# Deathstrike33333

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the people we know he has used in the past—is sketchy.

However, one thread runs through the whole: none of

them originally came from poverty. As self-appointed

terrorists and executioners, none of them was forced into

his role by poverty or need. In fact they all came from

wealthy families. As nearly as I can tell, their fanaticism

has no roots in any specific cause."

"Then, what can you come up with, Doctor?" Carter

asked, blinking the sand of weariness from his eyes.

"I'd say they were all political poseurs, whose enemy

was life. In short, they are murderers by choice,

psychopaths who camouflage their motives behind a

smoke screen of utopian theory."

"Common criminals," Carter growled.

"Exactly. The power is the key ... the power to inflict

pain and to terrify."

"And that includes Abu El Adwan?"

"Most definitely. He has what I would call sthe Hitler

complex,' yet he knows he can never rule as Hitler did,

so he settles for fame—or infamy, in this case."

"But for these bigger and grander acts of terrorism,"

Carter offered, "he must have more and more funds to

maintain himself and his deeds."

The psychiatrist nodded.

Carter continued. "All right. Up to now, we have con-

centrated on El Adwan himself. What if we concentrate

on his sources, his contacts, strangle his source of

The doctor shrugged. "What did Hitler do in the

bunker?"

Jonathan Hart-Davis groaned. "Would that we were

so lucky. Thank you very much, Dr. Boscom."

The eminent psychiatrist and lecturer stood. "Gentle-

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men, if I can be of any further service . . e"

Carter watched the tall, graying scholar walk from the

room, and shook his head. "l don't think we know any

more than we knew before."

"Maybe we do," David Hawk said, chomping on the

wet butt of a cigar and shuffling a ream of papers in front

of him. "We can assume that Oliver Estes had something

to do with putting Ravelle Dressler and El Adwan —under

the alias of Rahib Salubar—together."

Hart-Davis chimed in. "And within a week after El

Adwan completed his dual murders in London, St. James

Lines were granted huge petroleum shipping contracts

from various small Persian Gulf governments."

"That would suggest collusion, a trade-off," Hawk con-

tinued. "Hard to prove, but there nevertheless."

Carter rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and gulped more

coffee. They had been at it for three days in the MI-6

war room, and as far as he could see, they were just

going around in circles.

"Okay," he said at last, "if Ravelle was correct and it

was Oliver Estes that I killed, that means that Estes and

El Adwan were cooking up a deal."

"And that means," Hawk said, "that Hannibal St. James

is really cooking up the deal. Estes doesn't go to the

toilet without getting permission from St. James first.

What about Estes's own dossier?'

Owen Hamilton of M15 had been sitting back, puffing

his pipe and listening. Now he leaned forward with a

heavy frown on his face. "We've checked him thoroughly

. office, friends, servants, his club, even the pub he

occasionally frequents. He has no family."

"And .

"Gone, hasn't been seen. The story is the same from

everyone, even his doctor. Stress, too much work. He's

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on an extended holiday for rest and can't be reached."

"As far as I'm concerned," Hawk growled, "that does

it. We know El Adwan is planning something big. He's

put the word out for people. And I think it's a sure thing

that whatever he's got planned is being financed by Han-

nibal St. James."

"So all we have to do," Hart-Davis said, "is find out

what it is, stop it. and prove St. James had a hand in it!"

The eyes of everyone in the room turned to Nick Carter.

The Killmaster was about to reply, when an aide stepped

quietly into the room.

"Mr. Caner, I know you're not to be disturbed, but—

"Yes, what is it?"

"The Dressler woman, sir, she's on the phone. She's

demanding to speak to you and she won't take no for an

answer. She's a bit hysterical, sir. She says that El Adwan

is in London."

Carter was out of his chair in an instant. "Excuse me,

gentlemen."

He followed the aide down a brightly lit hallway and

into the small cubicle he had been using as an office for

the past three days.

"Line three, sir."

"Is it on record?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Every incoming call is recorded."

Carter nodded and grabbed the phone. "Ravelle ... ?"

"Nick, he called not more than five minutes ago .. ."

er voice was breathless, not hysterical but on the verge.

"Ravelle, please . . ."

"He's in London! He said he's going to get me, kill

e! He said even if it takes time . . .

no matter how

uch time, he'll wait, and when tine time comes, he'll

"Ravelle," Caner barked, "dammit, calm down!" He

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paused, listened to the raspy breathing subside on the

other end of the line, and continued. "That's better. Now,

tell me exactly what he said."

She did, slowly and deliberately, and the Killmaster,

even though all of it was going on tape, made notes to

himself.

"All right, hold on for a second." He put his hand over

the mouthpiece and spoke to the young M16 officer. "Get

me a car ready right away."

"Yes, sir."

"Ravelle, are you in your flat?"

"Yes."

"And the doors are locked?"

"Yes."

"All right, you're safe. It's broad daylight outside and

the sun is shining."

"Nick .

"Listen. I'll be there in twenty minutes to a half hour.

Does that make you feel better?"

"Yes."

"You're sure it was El Adwan?"

"Positive."

"Hang in there—I'm on my way."

Carter hung up and headed for the elevators. A big

four-door Rover was awaiting him in the basement gar-

age. He quickly signed for it and pulled out onto

Whitehall. The traffic was heavy up to Trafalgar Square

where he cut left to Pall Mall. Just gs he turned right on

Marlborough Road, a taxi darted out of a narrow lane on

his left.

Caner tried to evade, but a bus coming head-on in the

Other lane made it impossible to avoid a fender-bender.

Instantly, a dark little man—Indian or Pakistani, Carter

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guessed—was out of the taxi and shaking h

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guessed—was out of the taxi and shaking his fist at the

Killmaster. He was railing in garbled English and a lan-

guage Carter couldn't immediately decipher.

"It was your own bloody fault," Caner hissed, climbing

out of the Rover and moving to the front to check the

damage.

"Ah, American, that's it. You were on the wrong side

of the road! Americans no drive in England."

Carter ignored him. The left front fender of the Rover

was curled into the tire. If he went on, the tire would tk

flat within a block.

In the meantime, a gawking crowd had gathered and

the man—Carter had identified the altemate language

now as Urdu—was rising to new heights of hyperbole.

For the next ten minutes Carter tried to calm him down,

to no avail. Finally a bobby arrived and Carter was able

to show his credentials. Even then it was another twenty

minutes before he was able to get a cab and continue on

his way.


TEN

Ravelle hung up the phone and leaned against the wall.

The room was beginning to spin.

Got to get dressed, she thought, got to get out ofhere ...

get dressed, when Nick comes I'll have him take me . . .

someplace.

She staggered into the bedroom, discarding the robe

as she moved. Somehow, with trembling fingers, she

managed the underwear and then a pair of slacks. A

sweater was halfway over her head when she heard the

noise. Quickly, she pulled the sweater all the way down.

There were two of them just emereng from the closet.

The first one was huge. the most enormous man she had

ever seen. The second one was small. wiry, with dark

skin and a heavy mustache.

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But it was the big one who scared her. His eyes were

crazy and drool spilled from his lips as he leered at her.

And then it struck her. They were coming from the

closet, from the passageway to the apartment below that

Rahib Salubar had used to kill the man.

But how? It had been boarded up, closed off. .

Suddenly desperate, Ravelle lunged for the door. The

big man flung himself at her in a football tackle. He

caught her just over the knees and they went down strug-

gling.

His breath was foul with alcohol and for a few seconds

he seemed unsteady. Ravelle was a big, strong woman,

and for a time the match seemed comparatively even.

Then she managed to sink her teeth deeply into his hand

and she was free.

She rolled away from him and ran into the living room.

But the little man cut off her path to the front door. She

whirled to the bar and snatched a bottle of gin by the neck.

With the big man coming toward her, she crashed the

bottom of the bottle against the edge of the bar. Now she

had a lethal weapon.

Slowly they circled one another, with not a word pass-

ing between them. Each time he tried to get closer,

Ravelle lashed out with the jagged edge of the bottle.

Finally she reached too far and he came up under her arm.

The bottle flew from her hand to crash against the

wall, and a sledgehammer fist buried itself in her belly.

She fell to the floor gasping for air, with the big man

on top of her. He was ripping at her sweater, but the

little man was pulling him away.

"No, dammit, Horst, not now! Let's get her I

unlocked the front door."

She had regained her breathing. They forced her,

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stnlggling, across the room. One of them gripped her

with both hands. The other held her ankles. Ravelle

opened her mouth to let out a long, low scream, but the

giant backhanded her before she could make a sound.

She felt a spurt of blood from her lips.

Then she was being lowered roughly into darkness.

She slipped from their grasp. Her head hit something

hard and the darkness was inside her head.

Carter emerged from the elevator at a brisk walk. Even

at that distance he could see that Ravelle's door was ajar.

He pulled Wilhelmina from the rig under his left armpit

and hit the door full bore.

One quick look told him that he was too late. A minute

later he had checked all the rooms and grabbed the phone.

In no time he was asking for Claude Dakin in the M16

war room. This would be a job for Special Branch.

"Claude, Nick . . . they've got her."

El Adwan?"

"Who . .

"Looks like it. Get a team over here right away. I'm

checking below. They can't have gotten far."

"Will do."

"And. Claude, get in touch with traffic control in the

Pall Mall area. I had an accident with a staff car. Hit a

taxi, number A47-91184. Have them hold the driver."

Carter hit the hallway and raced toward the service

elevator. A woman in a maid's uniform came out of the

service stair doors just as he passed.

"Excuse me, is this your floor?"

"This and the one above, sir. Some of the tenants have

their own private maids."

"What floor were you working this afternoon?"

"This afternoon? Here, sir. '

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s 'Did you see anything or hear anything unusual? A

scream. rrrhaps?"

"No, sir, nothing."

The elevator came and Carter dived into it. On the

ground floor, he checked the rear doors and the alley,

then the basement garage. When he found nothing, he

moved back inside and hit the doorman.

"Did you see Mrs. Dressler leave this afternoon?"

"No, sir. Fact is, haven't seen the lady for three days.

Has her groceries sent in, she doee."

"Any deliveries today?"

"None, sir."

"What about deliveries to the other flats?"

"A few. some are still there." He motioned to a table

laden with packages. "We don't let delivery men go up

to the flats, sir. We take delivery ourselves and then take

them up to the tenants. "

So much for that, Carter thought, and nervously lit a

cigarette. "How about workmen? Are there any workmen

in the building today?"

'Yes, sir. Pair of chaps working on the air-conditioning

units in the basement."

way? • •

The man pointed and Carter ran.

It was futile. The two workmen were filthy from clean-

ing vents, and legit.

By the time Caner got back to the lobby, one Special

Branch team had already gone up. He met Claude Dakin

with a second team at the elevators.

"l checked the help. No one has seen them take her

out. But the service area at the rear is wide open."

Dakin tapped two of the team. "Check the streets out-

side . . . news vendors, taxi stands, everything."

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They nodded and left.

"Your cabdriver was a phony," Dakin said as the

elevator rose. "He needed to call his office shortly after

you left."

"And never came back," Carter growled.

"Right. The taxi was stolen from a car park in

Shoreditch. They didn't even know it until we asked."

"Neat," Carter groaned, "very damn neat."

The Special Branch team was going over the flat like

ants. One of the young officers answered Carter's ques-

tions as fast as he could ask them.

"The lady put up quite a struggle, sir. We found some

blood. Won't know for a while yet whose it is."

"Any prints?"

"Lots, but that will also take a little time."

Carter lit a cigarette and cursed to himself, wondering

if any of them would ever see Ravelle Dressler alive again.

The AXE safe house was an apartment in Kensington

near Knightsbridge. It overlooked Hyde Park, and that

was what Caner was looking at as he sipped a scotch

and tried to figure.

The apartment had yielded nothing, nor had the inter-

rogation in the surrounding streets. For the past thirty

hours, Carter and a selected group from Special Branch

and Scotland Yard had combed the dives from Southwark

to Primrose Hill. Carter had tried everything from verbal

intimidation to plain fist work, and it had yielded nothing.

Now. with night descending over H'de Park, he was

guessing that it was useless. El Adwan had won again.

This time Ravelle Dressler had been the victim, and Carter

blamed himself.

He reached across the bottle and small bucket of ice

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or the phone. A number had been set up to

oordinate the search. It answered on the first ring.

Tis is Carter. Anything?"

"Afraid not, sir, nothing new."

"Nothing on how they got her out of the building?"

"No, sir."

Carter groaned. "I'm going to grab a few hours of

hut-eye. Call me if there's anything new ... anything!"

"Yes, sir."

Caner hung up and refilled his glass. It was hot, muggy,

ppressive, and breathless. The park was dark and omin-

us under a sky without stars. Somewhere above, rain

oomed in gloomy clouds.

Where was she? And, wherever she was, was she still

reathing?

Ravelle's face was numb from the beating. Her eyes

ere mere slits, practically swollen shut.

•ney were dragging her over slick grass, past trees

nto a thicker grove of trees. She tried to hold back, to

t her heels, but they kept slipping, and the strength of

e men moved her with comparative ease.

It was starting to rain. Her feet were wet and her hair

as plastered to her head. Water ran down her neck,

aking her tom sweater.

She was still twisting and fighting when they came to

stop. She was twisted roughly so that she faced a spot

here one of them beamed a flash.

"No! Ohs God, no!" she cried.

There was a grave. She was standing on the lip of a

ady-dug grave. Beside it dirt was mounded, ready to

o back into the hole.

Breath gone. unable now to scream, she watched as

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the one called Horst played the light back and forth. At

the bottom of the grave was a box. Inside rested a Thermos

and wrapped sandwiches. A slender lead pipe extended

to the surface.

Ravelle felt her knees buckle beneath her.

They were going to bury her alive.

Carter finished his drink and entered the flat, closing

the balcony doors behind him. Something—a little man

with an idea hammer—was pounding inside his head,

but the message wouldn't come through.

He was hot and sweaty and wanted a shower. He lifted

the phone, upped the bell's volume, and went into the

bathroom. He looked at his face in the mirror, grimaced,

and broke out his razor and lather. Finished shaving, he

looked again in the mirror, and still grimaced.

He finished undressing and slipped under the sharp

needle spray of the shower. It was cold and he left it that

way.

Slowly his head cleared. Logic started to push aside

the weariness in his brain. As the water rinsed the soap

from his body, a new idea hit him.

Suddenly he knew.

He leaped from the tub and grabbed a towel. Briskly

he dried himself as he ran to the phone, fidgeting impa-

tiently until the officer picked up on the other end.

"Yeah, Carter again. Is Dakin still there?"

"I believe he's just leaving .

"Catch him! This is an emergency!"

"Yes, sir!"

It was a full five minutes before Claude Dakin came

on the line. "Yes, Nick, I was in my car. What is it?"

"Zev Rosenbaum's flat in Mayfair, just below

Ravelle's . . ."

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"What about it?"

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"Has it been sealed since Rosenbaum was broiled in

is shower?"

"Of course."

"And that tunnel El Adwan made between the walls

as it boarded back up?"

"Yes," Dakin replied, and then paused. "Nick, could

ey have . . v"

"Meet me there in twenty minutes!"

Caner quickly slammed down the phone and dressed.

ive minutes later he was hailing a cab on Kensington

oad.

Claude Dakin, looking alert and sharp even though

arter knew he had been up for as many hours as he had,

aited with the doorman.

"Keys?" Carter asked.

"And combination," Dakin nodded.

"Let's go."

They had no need for the combination. The sealed

aster lock it fitted had been gutted from behind and

sealed. Tiny scratches around the door lock itself told

arter that it had been picked.

They went in with their guns drawn, but there was no

eed. The apartment was as quiet as a tomb and just as

usty. Carter stopped in the foyer, his nose alert.

"Smell it?"

"Perfume."

"Hers?" Dakin asked.

"Yeah."

Carter snapped on the light. A typewriter sat in the

iddle of the living room floor, a white sheet of paper

leaming in the carriage.

"Now, that takes balls," Dakin growled as they leaned

ver the machine.

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CARTER.

IF YOU'RE READING THIS, YOUR POWERS

OF LOGIC ARE AS GOOD AS I ASSUMED.

THE WOMAN MEANS NOTHING TO ME. SHE

IS ALIVE AND SHE WILL STAY THAT WAY AS

LONG AS YOU COOPERATE.

IT'S YOU THAT 1 WANT.

IF YOU WANT TO GAMBLE FOR HER, PUT

AN AD IN THE EVENING STANDARD:

"ADELE—WILL MEET YOU HALFWAY—CALL

(WHATEVER NUMBER YOU CHOOSE)."

It wasn't signed.

"At least," Carter hissed, "there's a good chance the

bastard is keeping her alive."


ELEVEN

Jonathan Hart-Davis and Ernie Nevers shook hands

with Sir Charles Dunwood and thanked him for the infor-

mation. They were standing on Grosvenor Road outside

the club where they had just lunched.

It was Monday, just after three o'clock.

As soon as Dunwood was in his car, the other two

men began to walk.

"What do you think?" asked Nevers.

Jonathan Hart-Davis, walking slightly bent forward as

if he were heading into a heavy gale, shrugged his shoul-

ders. 'Tlard to say. With El Adwan here in London, I'd

have to doubt if his dealings with Estes had anything to

do with this supertanker Thor I."

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"True," Nevers replied, "but there are coincidences. I

think we should have Caner at least talk to this Reed

woman."

"Ernie, this is Lloyd's problem, whatever it is, and if

we get involved, we're overstepping the bounds of M16

and the Home Office. Also, Hannibal St. James has some

very powerful friends."

"But what if Sir Charles's theories are true? Good God,

sinking a supertanker?"

"What if they are?" Hart-Davis shrugged. "Insurance

fraud, no matter how immense, is not exactly our pro-

vince. What time is it?"

Nevers glanced at his wrist. "After three."

"The Evening Standard will be out."

They stopped at a newspaper stand by St. George's

Hospital and bought a paper. Quickly, Han-Davis turned

to the personals column.

"It's in there. Thank God for that."

"Yes," Nevers replied. "but it is odd."

"That they would choose the Evening Standard. We

could have gotten the ad in any other paper on Saturday

or Sunday. Why did they choose a paper that would not

be out until Monday, three days after the woman was

abducted

Hart-Davis tucked the paper under his arm and sucked

on his unlit pipe. "No more odd than them assuming that

Carter would think of Rosenbaum's Nat. It might have

been days before we realized they kept her there, right

in the bulding, and took her out when we weren't covering

it. "

"All the same," Nevers mused, "if El Adwan wants a

showdown with Carter, it seems to me that he wouldn't

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pive us so

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give us so much time to set up our defenses."

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"Yes, 'it is cxid. But everything the bloody bastard

dreams up is odd!"

The two men parted, each going to respective offices.

El Adwan was still their concern. They could do little

about Ravelle Dressler. Her abduction was now in the

hands of SERcial Branch, Scotland Yard, and Nick Caner.

The same questions asked by Ernie Nevers of the Home

Office were going through Nick Carter's mind as he sat

by a phone in the Whitehall offices of the Special Branch.

If El Adwan had assumed that Carter would think of

the Rosenbaum flat, why arrange to take so long to get

the ball rolling?

It didn't make sense.

He checked the wall clock: almost five. The Standard

ad been on the streets since two. Surely they would

ave seen the ad by now.

He crossed to a hot plate and was about to pour his

entieth cup of coffee of the day, when the phone rang.

e grabbed it and remained silent until he heard the

order and tracing devices click in.

"Yes. 'S

"I will speak, you will listen. You have fifteen minutes

o reach Victoria Station, main-floor bank of phones just

nside the Palace Road entrance. Go now."

"What the hell do you want?" Carter growled, but the

phone was already dead.

Claude Dakin met him at the door. "Car and driver

waiting outside. This is typical. God knows where they'll

n you around to."

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Carter nodded. "Get a voiceprint on that. I'll call in. "

The driver was good. Carter entered Victoria Station

with two minutes to spare, and found the phones. Thank-

fully, none of them was in use.

On the minute, one of them rang.

"Carter here."

"You are very prompt. Are you alone?"

"I have a driver."

"Get rid of him. And make sure that no Yard cars or

anyone else follows you."

"Where to now?" Carter said, gritting his teeth.

The words brought a laugh. see you know the

routine."

"He wants me. Where is he? I'll meet him."

"In time. Drive to the British Airways Western Termi-

nal on Cromwall Road. There are three phones near the

car rental counters. You have eighteen minutes."

Carter dismissed the driver, who merely shrugged and

handed him the keys. Carter knew London, so he was

able to avoid traffic on the main streets. At the terrninal

he parked in an employee zone and dashed in with three

minutes to spare. He used them to call Dakin.

"You're right, they're running me around. But for the

life of me I can't figure out why."

"My guess is they want to get you in the open."

"Could be," Carter replied, "but that's the chance I

have to take. What about the voiceprint?"

"Definitely German. He makes a 4)0d try at American

English, but our man places him in Bavaria, probably

around Munich."

"Good enough. I'll stay in touch."

A second phone nearby rang the moment he hung up.

"You're doing fine so far, Carter. Just keep doing it.

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Ill

Do you know the village of Chagford, on the northern

end of Dartmoor?"

"I know it."

'There is a hotel, the Mill End. Check in there tomor-

row night, not before seven."

"Tomorrow night? For chrissake .

"Bring a half million pounds. I understand the Dressler

woman is worth far more than that."

"I thought it was me El Adwan wanted."

"It is. but we are the help in this operation. We have

to be paid."

"If all this has to wait for tomorrow night, why the

runaround today?"

"Just testing you, Carter, just testing you."

"Is Ravelle alive?"

"Very much alive."

"l want to talk to her," Carter growled.

"You will . . . soon."

The line went dead and Carter slammed the receiver

down so hard that it cracked in half.

The restaurant was dim and smoky and the booze was

expensive. It fit Carter's mood. Across from the Killmas-

ter in a rear booth, Claude Dakin toyed with a pint of lager.

"You're right, Nick, it doesn't make sense. Why to-

morrow night, and why Dartmoor? It doesn't figure."

"Not when the moor is wide open and can be covered

from the air with choppers directed by me with a wire.

No, I think I'll get directions to come right back here,

or go somewhere else where I wait some more."

He paused, lit a cigarette, and sipped his own beer.

Suddenly he looked up.

"Time."

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"What?" Dakin asked.

"They're buying time. It's obvious. But what the hell

"Search me. Does this mean you're not going to Chag-

ford tomorrow night?"

"Oh, I'll go. I've got no choice. What about the

money?"

"No problem," Dakin replied. "It will be ready."

"Anything on the German?"

"Nothing yet. Why don't you go back to the flat, get

some rest?"

"You're right."

Carter pushed himself from the table and bid Claude

Dakin good night. He drove to the AXE safe house and

dialed Jonathan Hart-Davis before turning in.

"Anything from your people on El Adwan?"

"Nothing on him personally, but we know he was

active in the Rome area up until a few days ago."

"What about M15 here? Have they turned up anything?"

"Nothing, Nick, sorry."

Carter brought the M16 man up to date on the Dressler

situation, and hung up.

Jonathan Hart-Davis also hung up, and then thought

of calling Carter right back and telling him about the

lunch with Sir Charles Dunwood of Lloyd's. His hand

was on the phone before he thought better of it.

Carter already had enough on his mind,

On the other side of London, ErnieSNevers was also

thinking about the luncheon with Sir Charles. He had

just finished a detailed memo of the entire conversation,

and now he really didn't know where the copies should go.

Finally he made a list and dropped it on his secretary's

desk to be copied and sent out.

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The last name on the list was Nick Carter._

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In Southwark, Horst Layman was drunk and on the

prowl. Tomorrow night Carter would find the woman,

and both of them would dead. He hoped there would

no publicity about the money. That was his idea, and

Mr. St. James would be very angry if he knew that his

hired killer had deviated from the plan and tried to line

his own pockets.

It was that guilt, borne out of fear of Hannibal St.

James, that had made Horst Layman go on the prowl.

And it was turning out to be a lousy prowl.

He had been going from hotel lounge to hotel lounge

and pub to pub for the last two hours, and found nothing.

The ones who took in his ugly face and immense size

and who were still willing were ugly themselves. The

pretty ones were occupied. With each stop, he was con-

suming more liquor and losing just a little bit more of

his mind.

Finally, in disgust, he hailed a cab and told the driver

to cross back over the Thames.

"Where to?"

"Just drive."

The driver drove, aimlessly north, then west, then north

again.

"Albany, across from Regent's Park."

Only about two miles from his Somerstown flat off

Euston Road. Not far, but far enough.

"Stop here."

The driver stopped and took off again. quickly, as soon

as he was paid. The giant with no neck and the heavy

•accent scared the hell out of him.

Layman tried the streetwalkers in the park. No good,

and as he lumbered along sipping from the pint in his

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pocket, he got more depressed.

Half a million pounds. Even Hannibal St. James

couldn't find him with half a million pounds.

Or could he? The old man wasn't what he used to be,

especially now with Oliver Estes dead. But still . .

He was propositioned time after time, but they weren't

right. Each one that hit on him was wise-eyed, brazen.

and cheap. Most of them probably had tracks on their

arms and knives in their purses, or a pimp with a gun in

the closet at their flat.

Not that Horst Layman couldn't handle either one. He

had, many times, in the past.

The pint was gone. He saw a private club sign and

staggered across the street. The lights were on inside and

the place was empty.

"Sorry, sir, members only , and we're about to close. "

"I just joined," Layman said, sliding a fifty-pound note

across the bar.

The bill disappeared. "What will it be?"

"Whisky, soda. tall

. no ice."

The drink materialized and Layman sipped it as he

glanced toward the booths in the rear. He saw a waiter

in a far corner, the usual somnambulant type who prob-

ably worked a regular shift somewhere else and then a

couple of nights in an after-hours place to pay off a

mortgage and raise four brats.

And then he saw her. She was the only other customer,

alone in the far rear booth.

Her shoulder-length hair was so blond and glossy it

looked as if sunlight was shining on it. Her skin was the

color of a ripe peach, and her eyes were a deep blue. A

heavy fringe of eyelashes cast feathery shadows across

sculpted cheeks.

Horst Layman was interested.

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115

And then, as though she knew she was being observed,

she stood up. Her figure was fantastic in a tight-fitting

jump suit with four slanting pockets. Her shoulder bag

was white leather, matching a wide leather that en-

circled her small waist.

She was not only beautiful, she had class. And Horst

Layman, watching her move, had a gut feeling.

"Know the lady?" he asked the bartender.

The man's gaze was opaque as he gazed through

Layman. The big man laid a twenty on the bar.

"That's for the drink. The change joins the fifty."

'Thank you," said the bartender.

"Never saw her before."

"C'mon."

"Serious. She's been there all night. Says she's waiting

for a friend."

The woman returned from the rest room and slid back

into the booth.

"What is she drinking?"

"Gin, tonic."

"Give me one, and another whiskey."

Layman took the drinks to the rear and slid in opposite

the woman. Up close she was older but still as beautiful.

S' You are a very beautiful woman. I could not resist

buying you a drink. May I sit?"

"You already are." She smiled.

"I saw you go the ladies', and the strangest thought

souk me."

"Oh?" she replied, folding long fingers over her glass.

"Yes. I thought that a woman with your class and

beauty must have a rich husband, a rich lover. or a lu-

crative business for herself. "

The smile faded, the eyebrow went down, and the

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orehead furrowed. "Are you a policeman?"

"Me? I am German. How could I be an English police-

"A point."

"Shall we talk essentials?"

"By essentials . . . ?" she said, leaning forward.

They were interrupted by the sleepy-eyed waiter.

'Something?"

"Go away," Layman growled. The waiter moved, fast,

and the big man turned his attention back to her, grinning.

"My name is Gerhard."

"My name is Hilda."

"Hilda?"

Now the smile came back. wide. "You are German,

tonight I am Hilda."

It was what Layman had been waiting to hear. "Why

have you sat here all night, wasting your time?"

She shrugged. "A short story. I thought it was going

to have an unhappy ending, but maybe it won't. My

friend asked me to meet him here, but no-show." She

looked at her watch. "And if he hasn't shown by now .. ."

"Nobody would stand you up."

"He's a married man. Married men can get hung up. "

"So why didn't he call?"

"Maybe he can't get detached from the wife."

Layman drank. "You suggested the story could have

a happy ending . "

Blue eyes slitted. "Depends on you, Gerhard."

"I get it." He grinned. "And you got St."

"Not so fast, my friend. I like to know what I'm doing."

"You know what you're doing."

"But it could be," she said, "that you don't. I'm very

expensive. I'm not a street hooker. Not at all. Nothing

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117

like that. I give of my time, but to a very select clientele."

She smiled demurely. "l took a chance on you. Intuition.

No, that's not quite true. I noticed you were very liberal

with the bartender. That makes you, kind of, my kind

of

"How much?" he said.

S 'Two hundred pounds. Not one-ninety-nine. Two

hundred." Now her smile was wide. "And I'll even cook

you bacon and eggs in the morning. Now look," she said,

"if it happens you don't have it on you, I don't accept

credit cards. We'll make it some other evening."

"Excuse me."

Layman went to the men's room and folded together

two hundred pounds. He returned to the booth and slid

the money into her palm.

"Excuse me," she said, and went to the ladies' room.

The bitch is counting my money, he thought. Women!

The fucking bitches! He drank down his whiskey.

She came back, the gorgeous hips swaying in the jump

suit, and eased into the booth.

"Shall we go?"

He shook his head. "You go, I follow. I have a wife."

He shrugged. "1'!1 meet you on the corner."

"How do you know I'll be there?"

"Because there is another hundred if you are. I think

you are greedy."

"You're so right," she said, smiling. "See you. "

Layman watched the movement under the jump suit

all the way out the door, and took ten minutes to finish

his drink.

"No luck?" the bartender said as Layman passed.

"None. It's not my night."

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"No cab," Horst Layman said.

They walked. She lived in a small building on Harley

Street south of the park. It was perfect, two flats to a

floor and no doorman.

"I'll just slip into something more comfortable."

"Don't bother," Layman said, lifting a bottle from a

sideboard and drinking from it. He ran his tongue over

his lips, his eyes never leaving her body.

"Hey, look, we've got all night. There's no hurry."

"That's just it. I want to use all night."

A tiny ripple of fear went up her spine. He had been

big and ugly in the restaurant, but there had been nothing

dangerous in him. Now his eyes had changed; they had

an odd, almost demented look.

He moved close to her until she could smell the heavy

reek of whiskey on his breath. He reached out until his

fingertips touched the thin fabric covering her breasts.

Suddenly his powerful fingers curled the jump suit at

her throat and shredded it to her navel.

She wore no bra, and Layman sucked in his breath as

his eyes grew more demented gazing at her full, perfectly

formed breasts.

The areolas stood out in harsh relief against the smooth

contours of her flesh. Using his forefinger, he touched

each nipple in turn. Then he drew an imaginary circle

around each one. It was as if he were decorating them

with a long-forgotten fertility rite. Reaching behind hifn,

he swung a lamp around so that the ligÅt illuminated the

objects of his intense interest.

"Take it off." The nostrils in his flat nose were flaring

and the pupils of his eyes were all but gone.

"Hey, look, I may be a whore, but . s"

With a roar he shoved the jump suit to her ankles and

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119

then lifted her out of it, high into the air, before throwing

her to the floor.

"Look, you son of a bitch .

"You have a whip?"

"A what?" she gasped, feeling real fear now.

"A whip, get it!" he sneered, again at the bar drinking

from the bottle.

"No, no, I don't go in for that . .

"Hah! A two-hundred-pounds-a-night hooker? You

must have some kinky customers. Don't tell me you

don't. Get it!"

"All right. all right, I'll get it." She crawled, naked,

on all fours across the room to a lowtX)Y. She opened

the drawer. reached both arrns in, and was halfway back

out before Layman felt alarm.

He saw the gun, a tiny chrome .22, coming up in both

ands, and lunged just as she fired.

Both slugs hit him in the middle of the stomach. A

ird one got him in the chest as he got his hands on her

throat.

He tumed to the side, trying to butt the gun from her

ands. He succeeded, but not before she fired twice more.

e slug caught him in the hip, the other entered his left

ide.

He howled in pain and butted his head into her face.

t the same time, he yanked forward with his powerful

s.

It worked.

Her neck snapped like a twig.

Gasping, Laymen dropped her body. "Bitch! Bloody

hore bitch!" he cried, and staggered toward a mirror.

Holes, the bitch had put holes all over his body and

e was bleeding like a stuck pig!

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A .22, he thought, a woman's gun!

But the holes were making him weak.

My flat, have to get back to my flai.

But halfway to the door he knew he wouldn 't make it.

Turning in mid-stride, he fell across a sofa and brought

the telephone to the floor with him.


TWELVE

Rosario Duncan batted the covers away and sat up,

thed in sweat, at the first sound of the telephone. With

eep still filling his eyes, he groped with both hands

til he found the hated instrument.

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"Rosario, this is Horst."

S 'Jesus, it's four in the morning! I am not supposed to

eet you until nine."

"Shut up. need you."

"Now?"

"Now, you little Irish-Jamaican shit. Now listen, I am

Four-forty Harley, off Regent Park Circle."

"Christ, that's clear across—

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NICK CARTER

"Shut up!" Layman yelled, and then broke into a fit


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NICK CARTER

"Shut up!" Layman yelled, and then broke into a fit

of coughing.

"Hey, man, you sound bad. What's the matter?"

"Shot, I've been shot. I want you to take me to a doctor

I know in Paddington who won't ask questions. You got

the address, Harley Street?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Flat Five-B, top. Move your ass!"

Rosario Duncan cursed his drunken Irish father—and

his Jamaican mother for giving up her lucrative

whorehouse to marry him—as he shook himself into his

clothes. Because of the poverty they had passed to him,

he had to get up at four in the morning and go to the aid

of a man he hated but depended upon.

Five minutes later he was in a battered Mini on the

Lambeth Road heading across the Thames. He turned

north, got through Whitehall, and the proceeded to get

lost in the better section around Mayfair.

Other than doing an occasional job of villainy for

people like Horst Layman—and a little housebreaking on

his own--Duncan was rarely north Of the Thames.

It took him a full hour to find Harley Street. He passed

number 440 and parked a block away.

At the door of 5B he fretted over knocking. Shot,

Layman had said. Was the shooter still around?

Finally he tried the knob. It turned, and Rosario Duncan

walked into a nightmare.

He had heard rumors about Horst Layman's weird pas-

times. Now he knew they were true.

Layman was just a few feet inside the door. It was

obvious that he had staggered to the door, unlocked it,

staggered back a few steps, and died.

The woman was also dead, her head at a crazy angle

to her body.

DEATHSTRIKE

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123

Rosario Duncan didn't have to a cop or a genius to

rgure out what had happened.

He stood in the center of the room and ground his

uckles into his cheeks. If Duncan had ever been capable

fcrying, it was now. "Shit, shit, shit, what dol do now?"

The dead mountain of flesh on the floor represented

ifty thousand pounds to Duncan. That would his cut

f the payoff for snatching the Dressler woman.

He sank to his knees and beat at his temples, trying

think.

The woman was still in the grave. Should he call the

lice? But what about the money he had worked for?

Fifty thousand pounds.

But if his cut was fifty, Layman's was probably two,

aybe three times that much.

The list. He had seen Layman refer to it for the phone

umbers when they had run the American around to see

hat he looked like.

Gingerly, keeping his hands free from the blood, Dun-

an rolled the big over. He found a wallet. Four

undred pounds. He pocketed that, and another hundred

small bills from a side pocket. He found the three

ges in Layman's inside coat IN)cket.

It wasn't just a list of telephone numtrrs. It was the

hole plan, written out in Layman's precise scrawl.

"Just like the bloody Germans," Duncan growled, "got

have it all down so they can remember it."

Rosario Duncan's dark face began to flush and the bile

gan to boil in his stomach as he read the detailed plan

s set forth by the dead hulk at his feet.

By the time he had finished, he was kicking Horst

yman's inert form.

"You bastard, you bloody bastard! Setting me up for

e fall, were you! I'm dead and you're b10(O well free

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NICK CARTER

with the money, huh? Well, we'll see . . . we'll just see

about that!"

But Rosario Duncan didn't see. He had the master plan

as laid out by Layman, but it required two l*ople.

How, he wondered, could he pull it off by himself?

For the moment it was too much for his small brain.

Not one to miss the obvious, Duncan went through the

apartment. He found seven hundred pounds in cash in

the woman's closet, and pocketed the jewelry that was

worth filching.

It was dawn when he slipped from the apartment and

the building and drove back to his own grubby flat in

Southwark.

An hour later, agonizing over a cup of coffee, he fi-

gured out an alternate to Layman's plan, an alternate that

he could pull off by himself.

There was only one problem. Nothing in Layman's

notes told him how to defuse the bloody bomb.

No matter. Let the sod who dug her up worry about

that, or go up with her.

The alarm went off at six. Carter was up, showered,

shaved, and dressed by six-thirty.

Outside, the rain was really lashing now, so thick that

it was difficult to see the trees in the park. It was all set.

He would drive to Chagford this morning and kill time

moving around the area until it was time to check into

the hotel.

He was pouring a second cup of coifee when the phone

jarred him.

"Nick, Claude Dakin. Get down here right away."

"What's up?"

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125

"Another phone call, evidently with new instmctions.

e just called—says he'll talk only to you. He'll call

ck at eight."

"Was it the German?"

"Afraid not, Nick. A new voice.'.'

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly. There's a car on the way to

ou right now."

"I'm moving."

He shrugged into a raincoat, on a rainhat, and

ent out into a whipping storm of rain.

By now they had the routine down to a science. When

e phone rang, Carter picked it up and everyone went

to action. A few-second delay and Carter answered.

"This is Carter."

"The hotel in Chagford is off. You still head for

artmoor, but you do it now. This rain is heading west."

"Rain?" Carter growled. "What's the rain got to do

"If it rains down there, the bloody woman's going to

rown."

"You son of a—

"Save the names, mate. Here's the gaff. You come

one. You drive a blue and white London Yard car with

e blue lights flashing all the time. From Reading on,

ou drive exactly sixty miles an hour. At Exeter, you

e the A30 west. You got that?"

"l do. What about the money?"

"Comin' to that, mate. You get yerself a Colestar

V 200 hand send/receive unit, and set it on channel four.

ou turn it on at Exeter. Now, the money. You divide

equally into three bank bags. Understand?"

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NICK CARTER

"I don't get it. Why three—

The voice suddenly went hysterical. "You don't have

to get it, damn you! Just listen and do what I say!"

"All right, all right," Carter said. s 'The money goes in

three bags."

"Right. All used fifties and hundreds, and if the num-

bers are consecutive, the show's over. Now listen, you

bloody bastard, if there's a helicopter around, or a car

tailing you, or one lousy transmission from the police

radio in your car, or anything that I think smells like

coppers, I'm gone and she's dead by remote control!"

"Just don't get nervous," Carter urged. "Now, where

does El Adwan come into all this?"

"Adwan? Who the hell is A1 Adwan?"

"El Adwan," Carter said, exchanging a cloudy look

with Claude Dakin.

"I don't know anything about any El Adwan. Don't

confuse me. Just do as you're told, mate!"

The line went dead. By the end of the conversation

the man's voice had risen to an hysterical pitch.

"Little nervous, isn't he?" commented Dakin.

"More than that, he's scared to death," Carter replied.

"Definitely," said the voice man, removing the phones

from his ears. "Lots of stress. I'd say he's a man on the

edge."

"That might eventually work in our favor," Carter said.

"What about the accent?"

"West Indies, but it's hard to pinpoint with the Cockney

mixed in. But the singsong phrasing is there."

The man shrugged. "Fifty-fifty chance. There are

whites in this country who grew up in Jamaica and came

back with the accent."

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127

"Sir . . e" It was the sector man sitting before a huge

map of London. "The call came from section six, Lam-

beth. A pay phone."

"Figures," Carter said. "He'll be long gone by now i"

"We'll have a Bentley, two Rollses, and four lorries

moving around you all the time," Dakin said.

Carter nodded. "Have them stay clear until I hit Exeter.

What the hell is a Colestar AV200?"

A voice from the rear of the room replied. "It's a

powerful little devil. sir. It operates up to thirty miles,

and on a high frequency that's almost impossible to pin-

point if he sends in short spurts."

Claude Dakin moved close to the Killmaster. "Are you

thinking what I'm thinking about his comment?"

"You mean, she's dead by remote control?" Dakin

nodded. "Have a bomb squad in the back of one of the

lorries."

"And El Adwan?" Dakin added.

"I think the whole thing's a blind. Get in touch with

Hart-Davis and have him put pressure on his people in

Rome and the Near East. I don't think El Adwan's in

London at all. But I do think he's behind this. It has his

style."

"If we knew that," Carter said, "we'd already be two

jumps ahead of him. As it is, Ravelle Dressler is the

most important problem at the moment. We owe her."

"If she's still alive," Dakin murmured.

"Yeah. If she's still alive."

Caner's mind was a jumble as he headed for the under-

ground garage.

He was to drive at precisely sixty miles an hour. Their

man had called from south London. That meant he was

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NICK CARTER

buying time to get to the drop—or, in this case, drops—

before Carter.

Three bags. That probably meant that the man would

pick up only one of the bags. settling for a third of the

loot, knowing that all three drops couldn't be covered.

Especially when they were controlled by radio.

And where was the calculating German?

This new one was obviously in over his head, and

from the sudden change in plans, he was obviously impro-

vising.

The Kiilmaster only that would work in their

favor.

And where the hell was Abu El Adwan?


THIRTEEN

He was four miles west of Exeter on the A30 when

e unit on the seat beside him came to life.

'Carter, are you there?"

"I'm here," he replied, gritting his teeth at the cocky,

ingsong voice coming from the small speaker.

"All right, here's the gaff. The woman is in a grave.

fter the last drop, I tell you where. But that's not all.

ere's a pound of plastique under her, and the detonator

controlled by a radio device. You understand?"

"1 do."

"You'd better, mate. After you make the last drop, I

II you where to go. When you get there, I tell you how

defuse the bomb. That is, I tell you if don't have

ny problems. You know what I mean by problems?"

130

"I've got a

129

NICK CARTER

good idea."


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NICK CARTER

"I've got a pretty good idea."

"Good for you, mate. We'll be talking again."

From the roof of a telephone repainnan's van, on a

rise a quarter of a mile south of the A30, Rosario Duncan

set the hand unit down and picked up a pair of powerful

glasses.

He scanned the highway in front of Carter and as far

as he could see behind him. He saw nothing suspicious,

but that didn't mean they weren't there somewhere.

He chuckled nervously.

In Layman's original plan, it would have been Layman

with the radio and the binoculars, while Duncan took the

gamble of making the single pickup from a single drop.

If the drop was safe, Layman would take the money and

Duncan would direct Carter by radio.

Suicide.

When the bomb went, they would have been all over

Duncan like flies on honey.

Well, not now. Now he was directing the whole oper-

ation.

He picked up the unit. "Carter?"

"Yeah."

"You're two miles past B3212."

"I know."

"Turn around and go back. Take B3212 to Morton

Hampstead."

Duncan watched the flashing blue likhts make a U-turn.

When no vehicles made a U-turn behind, he climbed into

the van.

In the back of a truck with COLLIER'S MEAT PIES

emblazoned on its side, two men sat in front of a mass

Of electronic gear.

DEATHSTRIKE

'Got that?"

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'Got that?"

131

"Yeah. Unit Two is at Morton just ahead of us, There's

a country lane there that will take them south directly to

Morton Hampstead."

"Send 'em." A chuckle. "A chauffeured Rolls on that

road will blow the natives' minds."

"Carter?"

"Yes."

"You're coming up on a wide curve."

"I see it."

"Slow down . . . get one of the bags ready."

The Killmaster did as he was told. and rolled down

the car window.

"All right, now—over the side with it!"

The bag sailed out the window and over the side. Carter

saw it tumble down the bank and stop just short of a

stream.

"Good show, mate. A mile on is the B3193. Take it

back to the A-30. And, Carter . .

"Yes."

"If I see so much as one car, she's dead."

And in the meat pie truck:

"Damn, the bastard has boozled us! There's no traffic

for miles on that road. A unit would be spotted for sure!"

"Chopper?"

"Are you nuts? No, that one's lost."

"I can put a man in on foot."

"Try it, but tell him to go slow and stay under cover.

If our boy is telling the truth, one man spotted and the

woman goes

'Carter, where are you?"

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NICK CARTER

"Almost to the Tedburn St. Mary Road."

s 'Take it, north. Just inside the village there's a pub,

The King's Arms."

"The pubs don't open until eleven."

"I know that!" Duncan screamed into the unit. "Drive

around behind the pub. Drop the bag into the trash bine

Then go on north. Take the first lane west and head for

Colebrooke."

"Damn you," Caner hissed, "that's taking me away

from Chagford."

An almost hysterical laugh came through the unit.

"Maybe she's not buried at Chagford!"

Carter found the pub and deposited the second bag.

Duncan was through playing cat and mouse now. No

one had come near the bag on the B3212, at least on the

road. There was a good chance, however, that they had

someone coming at it on the ground.

No matter. They could have that one.

He cut off the A30 south and headed for the waste

processing plant near the eastern edge of Dartmoor.

The chief engineer in the control truck marked Collier' s

Meat Pies carefully tuned the dials in front ofhim. 'Odd. "

Tarter's signal is clear as a bell. Ihe signal from the

target unit is cutting out every now and then."

"Could it be because it's getting weaker?"

"No, I know the AV200. He also isn'( clear. It's like

there was something in the unit interfering with the con-

nections, the wiring."

Tontrol, this is Unit Three."

"Unit Three, that's the Henkel's Auto Parts lorry. Tell

him to go ahead."

DEATHSTRIKE

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"Got you, Unit Three."

133

"A garbage lorry is picking up the bin behind the pub. "

'Get its numtrr and keep them in sight, Unit Three.

Unit Four?"

"Unit Four here."

"You're in the lumber lorry, right?"

"Right."

"Head for the landfill and the waste processing plant

on the eastern side of Dartmoor. It's near Monaton."

"We're on the way."

"Carter, can you hear me?"

"Yes, but faintly."

"That's good enough. Pull over."

Carter wheeled to the side of the narrow lane and

stopped. "All right, what now?"

"Leave the car running. Get out. Leave the third bag

and take your unit. Head south on the Colebrooke Road

until you hit the A30. When you get there. mate, call me."

The Killmaster cursed to himself and left the car. It

would be at least a half-hour walk to the A30, and he

knew the other units were farther away than that.

The target could be twenty miles north in the Scotland

Yard car and switch to another vehicle before they would

spot him.

That is. if it was the third bag he intended taking.

God, Carter thought, what a mess.

The two officers in the Collier's Meat Pie van were

thinking the same thing. They sent the Bentley and the

other Rolls north to try and spot the blue and white police

car if he headed that way.

'*God, the bugger has really spread us out."

' 'That was his intent, I'm sure."

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Duncan pulled the telephone truck in trhind the restau-

rant and climbed out. He was dressed in blue coveralls

with a utility belt around his waist. In seconds he had

strapped on a pair of climbing spurs and scaled a pole

adjacent to the building.

From that vantage point, he could see the road in both

directions for nearly three miles and every square inch

of the parking lot.

Right now there were six of the big garbage trucks

parked in front and to the side of the restaurant. Within

a half hour there would be a dozen more.

'Control, this is Conroy. I'm on foot upstream from

the B3212 drop. The bag is still there."

"Control, this is Unit Three. We're about four miles

behind the garbage lorry, but it's hilly. He keeps dropping

out of sight."

"Keep your position, Unit Three. We have Unit Four

near the plant."

Duncan had to squint, but he could see the plate number

on the side as the garbage truck pulled in: 921. The big

vehicle pulled in at the end of the line. Now there were

ten of them in the line.

The driver and his helper were barely in the restaurant

before Duncan was down from his perch.

Walking with spread legs so he wouldn't gouge himself

with the climbing spurs, he ran around the restaurant and

between the trucks. He lifted the 921 plate from its drop-in

slide and ran down the line. At truck number 826 he

switched plates and ran back to the original 921 vehicle.

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There be dropped the 826 plate, and headed back to his

ple.

He was on top playing with a few wires when a small

Guck approached the restaurant and slowed. On its side

was a scxket wrench logo and the words HENKEL'S Avro

PARTS.

"Control, this is Unit Three."

"Go ahead."

"There's a little roadside restaurant about five miles

from the processing plant. Looks like all the drivers stop

ere on the way in for lunch."

"Unit can you spot your truck?"

"Pulling into the drive now going down the line ...

ot it, number nine-two-one."

"Good enough. You'd better go in .

. have a cup of

ea or something. Stay inconspicuous."

"Righto."

Atop his pole, Duncan was chuckling to himself. He

atched the auto parts truck stop and two men get out.

s much as they tned, their eyes kept going to the 921

ck as they entered the restaurant.

"Got you," he said aloud, and leaned back in his safety

It to wait.

The Bentley, with Claude Dakin and a driver, met

arter about a mile north of the A30.

"What's the latest?" the Killmaster asked.

"Not good," the Special Branch man replied with a

igh, "at least so far. The bugger may be nervous, but

e's cunning."

"How so?"

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NICK CARTER

"He hasn't touched a single bag. We have a man on

foot watching the first one. Nothing. It's still in the creek

bed. "

"Figures," Carter replied. "That area is open for us,

but also for him, too. What about the trash bin behind

'Two units—one on the lory, the other waiting at the

processing plant. He hasn't made a try."

' 'And the Scotland Yard car, with the third bag?"

"Ditto, Nick. The damn thing is sitting there with

the motor running."

"Damn," Carter hissed, slamming the fist of one hand

into the palm of the other, "what the hell is going on?

First we get the German. His bag seemed to be a link to

El Adwan wanting •to get to me. Now we've got a

Jamaican who seems to be only after the money."

The two men fell silent, and in the silence exchanged

a haggard, knowing look. It was Claude Dakin who spoke

first, voicing the thought on both their minds.

"Adwan set it up."

Carter nodded. "And he's off somewhere doing his

thing. The key is the bomb, if there is one."

"My guess," Dakin replied, "is that there definitely is

one—and you're not supposed to know about it."

The driver and helper of the newly christened 921

garbage truck emerged from the restaurant. The big truck

had barely backed around and headed off when the two

men belonging to the auto parts truck walked. briskly

across the parking lot and gave chase.

The whole thing brought a wide smile to Rosario Dun-

can's face. He had outfoxed them!

Down the pole he went. He threw the climbing spurs

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into the rear of the telephone van and closed the doors.

Then he ran around to the garbage truck marked 826 and

climbed up into the rear of the cab. There he pulled a

ski mask down over his face, and from insde his coveralls

drew a big-bore Webley service revolver.

Jt didn't take long. The driver and helper climbed up

into the cab. The engine had just caught when Duncan

pressed the barrel of the Webley against the back of the

driver's head.

"You do everything just as I say, mate, and yer gonna

live to eat yer supper tonight."

"What the hell . . .

"Rafe, he's got a bloody cannon!"

"Then I'll bloody well do what he wants me to."

"Good show, lads. Take the road back, away from the

processing plant."

The driver did as he was told. Two miles back, he was

instructed to turn off, down a small lane. Two miles

farther, he was instructed to turn into an open field. A

stream ran nearby through a thick grove of trees, and a

erd of sheep grazed in the field.

"Very good, mate," Duncan said, handing the driver

thick roll of electrician's tape. "Now, tie up yer helper,

d tie 'im tight."

"Sorry," the man murmured to his companion.

"Just do what he says, Rafe. If the bugger wants to

teal garbage, let him have it."

When the helper was tied up, Duncan performed the

me function on the driver. This done, he laid both men

out on the ground on the far side of the truck, away from

the trees and the stream.

It took him three tries before he found the right se-

quence to the hydraulic gears. When he did, and garbage

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NICK CARTER

began to srrw from the back of the truck he eased it

forward a few feet every few seconds to spread it out.

He spotted the bag at once, caught it up, and headed

for the trees. Deep within their cover, he shed the

coveralls. Beneath them he wore black cycle leathers.

The big BMW that went with the leathers was hidden in

a thick patch of greenery at the base of the trees.

Just before he tied the bag behind the saddle, he opened

it.

Up to this point, Rosario Duncan had been fairly calm.

Now, siphoning through the mound of bills in the bag,

his hands began to shake.

"Gar, there must be over a hundred and fifty thousand

quid! Layman, you thieving son of a bitch, you were

gonna give me a lousy fifty thou. Well, up yours, you

German prick!"

Rosario Duncan was laughing with glee as he kicked

the BMW to life and roared out of the trees.

"This is Control calling Dakin. Are you there?"

Claude Dakin grabbed the hand-held microphone.

"This is Dakin. Go ahead."

"Sir, Unit Three is at the processing plant. "Ihe garbage

lorry has dumped its load on the conveyor belt. Sir. they

want orders. If the bag is on that conveyor, it's on its

way into the incinerator."

"Oh, Christ, what now?" Dakin hissed.

Carter made a lightning decision. "Stop it. Retrieve

the bag. That's obviously not the oqe he's after."

' 'Control, Dakin here."

"Have them stop the belt and retrieve the bag. Keep

up surveillance on bags one and three."

"Yes, sir."

DEATHSTRIKE

The transmission was scarcelv com

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The transmission was scarcely completed when the

AV2(X) unit in Caner's hand came to life.

"Carter? Caner, are you there?"

"Yes, dammit, I'm here. What the hell is going on?

We've done everything you asked .

"Shut up. I'm gonna do you a big favor. I'm tellin'

you where the woman is buried. Listen close, because

I'm only gonna say it once. You ready?"

"I'm ready," Carter said, "but you've got a lot of

background noise. Can you speak louder?"

"In the Teign forest, halfway between the A30 and

A32. Got that?"

"Got it."

"There's an abandoned caretaker's cottage exactly

three point two miles east of the Easton turnoff. It's on

the river. Take three hundred paces south from the front

door of the cottage. You'll see a pipe sticking out of the

ground about a foot."

"What about the bomb?" Carter asked, his palms sweat-

ing.

"You'll get that information if there's no one on me

when you get there."

The unit went dead.

"The bastard is covering his ass, isn't he?" Dakin

rasped.

"He sure as hell is. Tell Control that he's probably on

a motorcycle, but not to go near him if he's sighted.

Now, let's find Ravelle!"

The rain had started, not hard, but hard enough to

make their slickers gleam as they searched.

The thick clouds overhead had turned day into night.

So much so that now they were using lanterns.

Carter, bent over, his eyes slitted against the rain,

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NICK CARTER

shone his light everywhere—on undisturbed, rain-beaten

grass, on trees, on every muddy depression in the soil—

but they had circled the entire area and still found no pipe.

On he moved, sometimes in a crouch, shining his light,

foot by foot, going ahead a few inches at a time, then

sideways, laying out rough squares of area in his mind,

covering every inch of every square.

Around him he could hear other men doing the same

thing, and always, in the back of his mind, were the

kidnapper's words: "If it rains down there, the bloody

woman's going to drown."

He had to watch his feet, where he set them, because

there was loose brush everywhere. He aimed the light

under and around each bush. Nothing.

He went further to the left, covered sodden squares of

growth. The trees thickened, slowed him more than he

wanted to be slowed, but he held himself back, examining

the trees, the bushes, the ground.

Ahead, the beam wavered over a collection of brush.

It had drifted down from the trees so that it made a patch

of brush much thicker than he'd seen yet.

A fist started in his belly. He didn't give a damn

whether it hurt or not. His gut feeling was strong.

He went for that brush. No matter how useless, or

what time it consumed, he had to make sure. He stood

at one end of it, noted that it looked to be almost rectan-

gular, and shone his light the length of it, walking slowly.

The grass and pieces of bush and even a couple of smallish

branches set his back hair stiff.

He studied how rain had flattened it all, how it was

still flattening. He dropped to his knees, set the light

down, felt along one side of the patch, and came on dirt.

Loose, wet dirt.

The fist in his belly started pounding. He tore brush

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and long pieces of loose grass and brush away, slinging

them aside, and he saw bare din. And then, as he stripped

away a clump of brush, he saw a pipe sticking up out of

the ground.

He ripped away at the brush. Underneath was bare,

packed earth the length and width of a grave. He dug his

fingers into the middle and found looseness.

His heafi was punching everywhere, even in his heels.

His breath tore in and out of his lungs. He dug with

fingernails and hands like a madman.

And then common sense and sanity returned. He put

his lips to the pipe.

"Ravelle .

Ravel

His ear to the pipe. He heard a gasp. A sigh.

"Ravelle, it's Nick. Ravelle . . . ?"

"Yes . . . here

"Ravelle, we're going to dig you out. Don't move,

and keep your eyes closed. Do you understand?"

understand .

"Yes .

"Over here!" Carter shouted. "I've found her!"

He reached for the Colestar unit and depressed the

"send" button.

Rosario Duncan was sticking to the speed limit, even

under it, staying on narrow country lanes practically hid-

den from view by hedgerows. He was heading nonh now,

and would soon turn left and drop into Wales.

"This is Carter . . . are you there?"

Duncan idled down a little.

"This is Carter. Somehow you got your money. So be

it. Now what about the bomb!"

"Damned if I know, mate," Duncan said to the wind,

and shut the unit off.

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