SEVEN
Each day, Josette had brought the papers. He wasn't
getting front-page coverage, but the coverage he was getting
wasn't dying out.
Felipe Zapato called Alberto Ferare.
"I've got a score, Alberto, a big one."
"Where are you?"
"In Tangier, with Lamont and his wife."
A groan. "Felipe, that pair would turn you in for anything
they can get."
"I know. Jean-Pierre follows the papers every day. He
knows I am not cooling off. I've been here a week and
already he has upped the cost twice. I'm running out of
money and I have to get back to Spain."
"Now? Good God, Felipe, you'll never get past the fron-
tier. "
"Let me worry about that, Alberto, old friend. Can you
lend me some money?"
I'm sorry, Felipe. Like you, the cops are
"A little
putting many of the old guard out of business."
"Five thousand, American. It spends easier here."
"That much, yes. Will you use Frangois?"
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"Yes, I have already contacted him in Casablanca."
"1'11 have the money to you in the morning."
The next morning. Zapato met a small, dark-haired
woman in the coffee shop of the Hotel Salazar. They sat
together in the same booth, chatted. drank coffee, and she
left, leaving a thick envelope in Zapato•s lap.
He took the bus to Casablanca, and by midafternoon he
was sitting in the shop of Frangois Sauze.
For years, Sauze had been an acrobatic clown in the
Grand National Circus of France. He was a genius with
costume as well as makeup, and there was little he could
not to with his lithe. supple body.
But Sauze plied an even more lucrative trade in the dark
of night when he would leave the circus. In his day. Frangois
Sauze was the most accomplished thief in the world.
Eventually, a smart insurance investigator put the circus
together with the crimes and Sauze was caught. He was
tried, convicted and given thirty years.
He got out in twenty and fled France for Morocco, Now
he did odd jobs for old friends, exchanged a bit of money,
and ran the costume shop.
If anyone could change Felipe Zapato•s appearance, it
was Frangois Sauze.
"How radical do you want it?"
"Very," Zapato replied. "Completely. As you can see, I
have already started growing a beard."
"Yes. good. Wes II make it a Vandyke and gray it. Also,
I have fillers. They fit over your back teeth and add pounds
to your face. There is a dentist here who can do the work.
Blue contact lenses will take care of the eyes. Also, when
the time comes, we will shave here and here .
. give you
a forehead. Come into the fitting room."
Zapato spent four hours in the fitting rck)m. It was agreed
that he would need a full wardrobe, including at least three
suits and a body brace that would keep him perpetually
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stooped and add age. suits themselves would give him
fifty extra pounds around the hips and waist.
At last they finished and agreed on the price. Zapato paid
him in full, including the cost of a new passport.
"How soon?"
"Five days, a week at the most."
Zapato took the bus back to Tangier and made his way
into the Medina. Lamont's house was dark. Zapato thought
it odd at that hour, but entered anyway.
The musty cubbyhole of a living room was empty. Jean-
Piene Lamont was not in his usual chair. There were no
sounds of Josette in the kitchen.
Years of instinct over, but not quickly enough. There
were two of them, one at each inner door. They didn't have
their guns drawn, but each of them slapped leather-covered
saps into their palms.
"Felipe Zapato, you are under arrest in the name of the
king. Extradition arrangements have already been signed
for you to return to Spain."
Over one of the policemen's shoulders he saw Lamont's
grinning face.
"Watch him. He's a tricky devil. fast like the wind."
The door was out. Zapato backed toward the courtyard
window. "Jean-Pierre, may your rotten soul roast in hell
for this!"
"l*t it," the old man cackled. "I'll enjoy the reward while
I'm still living. Watch him, I say."
The two policemen made their move a fraction too late.
Felipe Zapato grabbed a footstool from the floor, held it in
front of his face, and dived through the window. He took
the fall like an acrobat, hitting with his shoulder and rolling.
With the same agility, he went up and over the courtyard
wall. He landed running on the other side, with shouts and
blaring whistles behind him.
He scrambled over another wall into another courtyard.
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He grabbed a black djellaba, still damp from a clothesline,
and went over another wall. He ran down an alley, pulling
the djellaba around him. Slowly. the sounds of the whistles
faded in the maze of the Medina.
But he knew he was far from free. Already he could hear
the blare of sirens. They would be hurrying to cover the
gates that separated the old Medina from the New Town.
His only chance was to somehow blend with the throngs
going through the walls,
Every doorway he passed seemed to hold questioning
eyes. Not too fast; make haste slowly. There were other
pedestrians around and he adjusted his pace to theirs while
trying to ignore the growing sensation between his shoulder
blades, his ears ready for the cries that would stop him,
followed by the bark of the volley of bullets,
When he reached the corner he could bear it no longer,
and as he turned, he risked one long look behind him before
the wall intervened. Prophecy again. Burned on his retina
was an image of someone pointing down the street in the
direction he had originally taken, while uniformed figures
rushed past him like hounds upon the scent.
A false scent. Now he had to muddle his trail some more
while he considered what he should do next. The squeal of
protesting brakes sounded in his ear as a battered bus stopped
at the curb to disgorge passengers.
In an instant he was in the midst of pushing figures with
baskets, dangling squawking chickens, bags of beans, crates
ofcucumbers. This wave rushed away and a minor backwash
of passengers streamed past to board the bus.
It was natural to join them, and Zapato swept in, to fumble
out the coins in payment and to stand, surrounded and lost
in the crowd, as the vehicle rumbled away.
What next? For the moment he was safe, but the haven
was only a temporary one. He searched for an answer but
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could find none. His mind wasn't working too well; the
affairs of the previous week and the resulting fatigue were
taking their toll. For the moment it was all he could do to
hold to the smooth metal of the pole and jounce along with
the other passengers.
What to do next?
rest of the passengers decided for him as the bus
ground to a hait one last time. There were shouts of instruc-
tion and the wild clucking of suspended hens as everyone
exited , Zapato as well, camed along with the press of people.
When he was outside and had managed to force his way
clear, he saw that they were in the open-ended cavern of a
bus terminal. A sign with a list of cities was picked out in
red letters against the dirty white of one wall, but they were
distant and hard to read.
What was close was a rumbling giant of the road, tires
as high as his shoulder, with a winding line of prospective
passengers snaking toward its open door. Without funher
thoughts Zapato joined the end of the line and others grouped
up behind him.
They had shuffled forward a few paces before he realized
that all the others held tickets. no doubt purchased inside
the station. This was not a good thing. He liked the idea of
boarding this bus at once, wherever it was going, though
he disliked immensely the idea of asking for a ticket. being
surveyed by the agent who would undoubtedly be a man of
suspicious manner and keen memory who would later tell
all he knew to the police.
What could he do?
The man ahead of him, a farm worker in simple clothes,
clutched his cardboard ticket between work-gnarled fingers.
Zapato leaned forward and spoke quietly into his ear.
"Friend. I am late arriving here and very tired. Would
you save me the inconvenience of buying a ticket at the
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window by allowing me to purchase your ticket from you
at a price twice the sum printed on its face?"
"Done," the man said without a moment's hesitation.
Money and ticket changed hands, and the man hurried away
to buy a second ticket.
The quick transaction went unnoticed in the crowd. A mo-
ment later and Zapato was aboard. taking one of the few
remaining empty seats next to a woman of solid girth whose
ample flesh lapped over onto his cushion, as did her armload
of packages.
"Excuse me." With his solid flank he pushed at her gelled
one until it jiggled aside and gave him room to sit down.
The flank's owner sniffed loudly but said nothing.
Within the minute the door closed, to the cries of the
outraged ticket holders who could not be jammed in, while
the barking exhaust of the bus echoed from the concrete
walls and into the street.
Safety, for the moment, lay with motion, and Zapato
sighed inwardly. Then he realized that there was still one
important point he was unaware of.
S'Would you tel! me where this bus goes?" he asked his
seatmate.
She first delivered a look that made silent comment on
his sanity or the quantity of alcohol he had recently con-
sumed, and only after this message had been delivered did
she reluctantly answer the question.
'SCasabIanca. "
'Thank God," Felipe Zapato said with a sigh, and leaned
back in the seat.
Two days later, in the cellar under Sauze's shop, Zapato
saw the article in the society column of the Seville paper:
The Contessa Beatriz Balaria has let her Seville villa.
Balaria. to French screen star Monica Verraine during•the
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shooting ofSefiorita Verraine's new film in the Seville area.
The contessa will take up residence for several weeks in
Monaco . . .
"Shit," Zapato hissed, "just shit. Franqois ... Frangois!"
"Mon Dieu, Felipe, what is it?"
'Tomorrow, I must leave tomorrow!"
Zapato's mind was racing. The countess would inevitably
take her most valuable possessions with her to Monaco.
That meant the books would be with her. His passport and
disguise would last for only a limited time. He would need
as much time as possible to case the villa in Monaco.
"Tomorrow, eh? It will cost extra, Felipe. I will have to
bring the dentist in all night, and I will need at least two
extra seamstresses . .
"How much?"
Sauze thought. "A thousand. "
Zapato squeezed his temples. That would leave him only
two thousand for the job.
It would have to do.
"Done."
At eleven o'clock the next morning. a Moroccan rug mer-
chant named Mohammed Omed—a fat, stooped man with a
graying beard and dull blue eyes—walked up the gangway
of the Greek cruise ship Olympic Star. Two days later the
ship would make a port of call in Nice, France.
81
EIGHT
The casino was crowded with glittering, bejeweled
women and tanned, tuxedoed men who seemed to ooze
money instead of sweat from their pores.
But one woman outgleamed all the others. She had skin
the color of cappuccino, and a beautiful, exotic face with
high cheekbones and flaring nostrils. Her lips were full and
crimson, her almond eyes so smoky, so languorous and
challenging that every man in the room who saw her couldn 't
help but stare.
An hour earlier. when she had swept in with her entourage
of admirers and friends, conversation had stopped at the
sight of the extraordinary-looking, seemingly Oriental
woman. The blue silk gown she wore clung sensuously to
her perfect body, its low, scooped neckline revealing jutting,
flawless breasts.
Those in the room who didn't know were soon told that
this was the wealthy and exciting Contessa Beatriz Balaria.
And the rumors flew.
But Nick Carter, at the bar at the far end of the room,
knew the truth.
She was born Beatrice Regis in Tokyo, the daughter of
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NICK CARTER
a marriage between a wealthy Japanese film star and a British
professor of English and French in the occupation schools
Of Tokyo. She was an absolute beauty, a true beauty, but
she was much more. From her mother she had learned how
to pamper men exquisitely, and from her father she had
learned perfect English and French.
Carter knew all about her, because in intimate moments
she had told him.
In Tokyo, at seventeen, she had won a beauty contest,
and from that moment had become determined to go to
Europe. Upon reaching her maturity, she had. And in Paris
she had developed into a high-income showgirl. She was
nineteen and the toast of Paris when she met an aging,
wealthy count, Luis Balaria of Seville. A week later they
were married, and Beatrice Regis became the Contessa Bea-
triz Balaria. She learned fluent Spanish along with her
French, English. and Japanese, and gave the old count new
. for a year.
life . .
He went like he wanted to, in bed.
Next came a retired Texas billionaire named Gordon
Nash. He adored Beatriz, and in the four years they were
married made her one of the richest women in the world.
Gordon Nash also died in bed.
There were two more husbands, who all got as much as
they gave and died happy.
Somewhere between husband number three and husband
number four, the countess came to the aid of Carter and
AXE. It was an intricate mission that couldn't be executed
without someone of her worldwide influence. When it was
over, the countess had found a new calling.
Now, in her late thirties, she had no husband, though she
still used the title of Contessa Balaria despite her subsequent
marriages. Her empire expanded—she had homes in Paris,
Monaco, Seville, and New York—and she had pursued her
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secret calling until she was the control of the largest spy
network in Europe.
Idly, Carter sipped his drink and checked out the count-
ess's current entourage for the evening.
There was the ballerina, Natalia Mydova, radiant, young,
and innocent in a plain white dinner dress, her hair drawn
back severely from her lovely face.
An American couple, the Kinkaids. Harvey Kinkaid, who
had made his fortune in California real estate, had retired
at an early age with his wife to a hilltop chäteau in a suburb
of Nice. The Kinkaids were regular visitors to the casino,
had lost enough money there to indicate they could afford
more, and were well known on the Cöte IYAzur for their
lavish parties. It was at those parties, whose guests included
much of the international set, where the countess did much
of her recruiting.
The second couple was Herman and Helga Butz. Butz was
a West German steel industrialist who did a huge business
with the Soviet bloc. He was a dark-skinned man in his
sixties, a serious gambler and a system player. His wife,
twenty years younger than he. was a handsome, full-bodied
woman who liked to flirt. She played baccarat or sat at the
roulette tables with no real interest in the game. Each eve-
ning, her beautiful dark eyes would roam beyond the cards
or the spinning wheel until she caught the attention of some
man.
Her flirtations were innocent enough. a look. lowered eye-
lids, another look, a half smile, a little turn of the shoulder,
another half smile. It was all quite harmless, and it infuriated
her husband, who grew paler and more tight-lipped as it
went on, glaring first at his wife and then at the uncomfort-
able object of her interest, until he could bear it no longer.
Bursting with suppressed rage, he would take his wife away
from the game.
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Such were the people who constantly surrounded the
countess. Sometimes they would unknowingly give her in-
formation; sometimes they would lead her to a recruit. But
always they supplied her with a cover.
They were all gathered now around the chemin de fer
table. Carter waited until there was a vacancy at the table,
then he sidled through the roFrs surrounding it.
The countess looked up as he sat down, not the slightest
sign of recognition in her eyes. s 'Oh, new blood. Welcome,
monsieur.
"Madame."
"l am the Contessa Balaria."
"Simon Gordon."
"Ah, an American. I love Americans. They are so reckless
with their money."
"Ime other players introduced themselves, Helga Butz
skewered Caner with her eyes, and the shoe went to her
husband. He placed a chip on the felt and
turned to Carter on his right. who had the first choice as
active player.
Carter calculated quickly —20,000 francs, approximately
matched it.
"Banco, " Carter said.
"Bravo." said the countess, and sipped her drink.
The German scowled, his wife, to Caner's right, rubbed
her knee against his, and the deal began,
The object in chemin de fer is to draw a number of cards
that total as close as possible to nine, Aces count one. Ten
and pictures count zero. Other cards count by their own
rank numbers.
Butz slid one card from the shoe to Carter and the second
to himself. A third to Carter and the last to himself, all face
down.
Carter casually examined his cards, a five and fow. He
flipped them over.
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" LA Grande. "
Butz snorted and passed the shoe.
Carter played carefully and his luck held. At 20.000
francs, he amassed another After a while he lost
a coup to the ballerina. who lowered the stake to 5000 francs
and quickly lost herself.
For the next hour, Carter made small bets against the bank,
winning some, losing some. During this time he swapped
witty repartee with the countess and encouraged Helga
Butzss eye-lower•ing advances.
Eventually Butz could take it no longer, threw his usual
tantrum, called his wife a tart, and dragged her from the
table.
A few hands later, the ballerina grew bored. She stood,
kissed the countess on the cheek. and excused herself saying
that she would see the countess at her villa for a pool party
the next day,
That left Harvey Kinkaid and his wife, who played as one.
Carter bet lightly until the Kinkaids had the shoe. When
this occurred, he made sure he matched or overbet the active
player. The Kinkaids' losses were heavy to that point, so
they were doubling and tripling their bets to recoup.
The Killmaster. as best he could. counted the cards that
had been played. This was difficult since there were eight
decks shuffled into the shoe. Difficult, but not impossible.
The circumstances were just right when his turn came
again as active player.
Kinkaid had won four times in a row. If he stayed with
his method of play, he would gamble big on his fifth attempt.
He evidently thought that a hot run would always go to five,
If he won the fifth with the bank. he would drag half his
winnings and start over again.
He played true to form, placing ten 20,000-franc chips
in front of the shoe, approximately $25,000.
Face cards, tens, and combinations of eights and nines
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NICK CARTER
had been rampant the last six draws. The shoe was low,
about fifteen cards left. That meant the bulk of the fifteen
were low cards. Both of the next two hands would most
likely come close to a combination of eight, La Petite. or
nines La Grande.
"Banco, " Carter said. and matched Kinkaid's pot.
When the four cards were dealt, Carter held his look with
an unexpired breath until Kinkaid had looked, dropped his
cards. and glanced up.
Only then did Carter exhale. The man did not have a com-
bination of eight or nine. Carter checked his own cards: a
queen and an ace. Since the queen was zero, he had a count
of one.
i'Carte, " Carter said.
Kinkaid dealt face up and smiled. It was a seven. From
Kinkaid's point of view, Carter was probably over nine. He
shook his head, declining a draw.
Carter flipped the ace and queen. "Eight."
"Sevens" Kinkaid said. flipping hisown cards. "Congratu-
lations. Mr. Simon. Niy dear?"
The Kinkaids left the table. That left nothing but strangers
with Caner and the countess. She waited a few hands before
calling, "Banco."
On the countess's first hand against Carter's bank, she
held a seven. The Killmaster purposely did not declare an
eight, and the countess had the bank.
From there on it was easy for Carter to constantly outbid
everyone for the bank. It was also easy to draw or hold in
such a way that the countess. inside an hours had broken him.
"You are far too lucky, madame," he said, rising. "I be-
lieve I will call it a night."
believe it would be unsportsmanlike not to offer you
a drink and breakfast," she said with a warm smile.
"l would be charmed."
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And so to the casual onlooker, the countess had made a
tidy sum and the tall American had made a conquest.
No one thought differently as they strolled from the casino
arm in arm.
Carter whistled to himself as he tooled along behind the
countess's chauffeured limousine. He felt at ease as they
climbed into the hills above Monaco. Few people would
ever suspect that their meeting was anything more than the
beginning of an affair between two attractive and obviously
wealthy people. Such things happened every day on the
Riviera.
The sleek black car turned between two brick pillars into
the driveway of an enormous three-story villa. Out of habit,
Carter checked along the road fore and aft, and wheeled in
behind the limousine.
Manicured green lawns. cascades of flowering vines, and
brightly colored flower beds attested to professional land-
scaping. The house itself was a symphony of white stucco
and glass. It was a little Spanish. a little Moorish, and a
little French, contrasting markedly from the traditional Riv-
iera architecture they had driven past moments before.
Carter parked. got out, and beat the chauffeur to the rear
door. As he helped the countess out, his hand giving her
arm a familiar squeeze, he leaned forward and whispered
in her ear.
"Servants?"
'Three," she said. "No one new."
To cement her words, Caner checked the chauffeur and
remembered the bulldog face. Ditto with the manservant
who opened the door and nodded.
4' A pleasure to see you again, monsieur. "
She led Carter into a huge great room furnished in white
and gold, the yellow tiled floor •lotted with handwoven
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white rugs, the walls hung with costly abstract oil paintings.
"This way."
It was a small. book-lined study with two sections of a
wet bar cleverly concealed into both sides of the fireplace.
"Would you like a drink first?"
"First?" Carter asked.
The countess chuckled. "Before we go to bed, cheri.We
can't disappoint the gossipers at the casino. now, can we?"
Carter accepted the drink and they both folded into a large
sofa.
• 'I have a little information on Tony Lucchi, a great deal
on the Black Bear, and nothing on Domingo Bolivar."
SSGive me what you have." Carter sighed.
"The Bear is a code name, obviously. He has operated
for years in Spain and Morocco. Evidently he is powerful
enough to deal directly with Moscow. When they need some-
thing. anything. he can set it up. Assassination and blackmail
are his specialties. He operates free-lance, but his leanings
are definitely toward the Communist party. He has quite a
reputation, Nick. and he is as elusive as hell."
"Anything that would hook him to Bolivar?"
She shrugged. "l don't know yet. The key seems to be,
find Bolivar. The name is obviously an alias, and whoever
he is. he keeps a very low profile. I should know more,
perhaps all. by tomorrow night. Natalia Mydova is working
on it for me."
Carter•s head snapped up. •eThe ballerina?"
The countess smiled. "Natalia defected with the help of
the KGB. What they didn't know was that I had recruited
her long ago."
"Okay. but if Bolivar is the Black Bear, and he's so tight
•with his security—
She held up a hand. "That is covered. Natalia will request
assistance in Spain, That is being set up now."'
"Good enough. Now about Tony Lucchi."
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"A very, very bad boy." She rose and walked across the
room. her body's movements under the dress creating
thoughts in Carter's mind far afield from business. She lifted
a tiny piece of moldinge pushed a hidden button, and a
four-by-four section of the bookcase slid upward. Behind
it was a safe. "Would you give me a hand?"
A few quick twists of the dials and the safe was open.
Inside, Carter spotted several jewel boxes, some stacked
bonds, and other paraphernalia the rich would keep in their
safes.
She walked to a nearby television set, picked up the
remote control, and dialed numbers. From the safe Carter
heard a click.
"Flatten your hand on that side and pull, gently."
He did. The inner lining of the safe slid out, revealing
another safe just behind it. Seconds later that safe was open
and the countess had extracted two sheets of paper. When
both safes were resecured, they returned to the sofa.
"That will give you everything I have found on Tony
Lucchi. When you have read and digested it. our business
will be done for the evening," She stood and lightly brushed
her lips across his. "l will be waiting in my suite. It is the
second door on the right. third floor."
She rustled from the room and Carter read.
Anthony Lucchi had had an illustrious career in his native
Italy. He was suspected of kidnapping. payroll robbery,
extortion, and more than one murder. He had only been
indicted once. That was for the murder of a prostitute in
Milan. but the case had been thrown out of court for lack
of sufficient evidence.
A psychiatric report on Lucchi was frightening, but it
hadn't been enough to hang him. If the report were accurate,
Lucchi was definitely a psychopath. particularly when it
came to women.
There had been six identical murders—in Milam Rome,
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and Naples—within a period Of three years, with Lucchi as
a suspect. But nothing concrete had ever been proven.
Carter noted sourly that the killing of Joanna Dubshek
was similar.
Three of the women and two men killed during the same
period were closely identified with radical left-wing organi-
zations, Each of them had been on the verge of arrest or
cracking when they were killed.
The information Carter read gave him little doubt that.
if Lucchi was the killer. he had been hired to shut these
people up. The other killings were probably random, just
to feed his psychotic needs.
Lucchi currently had an apanment in the Prosperidad
section of Madrid, and a house off the Ramblas in Barcelona
under the alias Raphael Santo.
There was a photograph. Carter studied it, and felt a twist
in his gut. Lucchi was in his early thirties. In the picture,
he looked a good ten years younger. and the face smiling
up at Carter wouldn't hurt a fly.
So much for appearances, Carter thought grimly.
He burned the reports pocketed the photograph, and
climbed the staircase to the third floor, mulling over in his
mind how he could get Tony Lucchi and the Black Bear at
the same time.
He knocked and entered. The countess was by a huge can-
opied bed pouring champagne. The way she looked drove
all thoughts of Tony Lucchi from Carter's mind.
She glanced up, smiled, and did a pirouette. "Like?"
"J like."
"It's a Boldonni creation."
Jt was a lavender jump suit, and a creation it was, for
many reasons. First, the fabric. It was see-through, gauzy
as a veil, cleverly transparent but absolutely sturdy. Why
it simply didn't disintegrate was one of the reasons it was
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a creation. Another reason was the cleverly cut body stocking
that came with it. Worn with the body stocking, it was
daring. revealing, but decent. Without the body stocking,
it was daringly revealing and deliciously indecent.
She didn't wear the bcxiy stocking, but did wear the thin
chain belt that was the third and last part of the ensemble.
The metal belt had many links, but it was so conceived that
it modestly hid the navel, and that was the only important
part of her that was
Carter accepted the glass. They toasted silently, and then
talked with their eyes.
The glasses were set aside and she deftly, with a minimum
of movement, shed the jump suit.
"Am I still beautiful, chéri—
she murmured.
Carter swallowed her naked perfection with his eyes and
groaned his answer.
Her hair, thick and glossy, hung several inches below
her shoulders. Her entire body was in perfect proportion.
Her breasts were firm and round, the nipples tilted slightly
upward. Her waist was tiny, blossoming into hips that were
properly broad. Her belly was no more than a gently rising
mound. Her legs were long and beautifully shaped.
He took her in his arms and mashed his lips to hers. His
breathing had quickened and he uttered a soft, urgent moan
as he felt her tongue meet his. The feel of her naked flesh
rippling beneath his fingers as she pressed herself to him
was electrifying, sensuous.
He groaned as he felt himself swept into the familiar de-
sire. With one motion, he picked her up and carried her to
the bed. He stripped off his clothes and they came together
with the burning need of animals. She writhed under him,
hot and moist, her softness, her lush breasts, and her pound-
ing hips an equal match for his own desire.
"Too long," she moaned.
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"Far too long."
As he titillated her with his fingers he leaned forward and
kissed the tip of one of her breasts. She reached out. urgently
caressing his head and shoulders. Her hands combed through
his hair and she curled tendrils of it around her fingers. She
bent her head down and began kissing him. running her lips
over the side of his face and ear.
"Let me do it," she said softly i "You lie back and stretch
out your legs." He did as he was told. She raised herself to
a crouching position over him and lowered herselE He
watched her face in fascination. She closed her eyes and
parted her lips, which were glistening with dampness. Her
eyelashes fluttered as she moved her hips from side to side,
driving him into her.
He lifted his hips and she gave a small, choked cry as
he completely entered her. She stayed absolutely still. her
eyes tightly closed. breathing through her parted lips. Then
she let out the pent-up breath with a long. luxurious sigh
and pressed herself downward. He stroked the tips of his
fingers along the inside of her thighs and across her stomach,
as he began moving upward with firm thrusts. The rocking
bed and its ryhthmic sound added to the sensuality of the
moment.
She lifted his chin and began kissing him hotly on the
lips, repeating his name over and over. He reacted, pushing
himself upward with unrestrained movements. She re-
sponded eagerly. He gripped her waist in his powerful hands
and began lifting her. The muscles covering his shoulders
and arms stood out in hard relief as he arched his body into
hers. They kept their frenzied pace until she began emitting
an intense groan of pleasure.
He rolled her beneath him in one smooth motion.
"I'm close, so close," she whispered.
Carter closed his eyes and concentrated so that he could
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catch up with her. Soft. fluttering sounds escaped her lips
like butterflies. He gritted his teeth as he raced to meet her
head-on.
"Don't stop. Nick, please don't stop!"
Suddenly she was a dervish of desire with her panting
gasps and cries, her fingernails clawing at his back. Then
he climaxed in a sweet sharp burst of fire. Hearing her deep
moans, he knew that she did the same.
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NINE
The next morning, back in his own rooms at the Hotel
de Paris, Caner showered slowly. enjoying the laziness of
it. He was well rested. his mind alert, his body fully recov-
ered from the pummeling it had taken. He luxuriated in the
thick Turkish towel that he used when he stepped from the
shower. He shaved leisurely and carefully, taking an almost
sensual pleasure in the act.
The ball was in the countess's court now, and it was
probably better that it was. If he poked around trying to
connect the Bear with Bolivar, he would only draw attention
to himself and perhaps lose the element of surprise. Better
that the countess and her minions do the legwork so that
when it came time to go, the Killmaster went direct.
He ordered breakfast from room service and dressed at a
leisurely pace: golf shirt, light slacks, and deck shoes. By
the time he finished, the food had arrived and he sat down
to fresh-squeezed orange juice, sausages, scrambled eggs,
croissants, and strong. steaming coffee.
He ate with relish. Everything was right with the world.
And then the telephone call came.
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"Good morning, Monsieur Simon. I trust you enjoyed the
evening?"
Carter chuckled. He recognized the countess's voice. "It
was worth every penny."
"Then I hate to rain on today's parade." The change in
tone was drastic.
"Problems?"
"Several. I think it best that you don't attend my little
pool party this afternoon."
"Perhaps a swim at Cove's Reef, beyond San Remo. Do
you know it?"
"Good. The lady in question will be swimming there as
well. Shall we say noon?"
"Noon it is," Carter said. and the line went dead.
He hung up and moved out onto the balcony. It was a
pretty day—blue sky. clouds white and fluffy— but suddenly
all Carter could see was gray.
Felipe Zapato. stooped in the clothing and harness of the
rug merchant Mohammed Omed, strolled the sunbaked
promenade above the Cove's Reef beach. He was hot, his
shirt stuck to his back, and he envied the seven-eighths-
naked vacationers sporting on the strip of beach below the
promenade. They swam or dived, or sprawled on the sand,
coloring the beach with brief bright bathing suits and tanned
bare arms and legs.
The beach in midsummer, Zapato thought with a sigh,
was no place for a man who had to wear clothes. He would
give anything at that moment to be lying on the beach with
a chilled glass of wine in his hand and no troubles.
Then he saw her
tall. long, dancer's legs, her dark
hair tied at the nape of her swanlike neck. She wore a teal
blue, very brief bikini beneath a short beach jacket.
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It was going to work. Zapato thought. Following her from
the countess's villa had been a stroke of genius.
He watched her walk from the dressing room cabana to
the edge of the water. She shed the jacket and pulled on a
white bathing cap over her dark hair, When she waded into
the water and struck out for the diving platform anchored
a hundred yards out, Zapato turned inland from the prom-
enade.
Quickly, he walked to the parking lot and retrieved his
car, a rented Volvo sedan. In seconds he had swung the car
around and drove to the private parking area. He paid the
fee and charged up the lines of cars until he spotted the
little Mercedes convertible. The top was down with a
cardboard shield over the two bucket seats.
Zapato sighed. The space to the right of the Mercedes
was empty. But then it should be, No one wanted to park
in a space littered with the glass from two wine bottles.
With a small whisk broom and a paper bag. he cleaned
up the glass and pulled into the space. Then he sat for a
few moments making sure he wasn't observed.
When he was sure of himself, he jumped from the Volvo
and ran around the Mercedes. One quick tug and he released
the hood latch. Another scan. No one. Deftly he flipped the
generator clips and lifted the top, The rotor came off easily.
He cracked it, replaced it, and set the top back down and
clipped it.
When the hood was down and locked, Zapato strolled back
to the promenade.
Natalia Mydova reached the raft with sure, powerful
strokes and pulled herself up. Tugging the bathing cap from
her head, she shook out her hair and scanned the beach and
the rocky arms that reached out on each side from the sand
into the sea.
Almost immediately she saw the dark head she was seek-
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ing only a few yards from the raft. heading her way from
the side, Two hands curled over the raft, and as she watched,
the body of a man came up onto the raft. the water streaming
smoothly from his powerful, bronzed body.
Natalia returned his nod, averted her eyes, and lay back.
She heard him sigh and stretch out on the other side of the
raft.
"Why all this?"
She slid her hand under her bikini and withdrew a photo-
graph in a watertight bag. "This. for one thing." Idly, she
flipped it across the raft.
Carter opened the seal and examined it. The photo was
of him, out cold, and it was only too clear where it had
come from and who had taken it.
"Does that picture tie you to Joanna Dubshek?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then you know why we can't be seen together. And of
course you realize why I cannot be seen going into Spain
with you."
'Of course," Carter said. "I'm sorry. Did I compromise
the countess last night?"
"No, we don't think so. "Ihat photo was only distributed
to rezidents and field agents this morning. Instructions were
to watch and report."
Carter let out a low whistle and shielded his eyes from
the sun's glare. "Do you have anything else for me?"
"Yes. It was a risk, but I put through a request for help
in southern Spain. I used the excuse that I have charmed
an American senator who will be there next week on an
inspection junket of military bases. I asked for a direct
courier for my information."
"And ,
?" Carter asked, holding his breath.
"l was given a cutout number in Seville. The contessa
and your people were set up. I called the numbers gave
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them my code name, and asked for the Black Bear. They
asked for a number where I could be reached, and told me
I would be called back in one hour."
Carter had heard the routine many times before, but he
mumbled his understanding and told her to go on.
"When the call came, we managed a trace."
"Seville?"
"No." she replied, "Algeciras. The call came from a dead-
drop relay line in an office on the Calle de Sesto."
"Shit," Carter cursed.
"Wait," she chuckled. "The office was checked. It is
empty. But there is an importer in the same building by the
name of Domingo Bolivar."
S 'Christ," Carter said, "you mean they couldn't find him
before if there is a Domingo Bolivar?"
"Monsieur Carter, there are probably twenty-five Do-
mingo Bolivars in every city in Spain. We had to narrow
it down. Besides, this Domingo Bolivar is also a local politi-
cian, high up in the maritime office. By working for the
Spanish government, he was left off all the usual lists."
"Sorry again." Carter said. and concentrated for several
moments before speaking again. "Even now the only connec-
tion we have between the Black Bear and Bolivar is a dead-
drop phone relay."
"l am afraid so," she replied. "But at least it is something."
"Yeah, something."
"You will go?"
"Of course I'll go."
"They might be watching for you to enter Spain. After
the deaths of the Dobrini brothers, they might guess you
know about Tony Lucchi."
"l can handle that."
"There is a woman named Dolores Martinez. She runs a
maritime insurance agency. The contessa has already con-
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tacted her. She will aid you in any way she can."
"Thanks. And give my best to the countess." Carter stood
and walked to the edge Of the raft. "Take care of yourself."
"You do the same, Monsieur Carter."
He dived cleanly into the water and swam with powerful
strokes toward the rocks from which he had emerged.
Natalia Mydova watched him out of the corner of her
eye. She waited for another twenty minutes, then swam
back to the beach. No one gave her a second glance as she
picked up her beach robe and walked into the dressing
cabana.
Ten minutes later she was in the parking lot heading for
her car. The air was stifling now, but it didn't bother her.
The relief of having (his dangerous meeting over made her
feel good. Too good.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle.
"Bonjour. "
The graying. stooped man with the toed-out umlk turned
into the space beside her and opened the door of a gray
Volvo.
Natalia got into the Mercedes and turned the key. Three
times she tried the key, and the car would not start.
"Pardon, mademoiselle. May I be of some assistance?"
It was the old man. He had stopped his Volvo behind the
Mercedes, and now his sagging, sad face was leaning over
the door toward her.
Natalia sighed. "Not unless you're a mechanic."
His arms came up in a helpless gesture. "l am so sorry.
I am a rug merchant. I am afraid I know nothing about
automobiles." He handed her a card.
'*Damn," she hissed, and stomped from the machine.
*'But I notice a French tag on your car, mademoiselle. I
am returning to Nice. Perhaps I could drop you somewhere
along the way and you could notify a garage to pick the
car."
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Zapato played the kindly old gentleman to the hilt. When
Natalia begged to be let off in Monte Carlo to take a cab
up into the hills and the villa, he would not hear of it.
By the time he swung the Volvo through the gates of the
villa, Natalia knew the life story of the rug merchant Moham-
med Omed , and she was laughing at his amusing anecdotes.
The party was in full swing by the pool, so it was prac-
tically impossible not to invite the old gentleman inside for
at least one drink. It was the least she could do.
The rug merchant met Contessa Balaria and several of
the other guests, charming them all. So much so that the
countess was amused rather than shocked as he moved
around the pool handing out his cards and drumming up
business.
The countess was used to picking up strange people on
the Cöte d'Azur. It added to her image of eccentricity. She
dispatched two servants for Natalia's Mercedes, and mingled
with her guests.
For two hours, Felipe Zapato drank and talked and min-
gled. No one noticed the many times he excused himself,
pleading a weak kidney and the bladder of a child.
During these many visits inside the villa to la toilette,
Zapato located the alarm system, each entrance and exit to
the place, and the sliding bookshelves in the study shielding
the safe.
At last he searched out his hostess.
"Madame, thank you for a wonderful afternoon. In my
business I travel so much and it gets very lonely. You have
brightened my day."
"Nonsense, monsieur. I thank you for coming to the aid
ofa lady in distress," the countess said, smiling graciously.
"Oui, monsieur," Natalia added, "merci beaucoup.'
"Bonjour."
The two women watched the old man walk laboriously to
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the Volvo, climb in, and drive off.
"A funny old man," Natalie mused.
"Yes." the Contessa agreed. "and quite charming."
Zapato waddled into his hotel room and dived for the
telephone. Alberto Ferare answered on the third ring.
"It's me."
"Felipe, where the hell are you?"
"In France, Nice."
"Nice? I thought the score was in Seville."
"It's been changed. Albertos I need a lookout, a woman,
someone young. fairly attractive."
"The lover's lane routine?"
"Exactly."
' •I want to go tomorrow night."
"Good God, Felipe .
"I must. The target will be at a yacht party. There will
be only one servant in the house, an old cook. I might never
get a chance like this again: '
"Give me your number there. I will call you back as soon
as I can."
S Thank you. Alberto. You won't regret it. You can take
a year off on just the commission."
Zapato gave him the hotel and room number, and then re-
dialed.
"Sefior Bolivar, please."
' 'Speaking."
As per his instructions, Zapato recited his room number
and the hotel number, and hung up.
Nervously he smoked and paced for twenty minutes until
the phone rang.
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