# The Parisian Affair333

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"What about Ann-Marie?" I asked. "Don't tell me

you're cornering the market on beautiful fashion

models. "

"No," he said, laughing. "Ann-Marie came with

her young man who works in the Ministry of De-

fense. I know her well through Christine, though.

A charming girl, very considerate and generous. As

much a peacemaker as Christine is a trouble-

maker. "

"No colonial hang-ups?"

"l doubt if she even knows enough to find

Somalia on the map. Ann-Marie is more interested

in a good time than in politics. Sometimes," he

added wistfully, "I wish Christine had the same

good sense."

I was about to ask him another question when I

caught sight of a familiar figure on the other side of

the room. I excused myself and began to work my

way through the crowd. The party was in full swing

now and I lost track of my objective twice before I

finally managed to catch up with her.

"Gail," I said, tapping her on the shoulder.

She whirled around, the welcoming smile on her

face tightening into a hard line as she recognized

me. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Carter, the reporter. What

are you doing now," she asked, "trying to round

out your story by barging in on my social life?"

I shook my head. "I just came over to say hello.

You seemed upset when I left this afternoon, so I

wanted to make sure you were all right."

"How considerate,"

she said with a mocking

smile. "But you really needn't have bothered. I

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have Rodrigo here to take care of all my problems.

I believe you two have already met?"

I'd been aware of someone standing behind me

ever since I approached Gail. I turned around and

saw the stocky mestizo, who'd exchanged his cov-

eralls for a tuxedo and ruffled shirt. His right hand

was thrust deep in his pocket, wrapped around

some object. Possibly a gun.

"How's the trucking business?" I asked him.

He glared at me, then forced himself to smile.

"Ah, the famous American humor. I hope your

friend, the Englishman, enjoyed our meeting this

afternoon. "

"He's dead," I said quietly. "I'm surprised that

you don't remember. Of course, you were in such a

hurry to leave that it probably all seems pretty

vague to you. If you're still wondering what hap-

pened to the guy you left behind," I added, "you

can stop wondering now."

€ 'A momentary advantage, Carter. Why don't

you make the best use of it and leave Paris to-

night."

I was suddenly getting very tired of this amateur

tough act. I reached out and grabbed his arm just

above the elbow, my fingers locking in on the pres-

sure points.

Rodrigo began to squirm, trying to break my

grip with his free hand. I twisted him around and

pushed the other arm behind his back. His face

began to turn red and he sucked in air in noisy

gulps. In a second or two he would begin to scream

from the pain.

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I eased up on the pressure points and yanked his

right hand out of his pocket. A Smith and Wesson

Airweight came tumbling out after it. I caught it

before it could hit the floor and tucked away the

"purse gun" in my dinner-jacket pocket.

"Did you have to do that?" Gail asked angrily.

"You want some advice? Find somebody else to

take care of your problems. "

I turned back to Rodrigo, who was gently

massaging his arm. "A momentary advantage," he

repeated. "Things will be different when next we I

meet."

"Rodrigo," I said, smiling, ' 'you've been watch-

ing too many American gangster movies."

After meeting the Avenue Gabriel gang again,

the air out on the balcony seemed particularly fresh

and clean. I found Lauren talking to a tall, impos-

ing black man. Ann-Marie Michaels was nowhere

in sight.

"There you are," she said, waving me over.

"Nick, this is Ali Agabar, the consul general. He's

just been telling me something about his country. "

"Boring you is more like it," he said with a deep

rumbling laugh. He was about a half-inch taller

than I, with broad shoulders and a pot belly that

strained the buttons on his tuxedo jacket. His

round ebony face was intelligent and friendly; his

clipped British accent the only reminder of his

former rulers.

"But I wasn't bored," Lauren protested.

"Perhaps not," said Agabar. "But I have to

watch myself constantly. I find it easy to get carried

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away extolling Somalia's numerous virtues. Nice

meeting you, Mr. Carter. Now if you'll excuse me,

I must circulate among my other guests. "

"What a charming man," Lauren said as we

watched him walk away.

"I'm glad you've been enjoying yourself. What

happened to Ann-Marie?"

Lauren shrugged. "She probably went to look

for her boyfriend. She was here when I started talk-

ing to Monsieur Agabar, but when I turned around

to say something to her she was gone. Will you an-

swer a question for me, Nick?"

"If I can."

"Did you know Ann-Marie and Christine were

going to be here? And Gail, too; I saw you talking

to her before you came out here."

"l assumed that they would be," I answered

truthfully. Unless I was mistaken, there was an

edge of jealousy in Lauren's voice.

"Then this really isn't our evening," she contin-

ued. "You're here because they're here."

"I could have come by myself," I said, slipping

my arm around her waist. "But I thought you'd

enjoy this."

"l am, Nick. But the point is—"

Whatever it was, she never got to finish it. Sud-

denly the lights went out, in a split second the

crowded room was in total darkness, as if someone

had slammed down the lid on a coffin.

"Stay here," I said, grabbing Lauren's arm.

'I This is the safest place for you until the lights

come back on."

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I took out my Luger and began to move

cautiously forward. People were already beginning

to spill out onto the balcony. The crowd inside was

restless, milling aimlessly about. I heard giggles,

apologies, and curses in a dozen or more tongues.

So far, no one had panicked. I wondered if they

realized this was no ordinary blackout.

I cleared the French doors and started to work

my way toward the center of the room. My

progress was even slower now that I was inside. I

tucked Wilhelmina in my belt so I could have both

hands free; a few seconds later, I used them to

catch a woman who'd tripped and nearly sent us

both sprawling to the floor.

"Your attention please!" The deep booming

voice was Agabar's. As far as I could tell, he was

on the opposite side of the room from me, about

fifteen feet away. The crowd quieted down quickly,

everyone standing still.

"First,"

he continued, "please accept my

apologies for this momentary inconvenience. My

staff assures me that it is merely a burnt-out fuse

and that the lights will be back on in another

minute or so. As soon as they are the party will go

on as before. Please stay and enjoy yourselves.

Thank you."

Several people applauded the brief speech and

there seemed to be a collective sigh, an easing ofl

tension in the room. Many of those present had L

been at the scene of one or more of the diplomatic

murders. Any unexpected occurrence, especially a

blackout, was bound to make them edgy.

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It was beginning to look like I was wrong. I'd

immediately assumed that the power failure was

part of a plan, a deep cover for yet another as-

sassination. But so far there were no signs that any-

thing like that had happened.

Overhead, the chandelier lights flickered once,

twice, and then came back on for good. The crowd

let out a ragged cheer and started moving again,

mostly toward the bar. Everyone began talking,

but then suddenly stopped as a loud, piercing

scream cut through the din like a knife blade.

I turned toward its source. An elderly woman

was sobbing on some man's shoulder, and just

beyond her three men were bending over some-

thing on the floor. I pushed my way through the

crowd and finally saw what it was.

Even in death, Ali Agabar looked imposing. His

face was solemn, almost stern as it stared up at the

ceiling. His two big hands were clutched around

the triangular wooden handle of an icepick. I

couldn't see the blade at all. It was buried to the

hilt in his chest, where it had undoubtedly

punctured his heart on contact.

"Mon Dieu," Lauren whispered, suddenly ap-

pearing at my side.

"l don't think God had anything to do with it,"

I told her. "We'd better get out of here before the

gendarmes arrive. "

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Chapter Twelve

When I collected my key at the concierge's desk I

found he had a message for me, too.

"A gentleman is waiting to see you in the Bar

Anglais, Monsieur Carter."

"A gentleman?" I repeated. "Did he leave his

name? Can you describe him?"

He shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sorry,

Monsieur, but he arrived before I came on duty.

That is all the information I have. If you like, I can

have them page the bar and ask for—

"No," I said, cutting him off. "Thanks, but that

won't be necessary. " Very few people knew I was

staying at the Plaza Athénée and I wasn't expect-

ing any of them. At least I wouldn't have far to go

to find out who it was. The Bar Anglais was one

floor below the main lobby.

"I've got to meet someone," I informed Lauren.

She'd stopped off at the newsstand for a pack of

Disque Bleu and had missed my conversation with

the concierge.

"Am I included in the invitation?"

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' 'No, you're not." I said it in a hard, firm tone

that implied we weren't going to debate the issue.

She looked at me, letting the silence build for a

few seconds. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll go up to

the room and wait for you. Not that I need the

practice. Unless you've already forgotten, I spent

most of the day doing just that."

"This is business, Lauren." I pressed the key in

her hand. I wanted to say more, to try and explain

to her just what was at stake. But I forced myself

not to.

In the espionage business caring too much is just

another bad habit, like excessive smoking or drink-

ing. A little indulgence is good for you, but go

beyond that and you lose the edge that keeps you

on top. I knew I was beyond the "reasonable"

point with Lauren and now was the time to draw

the line. "Don't wait up for me," I said with the

widest smile I could muster.

"I may not be back

until sometime tomorrow. If you should get rest-

less, you can go back to your apartment. I think it's

safe enough now."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said in a near whis-

per. "But before you go, there's something I want

to tell you. When I saw Agabar's body, wasn't

shocked. A little upset maybe, but that was about

it. I'm starting to get used to seeing people die. And

even worse than that, I'm starting to get used to

you."

It was a good exit line and that's what she used

it for. I watched her cross the lobby in long,

graceful strides, her head held high and defiant. I

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wasn't quite sure what to make of her parting re-

marks. They were sufficiently cryptic to let her do

whatever she wanted and still have the satisfaction

of having "told me off."

I hadn't been lying when I'd said it was safe for

her to go back to her apartment. But I hadn't ex-

actly been telling the truth either. There was still a

strong possibility that her life was in danger, espe-

cially now that she'd been seen with me at the re-

ception. But I also knew that I'd be moving too fast

during the next few days to give her the kind of

protection she needed. Any field agent could do the

job better simply because that was all he'd have to

do.

I used one of the lobby pay phones to make the

arrangements and then took the elevator down to

the Bar Anglais.

As the name implies it is an "English bar," a bit

of the other side of the Channel right here in• the

heart of Paris. And they'd done a proper job of it,

with dark wood paneling, comfortable leather

armchairs, and a Scottish tartan rug.

There must have been a shortage of homesick

Anglos because the place was nearly deserted to-

night. I paused in the doorway and let my eyes

wander around the room. Two salesman types in

animated conversation, a tourist party of four, and

a bored but beautiful "lady of the night." Even in

the best hotels they can't keep them out. I've

always had a suspicion that they don't really want

to.

I was beginning to think that my nameless friend

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had given up and gone home, when I noticed a thin

blue spiral of smoke rising above one of the chairs

in the back of the room; No one else appeared to

be anxiously awaiting Monsieur Carter, so I de-

cided that it was worth walking over just to make

sure.

I passed the prostitute on the way. She quickly

worked up a warm smile for me, along with a

meaningful glance from the deepest amber eyes I'd

ever seen. There was nothing cheap about her; in

lact, her simple-looking beige skirt and jacket were

the work of one of the city's top couturiers. I know,

oecause I'd seen the exact same outfit while shop-

Ding with Lauren that afternoon. That, along with

Che diamond earrings she was wearing, would have

out me back almost three months' pay. I shook my

nead—regretfully, I hope, because she really was

Gtunning—-and continued on toward the back of

rhe room.

I smelled him before I saw him. Or rather, I

should say I smelled it. There's only one person in

r.he world I know who smokes those God-awful,

foul-smelling cigars.

My boss, David Hawk.

I circled around the high, winged-back chair

for my first look at him in more than three weeks.

d'd finished a job in Italy before this assignment

and hadn't expected to see Hawk until I was back

the States.

"I hope you're not surprised," his raspy voice

greeted me. "Because surprise is an element I like

reserve almost exclusively for the other side. If

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you follow my meaning, Nick?"

"Yes, sir. I do." Hawk had always said that a

Killmaster should be ready for anything and

always expect the unexpected. The "other side" he

referred to was•a catchall term for whomever we

happened to be fighting at the moment—Russians,

Chinese, Baader-Meinhof, PLO. Sometimes the

names changed so fast I couldn't keep track of

them all.

"Sit down," he said, nodding toward the vacant

chair across from him. "It's good to see you again,

Nick, but I wish it were under different circum-

stances. "

I looked at him without speaking. The last part

of what he'd just said gave me a cold, uncom-

fortable feeling all the way down my spine. The di-

rector of a super-secret intelligence agency like

AXE doesn't fly clear across the Atlantic merely to

see how you're getting along. On those rare occa-

sions when he does leave his desk, it's usually to

pull someone off an assignment.

Why? Because he's not good enough anymore.

Hawk fixed me with his flinty eyes and smiled. "I

can tell by the look on your face what you're think-

ing, Nick. And I'm happy to say you're wrong. My

presence in Paris isn't a reflection on your perfor-

mance so far, but rather on the gravity of the situ-

ation."

"I have a feeling there's something that I don't

know about yet."

"Yes," he said quietly. "And it isn't welcom

news. The customs officials made an interestin

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discovery this morning out at Charles de Gaulle

Airport. A transport plane in from New York was

off-loading a cargo of fifty-five gallon drums. The

drums were marked and invoiced "industrial sol-

vents," but when a fork-lift backed into one by ac-

cident, the lid came off and the contents spilled out

on the tarmac. What it was," he concluded in a

grim voice, "was fifty-five gallons of RXD packed

in gel. And the other twenty-nine drums contained

- exactly the same thing."

RXD. The initials sounded harmless until you

found out what they stood for—cylotrimethylene

trinitramine, one of the most lethal and unstable

plastiques ever made. In fact, it's so dangerous to

t transport that it's been categorized as a Class-A ex-

making it illegal to ship on any kind of

»plane.

It was only pure luck that the accident didn't re-

i sult in a massive explosion. The amount of RXD

•Hawk was talking about could have taken apart

I the entire airport.

"That's only the first part of the story," Hawk

'continued. "After they made the discovery, the

French very wisely allowed the drums to be de-

i livered to their destination. Of course, they weren't

Ithe original drums," he added with a dry chuckle,

' 'but the best substitutes they could come up with

ion short notice. Two Mercedes trucks picked up

I the bogus cargo at one and drove it about one hun-

dred kilometers south of Paris to a town called

Étréchy. Their destination was an auto parts

warehouse just outside the town limits. Naturally,

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the customs and internal security people tailed

them from the airport, and when the delivery men

started unloading, they moved in."

"And found?" I couldn't help asking, even

though I was fairly certain I wasn't going to like

the answer.

"A nearly empty warehouse. I know that doesn't

sound particularly frightening," Hawk said in re-

sponse to my puzzled expression, "but believe me,

Nick, it is. There were just enough items left to

clearly indicate what had been going on. Those

items included a Redeye missile, a case of M-16's,

radio monitors, infrared night vision scopes, en-

coding devices, and thermite pencils. I think you

see what I'm driving at?"

"A clearing house," I said softly. The implica-

tions of what Hawk had been telling me were just

starting to come together in my mind. The total

effect was devastating.

"Exactly so," said Hawk with a grim nod. "The

auto-parts cover was perfect for shipping weapons

all over the country. And from the look of all the

dismantled packing crates and such, enough 'hard-

ware' must have passed through there to outfit a

couple of small armies. What the French found

was probably the last lot waiting to be shipped out

with the RXD. There was no one at the warehouse

and the truck drivers clearly didn't know what was

going on. Their instructions were simple: pick up,

deliver, and unload. They were well-paid for it in

advance."

Hawk paused a moment to relight his mangled-

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looking cigar. "The problem is that we don't know

where any of it went. The French looked over the

trucking company's records, which show that

they've been hauling similar loads of cargo to the

warehouse in Étréchy for more than a year now.

Where it went from there is anyone's guess, al-

though I'm sure it's still in the country. Otherwise,

why all the elaborate smuggling if they intended to

ship it elsewhere?"

That was a good point, but also a disconcerting

one. Arms had been pouring into France for over a

year and still none of them had surfaced yet. Some-

one was stockpiling with something more than just

a little sniping in mind. The capabilities of some of

the items Hawk had listed made my blood run

cold.

The Redeye was a prime example. It's a small

shoulder-launching missile with its own heat-seek-

ing device. Anyone with minimal training and a

Redeye could wipe out a 747 in midair.

"Did the French find anything that links it to the

diplomatic assassinations?"

Through a cloud of swirling cigar smoke, I

watched Hawk shake his head. "Instinct," he said

quietly. "That's really what I'm going on. The as-

sassinations and the arms smuggling are both the

work of professionals, top professionals, I might

add. We'd be foolish to think that there wasn't

some connection between the two operations. Now

that you know the worst of it," he concluded with

a wintry smile, "bring me up to date on your own

activities."

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Over a couple of glasses of vintage Armagnac, I

did just that. Hawk listened patiently, his cool, ap-

praising eyes never leaving me. Maybe it was only

jet-lag, but he looked tired almost to the point of

exhaustion. His stern face was drawn and pale, and

his slender shoulders looked as though they had

the weight of the world on them.

Hell. Neither one of us was getting any younger.

Still, I was glad Hawk had come to Paris, even with

the bad news that had brought him here. If things

started getting hairy, and I was sure they would, he

was the one man in the world I knew I could rely

on.

"Where were the three possibles?" Hawk inter-

rupted me. I'd just finished telling him about

Agabar's murder. Of course, the "three possibles"

were Gail, Christine, and Ann-Marie.

"Nowhere near the body. Not that that makes

any difference," I quickly added. "Agabar was

probably killed right after he made his little speech

about the lights. The assassin used the sound of his

voice to locate him in the dark. It was fairly easy to

predict that he'd make some kind of announce-

ment concerning the blackout. But the lights didn't

come back on until roughly three minutes after he

finished speaking. Plenty of time for the assassin to

put a lot of distance between herself and the body. "

"You still say 'herself,' implying that you contin-

ue to regard these three women as our principal

suspects." He paused and looked down thought-

fully at his smoldering cigar. "I don't want to start

second-guessing you," he said, meeting my eyes

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again, "but if you're wrong, Nick, the conse-

quences could be disastrous."

"The Arab oil summit?"

"Precisely. Whoever this terrorist group is, they

obviously have an intense hatred for former colo-

nies, Third World countries—any emerging nation

ruled by nonwhites. So far they've murdered five

diplomats, not a large number when you think of

it. But then, many of these countries only have a

small percentage of the population with the educa-

tion and abilities for these top government jobs.

They're not just killing people," Hawk said

harshly, "they're trying to wipe out a country's

future. And with all the tension in the Middle

East," he concluded, "l don't see how they could

pass up the oil summit."

"I'm sure it's one of the three, sir," I said as con-

fidently as I possibly could. It didn't bother me

that Hawk questioned my judgment. That was part

of his job as director of AXE—to probe and poke

at our theories, to look at the reasons behind each

decision. Only this time I had next to nothing to

offer him. Possibilities, coincidences, suspicions.

But not one thing strong enough to clearly identify

our assassin and the organization she worked for.

With her handy home arsenal, Gail Huntington

was far and away the front runner. But it still

didn't sit right with me. There was something else

there, something else I couldn't quite put my finger

on.

"It's getting late," Hawk said, rising wearily

from the chair. He flipped open his worn cowhide

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wallet and dropped a couple of bills on the table.

"You'd better wait about ten minutes and then go

upstairs. It's all right if we're seen together, but

there's no point in taking unnecessary risks."

"Where are you staying, sir?"

"Right down the hall from you. So if Lauren is

still there, try not to keep me awake all night."

With a cynical parting smile, he turned and

walked out of the bar.

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Chapter Thirteen

"I know where they are," André Boissier said.

"You 're positive?"

Ile nodded his massive head and grinned. "And

that's not even the best part of it, mon ami. The

information isn't going to cost you a single franc. "

It was ten the next morning and I was back at Le

Rénard Rouge. As just like my previous visit, the

chairs were still stacked up on the tables, the

calvados flowed freely, and Boissier looked like he

had the great-grandmother of all hangovers.

"It usually doesn't work that way," he contin-

ued, "but my informant happens to be someone

who owes me le grand faveur. So I was able to se-

cure this for you without any money changing

hands."

"You're entitled to the ten thousand," I said rea-

sonably. ' 'It isn't coming out of my pocket,

André. "

I usually don't try and give AXE money away.

But in view of the long-standing friendship be-

tween Boissier and Hawk, I felt I had to make

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some effort. All it did was make Boissier angry.

"You don't understand," he roared. ' 'It isn't a

matter of money. I'm happy to do it for my old

comrade in arms, for David. I guess I'm just sen-

timental. Like senility, it comes with old age."

He probably was, but glaring down at me with

those bloodshot eyes he looked about as sentimen-

tal as a Kodiak bear on the rampage.

"l know he'll appreciate it," I assured him. "Not

to mention my own thanks."

That calmed him down enough to r»ur us both

another shot of calvados. He tossed his glass back

in a single gulp and wiped his grizzled red beard

with the back of his hand.

"Do you know Vitry?" he asked, leaning closer.

I was glad we had the bar between us. His breath

smelled like a badly run distillery.

"Yes," I admitted, ' 'but I've only driven through

it a couple of times." It was one of those places you

only visited if you had to. Vitry was a shabby

working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of the

city, a part of what the French called the "red

belt," a ring of proletarian Communist enclaves

surrounding Paris. If you really wanted to spend a

depressing day, Vitry was the perfect place to do it

in.

"This is the address," Boissier continued. "l

don't think you'll have much trouble locating it.

It's right off the main thoroughfare, Rue du Bois. "

He pushed a scrap of paper across the scarred

mahogany bar. Printed on it in clumsy block letters

were the words and numbers 14 Rue de la Croix.

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Street of the cross. For a moment I wondered if

there might be something prophetic in the name. I

folded the piece of paper up and tucked it away in

the breast pocket of my tweed jacket. I'd already

memorized the information, but I was still very

curious about Boissier's anonymous tipster. If the

note was in his handwriting, it was worth hanging

onto for awhile.

' 'Any idea what kind of a building it is?" I asked.

"Or how big a welcoming committee I'm going to

find there?"

"No, mon ami. " He shrugged his broad shoul-

ders and poured out more calvados. "All I know is

that's where the terrorist group is operating from.

The same ones respohsible for the diplomatic as-

sassinations. Now drink up," he said, clapping me

on the back. "l don't want you driving on an emp-

ty stomach."

It wasn't exactly the best advice in the world, but

I drained my glass anyway. The sharp apple bran-

dy had a real kick to it. It warmed my insides, re-

minding me of Lauren and another kind of

warmth. She'd been waiting for me when I'd gone

up to the room last night. I hadn't spoken to Hawk

this morning, so I didn't know whether we'd kept

him awake or not.

If I had, I knew I was going to hear about it.

Just as I reached Vitry, the slate gray sky opened

up and the rain began drumming out a message on

the roof of the Renault. I flicked on my lights and

wipers and slowed down to a crawl as I tried to

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read the street signs. The rain didn't help any. I

hadn't been expecting it and had left my trench

coat back at the hotel. I should have known better.

After all, this was Vitry.

I'd decided the Ferrari was a bit too conspicuous

for this neighborhood, so I'd rented a Renault two-

door and left the 512 Boxer in the safekeeping of

the hotel garage. I'd tried to contact Hawk before

I'd left, but he wasn't in his room and hadn't left

any messages for me with the concierge.

Since it was my decision, I elected to make this a

solo operation for two reasons. One, because

AXE's manpower in the Paris area was already

overextended. Last night, Hawk had assigned tails

to all three of my "lovely" ladies and dispatched

another team to try and trace the weapons flow

from the warehouse in Étréchy.

And second, I worked better alone. I could re-

connoiter the sight and see what there was to see. If

it turned out to be a false alarm, at least no one else

would have wasted any time on it. And if it were

the real thing, I could always call in a backup team.

Vitry's streets were long, straight, and boring.

They were lined with shabby-looking stores, ga-

rages, and whole blocks of off-white apartment

houses that looked like they'd started falling apart

before construction was even finished. Because of

the dark sky and heavy morning rain, the sodium

street lamps were on. Their pale, glowing light

made everything look just that much more grimy

and neglected.

I finally found the Rue de Ia Croix. I parked and

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locked the rental car, then walked another two

blocks with the rain seeping down my upturned

collar. There was no one in the street except for

three skinny boys kicking a soccer ball around a

vacant lot. But I could feel a hundred eyes watch-

ing me from behind the dirt-streaked windows

overlooking the street. This was not a neighbor-

hood that welcomed strangers.

I walked by number 14 deliberately, only allow-

ing myself a quick, casual glance at the building

itself. The sign above the stable-like doors was

lopsided and warped from too many years of ser-

vice. In peeling red and gold paint it spelled out the

legend: CIRQUE DE HIVER, which translated into

"winter circus." The smells had stayed behind, but

I was pretty sure that the circus had packed up the

elephants and left town a long time ago.

I continued around the block and down the

street running parallel to the back of the building.

By now I was soaked to the skin, my tweed jacket

and tan slacks wrinkled and dripping. The only

solace was that it made me blend in a little better

with my surroundings.

About midway down the block, I ducked in an

alleyway. If my calculations were correct, it should

have been leading me right up to the back of

number 14. The alleyway dead-ended into a tall,

wooden fence. I shimmied over the top, ripping my

jacket in the process, and landed in a narrow

courtyard.

J recognized the silhouette of the circus building.

Now that I was where I wanted to be, all I had to

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do was figure out what to do next.

The back of the place looked even more

dilapidated than the front: a single steel door with

a broken cage-light over it and a rusty fire escape

that ran all the way up to a dormer-style fire door

on the roof. The roof itself was a sloping mansard

affair covered with rotting gray shingles. There was

a skylight at the top, but I doubted if I could reach

it without breaking my neck.

I decided my best bet was the fire door. The rust-

pocked iron stairs creaked and groaned under my

weight. They were slippery from the rain and I had

to hold onto the railing with both hands or risk

losing my footing. If someone had started shooting

at me then, there wouldn't have been much I could

do about it.

I finally made it to the top. The fire door looked

like it hadn't been opened in years, but on the other

hand there didn't seem to bc any kind of lock on it.

J twisted the knob and pulled. Nothing.

I braced my feet against the door and gave it a

real tug. The knob came off in my hand and my

momentum carried me back against the railing and

almost over it. But at the last second my hand

locked around a slippery iron rung and I saved my-

self from a forty-foot drop down to the concrete

courtyard.

I'd managed to hang on to the knob, too. Not

knowing what else to do with it, I slipped it inside

my jacket pocket.

It was time to try a different approach on the

door. I used the screwdriver blade on my pocket

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knife, working it gently but firmly back and forth

along the opening between the door and the frame.

When I'd loosened things up a bit, I put more

leverage on it. The fire door popped open with a

I sharp metallic sound that was muffled by the fall-

ing rain.

I eased Wilhelmina free of my shoulder holster

and moved cautiously forward into total darkness.

I reached out with my other hand and touched dirt-

encrusted canvas. A cobweb broke over my face

and all around me I could smell years and years of

accumulated dust. I was walking along a narrow

wooden board, which Wasn't the easiest thing to do

in the dark—-especially when you don't have the

slightest idea where it's taking you.

After about fifteen feet, I saw a dim, murky light

up ahead. As I got closer I also saw what I'd been

walking along: the top tier in a set of bleachers that

slanted steeply down to a small circus ring some

forty feet below. At one time this had probably

been the off-season home of some third- or fourth-

rate traveling circus and carnival show.

There were still a few remnants of the former

tenants—a broken trapeze rig dangling from the

ceiling; a herd of wooden carousel horses stacked

against the wall, their sleek lines obliterated by a

blanket of dust; and, down in the ring, a unicycle

with its huge wheel twisted out of shape.

The clowns and high flyers were long gone, but

the place was far from empty.

I counted seventeen men and women. The shad-

ows could have held twice as many more, but that

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was all I could see from my vantage point. They

were dressed paramilitary style in a mixture of

khaki, olive drab, and jungle camouflage jackets

and trousers. None of them looked alike except in

two respects: they were all white and they were all

carrying Russian-made Kalashnikov Assault

Rifles.

They were sitting around in small groups, some

talking, some reading, while others just held onto

their rifles and tried to look tough. The acoustics

were rotten. I couldn't hear anything more than a

few disjointed words. But from the pitch and tim-

bre of the voices, I was sure they were English-

speaking. The majority of the group had deeply

tanned skin with the kind of ruddiness that usually

means a British Isles or Northern European back-

ground.

Of course, it was all guesswork on my part, but

I thought I knew who they were—Rhodesian or

South African terrorists.

They certainly looked the part. And their white

supremacist politics and strong commitment to the

colonial lifestyle were the perfect opposite to the

views held by the five murdered diplomats.

Naturally, like any theory, it had its holes—the

biggest one being, what were they doing in France?

They'd see a lot more action right on their own

home front. So why were they hanging around an

abandoned circus when they should have been out

patrolling the bush? I'm sure they applauded the

assassinations, but they didn't do much to further

their spécifique cause.

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The other hole was that I didn't see any of my

'ree suspects among the half-dozen women

•esent. Still, she might walk in any second with

er AXE tail right behind her. It was a comforting

tought, but I didn't want to start indulging in day-

eams just yet.

Instead, I put Wilhelmina away and sat down on

e bleachers to watch the show. I'd seen more

nan a hundred groups like this one, small, dedi-

Hted, fanatical. Half of them joined just because

ney had some half-assed romantic image of them-

Elves centered around battle fatigues and a gun.

Don't get me wrong, though, I took them very

eriously. Too many times I'd seen what a well-

rmed group that size can do in the way of death

Ind destruction.

For the moment they seemed to be merely biding

neir time. I decided to do the same. As soon as the

ain let up, I would sneak back out and call in a

jackup team. We'd be able to take most of them

{live, at least I hoped so. After a few hours with the

nterrogation specialists, I was sure that any of the

urvivors would be more than happy to tell us the

dentity of the embassy hit woman.

I was beginning to shiver in my sodden clothes.

felt like having a cigarette, but I couldn't risk at-

racting anyone's attention. If I could wrap this up

his afternoon, I'd probably be able to squeeze a

veek's leave out of Hawk before he sent me chas-

ng to some other hot-spot halfway round the

flobe.

I already knew what I'd do with it—spend it

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right here in Paris with Lauren. Long, ric

gourmet meals and long, rich, gourmet nights

bed.

Someone down below must have been psychi

because two of the women put down the

Kalashnikovs and began to pass out lunch. E

eryone got the same thing: a small bottle of wine,

sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and a candy b

for dessert. I suddenly realized how hungry I h

become.

I was considering going down and asking for ju

one bite when a massive explosion sent me hurtlir

into oblivion.

124


Chapter Fourteen

I It was trying to kill me—the it being a thick, swirl-

iing, greenish-gray fog that had me pinned to the

'wall like a butterfly on a velvet board. I couldn't

jmove my arms or legs and the pressure against my

:chest was going to split it wide open in a few more

seconds.

The fog filled my mouth and lungs, leaving me

? gasping for air. I tried to fight it off, but nothing I

did seemed to help. Someone had severed the line

of communications between my body and my

'brain. I was paralyzed, defenseless, and about to

die.

Hands reached out of the fog to taunt me, long,

slender hands with carmine-tipped nails. They

; stayed just out of reach, with whatever they were

connected to hidden somewhere deep in the smoky

mist.

Just as I was about to go under, the fog began to

recede, slowly at first and then quickly, as if a great

rush of wind had blown it all away. I blinked my

eyes and started fighting my way back into the real

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world. The wall I'd been pinned against was actual€.

ly the floor of the circus building. And the sinister.

choking fog was nothing more than the years oi

accumulated dust the explosion had unsettled.

I remembered about the explosion now. I wat

obviously doing fine. But for a while—I still didn'l

know how long—I'd been out of it, lost in som€

other place halfway between dream and reality.

The nightmare quality of it left me with a cold

uneasy feeling. My helplessness and the beckoning

hands seemed like messages from my sub

conscious. They had been very feminine hands.

One or all of my suspects? Whatever I'd bee

trying to tell myself, I hadn't gotten the messagc

across very well.

I'd already wasted enough time on my mind; i

was time to check out the Carter body. I felt stiff al

over. I tried to push myself up from the floor an

a wave of pain brought me right back down again

I sucked in air and gave it another shot. Thi

time it wasn't nearly as bad and I managed to mak

it up to a sitting position. My arms and legs fel

numb, but with slow, gradual movement the

began to limber up.

Even though I'd survived, I probably didn't loo

it. I needed a mirror to assess the damage to m

face, but the rest of me was singed, dirty, an

ragged beyond recognition. There were cuts an

abrasions on my chest and arms and a nasty gas

below my right knee. I also had the familiar taste o

blood in my mouth. Apart from that I was th

same old indestructable Nick.

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The others hadn't been as lucky. Rising

awkwardly to my feet, I looked around at the

carnage: bodies burned and mangled so badly that

they no longer looked human, severed limbs and

that sweet-sick odor that would hang in the air

even after they'd been carted away in plastic body

bags. It was the kind of death that made you glad

there were no survivors.

I'd been too far away to get the full impact of the

explosion. From the force and the blasting pattern,

it looked as if plastique had been used. Possibly an

earlier shipment of RXD from the warehouse in

Étréchy?

Working with something that unstable, they

could have easily caused the explosion themselves.

If not, then who did? Ever since I'd started this as-

signment, I seemed to be winding up with two new

questions for each answer I found. Miraculously,

it my AXE issue watch had also survived the blast. It

was only eleven-twenty. Less than an hour and a

half since I'd left Boissier's cafe. It really seemed

I like a hell of a way to start the morning.

I walked up a splintered staircase and out the

E back door. In the distance I could hear the urgent

wail of sirens. They were becoming so familiar

r now, I almost couldn't imagine Paris without

t them.

Naturally, since this was Vitry it was raining

harder than ever.

127


Chapter Fifteen

"It looks like a map of the Russian front," the doc-

tor observed with a wry smile.

He was talking about my body, which he'd just

finished ministering to. In the process he'd patched

me up in about seventeen different places, topping

each one off with a thick layer of gauze and band

ages. He'd also determined that there were no

bones broken and that I'd be fine after a few days

of total rest.

"Rest," he repeated, C 'that's the best thing I can

prescribe for you. Your wounds aren't severe, but

your body has had a tremendous shock. I can't

take responsibility for what might happen if you

don't follow my advice."

"1'11 bear that in mind," I told him.

I guess I didn't sound very convincing, because

he scowled at me and snapped his black bag shut as

if he were anxious to collect his fee and return to

the company of more sensible people who actually

took his advice.

He was a tall, cadaverous-looking old geezer

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with water gray eyes and a white Van Dyke beard.

I never found out his name or where Hawk had

gotten him from. He certainly wasn't the hotel doc-

tor. That would have involved too many unneces-

sary and embarrassing questions.

When he left my bedside, Lauren took his place.

She'd been hovering over me ever since I'd re-

turned to my room by way of the hotel's service

entrance. Since I might want to stay at the Plaza

Athénée again some time, I figured it was the

least I could do.

"Comfortable?" Lauren asked. She put a cool

hand on my cheek and then leaned down to kiss

me. Suddenly, I was feeling a whole lot better.

"I'm fine," I said, pulling her down next to me.

She let out a gasp of protest, but quickly settled

into my arms, her long, supple body molding itself

to mine.

I was just about to start laying the groundwork

for my own best prescription when someone

knocked at the door. Not exactly what you'd call

perfect timing.

"It's probably Hawk," I told her, "and don't

forget to button up that blouse before you answer

it."

"Cochon, " she cursed me, grinning.

As she crossed the room, I picked up my Luger

from the bedside table. I was fairly sure it was

Hawk who'd arranged to pay off the doctor and

who was now probably stopping by to see how I

was doing. But then the way things had been going,

I didn't want to take any chances.

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"I hope I didn't interrupt anything," Hawk's

gruff voice greeted me from the open door. "But

it's imperative that we talk."

"No, come on in," I told him.

Lauren's face had turned a bright red when

Hawk had said "interrupt," but she greeted him

cordially and even went so far as to pull a chair up

to the bed for him. They'd met earlier over my bat-

tered body and I think she wasn't quite sure what

to make of him yet.

"I have some things to attend to," she an-

nounced diplomatically. "I'll come and look in on

you later, Nick." She strode into the adjoining

room and closed the door firmly behind her.

"Intelligent girl," Hawk commented. "Now tell

me, do you feel up to handling the rest of this mis-

"Yes," I answered truthfully. "I may not be able

to move as fast as I usUally do, but other than that

I should be fine."

' 'Good," he said curtly, "because I think we

both know it would be impossible to replace you at

this point in the game. I don't know what I'd have

done if you'd died in that explosion."

If I hadn't known Hawk as long as I did, I might

have thought that last part was a bit cold. But

Hawk isn't cold so much as logical. We had a job

to do and there was a lot more at stake than one

man's life.

"Now tell me what happened," Hawk contin-

ued, "and don't leave out any details."

My report took almost two hours, covering

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•everything from Boissier's phone call right up to

the moment I collapsed on the hotel bed. Probably

out of deference to my health, he only smoked one

of his famous ' 'El Defecto" cigars. When I finished

the recital he looked none too happy.

"What do you think?" he asked abruptly.

I shook my head. "It still doesn't make any sense

to me. I really don't see what any terrorist group

would hope to accomplish by murdering five dif-

ferent diplomats from five different countries. I re-

alize that they're important men, but they're not

heads of state. None of their deaths are going to

throw their countries into a revolutionary turmoil.

There just doesn't seem to be any point to it, sir.

And that," I added, "is what's been bothering me

ever since I started this assignment."

Hawk nodded agreement. "That's true enough,

but many of these radical groups assassinate peo-

ple just for the publicity value, the media exposure

they're so sure of getting in this age of instant com-

munications. "

"Then why hasn•t anyone claimed the credit?" I

countered.

Hawk was saved from answering by the phone.

He picked it up on the first ring, grunted hello, and

listened intently to what my caller had to say.

"You'd better get dressed," he said, hanging up

the receiver. "Gail Huntington is on her way out of

Paris, and according to her tail, she's heavily

armed. "

131


Chapter Sixteen

"Come in, N3, come in."

Through the crackle and static I recognized Jake

Talbert's voice. He was the field agent who'd taken

over the Huntington surveillance job after Steve

Woodriss had died.

I scooped up the receiver with my free hand and

said, "This is N3. Go ahead; I read you."

"Subject is now parked outside a cottage on the

Place Napoleon Bonaparte, two blocks south of

the Hotel de L'Aigle Noir. Instructions?"

"Sit tight,"

I told him. "l know your location

and should be there in about fifteen minutes. Over

and out."

I returned all my attention back to the road. I

was on the main highway heading south toward

Lyon, the Ferrari humming along at a steady

eighty miles per hour. Rolling hills, farmland, and

industrial complexes merged into one long shadow

outlined by the last rays of the setting sun. Traffic

was sparse and because of the Ferrari's speed capa-

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bilities, I was less than a quarter of an hour behind

Jake and the girl.

He'd radioed me once before when Gail's silver

Mercedes sedan turned off at the exit for Fon-

tainebleau. It's one of the prettiest towns in France

with its chåteau, gardens, and fifty thousand acres

of forest that were once the private hunting pre-

serve of the country's monarchs. I knew the hotel

Jake had mentioned. I'd eaten an excellent

saucisson de homard there about three years ago.

The only unanswered question was what was

Gail doing in Fontainebleau that required a .357

and a Dragunov automatic rifle. Jake had seen her

put both weapons in the car before she left Paris.

Not in the trunk, but on the front seat where they

were in easy reach.

Of course, the obvious solution was that Gail

Huntington and our lady assassin were one and the

same. But that still didn't quite hang together right.

The embassy killing had been done by someone

with exceptional tradecraft. If it were indeed Gail,

then why hadn't she bothered to conceal the gun

and rifle? It was an elementary precaution, some-

thing you'd expect even the rawest recruit to do.

I shifted uncomfortably in the low-slung leather

seat, trying to find a position that minimized the

pain. It was a hopeless task and I gave it up when

I saw the Fontainebleau exit just ahead on my

right.

I nosed the 512 down the off ramp and passed

through the quiet town at a respectable thirty-five

mph. The Hotel de L'Aigle Noir was directly

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across from the chåteau. I cut the engine after I

passed it and glided another hundred feet until the

car was in the deep shadow of a plane tree.

Further down the block, I saw Talbert's Renault

and beyond that, pulled up in front of a thatched-

roof cottage, Gail's silver Mercedes.

Night had fallen and a strong breeze rustled the

leaves of the plane tree. Overhead, a full moon was

obscured by clouds. Staying deep in the shadows, I

worked my way over to Talbert's car.

Jake nodded a silent hello as I slipped in beside

him. "We've got company, Nick, further up the

road on the other side."

My eyes turned in the direction he was pointing

and I saw the dim outline of a compact car, a

Datsun or Toyota probably. It was too dark for me

to be sure.

"There're two men in it," Talbert continued. "I

sneaked up for a closer look about ten minutes

ago. They're just sitting there pretending to be in-

visible. Which isn't easy," he added with a soft

chuckle, "because one of them keeps lighting a

cigarette about every five minutes."

As if on cue, I saw a pinpoint of light flare up. A

half-second later the compact was dark again.

"At least we're not dealing with pros," I ob-

served. "Any other activity?"

"Nada. I got a feeling the party isn't complete

yet. Otherwise, what's everyone still sitting around

in cars for?"

I'd come to that same conclusion myself. There

was an air of expectancy about this setup, in fact

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about the whole damn assignment, that was start-

ing to get on my nerves. I wanted to do something

for a-change. In every encounter so far, I'd been

reacting rather than acting. It seemed as though the

enemy was always one step ahead of me. And, like

the taunting hands in my dream, just out of reach.

"I'm going to scout around," I said casually.

Talbert shot me a quizzical glance and then

turned his eyes back to the Mercedes. He was a big,

broad-shouldered guy with the battered face of an

ex-boxer. He looked like the kind of man you'd

expect to find working as a bouncer in a second-

rate Paris nightclub. That's why he made such a

good field operative. Few people ever realized that

there was a hundred-forty IQ behind that rough-

and-tumble exterior.

I got out of the car and stretched. My muscles

were stiff and sore; although the pain had eased up

a bit, I knew I wouldn't be functioning anywhere

near top form tonight.

I scrambled down into a shallow drainage ditch

and began to work my way toward the compact.

I'd only gone a few feet when I heard a car door

slam. Like a reflex action, Wilhelmina filled my

hand.

I turned toward the source of the noise and saw

Gail heading for the cottage. The moon had come

out from behind the clouds, its light accenting her

soft, shining hair and the straight hard line of the

Dragunov nestled in the crook of her arm.

Talbert crawled down the embankment and

landed beside me. "She's going inside," he whis-

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pered. In the darkness I could see the outline of a

Colt Cobra .38. Like myself, Jake had decided it

was time to get his gun out.

I whispered back. "I'm going to

"I saw her,"

move in as close as I can to the cottage. I want you

to do the same for our two friends in the car. Just

keep an eye on them for now. If they start any-

thing," I paused and grinned at him, "use your

own good judgment."

Jake nodded silent understanding. Staying in a

low crouch, I moved along the ditch until I was

opposite the cottage. I crawled back up the em-

bankment and parted the high grass for a better

view. There was a light in the cottage window now,

a warm steady glow behind the net curtains.

I glanced over at the other side of the road. I

thought I saw Jake weaving in and out of the shad-

ow pools, but I really couldn't be sure. For such a

big man, he moved with surprising grace and

speed.

I was about thirty feet from the cottage now,

about as close as I was going to get without the risk

of being spotted. There was no cover any closer in,

just a freshly mown lawn sloping down to the em-

bankment and a graveled driveway that ran from

the street to the cottage.

I settled into the tall grass and weeds and waited

for something to happen. Waiting is an integral

part of my trade, but I can't say I enjoy it. My main

objection is that it gives you too much time to

think, too much time to remember. If you're trying

to figure something out, you start second-guessing

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yourself. And if you start thinking about the past,

there always seems to be more bad to remember

than good.

Thc luminous hands of my watch were posi-

tioned at exactly eight o'clock when I heard the

sound of a car turning into lhe street. Only ten

minutes had passed since Gail had entered the cot-

tage.

The quiet purr of the engine grew louder and I

turned just in time to see a sleek black Daimler

swing into the driveway. Spraying gravel in its

wake, it came to a stop behind the Mercedes. The

running lights went out, but not before I caught a

glimpse of the license tag on the rear bumper. It

wasn't an ordinary plate, but a specially lettered

one issued only to members of the diplomatic com-

munity.

I'd been wrong. It wasn't the first time, not that

that made me feel any better. All too clearly I re-

membered telling Hawk last night that Gail Hunt-

ington just didn't fit in with my profile of the as-

sassain. Now I had the girl, the gun, and what was

probably a diplomat right under my nose. Unless

there was some other explanation, my evaluation

of Gail had been way off the mark.

The driver's side door of the Daimler opened

and a tall figure stepped out onto the gravel. His

back was to me so that all I really saw was a

charcoal gray overcoat with the collar turned up

and a black Homburg hat. His gloved right hand

was wrapped around the handle of an attaché

case. He closed the car door, extinguishing the in-

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terior light, and walked slowly up to the cottage.

"Entrez. " It was Gail's voice that issued the one-

word invitation. The door opened just wide enough

to admit him and the Daimler man slipped inside.

I would have liked to have given them some time

alone, just a minute or two to see what would hap-

pen, but I couldn't risk the possibility of another

dead diplomat.

Even before the door started to close, I was on

my feet and running. Each step Sent a shock wave

through my battered body. It was almost shut

when I hit the sturdy oak planks. The door gave

way under the impact of my shoulder and I hurled

my way into the room in a low crouch.

A gunshot chipped away at the whitewashed

wall just above my head. I brought the Luger

around in an arc and squeezed the trigger.

Gail Huntington screamed as the bullet tore into

her shoulder. The two hands clutching the

Magnum began to convulse and then the long-bar-

reled gun fell to the floor with a clatter.

I swung Wilhelmina toward the other side of the

room where the Daimler man was bringing a

Walther PPK into the action.

"Drop it," I ordered, "I'm here to save your ass,

not waste it."

His hazel eyes mirrored confusion and I hastily

repeated the command in French. He leaned over

and put the automatic down on the flagstone floor.

His other hand kept a tight grip on the brown

leather attaché, holding it close to his side as if he

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were afraid I was going to make a grab for it.

With my Luger still aimed at his chest, I •col-

lected the two handguns and slipped them through

my belt. I had to look for the Dragunov, but I

quickly found the rifle propped up against the

mantle where a broad band of shadow had kept it

hidden but close at hand.

Gail was moaning softly now, her head bowed

low so that her long chestnut hair spilled over her

face like a mask. Her arms were wrapped around

her knees in that same "little-girl-lost" position I'd

left her in the day we made love. Blood flowed free-

ly from the wound in her shoulder. For no reason

that I could think of, I was glad I hadn't killed her.

A burst of machine-gun fire shattered the si-

lence. I gave the Daimler man a meaningful glance.

From the look on his face I knew he'd gotten my

message: Don't try anything if you want to live.

I yanked open the cottage door and dove for

cover. The machine gun stitched a ragged line

across the mantle, shattering the mirror above into

a shower of flying glass. I poked my head around

the door frame and drew another furious blast.

One thing was certain, I wasn't going to get in a

shot from my present position.

Luckily, in my scramble for cover I'd landed on

the window side of the cottage. It wasn't much of a

spot for returning fire either, but it worked in well

with the plan that had been forming in my mind.

I moved toward the window, pausing just long

enough to pull the plug on the lamp that would

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have silhouetted me like a sitting duck. So much

for the easy part. The rest of it depended on timing

and luck.

I smashed a windowpane and squeezed off a sin-

gle round. The answer was immediate, a barrage of

heavy fire that left a huge jagged hole where my

hand had just been. As bullets continued to pock

the opposite wall, I raced back to the door and

took aim.

The first shot hit Rodrigo in the face, shattering

his cheek into a bloody eruption of flesh and bone.

His mouth made an O of surprise as he fell forward,

collapsing on top of the Stoner Light machine gun.

A final spasm rippled his body before it settled into

an awkward sprawl.

I couldn't be sure, but I think he'd seen me out

of the corner of his eye during that frantic split sec-

ond he'd tried to swing the Stoner back to the

door. I'll never know for certain, but I hoped he

had. That's how much I hated the man.

If Rodrigo had been one of the pair in the com-

pact, then I had a feeling that Hector was his miss-

ing partner. Probably the smoker, I thought, re-

membering his heavy cigarette consumption the

night I first saw him at the Agency Castel. But

where was he, and, more importantly, where was

Jake Talbert?

I glanced back at Gail and the Daimler man. She

hadn't moved, but the shallow sound of her breath-

ing told me she was still alive. The Daimler man

was huddled in the corner, his dark gray topcoat

streaked with dust. He'd lost his Homburg during

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the excitement, exposing a dome as pink and

hairless as a baby's bottom. His wary brown eyes

looked up at me and then quickly back to the floor.

Neither one of them was going anywhere. Gail

couldn't run and Daimler looked too frightened to

try it. I decided it was safe enough to leave them on

their own for a minute or so.

I picked up the Russian-made sniper's rifle and

stepped out into the cool night air. Now that the

shooting had stopped the street seemed quiet,

almost too quiet. There were no other dwellings

nearby and the Hotel de L'Aigle Noir was far

enough down the road so that the sound of the

gunfire would have been fairly dimmed by the time

it reached there. No one had called the flics, I rea-

soned. Otherwise they would have been here by

now.

I worked my way toward the road, my eyes con-

stantly scanning the moonlit landscape. I heard a

rustling in a clump of bushes to my right and

swung the Dragunov into firing position.

"Nick, don't shoot!"

Jake Talbert's voice was a welcome sound to my

ears. I dipped the rifle toward the ground as he

came staggering out of the bushes. His suit was

torn in three places, the left sleeve dangling by a

couple of threads. That, combined with his bruised

and battered face, made him look the sole survivor

of a train wreck.

"You okay?" I asked, hurrying up to meet him.

"I'm fine," he said, waving me back. "It just

looks a lot worse than it really is. You should see

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the other guy." With a nod of his head he indicated

the cluster of laurel bushes he had just emerged

from.

At first I didn't see him. Then my eyes zeroed in

on two feet projecting out of the shrubbery. Fol-

lowing the scuffed wingtips, I pushed aside the

bushes and saw Hector stretched out on the

ground, just as dead as his pal Rodrigo. The cause

of death wasn't hard to guess. Jake's powerful

hands had made a strong, lasting impression on the

mestizo's bull neck.

"I was starting to worry about you," I said,

hunkering down next to Jake. He was sitting on the

grass now, using his tie to wipe the worst of the dirt

from his face.

' 'So was I," he admitted, grinning. "l don't think

I've ever taken on a tougher son of a bitch in hand-

to-hand combat. It was real close there for a while,

Nick."

"What exactly happened?"

"Well," Jake said with a sigh, "when the shoot-

ing started inside the cottage the two guys in the

compact headed that way on the run. Both of them

were armed with Stoners and I knew I couldn't

take more than one on at a time without getting my

butt blown off. " He nodded toward the Colt Cobra

lying beside him in the grass. The .38 wasn't exactly

an even match for two lightweight machine guns.

"So I jumped the guy bringing up the rear. They

were far enough apart so that the other one didn't

hear him go down. I got the Stoner away from him

and then we went to it." Talbert paused and shook

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his head in disbelief. "He didn't have much formal

training but he sure put up one hell of a fight. By

the time I finished him off, the shooting was over

and you were out here looking for me. I guess I

didn't do much of a job as a backup," he added

dismally.

"You were great," I assured him. It was only a

small lie and it would go a long way toward restor-

ing his self-confidence. "I've got some unfinished

business inside," I said, standing. "I don't think

the gendarmes are going to be paying us a visit, but

if you could tidy up the landscape a bit, we could

both breathe a little easier. "

"I'll get right on it," Jake said, pulling himself to

his feet. I knew I could count on him to take care

of the bodies and the car, and it would help take his

mind off the way he'd handled the mestizos.

Walking back to the cottage, I couldn't help feel-

ing a certain letdown myself. I hadn't exactly called

all the shots right on this one. And even though I'd

caught my lady assassin, it didn't give me much

satisfaction. No matter how many different ways I

fitted the pieces together, it still didn't make any

sense. But then terrorism itself was senseless. I

guess I'd just have to live with the fact that my in-

stincts had been wrong for once.

I said softly. I had

"The good samaritan,"

crossed the threshold to find the Daimler man lean-

ing over Gail. He jumped at the sound of my voice

and spun around.

"I was only trying to help," he said in heavily

accented English. Maybe he was, but I hadn't seen

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NICK CARTER

eyes that guilty in a long time. "Stand up," I said curtly. To hasten the process I prodded his spine with the barrel of the Dragunov. He yelped and leaped into the center of the room like a child's spring-up toy. But even my little poke hadn't served to loosen his hold on the attachf. He clutched it to his chest as if it were the last life preserver on the Titanic. "Put down the case," I demanded. He shook his head uncertainly. "Diplomatic im-munity," he explained in a choked whisper. "You cannot force me to do anything against my will. I'm completely protected by diplomatic immuni-"Is that so," I said lightly. "Funny thing is, I don't see anyone else around here except you, me, and the girl. Now unless you want me to blow you apart from that case," I growled, "you'd better put it down on that table now." His eyes registered total fear. He started to say something and then changed his mind. With trem-bling hands he put the attaché down on the table. "Open it," I snapped. It took a while because his fingers were shaking too much to unlatch the twin gold clasps on the first couple of tries. Finally, he accomplished the task and raised the lid. Considering the contents, it had been worth the wait. The attaché was packed solid with money. Thick, paper-banded bundles of United States cur-rency. All of the notes on top were crisp new hun-

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dreds. Gauging the size of the case, there could be

almost half a million there if the other bills were of

the same denomination.

"Don't tell me," I said, smiling. "They're giving

a waffle iron away with every new account at the

local bank and you just couldn't pass up a bargain.

Right?"

He looked more confused now than anything.

"Waffle iron," he repeated slowly. His Middle-Eu-

ropean accent was heavier than before.

"Never mind," I snarled with irritation. "Just

tell me what you're doing with all that cash."

"A business transaction," he replied in a falter-

ing voice. ' 'Nothing that concerns you, monsieur.

Merely a simple business deal I have undertaken

on behalf of my government."

"And what kind of business does your govern-

ment have with her?" With a curt nod I indicated

the wounded girl propped up against the wall. This

whole incident wasn't turning out anything like I

thought it would. For openers, it was beginning to

look less and lesser still like a setup for an as-

sassination.

"I'd rather not go into that," he answered with a

thin smile. "Obviously, it can't be concluded to-

night, so if you don't mind I'll be on my way now."

Confidence had returned to his voice and his hands

barely trembled as he snapped the attaché shut

and picked it up from the table. But if he thought

1 was going to let him just walk away without an

explanation, then he was clearly overdue for a trip

to Fantasy Island.

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THE PARISIAN AFFAIR

dreds. Gauging the size of the case, there could be almost half a million there if the other bills were of the same denomination. "Don't tell me," I said, smiling. "They're giving a waffle iron away with every new account at the local bank and you just couldn't pass up a bargain. Right?" He looked more confused now than anything. "Waffle iron," he repeated slowly. His Middle-Eu-ropean accent was heavier than before. "Never mind," I snarled with irritation. "Just tell me what you're doing with all that cash." "A business transaction," he replied in a falter-ing voice. "Nothing that concerns you, monsieur. Merely a simple business deal I have undertaken on behalf of my government." "And what kind of business does your govern-ment have with her?" With a curt nod I indicated the wounded girl propped up against the wall. This whole incident wasn't turning out anything like I thought it would. For openers, it was beginning to look less and lesser still like a setup for an as-sassination. "I'd rather not go into that," he answered with a thin smile. "Obviously, it can't be concluded to-night, so if you don't mind I'll be on my way now." Confidence had returned to his voice and his hands barely trembled as he snapped the attacIM shut and picked it up from the table. But if he thought I was going to let him just walk away without an explanation, then he was clearly overdue for a trip to Fantasy Island.

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"You're blocking the door, monsieur." For a diplomat this guy really had an eye for detail. I leaned the rifle against the wall and grabbed a double-handful of the Daimler man's coat. Suddenly I was feeling very undiplomatic. "Talk to me," I growled, slamming him against the wall. "And if you say 'diplomatic immunity' or 'business transaction' just once, I'm going to knock your teeth down your throat." His head bobbed up and down in frantic agree-ment. It was nice to know we'd finally found a way to communicate. His shoulders began to sag and I gave him a gentle shove, just enough to keep him standing. We both looked down in response to the thump-ing noise. The blue plastic bag had landed at my feet. I looked up and saw the corner of its mate protrud-ing from Daimler's overcoat pocket. It seemed I had shaken something more than words out of him. With one hand I kept him pinned to the wall while I used the other to extract the second bag. It wasn't light; close to a pound, I guessed, hefting it in my outstretched palm. I scooped the other one up from the floor and carried them to the table. The Daimler man didn't look as though he had the energy left to make a run for it, but I unholstered my Luger as an additional discouragement. He shuddered when I tore back the heavily taped seal. A fine, white powder spilled out onto the

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table. I was pretty certain what it was, but I wanted to be sure. I moistened the tip of my finger and picked up a minute quantity. The taste was unmistakable. Heroin, smack, horse, or snow. Whatever you called it the end re-sult was the same dark, twisted agony of addiction. I'd seen too many wasted and strung-out kids to feel anything but anger. There was frustration, too, because no matter how hard the drug enforcement people cracked down, it just seemed to keep hitting the streets in even greater amounts. Well, this was one shipment that wasn't going to make it to the market place. The cottage was modern enough to have indoor plumbing. With Wilhelmina in one hand and the smack tucked under my arm, I herded Daimler into the tiny bathroom. "Lift up the seat," I snarled. "No," he screamed, "you can't . . ." I cut off his babbling by raking his spine with Wilhelmina's barrel. "Now do it," I commanded him. With trembling hands he lifted the toilet seat. "We can make a deal," he said urgently, "if only monsieur would listen to reason." His whining was starting to get on my nerves. I held the open bag over the bowl and watched it empty into the rust-colored water. I tore open the second bag and repeated the process. I glanced at Daimler and saw tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. A real sentimental bastard was my diplomatic friend.

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"Bon voyage," I said softly. I yanked the chain on the overhead tank and smiled as nearly half a million in heroin was sucked into the French sewer system. "Let's go," I prodded Daimler. "There's one more thing we've got to take care of." I think he sensed what I was going to do next. In spite of the Luger, he began to claw at my sleeve. I whirled around and clipped him on the jaw. The • blow sent him staggering into the middle of the room where his legs folded under him. He hit the floor with a thud, a thin trickle of blood snaking down from his gaping mouth. "I know it isn't the right season for it," I said cheerfully, "but a good fire always makes things so much cozier." I picked up the attaché case and carried it over to the empty grate. I thumbed back the clasps and the thick bundles of bills came tumbling out. Look-ing back at Daimler I saw that his face was a frozen mask of horror. "It's not mine," he screamed with sudden anima-tion. "They'll kill me if I lose that money." 1 smiled and scraped a match across the brickwork. "Too bad," I said softly. "You should have thought about that before you got yourself involved in this little stint. I know you didn't waste any time thinking about all the lives it would ruin." I dropped the match into the grate. "You'd better get going," I said, tossing him the empty briefcase. "Because you have to run now and you're never going to be able to stop. We both

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