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Chapter One

The midday California sun sent glimmers off the

deep blue water. Her pale blond hair was like a

diamond against the blue, as she swam across the

Olympic-sized pool.

Her house was named "Paradise," and paradise

it was: a long, white luxurious structure set among

the pool and citrus gardens and beautifully man-

icured lawns. High in the hills above Los Angeles it

had the most spectacular view of the city you could

imagine. Even the smog seemed to have taken its

leave up here, at least temporarily.

I'd flown out here for a much needed R and R

after a brutal job in Athens. She had met me at the

airport and immediately spirited me up to this

haven. She'd cancelled all of her appointments,

and for a week now it had been just the two of us.

Even her servants kept discreetly out of sight. Diir-

ing the day we explored the nearby hills and swam

and lay beside the pool. At night we watched the

stars from her glass-enclosed living room and then

lay for hours on the satin sheets of her large oval

bed. We satisfied our desires until both of us were

exhausted and then drifted into sleep, usually not

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until near dawn. Paradise it certainly was.

She finished her lap, and as though she sensed

my presence, she looked toward the terrace where

I stood. She saw me and her sensuous lips parted in

a smile over those perfect white teeth.

"Come on in, the water's fine," she called. That

was no surprise; the water was always fine here.

"Come on in," she repeated in that sophisti-

cated, sultry voice, which was a delightful contrast

to the perfect innocence of her face. It's a voice

you'd recognize. And you'd recognize the face too.

Her name is Susan and for the last couple of years

she's been one of the top actresses in pictures, a

genuine star.

I liked watching her glide across the pool, but I

knew I'd like being in the pool even more. I

shucked my clothes, walked down the half dozen

flagstone steps from the terrace to the pool, and

dived in. I opened my eyes under water and swam

toward those long shapely legs, now treading water

with all the grace of a ballet dancer. I reached out

and encircled her legs with my arms and then

moved my hand up to her tanned, undulating

stomach. Slowly she slid underwater, her legs, her

torso, her full breasts gliding past my eyes. And

then her face was opposite mine. Our bodies

moved together underwater, and I felt an electric

shock as her breasts moved against my chest; and I

felt her quiver too. I moved my tongue to her

mouth and taking her in my arms, floated us both

to the bottom of the pool. We lay there in a pas-

sionate embrace, like two sea creatures, lost in

time. Finally she moved her hand against my

cheek, indicating that she needed air. I held her

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firmly and sprung us both to the surface of the wa-

ter. I placed my right arm around her rib cage, cup-

ping one of her beautiful breasts in my hand. With

my other arm I sidestroked to the edge of the pool,

carrying her beside me.

"Here, darling," she said, almost breathlessly, as

we reached the blue-tiled side of the pool.

She stretched out her arms to brace herself and

then flattened her backside against the tiles. I en-

tered her in a single thrust, displacing the water be-

tween us. Our bodies moved like one, sending rip-

ples back across the pool's entire surface. The rip-

ples became waves as our own intensity increased.

As we reached a peak, she cried out like a creature

from the nearby hills.

Afterwards we lay on the warm flagstones of the

terrace. Her eyes were closed against the sun, and I

traced a remaining rivulet of water down her fine,

firm breasts. The sun seemed to give energy to my

own drained body, and lying there beside her I felt

more peaceful than I'd felt in a long, long while. I

stretched back and watched a bank of cumulus

clouds move against the blue sky. The only sounds

were of a blackbird chirping in the nearby woods

and of a telephone ringing in the distance.

"Telephone for Mr. Brody," the maid's voice

announced over the intercom system.

That was me. Brody, Charles Brody, was the

name Susan knew me by. She smiled up at me as I

lifted my body from the ground, but I wasn't smil-

ing. Only one person had my phone number here.

And a call from him could only mean one thing.

I moved to a phone which sat on a glass table

near us.

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firmly and sprung us both to the surface of the wa-

ter. I placed my right arm around her rib cage, cup-

ping one of her beautiful breasts in my hand. With

my other arm I sidestroked to the edge of the pool,

carrying her beside me.

"Here, darling," she said, almost breathlessly, as

we reached the blue-tiled side of the pool.

She stretched out her arms to brace herself and

then flattened her backside against the tiles. I en-

tered her in a single thrust, displacing the water be-

tween us. Our bodies moved like one, sending rip-

ples back across the pool's entire surface. The rip-

ples became waves as our own intensity increased.

As we reached a peak, she cried out like a creature

from the nearby hills.

Afterwards we lay on the warm flagstones of the

terrace. Her eyes were closed against the sun, and I

traced a remaining rivulet of water down her fine,

firm breasts. The sun seemed to give energy to my

own drained body, and lying there beside her I felt

more peaceful than I'd felt in a long, long while. I

stretched back and watched a bank of cumulus

clouds move against the blue sky. The only sounds

were of a blackbird chirping in the nearby woods

and of a telephone ringing in the distance.

"Telephone for Mr. Brody," the maid's voice

announced over the intercom system.

That was me. Brody, Charles Brody, was the

name Susan knew me by. She smiled up at me as I

lifted my body from the ground, but I wasn't smil-

ing. Only one person had my phone number here.

And a call from him could only mean one thing.

I moved to a phone which sat on a glass table

near us.

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firmly and sprung us both to the surface of the wa-ter. I placed my right arm around her rib cage, cup-ping one of her beautiful breasts in my hand. With my other arm I sidestroked to the edge of the pool, carrying her beside me. "Here, darling," she said, almost breathlessly, as we reached the blue-tiled side of the pool. She stretched out her arms to brace herself and then flattened her backside against the tiles. I en-tered her in a single thrust, displacing the water be-tween us. Our bodies moved like one, sending rip-ples back across the pool's entire surface. The rip-ples became waves as our own intensity increased. As we reached a peak, she cried out like a creature from the nearby hills. Afterwards we lay on the warm flagstones of the terrace. Her eyes were closed against the sun, and I traced a remaining rivulet of water down her fine, firm breasts. The sun seemed to give energy to my own drained body, and lying there beside her I felt more peaceful than I'd felt in a long, long while. I stretched back and watched a bank of cumulus clouds move against the blue sky. The only sounds were of a blackbird chirping in the nearby woods and of a telephone ringing in the distance. "Telephone for Mr. Brody," the maid's voice announced over the intercom system. That was me. Brody, Charles Brody, was the name Susan knew me by. She smiled up at me as I lifted my body from the ground, but I wasn't smil-ing. Only one person had my phone number here. And a call from him could only mean one thing. I moved to a phone which sat on a glass table near us.

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"Hello."

"Mr. Carter?" It was a no-nonsense man's voice.

"Yes."

"David Hawk wants you to fly to Washington

and meet with him immediately. He says it's top

priority. Urgent."

I looked at the golden vision of Susan lying

below me and couldn't help sighing inwardly. But

Hawk was my boss and when he said go, I went.

That was the way it was. Scratch the remaining two

weeks of my R and R.

"Will there be a plane for me?"

"There's one waiting for you now at the

the man said and

Hollywood-Burbank Airport,"

hung up.

I replaced the receiver and reached for a towel.

"What is it?" Susan asked.

"I have to leave immediately."

She stood up and moved toward me like the

goddess that she was.

"No, darling." Her face formed itself into a

pout.

"Yes."

"But why?" The pout was changing to a look

that meant she was coming close to tears.

"My law firm has business that only I can han-

dle. I have to go overseas, I expect. Sorry, love."

She blinked back a tear and then smiled her

dazzling smile. She wasn't an actress for nothing.

"Sometimes, you know, I really think you're a

spy or something the way you're always running

off," she said, attempting to make the best ofa bad

situation by joking.

"Well," I joked back, "I think you shouldn't

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start believing those movies you're in."

She laughed. "No, I suppose not," she said, and

moved her body next to mine. I bent down and

kissed her and then turned to put on my clothes.

There was no time for a long goodbye.

"A spy or something," Susan had joked, except

it wasn't a joke, and my work went way beyond the

kind of tame spy stuff you usually see in the mov-

ies. Killmaster N3 was my AXE designation. AXE

did the jobs the other agencies couldn't handle, and

I hadn't earned my rank just by stealing an occa-

sional secret or protecting visiting dignitaries.

As I navigated a Jaguar down the narrow, hilly

road from Susan's house, I couldn't help wonder-

ing why Hawk needed me. There were a number of

AXE agents who could do just about any job that

came up. When I'd returned from Greece, it had

been Hawk's idea for me to take a break. His part-

ing words had been, "See you in three weeks, Nick.

Unless," he'd added sardonically, "a major in-

ternational crisis comes up." So it looked like I was

heading straight into a major international crisis.

As there weren't many houses up this far, the

road I was traveling on toward the freeway was

pretty much deserted. But as I turned a curve I no-

ticed two motorcycles sitting on a side road. As I

passed they turned onto the road and soon they

were right up behind me, too close for comfort on

a road full of sharp turns and dramatically steep

descents. I caught them in my rearview mirror: two

dirty-looking bikers on big choppers. One was a

big man with shoulder-length, greasy-looking hair,

his buddy a smaller man who'd gone in the op-

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NICK CARTER

posite direction in his hairdo: his head was shaved

completely bald. The bald man was bare-chested.

The other one wore a black leather vests And they

both had swastikas hanging on their gleaming tor-

sos.

When they pulled their choppers right up beside

me, I began to get really uncomfortable. What the

hell were they doing? On a road this narrow and

blind, if another car appeared ahead there was

either going to be a crash or someone would go

hurtling over the side of the hill.

"Hey, man!" the bigger biker yelled at me, "Pull

over! Stop!"

"Why?" I yelled back and kept up my speed.

' 'You're taking up too much road, man, that's

why. We wanna talk to you." I realized then that

these punks were out for what they considered

some kicks. But even if I'd liked their kind of kicks

—which I didn't—I didn't have time for them. Not

with a plane waiting at the airport for me.

"Go to hell,"

I yelled back. The big one an-

swered this by spitting in my direction. His gob

didn't land in my face, but not for want of trying.

It was just that his aim had been bad.

Then the big guy nodded to his buddy, and

before I knew what was happening the bald guy

pulled his chopper directly in front of the Jaguar. I

had to slow down to avoid hitting him immediate-

ly. One bike was now at my side, the other in front

of me, and to my other side was a drop of hundreds

of feet into canyons that already had plenty of to-

talled cars and dead bodies. So this was their game:

The motorcycle in front of me was slowing down,

and the idea was that I would be forced to do the

same and eventually stop.

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But I was having none of it. I moved my foot

from the brake to the accelerator and speeded up,

nosing the front of the Jaguar into the back of the

cycle before me. The bald guy didn't expect this

and even if he had expected it, there wouldn't have

been much he could do about it. He abruptly

swerved his bike to the left to get away from me,

but as he did so he nearly crashed into his buddy,

who was still heading up my left. The bald guy

gunned his engine to get away from his buddy and

they missed each other by a fraction of an inch. But

the sharp turn and the extra speed had sent the

bald guy's bike into a tailspin. The bike abruptly

crashed to the ground and sent its rider sprawling

head first onto the road.

Unfortunately his friend was still beside me.

"You shouldn't have done that," he snarled. A

few seconds later I saw a knife sail past my head

and land in the leather of the passenger seat. I

needed a knife there even less than I needed a gob

of spit. I pulled the knife out of the leather with my

right hand, steering with my left. These clowns had

picked the wrong man to hassle with. I'd been

trained to kill, with knives as well as with guns and

explosives, and it would have been easy for me to

toss the knife right into the bastard's head or his

heart. But I kill only when I have to, on the job, not

for personal reasons.

I aimed the knife carefully. The biker laughed

when he saw me throw the knife, obviously think-

ing I was aiming at him and aiming badly. But his

laugh disappeared in a second when the knife hit

exactly where I'd intended: in his back tire. His

face opened in an "O" of surprise as he lost control

of the bike when the tire blew out from under him.

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Now I did slow down to watch him careen wildly

down the hill ahead of me before finally crashing

into a patch of shrubs on the left side of the road.

As I drove on I heard him shout. So he wasn't

dead, just out of commission for awhile.

Then, through the rearview mirror, I saw that

the bald guy had remounted his bike and was

trying to catch up with me again. I reached under

the seat and pulled out a long, thick piece of rope,

and shaped it with my right hand into a cattleman's

knot. I deliberately slacked my speed until the

biker was beside me—right where I wanted him.

His bald head had a long, bloody cut across its top

and his nose and mouth were also a bloody pulp.

"I'll kill you," he yelled.

I didn't want to kill him, just get him out of my

way and maybe put a dent in his overblown macho

pride. I waited until we were heading toward a very

sharp curve. Then suddenly I threw the rope and

braked my car abruptly. The rope flew around his

arms, pulling them from his handlebars and pin-

ioning them to his chest. His bike went hurtling

out from under him and sailed right over the edge

of the cliff. He hit the ground in the middle of the

road with a heavy thud. I heard his bike crash

below. I let the rope slip out of my hand and drove

ahead, leaving him struggling to untangle himself

from the rope and cursing at me for destroying

what was dearest to him: his bike. And I took off

for the freeway.

Hawk had a Lear jet waiting for me at

Hollywood-Burbank, and when I landed, six hours

later, at Dulles International in D.C., Hawk him-

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self was there to greet me. Only minutes after the

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AND NEXT THE KING

self was there to greet me. Only minutes after the

plane's wheels touched the ground, Hawk walked

into the jet's cabin. He had a scowl on his face and

one of his half-chewed, foul-smelling cigars in his

mouth. He indicated with a flick of his hand that I

was to stay seated and he moved to take the chair

opposite me.

"Been reading the papers, Nick," he asked, "or

been too preoccupied with the ladies?" A slight

smile flickered across his face.

"Well, sir, I did catch a couple of papers in

"So you've read about the latest kidnapping in

I had. The day before, a high Spanish military

official, General Rodriguez, had been abducted by

a band of revolutionary terrorists who called them-

selves "El Grupo Febrero." From what I'd read,

they were a pretty vicious lot. Within the last two

months, they'd already killed the Spanish Minister

of the Treasury, the Minister of Education, two de-

puties of the Spanish Parliament, and a Special En-

voy of the King. In addition, they'd shot at and

crippled several other high government officials.

And they claimed responsibility for the bombing of

a government building that had killed twenty

more.

'SA bad business," Hawk said.

"Yes, sir. Any ransom demand?"

"No, and I don't think there's going to be, Nick.

Hasn't ever been one. They're out for blood. They

kidnap these men, hold revolutionary 'trials,' then

torture them to death. It seems to me, and the

group has said as much in their communiqués, that

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NICK CARTER

they're out to eliminate the entire Spanish govern-

ment. Or as much of it as they can. And in the

process, of course, they've got the whole country

paralyzed."

It was, as Hawk said, a bad business. But from

what he'd told me so far, I didn't see why Hawk

needed me. Any of a dozen other AXE agents—to

say nothing of the CIA—should have been able to

track down General Rodriguez's abductors.

As though he'd read my thoughts, Hawk said,

"The Spanish government requested our top man,

Nick. You see, as bad as these other murders and

kidnappings were, this one is much, much worse,

more serious. It's not just another individual's

death that's involved here. General Rodriguez was

carrying important military secrets when they kid-

napped him, secrets vital to the defense of Spain.

They involve not just Spain's army and airforce,

but," and here Hawk paused, "also the develop-

ment of Spain's nuclear defense. You know what

that means, Nick."

I knew what it meant, and it sent chills up and

down my spine.

"What we're really afraid of, Nick, is that this

Spanish group is part of some larger international

terrorist organization, or that they at least have ties

with other terrorist groups. When they find out

that what they have in their hands is a plan for a

nuclear weapon, who knows what's going to hap-

pen. This is just what I've been warning Washing-

ton about for years, with this spread of nuclear

weapons: the possibility of them getting into the

hands of a group of terrorists. I don't need to tell

you, Nick, what kind of blackmail they can pull if

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hands of a group of terrorists. I don't need to tell

you, Nick, what kind of blackmail they can pull if

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they discover what they have. They'll have not just

Spain in their paws, but the whole bloody world."

"Yes, sir."

"So, Nick, find those plans. And, if possible,

save General Rodriguez's life."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do it. Now goodbye, Nick, and

good luck."

"Am I to catch another plane here, sir?"

"No, stay on this one. It's been refueling while

we talked. I didn't want to waste any time." Hawk

turned and walked toward the door. Then at the

doorway, he turned around and said, "And, Nick,

don't forget the Russians." Then he left.

No, I wouldn't forget the Russians. And as I

flew over the Atlantic I couldn't help thinking of

what would happen if the Russians found out

about the nuclear plan and reached the terrorists

before I did. Of course, even the Russians would

never supply nuclear weapons to a terrorist or-

ganization, but once the KGB found out the ter-

rorists already had the plan, it was a safe bet that

they'd want to play ball with them. And I had to

find that plan before they started playing ball.

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Chapter Two

Hawk had taken the precaution of registering

the Lear to Milhautt, Lowry, and Bryan As-

sociates, a New York City architectural firm.

When I went through customs the passport I gave

the official listed my name as David Bryan, my oc-

cupation as architectural engineer. I filled in "busi-

ness," under Purpose of Visit and "two weeks" un-

der Length of Stay on the form the official gave me.

I just hoped, for the sake of Spain, and for my own

sake, that my length of stay would be considerably

less than two weeks.

I took a taxi at the airport to a small, quiet hotel,

just a couple of blocks from the Prado. After

checking in, I walked the ten blocks to the address

Hawk had given me.l entered a large, modern of-

fice building and took the elevator to the tenth

floor. Here I found the right suite and entered what

looked like a typical modern office: beige carpet,

beige walls, low-key, comfortable furniture, a suit-

ably attractive secretary. This was the Spanish In-

telligence Secret Forces Mission, and I was here to

meet Ramon Lorca, Hawk's Spanish counterpart.

The secretary sat behind a desk near a door lead-

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ing into an inner office and she was reading a fash-

ion magazine when I entered. She looked up from

her magazine and smiled. She was a pretty woman,

around thirty, with large almond-shaped eyes and

very white teeth.

"May I help you?" Her smile was dazzling.

"David Bryan. I believe I have an appointment."

'SAh, yes, Mr. Bryan," she inflected the name

with a slight touch of irony as though she knew

what my real name was. ' 'Mr. Lorca has been ex-

pecting you." She picked up the phone and an-

nounced me to Mr. Lorca.

g 'Go right in," she said and motioned me toward

the wood-paneled door leading into the inner of-

fice. She opened the door with a button concealed

somewhere under her desk, and as the door swung

open, I realized that the wood panels overlay a

thick, bullet-proof sheet of metal, and that this

wasn't, of course, the typical office it looked to

be.

As the heavy door closed behind me, I found

myself standing in a square office, with a floor-

length expanse of glass windows along one of its

sides. You could bet these windows were bullet-

proof too. These windows let in so much light that

at first I could only make out a dim figure rising

from a desk in front of the windows and moving

toward me. My eyes adjusted and I saw Ramon

Lorca clearly as he took my hand, pumping it with

a firm handshake.

"Welcome, Nick Carter," he said, in a deep, sea-

soned voice. "We are honored to have you among

us." His greeting had no hint of flattery and his

smile was friendly and sincere. He was a very large

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NICK CARTER

man, about my height. Beneath his elegantly cut

white suit, his shoulders and arms were massive,

like those of an ex-prizefighter, which he may well

have been. His deeply tanned face had a classical

Spanish profile, with his jet-black hair combed

straight back. And his large, dark eyes were full of

warmth. I knew right off that we were going to get

along just fine.

"I thank you for coming, Mr. Carter. Your rep-

utation, of course, precedes you," he said as he

ushered me to a chair near his desk. I noticed that

the glass windows looked out over the entire south

of the city and that one could see the ochre-colored

plains in the distance.

"l assume Hawk has explained to you what has

happened, Mr. Carter."

"Yes."

"Well, frankly, Mr. Carter, we have almost no

leads on the recent kidnapping or on any of the

other kidnappings and assassinations. We need

you, Mr. Carter. I regret to say I don't have any

agents of your calibre on my staff. Except, if I may

be so immodest, myself. But, as you see, they have

me running the whole division now, and I don't get

the chance to spend much time in the field any-

more. Too many other priorities."

I should have guessed Lorca had been an agent

himself. And a damn good one, I'd bet.

"Perhaps you should examine these first," he

said, handing me a manilla file folder from his

desk. "The men who were killed." The folder con-

tained color morgue photographs of the officials

who had been killed by EI Grupo Febrero. I've

seen some gory sights and plenty of dead men, but

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I'd seldom seen a more gruesome example of cruel.

ty than what El Grupo Febrero had done to these

men. From the photographs you could see that all

of them had been severely tortured before they'd

been killed: Two men's genitals had been cut off,

nearly all were missing fingernails. The singed

body hair and the thin red lines on many of the

men indicated that they'd been subjected to electric

shock. Nearly all had large welts where they'd been

beaten. And one man had all four of his limbs bro-

ken; he'd obviously been subjected to the rack.

I looked into Lorca's eyes, which were now hard

and steely. 'SA vicious group," he said. "And the

men they let live, the ones they shot down, it has

been the same story. One man was shot deliberate-

ly in the genitals, another crippled in both legs, a

third shot in the spine so that he is now paralyzed

from the neck down."

Lorca said that he had no clues to the location of

the group. They seemed to be operating all over

Spain. The bombing of the government office had

taken place in Madrid, as had all of the original

kidnappings. But the bodies of the officials had

been found all over Spain: one in Toledo, two in

Barcelona, one in Granada, another in Seville. All

the bodies had been found, at dawn, in town

squares or public plazas. "They are deliberately

making a mockery of the Spanish police," Lorca

commented.

' 'We have connected El Grupo Febrero," Lorca

continued, "to a group of dissidents of ten years

ago. Strangely most of them were workers and col-

lege students, and at that time they do not seem to

have been engaged in violence."

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have been engaged in violence."

NICK CARTER

"The members of this organization?" I asked.

"That, I regret to say, is our main problem. You

see, Mr. Carter, when the new government came

into power, several years ago, the police and army

had many, many files on the dissident groups. We

had the names of members, detailed information

about these men and women. But the new govern-

ment decided that all of these files should be de-

stroyed, except of course, for the obviously sub-

versive groups, which, at the time, excluded El

Grupo Febrero. I must admit to you that I ap-

proved of, even advocated, the destruction of these

files. There were thousands and thousands of citi-

zens listed as enemies of the state who were really

only enemies of the former regime, so it seemed not

only pointless but out of place in a democracy to

retain all these files. In the case of El Grupo

Febrero, however, I'm afraid we made a fatal mis-

take."

At this point Lorca was interrupted by a loud

buzz from one of the telephones on his desk.

"That will be the police. I'm monitoring all of

the calls that come into the police station, and

when they receive one regarding this case, I have it

transmitted up here so that I can listen." Lorca

pushed a button beside one of the phones and we

immediately heard the voices of a policeman and a

young woman.

S SYour name please?"

"I'm sorry, I can't give you that." Her voice was

soft and very low. She was speaking almost in a

whisper.

"But you have information on El Grupo

Febrero?"

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c 'I'm not sure." Her voice grew even softer. "I do

think I should talk to someone."

"Can you come to the police station today?"

"No, I can't do that," she said, her voice rising,

becoming almost shrill. She sounded frightened

now. Lorca pressed another button, which was ap-

parently a signal to the police station. For then the

officer asked the woman to hold the line while he

switched her to someone who might better be able

to help her.

"I don't know

she trailed off, and I was

afraid she was going to hang up.

"Take the call, Nick," Lorca said. "You're in

charge of this now, so you might as well start."

I picked up the phone Lorca indicated and spoke

into it in my Castilian accent. I knew it wouldn't do

any good to try to get the woman's name out of

her; she was obviously too frightened to reveal

that. But frightened of what? Of us? Of El Grupo

Febrero? But I knew I had to keep her on the line

(Lorca's men were no doubt tracing the call now)

and I had to arrange to see her if I could. After

identifying myself as a special agent working on the

case, I decided to appeal to her emotions. Her soft

voice indicated that she probably had some pas-

sionate ones.

"Miss, please, almost thirty people have already

been killed. I've just been looking at the photo-

graphs of the men who have been tortured. El

Grupo Febrero has promised to do this to many

more. Please help us stop them before they can get

to anyone else. Any information that you think

might be connected with the group will help us."

There was a long pause. I almost thought that

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she'd hung up. Then she said, ' 'All right," very,

very softly.

"I can't come to the police station," she said.

"Can I come to you?"

There was another very long pause.

"Will you be alone?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

"Two thirty-five Arboles," she said, "tonight af-

ter ten." Then she rang off immediately.

Lorca's face was grim when I hung up, and I ex-

pect mine was the same. it was a risky business,

meeting her alone. It could be a trap, but it was a

chance I had to take. Right now it was the only

lead we had.

Another phone rang and Lorca picked it up. I

watched him as he nodded into the phone, his fine

Spanish profile troubled. When he hung up the

phone, he turned to me.

"Three things," he said. "The woman's call was

made in a phone booth near the Palace of Justice.

My men weren't able to get there soon enough to

see her, she wasn't on the phone long enough. Two,

the house at two-three-five Arboles is listed in the

name of one Pedro Salas, about whom we have

nothing in the files. Three, the newspapers have

just received another communique from El Grupo

Febrero, saying that the nation can expect the trial

to end by Friday, and that on Saturday they will

strike again, this time, quote, 'as high as we can

go.' "

Today was Monday.

"I guess I should check out General Rodriguez's

office," I said.

'61 thought you'd want to do that. I've already

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she'd hung up. Then she said, ' 'All right," very,

very softly.

"I can't come to the police station," she said.

"Can I come to you?"

There was another very long pause.

"Will you be alone?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

"Two thirty-five Arboles," she said, "tonight af-

ter ten." Then she rang off immediately.

Lorca's face was grim when I hung up, and I ex-

pect mine was the same. it was a risky business,

meeting her alone. It could be a trap, but it was a

chance I had to take. Right now it was the only

lead we had.

Another phone rang and Lorca picked it up. I

watched him as he nodded into the phone, his fine

Spanish profile troubled. When he hung up the

phone, he turned to me.

"Three things," he said. "The woman's call was

made in a phone booth near the Palace of Justice.

My men weren't able to get there soon enough to

see her, she wasn't on the phone long enough. Two,

the house at two-three-five Arboles is listed in the

name of one Pedro Salas, about whom we have

nothing in the files. Three, the newspapers have

just received another communique from El Grupo

Febrero, saying that the nation can expect the trial

to end by Friday, and that on Saturday they will

strike again, this time, quote, 'as high as we can

go.' "

Today was Monday.

"I guess I should check out General Rodriguez's

office," I said.

'61 thought you'd want to do that. I've already

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sent word to the Defense Ministry that you'd be

there sometime this afternoon. One final thing,

Nick. I'll be frank with you. If this doesn't end

soon, it's going to be catastrophic for my country.

Unlike your country, Spain is a new and fragile de-

mocracy. It cannot stand the strain. Already there

is talk of moving back to the days of Franco. I,

personally, don't want that to happen, but we have

to catch this group soon or the whole edifice will

come tumbling down."

This strong man suddenly seemed very sad, not

just for the killings, but for the fate of his nation. I

wanted very much to help him.

I caught a taxi outside Lorca's office. As we

drove through Madrid, I noticed that the streets

were very deserted for this time of day in midweek.

Then I remembered that it was siesta time, and that

many people were now inside napping, avoiding

the blazing afternoon sun. In a few hours they'd be

back out to open their shops and socialize in the

bars and cafes.

The Ministry of Defense was located in the huge

complex of government buildings near the center

of the city. Like the rest, it was an enormous,

imperial-looking structure of white marble. Stand-

ing before it, at the top of a steep series of marble

steps, were almost two dozen guards in full-dress

military uniforms. I wondered if they were always

there, or if they were on special duty as a result of

the threats of El Grupo Febrero. A couple of the

guards stood in front of me at the top of the steps,

but I flashed the card Lorca had given me and sped

past them into the building. Here I was stopped by

NICK CARTER

another guard. I told him I was here to see General

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another guard. I told him I was here to see General

Pena, who was General Rodriguez's top aide. The

guard steered me to the elevator where I met an-

other guard. He telephoned up to General Pena's

office before he let me enter the elevator. When I

arrived on the fourth floor, I was met by still an-

other guard. Security was tight here all right. The

government seemed to be running scared. And for

good reason.

I was escorted into General Pena's office, then

the guard clicked his heels and exited, leaving me

alone. General Pena's office could not have been

more of a contrast to the one I'd just left. It was

enormous, with heavy antique furniture, ornately

framed portraits of military men on the walls, and

thick velvet curtains, which were drawn across the

windows. The gloom in here belied the glar-

ing white sun outside. But I guess that was the

point.

I heard doors open to my right, and General

Pena appeared. He was in full dress but his sleepy

eyes told me that I had awakened him from his

siesta. He was a short, bald man, just past middle

age, but he was powerfully built and his military

carriage was impeccably straight.

I wanted General Pena to tell me the circum-

stances of General Rodriguez's disappearance, and

I wanted to find out exactly what the contents were

of the papers Rodriguez had been carrying. Gener-

al Pena treated me with politeness, but unlike

Lorca, he was excessively formal. As we talked it

became clear that he felt the army and the army

alone should be investigating Rodriguez's kidnap-

ping, and that he resented Lorca's being put in

charge of the investigation. That also meant that he

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at e

resented me. I knew, however, that Pena must be

under orders from the Minister of Defense, who

had no doubt gotten his orders directly from the

King. And the orders were to cooperate.

And cooperate he did, explaining to me in detail

how Rodriguez's car had been stopped going be-

tween here and a military installation on the out-

skirts of town. Rodriguez's driver had been killed

and the car itself was found riddled with machine

gun fire. Neither the police or the army had found

any clues near the car that might lead to the kid-

nappers, not even any fingerprints.

The papers that General Rodriguez had been

carrying were ones that contained state secrets re-

lating to the operation of Spain's military bases,

and, more importantly, Spain's plan for the de-

velopment of nuclear weaponry.

"So it would be possible for someone to con-

struct a bomb from the papers Rodriguez was car-

"Yes, provided they had the proper scientific ex-

pertise. Yes, I'm afraid so, Mr. Carter."

"Did anyone know that the General was carry-

ing these plans?"

"No, not even the officers at the installation to

whom he was taking them. It had all been arranged

secretly, in consultation with the Minister of De-

fense. But not even the Minister knew exactly the

day that they were to be delivered. He left them

strictly in General Rodriguez's charge. I was the

only person who knew General Rodriguez was car-

rying the plans that day, and he didn't even tell me

until a few minutes before he left. It was a horrible

coincidence that they picked that day to kidnap

him."

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It certainly was a horrible coincidence. Who

knew what the terrorists would do with those

plans? Our only hope was that El Grupo wouldn't

know what they'd found, and that Rodriguez

wouldn't break under torture and tell them. But

even if Rodriguez didn't break, it seemed unlikely

to me that it would take the group long to figure

out what they'd come across. From what I could

see El Grupo Febrero was a highly sophisticated,

extraordinarily clever group of terrorists. If El

Grupo could come up with the right equipment

(perhaps from the Russians) it wouldn't take them

too much time to put the nuclear plan they'd found

into use.

I'd learned from General Pena what I wanted to

learn, so I took my leave, and taxied back to the

hotel. I hadn't rested since t left California, so I

climbed into bed to sleep until my ten o'clock ap.

pointment. I hoped my dreams would be more

pleasant than the waking nightmare surrounding

me.

Calle de Arboles was a quiet residential street lo-

cated on the outskirts of town. Its small stucco

houses were lined up in an orderly fashion, and

most had small yards in front. Lights shone from

houses all along the street, and as I drove along in

the Mercedes Lorca had given me to use, I occa-

sionally heard the sounds of laughter and music

coming from windows and open doorways. I

cruised past two-thirty-five and saw a light coming

from a front window. I turned the corner at the end

of the block and parked the Mercedes on a side

street, two blocks down from Arboles.

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I headed back to Arboles on foot, but just as

was turning the corner onto the street I saw a large

green van drive up and park directly across from

two-thirty-five. I ducked behind a hedge at the end

of the block and watched. After a few seconds a

door of the van opened, and a light came on inside.

What I saw in that van chilled me: there were four

men and one of them was speaking into a walkie-

talkie. This looked like a trap all right. One of the

men threw a beer can onto the street, then closed

the door again. I waited, but the men made no at-

tempt to leave the van. Now I couldn't go in the

front door of a house that was obviously being

watched, and watched, I thought, for my arrival.

But I sure as hell wanted to find out who was inside

that house and what was going on there.

I looked around me, studying the layout of the

neighborhood. Behind me, in the middle of the

block was a narrow alley that had to lead past the

back of two-thirty-five Arboles. I memorized the

shape and color of the house, then, seeing that the

men inthe van still weren't ready to make a move,

slid along the hedge until I came to the alley. The

alley was very dark, and both sides of it were

bordered by stucco walls taller than my head. I

made my way to what had to be the right house. I

checked back to see if anyone had followed me: the

alley was deserted. I pulled Wilhelmina, my 9mm

Luger, out of my breast pocket. I grabbed at the

high stucco wall, gained a footing, and thrust my-

self to its top.

I found myself looking down into a small garden

with a few orange trees, a bed of roses that looked

like it needed tending, and a patio with two

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wrought-iron chairs. The back of the house was

dark. I let myself down into the garden and moved

around it, making sure that it was deserted. At the

back door of the house, I could see into a small

kitchen, very neat and orderly. The door from the

kitchen into the rest of the house was closed. I tried

the outside door. It was locked. The window into

the kitchen was also locked, but its latch didn't

look very sturdy. Holding the window's frame at

the bottom, I pushed upward. Within seconds I

could see that the latch was beginning to pull itself

loose from the window, and I just hoped it

wouldn't clatter to the floor or the table below the

window when it came off. I gave a final heave, the

latch broke, and the window opened with a

whooshing sound. Unfortunately the latch fell

onto the oil-cloth covered table with a thump. I

hoped the noise hadn't been heard, but I didn't

have any time to wait if it had. I climbed through

the window, jumped across the table, and with

Wilhelmina still in hand, went to the door leading

into the rest of the house. I paused there. The only

sound was the hum of the refrigerator. Who knew

what or who was on the other side of the door? But

I had to take that chance.

I turned the doorknob and opened the door a

crack. Light from the next room flooded into the

kitchen. Opening the door wider, I peered into

a small living room, modestly and sparsely

furnished. No one was in sight. Slowly I wedged

through the door into the room.

"Drop it," a woman's voice on my right com-

manded.

I didn't drop it. I spun around and found myself

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face to face with one of the most beautiful women

I've ever seen. Her narrow, delicate face, her long

black hair, and her large, soulful eyes made her

look like a Madonna in a Spanish Renaissance

painting. She held a small silver handgun, which

was aimed right at my chest, as Wilhelmina was

aimed at hers. We stood there several seconds, just

staring each other down.

"Drop it," she finally said again.

"I could say the same. Are you the woman I

talked to this afternoon?"

don't know what you mean."

"EI Grupo Febrero?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she

said. But I recognized the soft, nervous voice. "Get

out of here."

"You said this afternoon you had information."

"I don't know what you mean or want. Just

please get out."

"Or you'll call your friends in from outside?"

Her face recoiled as I said this, as though she'd

been slapped, and her arm with the gun jerked

back. But the gun was still pointed at my chest.

"Your friends outside," I persisted, "in the green

van."

She looked involuntarily toward the front win-

dows, and I had my chance and moved rapidly. I

knocked the gun out of her hand. As it clattered to

the floor I reached out and grapped her with my

left arm, pinioning her to my chest. She let out an

involuntary cry, but she didn't struggle. She felt

like a small, defenseless animal in my arms, and I

don't like to hurt women, not unless I have to. But

I knew those men were outside and I didn't have

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much time to make her talk.

"You called this afternoon." I said.

She didn't answer. I tightened my grip around

her body.

"Yes, I called."

"So why lie about it?"

"Please," and she was crying softly by now. "Let

me go. I'm afraid." I wanted to let her go, but I

couldn't take any chances until I found out what

she knew.

"Tell me about the men outside."

"l really don't know what you're talking about,"

she said through her tears. I released her, but kept

her covered.

"I can't talk about El Grupo Febrero, please. I

shouldn't have called. I really don't have any in-

formation." Her voice was pleading with me and it

was filled with fear.

"Have you been threatened?"

She looked into my eyes for the first time.

"Yes."

"If you talk?"

"Yes."

Your life?"

"It's not just me, it's .

and her voice trailed

away.

But I didn't get a chance to wait for her answer,

for just then I heard a door slam outside, and I

could tell from the sound it was the van.

"Does the bedroom overlook the street?" I

asked her.

"Yes, but ..

"Are the lights out in there, the shades drawn?"

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"Are the lights out in there, the shades drawn?"

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"The lights are out, but

"Let's go." I took her arm.

"No, please, not in there," and she shied away

from me. I knew what she was thinking.

"I'm not going to hurt you, but it looks like the

men I mentioned are paying us a call."

She led the way down the hall to a small

bedroom. We looked out through its darkened

window. Four men had gotten out of the van and

were crossing the street: an enormous man, almost

seven feet tall and packed with muscles, seemed to

be leading the way. Another of the men had a nar-

row scar across the length of his forehead as

though someone had tried to scalp him and cut too

low. All four were wearing blue jeans and work

shirts.

"Oh, no," the woman whispered.

"Have you seen them before?"

"Only today. The man with the scar. I remember

seeing him this afternoon."

'SAfter you'd made the call to the police station."

She hesitated, thought for a moment. "Why, yes,

it was near the phone booth that I saw him."

"Was he following you?"

"I don't know," she hesitated, looking out at the

men again. "For the last few days I've felt as

though I were being followed. I can't explain why,

I didn't see anyone, but I just felt something." The

men were now on the lawn.

"All right. Stay in this room. Don't come out

under any circumstances." I handed back her gun,

which I'd pocketed. ' 'If anyone comes through that

door shoot."

couldn't. I really didn't mean to shoot you.

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NICK CARTER

It's not even loaded."

"Do you have any bullets?"

' 'In the bureau."

"All right. Get them. It's your life or theirs.

Promise me you'll shoot at whoever comes through

that door. And shoot to kill." She looked up at me,

her eyes full of fear, but she nodded.

I rushed back into the living room, just as I

heard the men's footsteps on the front porch. I

moved to a position beside the front door, avoiding

walking past the shaded windows. I didn't want

them to see my silhouette.

The doorbell rang, a loud clattering sound. I

held Wilhelmina and waited. The doorbell rang

again, and this time whoever was ringing left his

hand on, and the sound became an insistent, de-

manding shriek.

"She's got to be in there," I heard one of them

say.

"Him, too?"

"I don't know. But she's there all right."

The leader, who must have been the tall man,

told two of the men to go around and enter

through the back way. Then suddenly there was a

blast of gunfire that shook the door and sent the

lock flying off its hinges.

The man with the scar entered first, his gun

pointed out in front of him. I didn't let him get far.

With my left hand I chopped down hard on his gun

arm, sending the gun clattering across the tile floor,

and with Wilhelmina I struck a clean blow against

the side of his head, just below the ear. He

crumpled to the floor immediately, out cold, as

blood trickled from beneath his ear. I slammed

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the door against the big man coming in behind

him, and took the few seconds this gave me to run

toward the sofa on the opposite side of the room.

The big man was quick, though, and as I dashed

a bullet whizzed past my head, missing by only a

fraction of an inch. Another bullet whizzed by me,

just as I ducked behind the sofa. Then I looked up

to aim. He'd stationed himself beside a chair near

the front window. As he looked up to see what his

shots had done to me, I let loose with my first shot,

but he ducked back down and the bullet hit the

wall behind him. He sent another couple of shots

toward me, and I could feel the chipped plaster be-

hind me spinning off against the back of my head.

I aimed again. One shot shattered the glass window

just to the left of him, but the other grazed the side

of his cheek. When he raised up to aim again, I

went for his gun hand and landed on target, nick.

ing the bone of his elbow. He howled with pain as

his hand jerked back and involuntarily sent his gun

crashing through the front window.

As I stood up to move toward him, I heard a

noise to my left and turned just as one of the other

men moved into the living room from the kitchen

and sent a slug toward me. Only by throwing my-

self as quick as I could to my right did I miss that

one. He raised his gun to aim again, which was his

mistake, for without bothering to aim, I fired and

hit him right between the eyes. As he fell, I fired at

his friend coming from the kitchen, but he jerked

back behind the door. It was then that I felt a bone-

crunching blow on my right arm. Now it was

Wilhelmina's turn to go crashing to the floor. As I

whirled around I caught a severe blow on the right

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side of my neck and saw the big man standing

before me, a poker iron in his hands. If I hadn't

turned and glanced off the blow with my neck

muscles, the back of my head would have been

crushed to pulp. I staggered from the blow, but I

managed to duck and miss as the poker came down

again. I rammed my head as hard as I could into

the big man's gut, and we both went crashing onto

the hard floor. He still had the poker, though, and

he brought it down on my back, temporarily knock-

ing all of the air out of me. Then he was on top of

me, with my throat pinioned beneath the poker.

"Get away from him, Carlos, so I can blast

him," said his companion who had now come in

from the kitchen. But Carlos wanted to finish me

off himself and told his friend to find the woman.

He pressed the grooved edges of the poker deeper

into my throat, as I gasped for breath. And he

leered to his companion, "Don't kill her off yet.

She's real pretty and I know how to get informa-

tion from the women." They both let out nasty

laughs as Carlos' friend moved to the hall. My

breath had now returned, and gathering up all my

strength, I jabbed my knees up hard into Carlos's

lower back, stunning him enough so that his grip

loosened on the poker. This was the opening I

needed to push the poker away from my neck.

Carlos lost his balance as I pushed up, and we

rolled across the floor, the poker now wedged be-

tween our chests. The poker's rough ridges were

cutting into my flesh, as they were no doubt cutting

into his also.

It was then that the woman screamed from the

bedroom, and the scream was followed by a volley

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of shots. The woman's heartbreaking cry seemed to

give me added strength, and I managed to slam my

fist hard into Carlos's ribs. He reeled back and the

poker slid out from between us. I darted to grab

the poker just as I saw his hand pick up one of the

guns that had fallen to the floor. "Don't move," he

said and brought the gun to my face. "If you move,

you're dead." And I would have been. I let the

poker slip from my hand and quit struggling. He

grabbed my right arm, the arm where I keep Hugo,

my stilleto, and he brought the gun up to the left

side of my face, only inches from my temple. He

forced me onto my back and straddled me, his

knees pressing into my ribs.

"Now, amigo," he whispered, "tell me what you

want with the lovely lady here."

I had to stall. I had to try to keep alive and hope

that he'd eventually loosen his grip on my right

arm.

"She asked me to help her. She says she's being

followed."

"You are from the police?"

"No, I'm a friend."

"You lie," he said, and his big ugly face creased

itself into a savage frown. He brought the gun

closer to my temple. I knew his finger was on the

trigger, although he hadn't cocked it yet. I had to

make a move before he cocked it or it was all over.

"And you are from El Grupo Febrero?" I asked

him.

"El Grupo Febrero." He yelled it out and then

broke into a maniacal laugh. "EI Grupo Febrero,

St." Then his laugh stopped as abruptly as it had

begun, and his face turned red with anger. "What

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do you know of El Grupo Febrero?" he shouted at

me. I didn't answers "Talk," he said, and pressed

the gun with such force against my left temple that

his whole body seemed to bear down on it. In

bringing such force to the left side of my body, he

slightly decreased the grip on my right arm and

gave me the opening I needed. I jerked my wrist,

Hugo slipped into my hand, and concentrating all

of my strength in my right arm I broke his grip so

quickly he didn't know what was happening. I

went straight to Carlos's heart and plunged Hugo

into its depths. His mouth opened in a silent

scream and blood spurted from his chest into my

face. I felt his body go rigid and knew that he was

dead. If I hadn't paralyzed him on my first strike,

my head would have been a mass of blood and

bones scattered across the floor.

I threw Carlos's body off mine and ran to the

hallway. The man lay there, blood coming from a

wound in his forehead and from one of his eye-

sockets. The eye was rolling down the side of his

cheek. Blood on his shirt indicated he'd been

wounded there too. I walked into the bedroom, not

wanting to look at what he'd done to the woman.

I flicked on the light and saw her sitting on the bed,

tears rolling down her face. She was miraculously

unharmed, although I could see a couple of bullet

holes in the wall above the bed. Apparently, she'd

hit him first, throwing his aim off balance. And

then she'd kept firing. I took the small, silver gun

from her hand and held her shaking body in my

arms. I knew there was nothing I could say now. I

cradled her head against my chest and stroked her

long black hair, as she wept softly.

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"Your name is?" she finally asked through her

tears.

"Nick."

"I am Maria." And then she was silent again.

I looked out of the bedroom window and bolted

from the bed. What I saw was the man with the

scar climbing into the van. He'd obviously re-

covered from the blow I'd given him when he'd

first entered the house, and while I was in here had

decided to get away. I told Maria to stay here while

I went after him and not to call the police unless I

wasn't back in two hours. I didn't want the cops

arriving before I'd had a chance to search the men

myself. I hated to leave Maria alone here, but I had

to go after scarface before he got word to his com-

rades about what had happened. I grabbed

Wilhelmina as I ran through the living room. As I

reached the yard I saw the van screeching down the

street. I aimed for its tires, but just as I fired it

turned the corner and my bullets went whizzing

into thin air.

Neighbors had been attracted by all the gunfire,

and I could see their heads peeping out of win-

dows. Only a few, however, had ventured onto

their lawns. A few doors down a teenage boy stood

beside a motorcycle and looked in my direction.

Every minute counted now, and I knew I could

save a lot of time by taking the cycle instead of

walking back to my car. I ran to the kid and told

him to give me the keys to the cycle. He looked at

the gun in my hand and the blood all over my

clothes and face, and must have thought I'd shoot

him too if he didn't. He handed me the keys with-

out a word. I jumped on the bike, put the keys in

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the ignition, and started the motor.

I called as I took off down the

"I'll return it,"

street. I turned the corner. Scarface must not have

known yet that I was following him, because he

was still in sight on the same road. The van was

several hundred yards ahead of me, heading out of

town.

By the time the van reached open country, on a

winding narrow road, I had closed to a hundred

yards of him, and was still gaining. Unfortunately,

he must have noticed me following him then. He

suddenly picked up speed, and I tried to keep up.

As he increased speed, he began speeding crazily

around every curve. My motorcycle was cornering

fine, thank God for that, so as we went through a

stretch of winding road, I kept gaining on him.

I had to follow him, and take him alive, I hoped.

His three companions were now corpses. Maria

and I had had to kill them, but it had been a bad

break for us as well as for them. Because corpses

don't talk, and what I needed on this case was

someone who would talk, whether he had to be

forced to or not didn't much matter. I very much

wanted to take the man with the scar alive.

I saw now that the van had no license plates, so

there wouldn't be anything to work on from that

angle. If the man got away, I at least wanted to

have some clue. I tried to pull up alongside him. In

my pocket I had a tiny camera loaded with night

film that would take a clear image of him if I could

just get alongside him and aim it at his face. Un-

fortunately each time I approached his left he

veered in that direction, forcing me back behind

him again. He managed this on several curves until

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he met a slow-moving, mule-drawn wagon coming

from the other direction.

He wheeled the van to the right. It skidded and

came back to the left, catching the back of the wag-

on which was loaded with produce. The wagon

tipped, then swayed back and tipped part of its

contents into the road in front of me. I felt my

wheels slide as I careened through a •bunch of

tomatoes, but I held on steadily and managed. to

get through the mess.

I was again right on top of the vane Again I tried

to get alongside it, and again he veered to the left,

heading me off. Then, with an enormous squealing

of brakes and screeching of rubber, he braked as

quickly as he could. His idea was that I'd run

smack into the van and break every bone in my

body. Thank God it took him longer to come to a

complete stop than it did for me to react. In that

fraction of a second I veered completely to the left

and went off the road into a ditch. The bike went

out from under me, and I landed in a field, several

feet beyond the ditch. I felt a sharp pain all through

my body, and lay, momentarily stunned, as I heard

the van switch gears and pull off. I picked myself

up, moving very gingerly. I ached, but I decided

that at least there were no broken bones. I went to

the ditch and dragged the cycle back to the road.

Fortunately the earth had been good to it too. No

major parts were broken, although the mirror was

broken off and the windscreen was bent out of

kilter. I cursed the distance between the van and

me and hoped it wasn't completely out of sight. I

jumped back on the cycle and took off.

Several minutes later I still hadn't picked up the

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van. Then I heard an explosion from around a

curve in front of me. The sky was illuminated in a

flash, and I heard another explosion. Rounding the

curve, I saw the van sitting on a train track. It had

rounded the curve too quickly and run smack into

a train, a train that must have •been carrying

gasoline. Another explosion sent billows of smoke

and fire through the air. The fire rose high up into

the sky. I could see the crumpled body of the van,

now looking very black and very tiny against the

huge orange flames.

"Corpse number four,"

I said to myself, and

turned the motorcycle back toward town.

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Chapter Three

By the time I got back, the neighborhood of Los

Arboles had returned to normal. The neighbors

who'd come out onto their lawns had gone back

inside, and heads were no longer peering out of

windows. The sounds of music and laughter wafted

out of windows into the night air once again. I

pulled up in the yard from which I'd taken the mo-

torcycle. Hearing the sound of the bike's roaring

engine, a head peeped out of a window. Then it

quickly disappeared. I mounted the steps of the

house and knocked. There was no answer. I

guessed that the people who lived inside were still

afraid of the madman with the gun. I knocked a

second time, then a third, and finally the teenager

from whom I'd taken the bike appeared at the win-

dowpane in the door. But instead of opening the

door, he moved his arms in an angry gesture, in-

dicating that he wanted no further part of me. I

could understand how he felt, but I held up my

special Spanish Security badge and motioned him

to come outside. I guess he recognized the badge or

at least knew that it was something official, be-

cause he slowly opened the door and came out

onto the porch. Other faces popped up in the

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doorway now and a woman, who must have been

the kid's mother, shouted for him to get back in-

side, but he was already moving toward his bike.

I followed him and explained that I had been

chasing criminals. This didn't seem to count much

for him, though, as he surveyed the damage to his

bike: the broken-off mirror, the bent windscreen,

the scratched chrome and battered fenders. His

face became a sullen mask of anger and disappoint-

ment. I pulled out enough money from my wallet

to more than cover the costs of repairs. As I

handed it to him, his face was suddenly wreathed in

smiles. I returned his smile, remembering when I

was a kid with a bike. As I walked down the block

to two-thirty-five Arboles, the boy's shouts of

thanks and good luck followed me.

At Maria's the front door was still open and I

walked into the living room, noticing the two

bloody bodies still on the floore I called out for

Maria.

"In here!" she called from the kitchen. I started

toward the kitchen, then I stopped as I heard an-

other voice from there, a low voice whose words I

couldn't make out. I listened intently and made out

still another voice: this one sounded like a

woman's, but harsher, older than Maria's. What

was going on? Had more members of El Grupo

come? Were they holding Maria, even now, a gun

pointed at her head? Was this another trap I was

supposed to walk into?

I pulled Wilhelmina out of my pocket again, re-

loaded her as quietly as I could, and made my way

slowly to the kitchen door. I stopped at the door

and listened. Now there was silence.

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"Maria?" 1 said.

"In here," she said again.

I cocked the gun, kicked the door open with my

foot, and jumped into the room, covering myself.

Blood-curdling screams were let out by two

women, one very old, one middle-aged, who were

sitting with Maria at the kitchen table drinking cof-

fee. I rapidly put down my gun, but not before the

older had upset her coffee and nearly the entire

table. I apologized, and Maria went to comfort the

frightened old woman.

"It's all right," Maria said as she put her arm

around the old woman's shoulder. "This is the man

who helped me. He is from the police department."

The old woman's fright turned into a shy smile of

embarrassment, and the middle-aged woman let

out a short, self-mocking laugh and nodded at me.

Maria explained to me that the women were both

neighbors who had come to stay with her while I

was away, as the women vigorously nodded their

heads.

"You've got to get out of here," i said to Maria.

"When whoever sent those men discovers that they

aren't returning—and they've probably already

discovered it—more men are going to be coming

here."

Both of the women said that Maria could stay

with them. But I vetoed that. Maria needed to get

out of the neighborhood for a while and go into

hiding. Besides I still hadn't had a chance to ques-

tion her. I told her I'd get her a room at my hotel.

The two older women protested this suggestion

ferociously, saying that it was highly improper for

Maria to come to my hotel. They looked at me sus-

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piciously: I'd become a villian once again. But

Maria obviously understood the necessity of get-

ting away.

"It's all right," she said to the women. There was

a gleam of amusement in her eyes when she looked

up at me and said, "I'll go."

She said good-bye to her friends and the women

were crying as they left: they were obviously fond

of her. When they were out the door I guided

Maria past the bodies to her bedroom. She averted

her eyes and I felt her tremble as she stepped over

the man that she'd killed.

While Maria packed I phoned Lorca and ex-

plained the situation. He said he'd send a task force

of special policemen to clean up the mess and

watch the house. I agreed to meet him tomorrow

morning, after I'd tried to get more information

out of Maria.

In the living room I knelt beside the body of the

big bruiser who'd come after me with the poker

iron. His goon face, with the eyes still wide open in

surprise, stared up at me emptily as I went through

his pockets. I found nothing. Then I searched the

man who'd fallen by the door, and again there was

no wallet, no driver's license, not even a slip of pa-

per that could give me some clue to his identity. If

these were members of El Grupo, it was a smart

organization all right, real professionals; they

weren't taking any chances about leaving clues.

The man in the hall, the one Maria had plugged,

also had nothing in his pants pockets. In his shirt

pocket, however, I did find something: a match.

But not an ordinary match. It was longer and thin-

ner than a kitchen match, and except for the white

head, it was a bright and shiny silver. I know about

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metals and by scraping the match's base and rub.

bing the extract between my fingers I confirmed my

suspicions: it wasn't just a paintjob on it's wooden

base, but a coat of silver leaf. Curious.

"What do you have?" Maria asked as she ap-

peared in the doorway, wearing a fresh black

sheath dress and carrying a small suitcase.

"A match." I held it up. "Recognize it?"

"No," she said. "It looks very expensive. Like it

came from a fancy restaurant or something."

"Yes, maybe it did. And maybe it will be a clue."

Then I heard police sirens in the distance, head-

ing our way. I wanted to get Maria away before she

had to answer the police's questions, so I took her

suitcase and motioned her to follow me. I led her

through the kitchen, out the garden, and into the

dark alley behind the house.

' 'Thank you," she said, as we walked through

the alley. She placed her hand gently on my arm.

I said, and put my arm

"You're a brave girl,"

around her shoulder as we walked to my car,

sheltering her from the now chilly mountainous

air.

"Hungry?" I asked as we headed back toward

the central section of Madrid.

Maria laughed for the first time that night and

said, "Yes, I am. It's strange. After something like

that happening the last thing in the world you'd

think you'd want to do is eat. But yes. I'm starv-

ing."

I picked a fine old restaurant I knew off of the

Puerta del Sol. As the maitre'd showed us to our

table near a three-tiered fountain in the center of

the room, heads turned: Maria was that stunning.

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Not a man in the room could help looking up at

her luxurious black hair, her pale ivory skin, her

ripe and voluptuous body.

Over paella and wine I told •Maria about my mis-

Sion in Spain. After what had happened, I didn't

see the point of keeping it a secret at this point. I

did, however, skip over a lot of details, just giving

her the broader outlines of the El Grupo Febrero

affair (leaving out the part about the nuclear se-

crets) and my work with the Spanish Intelligence

Force. I hoped that by letting her know as much as

I felt I could, I would gain Maria's trust and that

she in turn would feel she could trust me and tell

me what she knew.

My openness and the wine did seem to relax her.

I couldn't help noticing that as she became more at

ease and more animated she became even more

beautiful. As she told me about her life she at first

avoided talking about the situation at hand, and I

didn't want to push her into talking about it until

the time seemed right. Maria told me that she had

been working as a typist, but was studying to be a

dress designer at night. She had grown up in a poor

family and her father died when she was very

young. Two years ago her mother had also died,

and she and her older brother Pedro, who worked

as a librarian, had moved into their present house.

Maria's voice caught when she mentioned her

brother and the animation briefly drained from her

face. I suspected that here I might find a clue to her

connection with El Grupo.

"Where was Pedro tonight?" I asked.

Her large black eyes filled with sorrow. "l don't

know," she said, and then she immediately

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changed the subjects She began quizzing me about

the fashion industry in the United States, and she

outlined her own career plans. After she finished

her studies at the Spanish Fashion Institute she

wanted to begin designing clothes herself. At first

she would sell these to the large Spanish depart-

ment stores, then when she had saved enough mon-

ey she would open a shop of her own. Eventually

she hoped to branch out, and if she was lucky she

would even be able to some day sell her clothes in

America. Her face became even more animated as

she told me about the hopes and dreams, and I re-

alized that beneath her soft, classical beauty, Maria

was a very modern and a very determined young

woman. When she used the phrase "when all of

this is over" in relation to her plans, I decided that

now was the time to find out what was going on

with her and El Grupo.

"And when did all your present trouble begin?"

I asked.

She was silent. I was almost sorry I had asked

the question, for it was sad to see the happiness

drain from those dark eyes and to see her red lips

tremble and form themselves into a pout. Her gaze

turned inward, as though her mind were replaying

what must be a nightmare experience.

Then she swallowed, as though downing her

fear, and she said, "I guess it all began when my

brother disappeared, over two months ago."

"How did he disappear?"

"That's just it. I don't know. One night, when I

came back late from school, there was a note from

him saying he would be away a few days. I was

puzzled, but I didn't think too much about it.

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Then, after a week, when he had still not returned,

I began to worry."

"That would have been just before the first at-

tack of El Grupo Febrero?"

"Yes," her eyes flashed, "but I'm sure my

brother had nothing to do with that. I don't like

the implication."

"So why did you call the police today? Isn't

Pedro your connection with El Grupo?" I was hit-

ting her hard, but I had to. She was silent for a long

while. Finally she spoke again.

"Nick, let me explain to you about El Grupo

Febrero. My brother was a member of El Grupo,

many years ago. But it was not then what it is

now."

"It was a secret organization, wasn't it?"

"Yes. My brother told me about El Grupo dur-

ing the time he was going to their meetings. We

were very close. You must remember that ten years

ago another regime was in power. There were

many injustices, which my brother was against, as

am I. The power of the police and army was un-

checked. There was no real democracy. People who

did not believe what the government believed were

imprisoned, some were even tortured. El Grupo

was for a just and democratic society and for that

reason opposed to that government. To have been

anything but secret would have meant harrassment

and imprisonment for its members. But at that

time El Grupo Febrero was not a violent organiza-

tion."

'S Then it became one?"

"l do not know what happened. As I said, my

brother often talked with me about the group's

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educational and social goals. Then the government

to which the group was opposed fell. I assumed

that the group disbanded when democracy came to

Spain. There seemed no need for it after the present

government came to power. I cannot remember my

brother mentioning it again, except .

" Her voice

trailed off. After a brief silence she went on. "I

have talked with my brother twice since he disap-

peared. About a week after he left I received a call.

He seemed very frightened. He told me not to men-

tion his disappearance to anyone. I asked him

where he was. He said he could not tell me. He said

he was being hunted."

"Hunted?"

"Those were his words. Then a week ago he

called again. He asked me if I was being followed.

I said no. Then, because of his previous connection

to El Grupo Febrero and because I had read so

much about them in the papers, I asked him if he

was still connected with them. He hung up, without

answering. Strangely, it was after this call that I

began to feel that I was being watched. Maybe I

just hadn't noticed it before. There was nothing

definite, but I constantly felt people were watching

me."

"Like at the telephone this afternoon."

"Yes."

"You don't know where your brother was when

he made the second call?"

"l think, perhaps, Barcelona. When I picked up

the phone an operator's voice began to say some-

thing like 'Bar', then immediately my brother's

voice came on the line interrupting her. And we

used to live in Barcelona. We moved here after my

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NICK CARTER

mother died two years ago, because Pedro got the

job at the library in Madrid."

"So when Pedro was a member of El Grupo it

was in Barcelona?" Maria nodded her head.

"Did you know any other members of El

"No, as I said, it was secret and I was very young

at the time. I do not want my brother to get hurt,

Nick. That is why I haven't called the police

before. I was afraid the police would track down

my brother, and that they would think him respon-

Sible for what has been going on, because he was

once a member of the group. But I know Pedro. He

could not be taking part in such horrible killings of

innocent people."

I refrained from telling Maria that all kinds of

people could become terrorists, even the most in-

nocent seeming and even the most beloved

brothers. I knew that Maria believed that Pedro

wasn't taking part in the killings, and perhaps he

wasn't, but there was clearly some connection be-

tween his disappearance and the emergence of El

Grupo.

"I will do everything I can to keep your brother

from being hurt, Maria, but only a bad purpose

can be served by your hiding information from me.

Innocent people are dying, the Spanish govern-

ment is being destroyed."

"The only thing I remember about El Grupo,"

Maria said, "is one name. My brother often men-

tioned going to meetings at Dona Pretiosa's. I be-

lieve she had a shop or a bar or something in the

Barrio Chino and that's where they held their

meetings."

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"That's all you know?"

"That's all I know."

This information excited me; it was the first con-

crete lead we had about someone who might be

connected with the group. I told Maria that I

would probably be heading for Barcelona to search

for Dona Pretiosa and for her brother.

"Can I go with you?" Her eyes implored me. "If

you do find my brother, I would like to be with you

when you do—regardless of what he's done. And

perhaps I can help prove his innocence."

Taking Maria with me didn't seem like a bad

idea. She knew Barcelona better than I and might

be able to help me find Dona Pretiosa. And—it

was tough to think of it in these terms, but I'm in

a tough business—if Pedro were a member of El

Grupo and I had Maria with me as I looked for

him, it was possible that he would come forward, if

for no other reason than to get in touch with her. I

told Maria I'd find out what headquarters thought

of her plan, but that I would certainly like having

her along—for a number of reasons.

' 'And I would like to be with you Nick—for a

number of reasons." She smiled at me, and we

looked deeply, longingly into one another's eyes.

I had already called the hotel from the restaurant

to have them make up a room next to mine for

Maria. I wanted to keep her as close as possible to

me until I found out what Lorca would advise me

to do with her. I unlocked her hotel door and set

her suitcase inside, then let her pass into the room.

Her pale face looked up at me and again our eyes

met. I could feel the warmth of her body next to

NICK CARTER

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