taking any chances, I let
myself in first, my fingers drifting under my coat to
where Wilhelmina was nestled inside my trouser
band—there'd been no time to put on the shoulder
rig after leaving the airport.
It would have been criminal to say there was
nothing inside—more of the overlapping oriental
rugs; the brocade pillows, the "Sidney
Greenstreet"-style chairs and matching fans. I
walked to the French doors opposite and glanced
through a crack in the wooden shutters without
opening them. The street scene below, with its carts
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NICK CARTER
and automobiles, persons in western dress and men
and women of the steppes, was a panorama a tour-
ist would have given his eyeteeth for. And, in the
distance, the sun was lowering on the horizon now,
and shimmering on the Bosphorus.
"We have several hours before we can leave for
our rendezvous at the Gypsy camp." It was all she
said. Glancing toward her, I hadn't noticed before,
but she was wearing short white gloves. I noticed
them now as she slowly, almost sensually, stripped
them from her fingers. I walked toward her, took
her right hand in mine, raised it, and kissed her
fingertips. Then, still holding her hand there to my
lips, glanced into her eyes.
"And you thought... I asked.
She couldn't finish her answer. I saw to
that nicely when I smothered her lips beneath
mine.
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Chapter Four
Kemalla, her bejewelled fingers poised for the
switch into four-wheel drive, wrestled the steering
wheel into obedience as the Land Rover scrambled
over the small embankment and off the road. It
was already after 9 PM, and the first of the two
Gypsy encampments was still some twenty minutes
ahead. With luck, we'd find the stolen vial of dead-
ly virus in this camp or the next, before the PLO,
the KGB, or the Nazis found it first.
As we skidded down the other side of the erne
bankment onto more even terrain, I stretched over
the seat backs and lifted the toolbox lid. Inside the
unpainted wooden enclosure, as Kemalla had told
me earlier there would be, were two 5.56mm M-16
assault rifles and two of the Uzilike Austrian 9mm
Steyr submachineguns. Four shoulder-carried
rucksacks each contained a dozen thirty-round
magazines for either the assault rifles or the sub-
guns. I let the boxlid drop, turned, and settled back
into my seat.
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NICK CARTER
"Do you like my country, Nick?" She glanced
away from the road for a brief moment, and our
eyes met.
"Especially since met you here," I answered.
"Americans," Kemalla sighed. "Always making
the passes!" She pouted her full wine-red lips, and
I wanted to taste her mouth again.
"Tell me about yourself," I said. "How do you
know that these are the only two Gypsy tribes
where we should search for the missing vial? And
how do you know just where to find them so easi-
ly?" I shifted a little in the passenger seat beside
her. Wilhelmina's gun butt was grating into my rib
cage with each rock we hit as we drove. Finding a
more comfortable perch, I offered her a cigarette
and she nodded gratefully.
I turned my face out of the wind to light her
cigarette in the glowing tip of my own, then placed
it between her lips. After a moment she began to
speak. "We monitor the movements of the major
Gypsy tribes as best we can. They are always smug-
gling one thing or another. They are like nomads of
the great deserts—borders mean nothing to them.
Our keeping track of them is part of the agreement
between your nation and mine to reduce the flow
of opium from our poppy fields. And then, toot
I've always had a special interest in the Gypsies."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"I'm half-Gypsy myself," she answered quite
slowly. "This tribe we shall visit first is mostly
made up of the family of my mother. She was kid-
napped and sold into slavery as a young girl, then
rescued by my father—then a Turkish Army cap-
tain. When he returned my mother to the camp, my
grandfather gave her to him. My father wanted to
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
29
marry her, but there was a rule that Turkish of.
ficers could not be married to foreigners—at least,
not offically. And the Gypsies were considered for.
eigners. So they lived together and soon I was
born. My mother She died when I was ten years
old, but not before she taught me many of the
Gypsy traditions. My father legally adopted me
and made me legitimate. He died five years ago—
he was a colonel by then—in a battle with smug-
glen."
"I'm sorry," I said softly. getting rid of my
cigarette.
"You know/' she said wistfully, "Gypsies are a
peculiar people. Like these we are seeking who
have stolen this vial inside a jewel box. They are
taught—not all, but many of them—that stealing is
a way of life, a special prerogative of the Gypsies,
almost like a tax they are entitled to impose on
non-Gypsies."
"I take it that that wasn't one of the traditions
your mother taught you," I remarked, smiling.
Kemalla laughed, saying, "As a matter of fact,
she did teach me how to steal. But then, my father
taught me that stealing wasn't right. So, I joined
the Turkish Secret Service. It seemed the best way
to combine both traditions—dishonesty in a good
cause?" Her voice ended on a question mark, and
we both laughed. ltd never before heard a more apt
job description for a secret agent.
The night was cloudless, and each star seemed to
beckon to be watched, the moon so bright that the
twin headlamps of the Land Rover were almost un-
necessary. "All I know," I murmured, "is I'd rath-
er be doing something more romantic than this
with you on a night like tonight." 1 could feel the
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NICK CARTER
answering pressure of her hand as our fingers
touched.
Then my fingers closed over hers like a vise.
Shut off the motor!" I com-
'*Stop the car....
manded.
What I'd thought I'd heard hadn't been in my
imagination—sporadic gunfire and the muffled
sounds of distant high explosives—directly ahead
in the direction of the Gypsy encampment.
"Gunfire?" Kemalla queried, her eyes peering
ahead across the plain.
"Yes, and plenty of it—automatic weapons,
most likely." Suddenly, there was a flash lighting
the horizon before us, and then the sound of an
explosion more violent than those we'd heard sec-
onds earlier. I looked up from my watch, timing
the seconds between seeing the flash and hearing
the sound, and said, "I make it five miles up
ahead."
"It is the Gypsy camp!"
"Then slide over," I ordered, taking the wheel as
she jumped out and ran around the front of the
Land Rover. Kemalla wasn't yet seated as I
gunned the motor back into life and headed us out
across the flatland, the noise of battle growing ever
louder as the Rover bumped and hurtled ever
nearer.
We stopped at the lip of a shallow, dish-shaped
valley. By now, the roar of gunfire was almost
deafening. Below us was the Gypsy camp, its gaily
painted wagons and trucks completely encircled,
the vehicles brightly colored curtains blowing in
the heat wind from the flames dotting the ground.
Surrounding the encampment were well over fifty
heavily armed terrorists, men and probably some
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of them women, their faces obscured by the black-
and-white-checked burnooses of the PLO, I
spotted a few handguns here and there in the
melee, but the majority of the Gypsy defenders
were apparently armed only with bolt action-rifles
and double-barreled shotguns.
"Unlimber the ammo and an M-16 for yourself.
I'll take both of the Steyrs," I rasped, gunning the
Rover's motor to build up RPMs. "We're heading
in!" I slipped the clutch and the Land Rover
almost flew over the edge. We were airborne for an
instant, then crashed down. the front bumper
nosediving into the dirt, the wheel almost
wrenched from my powerful grasp. And then we
were rolling down the embankment, the Rover
only marginally under my control, the momentum
of the slope almost sucking us downward.
The PLO attackers somehow heard the clatter of
the Rover over the din of gunfire, Before we could
open fire, about a dozen of them, all armed with
SMGs or assault rifles—mostly Soviet-designed
Kalashnikov variations—began streaming toward
us. Kemalla was already making her M-16 spit
short bursts of 5.56mm death, claiming two of the
terrorists before I had even flipped the safety Off
one of the Steyrs. Firing with my left hand, my
right locked onto the trembling steering wheel in a
death grip, I was still able to kill three of the ter-
rorists with bursts of 100-grain Full Metal Case
9mms. The stick was empty and I switched guns.
My right foot was riding both the brake and the
gas pedal, the way the stunt drivers and Grand Prix
racers do. It was the only way to keep the Rover in
motion without losing control as we sailed over
rocks and hummocks, penetrating ever deeper into
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NICK CARTER
the enemy killing ground.
I was holding back terrorist gunfire from our left
flank with three-shot bursts from the Steyr when I
heard Kemalla scream my name. Darting a glance
at her, I could see her M-16 was out of gas while
she was changing sticks. Kemalla shouted, "Look
out, Nick One of the attackers, a woman—her
face not completely concealed under the black•
and-white burnoose she wore—was scrambling
onto the Rover's hood, pulling the pin from a
fragmentation grenade with her teeth as she tried
clambering over the windscreen. I gave her a short
burst from the Steyr, right between her pretty black
eyes, but she managed to get herself up to full
height on the jostling hood before crumpling back
and off, her body crushed under the Land Rover's
wheels. And she'd loosed the grenade as she fell.
I'd heard it clang against the flooring of the
Rover!
"Jump!" My voice roared the command at
Kemalla, my right fist clenched around the steering
wheel as I braced myself for the leap to the ground.
As I saw Kemalla starting to jump, I pushed my
feet back and down against the seat and leaped.
Without enough momentum my body would be
caught up under the wheels and crushed. I hit the
gravel slope hard, winded for a second. At the edge
Of my peripheral vision, I could see Kemalla fall to
the ground, her limp body collapsing like a wet rag
as she crashed into a pile of rocks. Pushing myself
up on my elbow, I only turned my face away in
time to save my eyes from the shower of burning
petroleum and shards of debris as the exploding
grenade turned the Land Rover into a roaring ball
of fire.
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I dragged myself to my feet, smothering the
flames on my clothes with my hands, then started
toward Kemalla. Both Steyrs were empty now and
there was no time to feed them from the ammo
sacks I carried. Three of the terrorist attackers
were coming at me and still a fourth man was bend-
ing over Kemalla, a Czech Skorpion machine
pistol in his hands, poised to fire. I d6ve across the
rocks and dirt, my right hand darting under my
bush jacket for Wilhelmina the Luger. her safety
Off before I even cleared the oiled leather of the
shoulder holster. I went into a roll, spitting two of
the old girl's hollow-point 9s into the lone gunman
before he loosed his burst into the helpless
Kemalla. Both slugs were good, the _front of his
face disintegrating hideously from their impact.
Bullets were whizzing past my ears now, one even
tugging at my shirt collar and creasing my neck. 1
swatted at the pain and my fingers came away cov-
ered with blood.
Firing from my back as I rolled, I zipped one
slug apiece from the Luger into the three terrorists
coming up behind me. I was on my feet and run-
ning again, emptying Wilhelmina's magazine into
targets of opportunity.
I reached the girl, confident she was somehow
still alive. A touch of my fingers to her neck hd
the weak throb of her pulse confirmed it. I
thumbed out the Luger's eight-round magazine,
then recharged and worked the toggle action to
load. I whacked a fresh stick into each of the
Steyrs, and no sooner had I done it than I made
them spit their death pills again. Things were start-
ing to get hot and we had to make it to the com-
parative safety of the encampment before our luck
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NICK CARTER
ran out and we both bought it.
There wasn't time to slide Wilhelmina back into
the shoulder holster, so I tucked her away in my
trouser band. Shouldering the girl Kemalla like a
sack of potatoes, one SMG and her M-16 slung
across my back with the ammo bags, I kept up a
constant stream of bursts from the second Steyr as
I pounded my feet toward the Gypsy camp.
Twenty yards to go and three terrorists on my
left. The Steyr was dry again and I crossed my
body with my left hand to hold Kemalla on my
shoulder as drew Wilhelmina with my right, half•
turning to meet the advancing PLO men. Two of
the gaping mouths on Wilhelmina's jacketed
hollow-point slugs kissed into the first man's fore-
head, then a gut shot for the second one, flipping
him back onto his butt. The third terrorist was fir-
ing as he ran. It takes a special skill to hit another
moving target, and this guy didn't have it. I did. I
caught him with two good ones in his left chest
cavity and he dropped like a semitrailer truck with
all eighteen tires suddenly gone flat.
Five yards to go and the entrance to the encamp.
ment was barred with a burning wagon. I didn't
have time to worry about it. Summoning all my
strength, I dodged to the right and jumped. I knew
with the extra weight of the girl I wouldn•t clear the
hastily thrown together crates beside the wagon,
but at least I made it to the top. Then I felt helping
hands pulling us over and down the other side into
safety.
Safety! Bullets were whizzing all about us like
flies on a bloodfeast, but at least it was better than
out there. Several women were huddled nearby and
I rasped in Turkish first, then in Yugoslavian when
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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met with unknowing stares, "Take care of this
woman. She is one of you!" They sprang to her aid.
An old man—big and powerfully built, with a
long gray beard and an obviously "liberated" MI
Garand Rifle in his hamlike fists—crawled over
beside me. "l am Tarbor, King of the Gypsies here.
You fight like the lion of the Steppes! I make you
my son!" He laughed and his mighty hand clapped
me on the shoulder and almost knocked me down
from where I crouched beside the barricades.
"I'm Nick Carter. Come on! Let's organize a
counterattack!" Running in a low crouch, I fol-
lowed Tarbor to the other side of the burning wag-
on that blocked the entrance, the heat from its
names searing my face. Ripping off my jacket and
tossing it aside, I handed one ammo sack and a
Steyr to a tall, spare-looking young man armed
with a bolt-action Lee Enfield. "Here," I rasped in
Yugoslavian, "try this on for size." He flashed a
big smile and resumed his position at the ramparts
beside the flaming Gypsy wagon.
I found a similar beneficiary for the second Steyr
and kept the M-16 for myself. "How many men do
you have—with guns?" I demanded Of Tarbor.
"Thirty-five, maybe forty. That is the only rea-
son we've been able to hold them off so long.
Those evil sons of bitches! They must have under-
estimated our strength." Suddenly, almost in-
stinctively, we ducked our heads. A mortar, the
cause of the explosions Kemalla and I had heard
earlier, whizzed around over the barricade, explod-
ing near one of the campfires, cutting down several
of the Gypsy defenders.
"You won't have that many men for long if they
keep using that mortar," I shouted. "Get six of
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NICK CARTER
your best-armed men—leave the fellows with the
SMGs to maintain the defense of the perimeter—
then follow me."
When Tarbor had summoned his men, I signaled
the impromptu strike force to move out behind me.
Fighting alongside strangers is always dicey, es-
pecially when they aren't professionals. But
Tarbor•s men proved good. What they lacked in
sophistication, they made up for in ferocity. Armed
with shotguns mostly—one man carried a Garand
like Tarbor's—they dogged my footsteps back to-
ward the rear of the encampment where the volume
of gunfire was lighter, the main thrust of the PLO
attack on the forward reentrant of the camp's per-
imeter.
"Space yourselves five seconds apart after me as
you move out and keep in visual contact," I
rasped, sliding out over the tongue of a wagon,
past the bullet-pocked fenders of an old Cadillac,
and down onto the ground. Belly-crawling would
have been more prudent. but as the mortar—Sovi-
et, by the sound of it—thumped the ground of the
camp now behind us, the speed of a run seemed
more vital.
There were few of the terrorists out there behind
the camp—few enough that as they showed their
heads to fire, my M-16 was able to snuff them out
one at a time as we advanced. Once we'd pene-
trated their lines, we regrouped on my hand signal.
Crouching behind low-flung rocks, the moon still
mercilessly illuminating every centimeter of the
battleground, I told Tarbor and his men, "All
right. We go in and use knives and rifle butts until
we're spotted, then open up and give 'em every-
thing we've got. You men—you men with the shot•
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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guns—get rid of them when you can pick up some
of the attackers' weapons. Go for the assault rifles
and the submachineguns. Tarbor—you and I are
heading straight for that mortar emplacement. All
right, everyone know what to do?" I was greeted
with nods and grumblings, apparent agreement.
I took the point, Tarbor right behind me, the
other six fanned out to our flanks. It seemed an
eternity as we circled soundlessly outside the per-
imeter of the terrorist line. And then, we were be-
hind them, directly on line from the wagon at the
main entrance to the Gypsy camp—the wagon now
burned almost into ashes.
We began to bloody our handse Each of my
Gypsy compatriots was armed with a butcher knife
or large hunting blade. Tarbor carried a wicked-
looking dagger with a jeweled hilt—the sort of
thing that might be a man's prize possession. As
for me, I twisted my right arm and Hugo—my
pencil-thin stiletto—slipped down hilt-first into my
palm. I set the lead on the closest Palestinian ter-
rorist.
Slipping away from his body, I set to work me-
thodically stalking my next target. There was no
sound above the gunfire unless you listened for it—
the gurglings as our victims choked on their own
blood, the quiet thuds of bodies falling to the hard
ground, never to rise again—at least not in this
world—and the occasional heavy chunking sound
of buttstock to bone when the knives couldn't be
used.
lost count of how many Hugo took out for me,
but there was no regret. These PLO terrorists
would do the same or worse to us. And, if it was a
Holy War they thought they were fighting, then
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well and good. Their faith said that they would
surely then go to Heaven for their sacrifice, and be
waited on there by seven houris, beautiful maidens
to answer their every whim. Sometimes, one
learned from this business, death was the only ra-
tionale for a mode of life.
We were getting close in toward the mortar and
had, by now, dealt death to a quarter of their re-
maining force. Tarbor and I would have to make
our move before it was too late. I touched at his
shoulder as he finished raking his jeweled dagger
across the throat of one of the terrorists. Tarbor
started to recover his thrust and come at me, then
recognizing me, displayed an embarrassed smile. I
gestured with Hugo toward the mortar emplace-
ment, and Tarbor signaled his understanding. I
looked over my shoulder for the others and was
greeted with grim nods. They knew this was it.
Each had by now liberated at least two SMGs or a
pair of AK-47s. We were as ready as ever. Even
Tarbor, the Gypsy King, had slung his Garand
across his back and was brandishing a Walther
9mm squirt gun.
The mortar plate was resting in a shallow depres-
Sion in the shelter of rock outcroppings from the
face of the slope. It looked to be at almost min-
imum elevation to compensate for the short range.
And that hatched a plan. They'd done it in Nam
and even in Korea before then—turned mortars
point-blank and used them like cannon.
But first, Tarbor and I had to reach it and dis-
patch the PLO mortar crew.
I wanted us to get in and take them out silently,
then take over the mortar before the rest of the ter-
rorists were aware of what was happening. It didn't
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
39
work out that way. One of the mortar crewmen
turned and spotted us, then raised his voice in
alarm.
Too close for me to fire the M-i 6-—there wasn't
time—I delivered a vertical buttstroke and snapped
his jaw back so hard and fast that his neck audibly
cracked as he fell. A horizontal slash from the
M-16's muzzle took out a second crewman. Too
late, I saw that the man had been pulling a pin
from an American fragmentation grenade. One
thing you come to hate in this business is war sur-
plus. I dove away, knowing that no matter what I
did it was useless and that I was as good as dead.
The explosion, muffled unexplainably, rose and
fell, and, aside from a shower of dirt, I was un-
touched and still breathing. Then I saw why.
Tarbor, the lower half of his massive body a glut of
blood and gore and intestines, had thrown himself
on the grenade. He looked still alive, but I knew
not for long. I began my best tribute to him. Flick-
ing the selector on my M. 16, I opened up full auto.
The three remaining mortar crewmen crumpled
and died, one of them almost beheaded by my
steady stream of .223s. From behind me, I knew
that the six Gypsies were killing now for the same
reason I was—not just for the battle, but for re-
venge.
I made it to the mortar tube and loosed it from
its position, then turned it straight horizontal. One
of the other Gypsies was there beside me, helping
to brace the tube as we dropped in the shells and
made it spit death.
The PLO terrorists were charging toward us.
Didn't they realize what the mortar could do? Were
they insane, I asked myself? The answer to both
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NICK CARTER
questions proved to be yes. As we laid waste to
their ranks, the sky seemed to be raining blood and
pieces of human flesh and bone. The screams of
their dying were only drowned out by the puff and
whoosh of the mortar, then the screams rose in
their crescendo again as we reloaded.
Suddenly, the Gypsy boy and I—and he was
only a boy, perhaps sixteen—stopped. About two
dozen of the terrorists were still moving, but they
were running away now. I looked across the bat-
tlefield. One of the fleeing survivors was Colonel
Rafik. But Rafik was one of the comparative few.
It was as though someone had dropped a bomb on
a morgue—there were pieces of dead human bodies
everywhere.
We put down the mortar tube, only now realiz-
ing our hands had been blistered and burned from
its heat. I went to the dying Tarbor and knelt
beside him. He was trying to speak. I looked up for
a moment. The boy, and the other five of my
Gypsy compatriots, and now others from behind
the barricades were ringed around us.
I could barely hear Tarbor's last whispers. '%Nick
Carter .
. I like you, Nick Carter, my lion
. of
the Steppes. . .
Take this—
and he feebly
dropped the jeweled dagger from his hand into
mine—Oand let all Gypsies know that this Nick
Carter, my son, is the heir to Tarbor's greatness
and his strong heart.... This dagger, may it guard
your life—" His voice trailed off into the rattling
sounds of death, and Tarbor, King of the Gypsies,
was gone forever.
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Chapter Five
I had known Tarbor for but a short while, per-
haps an hour, but I would not forget him and the
friendship he had shown me. Kemalla, her left tem-
ple crudely bandaged, was awake and reasonably
alert now. She was tough, that girl. Tarbor, I'd
found out, had been her grandfather. "l can still
come with you, Nick," she said.
"Not in your condition," I insisted, pushing
gently on her shoulder to make her sit back. "This
dagger that Tarbor—your grandfather—gave me
will be passport enough at the second Gypsy camp.
One of his sons explained that Tarbor's dagger
could never have been stolen from him, so having it
automatically means it was a gift, and as such
Tarbor is vouching for me everywhere. So, don't
worry."
"Oh, God, I wish the vial had been here and this
were over with." I tacitly agreed with her words.
but knew that even if the vial had been found at the
first Gypsy camp, there would still have been the
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second part of my mission—killing Dr. Rauf•
fmann, the ex•Nazi, inventor of the formula. And
somehow, too, even more than before, I wanted to
get Colonel Rafik. It had been his men who had all
but destroyed this Gypsy encampment before
Kemalla and I had arrived. And because of Rafik,
Tarbor and other innocent men and women and
children were now dead. He'd pay for that, I
vowed.
I left Kemalla to rest. It was nearly 2AM, and we
were all exhausted. I'd soon have to be off for the
•econd camp, so I went to assess the damage to the
Land Rover. The latter task was easy—what Land
Rover? All the grenade had left behind was a
gutted metal hulk and melted rubber. It wasn't
even classifiable as junk—just debris. And nothing
could be salvaged from it.
I walked back toward camp, the dead and the
dying still all about me. I wanted to be gone from
the place and the violent memories it recalled. No
Gypsy vehicle was yet in running condition. It was
now 2:30 AM: duty told me to be on my way. Com-
passion told me otherwise. There was need for help
with the injured, and I decided to stay and do what
I could.
The shrapnel wounds from the mortar fire were
by far the worst, and Hugo, having dealt in death
all through the night, dealt in life in these early
morning hours. The slimmest blade in camp, Hugo
was needed for removing the shrapnel and bullets
that had to come out sooner than the medical help
summoned could arrive. And, since I was the
possessor of Hugo, I too was elected.
Oddly, the skilled knifework Hugo had per-
formed in the past was of some help in the task at
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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hand, and together we saved more than one life as
the sunlight began to penetrate the morning mists.
Breakfast was hardly tea and toast, but the boiled
fatty lamb and brown rice with crude and uniden-
tifiable vegetables was satisfying after the night's
bloody work. By six in the morning, the work was
largely over. Those requiring immediate attention
who could be saved were. Others were not so lucky.
While I had used Hugo, some of Tarbor's sons
had been trying—fruitlessly, I found out—to piece
together a functioning vehicle. In the end, it was
decided that, like the messenger sent for medical
help, I too should have to go by horseback.
Tarbor had prided himself, I learned, on the
Arabians in what Americans from the southwest
would call his remuda. The three fastest were
pressed into service. The first had been for the
young man who'd helped me in battle by handling
the mortar—it carried him to the nearest police
outpost for doctors and (medivac) aid. The other
two were for me and my guide. No man could be
spared in the event that the PLO terrorists re-
turned. It was decided that Yala, Tarbor's
youngest niece—eighteen, by the looks of her—
should guide me instead.
Yala was the embodiment of what a wild and
healthy young Gypsy girl is pictured to be—supple,
slightly glistening breasts with a shadowy cleavage,
waist slim enough to span with my hands, and hips
riding high and round.
Y ala's eyes were dark and huge-seeming in her
tiny, elflike face. help Nick Carter find the other
tribe, no?" Her English seemed like something
from a bad stage play. but she tried. I started to
speak to her in Yugoslavian but she held up a
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NICK CARTER
hand, saying, "Please, Nick Carter. Speak Ameri-
can. Me want to speak better American. You help
during the ride?"
I nodded. finding myself smiling for the first
time since before Kemalla and I had stumbled onto
the fighting that previous night. If I'd tried correct-
ing Yala's English and started working my way
back from "as we ride" it would have been a
lifetime's project. Looking at her even, white teeth,
her full, wine-colored lips, and the eagerness with
which she wanted to do my bidding, I could think
of less pleasant things to do.
Of the two Arabians. I chose the gray stallion
with the black mane, tail, and stockings. The girl
would ride the white mare. "Nick Carter rest," she
told me, "while Yala get meat and rice." I nodded,
too tired by now to care, and sat down against the
one remaining fencepost of the corral. I did what I
could to clean Wilhelmina—I'd already bathed the
blood from Hugo in a nearby rivulet.
If the PLO involvement were serious enough to
warrant the manpower thrown against the camp
and Colonel Rafik's personal command, they
weren't about to throw in the towel. This was a
virus that could drive men insane, turn even the
meekest person into a homicidal maniac—while
meanwhile his body burned itself to death
inside.... "Diabolical" was too mild a word for
Dr. Rauffmann's discovery. The thought of such a
virus unleashed across all of Europe and half of
Asia before it abated gave even me—the man some
called chill in my spine.
Nothing in the camp seemed standardized, so I
searched through the piles of saddles and harnesses
for the closest I could find to a Western stock sad-
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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die. The best I could do looked like a modified Mc-
Clellan—the US. Cavalry saddle.
When Yala returned, she strapped goatskin bags
—one each of water and wine—to the saddles,
along with brightly colored cloth sacks of food. On
my saddle, I hung the rucksack with the remaining
M-16 magazines, then tied the M-16 to the saddle
thongs.
Tarbor's surviving sons and family—virtually all
in the camp who could walk—surrounded us as we
prepared to leave. Handclasps and kisses were the
order of the moment. I wanted to say good-bye to
Kemalla, but Tarbor's wife, Kemalla's grand-
mother, told me she was sleeping.
We mounted, Yala springing into the saddle as if
she'd been born to it, her skirts hitched up under
and between her legs and tucked into the sash at
her waist, making improvised britches.
As I started to wheel the big Arabian gray, I re-
membered that riding Arabians is not like riding
British or American stock horses. Many control
the Arabian only through blows to the head. For
the animals seem to have a mind of their own.
Tough horses for the tough men who rode them.
The stallion reared under me, testing my mettle,
perhaps. I controlled him with my knees and the
powerful grip had on the reins, and after a mo-
ment he calmed and seemed to accept me as master
—at least temporarily.
It was past 8AM when we started across the low
range of hills toward the next encampment. Al-
ready, my mind was starting to dwell on what we
might find there.
We stopped only briefly at midday. Yala pre-
pared a cold meal of goat meat—stringy, rather
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NICK CARTER
close to the texture of dark meat from a bird, goat
has a distinctive taste all its own and pleasant when
cultivated. She had warm cheese and hard bread as
well, and, with the resinous red wine from the
goatskin, the combination made a hearty repast.
Hardly rested, and then only tarrying for the
sake of our mounts, we were once again in the sad-
die.
Dusk was coming quickly now, and I was begin-
ning to lose my suspicion that Rafik would natural-
ly have left a rear guard behind to cover his with-
drawal—beginning to lose it was not good enough.
The last glints of sunlight were what saved us. They
caught the otherwise invisible rifle.
Fool! I cursed at the unseen sniper and myself,
as I swatted Yalats horse across the rump to make
it spring ahead. quickly following with my own
mount. The PLO sniper's first round went wild. At
the sound of the gunfire, both horses reacted. They
had apparently been trained for this from birth. All
the friskiness was gone—guns meant business.
I couldn't let us get pinned down—there was no
cover. I shouted to Yala, "Follow me and keep
low!" Wilhelmina was already springing from my
shoulder rig. We had no choice but attack.
I kept down over the horse's powerful neck, his
mane lashing my face in the wind. The sniper was
some twenty-five yards away. I could see him
standing now, to take better aim with the Steyr.
Mannlicher SSG. With its Kahles sniper scope, the
SSG was one of the most accurate sniper weapons
in the world—east or west. Unless the man were all
thumbs as well as a fool, he couldn't help but kill
even a moving target. It was the sniper scope that
had given him away on that first shot—he ap-
parently hadn't coated the objective lens.
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The big Arabian under my legs narrowed the dis-
tance. Ten yards now and I knew what I had to do.
I signaled the horse with my knees and at three
yards the giant Arabian leapt skyward. As we
passed over the PLO sniper I jumped from the sad-
die, crashing down on him and knocking the SSG
from his fingers. Like most of the really good
marksmen, he was on the short side, stocky, and
muscular.
I caught the flash of his knife as I rolled away.
My Luger was somewhere back in the rocks from
which we'd tumbled. There was no time for Hugo.
As we moved toward me and lunged, I side-
stepped, letting his knife skate past my ribs.
Clamping his knife hand against my body, my right
hand, palm open, smashed up and forward into his
chin, and my right knee crunched deep into his
groin.
Now my right hand flashed down and my fingers
paralyzed his knife and with a withering blow to
his ulnar nerve, followed by an upward smash Of
my right knee again, breaking the elbow against
itself. Rolling my back into him and casting his
useless and dying arm aside, I jabbed back into his
solar plexus with my right elbow, continued the
turn and caught his left ear with a swinging arc of
my left elbow, then stepped a half-step back and
drove my left palm up into his nose. Dead before
he hit the ground, the sniper collapsed in a heap at
my feet.
I retrieved Wilhelmina, blew the dust off hert
and slid her back into the holster under my left
armpit. I looked around and there was Yalat the
reins of my Arabian stallion in her hand, a smile
across her full lips.
I strode the few yards to where she waited with
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NICK CARTER
my mount and swung aboard, handing the fallen
sniper's SSG to her. "Here—tie this to your sad-
dle."
' 'Tarbor right about you. You are the lion."
Twilight fast disappeared as we rode, and now
the route before us was dark. The benign heat of
the sun was gone, leaving only the arid wasteland's
chill Of night.
It was senseless to go on, riding into God-knew-
what. I made the decision to encamp. We found a
cavelike hollow of rocks up away from the trail,
and she gathered wood there for a small fire. Hud-
dling in the blanket we ate a greasy mixture of
lamb and rice with more of the red wine.
Afterward, there in the rock hollow, fending off
the cold with the warmth of our bodies, I suddenly
felt her hand on my groin.
Perhaps it was the twenty-four hours behind me
—the death making me so much crave life. Or per-
haps the animal look she had with the firelight re-
flected in her eyes.
Yala, the eighteen-year-old Gypsy, niece of
Tarbor the King, leaned forward across me and
heaved another few sticks into the fire. As she
leaned back and shrugged her shoulder, the
peasant blouse slipped from it. Cocking her head
back to loosen the silk bandana binding her hair at
the nape of her neck, the blouse fell from her other
shoulder. I helped it a bit, the back of my hand
caressing her bare shoulder, my fingers brushing
against the coppery nipples of her young girl's
fullness.
She leaned forward and now the blouse was
completely useless to her. Savagely, I knotted my
fingers into her hair and drew her toward me, her
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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head cocked back, her mouth open in a mixture of
pain, anticipation, and desire. The firelight gave a
reddish glow to the skin of her breasts and to her
face. The cleavage between her breasts was warm
and my face and mouth caressed her there.
Slipping the fingers of my right hand up under
her skirt and tearing away her panties underneath,
I found the V of hair at her crotch and the burning
moisture inside,
I bent her back, arching her loins toward me,
oblivious to the cold of the night because of the
warmth of the campfire and the searing heat of her
body. I could feel her hands working at my
trousers and I helped her, then felt her fingers
caressing me. Her thighs, moist and strong and
hard with desire, scissored around my waist and
she contorted her body up to me.
My fingers traced the desire in my mind across
the soft flesh of her abdomen. I thrust forward and
felt the lips at her womanhood sucking me into her.
It lasted like that for what seemed like eternity and
yet only an instant in time. She was coming and
coming until I couldn't hold back any longer and
the moment we both wanted and feared had come
and gone—wanted for its ecstasy, feared because
once here it would be gone.
And now, her woman's passions sated, like the
little girl she late had been, she curled her body into
my arms and under my thighs and slept until
morning.
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Chapter Six
Sunlight threw its furtive glance over the horizon
and I was awake, having slept for ten hours. Despite
the temperature I wasn't really cold, and neither
was the girl. I traced a smile on her lips with the
tips of my fingers and she awoke. "Breakfast I
make for you, Nick Carter."
Laughing, I answered, half-mocking her.
"Breakfast you make for me, Yala." As she got up
to her then tried to stand, I whacked her
hard but lovingly on the behind. She looked at me
and we both knew that this day would take us on
separate roadst perhaps to meet never again. But
the warmth of the evening together would some-
how always live between use
Breakfast was figs and dates with some brakish-
testing cheese and hard black, bread—water this
time instead of wine, and some coffee beans to suck
as we once again took the trail.
Later, as we gained the brow of the final hill
before the second Gypsy camp, we saw it all: the
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sun still low on the horizon, the morning mists roll.
ing away into wisps of steam, the tents and wagons
and cars of the Gypsy camp in ashes. The smell of
burning flesh was heady, like a mad woman's per-
fume still hanging in the air. There were muted
cries of children, cries that had gone unanswered
through the night. A few women, clothes torn and
ragged, marched soullessly about the camps kneel-
ing like automatons to give water to the injured,
then rising only to pace on a few steps further and
plunge their dippers into the rough-hewn wooden
buckets again. Not many men were left, all ap-
parently gathered around the sharded remains of a
tent at the encampment's center.
Colonel Rafik and his PLO terrorists had come
and gone. But did they have the vial?
Holding the hilt of Tarbor's jeweled dagger
before me like a crusader's cross, I cantered my
hot-blooded Arabian forward across the charred
ground, the stench of battle higher now, the smoke
of the burning wagons and tents not quite blotting
out the smell of corrupting flesh. Yala rode behind
me, the clop-clop of her horse's hooves the only
other sound above the wailing of the children and
the injured and the hoofbeats of my own mount.
•Yala told me that these people spoke Bulgarian,
so when we reached the cluster of men, I stopped,
and speaking in their tongue said, am Nick
Carter, friend of Tarbor. I need your heli to
pursue and defeat the enemies who have so injured
your people."
Clad largely in half-charred rags, their ranks
fanned open to reveal a much older man, not as
hale-and-heartylooking as Tarbor had been, but
with a strong resemblance to him facially. From
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NICK CARTER
where he reclined on cushions set on the bare
ground, he said, "I am Yeleg, brother of the great
Tarbor. If you carry his dagger you are his friend.
What news of him?"
"Only that news which is bitter, especially at a
time like this, Yeleg," I answered. I held poised for
his next, inevitable question.
But Yeleg did not ask it. Instead he said,
"Tarbor, my brother, he died well and took many
of the evil ones with him?"
"He did, on both accounts," I answered.
"Then come to me, friend of Tarbor. and I will
help you." He waved his hand feebly, and one of
his men took the reins of my horse. Yala disap-
peated to her place with the rest of the women as I
stepped down and stood before Tarbor's brother.
"They have been here, the men with the guns?"
I asked superfluously.
"Yes," he answered. "They have been here, but
not in terrible force. Some of them were already
wounded, and had it not been so, we would surely
all have perished."
He motioned for me to squat down beside him,
and, without his insistance, I recounted the story of
the attack on his brother's village and how I had
come here. Yeleg, not seriously wounded, was
openly grieved at the passing of his brother, but
seemingly unoffended at the laughter and nods of
approval Tarbor's exploits engendered among the
men surrounding us as I recounted Tarbor's death
saving me.
"Tarbor must have counted you greatly, Nick
Carter. How may we serve you?" He motioned for
the others to step away and tried lighting a
cigarette, I lit it for him. then lit one of my own.
"l am looking for a small casque of jewels. The
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contents of the casque in themselves are not valu-
able, but—" and I hesitated.
"We are Gypsy and we steal from the gajunt but
we are also men of honor. I do not betray my
brother, I do not betray my brother's friend." He
dragged heavily on the cigarette in the manner
practiced by some of the Sherpas. The cigarette
was held between the fourth and last digit, and the
smoke drawn up through his clenched fist. It was a
sort of natural filter, and at the same time gave a
clean and full inhalation to truly experience the
tobacco smoke.
"The jewels in the casque may have some minor
value, but in the casque," I said, "there is a small
glass bottle and in that bottle a sickness. This
sickness is so evil as to drive men's minds to mad-
ness and murdering their wives and friends and
children and then it will devour their bodies with
fever and death."
"If you are the decent man my brother thought,
why do you wish to have such a bottle, Nick
Carter?"
For a moment, I didn't know how to answer
him, but then finally did with what I hoped was the
truth. "l wish to bring it to good doctors of my
country America and of England, doctors who will
destroy the evil in the bottle for all time."
"And what of the man who made the evil in this
I dragged heavily on my cigarette, then looked at
him squarely, touching my fingers to the butt of
Wilhelmina the Luger, visible under my open bush
jacket. "I am to destroy the man myself."
He thought about this for a moment, then com-
manded, "Where is Irania? The girl Irania, the
thief, bring her to me!"
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But there seemed to be no Irania to be found.
The women of the camp made a place for Yala and
for me as we waited for Yeleg to find what had
happened to Irania. This time with oil and solvent,
I gave Wilhelmina her proper cleaning, checked the
loads in the spare eight-round magazines, then saw
as well to putting a fine coat of oil on Hugo's
blade. Something told me that both my old friends
—and perhaps Pierre the gas bomb, too—might
well be needed again soon. I thought of Hawk, per-
haps still in London or maybe back in Washington
by now. Once again, he'd sent me on an impossible
mission and once again, here I sat, this time per-
haps the fate of the world resting on my shoulders.
Somehow it didn't seem quite appropriate that
while I wrestled with decisions that would de-
termine life or death for millions of humanity,
Hawk was somewhere chomping one of his
noxious-smelting cigars, fondling his porcelain
statues of eagles.... Was I really envying him? En-
vying the security he had over the danger and ex-
citement of my own life? One glance at Yala, the
ruby fullness of her lips, the glistening cleavage...
"You are smiling, Nick Carter? At me? Yala?"
I leaned over and touched her lips with my own.
"Not at you, Yalat but because of you a little."
"There is news of Irania the thief," a poorly
dressed man with a bolt-action Springfield slung
across his back shouted, bursting through the tent
flap.
I was up and moving, striding from the tent and
across the encampment, life seeming to pour
through me and exude to all those around me,
Yeleg, his vigor apparently beginning to return,
was sitting up against the trunk of a tree. "There is
word. Irania. Her brother is dead, we have found
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
55
his body burned—over there. She is not with him.
One of the women says that the night you spoke of
Irania and her brother told of finding a damaged,
Russian-made automobile on the road outside
Istanbul. The driver was injured in the accident
and Irania and her brother went through his
things. They found little money, but as they were
about to give up found a small casque of pearls and
other jewels. Then Irania and her brother drove his
car to outside a hospital near Istanbul and left him
there to be found, taking the casque as their reward
for good deeds. Now Irania has fled after last
night. In a small Volkswagen—the only car that
still was working after the battle. She is on het way
to Istanbul to visit her pig of a cousin, Nreha. I had
my son write down where this Nreha last lived."
He handed me a torn scrap of paper with barely
legible characters scrawled across it.
"Thank you, Yeleg," I said. So, the chase was
back to Istanbul, really where it had all begun. "Is
there any other car?"
"None that work." Then a young man, probably
one of Yeleg's sons, leaned down and whispered
into his ear. Yeleg's hands reached out in front of
him and he twisted his fists and made a vrooming
sound, then laughed. "You can ride this?"
"This thing," he said, and made the vrooming
sound again, laughing.
The young man said, "A motorcycle—war sur-
plus GI. Charley Davey's Son?"
"A motorcycle," I shouted in surprise. "Harley
Davidson?"
"Yes, she's the one."
"Yes, of course," answered, smiling.
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Chapter Seven
GI it was. The Harley Davidson was World War
II vintage, complete with sidecar. But other than its
age and the crudely reupholstered seat, it looked
relatively well cared for and in good running order.
Yala saw to it that I had a day's provisions and I
packed the boot with the remainder of spare ammo
for the M-16, the assault rifle itself, and the hind-
quarter of a goat Yeleg had insisted I take.
It was time to say good-bye to the Gypsiess and
Yala, most particularly. She was trying to use her
best "American" to make her farewell. "Yala was
very pleased to make the acquaintance for Nick
Carter."
I looked at the girl a moment, smiling at her af-
fected formality, then whispered, ...
of Nick
Carter, not for." Then I added. "Nick Carter was
very pleased to make the acquaintance of Yala... ,
Come here!" I kissed her hard on her warm, moist
lips and gave her a loving crack on her round, solid
behind.
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57
Clasping Yeleg•s hand—he was walking now,
with help—and waving farewell to the rest of the
Gypsies, I mounted the Harley, turned the key, and
took the big bike sputtering out of camp.
Turning the bend in the road toward Istanbul, I
couldn't help but wonder what the girl Irania was
like. For Ycleg to have called her "thief" must
have meant she was a thief indeed. And now that
she was in the city, things might be worse. Like
Pandora's Box, if she opened the vial in the bottom
of the casque, she'd be loosing the most evil de-
mons of all, something she could hardly suspect.
With the girl in the city, there was more like-
lihood she would sell the contents of the casque,
then perhaps discover the vial. Or perhaps discard
the casque. Would she hurl it uncaringly into the
Bosphorous to eventually open and loose its plague
in some future day? Or would the casque be stolen
from her or sold away? If either happened, the like-
lihood of finding the casque again would be less
than zero. And eventually the plague of death
would come, sweeping its killing madness across
Europe and half of Asia.
And what of Colonel Rafik? If he obtained the
virus and used it against Israel, there would be a
third world war, and that was no idle guess. Per-
haps Irania the thief was indeed a modern-day
Pandora who would be cursed just as much in
future generations as was had been antic coun-
terpart.
Rafik and his men were ahead of me somewhere,
perhaps on the very trail of the girl I followed. And
then, of course, there were the Russians who
hadn't, at least not as far as could be detected. even
made an opening gambit in the deadly game. And
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NICK CARTER
what about the neo-Nazis and Dre Rauffmann, the
evil genius who had discovered the contents of the
all-important vial?
I was coming down from a broad range of low
hills when I heard the cars behind me. Like any
cyclist, I looked around to see them. But the two
black Moscva sedans were not, I felt, out for a lei-
surely spin. Especially when the ugly snout of a So.
viet PPsH was rammed through the front passenger
window and started spitting gilding metal-jacketed
pellets of death my way.
Crouching low over the handlebars, I gunned the
big Harley down the road and shot ahead of them.
I could outdistance them gradually, but not get
out of range quickly enough before the subguns did
their work. Frantically, I looked for a slope or em-
bankment I could make the big cycle climb, in or•
der to leave the road and my pursuers. But there
was none. The KGB men had picked •their killing
ground well. Sheer rock face flanked the road for
the next several miles—sheer rock face and sudden
abysses. For on one side now as we rounded a
curve—the PPsH still chattering dust at my tires—
the road, the entire face of the land, dropped off
into a steep gorge perhaps a quarter mile wide.
Ahead the gorge seemed to narrow dramatically
and a plan began forming—a plan of escape.
But there was better than a mile to go and
Moscvas, crammed to the gills with KGB men.
were hot on my trail. Carefully, I slipped
Wilhelmina the Luger from her berth under my
armpit—awkwardly, using my left hand. Twisting
my thumb onto the left side of the frame, I pushed
off the safety. As we rounded another bend and the
Moscva slowed to take it, I popped off a two-shot
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
59
burst—one, of the 9mm jacketed hollow-points
smashing a yard-long crack into the windshield on
the lead car. The Moscva weaved, the driver ap-
parently having difficulty keeping control. The fol-
lowing car slowed dramatically, skidding to avoid
a wreck.
Wilhelmina stuffed in my trouser waistband, I
gunned the Harley to its breaking point and shot
ahead. The gorge narrowed beyond the next bend,
just as I had predicted. There would be no time for
judging my distance, making trial runs to build
speed. It would be one chance, all or nothing, go
for broke. Luck was with me, though, at least a
little. As the Moscvas again started to close, a sub-
guns roaring from front and rear windows, the
gravel roadway began to slope downward. As the
slope increased, so did my momentum. The end of
the road was coming fast, the mouth of the gorge
yawning up to swallow me.
And then I was up, the tires spinning wildly on
the air, the wind lashing savagely at my face and
hair. The opposing lip of the gorge was twenty-five,
now twenty, now fifteen feet away. The arc of the
cycle was dropping, and there were ten feet still to
go. I realized. too late, I should have ditched the
sidecar. Five feet and the rear wheel was down and
seemingly so heavy the cycle would stop there—
dead in mid-air and the rocks below would claim
me.
There was a shudder and I felt the front wheel
bumping hard onto rock, then the rear wheel skid-
ding after it. The coupling to the sidecar shimmied
loose and the car shot off on a crazy tangent. The
change in weight biought the Harley crashing
down at an opposing angle, and I jumped clear.
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NICK CARTER
Winded, I looked back. The front wheels Of one
of the Moscva sedans was over the edge of the 0th.
er side of the gorge. Already, the occupants of both
cars were spraying the ground beside me with their
PPsH SMGs and Ak-47s.
Pushing myself up from the ground, Wilhelmina
already spitting death from my right hand, I ran to
the Harley, killing the key to save the battery.
Looking about, I found the sidecar, twenty yards
away and overturned beside an outcropping of
rock, the wheels still spinning.
Firing as I ran in a crazy zigzag pattern to evade
their fire, the Luger came up empty. As the chatter
of their automatic weapons heightened, savagely
gnawing at the dirt near my feet, tearing at my
clothes, I dove the last few feet to the sidecar.
Snatching the M-16 from the boot and flicking the
selector to full auto, I sprayed my enemies across
the gorge.
My first fusilade cut down three of them, almost
severing the head from the body of one of the KGB
men.
The rhythm of their fire broke as I emptied the
rest of the thirty-round magazine, then rammed a
fresh one home from the rucksack. There were
three more magazines, enough to hold them, but
not enough to last forever. Loosing a burst, I took
a moment and rammed a fresh magazine up the
butt of the Luger, worked the toggle action to
charge her, then worked the safety as I slid her
back in the holster under my left arm.
There were five more of the Soviets, and we were
in a stalemate. It looked like a job for Pierre, my
little gas bomb. The wind was calm and only a
week before I'd been given the injection of atropine
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
61
and tetrathiazide. I had a good range of immunity
remaining. I shoved my hand down into my pants
where Pierre was secured inside his little sack be-
hind my scrotume Pierre used compressed
hydrochlorsarsomasine, one of the deadliest of
nerve gases. I pulled the small red tab—like pulling
the pin of a grenade. Now, the slightest jar would
release the deadly gas. Firing a burst from the
M-16 to get their heads down, I rose to my full
height and, just like a pitcher in the final inning of
the World Series, hauled back my throwing arm
for my best ball. Right now the score was tied and
the KGB had men on all the bases, ready to rack
up my life. When Pierre landed, I struck out their
hitter and one by one the runners—their automatic
weapons occasionally sputtering into the ground at
their feet or into their comrades, contorted in
agony and crumpled. We were both visiting teams
in Turkey, but, I grinned to myself, an American
had invented baseball, after all. And Pierre was one
heil of a great player.
One of the Russians was still clutching a hand
mike from a dash-mounted radio set, and even
from across the gorge I could hear over the static a
rasping voice with a heavy Ukranian accent shout-
ing for someone to answer.
The radio meant there was another reception
committee up ahead. I didn't want to keep them
waiting. I shot a fresh stick into the M-16 and
looked on the safety, then slung the little .22; as-
sault rifle across my back on its webbing. Next or-
der of business was the Harley.
Hauling it up between my legs, the motor
gunned to life and, looking back for a final salute
to Pierre and the fine work he'd done, was off.
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There was no road, but aside from circumventing
some large rocks and granite slabs, the slow-paced
ride was easy enough. I'd be able to intercept some
sort of highway into Istanbul in perhaps another
twenty miles or so, then I could begin to make
time.
The morning was clear and fresh, the air almost
stinging the nostrils on the wind my passage made
around me.
But over the roar of the wind I heard what I had
feared most. Looking behind me and up, there it
was. Not a Soviet make of helicopter at all, it was
a Huey HU-ID, like those used in the early fighting
in Nam. The U.S. markings were gone and it
looked as though the turret-mounted 7.62mm
M-60 machine guns and the rocket pods were gone.
too. But I knew it wasn't Uncle Sam to the rescue,
either—especially when the familiar and deathly
sound of AK47s on full automatic began to chew
up the track behind me.
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Chapter Eight
"Nick Carter—Rest In Peace " Somehow, I
didn't like the ring of it. The Huey helicopter—
KGB officers packing it, their AK-47s chattering
at a nonstop pace—was making a looping zigzag
pattern behind me and to my flanks, a storm of
tiny rocks and dust swirling around me from its
whirling rotor blades. It was only a matter of time
before one of the hundreds of rounds the
Kalashnikovs were spitting would connect with me
or with some critical part of the motorcycle I rode.
Buying time was the only option I had left, if in-
deed that were at all possible.
At the far right of my peripheral vision I could
see the edge of what appeared to be a large olive
grove. wheeled the big motorcycle toward it, the
trees a possible cover. If I could reach them I could
dismount and return fire and with luck bring the
helicopter down, or at least cripple it enough to
cause it to turn back. The grove started looming on
the horizon as t neared it. Almost too late I saw
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something else—a gorge, perhaps ripped through
the ground by an ancient earthquake, the rending
of tectonic plates. Except this, unlike the last gorge.
was far too broad to jump—and the gorge blocked
my way to the marginal protection of the olive
grove.
There was no turning back—the AK-47s from
the helicopter were seeing to that. The gorge
yawned ahead of me like an open grave. I brought
my motorcycle up short, then took off along its
rim. Ahead of me there seemed to be some sort of
crude path leading downward. No time to in-
vestigate its course—that it led all the way to the
bottom, to the narrow, bubbling current pounding
over the rocks below. I had to gamble. wrenched
the Harley into almost a ninety-degree turn, my
feet dragging to support the big machine.
If it were a path at all, it had to be one used by
mountain goats. The bike skidded and slipped be-
neath me. gravel showering, tiny rocks biting at the
exposed skin of my hands and face.
The Huey helicopter was, mercifully, laying
back, its occupants perhaps thinking they'd save
their ammo and let the treacherous gorge claim me.
The path was a seemingly unending series of near
right-angle turns, and navigating them at speed,
the Harley coughing and vibrating between my
legs, was all but impossible. Gravity was dragging
the machine straight downward, and each turn was
a mighty wrestling match—one fall and a loss, for-
ever.
A huge boulder suddenly loomed dead center in
the path of the bike. I skidded the Harley above
and around it, lost control of the machine, and
started skidding downward, the bike clattering be-
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
65
hind me. I pulled myself into a roll, not daring to
try to Stop, lest the weight of the motorcycle come
crashing down on me. The rocks below—jagged
and deadly—seemed to be speeding toward me as I
rolled, my elbows and hands tucked around my
head, protec'ting it as best as possible from the
chunks of granite debris littering the side of the
gorge. I was less than ten yards—make that eight—
from the bottom, and had to break out of the roll.
If I hit the base of the wall and the rocks there at
speed, I'd be dead or crippled. I wrenched my hips
at a right angle into my descent and spread-eagled.
Looking up I could see the big Harley still crashing
downward. mere feet behind me. With the last of
my strength, I torqued my body to the left and
changed the direction of my descent. I was still
powerless to keep myself from hitting bottom, but
now instead of an uncontrolled roll I was skidding,
and at a much slower rate. The loose dirt and grav-
el near the base of the gorge gave no handhold,
offered no purchase for my feet. The Harley
mercifully crashed past me.
I was able to roll again—this time off my chest
and onto my back, then slowing my descent still
more by bracing my elbows behind me. I could feel
the gravel digging through the fabric Of my bush
jacket and shirt, then flailing savagely at my skin.
But, suddenly, I stopped.
Looking down, a scant few feet now from the
rock-strewn base of the gorge, I could see the
Harley. Saying it had smashed into a thousand
pieces would have been an exaggeration, but sever•
al dozen would be very near the truth. Gingerly,
the throbbing of the helicopter rotor blades grow-
ing in intensity above me, I moved my limbs, felt
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NICK CARTER
tender spots but ascertained that miraculously
nothing was broken, or at least not noticeably so. I
pulled myself into a crouch and edged my way
down into the gorge, climbed over the rocks and
crouched behind them, the stream roaring a few
feet behind me, its icy cold spray a merciful plea-
sure, The M.16 1'd carried had become lost some-
where. I felt under my left armpit for the reassuring
bulk of Wilhelmina the Luger, and she was there. I
wrapped my fist around the pistol's grip and jerked
her free, thumbing off the safety.
The helicopter was closing in. Logic dictated
they'd get me, but not before I took some or all of
them with me. The Huey gunship was descending
slowly. I'd flown helicopters and knew how sensi-
tive they were to updrafts. As the chopper slowly
navigated into the gorge, I gave a mental salute to
its pilot—he knew his stuff.
In a moment they'd be on me. I turned and
looked around my position. The gorge seemed to
narrow progressively in the distance as the
streambed cut deeper into the rock. I pushed my.
self to my feet and shot a glance toward the ape
proaching helicopter. I'd already made up my
mind. I was going to see just how good that pilot
really was.
I started walking, picking my way down into the
streambed, the rocks slippery beneath my feet, the
cold, swirling water around my ankles numbing
them. I kept moving, and, after a few seconds, as I
got the hang of the current, broke into a cautious
jog-trot. The helicopter had to be close—the engine
noise and the whir of the rotor blades were drown-
ing out the roar of the stream around me.
I looked up. A quarter mile above, the gorge was
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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still as wide as ever, but down hete in the stream it
was already starting to narrow dramatically, ahead
of me the distance between the walls dwindling into
a funnel shape, not more than thirty feet across. If
the helicopter was going to follow me, it'd have to
take it high; the pilot would have to go slow,
watching for downdrafts and sudden updrafts
where water and air of conflicting temperatures
would meet.
But the men aboard the helicopter apparently
foresaw that, too. Their AK-47s were opening up
again, Stray ricochets skittering off the narrowing
rock walls flanking me as I moved downstream.
Ahead, the stream grudgingly twisted around an
outcropping of jagged rocks, the sides smooth like
a mirror surface, the edges honed into menacing-
looking points and undercuts. I jogged abreast of
them, then dove behind them. Running the back of
my right hand across my eyes to dry away the spray
from the stream, I brought Wilhelmina down on
line and notched her front sight on target. I was
using the rocks as a rest. For a hundred-yard shot
at a target that was moving—no matter how slowly
—I'd need all the help I could muster.
I loosed one of the 115-grain gilding metal-jack-
eted, hollow-points, then another, and still anoth-
er. The helicopter seemed to jerk, perhaps to avoid
further fire. Suddenly, a man wearing dark clothes,
the ugly profile of an AK-47 in his hands clear
against the bluish light of the gorge, tumbled from
the open side of the Huey gunship. His body
seemed to fall in a crazy slow motion. Landing
facedown in the stream,.the crack from his skull
against the rocks was sickeningly audible. The heli-
copter backed off. As I touched my left hand into
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the water for a purchase against the streambed, I
looked down. then pulled my hand back—the wa-
ter was pink with the dead man's blood.
I pushed away from my rocky firing position and
started running again. The streambed narrowed
sharply now, its walls so little a span apart that I
could steady myself with my arms extending, fin-
gertips touching each opposing rock surface. But
the water was deeper, too, surging now near my
belt line. And it seemed still colder. The helicopter
-—1 shot a cautious glance backward—was coming
in again behind me.
Footing was difficult to maintain, the polished
rocks beneath the surging surface of the water
made slippery by ages of the swift-moving stream,
the ever-heightening water making each movement
a gamble. The water was over my waist, lapping
against my chest as it eddied and flowed, bounced
against the rock walls now barely the width of my
shoulders apart. I turned, flattening myself against
the stony ramparts, Wilhelmina poised in my chill-
trembling fist for my last stand. There were five
rounds left in her, and fumbling the sodden spare
magazines from my pockets beneath the swirling
white water would be hopeless.
As the chopper bore down. the remaining KGB
men firing their AK-47s unrelentingly, I opened
fire. I could see my bullets ricocheting off the hard.
ened portions of the helicopter fuselage. One
round, two, three—only two more left to me. The
chopper was almost directly overhead, perhaps the
length of a city block or less above me. Cautiously
it descended, likely against the better judgment of
the men at its controls. The AK-47 fire seemed to
increase as did the riccoehets from the rock walls
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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pressing around me. I took my last two rounds and
fired straight up into the underbelly of the Huey's
olive-drab fuselage. My first shot was a clean miss.
The second round hit a fuel line. The noise seemed
to funnel down into the rock chasm and re-
verberate and amplify, the sound deafening. The
helicopter's fireball consumed the sky above me, its
heat searing my face.
I had one chance and one only left to me.
Clutching the empty Wilhelmina in my fist, I dove
under the water's foaming surface. As I swam for-
ward and down, pushing myself through the nar-
rowing tunnel around me, I could hear the
soundwaves of wreckage hitting the water's sur-
face, magnified seemingly a thousand times. Once,
I huddled below the water, hands pressed to my
ears—I guessed the secondary explosions from the
crankcase had taken place—perhaps on the water
just above me.
Almost out of air, I pushed forward through the
water the danger of the progressively tightening
passage now my gravest threat. Forcing my head
above the water, I realized I was powerless now to
resist the current. The stream flowed quickly
through a narrow tunnel ahead. and then down-
ward into blackness beyond. I fought the water.
For an instant, I had a purchase against the rock
around me, the Luger pistol still clenched in my
hand skittering on the surface of the smooth rock-
face. There was no handhold and, my body
wrenching with the force, the current swept me un-
der. I caught a full breath before I lost control.
Swimming was senseless and too energy-consum-
ing now. My hands around my head to protect my
face, I could do nothing but let the current force
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me down into the tunnel. Rock walls, narrow and
smooth, compressed around me. For an instant 1
was stuck, my shoulders rammed between the rock
surfaces.
As I twisted against the force of the current, air
in my lungs burning away, I craned my shoulders
down. Suddenly I was free, battering against the
tunnel walls—nothing but blackness engulfing me.
I could feel, myself losing consciousness. The
thought of death—through its immediacy and my
powerlessness in the face of it terrified me for an
instant—suddenly seemed amusing. Nitrogen fixa-
tion, a clinical voice somewhere in the back of my
mind said. I wanted to laugh and tell the voice to
shut up. All I had to do was open my mouth and
try to say "shut up" to the voice, and it would all
be over, the aching and burning in my lungs, the
drumming in my head, the bruising my body was
taking from the rocks surrounding me on all sides
as I plummeted through the water....
The brightness—my eyes closed against it. The
Brightness! I fought against the reflexes of my
body, told myself I had to keep fighting. Suddenly
I was in the open, above the surface for an instant.
Nothing, not even the water was still around me.
Inhaling deeply, I squinted against the sunlight. I
was falling again„ Was this death, I wondered? I hit
the water hard, my body impacting awkwardly
against the rock base of the stream. Pushing my
aching head above the water I could see I was being
drawn by the current toward the lip of a waterfall.
And in little more than an instant I'd be over.
There was an outcropping of rock ahead where the
stream narrowed before plunging downward. I
groped for it and found a precarious handhold. My
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left arm ached badly. I drew it out of the water and
tried wrapping both my arms around the rock.
Through sheer force of will, I found that I was
somehow pulling myself upward. Inches away was
a low-hanging tree limb. Leaves and the texture of
the bark looked healthy. Did I dare release the
rock? I couldn't hold on there forever—already I
was starting to slip. What if the limb were rotted or
ready to snap? I glanced over my shoulder. The
edge of the cataract was just a matter of yards away
and far, far below there was white water and there
were rocks. Survival would be impossible.
Wilhelmina the Luger was still in my right fist—
somehow I hadn't let go of the pistol there
throughout my ordeal. I opened my mouth and
held the frame topstrap of the pistol tight-clenched
in my teeth. My right hand free, I slapped my right
arm forward. The tree was still centimeters away.
And I was slipping faster, the current sucking at
my legs, drawing me back into its deathly embrace.
With all the strength could muster, I swung my
right arm back, and then threw my arm and my
body forward. My right fist wrapped around the
tree limb.
It was all or nothing. I pulled hard on the limb—
it moved toward me! A million fears raced through
my mind. Was the limb broken? I kept pulling, and
movement from the limb stopped. I got my left
hand as well onto the limb, then dragged my weary
body up and across the rock surface.
My arms now clutched around the tree limb, I
realized I was still several yards from shore. Weari-
ness was bringing on exhaustion .
I couldn't
postpone this last gambit. I let my legs sink back
into the stream. the force of the water dragging me
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NICK CARTER
away from the limb, which my hands and arms
were fighting desperately to hold. Suddenly I had a
new awareness. As I inched my way forward along
the tree limb toward the shore I realized that my
hands and arms just didn't seem to belong to me
anymore—they were so heavy, and the feeling in
them seemed to be gone. I ess than two yards to go.
Would the hands and arms still answer my mind?
A yard now. My legs were numb with cold and
pain. My left foot . . I could feel something firm,
yet not hard like ground would be, beneath it. I
swung my right leg forward. My feet slipped as I
tried putting weight onto my legs. Mud—several
inches deep. My hands and arms were still moving.
inching me along the tree limb, dragging my body
forward without my telling them to do so.
I looked down finally, sighed from weariness
and relief, and let go of the tree limb. My legs were
useless and I fell to my knees in the mud, the pistol
dropping there beside me. I realized my hands were
bleeding as I tried to wipe the water and the mud
from my eyes. As I tried to inch closer to the higher
ground, something deep inside of me must have
sighed, •to hell with it!' My hands slipped in the
mud and I went down and closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes. I could feel that my face was
caked with mud. My left wrist the watch was
somehow perfectly intact. I had no idea how long I
had been unconscious, but it had been three and a
half hours since the helicopter had first gotten on
my trail. It was mid-afternoon now.
Either I lived right or healed fast. My skin was
bruised and abraded and I was still bleeding in
spots, but once again this day—miraculously—
nothing was broken. My left arm and shoulder
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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ached. I started to strip away my clothes there and
see, but that was unnecessary. The entire left side
of my jacket and shirt were ripped away, my left
shoulder a massive bruise, purplish in color, but
not swollen. I stood up, then promptly fell in the
slippery mud. Crawling on my knees the few yards
to harder ground, Wilhelmina—still empty—back
in my right fist, I almost passed out again. I stood
up. My back ached, my shoulder throbbed—where
was a chiropractor when you really needed one?
My trousers were in shreds, my legs were mud-
caked and bleeding. I sat down beside the trunk of
the tree whose limb had saved my life. Stupidly, I
looked at the knotted and twisted trunk and mut-
tered a thanks to it. I began to mentally assess my
situation. Where were the spare magazines? Had
they been in the coat? No—I felt in my trouser
pockets—the spares for Wilhelmina were still
there, though all were empty except one. Hugo, the
pencil-thin stiletto? It was still sheathed to my right
arm, the cuff of my bush jacket and shirt still over
it, but the rest of the sleeve was torn away. The
shoulder rig for Wilhelmina was useless, sodden
and tattered. J stripped it away and discarded its
I thought dully that I had to get the mud out of
the Luger and give her a hasty cleaning.... Sude
denly, a sound wrenched me from my reverie.
Looking up to the rockface behind me through
which the tunnel had passed, a helicopter—this
time just a little bubble-domed Bell—was descend-
ing. Wilhelmina's cleaning and reloading would
have to be fast indeed. There was the unmistakable
snout of an AK-47 peeping out Of the front passen-
ger side of the chopper.
There was no time to fieldstrip the pistol. I in-
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NICK CARTER
spected the bore, tested the action—I'd have to
hope for the best. I rammed the last loaded maga-
zine home up the butt and worked the toggle, then
worked the Luger's safety. The helicopter would be
landing below the falls in a matter of moments. Be-
sides the pilot, there could be no more than two
KGB men aboard. And I needed the helicopter for
transportation.
As best as I could, I moved quickly along the
bank of the stream—river was a more appropriate
term, considering the greater width across it now.
At the edge of the falls was a narrow rock path,
and I took it. I had no time to conceal my move-
ments. If I were spotted then I'd have to do the best
I could. The Bell helicopter was hovering a few
yards above the ground in the perhaps quarter-
mile-wide shoals area below the falls, skimming
low over the shallow, sandy pools, obviously
searching for the most secure landing sight. As I
reached the halfway point down the rocky path,
the helicopter finally touched down.
I watched as with admirable security procedure
the two KGB gunmen jumped from the craft and
took up flanking positions a few yards past the Cir.
cumference of the helicopter's rotor blades. Mov-
ing quickly along the last few yards of the path, I
dropped down behind some scrub brush to observe
them.
The shoals area at the base of the falls was re-
markably peaceful, the waters calm with sandpits
everywhere breaking their force from the rocks at
the base of the cataract. On the largest of the sand
"islands," the helicopter and the men guarding her
were perhaps a hundred yards distant. A firefight
was impossible for several reasons, foremost
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
75
among them the eight rounds remaining for
Wilhelmina and the fresh-loaded AK-47s the two
KGB men were brandishing. Then, too, at the first
sound of gunfire, the helicopter would probably lift
off. Doubtless some of the wreckage from the
downed Huey had still been visible upstream, and
that would have been adequate warning to the pilot
—and the Bell was not a combat aircraft.
Likely. the KGB men and the pilot thought me
dead. That I'd survived the narrow tunnel and the
torrent of water would seem incredible to them—as
indeed it still did to me. Almost as witness to my
thoughts, the rotor blades of the helicopter began
to slow. One Of the KGB gunmen—the nearest one
to my position—stepped several yards closer to me
still and away from the swishing helicopter rotor
blades, apparently in order to light a cigarette. Au-
tomatically, I felt for mine. They, too, were gone
with the rest of my bush jacket. Smoking would
definitely be hazardous to his health, though. He
was doing exactly what I wanted.
As the KGB gunman bent his head, the AK-47
assault rifle in the crook of his left elbow while he
fumbled his lighter, I leveled Wilhelmina, the safe-
ty catch thumbed off, then fired. The first round hit
him in the top of the head as he bent over, my sec.
ond round catching him in the gut. Technique de-
manded taking the far gunman first, but the near
man I'd just killed had been such a perfect target,
I would have been foolish to pass up the op-
portunity.
I got up and started running toward the heli-
copter while the first man's body was still falling to
the ground. The far man apparently hadn't heard
the shots over the noise of the helicopter rotors. I
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NICK CARTER
was lucky. Through the glass bubble could see the
face—not clearly, but sufficiently to read it—of the
pilot, his arms waving frantically to attract the at-
tention of the second KGB gunman, his mouth
wide. As 1 narrowed the gap to the helicopter, the
second gunman lazily turned, still unalerted. As his
peripheral vision evidently picked me up, I could
see him start to bring his assault rifle to bear, then
sidestep when he must have realized the helicopter
was between us and would be in the crossfire. I was
narrowing the shooting range. I'd knocked off
some twenty-five yards and as he moved around
the aircraft he too helped close the gap. Now there
were just sixty yards or so between us.
As the KGB man got clear of the helicopter, the
rotor blades already starting to rev behind him
over the sandy shallows and draw up water and
rock bits in his face, he brought the rifle into a hip-
level assault position.
I threw myself down. The water was shallow—
perhaps a few inches deep here. My elbows, raw
and aching, settled into the sand and gravel to
steady my aim. The KGB gunman began firing,
but his odds on a hasty burst at that distance eon.
necting with the low-profile target I presented were
poor. I took my time and squeezed Wilhelmina's
trigger. The KGB man's hands sprang from his
weapon, his arms spread-eagling behind him as he
smashed backward. I wouldn't have wasted the
second shot, but I was already squeezing it as he
felt the first hit. Dead already, his legs seemed to be
working still, mechanically, until he crumpled
against the opposite bank, his limp arms bouncing
against its surface.
I pushed myself to my feet, half-staggering as I
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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ran toward the helicopter. The pilot was starting to
take off. There was no time for finesse, and today
I wasn't terribly fond of helicopter pilots working
for the KGB, anyway. As I reached the chopper
the only way I could stop his takeoff was to shoot.
t dropped to my knees, both hands thrusting for-
ward into a double-fisted, modified combat posi-
tion. fired twice, the Luger bucking in my hands
from the rapid succession of shots. The pilot had
been turning to look at me as I opened up on him.
My first round blew out his left eye, the second
impacted into his mouth.
I jumped to my feet and raced to the machine,
diving across the dead pilot and throttling back on
the controls.
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Chapter Nine
I pushed the helicopter pilot's dead body from
behind the machine's controls and out into the
stream, checked that my bullets hadn't damaged
the instrument panel, checked the pressure gauges
and the like, then stepped back outside. I sat for a
moment on the edge of the fuselage, my feet dan-
gling over the water. I definitely wanted a cigarette.
Jumping down, I walked over to the body of the
first of the two KGB gunmen I'd just killed. His
lighter lay in the water near his right hand. Reach-
ing inside his jacket I found the cigarettes. They
were a Russian brand I wasn't fond of, but any
port in a storm, as they say. A few of the cigarettes
were water-stained—one, in fact, had a cyanide
capsule in it. Six remained that weren't damaged or
loaded.
Since the weather is often cold in the Soviet
Union and many people when smoking outdoors
have no choice but to keep heavy gloves on, Soviet
filter cigarettes are often manufactured with ex-
78
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
79
cessively long filters. These were like that. I
snapped the filter off one, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
As I did, I remembered graphically why I didn't
like the brand to begin with.
sat on my haunches there in the water—I was
still soaked anyway—and found the dead man's
handgun. I was in luck—it was a Walther P-38, a
vintage World War II model from the looks of it,
with the Nazi Eagle proof stamps. The important
thing was that it, like my Luger, was a 9mm Para-
bellum. I emptied the Walther, including the round
in the chamber, then searched the dead man
further and found several extra eight-round maga-
zines and stripped the rounds from these as well. I
searched for papers and the like, but found nothing
except some folding money and a Swiss Army
knife. I pocketed these and shoved the empty P-38
into my trouser belt.
J started on a second of the dead man's cigarettes
while I gave Wilhelmina another inspection and
pumped the expropriated 9mms from his gun into
the empty magazines of my own. I recognized the
ammo brand—fortunately it used noncorrosive
primers—but I had never fed any through my
Luger. I ran out a magazine full on a tree trunk
along the opposite bank to check how it func-
tioned. It was a lighter hollow-point loading than
what I used, but didn't seem to shoot much away
from point of aim, and both fed and operated the
Luger's potentially pressure-finicky toggle action
satisfactorily.
It was time to move on to the next man, as I
snatched up the AK-47 the first man had held. I
left the assault rifle and the empty P-38 in the heli-
copter and decided to search the pilot first. The
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NICK CARTER
man was unarmed and without ID. I checked the
leather jacket—presumably his—that was aboard
the helicopter and found nothing more but a pack-
age of Players cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. I
pocketed these.
The second KGB man on the other side Of the
helicopter was similarly anonymous—he didn't
even have folding money and was apparently a
nonsmoker. There was a cheap switchblade knife
on him, as well as a much-abused Smith & Wesson
Combat Masterpiece, the barrel clumsily sawn
back from four inches to about three, and the front
sight sweated on poorly. I checked the action and it
seemed satisfactory. Catching up his AK-47 and
the spare ammo for his revolver, I started back to-
ward the helicopter, dumped everything except the
Smith revolver into the open area at the rear of the
cockpit, and stepped aboard.
I studied the helicopter's controls intently for a
few moments while I smoked one of the Players
cigarettes—I liked them better. Satisfied that I
could fly the thing—part of my own training with
helicopters had been on a similar model—I
cranked up, and in a few moments was shakily air-
borne. An unfamiliar helicopter is like a strange
horse—you ride it gently until you know how it
responds. This one proved better than I would
have hoped. and the tanks were almost three-quar-
ters full.
As I flew low over the countryside, orienting my.
self to find Istanbul, I listened to the anxious chat.
ter coming over the radio—that same voice with
the Ukranian accent that I'd heard from the car
radio of the first KGB team so many miles before.
The speaker apparently hadn't realized yet that
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81
he'd lost his team. I switched to talk and said,
"This is Nick Carter calling KGB, Carter calling
KGB. Over." The radio was silent. After a mo-
ment, I switched again to talk. "KGB-—hope you
copy. Just eliminated the first team in the automo-
bilesv the team in the Huey helicopter—better req-
uisition a new one, total loss—and the team from
the second helicopter. If you want to pick it up, I'll
be at the Istanbul airport—on my way there now.
Do you speak French? Over."
The radio was silent a moment, then there was a
muttered English, "Yes."
"Terrific," I said into the microphone. "Then
merde å vous, pal. Nick Carter, out."
I found one of the small aircraft pilot's naviga-
tional crutches—a paved highway. I dipped low
over it to catch a road sign confirming that I was
aimed toward Istanbul, then got some elevation
again.
I took to the radio once more, switching fre-
quencies to the one used by the Turkish Secret Ser-
vice—I remembered it from the radio that had
been in Kemalla's Land Rover. "This is AXE
Agent N-3 calling home, do you read me. Over."
I didn't even have to repeat my call. "This is
home, N-3, prepared to copy. Over."
"Roger, home. En route to Istanbul airport with
borrowed helicopter—got it from a bunch of
vodka drinkers—you copy that? Over."
Roger, N.3e Affirmative." The guy sounded
like an American. ."Are more vodka drinkers ex-
pected to meet you? Over."
make that affirmative, home. Can you join
the party and bring lots Of friends? Over."
"Affirmative, N-3. How's our girl? Over."
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"Our girl is a little under the weather, but should
be fine by now—left her with friends at our first
appointment. Over."
"Roger, N-3. Stand by for radio link through
this frequency with Istanbul heliport. Over."
"Wilco on that home—standing by. Out." I
switched back to receive. While I waited for the
airport traffic controller I lit another cigarette and
forced myself to try to relax. While I was in the air,
I was likely safe.
After a few moments we fixed my coordinates
and I started homing in on the heliport, requesting
too that a medic be available for me and a
pistolsmith for Wilhelmina. The detailed stripping
and cleaning the Luger needed was something I
wouldn't have •the time for—it was imperative to
get to the thief Irania's cousin in Istanbul as soon
as possible. In air miles by helicopter, the distance
from my hairbreadth escape in the wilderness back
at the falls to cosmopolitan Istanbul was ridicu-
lously little.
1 used the radio again as the heliport came into
sight. So far. my Turkish Secret Service reception
committee was alone—no sign of the KGB yet. But
I would have wagered a year's salary that the KGB
—the innocent-sounding initials stood for the eu-
phemism "Committee for State Security"—would
have a reception committee there as well. With the
men I'd killed and the vehicles I'd disabled, I had
to be whittling down the number of their shooters.
One more healthy-sized confrontation, this time
with help from the Turks to back me up, could
forestall any more major KGB activities, I felt, for
at least another twelve hours and perhaps allow me
the time to complete my mission. It had to work
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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that way, unless I was grossly underestimating So-
viet operational strength in Turkey.
And, if killing me to get me out of the chase for
Rauffmann's virus was of such importance to them
to mount the offensive they had already sent
against me, with the added of the challenge
I'd thrown at their control agent via radio. they
had no choice but to surface for some sort of show-
down.
Though no specific facts existed now to support
it, I have always had a great deal of faith in the
effectiveness of KGB operations—and that meant
that by now, somehow or another, they knew of
Irania and were trailing her. The attempts on my
life would not have been written off by the KGB as
totally unsuccessful because they had delayed me a
dozen hours or more, and that in turn had bought
their own operatives added time.
And somewhere out there—the city opened now
like a flower before me, a blossom of graceful, tow-
ering minarets and twisted streets by the wide rib-
bon of the Bosphorus—was Colonel Rafik, as well.
His losses sustained at the Gypsy camp might pre-
vent future large-scale assaults, but with even a half
dozen men remaining to him, he could still prove a
devastatingly effective adversary when he chose the
time and place—and somehow I knew that time
and place would come. And for the KG B's reputa-
tion and all, Rafik was far more ruthless and
creative.
As I'd flown toward Istanbul, I'd maneuvered
the helicopter as much as possible to become more
conversant with any idiosyncracies of its control
pattern—the landing at the heliport might prove
more interesting than routine. It would seem
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NICK CARTER
logical that the KGB would wait until lid brought
the helicopter down and gotten out before initiat-
ing an attack, but there was no guarantee of that.
As I started an approach toward the heliport
area, I checked the radio again—if my Turkish
friends saw evidence of the KGB, they weren't
saying, perhaps thinking their frequency might be
compromised. As I turned out of the sun I realized
why the Turks had seen nothing on the ground—
This KGB gambit would be in the air. There was a
lone helicopter moving steadily toward me, a Huey
HU-ID, like the first helicopter that had followed
me into the gorge. Larger, faster, and nearly as ma-
neuverable as the helicopter I new, it—unlike the
helicopter earlier—was armed. It wasn't original
equipment—7.62mm M-60 machine guns and the
like—but there were rotational machinegun
mounts bristling on each side of the fuselage and
what looked like rocket pods as well.
The Huey was perhaps five hundred feet below
me, perfectly positioned to cut me off from my
landing site. Over the Turkish Secret Service free
quency I could hear the now-familiar voice of one
of the leaders of the ground force. "Carter—is that
helicopter armed? It looks like it from here. Over."
"N-3 to home," I said, my voice dull and tired
even to my own ears. "That's affirmative,"
"N-3, is your helicopter specially equipped,
armed? Over."
"N-3 to home, negatory—I repeat, negatory.
Talk to you later. N-3 out."
I switched back to receive. Apparently the Turks
had nothing to say. The Huey gunship meanwhile
was slowly, steadily advancing, but not climbing. If
I made any attempt to bring my own machine
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
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down. because of the Huey's lower altitude and
greater speed, it would be able to cut me off—no
matter what.
I spun the radio dial to the frequency the Soviets
had used earlier, then switched to talk. "Gunship,
this is Nick Carter, do you read me? Over."
A voices heavily accented, but not the Ukranian
voice from earlier. rasped back through the speak-
ere "l read you, Carter. Over."
"Carter to gunship. You wouldn't mind running
the game plan by me, would you? Over." I listened
as our helicopters danced back and forth over the
airfield, locations changing, but relative positions
and altitude sickeningly constant.
"Simple, Carter. You can get it here over the air-
field and the explosion and the crash might take
out innocent people on the ground—perhaps
dozens or more, who can say? Or, you can get it
out there over the Sea of Marmara. As you Ameri-
cans say, it's apples and grapefruits to us."
r cut him off. "That's apples and oranges, gun-
ship—Carter out." switched the radio off entirely
and thought a moment, then switched on. "This is
Carter. Follow me out over the water. Out." I
switched off, not bothering to wait for a reply, and
started edging the helicopter away from the airfield
and across the city toward the Sea of Marmara,
along the Bosphorus. I flew over the river rather
than the city flanking it, passing the bridges below
me, which connect the two parts of Istanbul, as
well as Asia and Europe. On my left was the
Mosque of Sultan Ahmet, the "Blue Mosque" as it
is called for its blue-tiled decoration. A modern age
might have called it by yet another name—the
Mosque of the Six Minarets, four of them on the
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mosque itself and two beyond it on the courtyard
sides.
Suddenly, a plan of escape hit me. It wasn't
much, but it was the only idea that I could muster.
I cut back on my speed sharply, almost to the point
of a stall. The Huey, flying five hundred feet below
and behind me couldn't anticipate my drastic re-
duction in speed, and passed under me and banked
parallel to the Topkapi Palace beyond. I gunned
my helicopter and banked toward the dome of the
St. Sophia Mosque on my left, almost cutting a
right-angled turn along three of St. Sophia's four
minarets, then followed left along a broad avenue
just below me as it angled back to flank the Blue
Mosque again. Almost at the level of the treetops
that lined the riverward side of the wide drive
below, I glanced over my shoulder for the Huey—
it was right behind and above me.
Twin-appearing obelisks were coming up on my
right, with what looked from the air to be a foun-
tain almost dead center between them. I guided the
small helicopter I new down, the KGB-manned
Huey following, then threaded the "needle" be-
tween the obelisks and went into a sharp bank to
my right—the Huey was too big and too fast to do
that, I knew. I started climbing over the rec-
tangular grassy area below me and pulled up, just
missing a crash into the nearest of St. Sophia's
minarets as I angled back toward the river and
seaward.
There was an explosion behind me and I turned.
I'd been right—the Huey hadn't been maneu-
verable enough. or else the pilot had lost his head
and lost control. I had been able to pass between
the twinned obelisks and bank to avoid the build;
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ings beyond them. The KGB pilot hadn't made
such a sharp turn. In my mind's cye I could re-
member the box-shaped building beyond the trees
across the narrow street, the construction
framework around it for restoration work, per-
haps. But I couldn't see the framework anymore
and the building was obscured—obscured by the
fireball that had crashed into it on the street side,
the fireball that had once been the KGB-manned
gunship.
I banked my helic6pter again, sweeping out in a
wide arc over the mouth of the Bosphorus and
back, the Topkapi Palace, St. Sophia. the six min.
arets of the Blue Mosque—all on my right now as
I headed back over the river toward the airfield.
And beyond the minarets, which gracefully pointed
skyward with their balcony-like Setefes, were the
two obelisks. And along the narrow street beyond
them ambulances and firetrucks were already sur-
rounding the gunship's burning remains. I looked
away. The water below me was very blue and
seemed calm, despite the steady current going back
toward the sea fading behind me. And the noise of
my helicopter's rotor blades even served to drown
out the clang of the fire and emergency
vehicles. .
As I approached the airfield once again, my ra-
dio on and a steady conversation going between
me, the Turkish commander on the ground, and
one of his men near the sight of the crash, I discov-
ered that the building, mercifully, had been
deserted at the time and that no one, aside from the
KGB men aboard the gunship, had been hurt or
killed. My luck was holding. A group of the Turk-
iSh Secret Service people waited on the periphery of
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the field, ranging closer as I descended.Vhen 1 had
touched the little helicopter down, flicked off the
power, and stepped down to the runway surface, I
leaned back against the machine for a moment and
breathed a long sigh of relief.
The rest of the men and women beyond the per-
iphery of the slowly swishing rotor blades above
me still hung back. But a deeply tanned man,
smallish in stature, with a bristling black mustache
and impenetrable dark glasses, walked forward, his
left hand casually out of sight in the trouser pocket
of his expensively cut leisure suit, an UZI sub-
machinegun held almost carelessly in his right
hand. I recognized his photograph—Major Tufik,
Kemalla's section chief. When he said, "Welcome,
Mr. Carter," I recognized the American-sounding
voice from the radio. "I'm certainly glad none of
my countrymen was killed back there. I'll have the
devil's own time of it as it is keeping the lid on the
news media and calming the metropolitan police
about this. Do you comprehend what damage you
could have done to the priceless architecture of St.
Sophia—or the obelisks? It would be like me going
to Washington and taking a helicopter out to buzz
the Smithsonian Institute and practice banking
maneuvers around the Washington Monument. In
the name of Allah, man! This isn't some damned
spy movie—those were flesh-and-blood people all
over that street out there, people who pay my
salary to protect them."
I didn't say anything—he was right, completely.
But the gamble had paid off.
Then Tufik switched the submachinegun to his
left hand and offered me his right. I shook it and he
said, "I mean—I realize you were only trying to
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stay alive and that the KGB people were the ag-
gressors, but . , We realize the serious nature of
your mission, the ordeal you suffered earlier today.
But, please, no more helicopters."
And then his deeply tanned face creased into a
smile.
I said, "Believe one thing, major." His eyes
widened a bit that I obviously recognized him.
"After my experiences today, the last thing I intend
is to go anywhere near a helicopter." I clapped a
hand onto his shoulder and we started walking
across the field.
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Chapter Ten
As we approached Tufik's car, the major
reached into his pocket and handed me a package
of my own cigarettes. "After we first talked on the
radio, I had one of my men take the liberty of en-
tering your apartment—I thought you might be
needing these." I muttered an astonished thanks
and ripped the package open with my thumbnail.
Tufik already had a lighter in his hand as I sat
down beside him in the backseat of his light-blue
Mercedes.
I drew the deep flavor of the tobacco fully into
my lungs and exhaled slowly, then nodded to him.
"It is an odd thing with us men," Tufik mused.
"Always after danger, or, for that matter, sex—we
must always smoke. Perhaps some graduate stu-
dent at some university should research the reason-
ing for it. I think after what you've gone through
these last hours you'd be justified in lighting the
entire pack at once," Tufik added, laughing.
I laughed aloud with him, but by then anything
90
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THE TURKISH BLOODBATH
would have seemed funny.
91
have the medic you requested," he went on,
"and the pistolsmith."
The medic attended to me in Tufik's car as we
drove, and before we had pulled away past the
crowd of Turkish agents going over the helicopter
with evidence-gathering equipment, one of Tufik's
men relieved me of the Luger with instructions to
get it to "Habib Gupta" as quickly as possible.
By the time we arrived at a back entrance to my
hotel, the medic had pronounced me fit enough,
but insisted I rest for several days while the bruises
and lacerations healed, that I give the left shoulder
a rest—perhaps I'd strained the muscles; X-rays
would be needed. I told him there wasn't any time
and, against his protestations, Tufik ordered him
to leave, thanking him for his advice.
We took a back stairway to my floor, where I
quickly showered and changed. As I slung the
spare shoulder rig I had brought into position
across my back, a knock came at the door and
Tufik went to answer it.
J was lighting my last cigarette from the fresh
pack the major had brought me as he reentered the
room. a short, very dark man walking slightly be-
hind him. "This is our top pistolsmith—Habib
Gupta. He has your Luger."
"It is a pleasure to meet a man who owns such a
fine gun," the dark man remarked. "I usually dis-
like Lugers, they are so prone to jam. But the
workmanship of this piece, the stoning on the fric-
tioning parts—no wonder this gun is so important
to you. And it is still in perfect condition. I was
able to detail-strip the weapon, blow-dry the parts
to remove all moisture, then used a special cleaning
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NICK CARTER
formula I have developed over the years. I lightly
oiled the weapon and then I reassembled it. One of
your magazines was battered almost beyond belief
—the baseplate was ruined." I knew the one he re-
ferred to, the one that had smashed against the
rocks back there in the gorge. "But I had several
spare Luger magazines, adjusted the feed lips to
match the ones you use. and function-tested the
new and original magazines. A few minor scratches
on the frame and the backstrap were all I found,
and I touched those with a hot blue formula. I
doubt you'd be able to tell where they were. In
short, I think you'll find your Luger to your stan-
dards, sir."
Gupta took the pistol from a velvet cloth and
handed it to me. The toggle open, the magazine
out, I turned the gun over in my hands. He was
right. If there had been scratches, I'd never find
them. Whatever formula of bluing he'd used was
seemingly an exact match to the original, or at the
least a chromatograph would be needed to detect
the variances in shading. I worked the action sever-
al times, then inspected the loaded magazines he
laid out on the table before me. I inserted one. I
was unable to tell which were which. Then I let the
toggle slam home. Working the safety, I slipped
Wilhelmina into the holster under my left arms
"You are a maestro, sir," I said. "I'm deeply in
your debt."
The pistolsmith nodded embarrassedly, took my
offered hand and clasped it warmly, and left. As I
slipped on my jacket. Tufik began to speak. "We
have located the house of the Gypsy girl Irania's
cousin---Nreha. I have a car waiting at the curb to
take us there."
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I followed Tufik out and down the hall to the
elevators, then down and across the lobby and out
into the blast-furnace heat of the late afternoon
street. Despite the heavy traffic, the driver wound
his way expertly from the main arteries into the
narrow backstreets, and in minutes the car was
pulling up to the curb once again. I followed Tufik
out and he leaned across the roof of the blue
Mercedes and aimed his finger across the street.
"Up there on the fourth floor. Nreha, the girl's
cousin. Come, let us see him."
I took the steps—battered and worn by decades
Of use—two at a time, and Tufik was right behind
mc. We flanked the scratched and chipped apart-
ment door,- Wilhelmina in my right hand, Tufik
armed with a Browning High Power 9mm. We
weren't police officers serving a warrant—there
was no sense in announcing ourselves. On my sig-
nal, Tufik took up a ready position, and I stepped
in front of the door and kicked the lock hard. The
door sprang inward and I rolled through, coming
up in a crouch in the middle of the room.
*'Yes, sir, what is it?" The words shocked me.
Nreha—or at least I assumed it must be he—was
sitting on a cushion not three feet from the muzzle
of my gun, and, aside from the words he'd uttered,
there was nothing to indicate that he had even no-
ticed my entrance, nor Tufik standing framed in
the doorway in a combat crouch, his Browning
weaving across the room like some sort of wand.
Almost sheepishly, I stood up. "My name is
Nick Carter. This is Major Tufik. We're working
together in your country. The major is---" I halted
while I searched my mind for a suitable euphe-
mism.
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am commander of a special branch of our in-
telligence forces," Tufik said, rescuing me. "And
you are Nreha?"
"Yes," the man said.
"You are cousin to a Gypsy girl known as
Irania, from the camp of Yeleg?" Tufik went on.
"Yes," Nteha responded. I holstered my Luger
and took a good look at the "pig of a cousin." as
Yeleg had called him. He was perhaps one of the
most fastidiously neat men I'd ever met. It was
hard to gauge his height—he hadn't moved from
his lotus position on the large ruby-red cushion in
the center of the floor. Wearing what looked like a
judo outfit, he had obviously been meditating. His
features were almost delicate, and his black hair
was neatly combed, his face uncharacteristically
clean-shaven.
"What is it that you seek?" he asked, his voice
perfectly expressionless.
I let Tufik do the talking. "We shall, of course,
pay for the repair of your door, and please forgive
our entering so abruptly. We cannot confide the
details, but Mr. Carter and I—he is a member of an
American agency working with mine—are on a
mission directly affecting the security of our na-
tion. I know you will want to cooperate."
"How may I be of service to you both?"
As I listened to him it suddenly dawned on me
that Nreha was perhaps some type of yogi—the
placid expression and voice, the total inaction
when two armed men burst into his room—and the
"pig" description, the words of a man of action
describing one of total passivity.
Tufik hadn't answered Nreha yet, so I decided
to. "Your cousin Irania is in possession—un-
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beknownst to her—of a deadly poison that could
harm many of your countrymen. We must find her
before the poison can harm her or anyone else. Her
chieftain Yeleg told us that she had gone to Istan-
bul, and that she was planning to visit you. Have
you seen her within the last twenty-four hours?"
"Yes, Irania has been here, perhaps eight hours
ago. Yes, precisely that I think." The last remark
unsettled me a bit—there was no watch on his wrist
and he'd made no move to look at mine. As far as
I could determine, there wasn't a clock to be seen
in the sparsely furnished, one-room apartment. "I
had just begun to meditate when she arrived. We
talked for a while and then she left. I'm afraid she
confided nothing regarding any poison."
"Did she leave anything with you?" Tufik asked.
"Did she indicate where she was going or if she'd
be back?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Yes what?" I said.
"She indicated to me," he began, "that she
would seek employment at—
I heard the window smash as I saw Nreha's body
take the impact—a bullet in the neck. Tufik started
to the window as I dove to protect Nreha. "On the
roof, Carter," I heard Tufik shout.
"Wait," I rasped, then bent my ear to Nrehats
lips—he was whispering something. I could barely
make out the words before I heard the rattle from
deep in his throat. I drew my head away and gently
thumbed his eyelids closed. Nreha was dead.
Tufik was already half out the window when I
crossed the room to him. He turned to me and
asked, "What did the man say? Anything?"
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"Before he died," I said, "in English, what he
said would mean 'Honey River.' "
"A clue, then," Tufik said triumphantly, almost
shouting. He slipped the rest of the way through
the window and onto the rain gutter a few feet
below the level of the window sill, then, the Brown.
ing tucked into his belt, he leaped the few feet
across and down to the next roof. I followed Tufik
through the window and onto the rain gutter and
jumped after him. Tufik was already running
across the nat expanse and I followed. As I drew
my Luger, I noticed a pile of packing crates built
up to a height level with the dead Nreha's window
opposite them. I stooped as a bright object caught
my eye—a spent .22 rimfire cartridge case. The
noiselessness of the shot and the caliber of the case
spelled professionalism—a silenced .22 pistol.
Many were used in the intelligence game and, for
that matter, by organized crime groups around the
world. I pocketed the case, the firing pin indenta-
tion on the case rim a potential source of identi-
fying the weapon.
Tufik was far ahead of me, running slowly across
an angled tile roof at the opposite end of the same
building. From the speed at which he ran, Tufik
apparently had the assassin in sight. I raced after
the major. As I climbed gingerly onto the tiled
roof, I too could see a distant figure on the next
building, nearing the middle of the block and still
running along the rooftops.
Ahead of the major, I could see the assassin turn-
ing and aiming a long-barreled pistol toward us. I
shouted to Tufik to duck. Again there was no
noises the silencer apparently quite an effective
one. but the tile immediately in front of Tufik's left
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foot disintegrated. then a second shot, again noise.
less but the effect just as obvious, caught Tufik in
the left arm. Tufik's body lurched to the left with
the impact, and he lost his balance, the big Brown.
ing falling from his hand and skittering across the
tiles and off the roof to the street below. And Tufik
was sliding from the roof as well, his right hand
clawing at the smooth tiles in an attempt to save
himself, but the momentum of his fall only increas-
ing.
The Luger in my hand was already spitting as I
started toward the major. The assassin was almost
out of practical range for me—he was a better shot
and his attack on Tufik had made that painfully
obvious.
My distant target didn't bother to return my fire:
he ran instead and disappeared around the cornice
of the roof of the next building. holstered my
Luger as I neared Major Tufik. could see Tufik's
right hand clinging to the rain gutter. Running
along the roof faster than I should, I lost my bal-
ance once and fell, but only to my knees, caught
myself, and, moving more cautiously now, edged
down the last few feet of slick tiles, then spread-
eagling myself, I reached over the edge of the roof
and locked my left hand onto Tufik's wrist.
I peered over the edge and our eyes met. I felt
Tufik realized I hadn't yet done anything to save
him from a three-story fall to his death—just
placed my life in jeopardy along with his own.
The brightness of the reddish orb of the sun was
painful to my eyes. looked away for a moment,
then shouted, "Major—can you get your belt off?"
"I think so," I heard him answer. I looked
over the edge once more, blinking as the sun hit my
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NICK CARTER
eyes again. Tufik's face contorted in agony as he
moved his shot-through left arm, the sleeve of his
leisure suit dark and wet with blood.
After a few agonizing seconds Tufik had the belt
free. "Now snake it up to me," I shouted down to
him.
It took three tries, but he finally whipped the belt
high enough so it came sufficiently close to my
right hand that I was able to catch hold of it and
still maintain my grip on the roofto keep from slid-
ing over the edge myself. I shouted again to the
major, "Now double the belt through the buckle to
make a loop, then slide your left wrist through it
and pull it tight." The elapsed time was perhaps
only a matter of seconds while he awkwardly
worked the belt into position, with his injured left
arm making each movement agony for him, agony
I could read clearly by the pain in his eyes, but the
increasing strain of holding him there swaying over
the edge of the roof made those seconds seem un-
bearably long.
Once the belt was secure around his wrist I
rasped, my breath coming now in short gasps, "I'm
going to let go of your wrist in a second and brace
my feet against the rain gutter and pull you up on
the belt. When I let go—I'll tell you before I do—
you can grab onto that belt with your right hand if
you can't hold onto the gutter any longer. Try not
to faint from the pain in your arm. Okay?"
He nodded grimly, said, "Yes, go ahead" and I
started to position myself, still holding onto his
right wrist. Both his arms were extended to the rain
gutter now, but asking him 'to grip with the left
hand would have been impossible. I drew the belt
out to full length as I twisted myself into a sitting
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position, both feet buttressed against the edge of
the rain gutter. I thought better of that and pur-
chased one foot higher against the last row of tiles.
I clumsily wrapped my end of the belt one-handed
around the fingers of my left hand.
"Tufik—l will be letting go," I shouted, "now!"
The sudden weight of his body against my left hand
was almost irresistible—his right hand apparently
was no longer able to support his weight from the
rain gutter, and the sudden change in his weight on
the belt almost pulled me over the side. I got my
right hand onto the belt to give added support and
started to lean back, pulling against his weight." If
the pain had caused him topass out, getting him
over the roof edge and to relative safety would be
almost impossible.
But in a moment I could see he was still con-
scious—-l could see his fingers clawing at the rain
gutter while still trying to hold onto the belt as
well. With one last surge of strength I had him up
over the edge, his elbows in the rain gutter. He
drew one knee over the side, then flattened himself
against the roof, and I let go of the belt, then wrig-
gled across the roof and down beside him.
The major looked up at me and nodded, "Thank
you." My hands ached, the muscles of my sore left
shoulder almost seeming to burn. Both of us were
winded, and we stayed there quietly a moment, the
sun finally winking below the false horizon of the
city's skyline. "We lost the killer," I heard him say.
"What is Honey River?"
"A cabaret," Tufik answered, still breathing
heavily. "Belly dancers, you would call the women
there. And a whorehouse. And upstairs it is
rumored that there is an opium den—my brother is
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in the police force. But each time they attempt a
raid, they can find nothing—but still the rumors
persist."
"There are places like that all over the world," i
commented, lighting a cigarette and dragging heav-
ily on it. I helped Tufik up into a sitting position.
"Places that seem to have some sort of lines out
into the police or something and can always clean
up their act before the cops arrive."
"It is a dangerous place," he said. "I understand
even the police only go there two men at a time."
"I'll have to go alone there tonight," I said.
"You're not going to be in shape to come along."
I fingered the cartridge in my pocket, took it out,
and studied it there in the half-light from the street
lamps below us. "The more I think about that
sassin and his gun, the more I think it was a KGB
man called Golz—l know his file."
"You could be right, my friend. We know his
file, too, and it is rumored he is here in Istanbul."
"Then it must be he," I said, twirling the case in
my fingers, "who belongs to this. He must have
spotted the girl and backtracked her to Nreha's
place to prevent him from fingering her location. If
Golz doesn't have her already," I said, thinking
out loud, "he'll be there tonight to get her. There
would have been no reason to kill Nreha if Golz
did already have her, the more I think about it.
Can you have a backup squad outside in case some
shooting starts?"
"I may not be able to get around too well with
this," Tufik said, gesturing to his left shoulder,
"but I'll be in a car nearby, if trouble starts."
I sighed, tired in anticipation. There would be
the dangerous passage back across the roof tiles
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and into Nreha's apartment, or perhaps down
some more convenient way, if we could find one,
then perhaps dealing with the poor man's dead
body, then preparation for the evening. And,
doubtless, then trouble would start aplenty.
C] [D 88 a P P
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