# Bolivian Heat 1

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

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"Welcome to Bolivia, seöor,

a good place to die!"

She was there, sitting behind a makeshift desk,

a plank over two upturned barrels. Three more

heavily armed men stood behind her. Carter

could read death in her eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Nick Houston. I work out of Miami—

She nodded and the man to Carter's right

swung. The fist caught him before he could

tense his gut muscles. Carter went to his knees

and fought for air.

He took a deep breath, fighting the nausea

and dizziness. For a moment, he thought he

would pass out, but then the feeling left him.

He opened his eyes again and the room

steadied. They pulled him to his feet.

"Who are you?" she repeated, her voice hard

with venom.

"Nick Houston. Look, ask Mercado."

"Mercado is dead. I slit his throat."

The evilest ones were always the beautiful

ones, Carter thought, and wondered if Benito

Coronado had thought she was beautiful just

before she killed him .


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MASTER

NICKCARIER

JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK


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ONE

It was unseemly for a man of his stature, a delegate to

the United Nations, to be running around the suburbs of

Mexico City. It was also dangerous, because Benito

oronado was not in tune with the ways of the underworld.

But there were too few people he could trust on his staff.

And those that he could trust implicitly, he wouldn't ask to

do what he was doing that night.

He shuddered a little as he stepped from the small hotel

into the street. It was a poor, seedy area, with few people

moving around. The houses were small. Now and then there

was a tap on a window and a gentle "Come in, senor" from

a female voice. Coronado hurried on.

He had checked out the cemetery earlier that afternoon,

but now, at dusk, all the streets looked the same.

Ahead he heard wailing and crying and the unmistakable

chant of a priest in the early-evening air.

He quickened his step. At the next corner he caught up

with a slow-moving procession of stooped men and dark-

Clad, crying women. Eight of the men carried a plain coffin

on their shoulders.

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Benito Coronado breathed easier and fell in behind them.

The road wound around the edge of a hill, then turned

in under a dilapidated arch. Candles flickered eerily about

the cemetery, like fireflies, and figures moved among them

One person kneeled before a statue of the Virgin—a woman

in a black dress and heavy black veil.

Behind the statue was a rambling structure, a mausoleum,

but there was no shelter, no walls, no roof; the crypts were

stacked one upon the other five high, the stacks side by side

like so many bricks. They all looked alike, the ends abou

two feet square, with a glass door. Some of the doors were

padlocked. Behind the glass was a space about a foot deep,

ending in the cement wall of the crypt itself.

Benito Coronado checked the tiny sign: SECTION 111. H

wanted section five, tier three.

Slowing his pace, he left the procession and searched i

the gathering darkness. One by one he checked the smal

plaques looking for a name.

Suddenly he was aware that he wasn't alone. He whirle

just as a tall, barrel-chested man with sandy blond hair an

a rugged face stepped from behind one of the larger stones.

"Coronado?"

The man stepped forward and, to Coronado's surprise,

extended his hand. "Norm Best." Coronado shook it. "Let's

move under that tree. It's higher ground and we can

farther."

Coronado followed him, still sweating but without

much fear. The man might be a smuggler and God kne

what else, but he didn't seem like a killer. He had bee

fully checked out by Coronado's personal secretary, Felici

Damita.

Norm Best had been a navy pilot, and a good one, eve

if he did have a hard time following orders. After ten year


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Norm Best had been a navy pilot, and a good one, eve

if he did have a hard time following orders. After ten year

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he had been cashiered. Unable to find work, he had drifted

south and started his own flying service in Mexico City.

Fifty percent of his business was legal. The other fifty per-

cent was not: guns and illegal aliens wherever they wanted

to go. Now and then some mobster would have to make a

quick exit from the States.

On one of these trips, Norm Best got caught. His pas-

senger had been transporting $2 million to the Bahamas for

a drug buy. Best had done two years of a ten-year stretch,

and ran for Mexico the minute he got out, breaking his

parole.

He stopped under the tree, checked the cemetery and the

streets beyond, and turned to Coronado. "Did you deposit

the money?"

"I did," Coronado replied, handing him a deposit slip for

$100,000.

Best checked the figure, noted the Vancouver bank, and

sighed audibly. "What about the passport and the other

identification?"

"What about my information?"

"Fair enough." Best took a folded piece of heavy paper

"I fly out tomorrow night from here,

and passed it over.

loaded."

"With what?"

"I told you that over the phone—same as last time."

"Tell me again."

"Automatic rifles, machine guns, ammo, grenades, rock-

Christ, everything you can

ets, launchers, plastique

name."

"All right, go ahead," Coronado said, nodding.

"Refuel in Limon. Don't go through customs there. Fly

on to Quince Mil in southern Peru. I stay overnight there.

but the plane is held in the customs shed so it isn't checked

again."


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'Then you go into Bolivia?"

' 'That's right," Best replied, "the next afternoon. The

flight from Quince Mil is all laid out on the air map I just

gave you. Out of Quince Mil, I file for La Paz. But near

Apolo, in the mountains just over the border, I develop

engine trouble and land. They are paid off in Apolo. While

they're checking the engine, the goods are transferred to a

chopper. I take off in that. lhe rendezvous is in the high

mountains between Achacachi and Cordico. It's an electrical

power relay and booster station, self•contained, nobody

there."

"And that is where they trade the drugs for the arrns?"

"That's it," Best said. "Only this time, like I told you, I

get sick in Apolo."

"You're sure they will have someone else who can fly

the helicopter?"

"Positive. This is a big 01kration." Best glanced nervously

over his shoulder. "Is that it? I want to get the hell out of

here."

"Just a question or two more." Coronado replied, calm

now. "Why do you betray them?"

"I told you that, too," Best growled. s The bastards be-

trayed me. I do a lot, but I don't do dope. When I found

out that that was what I was bringing back on the last trip,

I decided to call you."

"One last question. Who is your contact in Mexico City?"

Best shrugged. "The only name I ever got on him was

Pepe the Butcher. Everything is done by phone."

"Very well, Mr. Best, here is the rest of my part of the

bargain." Coronado handed over a Bolivian passport and

other credentials that identified Norman Best as Noel Bes-

sero.

Best smiled. "They look good."

"They are authentic, I assure you," Coronado replied.

BOLIVIAN HEAT


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BOLIVIAN HEAT

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"But I must wam you. Don't ever use them in my country."

Best laughed low in his throat. "You don't have to worry

about that. Once I take off from Apolo, I never want to see

Bolivia again. I'm leaving now. Wait five minutes, then

you go."

Best moved off, and within seconds he was lost in the

shadows. Alone again, in the darkness with the answers in

his head and on the map in his pocket, Coronado's fear

returned.

He barely managed to wait the full five minutes before

walking back to his hotel. In his room, he carefully unfolded

the map.

It was there, all of it: the route, the method, the time.

Quickly, he packed the single bag he had brought with

him and checked out of the hotel. He had to walk two blocks

before he spotted a taxi.

"Galeria Plaza, por favor. "

seior."

It was a twenty-minute ride to the huge modem hotel in

downtown Mexico City. Every second of it, Benito

Coronado sat on the edge of his seat.

By the time the cab pulled up in front of the hotel, he

was shaking. But now it was out of anticipation rather than

fear. Coronado rushed across the lobby to the elevator. By

the time he reached the door of his suite, he had his key

ready.

Inside, he threw the small bag alongside the big two-suiter

he always used for traveling, and yanked the phone from

its cradle.

He direct-dialed the number in La Paz. Bolivia, he had

en given two weeks before in Washington.

"Benito Coronado. I wish to speak to Mr. David Hawk."


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The bellboy arrived with a huge keg of ice cubes, a full

bottle of expensive scotch, a newspaper, and some small

cigars.

"Here you are, sefior," he said with a grin. "I guarantee

you'll have enough to last until morning."

"Thanks," Nick Carter growled, hoping that by morning

he would be out of the hotel and maytr out of La Paz. He

signed the hotel chit as Nick Houston, and slipped the boy

a ten-dollar bill.

"Thank you. Muchas gracias." lhe bellboy pocketed

another ten-dollar tip. "Anything else you may wish, Seåor

Houston, do not call room service, do not call anybody,

just call the desk and ask for me, Paco. I'm on the rest of

the night." He made a two-fingered salute, said, ' 'Enjo

your stay, seöor," and went out.

It was a lovely, well-fumished suite, thickly carpeted.

There was a spacious living room, a spacious bedroom, a

spacious dressing room, a spacious bathroom, and every

room had everything possible for the convenience of the

guest.

The medicine cabinet in the bathroom contained tooth-

paste, two sealed toothbrushes, a sealed comb, a seale

hairbrush, a sealed can of squeeze-a-spurt-of-shaving cream,

a sealed razor, and a sealed packet of razor blades, th

sealings all sparkling, transparent plastic.

All in all, he was living in the lap of luxury, with AX

footing the entire bill. He should sit back, sip good scotch

and enjoy.

But that wasn't the Killmaster's way. He had been coope

up in the suite for three days waiting for the phone to ring

and he was bored.

"Check in and don't even go out once, " the head of AX

had told him in Washington. "Get your booze and meal

sent up. And, Nick, no visitors. You probably wouldn't


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sent up. And, Nick, no visitors. You probably wouldn't

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recognized down there, but until we know more about the

game and the players, it's better not to take chances."

Caner had reluctantly agreed. By visitors, of course, the

AXE chief had meant female companionship.

So be it. Hawk was right. It was a screwy mission, the

kind with a lot of hills you couldn't see over or anticipate

what was on the other side. It was better that no one other

than Paco, the sharp little bellboy Carter had already checked

out to his satisfaction, have direct contact with the man who

had come to kill.

The U.N. big shot had been on the DEA boys' backs for

a month. He claimed he had a hot tip. Since the drug boys

had to go by the book, they couldn't do much for him before

the fact or act. But when the subject of illegal arms came

into play, it was a different story. The DEA people passed

it to State, and State dropped it in the lap of AXE.

David Hawk brought in his best man, Nick Carter, the

Killmaster.

"We've got only bits and pieces, Nick, but this might be

concrete and something we can jump on."

"Maybe," Carter had agreed, "but I don't like the strings

being pulled by an amateur. Why won't Coronado tell us

who his tip is?"

"He says it's part of the deal. The man wants money, a

new identity, and anonymity. It's worth it if we get a con-

nection. For months—hell, years—we've known that the

Marxist guemllas in those mountains have teamed up with

the cocaine growers and suppliers. They give the dope boys

protection and use the territory under their control in ex-

change for a cut of the profits to keep their cause going."

Carter had sighed and nodded. "But we're not in the dope

business."

"True enough," Hawk had replied, exuding a cloud of

foul cigar smoke, "but we are in the revolution business,


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either stopping or starting them. Up until about six months

ago, the guerrillas in the Andes—in Peru, Bolivia, hell,

clear up into Ecuador and down into Chile—were unor-

ganized and poorly armed. Suddenly they've become damn

well organized, and now we may know how they've gotten

so well armed. They haven't been able to give their govern-

ments fits yet, but if this keeps up much longer, they could. "

So Carter had slipped into La Paz, checked into the hotel,

and waited.

Now he wasn't too sure the call would ever come.

But it did, with the first three fingers from the bottle

poured and halfway to his lips.

"Mr. Houston, our business transaction is a go. Could

we discuss the details?"

"Fine."

"You know the routine?"

"I do."

"Excellent."

Carter slipped on a lightweight jacket to hide the bulk of

the Luger and shoulder rig, checked the stiletto in the sheath

on his right forearm, and hit the door.

In the lobby, he turned left toward the lounge. It was

fairly crowded, mostly with Americans. That was good.

Carter hit the bar. "Scotch, a double."

"S(, seior. "

The drink came and he sipped as he checked the room.

She wasn't hard to spot . .

tall, with gleaming sable hair

and a lot of figure packed into a black dress.

She was dancing. The guy was tall, bald, and loud. She

looked bored. Her eye caught Carter's only once. When the

dance ended, the guy joined a group of men at a table. She

came to the crowded bar and ordered a drink.

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Carter could see a short, Latin type making a move on


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BOLIVIAN HEAT

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Carter could see a short, Latin type making a move on

her from the other side. It was obvious that she had stirred

up a lot of male hormones since she had hit the bar.

Carter nudged through the crowd and settled in beside her.

"Can I buy that?"

She looked his way and smiled. "Where've you been?"

"All over town. Looking for you."

The Latin type made a sour face and moved on. The drink

came, Carter paid.

"Well said." She raised her glass and the smile broadened.

"Very well said indeed."

She had a haughty manner, a husky voice, and a slight

southern accent to her American speech. She had large hazel

eyes, elegant eyebrows, a straight nose, and smooth, sun-

tanned skin.

"Nick Houston."

"Ginger."

"Ginger what?"

The shoulders shrugged. "Just Ginger ... until we know

each other better."

"To friends," Caner said, grinning, knocking off the

scotch.

Her full name was Ginger Bateman, and for more years

than he could remember she had been David Hawk's good

right hand.

She leaned close until Carter's nostrils were filled with

her scent. "Noisy, isn't it?"

"Very."

They both spoke loud enough for everyone around them

to hear.

"There are other places," she said.

"And I'll bet you know them all," he replied.

"Each and every one." She laughed, a high-pitched,

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melodious laugh. Her teeth were very white in the suntanned

face.

They walked arm in arm out of the place, laughing. They

took a cab to a small café, had one drink, then did the same

in another, larger club. Not once did the conversation veer

from the standard boy-meets-pretty-girl-in-bar script.

"Boring."

"Right."

"Another place?"

"Right."

A third club took them closer to the suburbs. They got

out at the mouth of an alley, and Ginger tugged him along

to a little restaurant. The tables stood outside on a raised

island surrounded by a line of small trees that were hung

with colored lanterns.

"Good, it's crowded," she munnured.

this it?"

"This is it," she replied.

Ihey were shown to a table in the rear. Drinks were

ordered and the room cased.

"We're clean," she said at last.

"I think so too," Carter said, dropping some bills on the

table. "Let's go."

In the alley outside, a black Volvo was waiting. Ginger

had the keys. Carter barely had the door shut when the car

was moving.

"Was all that really necessary?" Carter asked, lighting

two cigarettes and handing one to her.

"Hawk thinks so. Most of our drug people down here are

known. So are their spots. We had to have our own setup. "

Carter sat back in the soft seat and let her drive.

It became darker as the car swung away onto a side road

overhung by trees. Some iron gates came into view, and


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beyond them a long drive, at the end of which stood a low

villa. At that hour of the evening the shutters were down.

As the car glided to a halt, Carter had time to notice that

the greenery around them was dotted with statues. and when

the engine was turned off, he could hear the soft splashing

I of a fountain.

The inside of the villa was blessedly cool. lhe floor of

the hall was marble, as was the huge staircase ahead that

led to the levels, and in two small alcoves, directly

opposite each other, two small fountains trickled. Large

paintings dominated the walls, and a brief glance was enough

to assure Carter that they were originals, and masterpieces,

The whole atmosphere was one of traditional elegance, and

extreme wealth.

"Nice," he murmured.

"It's on loan from a relative of Coronado."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Best we could do on short notice. In here."

It was a high-ceilinged study with booklined walls and

thick, expensive drapes. The room was cloudy with smoke

from Hawk's cigar. He occupied one of three heavy chairs

around an oval table. On the table, drinks were already

poured and bottles stood by for more. In front of Hawk was

a tape recorder and some papers.

The head of AXE didn't stand and there were no pre-

liminaries. "Sit. Any trouble?"

"None," Ginger replied.

"Good. Nick, listen to this."

Carter picked up his glass and sat back to listen to the

taped telephone conversation between Hawk and Benito

Coronado. He didn't speak until it was over.

"We still don't know the pilot's identity."

"No," Hawk replied.

'That could be important down the road."


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"No," Hawk replied.

'That could be important down the road."

NICK CARTER

"It damn well could be. We're working on it."

"And we've got a team in Mexico City on this Pepe the

Butcher," Ginger Bateman added.

"How do we go?" Carter asked, leaning forward.

"The meet takes place between midnight and one in the

moming, day after tomorrow." Hawk spread out a map and

turned so Carter could follow the point of his pencil. "You'll

drop here .. . it's called Santos Peak."

Carter whistled. "Between nineteen and twenty thousand

feet .

tricky."

"You'll drop with oxygen, just in case. It's only four

miles from the rendezvous point, but that's as the crow

flies. It's an up-and-down walk, so it's closer to ten miles."

"Jesus, with radio and full gear? Terrific. What about

weather? It could be snowing that high up."

'The five-day forecast calls for clear skies. If it's wrong,

they won't go in either."

Carter nodded. "Where do I go in from?"

"Miraflores, on the Peru side. We're flying you over

tonight. " Hawk paused and worried his cigar for a moment.

"Remember, Nick, we don't want a complete We

need a prisoner. That's what this whole thing is about."

Carter exchanged a quick look with Ginger, who looked

away.

She was a bright lady who had her own share of field

experience. Four or five armed bad guys, twenty thousand

feet up in the snow, unknown territory, and if it came to a

shoot-out, Carter had to keep one of them alive.

Not exactly a piece of cake.


TWO


Benito Coronado emerged from baggage claim at Ken-

nedy Airport and handed his bag to his chauffeur of four

years. "Manuel, where is the car?"

"Just outside . . . at the curb, Sehor Coronado."

"Wait for me in the car. I must make one phone call."

sefior."

Coronado dialed the number he knew so well. It rang

only once and a recording came on the line:

"I am out of my apartment for a little while. I am sorry

I missed your call. If you will please leave your number, I

will call you back at once . . e"

"Damn," Coronado hissed, and waited for the tone signal.

"Felicia, I am at Kennedy. I just landed. I am heading out

to the island now. Please come out to the house tonight. I

must talk to you. It's important."

He hung up and walked briskly through the glass doors

to the limousine waiting at the curb.

Manuel Robo scrambled out, touched fingers to the visor

of his cap, gave his boss that day's New York Times, and

opened the door for him. When Coronado was in the rear

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NICK CARTER

seat, Robo closed the door and scrambled back to the driver's


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seat, Robo closed the door and scrambled back to the driver's

seat.

The limo pulled out slowly. The traffic was heavy.

"Manuel?"

"Has Felicia used the car while I was gone?"

"No, senor. I have not been called once."

"I see."

Coronado lit a cigar and looked idly out the window. The

window was closed; all the windows were closed, air con-

ditioner working noiselessly, the din ofthe parkway shut out.

Where? Coronado thought. Where can she be and what

can she be doing? Twice I have called her, from Paz

and now here at Kennedy, and all I get is that infernal

machine. She knows how important all this is. I told her to

keep herself available for any emergency!

His mind was starting to work overtime, feeding wild

suspicions. He bit hard on the cigar and it stayed in his

teeth. His back grew rigid, his spine taut.

Suddenly he rolled down a window, threw out the cigar,

and rolled the window shut again. He opened his briefcase,

took out an address book and checked. He picked up the

car phone and called the Washington number given to him

by David Hawk.

"Four-six-eight-one."

"Yes. I would like you to patch me through to David

Hawk."

"I'm afraid that is impossible, sir."

"Yes, I know he is not in Washington. This is Benito

Coronado."

"Yes, sir,"

"Can a message be relayed to him?"'

There was a brief hesitation before the voice replied.


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BOLIVIAN HEAT

"Yes, sir, it can, in your case."

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"Thank you. Would you have Mr. Hawk call me at my

home number? Anytime. He has it."

"l believe I can do that, sir. Is there any priority on this?"

"I don't know

wait! Yes, tell him that it is an

emergency."

"Yes, sir."

The big car pulled off the highway and seconds later

wound its way through narrow, tree-lined streets toward the

ocean on the south shore of Long Island.

The car, a late-model Ford, came out of nowhere. It drew

alongside the limo and, at the next intersection, tried to cut

the bigger car off.

At the instant the Ford swerved, Coronado got a good

look at the diminutive man in the front seat.

'SOh, my God! Manuel, drive!"

The chauffeur was experienced and had gone through the

antiterrorist driving school in Italy. He immediately stomped

the accelerator, and the big car swerved around the Ford.

He dropped down a block, and the other car followed.

He went up two, and the Ford remained behind him, implac-

able and unswerving.

He hit the gas, roared up the next block, goosed it through

a traffic light that had just turned red, swung through the

corner driveway of a Shell station, went into a screeching

U-turn, and checked his mirror.

The Ford's driver was good. With the maneuver, Manuel

had gained only forty or fifty yards.

He sliced to the left, hurtling across a wide boulevard,

barely missing two cars. The Ford wheeled the same way,

moving after him, brakes squealing as drivers whose path

it crossed hit their pedals, cursed, and hoped.

He went a few blocks up and, at the last minute, turned.


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BOLIVIAN HEAT

"Yes, sir, it can, in your case."

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"Thank you. Would you have Mr. Hawk call me at my

home number? Anytime. He has it."

"l believe I can do that, sir. Is there any priority on this?"

"I don't know

wait! Yes, tell him that it is an

emergency."

"Yes, sir."

The big car pulled off the highway and seconds later

wound its way through narrow, tree-lined streets toward the

ocean on the south shore of Long Island.

The car, a late-model Ford, came out of nowhere. It drew

alongside the limo and, at the next intersection, tried to cut

the bigger car off.

At the instant the Ford swerved, Coronado got a good

look at the diminutive man in the front seat.

'SOh, my God! Manuel, drive!"

The chauffeur was experienced and had gone through the

antiterrorist driving school in Italy. He immediately stomped

the accelerator, and the big car swerved around the Ford.

He dropped down a block, and the other car followed.

He went up two, and the Ford remained behind him, implac-

able and unswerving.

He hit the gas, roared up the next block, goosed it through

a traffic light that had just turned red, swung through the

corner driveway of a Shell station, went into a screeching

U-turn, and checked his mirror.

The Ford's driver was good. With the maneuver, Manuel

had gained only forty or fifty yards.

He sliced to the left, hurtling across a wide boulevard,

barely missing two cars. The Ford wheeled the same way,

moving after him, brakes squealing as drivers whose path

it crossed hit their pedals, cursed, and hoped.

He went a few blocks up and, at the last minute, turned.


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The Ford, caught off guard, barreled past the intersection.

But a moment later they saw it back up and then tear up

the street after them.

In the distance, both men could hear the wail of sirens.

The high-speed chase had been reported. Without being

told, Manuel screamed around another corner and headed

toward the approaching sirens.

He drove as fast as possible, hampered by the traffic, by

the narrow streets, a wary eye out for the kids who dotted

the area and who at any moment might rush out in front of

him.

Suddenly a big truck curled around the corner in front of

them. Manuel was forced to slow down. It was all the Ford

needed. It roared forward, barely missing the suddenly

swerving truck, and forced the limo off the street up between

two trees in a grassy park.

Manuel tried to reverse, but he was too late. ne short,

almost pretty man jumped from the passenger seat. In his

hands was an Uzi submachine gun, its barrel spitting orange

flame before the man's feet hit the pavement,

The windshield shattered and Manuel Robo took the full

force of the first blast.

Benito Coronado clawed at the door handle and was half-

way out of the car when the little man ran to block him off.

"You!" Coronado cried, frozen, one foot in the car and

one foot on the grass. his mouth open with shock and fear.

"Charca rule,"

the little man hissed. and blasted

Coronado's body back into the car with a volley from the

Uzi.

In seconds he was back in the Ford and it was speeding

away.

Less than two minutes later a patrol car arrived, its red

and blue lights flashing. One officer flanked the limo, his


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cer a patrol car am

and blue lights flashing. One officer flanked the limo, his

BOLIVIAN HEAT

17

un drawn. ne second patrolman approached the car.

'The driver's dead as hell. The guy in the back seat's

ill breathing, but God knows for how long."

"Christ, he must have eight, ten holes in him."


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THREE

ne drop from a lurching, small, single-engine aircraft

was shaky but without incident. The ten-mile hike at eighteen

thousand feet was another matter. By the time Carter neared

the site, his legs were like stiff posts.

One good thing was the weather. The night was crystal

clear and cold. Overhead, the sky was full of stars and there

was only the sliver of a moon hanging on the snowy horizon.

The trek would have been easier if he could have just

followed the power lines. But he figured that they would

use that route themselves, so it was better to keep the snow

virgin.

Now he was about a hundred yards from the tower and

the equipment shack below it. High atop the tower the red

light did its business, blinking every two seconds.

The Killmaster checked his watch. It was almost eleven.

He had arrived none too soon.

Less than ten minutes later, he heard the sounds: conver-

sation or shouts, the rattle of harness. a bray. And then he

saw them, about two hundred yards to his left, coming up

over the rise onto the plateau. At first they were just images,

19


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NICK CARTER

moving but not completely distinguishable.

At fifty yards they were clear and he could count them:

a fifteen-mule caravan. The first eleven mules toted heavy

packs. The last four pulled low runner sleds.

There were three men, two on the sled teams, one leading

the front mule. At the tower, they tethered the animals,

attached feed sacks, and moved toward the shack. A few

seconds later, Carter saw a dim light come on in the shack

and sift through the shuttered single window.

Carter was rigged for war. Around his hip belt hung four

grenades—two SAS flash style and two shrapnel, a Fair-

bairon-Sykes commando knife, and seven ammunition clips.

Two of the clips were spares for the Luger in a shoulder

rig under his left armpit. The other five were spares for the

Mexican Mendoza short-barrel .45 submachine gun.

He unslung the Mendoza and moved out, approaching

the shack from the flank.

The plateau was four hundred feet across and pro-

jected out from the side of the mountain nearly half that

distance. It was flat, almost as if someone had

sanded it smooth, and all of the loose rocks and rubble had

been moved to the east side to make room for the tower,

the shack, and a helicopter pad.

The tower thrust a good two hundred and fifty feet into

the sky. At its base huddled the shack, a ten-by-ten-foot

frame structure with one wall only five feet away from the

near legs of the tower. The only opening into the shack was

a single door that faced out toward the edge of the plateau.

Carter reached the back wall of the small building without

making a sound, then worked his way along until he reached

a corner. After hesitating a moment to listen, he stepped

across the intervening space, ducked under a cross brace,

and moved forward to crouch behind the tower leg nearest

the front of the shack.


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the front of the shack.

BOLIVIAN HEAT

21

From this position he could see the front door of the

uiiding with its slit of dim light. Now and then the light

•as blocked out as one of the three men made a pass across

he room.

The Killmaster flipped the safety off the Mendoza and

wr*d the sling around his left forearm. From the look

the door, only a single catch held it in place. One hard

.unge with his shoulder and he would be in.

"Stay right there, senor. So much as a twitch of your ass

d you are a dead mam Drop the gun."

Carter had no choice. He dropped the Mendoza into the

snow, turned slowly, and looked up.

The voice's owner was lying flat out on the roof above

him, an M-16 rigged with a Startron night scope cradled in

Ihis arms.

"The hands, on your head."

Carter obeyed. "I take it you came to the party early,"

he growled.

"Very early. About sundown, just to welcome you. Wel-

come to Bolivia, senor, a good place to die."

It was pitch dark as Norm Best guided the powerful

Beechcraft Baron on approach through the tricky peaks lead-

ing to Apolo. Below him was a maze of valleys and steep

Slopes mostly wearing shawls of snow.

He had already gotten clearance from the Apolo tower.

This time, as well as pleading a fluttering carburator, he

had informed Apolo of extreme vomiting and dizziness. It

asn't all a lie. He had purposely taken a combination of

ills an hour earlier that would give him the outward appear-

fince of being deathly ill.

He roared over the last set of peaks and cursed as he saw

e dim lights of the Apolo runway still three thousand feet

low. It looked about the size of a frayed handkerchief


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He roared over the last set of peaks and cursed as he saw

dim lights of the Apolo runway still three thousand feet

low. It looked about the size of a frayed handkerchief

22

NICK CARTER

someone had dropped among the bulging humps and jagge

ridges.

Both approach and actual landing at Apolo were ve

difficult. The plane had to be held between two thousan

and twenty-five hundred feet until the very last second t

clear the last peak. Then it was throttle back and drop li

a pelican into the actual pattem. But that was only half o

it. Once down, the Baron had to use every inch of runwa

with full reverse-thrust and brakes to keep from piling in

another mountain at the end of the runway.

But that was why they had sought out and hired Not

Best in the first place. Landing on postage stamps—lik

camer decks—was his specialty.

He made a near perfect landing, with only one hard jo

as he touched down. Then the engines screamed as the prop

reversed, and Best readied his feet to stomp the brakes.

He came to rest, sweating, less than forty feet from

sheer wall of black stone. When the tail had swung arou

he taxied back toward the hangar farthest from the towe

Two dancing yellow lights guided him on in. and the rolli

doors closed behind him.

The engines were barely cut when the door was yank

open. A face appeared in the opening. Best knew him onl

as Gordo. He doubted if that was his real name,

"Rough landing, amigo. "

Best nodded as he crawled from the cockpit. He w

shaking and he knew his face was as white as a sheet.

"Did the tower relay?" Best asked.

"Yeah. You look like shit."

"Feel worse than shit. Can you get someone for the cho

run?"

"We're workin' on it now."

"Well, work harder, amigo, " Best said, and, holding h

stomach, ran to another part of the hangar.


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stomach, ran to another part of the hangar.

BOLIVIAN HEAT

23

As the bile erupted from his belly he could hear them

oehind him already transferring the arms from the Baron to

the helicopter,

They'd been tipped off. Carter was sure of it. Why else

wpuld one man, armed with a sniper rifle, sit for five hours

on a roof freezing his ass off? And the man's words: "... very

early, About sundown, just to welcome you .

They had tied his hands behind him and then to one leg

of the workbench. And they hadn't been gentle about it. As

soon as he was secure. two of them had done a five-minute

number on his face and gut with their fists.

Now he was alert but groggy. His head still felt as if

somebody had used it for a punching bag, and his left eye

was blurred with his own blood. but he was thinking.

He was alone in the shack. but he could hear voices

outside. He started to wriggle forward. then stopped sud-

denly when he felt a tightening around his neck.

Slowly he turned his head.

Cute.

There was a rope around his neck leading to a joist in

the ceiling. They weren't taking any chances: if he wriggled

around too much, he would hang himself.

They had also stripped him of his arms and his jump suit.

The voices were closer to the shack now, close enough

so their conversation became intelligible.

"Did you get through to Mercado?"

I told him to congratulate the Charcas Man. His

people are good. They always get the right intelligence."

"That is why it is better for Mercado and you people to

remain on our side. It will be the winning side,"

The last voice was deeper than the other two, and the

Spanish was spoken with an odd accent.

"What does Mercado want to do with him?"

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NICK CARTER


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stomach, ran to another part of the hangar.

BOLIVIAN HEAT

23

As the bile erupted from his belly he could hear them

oehind him already transferring the arms from the Baron to

the helicopter,

They'd been tipped off. Carter was sure of it. Why else

wpuld one man, armed with a sniper rifle, sit for five hours

on a roof freezing his ass off? And the man's words: "... very

early, About sundown, just to welcome you .

They had tied his hands behind him and then to one leg

of the workbench. And they hadn't been gentle about it. As

soon as he was secure. two of them had done a five-minute

number on his face and gut with their fists.

Now he was alert but groggy. His head still felt as if

somebody had used it for a punching bag, and his left eye

was blurred with his own blood. but he was thinking.

He was alone in the shack. but he could hear voices

outside. He started to wriggle forward. then stopped sud-

denly when he felt a tightening around his neck.

Slowly he turned his head.

Cute.

There was a rope around his neck leading to a joist in

the ceiling. They weren't taking any chances: if he wriggled

around too much, he would hang himself.

They had also stripped him of his arms and his jump suit.

The voices were closer to the shack now, close enough

so their conversation became intelligible.

"Did you get through to Mercado?"

I told him to congratulate the Charcas Man. His

people are good. They always get the right intelligence."

"That is why it is better for Mercado and you people to

remain on our side. It will be the winning side,"

The last voice was deeper than the other two, and the

Spanish was spoken with an odd accent.

"What does Mercado want to do with him?"

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NICK CARTER


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'*If I'm already dead," Carter hissed, measuring the man

as he moved forward, "then I might as well keep my mouth

shut."

Suddenly the man lashed out at Caner's face with the

flashlight. The Killmaster came up and to the side. The

BOLIVIAN HEAT

25

flash missed his face, and Pando's wrist hit the bench. Carter

brought his knee up, and there was a sharp crack as the

wrist between the Killmaster's knee and the edge of the

txnch shattered.

The flashlight clattered to the floor and Pando doubled

over, grabbing at his wrist.

"It's broken!" he howled in pain. "My goddamned wrist

is broken! I'm going to make you pay for that, you son of

a bitch!"

He came for Carter's neck with his good hand. The

Killmaster dropped back to the tlc»r. braced himself, and

lashed upward with his feet as hard as he could.

•me heavy jump boots caught Pando in the throat and on

the point of the chin. The thin man rose up on his toes like

a ballet dancer, then left the floor to land on his back directly

in front of an awed Felipe.

Felipe glanced down and then over at Carter. He stood

for a moment with a look of disgust and exasperation on

his face, then shcx)k his head slowly.

"You should not have done that. sefior. Pando, he's a

mean little bastard with a knife . . . likes to skin

"Fuck Pando," Carter hissed. already back at work shav-

ing the rorr against the brad. "And fuck you,

FeliEr walked over and leaned down over Carter. The

Killmaster knew he would never get away with trying to

kick him, so he just sat there and returned his steady gaze.

The other man reached out with one massive hand and

flicked Carter under the chin. The flick drove the Killmas-

ter's head back sharply, bouncing it off the bench and making

little white balls of light dance before his eyes. Then. without

changing expression, the big man turned and went over to

kneel beside Pando.

' 'Come on, Pando." he said, and reaching down, he

grasped one shoulder and shook the limp body. Pando's


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kneel beside Pando.

"Come on, Pando." he said, and reaching down, he

grasped one shoulder and shook the limp body. Pando's

26

NICK CARTER

head lolled back and forth on his shoulders. Felipe bent

closer.

"Pando!" he said, his voice louder. "Snap out of it! Come

on, we've got work to do." When Pando still didn't move,

Felipe pulled him into a sitting position. Pando's head fell

forward and hung at an impossible angle. Carter watched

as Felipe stuck his hand under Pando's jacket. then removed

the hand and slowly lowered the inert form to the floor.

The big man rose and tumed, his face puzzled.

"He's dead," he said in a surprised voice. "The little

shit's dead!" He his head- in disbelief, his cold eyes

never leaving Carter.

"You . . . " He jerked Carter's head violently forward,

and the Killmaster felt the noose tighten around his neck.

broke .

. . " He jerked again. Carter tried to tense

his neck muscles, but the rope was already cutting into his

flesh.

his ... " Again, Carter's head was yanked forward.

He couldn't breathe. His mouth was orrn, but the air just

wouldn't come in.

neck!" Once more he jerked Carter's head, but the

Killmaster hardly noticed. All he could think of was breath-

ing.

Suddenly everything got dark and Carter felt as if someone

had shoved a hot branding iron down his throat.


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FOUR


She was twenty-eight and beautiful. She had the smcx»th,

velvety complexion so common to Latin women, and her

features were lovely enough to used in cosmetic ads.

She was both small and slender, weighing barely a hundred

M)unds, but the lines of her body and her movements made

her voluptuously sensual despite her meager weight.

But at this particular moment. Felicia Damita's beauty

was the last thing on her mind. She stood, rigid and tense,

her knuckles white as she pressed the telephone to her ear.

"What do you mean, you missed?"

"Jesus, Felicia, I didn't miss, not exactly. Hell, I put half

a magazine in him! The bastard just didn't die."

"What hospital?" she asked, not bothering to disguise the

disgust in her voice.

"Suffolk General. out on Long Island. He's in the inten-

Sive care unit. Hell, Felicia, he might die anyway."

"Might?" she yelled. "What if he doesn't? He's no

I laid myself wide open on this. If he lives, my use to the

organization is over, you idiot!"

"I know, I know," the male voice whined. •m sorry.

28

27

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NICK CARTER

Do you want me to hit him again?"

She studied her image in the mirror across the room and

forced her mind to work overtime. There was a way. It

wasn't as if she hadn't killed before. It was just that her

position was so important now that the risk of killing again,

herself, negated so many things.

"Felicia, are you still there?"

"Of course I'm still here, you fool."

"Dammit, I told you not to talk like that to me . .

"Then you shouldn't have screwed up. You should have

made sure he was dead!"

Another whine. "I told you I was sorry. Do you want me

to go after him?"

"No, it's too risky. You and Hector get back out of the

country. You'll be hot now, too hot. I'll handle it."

"You .

"Do as you're told . . . for a change."

There was another whine, but she hung up trfore he

could srrak again.

She stood for several moments, staring at herself in the

mirror before moving to the coffee table and thumbing

through the New York dailies that she devoured each day.

nere were over twenty of them, from The New York

Times to a small Suffolk paper called The Leader. It was

here she found what she wanted. The previous evening there

had been a serious two-car automobile accident near Bayport

on the south shore of Long Island. The driver of one car,

a fifty-two-year-old woman, had been killed. The driver of

the other car, one Dominick Parza, was in Suffolk General

Hospital. His condition was reported as critical after having

undergone extensive surgery.

Thirty seconds later Felicia was on the phone to the hos-

pita].

"Yes, please, I call my uncle Dom Parza? Could I speak?"

BOLIVIAN HEAT

29

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Parza is in critical condition and

'tider sedation. He can accept no calls."


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'*I'm sorry, but Mr. Parza is in critical condition and

'tider sedation. He can accept no calls."

"Then he still in intensive care?" Felicia wailed into the

hone.

'*I'm afraid so."

"Grazie, grazie tanto, grazie. 'f

She hung up and moved into the bedroom. From a false

anel in the rear of a closet she took a blond wig, a heavily

black dress, a pair of scuffed flat-heeled shoes, an

•versize black purse, and a seven-inch-long chrome Weblor

•as pistol. The Weblor was a single cylinder that held one

artridge and fired silently.

In the bathroom she pinned her long, glossy black hair

Ightly to her head. This done, she carefully changed her

•kin tone and makeup to correspond to the wig.

Back in the bedroom, she dressed and adjusted the padding

until it was right. A scarf over her hair and a pair of tinted

lasses completed the change.

Just before leaving the apartment, she slipped the Weblor

into the bag and consulted a telephone directory to find a

florist near the Bayport area.

Scarcely anyone paid any attention to the short, rather

dumpy blond woman in the smoky glasses when she walked

into the lobby of Suffolk General Hospital. It was near to

the shift change, and a lot had to be done so that the staff

could get off in time and get home.

As she approached the reception desk, she clutched a

bouquet of long-stemmed flowers between her breasts. It

Was a large bouquet, partially obscuring her face.

s •My uncle, miss . . I want to see my poor uncle."

The pretty. overworked receptionist frowned. 'The

"Parza .

30

Dominick Parza. "

NICK CARTER

The receptionist consulted the current patient file. "Mr.

Parza is in the intensive care wing—

"Yeah, I know. He's bad, huh?"

"Room nine-twelve, but visiting hours are over, I'm


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The pretty. overworked receptionist frowned.

"The

"Parza .

30

Dominick Parza. "

NICK CARTER

The receptionist consulted the current patient file. "Mr.

Parza is in the intensive care wing—

"Yeah, I know. He's bad, huh?"

"Room nine-twelve, but visiting hours are over, I'm

afraid."

"Yeah, I know, but I think my aunt and my brother are

still up there." She made a vague gesture with the bouquet.

"I'll only be a minute."

*Ihe receptionist started to object some more, but an insis-

tent phone drew her attention.

The short blonde scooted to the bank of elevators. She had

the elevator to herself. At this hour all the visitor traffic

was going down. Getting out on the ninth she looked

to her right. Nurses, attendants, and interns were moving

in and out of doorways, getting ward patients ready for

sleep. She turned left, pushing through a pair of swinging

doors into the section reserved for patients with private

rooms.

On the other side of the swinging doors, the floor lights

had already been dimmed for the night. There was only one

person in sight down the corridor: a uniformed policeman

sitting in a straight-backed chair beside the closed door of

a private room. He was half asleep reading a paperback book.

The blonde allowed herself a brief smile. The tip-off was

a joke.

The policeman in front of Benito Coronado's room looked

up automatically when the swinging doors opened. He

looked sleepily bored as he watched the dumpy blonde turn

toward the counter separating the corridor from the nurses'

cubicle. There was only one nurse in the cubicle.

"Excuse me," the blonde asked, "where can I find room

nine-twelve?"

The nurse looked up with a frown. The name tag pinned


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