# Deathstrike

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

HUNTING THE BIRD OF PREY...

Two of the four guards dropped to one knee

and sprayed the ridge in Carter's direction with

their rifles. The other two, one of them the woman,

raced to the flanks, firing on the run.

The engine was roaring now and the rotors were

picking up speed.

Carter sighted in on the pilot's head. It was a

tough shot, almost impossible. The slugs from the

two kneeling guards were kicking up sand all

around Carter's head and the chopper was mov-

ing, lifting off the desert floor.

Wisely, the pilot was jiggling the machine from

side to side as he got lift. El Adwan had brought

his own rifle into play and was firing at the orange

spurts that Ami's Ingram made in the night.

Then Carter got some peace and quiet. Ami

had zeroed in on the two squatting guards. With

a fanning burst he had raked them, sending them

both flying backward to land, very dead, spread-

eagled in the sand.

It was the lull the Killmaster needed. He sighted

in...


ONE

The morning sky grew from black to gray over the

English countryside as the Pan Am 747 hummed toward

Heathrow Airport.

From a seat in the first-class section, a trim, rugged-

looking man, wearing a dour expression, a tan suede

jacket, and a three-day growth of beard, managed a smile

as the knockout stewardess approached checking each

passenger's seat belt.

When she reached him, she leaned over to whisper in

his ear. "I'm sorry you weren't able to get any sleep,

Mr. Carter."

The powerful broad shoulders shrugged in the expen-

sive jacket. "Comes with the territory, darlin'. What's

the little bastard doing now?"

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NICK CARTER

The girl managed a weak smile and swallowed hard.

"He inst went to sleen.

Wouldn't vou know it"


2

NICK CARTER

The girl managed a weak smile and swallowed hard.

"He just went to sleep. Wouldn't you know it."

"Yeah, wouldn't you."

The little bastard referred to was a five-year-old in the

seat in front of Carter. He had started screaming the

moment the wheels had lifted off the runway at Kennedy,

and he hadn't stopped all the way across the Atlantic.

His total vocabulary consisted of two words—"I want"—

and when he didn't get, he screamed all the louder.

When the mother, a Fifth Avenue type wearing enough

ice to chill a year's martinis, wasn't coddling, she was

ignoring him.

Once, Carter leaned forward. "Madam, do you know

what the word discipline means?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Your child."

"I paid for this seat. I paid for my son's seat. I wish

you would mind your own business.

Carter wanted to say, Lady, do you know who I am?

My name is Nicholas Carter. I work for a man named

David Hawk, who runs a very quiet organization in

Washington, D.C. This organization specializes in termi-

nation... that means killing people. And I'm their top

gun. Right now, lady, I'm on my way to London to kill

a man. I've been looking for the son of a bitch for three

months all over the damn world. I just spent two weeks

chasing him all over South America, and when I found

him, he was the wrong guy. But this guy was just as bad

as the guy I was hunting, so I just went ahead and offed

him. And do you know what, lady? What I'd like to do

right now is off your kid. No, better yet, I'd like to off

you, just to keep in practice, so to speak.

. But he didn't.

T »

DEATHSTRIKE

Instead he'd said,

"I see," and sat back, sighing.

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3

Instead he'd said,

"I see," and sat back, sighing.

When the flight attendant passed by again, he caught

her elbow. "Excuse me ..

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you be a true Samaritan and slip me about three

of those little plastic bundles of joy?"

"Chivas Regal?" she asked, grinning.

"Dandy."

She was back in thirty seconds and dropped the mini-

atures in his lap. "On the house."

"Your sainted mother is very proud of you," Carter

replied, popping one and slipping the other two into his

jacket pocket for the hard times ahead.

Under the harsh glare of the overhead reading light,

the hard lines of his face, the broad forehead, the straight

nose, and the strong, arrogant jawline seemed to relax

as he took a nip. Even the blackness in his dark eyes

mellowed a little.

He ran his hand through his unruly black hair and

sighed again.

Seven hours earlier he had gotten off a plane from

Buenos Aires, fuily intending to cab right to his

Georgetown digs, shower, and fall into bed for twenty-

four hours.

No such luck.

An auburn-haired beauty with body curves not yet in-

vented by geometry had met him at baggage claim. Her

name was Ginger Batemen, and she was David Hawk's

right hand. The moment he saw the bag in her hand he

knew he was in trouble.

"That's my spare bag," he groaned

"Oh, so correct, world traveler. I'm to take your other

one back to your apartment."

T »

"Why?"

"Tano ic

NICK CARTER


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NICK CARTER

"Why?"

"Here is your shuttle ticket to Kennedy. It leaves in

fifteen minutes. Here is your Pan Am ticket. It leaves in

an hour and a half. You'll just make it."

"Make it to where."

"London."

"I don't want to go to London. I want to go to

Georgetown."

"You have to go to London," Batemen said patiently.

"They have a new line on him."

Carter lowered his voice. "Everybody in the world has

a fucking line on him. Do you know what I've just been

through?"

She nodded. "We got your taped report on the wire.

Have a nice trip."

"Wait a minute...'

"Yes?"

"Where do I go when I get there?"

"Someone is meeting you. Her name is Christine."

"Bully, very bully."

Carter finished the scotch as the plane touched down.

Just as it hit the gate, he was the first one up and forward.

Without being asked, the flight attendant passed him

a small wrapped package. In it were the tools of his trade;

a 9mm Luger complete with shoulder rig—a gun he affec-

tionately called Wilhelmina-and a six-inch, pencil-thin

stiletto in a chamois forearm sheath.

The skyway leaked. Through the cracks, he could see

gray and drizzle.

That's all right, he thought, fits my mood

He went through the VIP section of customs on his

credentials. He rarely traveled as Nick Carter, but he

enjoyed it when he did. It was faster.

DEATHSTRIKE


5

"Mr. Carter?"

She was pretty, blond, and even the little blue uniform

couldn't hide her figure. A French designer would have

had a nervous breakdown when he saw what curves could

do to a uniform.

"Christine?"

"Yes, sir."

She handed him an envelope. Carter ripped it open. It

was a note apologizing for the inconvenience and asking

him to please report before going to his hotel.

Carter looked up. "I don't have a hotel and I don't

know where to report."

It was obvious from her big-eyed look that he wasn't

showing enough team spirit.

"It's about an hour away, sir, in North Kensington."

"Grand. Do I grab a cab?"

"I have a car outside, sir. I'll drive you over."

She turned without another word and led the way out

of the terminal and across a puddled parking lot. The

uniform didn't hide a bit of the movement.

"How long has it been raining?"

"Five days now."

She was actually cheerful about it.

The car was a new Land-Rover. Carter threw his bags

in the back and climbed in the passenger side.

"Who do you work for?" he asked.

"MIS."

"What do you do?"

"Drive."

The engine roared to life and drive she did. By the

time they hit the gate of the parking lot, Carter was wildly

groping for the seat belt.

"Do you always drive like this?" he asked.

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NICK CARTER

"Oh, yes."

"Is it an hour, your drive time, to North Kensington?"

"Yes."

"Tell you what. Let's make it an hour and twenty

minutes, okay?"

She slowed down. "Terribly sorry."

Carter unscrewed one of the little bottles.

"MI5 Main

is on King's Road. What's this place?"

"I don't know, sir. I say; what's that?"

"Breakfast," Carter growled

He finished the bottle and went to sleep. He was posi-

tive it was two seconds later when she shook him awake.

"We're here, sir. The tailor shop down the stoop."

"Jolly good." Carter rubbed his eyes and grabbed his

bag. "By the way..."

"Yes, sir?"

"What do you do after you drive?"

"I go home ... to my husband." She took off the

instant the door closed.

Carter headed across the street. The unrelenting rain

fell in sheets and ran like a river into the gutter. He went

down the stoop and through a door with ANDREW CUS-

TOM TAILORING on its frosted pane.

The bell brought a graying man, about fifty, in a sag-

ging suit that didn't advertise the quality of his work.

"Yes, sir, can I help you, sir?"

Carter held open his wallet, held it in front of the man's

face long enough, and said, "Christine sent me."

"Uh, yes, sir. If you'll just follow me."

The Killmaster did, through a workroom, a storage

room, and a locked door. Behind it was a dimly lit hall.

"Last door on your right, sir. They are expecting you."

"Thanks."

DEATHSTRIKE

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7 (19 of 212)

一十 110%

DEATHSTRIKE

Carter hit the door and knocked. At the sound of a

cheery "Come in," he did

It was a small office but large enough to house a desk,

a round conference table, several easy chairs, a rolling

tea cart, and the cream of British intelligence.

Carter dropped his bag and met eyes. There was

Jonathan Hart-Davis, a major string puller from MI6,

Emie Nevers from the Home Office, Claude Dakin, Spec-

ial Branch, and, last but not least, Owen Hamilton, who

practically ran MIS

"Gentlemen," Carter said, "I think we have a quorum."

The laughter was general and friendly. Carter knew

them all and had worked with each of them at one time

or another. He shook hands all around and took an indi-

cated chair.

Someone shoved a cup of coffee in his hand, and

Commander Hamilton took the floor.

"Sorry you missed your man in South America, Carter.

We got a copy of your report from Washington last night."

Carter dropped his eyes and dumped the last bottle of

Chivas from the plane into the coffee.

"It was a plant or

pawn. I don't think Abu El Adwan has been in South

America for two, maybe three years. I think I was sucked

in because I was getting too close to him in Europe."

Commander Hamilton passed a match over his pipe

and sucked hard until it was going. "We're sure of it."

Carter's head jerked up and his eyes, less droopy now,

flashed alert, centering on Owen Hamilton. "How are

you sure of it?

The commander had been sitting. Now he stood, moved

to the wall, and pulled down a map of North Africa.

"There is an oasis, here in the Libyan desert, called

Fasba. El Adwan was spotted there two days ago by one

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NICK CARTER

of Jonathan's MI6 people. He's in place for a meet.

Yesterday morning, your people, Nick, picked up a trans-

mission out of Tripoli, okaying a meeting in Tunisia

between someone in Tunisia and El Adwan in four days."

"With whom?" Carter asked, turning to the MI6 man,

Hart-Davis.

He got a shrug in return.

"Sorry, Nick, don't know

the answer to that one. It could be the Russians...

money, arms."

Carter sipped his coffee. "It's my understanding that

El Adwan was getting too radical even for the Russians."

"Ours as well," Hamilton said, nodding.

"But who

he's meeting is beside the point. The point is, if he's on

the ground, we figured you deserved the shot at him...

if you want it."

"You bet your ass I do."

And Carter meant it.

Abu El Adwan

was insane.

Besides

being a

psychopath, he loved the glory his terrorism engendered.

He loved to kill; one or a hundred, it didn't matter. But

even better, he loved the notoriety that killing gave him.

With Carter's words, the room fell silent. All eyes

were on him.

Even Owen Hamilton himself stood, puffing his pipe,

his eyes meeting Carter's.

"What is it?"

Jonathan Hart-Davis picked it up. "In the past year,

Nick, I've lost two good MI6 men going after this bloody

bastard. Not only that, two more of my men had a shot

at him and missed. The man moves around like a will-o'-

the-wisp and blends in like a chameleon. He never uses

the same group twice for his attacks, and even the ones

he uses don't know anything about him."

DEATHSTRIKE

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"In short," Ernie Nevers from the Home Office said,

"there's not a bloody soul in the world who knows what

the bugger looks like ... except one."

Carter furrowed his brow, concentrated, and then re-

membered: "Ravelle Dressler."

"That's right," Nevers replied. "Do you remember the

story?"

"Some of it, not all."

What he did remember was a brilliant, two-man kill,

all executed within an hour of each other a year before

in London.

Zev Rosenbaum, a prominent London businessman and

a frequent fund raiser for Israeli and Zionist causes, owned

an apartment in the Mayfair section of London. Knowing

that he was a target, Rosenbaum had practically made

his apartment a fortress with elaborate security devices.

Ali Hassain was a Palestinian and a journalist. He was

considered a specialist on the Middle East. As a full-time

columnist for the London Times and a frequent guest on

the BBC, plus a regular weekly Wednesday-morning

radio program, his views were listened to. The odd thing

about Hassain was that he advocated a peaceful solution

to the Palestinian problem: he suggested recognizing

Israel. This made him a marked man.

Both men shared one major flaw: in their personal lives

they tended to be creatures of habit.

Rosenbaum arose each morning at 6:00. For fifteen

minutes he exercised, and then entered his bath at 6:15,

where he took his morning shower. His routine never

varied.

Every Wednesday morning of the year, Ali Hassain

left his apartment in Bayswater near Hyde Park at 6:40

to drive to the BBC for his radio show. A driver always

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NICK CARTER

picked him up on Wednesday mornings in a car from the

BBC motor pool:

On the fateful morning, Zev Rosenbaum stepped into

his shower at 6:15, turned it on, and was electrocuted.

At 6:41, Ali Hassain stepped into the BBC car, and ten

pounds of plastique explosives disintegrated it, instantly

killing him and the driver.

At 7:00 sharp, the telephone rang in the flat of Ravelle

Dressler. Normally at that hour she would still be in bed,

sleeping soundly. She rarely awakened before noon. On

this particular morning, violent stomach cramps had

awakened her at 6:30. It was later learned that the fillet

of sole she had eaten the previous evening at Burdoines

restaurant was slightly contaminated.

The touch of food poisoning that had awakened her

and drawn her into the kitchen-three rooms from her

bedroom - in search of a remedy had saved her life.

At 7:00 her telephone rang. Normally, of course, she

would have answered it in her bedroom. She picked up

the extension in the kitchen.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, darling."

"Good morning, Rahib. Will you be back today?"

Rahib Salubar was the lady's current lover, and had

been for the last three months. The previous evening, he

had left the apartment on business, saying he would be

back in two or three days' time.

Ravelle Dressier never got an answer to her question.

The words had scarcely left her lips when a bomb

exploded in the base of the bedroom telephone, de-.

molishing the room and starting a fire.

One hour later, the newsroom of The Times received

a call. The voice on the phone claimed credit for the

deaths of Zev Rosenbaum and Ali Hassain, and identified

DEATHSTRIKE

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himself as the voice of worldwide revolution, Abu El

Adwan.

It was many hours later that the link was established

El Adwan, posing as a Turkish businessman named Rahib

Salubar, had wormed his way into the confidence of

Ravelle Dressler. He moved into her Mayfair apartment

and became her lover. For three months he rarely went

out. When he did, it was to observe Ali Hassain.

The time he spent in her flat he used to break through

the rear of one of the woman's closets and literally build

himself a passageway between the walls to a similar closet

in the flat of Zev Rosenbaum.

On the Tuesday evening before the Wednesday of the

assassinations, he rigged the shower for Rosenbaum's

death. He then broke into the BBC garage and planted

the remote control bomb that would eventually destroy

Ali Hassain.

The bomb in Ravelle Dressler's telephone had been in-

stalled for days. It, too, was remote-controlled and voice-

activated.

The Dressler woman needed to be killed because of

her intimacy over such a long period of time. She could

identify him. And she was probably the only person in

the world who could.

Ernie Nevers was speaking again. "Of course, we im-

plicated Mrs. Dressler even though we knew she had

been duped. That has been hanging over her head all this

time, as well as the fear that El Adwan would return and

finish the job."

Carter stubbed out his cigarette and groaned. "What

you're saying is that you and Washington want no slipups

this time.

You want an eyeball identification of El

Adwan."

'That's right," Commander Hamilton replied. "We've

T »

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NICK CARTER

contacted Mrs. Dressler, but we haven't given her all the

details."

"You mean you want me to do it?" Carter growled.

"Exactly," Hamilton replied. "And convince her that

it would be in her best interests to help us. You have a

date tonight, Nick. I do hope you have proper evening

wear with you. The woman only goes to the best of

places."


TWO

The long black limousine glided almost silently past

the main gate of the Mitsubishi shipbuilding plant in

Nagasaki. Beyond the gates, even at this late hour, work-

ers swarmed over the hulks of the biggest movable objects

ever built by man: supertankers.

Beyond the main gate, the car turned down a narrow

street and approached an alternate yard. It was completely

obscured by a twenty-foot-high chain link fence backed

by boards, with the boards in turn backed by canvas

tarpaulins so no inquisitive soul on the outside could

monitor the construction on the inside.

There was a single gate. Above it was a logo of the

world spouting oil derricks and crisscrossed with hun-

dreds of heavy black lines. Beneath the logo were the

13

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NICK CARTER

words ST. JAMES LINES and THOR PROJECT. Directly

under this, in big letters, was CONSTRUCTION BY

NAKIMOTO LTD.

At the first sighting of the car, the two diminutive

Japanese guards swung the gate wide. Though they

couldn't see through the smoky gray windows, they stood

back and saluted as the limousine passed through. The.

gates closed the moment it had cleared.

Before the car lay two enormous pods. On the pods,

like two supine skyscrapers, were the hulls of two super-

tankers that dwarfed others being built not too far away

in the regular Mitsubishi plants. Those in the other yards

were mere 250,000-tonners, in one case a 500,000-ton-

ner.

The two ships under construction here on the St. James

Lines pods were one-million-tonners. Each of them, when

completed, would be a quarter of a mile long, a hundred

yards wide, and would draw more than 115 feet of water

when launched. They would be sixteen stories high at

the tip of their superstructure, and would cost one billion

dollars each at completion.

As the car rolled up a steep ramp and then up another,

the rear window rolled down silently and a face appeared.

The man was heavyset, with a finger of neatly trimmed

gray hair around an otherwise bald head. His gray suit

was of the finest quality without being ostentatious, and

he wore a subdued, blue-striped regimental tie.

The seamed face was immobile, but the blue eyes

flashed a diamondlike fire as he gazed down at the two

steel behemoths, Thor I and Thor II. One was practically

completed, the other only a shell.

The man was Hannibal St. James. He was seventy-four

years old and looked every day of it. He had started life

DEATHSTRIKE

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as Theo Stenopoles, the son of a shipwright in his native

Greece. In 1940, he had fled the Nazi surge into his

native country, taking with him a goodly sum of American

money intended for the resistance movement. He had

made his way to neutral South America, where he invested

wisely and worked hard.

The war was profitable for young Theo. By the time

it ended, he was a comparatively rich man.

But not rich enough by far.

He returned to Greece, and in a short time became a

black-market kingpin. This proved even more lucrative,

and Stenopoles looked for safe investments that would

grow. He was a man who always had a vision of progress

and growth. He could see that, in time, the world's need

for oil would increase, as would the need to transport

that oil.

Through bribery, intimidation, and clever financial ma-

neuvering, Stenopoles cornered a large segment of the

oil export business from small Third World countries

before the rulers of those countries realized the worth of

their oil.

Thus Octagon Petroleum was born. Soon after, oil

brokerage houses all over the world emerged bearing the

Octagon logo. This was when Theo Stenopoles began

looking around for a fleet of ships to buy.

He didn't have to look far, nor did he have to buy.

Jeffrey St. James had spent his entire life building up

the St. James Lines. At the peak of his success, at age

fifty-six, Jeffrey St. James died. Childless, he left every-

thing to his wife, Clarissa.

Clarissa was a charming, not overly intelligent woman

who had brought nearly as much money to the marriage

as Jeffrey St. James would eventually make.

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NICK CARTER

When Jeffrey died, Clarissa was becalmed in the sea

of life. She had lost the husband who had cared for her

and pampered her, and she was swiftly losing the beauty

that had once made up for her lack of brains.

Theo Stenopoles saved the day. He married the aging

Clarissa and took over her money and her name. He

added Hannibal to the St. James, and became a British

citizen.

For ten years, Hannibal was a faithful husband. This

was easy for him; sex sapped the energy he needed to

make money. Clarissa demanded nothing but clothes,

jewels, servants to pamper her, and advisors to manage

her money.

Hannibal St. James provided all of these in abundance,

with the stipulation that Clarissa leave him alone. This

she did right up until the night she died in a boating

accident off the south coast of France.

Clarissa's death was providential. It gave Hannibal

complete control and allowed him to tell her bankers,

advisors, and solicitors to go to hell. He expanded his

empire, investing in Japanese industry, gold, and Califor-

nia land. He also made heavy investments in the new

rage that was sweeping oil shipping: supertankers.

At the height of the world's oil shortage in the 1970s,

St. James had another vision. His supertankers were mak-

ing a fortune. Why not build two super-supertankers? He

would build two ships that would make the current

monsters seem like canoes by comparison.

He called it the Thor Project.

The international banking world considered the project

crazy and unworkable. They were convinced that if any.

thing went wrong, it could bankrupt both of St. James's

companies.

DEATHSTRIKE

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Hannibal St. James had never been wrong in the past,

and he was convinced that he wasn't wrong now. With

Thor I and Thor II, he could so control pricing that he

could undercut other lines and scuttle them. Eventually

he could buy them up and control the movement of the

world's oil.

He told the bankers to go to hell, and underwrote the

entire project with his personal fortune.

However, for the first time in his life, Hannibal St.

James had made a mistake. The doomsayers had proved

correct. Because of falling inflation and the world oil

glut, petroleum prices took a nosedive. Suddenly there

was no need for supertankers, least of all supertankers

of the one-million-ton class.

St. James saw the handwriting on the wail. He stopped

work on Thor II, and shifted all the men and materials

of Nakimoto Ltd. to Thor I. Now it was imperative that

the huge ship have her maiden voyage as soon as possible.

If she didn't, Hannibal St. James might very well spend

his twilight years on the dole.

Sitting in the limousine now, staring down at the nearly

completed ship, St. James contemplated the enormity of

the plan he had put into motion nearly one year before.

Its end result would be one of the world's biggest disas-

ters.

But St. James could give a damn about the world. His

only interest was in saving his companies.

As Hannibal St. James contemplated the giant steel

hulk of his only folly, the man who sat beside him con-

templated St. James.

His name was Oliver Estes, a dapper, diminutive man of

sixty-four, with sharp features that were not softened by

his small goatee and mustache. His dark eyes, behind

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NICK CARTER

gold-rimmed spectacles, had a way of focusing on an

object until his brain had assimilated every particle of

that object.

Oliver Estes was the chief comptroller of the huge

Octagon conglomerate, and in all things he mirrored his

employer's thinking.

In the whole world, only Estes knew where the bodies

were buried. But he would never tell. He couldn't. Even

if he was alive, he was one of the bodies. St.

James

owned him.

Years before, Estes had been a lowly accountant with

Octagon. But he was a brilliant one. He managed to

embezzle nearly five million dollars from the company

coffers. Only the old man himself had discovered the

loss. To Estes's surprise, instead of being fired and jailed,

St. James had elevated him to the second-most-exalted

position in the company.

In the years since, he had become the instrument by

which St. James destroyed anything-and anyone-in

his way. He had bribed heads of state, ruined the economy

of many a small nation, and ordered the assassination of

more men than he could remember.

And soon he would again play messenger, this time

for the most heinous act St. James had ever conceived

But, like his employer, Oliver Estes thought nothing of

it. In fact, a great deal of the plan was his own conception.

'Hannibal, they're coming.

St. James turned in the seat in time to see three men

emerge from the shadows and approach the car. The first

of the three was small, slightly stooped, and walked with

a slight limp. He was Akiri Nakimoto, head of Nakimoto

Ltd., one of the largest shipbuilding concerns in the

world. The two men trailing him were his sons.

DEATHSTRIKE

He opened the door and bowed slightly.

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He opened the door and bowed slightly.

"Akiri-san," St. James said. "It is good of you to meet

me on such short notice."

"It is my honor."

"Please, get in... sit!"

The old Japanese took the jump seat across from St.

James, while Estes closed

and locked the door.

Nakimoto's two sons moved back, lit cigarettes, and eyed

the windows their eyes couldn't penetrate.

"Will you meet the deadline?" St. James asked, coming

immediately to the point, his tone brusque.

The old Japanese nodded. "Definitely. In fact we

should finish one, perhaps two days ahead of schedule."

"Excellent, excellent," St. James said, his skin stretch-

ing taut over his gaunt features in a non-smile. "And

your sons have followed my orders precisely?"

Nakimoto swallowed audibly and his narrow eyes

darted between the two men. He seemed to have trouble

formulating a reply. When at last he spoke, his usually

flawless English was tinged with an accent.

"Precisely, yes. Only a very few of our people, and

those we trust implicitly, have any knowledge of the final

materials."

"Then why," Estes asked, "are our contacts at Lloyd's

in London so positive that they have sent an investigator?"

Nakimoto began to sweat visibly. "If your insurer is

doing an investigation, I am sure it is only fragmentary,

from the outside. There are no English or Americans on

the work crew. Every person who has handled the con-

struction materials, or worked on the ship itself, is

Japanese."

"For God's sake, you old fool," St. James barked,

"don't you think Lloyd's is capable of hiring a Japanese

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NICK CARTER

investigator to find out the quality of the Thor 1?'

"Yes, yes, I suppose-"

"Suppose nothing," Estes said, interrupting the other

man. "Lloyd's has somehow learned of the lower grade

of steel in the storage tanks. They have also learned that

the backup radar system has not been installed. I have

managed to placate them and cover up these shortages.

But they must receive no more inside information."

"Also," St. James said, chiming in,

"we received a

copy of the order invoice for a backup computer system.

We canceled it."

Nakimoto's eyes grew wide with shock and the hands

in his lap began to shake.

"But that is madness. Should

the primary system be disabled for any reason, there

would be no way to monitor shift and expansion in the

tanks without the backup system!"

St. James leaned forward and gently rested his hand

on the Japanese man's knee. "Akiri-san, your job is to

build the ship. My request is that you build it to my

specifications. You will do that, won't you?"

Again a long swallow, and then a nod. Nakimoto was

building a sailing disaster and he knew it. With inferior

materials and unskilled labor, he had cut over ninety

million dollars from the building costs.

He hated what he was doing, but he would do it. Like

Oliver Estes, Akiri Nakimoto was owned by Hannibal

St. James.

"And, Mr. Nakimoto," Estes said,

"the Thor I leaves

Japan in three weeks. I want no more information going

to London in that time. Go over your list of workmen

again."

"But what if I find a suspect?"

"My chauffeur's name is Horst Layman," St. James

DEATHSTRIKE

21


21

replied. "Mr. Estes and I are leaving tonight. Horst will

remain. Here is a number where he can be reached. When

you learn the identity of the informer, call him. He will

handle it."

Nakimoto pocketed the slip of paper and shuddered.

He bowed once more and left the car to walk on, supported

by his sons.

The door had barely closed behind him when the

limousine was in motion.

"What do you think he will do," Estes asked, "when

he learns what has happened?"

"Hopefully," St. James replied, 'he will kill himself.

After all, it is the Japanese way.

T »


THREE

It was the kind of situation Carter hated. Since her

affair with El Adwan, Ravelle Dressler had obviously

feared for her life every moment. If that were not bad

enough, the British authorities had held her complicity

with the terrorist as a sword over her head.

Asking her to cooperate was a form of double blackmail

that turned the Killmaster's stomach. But he knew it was

a necessary evil. The worst part of it was the fact that it

was Carter who had to do the convincing.

Good evening, Mrs. Dressler. My name is Carter. I

would like you to give up your creature comforts, strike

out into the desert, and put your ass on the line while I

waltz you up to a man who would desperately like to see

you dead!

22

DEATHSTRIKE

23


23

Simple.

The cab eased to a halt across from the building housing

Ravelle Dressler's flat. Carter paid the driver, and

checked his watch.

He was twenty minutes early.

Good, he thought, and spotted a pub a few doors down.

Gratification.

"Good evening, what'll it be?"

"Chivas. Better make that a double."

"Bad day, eh?"

"Worse night."

"Right."

The scotch helped. It burned all the way down and

mellowed as it settled.

Carter walked out of the pub and crossed the street.

Everything about the building was posh, including the

Italian marble foyer and the doorman in the middle of it..

"May I help you, sir?"

"Dressler."

"That will be Five-A, sir. Shall I ring you up?"

"No need. I'm expected."

"Right you are, sir. Lifts are there to your right."

There were only two apartments to a floor. Hers was

on the left. Carter knocked, and the door opened at once,

as if she had been standing behind it.

She probably was, Carter thought, forcing a smile.

"Good evening, Mrs. Dressler, I am-"

"The American, I know."

She didn't invite him in, but let her eyes examine his

face and then float down over his tuxedo-clad form.

Carter countered the examination with one of his own.

She was an older woman, naturally; voluptuous in a

strapless, garnet red lace-over-satin dress. An opera length

double strand of pearls accented the thrust of her breasts

24


24

NICK CARTER

and added to the effect of her height. She was nearly as

tall as Carter.

Her hair was glossy black, worn sleek and shining like

a mirror, drawn into an elaborate knot at the nape of her

neck. There were no bags under her eyes, and the brows

above them had been plucked to an elegant arch. She

had tiny lines from her patrician nose to her thin, artfully

painted lips.

Carter only glanced at the lines, but she caught him

at it. She lifted her hand, the wedding finger laden with

an enormous baroque pearl and diamond ring, and

touched one of the lines.

"I laugh too much," she said, her proper English only

slightly tainted with her native Turkish accent.

"That's good," Carter said. "There's not enough laugh-

ter in the world."

The words seemed to relax her. She smiled, and her

face glinted with the beauty that she once possessed,

before the years had crept over her, before she had the

eye-lift responsible for the smooth, tight look across the

upper part of her face.

Carter wondered why she hadn't gone the whole route

and had the laugh lines softened. Then he realized that

would have made it necessary for her to abandon the

sleek hairstyle to hide the scars.

"Shall we go?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry, I haven't asked you in. How stupid of me

... not very hospitable."

"That's probably because you're nervous."

"You're too polite, Mr....?"

"Carter. Nick Carter."

"Of course."

She caught up a short jacket of garnet velvet and a

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25


25

glittering evening bag. "I've made reservations at Col-

ombe. Do you know it?"

"I'm afraid not," Carter replied.

"It's new."

She spoke only once in the cab. "Why have they sent

you?"

"To identify someone."

"Rahib?"

"That's right. Except that his real name is Abu El

Adwan."

She shuddered, and then managed a smile and a sighing

quip. "Good old Ravelle, the terrorist's moll. What a

bloody fool I was."

The vast, newly decorated dining room was filled with

flowers and the whisper of music from a good dance

band. Most of the peach-covered tables were occupied.

Several couples were dancing. All sound was subdued,

blending into the music. Waiters moved about quickly,

unobtrusively.

The maître d' escorted them to their table. It stood out

from the wall, which was latticed and on which fresh

flowers had been placed thickly enough to cover it.

They certainly don't stop at expense, Carter thought,

knowing that, by morning, the fragile blossoms would

be dead. They would have to be replaced every afternoon,

not long before the diners began to arrive.

A steward came with the wine list. He presented it to

Carter, who looked across the table inquiringly.

"God, no." Ravelle smiled. "Scotch, a double."

"Make it two," Carter said.

The steward left so quickly that Carter was surprised

he was gone.

"No waste of time," he said, and grinned

"They are paid to be quick," she replied, her eyes

26


26

NICK CARTER

narrowing as they met Carter's. "You're different."

"Than who?"

"The others who have been browbeating me for the

past year, the ones who come around with their rude

questions and keep shoving photos under my nose."

"What kind of man was he?"

"Rahib? ... Or, as you call him, El Adwan? I'm sure

you've read my statement.

"But I'd like to hear it directly."

"He was charming, very handsome, and he had a beau-

tiful body. Also, he was quite a good lover. Are you a

good lover, Nick Carter?"

"I've had no complaints."

"Good," she said, smiling a real smile for a change.

They dawdled over dinner for an hour and then, be-

tween brandies, danced. She was a lithe, smooth dancer.

Her body didn't really move, it glided. Carter remem-

bered that she had been a professional dancer in Istanbul

when she met her husband.

He asked.

"It's not much of a story. My parents were financially

comfortable. I was well educated. They died in a plane

crash when I was eighteen. In two years, I managed to

go through every penny of my inheritance. I had no skills,

but I was fairly attractive and I had a quite striking body.

I could be a prostitute or a belly dancer. I chose the latter.

I danced for five years. Then, one night, I met Dressler.

He became infatuated and we married. We were married

for twenty years. There was a great deal of money. We

were society. We had many friends. Then it happened."

"What happened?" Carter asked, already knowing

"He fell in love. Sixty-one years old, and he fell in

love with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.

Eighteen years old... eighteen!"

DEATHSTRIKE

"Did she look like you when you were eighteen?"

27


27

"Did she look like you when you were eighteen?"

"The spitting image. But he was generous. He settled

a million pounds on me. He admitted I'd been a good

wife, but said that this great new 'love' rendered him

helpless."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead. He made some terrible investments and lost

every sou. He shot himself, and his great 'love' took to

the streets of Soho. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Even more ironic is the fact that we had the same

money manager, a chap named Oliver Estes. Dressler

went broke on Oliver's advice, and I profited. It was at

one of Oliver's parties that I met Rahib... excuse me,

El Adwan." She shook her head. "I can't imagine him

having such a name. It seems so overly dramatic."

Carter instantly came alert. "That wasn't in your report

to the Home Office. In the report you said you met him

by chance in a nightclub."

Her face suddenly glowed pink. "Well, in polite society

you don't exactly meet a perfect stranger at a posh party,

know him for fifteen minutes, and be romping with him

in one of your host's upstairs bedrooms!"

"But you did?"

Her face gained a deeper flush. "Yes, frankly, I

couldn't resist. And then, about a month later, I met him

at a private gambling club. I hardly recognized him."

"Why?"

"At the party, he had a black beard and I could have

sworn his eyes were blue. At the club, he was clean-

shaven and his eyes were dark brown."

The man is a chameleon. He can change to blend into

any situation....

"This Estes chap . . . how well did he know El Adwan?"

28


28

NICK CARTER

"Hardly at all, I think," she said with a shrug.

"I had

the feeling that Rahib arrived with a little blond twit who

was a professional bed partner for visiting VIPs."

Carter made a mental note of this, and signaled, for the

check.

In the cab, he explained the situation. He was scarcely

halfway through when her complexion lightened several

degrees.

"Are you mad?" she cried. "If I got close enough to

identify him, I'd be putting my neck on the chopping

block!"

"Not really," Carter replied calmly. "You'll go into

Tunis on a forged passport. You'll be gowned and veiled

as a Moslem woman. You speak perfect Arabic, and I'll

be watching over you every second of the time."

Silence, a lot of it.

"I can't do it," she said at last. "I've lived in too much

fear of him for a year. I would break —I know I would."

"You would be safe. All I need is a positive identifica-

tion. Once you've done that, your part is over."

Suddenly she whirled in the seat. "What happens after

I identify him?"

Carter weighed her mood, the look in her dark eyes,

and the tenseness in her body.

He decided to go for broke.

"I'm going to kill him."

Her first words inside the apartment were, "T'll get

comfortable."

Carter knew it was only the prelude, but he didn't

mind. In the last three hours, Ravelle Dressler had grown

on him. He knew she was thinking, thinking hard, and

if his hanging around until ham-and-eggs time would

DEATHSTRIKE

help her come up with an answer, so be it.

29


29

help her come up with an answer, so be it.

He found snifters and a bottle of good cognac at the

bar. By the time he poured, she had returned and cuddled

up on one of the sofas.

"Cheers."

"Cheers," she replied, naked except for a midnight

blue lace peignoir. She sipped from the glass and lowered

it slowly from her lips. "I'll bet you're beautiful naked."

"Men aren't beautiful," Carter said, moving in beside

her.

"It depends on who is doing the looking."

She smiled at him, slowly, the laugh lines cutting deep,

and he smiled back. Somehow the glasses found the coffee

table without spilling. Her lips came up to meet his, and

they kissed with a fierceness that fueled the desire in both

their bodies.

His tongue circled and probed, riding along her teeth,

and then met her tongue. She moaned deep in her throat

and her body arched, telling him what he already knew.

"Put your arms up," he murmured

She did, and her breasts peaked up into two hard points

beneath the lacy gown. They rose and fell with her breath-

ing as he grasped the hem of the gown and inverted it.

Then he peeled it up, over her head until she was naked.

"You are beautiful," he said.

"You... you don't have to do this, you know."

'This is pleasure, not business," he whispered.

He slid both palms down around her neck, her collar-

bone, then outward to the top curves of her breasts. Her

lips quivered and her own hands went to work on his

clothing. He continued with his hands to the soft lower

swells of her breasts, carefully avoiding the nipples,

which stood out like twin jewels in identical mounts.

30


30

NICK CARTER

His mouth watered for them, but still he touched only

the tender skin surrounding them. Her breasts were heavy,

swollen with desire, and they filled his palms.

"Stand up," she ordered breathily.

He stood, and moved his hands around to her back as

she removed his clothes. When she finished, he turned

her back to his front and pulled her tautly against him.

"I can feel you," she gasped.

"How can you not?" he whispered, as his hands moved

into the hollow above her navel and his lips kissed her

naked shoulder.

"My nipples," she begged, "touch my nipples!"

He did, and the effect was electric. Suddenly they were

sinking as one to the floor, her distended nipples drilling

into his palms.

She lay back on the soft carpet, her hair spreading

outward like a dark halo. As Carter moved over her, she

reached up and caressed his face. He raised his head and

looked down at her. Her eyes slowly opened and closed,

telling him of her need. His eyes darted back and forth

over her voluptuous form, and his body trembled with

excitement.

Suddenly she pulled herself up toward him, her lips

hungrily covering his with a warm, damp pressure. Carter

could feel the tip of her tongue flicking back and forth.

He opened his mouth wide and slid his lips over hers,

stiffening his tongue and pushing it inside. Her tongue

curled around his as one of his hands moved between

her thighs, his fingers working in the moistness they

found there.

"Oh, God, hurry ... now!" she gasped. "I'm ready

for you!"

Carter bent over her and trailed his lips down her silky

skin from her throat to one of her breasts. The tip of his

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31


31

tongue flicked across the bud of her nipple, and a soft

cry came from her lips. He let the nipple slide into his

mouth and gently sucked on it.

Her breath hissed out through her teeth as his lips and

tongue slowly moved down her stomach until his chin

brushed her inner thighs. He lifted his head, letting his

moist breath caress the lower part of her stomach. He

put his hands on her thighs and held her fast as he stimu-

lated her with hard, quick touches of his tongue.

"Please, please!" she pleaded, arching her lower body

toward him and flinging her head from side to side.

Carter moved up over her. Her face was flushed and

drawn with passion. Her lips were pulled back from her

teeth. They were moist and crimson, and her eyes flashed

with anticipation.

Her hand moved downward, found him, and guided

him inside her. He pulled her hard against him until the

breath was forced from her lungs in a scream of fulfill-

ment.

A wave of sensation roared through his body as they

were joined. She wiggled her hips as she arched her back

to take him, deeper and deeper.

Carter gripped her waist and rocked his hips, slowly

floating on a blissful cloud of sensual enjoyment as he

felt her warmth engulf him.

"Good," she whispered, matching him movement for

movement, "so good."

They moved together, increasing the pace of their

lovemaking until it became the fury of climax.

Slowly he slid to her side. "You're a wildcat," he said

huskily.

"And you're an animal," she purred. "I wouldn't miss

it."

"What?"

32°


32*

NICK CARTER

"North Africa," she replied. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow night." Her lips kissed their way down

over his chest and stomach until they found him. "If I'm

alive."


FOUR

His name was Ishu Tanaki. He had been trained in

England and the United States as a maritime engineer

specializing in seagoing salvage. He was fluent in

Japanese, English, and Mandarin Chinese. For the past

five years he had worked for Lloyd's as an investigator.

In that time, he had saved them millions in fraudulent

claims in salvage. Now he was on to something that

would make all his earlier jobs insignificant by compari-

son.

The previous afternoon, the International Maritime

Commission representatives had gone over the Thor I

with a fine-tooth comb. They had barely left the ship,

pronouncing her seaworthy and meeting all standards,

33

34


34

NICK CARTER

when an elite crew of dismantlers had come aboard.

Secretly, beyond the eyes of the workmen putting the

finishing touches on the huge tanker, this crew had dis-

mantled the backup radar system, the communication

system, and the ever-so-important emergency backup sys-

tem that controlled the flow and seepage in the gigantic

tanks that would soon hold several hundred thousand

barrels of crude oil.

Tanaki, as a stress expert, had the run of the ship. His

job was to make sure that the huge plates of steel that

made up the undersea hull of the tanker and the plates

of the tanks inside the hull would give and take with the

pounding of the sea.

Tanaki had seen and photographed the dismantling of

the ship's backup navigation and safety systems. When

that information was passed along to his co-worker from

Lloyd's, Carolyn Reed, then relayed to London, a full-

scale surprise investigation could be ordered and the sail-

ing date of the Thor I scuttled.

Tanaki was a thorough man. He wanted one more nail

in the coffin of St. James Lines and Nakimoto Ltd. For

the past week he had spent his lunch hour deep in the

bowels of the Thor I with a portable spectomagraph, an

instrument that tested the grade, durability, strength, and

thickness of steel. In that time, he had worked from the

bow amidships and from the stern amidships, on the outer

and inner hull. Now, on this last day before handing over

his figures to Carolyn Reed to run through her magic

computer, he was testing the tanks themselves.

Like a shadow he moved through the deepest compart-

ments of the ship, the huge boiler and engine rooms

housing the giant dynoturbines, among the forty-foot-high

banks and generators and turbo-alternators, inside the

DEATHSTRIKE

35


35

air-conditioning and ventilating plants— all the vital or-

gans that made the Thor I a self-contained city at sea.

By the time he was ready to return to the regular job

that had brought him aboard the Thor I, he had more

than enough data to give to Carolyn Reed. And even

without the hundreds of calibrations and equations her

computer would make, Ishu Tanaki knew that the Thor

I at sea would be a floating time bomb.

In a small hotel just across from the huge Hamacho

shopping arcade, Horst Layman waited and drank. He

would have liked to take a little time out and gone down

to the port, to one of the hostess bars, to find a woman.

But he had no idea when the call would come. Hannibal

St. James's orders had been to sit and wait. So Horst

Layman sat and waited. He always followed Mr. St.

James's orders to the letter, no matter what they were.

Like Oliver Estes and so many others, Horst Layman

was owned, body and soul, by Hannibal St. James.

He was a grotesquely large man, with blunt features,

blue eyes that seemed opaque, and brush-cut gray hair.

He seemed to have no neck, so his massive head sat

directly on his equally gargantuan shoulders.

Layman had once been a bouncer in a Berlin nightclub,

with ambitions of becoming the heavyweight boxing

champion of the world. Two things thwarted his ambi-

tions. One was the fact that his speed never matched his

massive strength. The other was his propensity for drink

and what it caused him to do ... kill people, usually

women, most often prostitutes.

For years, his habit went undetected. When he was

finally caught, it was not by the police but by Hannibal

St. James. Rather than turn him over to the authorities,

36


36

NICK CARTER

St. James hired him. It was the perfect solution for Horst

Layman. He could go on with his odd life, as long as a

certain percentage of the people he terminated were the

enemies of Hannibal St. James.

The bottle came to his lips and the last of its contents

disappeared, a portion of the liquid dribbling over his

chin. It was the second bottle he had consumed in as

many hours, and he seemed surprised that it was gone.

In disgust, he threw it aside and reached for the tele-

phone to order another. Just as the beefy fingers curled

around the instrument, it rang.

"Yes?"

"Mister Layman?"

"Yes." He recognized the tenor voice and accented

English of one of Akiri Nakimoto's two sons.

"His name is Ishu Tanaki. He is on the second shift,

working tonight. His shift ends at midnight. He has a

small flat at Eight Shimbasi, in the Okon section. He

drives a late-model Toyota, green, license 484-10-991.

Do you need to know anything else?"

"No. You are sure he is the man?"

"Yes. A check of his locker and an eyewitness to some

of his lunchtime activities have confirmed."

"Good."

Horst Layman hung up the phone and lumbered from

the room. His movements were steady and his eyes were

bright and clear. There was not the slightest indication

that he had just consumed two fifths of scotch whiskey.

Ishu Tanaki threw the last of his clothing into a soft-

sided flight bag and surveyed the room for anything he

might have missed. Only his notebook remained. He

slipped that into his coat pocket and moved across the

room to the phone.

DEATHSTRIKE

37


37

He had tried Carolyn Reed's hotel four times in the

half hour since he had left the shipyards, and there had

been no answer. This, the fifth time, produced results.

The calm, cool voice with the very British accent picked

up on the first ring.

"It's me. I've been trying to reach you."

"A conference call with London. I had to take it in the

lobby exchange. It seems they are very nervous about

our last two reports."

Tanaki chuckled. "They should be. They will be even

more nervous after tonight. I'm packing it in. I've got it

all."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. Either St. James is planning to never launch

the Thor, or he's going to scuttle her. I've got positive

specs. I'll see you within the hour."

"T'll be packed."

Tanaki hung up and grabbed his bag. He opened the

door, took one step into the hall, and was suddenly flying

through the air. He hit the far wall, hard, and slipped to

the floor, little rockets exploding behind his eyes. When

he could focus again, he saw an enormous man close the

door and move toward him.

The nearer the man got, the larger he got. Tanaki

closed his eyes, strained them, and opened them again

in hopes that the mountain of flesh in a dark suit would

disappear.

It didn't.

One hand gathered the front of Tanaki's sweater and

he was yanked into the air. The powerful fingers of

another hand wrapped around his throat.

If Tanaki hadn't gotten the message before, he got it

now. The enormous blob with the big head meant to kill

him.

38


38

NICK CARTER

The little Japanese lashed out with both feet, burying

his toes in the other man's gut. There was a grunt and a

wide-eyed stare of surprise from the giant, but nothing

more. Tanaki followed the kick with a blast from both

palms to the man's ears.

This produced results, a growl of pain and a back-

handed blow across the mouth that sent Tanaki back

across the room. He lifted himself on one elbow, spitting

teeth and snarling.

"Come," the giant said, placidly motioning with a huge

hand

Aside from everything else he'd mastered, Ishu Tanaki

was also an expert in martial arts. He came in low, did

a flip onto his hands, and aimed a vicious, bone-shattering

kick at the other man's jaw.

Only the jaw wasn't there. Nothing was there except

air.

Again Tanaki was airborne. But this time he was ar-

rested in mid-flight when the giant grasped his wrists.

At the same time, both arms were wrenched up to his

shoulder blades. There was a twin cracking sound, and

the Japanese knew that both his arms had been broken.

He started to scream, when a hand slapped the sound

back down his throat. Then he was up against the wall,

blood streaming from his broken nose. Through the misty

tears of pain in his eyes, he could see the other man's

leering face, his thick lips spread wide over yellowish

teeth in an evil grin of sheer delight.

Not only does he plan to kill me,

Tanaki thought, but

he plans on getting a great deal of enjoyment out of the

act.

The little Japanese knew then that he had nothing to

lose. He reared forward, colliding his forehead with the

DEATHSTRIKE

39


39

man's nose. He continued the motion until he could sink

his teeth into the side of the giant's throat.

It was futile. The man had no neck, and what Tanaki

could reach was pure gristle that not even the strength

of his jaws could penetrate.

The hands came up. They curled around Tanaki's

throat. Now there was no emotion in the wide, flat face;

even the grin was gone.

'Why?" Tanaki managed to gurgle.

It was the last word he spoke.

When the body stopped dancing, Horst Layman drop-

ped it to the floor. He removed his coat and pulled on a

pair of surgical gloves.

Then he went through every item in Tanaki's pockets,

wallet, briefcase, and flight bag. All the reports, notes,

and personal items, he placed in the briefcase.

His car was parked in a narrow alley behind the apart-

ment house. When the bags were in the rear, Layman

returned for the body. When it was safely in the trunk,

he returned to the tiny apartment and made a last check.

Tanaki himself had left a note for the old mama-san

who handled the apartments. Layman couldn't read

Japanese, but the yen —and the way it and the note were

placed on the dresser so they wouldn't be missed-told

the story.

Ishu Tanaki had been forced to leave before his time

was due. The money and the note explained it all.

Carefully, the big man locked the apartment, slid the

key under the thin mat over the tatami floor covering,

and returned to his car.

He drove north around Peace Park, and then past the

railroad station toward the huge new industrial city outside

the old town. When he was in the center of a hundred

40


40

NICK CARTER

belching smokestacks, he turned down a narrow, almost

pitch-dark street, and passed through a large gate. Nor-

mally, these gates would be closed and locked. Tonight

they were open. At a loading dock, he stopped.

There was a sign in both Japanese and English high

above the dock, embedded in the brick wall of the build-

ing. It said MISHI STEEL WORKS-A DIVISION OF

NAKIMOTO LTD.

A half hour later, Ishu Tanaki and his personal belong-

ings had become one with the black smoke blasting from

the chimneys above the huge Mishi smelters.

Horst Layman drove north, toward Tokyo, with the

Japanese man's briefcase on the seat beside him.


FIVE

They caught the evening flight from London to Paris.

Then it was an AXE safe house, where Carter underwent

i skin-darkening process, a change in hairstyle, and the

ddition of a heavy dark mustache.

No makeup was needed for Ravelle Dressler. Only a

light change in hairstyle and the wardrobe of a devout

Moslem woman transformed her into a traditional Arab

vife.

They emerged as Monsieur and Madame Kalimendar

f Paris, he a professor of African civilizations at the

¡orbonne, she his dutiful wife complete in robes and veil.

At eight the next morning, they were on a plane to

Come for a connection to Tunis. Flying time from Rome

41

42


42

NICK CARTER

to Carthage was one hour. They landed at three, and had

only a one-hour wait for the connection commuter flight

to Medenine.

The plane was an ancient two-prop job left over from

another time, and the pilot looked like a teen-ager.

But it flew, and an hour later they were heading it over

the Gulf of Gabes and banking south for the approach to

the desert town of Medenine.

Ravelle's hand gripped Carter's like a vise when the

wheels came down.

"It's only the landing gear.

"Iknow," she replied. "That wasn't what scared me."

"What then?"

"That."

Carter leaned across her and glanced out the window.

For as far as the eye could see there was heat haze and,

beneath that, nothing but Sahara sand.

He understood. Somewhere out in that vast nowhere,

in two days' time, they would be trying to find the man

who would dearly love to see both of them dead.

"Watch your veil," he murmured. "Here we go."

They had the brief impression of mountainlike sand

dunes rushing toward them, quickly replaced by the white

and tan of buildings.

Then they were down, the undercarriage nuzzling the

runway, a couple of camels to their right pausing to look

with boredom. at the noisy bird invading their tranquility

Very slowly, the plane rolled to a halt in front of a

haphazard collection of sheds.

"What the hell is this?" Ravelle asked.

"The airport," Carter whispered in reply.

"Oh, my God."

"And don't look so surprised. We're old North African

hands, remember?"

T »

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43

He took her case and followed her down the gangway.

Outside, the heat hit viciously, blurring the outlines of

the nearby buildings. Over the concrete shack that seemed

to be the control tower, a windsock bellied with wind

one instant and went limp the next, only to belly suddenly

in the opposite direction.

Carter could now understand the swing-and-sway land-

ing.

Tunisia's small-country status between two larger,

politically dissimilar countries-Libya and Algeria-

made its government a little spiny about travelers away

from the regular tourist coastal areas. The city of

Medenine was a good example. Three army officers

awaited them in tiny booths with turnstiles marked Cus-

toms.

As they filed in, Carter gave Ravelle her case and

slipped into the line in front of her. If they asked tricky

questions, he wanted her to get the clues to answers from

him.

The shoit line moved slowly between railings. This

was due to the fact that all three officers were working

one booth. They wore old-fashioned tunics, buttoned up

to the throat. Two of them, older and squat, looked as

if they were masquerading as officials. The third was

younger, fresh-faced, and all business when he took the

two passports.

"Monsieur Kalimendar . .

how long will you be

staying in Tunisia?" His French was fluent and precise.

"Two, perhaps three weeks," Carter replied.

"And the purpose of your visit?"

"I will be doing some research for a book on Sahara

oases and their peoples."

"You were born in Paris ...'

"That is correct."

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NICK CARTER

His intense eyes swiveled to Ravelle. "But your wife

was born in Fez, Morocco," he said in staccato Arabic.

"I have been a naturalized French citizen for ten years,"

she replied, also in perfect Arabic with only a slight

variation in accents.

Back to Carter. "And where will you be staying, mon-

sieur?"

"The Hotel Africa... for the time being."

He handed the passports back with the suggestion of

a smile. "Enjoy your stay in my country."

"Thank you."

They both made their way to the baggage claim.

"His eyes made my skin crawl," Ravelle whispered.

"All customs people have eyes like that," Carter said,

and grabbed their bags from the few that were left. The

luggage had already been checked by customs in Tunis.

Outside, there were three cabs. Carter held back until

the first in line was taken by another couple. They dived

into the second, a four-door Fiat that had probably been

ancient the day it was born. The desert did that to both

people and machines.

"Hotel Africa."

The driver nodded, grunted, and they fled in a cloud

of black smoke.

Carter sat back in the seat, glad of the air that seemed

cooler as it rushed through the cab's open windows.

Medenine had once been a tiny oasis with a few mud

huts and few people. Now it was considered a city, with

fifteen thousand souls and a lot of mud huts. But it did

have a souk and a mosque. The Hotel Africa was near

the entrance to the souk or old city and marketplace. That

was why Carter had chosen it. That, and the fact that it

advertised modern, Western-style rooms with security

locks on all doors.

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45

A modern deadbolt lock on a door might not stop Abu

El Adwan, but it might deter him or slow him up for a

while.

The hotel was the tallest structure around, five stories.

t was painted white and looked cool. A porter carried

n their bags. The concierge had dark skin, no smile, and

an assessor's eye. He acknowledged the reservation,

ourth-floor corner with a private bath.

Carter registered while the passport numbers were en-

ered in the police book, and paid the first night in cash.

"And how long will you be staying, monsieur?"

"A week, perhaps two."

The concierge snapped his fingers and gave the key to

a baggage man. "Four-oh-six," he barked, and the little

man, bags in hand, hit the stairs. There was a reason for

this; no more than two people could fit into the ancient

caged elevator.

Carter tipped the baggage man and locked the door

ehind him.

It was a big room with a balcony. A connecting door

was locked and bolted on their side.

Ravelle's first move was to shed the heavy robes and

veil. Her next was to dig a bottle of scotch from her bag

and fix two drinks. She served him one, looking very

provocative in only a bra and pair of brief panties.

Carter had to smile. "You lack proper Moslem mod-

esty."

"It's a myth that those bloody robes are cool. Cheers."

"Cheers."

They drank, and Carter noticed that the smile faded

vhen the glass came away from her lips. In the light

rom the open doors to the balcony, the fine lines around

er eyes were more pronounced. There was a look of

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NICK CARTER

resignation in her face. The gaiety of the past two days

was gone.

"What now?" she asked.

"I make contact. A merchant in the souk named Harik

Sabone is on our side."

She moved to him, her eyebrows at an even greater

angle than usual. "You're leaving me alone?"

"Have to. It will only be for an hour, two at the most.

You'll be safe. Just lock and bolt the door behind me,

and let no one in no matter who they say they are."

"If anyone so much as touches that door, I'll pee my

pants.»

Carter laughed and brushed her lips with his. "Take a

long, cool bath. I'll be back before you know it."

"You couldn't leave me a gun or something, could

you?"

"You'd probably shoot yourself. And besides, I don't

have one."

Her knuckles went white on the glass. "You don't have

a gun?"

"Shh, not so loud. It would have been too risky with

customs. That's another reason I have to see Sabone."

He noticed, as he left, that she was refilling her glass

with scotch, to the top.

He waited until he heard both locks click in place, and

then took the elevator to the lobby. The concierge scarcely

looked up from his newspaper, and the porter dozed as

Carter passed him and walked into the harsh glare of the

late-afternoon sun.

The entrance to the souk was two blocks to his left.

He turned right and lit a cigarette as he meandered through

the newer part of the town. When he was sure that he

wasn't being followed, he worked his way back and en-

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47

tered the almost dim, narrow walkways of the old mar-

ketplace.

Once inside the souk, he walked briskly. He only had

general directions, but the area wasn't large enough not

to cover in a short time. It took only ten minutes to find

the shop. The windows were cluttered with carpets, old

swords and daggers, brass cookware, and assorted desert

brick-a-brac. In arabic and French, the sign read HARIK

SABONE, ANTIQUES.

Carter entered a small café across the street and ordered

coffee. For another ten minutes he sipped the thick liquid

and watched the shop. No customers entered or left, and

twice he saw vague movement through the windows.

Satisfied, he paid and moved across the street. After

letting his eye catch something in the window, he entered

to the tinkling of a small bell above the door.

A tall, fat man in a shabby, three-piece suit sidled

through a pair of frayed curtains. He was smiling, but

the smile just hung there, as if the man forgot what it

was for. His bald head was damp with perspiration, the

flesh-rimmed eyes were lusterless, and the corpulent

cheeks sagged like the breasts of an overused whore.

"Good afternoon. May I help you?" the man asked in

guttural Arabic.

"My French is better than my Arabic," Carter replied.

"Then may I help you in French?"

"You are Monsieur Harik Sabone?"

"I am."

"My name is Kalimendar. I understand you have a fine

collection of sixteenth-century Berber hand weapons."

The man's face could be extravagantly mobile. As it

was, only an eyebrow was raised and the saggy cheeks

jiggled only a second.

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