# Retreat For Death

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At the bottom of the mall, I turned to head across the

toward the speedboat, but I lost my footing and

féll down, my face smashing into the concrete. Pat im-

mediately scrambled away from me.

J jumped up as one of Seidelman's men raced across

the dock directly at me. I had just enough time to

sidestep his charge and drive my fist into his solar plex-

us.

He doubled over, and as he started to go down, I

hammered both fists into the back of his neck.

Six of Seidelman's goons were on me then, their fists

smashing at my face, neck and chest.

Before I went down I managed to kick one of them in

the groin, but then a fist the size of a side of beef seemed

to materialize out of nowhere. It hammered me in the

face and everything went dark. I heard Pat scream some-

where off to my right. .


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A Killmaster Spy Chiller

RETREAT FOR DEATH

A OIVISION Of CHARTER COMMUNICATIONS INC.

A c,eosser COMPANY

51 Madison Avenue

New York. New York 10010


ONE

At ten thousand feet the Maryland countryside

looked like a relief map, with toy houses and toy

cars, a smudge on the horizon to the south, the toy

city of Washington, D.C.

The wind tore at the open door as I stood oh the

edge, looking down.

Overhead, on the bulkhead, the light turned

from red to amber, and I made sure my timer was

set to zero and my altimeter agreed with the

overhead dial.

The light winked green, and I stepped out,

pushing myself slightly forward, and I was falling.

For just a moment I went unstable, heading for

a tumbling fall, but then I was gliding, spread

eagle, with little or no feeling of speed, only the

wind buffeting my body.

It was mid-winter and very cold so that my face

began to go numb, and my fingers in the thin

gloves were stiffening up. But I loved it, and when

Hap Thurmond, our Washington-based training

coordinator had asked if I wanted to participate in

the exercise, I had immediately agreed.

I was between assignments at the moment, and

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in fact, David Hawk, the director of AXE, had told

me three days ago to take a vacation.

Working as the nightside duty station chief,

when little or nothing was going on, was boring,

and I had decided to head south somewhere for a

couple of weeks as soon as this exercise was com-

pleted.

For two days now, flying out of the CIA's field

in Langley, we had run exercises, jumping from as

low as one thousand feet, to as high as twenty

thousand on oxygen.

Today's jump, according to Thurmond, was

going to be a bit of a surprise.

I was just about to glance down at my timer,

when something slammed into my back, knocking

the wind out of me, and flipping me totally out of

balance, so that for a wild second or two I was

tumbling completely out of control.

I caught a glimpse of at least three figures above

and beside me, before I had flipped back into a

stable position, and then someone from far above

hit me like an eagle swooping down on its prey,

and the two of us were out of control.

Whoever it was on top of me, had one arm

around my throat and his legs wrapped around my

waist.

I tried to twist around to break his grip, but then

there was a cold rush of air on my back, and he

released me and pushed away, with my main and

emergency parachute packs.

The straps around my legs and shoulders came

loose in my hands from where he had cut them,

and when I looked up and around, I could see that

I was surrounded by four men in dark flight suits,

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all of them in freefall with me, but all of them

equipped with chutes.

One of them broke away from the others,

tightened up his body position and began to ac-

celerate down and to the east, away from me. In his

right hand he carried a spare chute.

The panorama of the Maryland countryside,

which seconds before had seemed so lovely and in-

viting, now seemed terribly close and threatening.

I tightened up my body position and glided

down toward the rapidly retreating figure of the

diver with the spare chute as the other four grinned

and waved wildly at me.

Thurmond, it was rumored around AXE head-

quarters, was totally insane. At one time, he had

held a killmaster designation just like mine, for the

super secret action-intelligence agency. Although

Hawk would never talk about it, confirming or de-

nying any of the rumors, most of us believed-that

Thurmond had gone around the bend on an assign-

ment in China, nearly bringing the entire world

into a nuclear confrontation.

He had supposedly been pulled off operational

status, but because he knew too much, he had not

been put out to pasture; instead he had been given

the job of keeping operational field men, such as

myself, in top physical and mental shape.

But this now, was too much, even by Thur-

mond's standards.

My altimeter and timer pack had been stripped

away with my parachutes, but I didn't need them

to know that I was coming dangerously close to an

altitude where even with a parachute it would be

too late.

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The diver was expecting me, and as I began

matching speeds with him, he looked up, grinned,

and released my parachute pack. He peeled off to

the west, popped his own chute, and was gone

above me.

I concentrated, then, only on reaching the falling

parachute pack. Moments later I reached it and

quickly pulled it on, tightened the straps, and

yanked the ripcord.

But nothing happened. I looked up in time to see

the other three divers coming down fast toward me

as I clawed open the pilot chute's cover, grabbed a

handful of the silk and fed it out.

For a maddening second nothing happened, but

then the wind caught the chute, it spun up and out,

dragging the main chute with it, and I was jerked

violently upright, the ground only a few hundred

feet below me.

Just before I hit, I looked up. One chute was a

few hundred yards to the east, and the other three

were almost directly above me.

I hit hard, rolling with it, and instantly I leaped

up and popped the quick release on my harness. I

raced across the farm field toward where the other

diver was going to land.

It usually takes a very long time for me to lose

my temper, but the quickest way to cause me to is

for someone to do something very stupid and very

dangerous.

The other diver, coming down now for his land-

ing, had qualified in spades on both accounts.

He landed near the edge of the farm field while I

was still about fifty yards away, and by the time I

reached him, he had popped his own quick release

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and was standing there calmly waiting for me.

It was Thurmond himself. I hadn't realized he

was in the aircraft.

S' What the hell was that all about?" I shouted.

He was laughing. ' 'That was a good job, Nick.

You did just fine."

'VI did just fine?" I couldn't believe what I was

hearing. "Why, for Christ's sake?"

"l thought you might have been going a little

soft. You haven't been out on an operation in near-

ly four months."

I stepped a little closer to him. "Training for a

specific operation is one thing," I said. "We're

geared for it. But this now, today, was sheer insani-

ty."

"What? Nick Carter is going soft on me—

Thurmond started to say, when I bunched up my

right fist and hit him in the mouth with everything

I had.

His head snapped back, and he went down, but

just for a moment, before he jumped back up with

a razor-sharp parachute rigger's knife in his right

hand.

I backed up a step. Thurmond was about ten

years older than me, but the man was as hard as

nails, and a world-ranking expert in several martial

arts, including the use of a knife. Besides, he tech-

nically was on our side.

"Hap!" shouted one of the other divers, as he

approached us running across the field. The others

were right behind him.

"Stay back!" Thurmond screamed.

"For God's sake, man!" one of the other train-

ing officers shouted.

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"I'll kill you all!" Thurmond screamed, spittle

flying from his mouth.

I held out my right hand. "All right, Hap, the

game is over now," I said. "Put down the knife."

He lunged at me, and I had to quickly sidestep to

avoid the slash of his knife. I knew what was com-

ing then. I had been in enough hand-to-hand com-

bat with the man; so I feinted to the left, as I had

been taught to do, but instead of following through

with the classic maneuver as I had been taught, and

pulling back to the right, I continued to the left,

falling to the ground and tumbling away, as

Thurmond swung the blade right.

He realized his mistake, and started to pivot to-

ward me, when one of his officers came up behind

him and clipped him neatly behind the right ear

with the butt of his pistol.

Thurmond went down like a felled ox, and he lay

there unconscious.

"Jesus Christ," one of the officers swore, "what

the hell happened?"

"I hit him," I said.

"No, I mean up there with the parachute?"

I turned to him. "You tell me what happened,

Don," I snapped.

"It wasn't part of the training scenario. I swear

it, Nick."

One of the other officers was shaking his head.

"I didn't know what the hell the crazy bastard was

up to," he said. "He was supposed to hit you, grab

your chute, back off until you stabilized, and then

hand you the spare he was carrying."

"We didn't know what the hell to think when he

took off like that," Don said.

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I glanced down at Thurmond who was still un-

conscious. 'VHow far from the target zone are we?"

Don looked around to get his bearings. ' 'Just

past the line of trees over there to the west."

He

said. 'SA mile, maybe."

"All right, give me a hand with him then," I said.

"This training exercise is over with."

' 'Yes, sir," Don said wholeheartedly.

It was late, well after six P.M., by the time we got

Thurmond back to the dispensary at Langley,

where the doctor said he probably had a mild con-

cussion and would be out through the night at

least. And it was well after eight by the time I had

changed my clothes, retrieved my car and drove

back into Washington, to AXE headquarters on

DuPont Circle.

I parked in the sub-basement garage of the

Amalgamated Press and Wire Services Building.

AXE's worldwide operational front, and took the

elevator up to the duty room on the third floor.

AXE, as a separate entity from the Central In-

telligence Agency, and from all the other similar

services within the U.S. government and military

establishment, has been in existance since the fif-

ties. It came about during the McCarthy witch

hunts, when the CIA suddenly found itself

hamstrung for lack of autonomy. There were too

many watchdogs on what the service was doing.

Things got much worse as time went on, and in the

sixties and seventies when the CIA came under

even harsher fire, AXE thrived.

Answerable only to the President and his council

of security advisers, AXE has no charter as such,

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like the CIA. Instead, our job is to be always ready,

willing and able to handle anything that needs to

be done, at any time and in any place.

There is, as far as we're aware, no other govern-

ment in the world that fields such a service.

The nightside crew was well into its shift as I

stepped off the elevator and crossed the large room

to my office in a glass-enclosed cubicle.

Rudolph Schmidt, the foreign desk analyst,

looked up as I passed.

"Your phone's been ringing off the hook all af-

ternoon," he said.

I went back to his desk and took the pile of tele-

phone message slips from him. They were all from

the same person, Pat Staley. I hadn't seen her in a

couple of years. At one time we had been pretty

close, when she had worked for us as a low-level

cryptographer. She had quit the agency when her

parents were killed in an airplane accident and had

gone to work for the Staley Foundation, managing

her parents' huge estate.

"She sounded a little anxious," Schmidt said, sit-

ting back. He was grinning.

"Did she say she was in town?" I asked. She

lived now in New York City.

"There's a number there. I think it might be the

Marriott. "

"Okay, thanks, Schmidty," I said. "Is Hawk still

here?"

"No, he left an hour ago, but he told me to tell

you if you came in that he would take care of

Thurmond, whatever that means."

"Thanks," said. "Anything happening around

here tonight?"

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"Nothing much," he said.

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J nodded and went the rest of the way across the

room and into my office where I sat down behind

my desk, lit myself a cigarette, and then dialed the

number Pat had left for me.

It was answered on the second ring. "Good eve-

ning, Twin Bridges Mariott."

"I'd like to speak with a Miss Pat Staley," I said.

"I believe she's registered there."

"One moment please," the operator said.

Pat had to be about thirty now, and I had always

thought she was one of the more beautiful women

I had ever known. She was bright and fiercely inde-

pendent, and yet she had never been one of those

strident women liberationists. She knew who she

was, what her abilities were, and she had never felt

the need to go out and prove anything to anyone.

"Hello," her voice came on the line moments lat-

er.

"Pat?" I said. "This is Nick Carter."

"Thank God you've called, Nick," she said in a

rush. She definitely sounded worried.

"What's the matter, Pat?" I asked.

"I really need your help, Nick," she said. "Can

you come over right away?"

"I can be there in fifteen minutes. How about

dinner right there?"

"Fine, fine, I don't care, just get here, Nick," she

said, obviously very upset.

"Can you tell me now what's wrong?" I asked.

"No," she said tersely. "Just get over here. I'll

meet you at the bar."

"I'll be there," I said, and she hung up.

I slowly put the phone back on the cradle and sat

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i

back in my chair for a moment. Something was

wrong. She had sounded nearly hysterical, as if she

was on the verge of a breakdown.

She had taken her parents' deaths pretty hard,

and for a time she had seen a psychiatrist. But there

had been nothing wrong with her. Just normal

grief.

Up in New York City, from what I had heard,

she had done well with her parents' foundation,

which financed development projects for under-

privileged people all over the world. And between

the foundation and her younger brother, Donald,

her world was complete. She had no longer needed

the kind of relationship we had had. And we had

simply drifted apart.

But now it seemed as if she had come unglued. It

either had something to do with the foundation or

with her brother. I didn't have the faintest idea

what I could do to help her with either.

I made it across town, over the Arlington Me-

morial Bridge, then down the Washington

Parkway to the large hotel complex just across

from the Pentagon, within half an hour. When I

went inside, Pat Staley was waiting for me at the

bar. She didn't see me at first, and I stood just

within the doorway and watched her for a few sec-

onds. She was still as beautiful as I remembered

her, perhaps even a little morc so, although her

hair was done up in a bun, and she wore a very

conservative business suit.

She spotted me when I was halfway across the

bar, and she jumped off her stool, taking her drink,

and met me, pecking me on the cheek.

'SThank God you've come," she said, looking

around. "Let us sit over there," she said, motion-

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ing toward an empty booth near the rear of the

room.

I guided her over, and when we were settled, and

I had ordered a bourbon and water, she reached

out for my hands, squeezing them hard.

"It's Don," she said. "He's gone."

"Your brother?" I asked.

She nodded shakily. "He's been gone for an en-

tire month now, and I don't know what to do any-

more. "

"Gone where?"

"With that group. It's a religious cult. And Stew-

art called just this morning to tell me that Don had

signed everything away. That's why I came down

here. You have to help me. Please." She said all

that in a breathless rush.

"Hold on a minute, Pat," I said. "You have to

slow down. Start at the beginning, and tell me

everything. "

The cocktail waitress came with my drink, and

when she was gone, I looked deeply into Pat's eyes.

"Now start at the beginning," I repeated.

She shook her head, looking away for a moment.

"There isn't much for me to tell you, Nick," she

said. "Because I simply don't know much of the

story."

"Tell me what you know then," I said. ' 'You

asked for my help. Well I'm here now."

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. "About

six months ago, Don met some people out on the

west coast. He was looking into the conditions in

the bario in Los Angeles for us."

"Don is working for the foundation now?" I

asked.

"Yes. He graduated from college last year. Top

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honors. According to our parents' will, when he

graduated he was to be made a full director of the

foundation."

"Go on," I prompted.

"Everything was fine for the first month or so

after he got back from California, but then he

started getting these weird telephone calls at all

hours of the day and night."

"From who?"

"l don't know. I don't even know what they

were all about. But Don became very secretive all

of a sudden. " She looked at me, and she seemed so

helpless at that moment. "Don and I were always

close, but suddenly he clammed up."

"Then what happened?"

"He took a trip out to Chicago, and ten days

later, when he came back, he had totally changed.

He was like a zombie."

"So what happened in Chicago?"

"I don't know. He just told me that he finally

understood everything. But I had our attorney,

Stewart Atterbury, hire someone to follow Don.

And within a week the detectives reported back

that Don had joined a religious cult whose head-

quarters are in Chicago. Something called The

Church of the Final Reward."

"All right, so your brother finally got religion.

What then?"

"He just got weirder and weirder. He wouldn't

talk to me; he stopped doing all his work. And

then .

she stopped a moment. "And then we

think he started giving money to the crazy cult he

had joined."

"His money, or the foundation's?"

"His money," she said, hanging her head. "But I

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had to have Stewart check it out. I was frightened

of what he had become."

"There's more?" I asked. "You said he had dis-

appeared?"

She nodded, tears coming to her eyes now.

"Four weeks ago he went to Chicago, and we

haven't had a word from him since. No letters, no

postcards, no phone calls, nothing."

"Did you try calling the church's headquarters. "

"Yes, and they said they never heard of him."

She opened her purse and withdrew a document.

"Yesterday, Stewart got this in the mail. He

showed it to me this morning."

I took the document and held it up to the light so

that I could read it.

"It's legal," she said.

At first I couldn't quite make any sense of it, but

finally I understood. It was a letter drawn up by

Donald Staley, and signed by him, willing every-

thing he owned to The Church of the Final Re-

ward, on the event of his death.

When I was finished reading, I looked up at Pat,

the tears were streaming down her cheeks. ' 'You

have to help me, Nick."

"How much of the foundation belongs to

"l don't know. I guess around fifty million. But

that's not it, Nick. I think those crazies out there in

Chicago have brainwashed him into signing this,

and now I think they plan to kill him."


TWO

left Pat in her room at the motel around eleven-

thirty, first making her promise me that she would

remain there until morning. I didn't think this was

going to turn out to be anything more than a

younger brother going a little crazy. Yet when fifty

million dollars was involved, ånything could hap-

pen.

She had seemed a lot calmer than at dinner, and

I told her that I would be back around eight in the

morning to pick her up for breakfast, and then get

her out to the airport. She was due back in New

York by noon.

It was a Friday night, so there was a lot of traffic

as I headed back into town, but I really didn't pay

much attention to it, as I tried to piece together

what little Pat had been able to tell me.

From what little I had known about Donald

Staley, and from what Pat had added, it brought to

mind the image of a very bright young man, with

an even brighter future.

Pat had never really wanted to become involved

in the Foundation. She had merely taken the job

because there was no one else for it. Within a few

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years, it had been her plan to let her brother take

on more and more of the responsibilities.

She had wanted to move south somewhere. She

had toyed with the idea of the Sarasota, Florida

area. Perhaps she would choose one of the Keys,

where she would settle down in a beachfront home

and write, something she had always wanted to do.

The change she had described in her brother's

behavior over the past months had come about too

suddenly for me to believe it was merely another

stage in his development.

Someone had meddled with Don's mind. There

was little doubt about that. And there was even less

doubt as to why they had done it. They wanted his

money.

But, and it was a very large but, was the cult

religion Don had become connected with ruthless

enough to consider murder?

Fifty million dollars was at stake here. A tremen-

dous amount of money. A fortune by any account.

And money made people do extreme things.

Murder among them.

I parked again in the basement garage beneath

the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services Build-

ing, signed in with the night guard, and took the

elevator up to the duty room.

Schmidt was there, briefing the mid-shift duty

crew, and they all looked up as I came in.

"How was your date, Nick?" Schmidt quipped

as I came across to him.

"Have you got something going tonight,

Schmidty, or can you hang around awhile and give

me a hand?"

The on-coming duty officer looked sharply at

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NICK CARTER

me. "If this is official, Nick, we can handle it for

you."

I shook my head. "Strictly personal for now, Pe-

ter. "

Schmidt nodded. "I'll stick around for awhile,"

he said, and he followed me across to my office.

I took off my jacket, loosened my tie and rolled

up my sleeves before I sat down behind my desk.

"Something wrong with Pat Staley?" Schmidt

asked.

"With her brother," I said. "And for now I want

this kept quiet. Just between you and me. If we

come up with anything, anything at all tonight, I'll

talk to Hawk about it in the morning."

"It's all right by me. What do you need help

Quickly I told Schmidt everything I knew about

Don Staley and the Staley Foundation, as well as

what Pat had told me at the Marriott.

"The Church of the Final Reward," Schmidt

said thoughtfully. "Something like the Moon cult?

Or Jonestown?"

"I have no idea, but it's a possibility," I said.

"Get yourself down to archives. I want a computer

search on the church, especially its directors. Then

you'd better dig out Pat Staley's file. She used to be

a low-grade cryptographer here. There may be

something in her jacket on her brother that came

up on the background investigation. "

"Anything else?"

"You'd better see if we have anything at all on

the Staley Foundation, and exactly when and how

Pat's parents were killed. -It was an airplane acci-

dent a couple of years ago," I said. "Oh yes, and

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check to see if we have anything on the

Foundation's attorney, Stewart Atterbury."

"l doubt if we're going to find much here or over

at the agency," Schmidt said. "It sounds more like

something the FBI would have."

"That's what I'm going to be doing. I have a

friend over in the bureau. I'm going to roust him

out, and see what he can come up with."

"All right," Schmidt said. "When I come up

with anything, I'll pump it up here."

I was flipping through my telephone index as

Schmidt was going out the door. Within a second

or two I had found the number I was looking for,

and I had the nightside operator dial it for me.

John Carver had been a young CIA o!ficer in

Korea during the conflict, and had remained in the

Middle and Far East well into the sixties before he

finally got out of the agency and went to work with

the bureau.

I had first met him in Vietnam in 1964, and had

worked with him again on an assignment in New

York City in the mid-seventies.

The first time we had met, my cover was as a

CIA operative. Carver had never learned any dif-

ferently. He still believed I was with the company.

I had saved his life, through a chain of lucky cir-

cumstances, and he had never forgotten it. From

time to time now we would have lunch and a cou-

ple of drinks together, and he always picked up the

tab.

' 'If there's ever anything I can do for you, Nick,

I want you to call me. Day or night. I mean it," he

had told me on more than one occasion.

I was going to take him up on it now.

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He answered his phone on the third ring.

"John, Nick Carter," I said.

"Nick, you old bastard, I was just thinking

about you," Carver boomed. He was a large,

boisterous man. "l was going to give you a ring in

the next day or so to see if you wanted to get to-

gether for lunch."

"Possibly next week," I said. "But listen, John, I

need a big favor."

"Now? Tonight?"

"If possible, John."

"Absolutely. What do you need?"

"I want you to go down to the bureau and look

through your computer files for some information

for me."

"Official or personal?" he asked, his voice

guarded.

"Personal. But if you can't . . ."

"Bullshit," Carver said. "Tell me what you need,

and you'll have it, if I can get to it."

Once again I repeated the story Pat had told me,

ending up with the fact that I had someone helping

with the records at this end.

"Sounds like something we might have, if they've

done anything wrong," Carver said. "I'll be down-

town within twenty minutes. Give me a couple of

hours to run a preliminary search and I'll get back

to you. Where can I reach you?"

I gave him my home phone number, and he

agreed to call as soon as possible.

When we had hung up, I instructed our operator

to monitor my home phone, and transfer any calls,

in the blind, up here to my office.

J sat back for a moment then. I had set a couple

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of wheels in motion. If there was any information

to be had about The Church of the Final Reward,

between Schmidt and Carver we would come up

with it.

But after that, I was going to have to bring it to

Hawk and get his blessings to continue. Although

I technically was on vacation now, as a holder of

the killmaster N3 designation, I was theoretically

under constant control by AXE, and therefore

David Hawk. Everything I said or did could possi-

bly have an effect on the service and therefore on

the United States.

After a while I went out into the duty room

where I got myself a cup of coffee. Back in my of-

fice I had our operator check to see if there was a

listing for the church in Chicago.

She called back a minute or two later with a tele-

phone number and an address on the Loop, down-

town Chicago.

Schmidt was the first in with his report, around

three o'clock. He had pulled Pat Staley's file and

had brought it with him, along with a single sheet

of computer runoff.

He laid them both down on my desk. "There

wasn't much here or over at the agency," he said.

"Give it to me from the top," I said.

"Pat Staley is clean. So is her brother, at least

according to our files and Pat's background in-

vestigation. Their parents died in the crash of their

Lear jet on takeoff from LaGuardia. National

Transportation and Safety Board gave the incident

a clean bill of health. Unforseen clear air tur-

bulence. The pilot lost it and couldn't recover be-

fore they hit the ground."

20


20

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NICK CARTER

"How about the church?" I asked.

"There's the printout," Schmidt said pointing to

the sheet he had laid on my desk. "In 1974 they

negotiated with the government of Brazil for the

purchase of a fairly large tract of land, ten thou-

sand acres, somewhere up the Amazon from the

town of Manaus."

"And?" I prompted.

"And that's it, Nick. There was absolutely noth-

ing else about the church, about Pat or her brother

or their parents or the foundation or their at-

torney. "

"You cross-indexed everything?"

"l checked and rechecked, Nick. Honestly, there

is nothing else in our files, or the agency's files on

any of this."

I had feared as much. "Thanks anyway, Schmid-

ty."

"Anything else you need tonight?"

"Not a thing. Go on home to bed."

"Anything from the Bureau yet?"

I shook my head, and Schmidt got to his feet.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Probably," I said absently, and I didn't hear

Schmidt leave. What the hell did the church want

with ten thousand acres of jungle along the Ama-

zon? From what I could recall of my geography,

Manaus had to be at least a thousand miles inland.

Was it another Jonestown? And had Don been

taken there?

Carver called half an hour later, apologizing for

taking so much time and for coming back to me

nearly empty handed.

"You had nothing on the church?" I asked.

RETREAT FOR DEATH

21


21

('We did have a file, but from what I was told it

was a very small one."

"Where is it now?"

"It's over at the Justice Department. Stewart At-

terbury, the Staley Foundation's attorney, filed a

complaint against the church over Donald Staley's

will. "

I hadn't thought of that possibility. Atterbury

was just doing his job, trying to protect Don and

the foundation, but I was going to have to tell Pat

to call him off for the moment until I could look a

little closer into this.

"Do you have any idea what the file contained,

John?"

"No specifics. But it had something to do with a

complaint lodged by the daughter of an elderly

couple. In their eighties, from what I could gather,

At any rate, it seems as if they joined the church,

willed everything they owned to it, and then a

month later committed suicide."

"Jesus," I swore half under my breath.

"Nick? Is it what you needed?"

"Just fine, John, just fine. I've got to run now,

but I'll call you next week, and we can have lunch

together. This time I'm going to buy."

"Sure thing . . Carver said, and I hung up.

Christ. The will first, and then suicide. The

Church of the Final Reward.

Pat was definitely correct. Her brother was in

danger. Very serious danger.

I grabbed my coat and left my office. Across the

duty room I had the nightside officer book me on

the ten-thirty A.M. flight from National Airport to

Chicago's O'Hare, and told them to leave a

22


22

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NICK CARTER

message for Hawk that I would check in before I

left, to explain everything.

Downstairs I got my car and drove quickly back

across town to the Marriott. There was very little

traffic at this time of night, and I made it there in

something under fifteen minutes.

Fifty million dollars. The figure kept running

through my head. A little old couple had com-

mitted suicide, willing everything they owned to

the church. The daughter's objections had ac-

complished nothing.

If the church had been behind that, and had

somehow caused the suicides, the church would

certainly do everything within its power to get its

hands on Donald Staley's fortune.

Killing him or forcing him into suicide was only

a part of it. For that kind of money, I was sure that

the church would allow no one to interfere. Cer-

tainly not his sister.

But little old couples, idealistic young men, and

helpless women were one thing. I was something

completely diffeJ ent.

Pat had evidently not been sleeping because she

answered my knock almost immediately. When she

was certain it was me, she opened the door and let

me in.

"What is it?" she cried. "Did you find him?"

' 'Not yet, Pat, but you're going to pack your

things and come with me now."

"What's wrong?" she said, alarmed.

c 'I'll explain on the way. Get dressed and get

your things together. We're getting out of here."

She was wearing a nightgown, and she went into

the bathroom, coming out a minute later dressed in

RETREAT FOR DEATH

23


23

slacks and a sweater. Together we threw her things

in her suitcase and makeup bag, grabbed her coat,

and went down to my car.

"What about my bill?"

"Send it to them," I said. "Your're staying at my

place for the rest of the night."

"Why? What did you find out, Nick?"

I explained only part of what I had found out,

leaving out the business about the old couple. But

I told her that the church was probably looking for

her right now. If and when they caught up with her,

they would try to pressure her into calling off her

investigation into her brother's disappearance.

"They'll do anything to protect their hold on

Donald and his will," I told her. "For now I don't

want you to do anything to force their hand."

"But I have to be back in New York by noon."

"And you will be," I said. "It's just that you'll

stay the rest of the night at my place, and tomor-

row you'll take a different flight on a different air-

line up to New York."

"But what about Don? What in God's name are

they doing with him?"

"I'm going to find that out for you, but in the

meantime, Pat, is there anyone you can stay with

up in New York? I don't want you going to your

apartment."

. . ." she started to say.

"Stewart

' 'Not him," I said. "Anyone else?"

She shook her head. "There's no one."

"How soon will you be finished with your

work?"

"Four maybe five o'clock."

"Fine, then I want you to come back down here.

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24

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NICK CARTER

I

Drive your own car. Stay at my apartment until I

get back."

"Where are you going?"

"Chicago. But I'll be back later tonight, or Sun-

day at the latest."

She was worked up again, almost at wit's end. I

reached out and caressed her cheek. "It'll all work

out in the end, Pat, you'll see," I said with more

conviction than I felt.

Don had been gone a month, and only two days

ago his will came in the mail. They had presumably

worked on him all that time. Even if I could get

him away, didn't know how much of him—the

real Don Staley—would be left intact.

Pat was booked on a nine o'clock flight, and be-

fore I left I made sure she was in a cab heading for

the airport. Then I went back to AXE head-

quarters, where I went directly up to Hawk's office

on the fifth floor.

His secretary seemed harried, but when I came

in, a look of relief flashed across her eyes.

"He's been waiting for you," she said. She

buzzed Hawk. "Mr. Carter is here," she said.

"Send him in," Hawk's voice came over the in-

tercom.

She buzzed the thickly padded door for me, and

I went in, crossed the room and sat down in front

of Hawk's desk.

He was a man in damn good shape with a thick

shock of white hair. No one within AXE knew his

correct age although guesses ranged from a low of

the mid-fifties, to a high of the early eighties.

To me, David Hawk was ageless. He was just

RETREAT FOR DEATH

25


25

Hawkt The hardbitten, cigar-smoking director of

AXE, my boss, and the closest thing to being my

father that he could be without actually being just

that.

"Chicago is not exactly the best place this time

of year for a vacation, Nick," he growled.

"No, sir," I said.

"All right, what the hell have you gotten yourself

involved with now?" he said. He picked up a cigar

and lit it, as I went through the entire story for the

third time. This go around, however, I left

absolutely nothiné out. Including the fact that at

one time Pat and I had had a relationship.

When I was finished, Hawk seemed to think a

moment. 'You think this kid is in danger?"

: 'Yes, sir," I said.

He thought a moment longer. "Should the agen-

cy become involved in this?"

"Not yet, sir. But I'll need some of our re-

sources. If it turns out to be purely personal, I can

reimburse the agency out of my own pocket."

"All right," he said. He sat forward. "I tele-

phoned a friend over at the Justice Department this

morning. He tells me they've started their own pre-

liminary investigation into this church."

"Yes, sir," I said. "Stewart Atterbury contacted

them."

"It's not Atterbury, although they have his com-

plaint as well."

"Not Atterbury?"

"It's the Brazilian government. They're begin-

ning to get worried about what's happening in their

own jungles,"

"Why don't they do something about it?"

26


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NICK CARTER

"There's too much money involved, from what I

was told," Hawk said. "Thc Church of the Final

Reward has known assets in excess of one billion

dollars in this country alone. They have more in

Brazil."

"Good Lord," I said softly.

"Good Lord, exactly," Hawk said. "Religion, or

at least this cult's brand of religion, is big business.

And when that kind of money is involved, people

who interfere can get hurt."

"Yes, sir."

' 'Be careful, Nick. Be very careful. Technically

we have no business being in this investigation.

Justice is handling it for now. But I'm giving you

my go ahead on this. And you'll have AXE's back-

ing. Unofficially, of course."

"Yes, sir,"

I said again, getting to my feet.

leave for Chicago this morning."

"I know," Hawk said. "Good hunting."

"Thank you, sir," I said, and I headed toward

the door, but Hawk stopped me.

"Thurmond said you handled yourself pretty

well out there yesterday."

I didn't turn around. "Is he all right?"

"Mild concussion," Hawk said. "He'll be back

to work within a week."

I couldn't believe it. ' 'Yes .

I started to

say, but Hawk interrupted me.

"We're setting him up down in Phoenix. He's

going to be rewriting all our field-training man-

uals. "

I turned around and looked at Hawk. There was

a stern expression on his face.

"Good luck, Nicholas,"

I nodded and left his office.


THREE

My flight touched down at Chicago's O'Hare

Airport a couple of minutes after noon. I had my

overnight case sent over to the Airport Hyatt Re-

gency Hotel, then had a quick sandwich at one of

the terminal restaurants, and finally took a cab

downtown.

The weather was cold and blustery, snow blow-

ing down the long, traffic-clogged streets.

It was just one-thirty when the cabby dropped

me off in front of a large building marked with

nothing but the number 809 in large brass figures

above the revolving doors.

The first floor was taken up with a bank of

elevators and several. dozen small shops, most of

them selling religious books and items.

There were uniformed guards at the elevators

and an information booth where many of the peo-

ple coming and going stopped to get passes.

A pleasant young woman was seated at the

booth and when I stepped up, she smiled.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I hope so," I said. "J was told that The Church

of the Final Reward is headquartered in this build-

ing."

28

27


28

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NICK CARTER

€ s Yes, Sir?"

"I'd like to talk to a representative of thc church,

if you can direct me to the proper office."

"What is this in regard to, sir?" the woman

asked.

' 'A friend of mine joined a few months ago, and

I'm trying to locate him."

"l don't think there's anyone here who could

help you . .

' she started.

"His name is Don Staley, and I've come from

the Foundation with some new financial informa-

tion. It's very important that I speak to someone

who might know where he is."

A tall, distinguished looking, well-dressed man

in his early fifties was just passing, and he stopped

and came back to the booth.

"It's all right, Cindy," he said to the girl, and he

turned to me. "You say you've come from the

Staley Foundation?"

"Perhaps," I said. "It's very important that I get

in contact with Don Staley. Financially very im-

portant. If you could be of some help?" I let it trail

off.

"Be glad to do what I can for you, Mr. . 0"

"Carter,"

I said. "Nick Carter." We shook

hands.

"Michael Seidelman," he said. "Why don't you

come up with me, and we'll see if we can do some-

thing for you, Mr. Carter."

I followed him through the gate and to one of

the open elevators. As I passed the building direc-

tory, I glanced up at it. The only listings were for

the first five floors, and all the names consisted of

attorneys at law. There were no listings for any of

RETREAT FOR DEATH

29


29

the floors above the fifth, although this had to be at

least a twenty-story building.

As the elevator doors closed, Seidelman inserted

a key in a slot, twisted it to the right, and punched

the button for the nineteenth floor. There were

only two floors above that one.

When the elevator began to rise, he removed the

key and looked at me and smiled.

"You say you work for the Staley Foundation?"

"Not exactly," I said. "I'm a friend of the fami-

ly."

"Then you know Patricia," he said. ' 'How is she

doing these days?"

"Just fine. A little busy ever since Donald .

ever since Donald decided to branch out on his

own. "

Seidelman said nothing else until we were de-

posited on the nineteenth floor.

The elevator opened onto a reception area.

There was an older woman seated behind a huge

desk and a wide carpeted corridor running to the

left and right.

"Hold my calls for a bit, would you dear?"

Seidelman told the woman. "And have Larry come

down to my office if he's not tied up."

"Yes, Mr. Seidelman," the woman said.

I followed him to the left, down the corridor,

and into a large, very plush office, dominated by a

floor-to-ceiling glass wall that afforded a magnif-

icent view of the city, and beyond to the east, Lake

Michigan.

Seidelman was smiling. "On a clear day, during

the summer, I spend entirely too much of my time

atching the sailboat regattas out on the lake," he

30


30

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NICK CARTER

1

chuckled. "l swear, one of these days rm going to

have the window boarded up."

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," Seidelman called out.

Another tall, very distinguished looking man,

impeccably dressed, stepped in. "You had a good

trip, MichaeP" he said.

"Excellent," Seidelman beamed. "Mr. Nick

Carter here has come to talk with us about young

Donald Staley. Mr. Carter is a friend of the Staley

family."

"Larry Karsten," the man said, coming across

the room and shaking my hand. "But I'm afraid

we're not going to be of very much help to you."

He glanced at Seidelman. "Have you explained to

Mr. Carter yet?"

Seidelman shook his head. "I thought I'd let you

explain everything to him. But Mr. Carter says he

must get in contact with Donald. Something about

a Foundation financial matter?" he asked, turning

back to me.

"Don has been missing for the past month," I

said ignoring the question. "His sister is frankly

worried about him."

"Missing, you say?" Karsten said. "l can well

understand why she would be upset. How can we

"The Foundation's attorney, Mr. Atterbury, re-

cently received a copy of Donald's will, leaving his

fortune to your church."

Seidelman and Karsten both beamed. "It's won-

derful," Karsten said.

"A magnificent gesture ," Seidelman agreed.

' 'So we naturally assumed that you have been in

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RETREAT FOR DEATH

31

contact with Donald, and perhaps would know his

whereabouts."

Seidelman started to say something but Karsten

cut him off. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Carter, but

none of us has seen Don in more than two weeks.

From what I understood, he had returned to his

home in New York City. But now you say he is

missing. Very puzzling."

"Perhaps someone else on your staff might know

where he went. Perhaps he made a friend or two

while he was here?"

"He made many friends. Donald is a wonder-

fully bright young man."

"A heart as good as gold," Seidelman agreed.

He took my elbow and guided me toward the door.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, that we could be of no

help. But be sure to let us know when you find

him."

I shrugged out of his light grasp. "Since both of

you gentlemen know Donald so well, then perhaps

you would like to testify at his competency hear-

ing."

"What?" Karsten said sharply.

I smiléd. "It was his parents' death, you see, that

initially unhinged him. And then when he found

out that his sister was a lesbian, it brought him to

the edge, Vm afraid."

"Competency hearing, you say," Karsten mum-

bled.

"I'm afraid it's my fault," I said. "I saw the signs

of his breakup three years ago. I discussed it with

Stewart Atterbury, the Foundation's

Stewart . . .

as well as his sister. We've all agreed

attorney . . .

that Donald is just not responsible enough to man-

32


32

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

age his own fortune. It's been placed in trust until

after his competency hearing. But if we can't find

I shook my head. "Well, I just don't

him .

know how the hearing could go in his favor if he's

missing. I'm going to have to be honest with the

court. I mean, we are talking about more than fifty

million dollars here."

Both men were speechless.

I smiled again. "Please contact me through the

Foundation if you should hear from Donald," I

said, and I left the office, ambled nonchalantly

down the corridor, nodded pleasantly at the recep-

tionist and rang for the elevator.

It wouldn't take them very long to find out that

I had been lying. Meanwhile, if they had plans of

doing anything to Don, they would have to hold

up. I was also hoping that since they now believed

that I would present major testimony against Don

at a competency hearing, they might even make a

try on me.

If they did, it would certainly prove what I al-

ready suspected. Or at least it would prove it to me.

The elevator came and I stepped inside and

punched the buttons for every floor from the eigh-

teenth all the way down to the ground floor.

The doors closed, and the elevator started down,

stopping at the eighteenth, the doors coming open

onto a similar scene. A reception area, a woman

seated behind a desk, corridors running right and

left.

The woman looked up, startled. I smiled,

shrugged, and the elevator doors closed and went

down to the seventeenth.

This floor contained no reception room, just cor-

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+ 110%

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33

ridors running right and left. I held the doors open

as I stepped halfway out and looked both ways

down the corridors. Unmarked doors, nothing

else.

Stepping back into the elevator, I let the doors

close and went down to the sixteenth. This time

when the doors opened, I was looking out across a

large room filled with computers and terminals,

dozens of people busy at work.

For several long seconds I stood there watching

the activity until a large, burly man, his coat off,

his tie loose, happened to look up and see me

standing there.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted, and

he started across the room toward me as the

elevator doors closed, and I started down.

The fifteenth floor was another deserted corridor

with unmarked doors. I stepped half out of the

elevator, holding the door open with my right hand

and looked both ways down the corridor. The

elevator doors started to close even though I was

holding the safety switch.

Someone had hit an override. Probably upstairs

in the computer room.

If I remained on the elevator I would be stuck. I

wanted them to come after me, but on my terms,

and certainly not here in this building at this mo-

ment.

I quickly stepped off the elevator, the doors

closed, and the elevator started down, not stopping

at any of the floors I had punched buttons for.

Hurrying down the corridor to the left, I found

the emergency stairwell and took the stairs down

two at a time.

34


34

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NICK CARTER

Once they discovered I had gotten off the

elevator, they would be coming up the stairs for

me.

J had just reached the eighth floor, when I heard

a commotion far below. They were already starting

up.

Making as little noise as I possibly could, I hur-

ried down three more flights to the fifth floor, the

others below me coming up fast.

Opening the exit door just a crack, I looked out

into the corridor. Two men stood in front of an

open office door at the far end of the corridor.

They were talking and not looking in my direction.

I stepped into the corridor, making sure the door

was closed, then catching my breath, strode pur-

posefully down the corridor to the bank of

elevators that came only as high as this floor.

The building directory in the lobby had listed the

occupants of the first five floors as attorney's.

Many of them, no doubt, worked for the church,

but others were probably in private practice, only

renting this space.

The two men looked up as I approached the

elevators. I smiled and nodded, and they nodded

back.

I punched the button for an elevator, and almost

immediately one of the doors opened, several peo-

ple got out, and I got in, hitting the button for the

ground floor.

It only took a few seconds to reach the lobby,

and when the elevator doors opened I tensed, ready

to be challenged.

There were several men standing around the

elevator that Seidelman and I had gone up in, and

RETREAT FOR DEATH

35


35

others at the end of the wide lobby corridor, stand-

ing at the stairwell door, but no one paid me the

slightest attention as I crossed in front of the

guards, passed the information booth, and then I

was outside.

Dodging traffic, I hurried across the wide street,

walked down about a half a block, and then

stopped to look in a storefront window.

Every now and then I glanced across the

street, and five minutes later a group of men

emerged from the church's headquarters building.

They looked around, then fanned out, three of

them crossing the street.

They were after me. There was no doubt about

it. And it was all I needed to know. The Church of

the Final Reward wanted a fight with me, and they

were going to get it.

I turned away from the window and headed

down the street. At the corner I turned to the right

and glanced back. There were two of them behind

me. I hesitated for a couple of seconds, in plain

view, and they spotted me and sped up.

I stepped around the corner and hurried down

the block, looking for just the right place.

A block and a half later, with my two tails still a

hundred yards behind me, I spotted an overfull

parking lot tucked between two buildings across

the street.

I had to wait for a couple of seconds for a break

in traffic before I was able to get across, and the

two men were almost on top of me by the time I

reached the parking lot and threaded my way

through the cars toward the back.

Tucked in one corner was a Volkswagen van. I

36


36

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

stepped around it, then spun around.

A couple of seconds later both men came around

the rear of the van.

I stepped forward, driving my knee into the

groin of the lead man, and as he went down, and

the other one was reaching inside his coat, I ham-

mered three quick rights to his face, and he went

down as well.

No one on the street or in the parking lot

attendant's booth had seen what had happened

back here, and I quickly pulled the two men the

rest of the way behind the van.

They were both armed with .38 snub-nosed re-

volvers, which I took and tossed under the next car

over.

The one I had hit in the face was unconscious,

but the one I had kneed was looking up at me with

pure hate in his eyes.

"l don't like being followed," I said, as I flipped

open his coat and reached for his wallet.

He tried to struggle up, and I hit his forehead

with the heel of my hand, causing his head to

bounce off the pavement.

His eyes glazed for a moment, and I took out his

wallet. An identification card marked with THE

CHURCH OF THE FINAL REWARD—SECURITY,

identified him as Walter Fordham.

I took the card out and slipped it into my pocket,

then tossed the wallet down on the pavement, and

bent low over the man.

"l want you to listen to me very closely, Walter,"

I said.

He blinked but said nothing, nor did he make

any move to struggle up again.

RETREAT FOR DEATH


37

"Like I said before, I don't like being followed.

You can tell your bosses that the next time they

send someone after me , they won't be so lucky. The

next time I won't just bust their balls. I'll break

them into little pieces."

I smiled and patted the

man on the cheek. "You understand what I'm

saying, Walter?"

The man nodded.

"Sometimes when I start working people over, I

go a little crazy, you know? Sometimes I go too

far.

I stood up and glanced out toward the street. We

still hadn't attracted any attention.

When I looked back, Fordham was looking up

at me, and his partner was starting to come

around. "I hope to hell I don't run into you again,

Walter. I hope not—for your sake."

I straightened my tie, stepped around the van,

and left the parking lot.

Two blocks away I hailed a passing cab and di-

rected the driver to take me out to the Hyatt Re-

gency near the airport, then settled back for the

twenty-minute ride through traffic.

The directors of the church had to be worried

about me by now. Besides the story I had told

them, they had caught me snooping around the

building, and then I had beat up a couple of the

goons they had sent out to bring me back.

Their next move, when it came, would be a little

better thought out, and probably done with a lot

more finesse.

I would have to be very careful from this

moment on. I wasn't dealing with some five and

dime outfit. The Church of the Final Reward's as-

38


38

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NICK CARTER

sets amounted to more than a billion dollars. In

order to amass that kind of a fortune so quickly,

and still attract as little attention as the church had,

its directors had to be sharp, and certainly not used

to anyone standing in their way.

At the hotel, which was just off the freeway by

the airport, I signed in with the clerk, retrieved my

overnight bag and went up to my room.

I changed shirts, and sportcoats, then retrieved

my weapons from the specially designed radio-

cassette player I use to get them through airport

security measures.

The tiny, but effective, AXE-designed gas bomb

in a special pouch high up on my inner thigh, my

stiletto in its chamois sheath beneath my coat and

strapped to my arm, and my 9 mm Luger in its

shoulder holster on my left side, had been with me

since the beginning. They were like old, trusted

friends. Back at the church building I had felt

almost naked without them. But then I hadn't real-

ly expected to run into so much trouble so soon.

It was just three P.M. here in Chicago, which

meant it was four P.M. in New York. Before I had

put Pat in the cab for the airport, I had promised to

telephone her at the Foundation at five-thirty. She

figured she would be done with her board meeting

by then, and she wanted to know what I had found

out before she headed back down to my apartment

in Washington.

I left my room and went down to the hotel's

cocktail lounge where rsat at the nearly-empty bar.

After I had ordered myself a bourbon and water, I

asked to use the bar phone. The barman set it up in

front of me.

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39


39

If someone from the church had already traced

me out here, which was entirely possible consider-

ing their resources, I did not want them monitoring

my telephone calls from my room, another distinct

possibility.

When I had the outside operator, I placed a col-

lect call to Amalgamated Press and Wire Services

in Washington, D.C., giving a special code that

would identify me to the AXE operator.

I got Hawk on the line almost immediately and

explained everything that had happened so far.

"I'll contact Carver over at the Bureau for you

and have him run down this Walter Fordham.

They might have something on him for you,"

Hawk said.

"Thank you, sir," I said. "Meanwhile I'll need

two other favors."

*'Go ahead."

C 'First of all, see if you can contact someone in

the Justice Department and get a complete copy of

everything they have on the church, and if possible

its directors, including Karsten and Seidelman.

Also see what you can come up with on this piece

of property they purchased in Brazil. "

"That shouldn't be too terribly difficult, Nick,

but from what I gather, no one has very much in-

formation on the church."

"Anything will help at this point, sir."

' 'The second favor?" he asked.

"It's Pat Staley. Have we anyone up in New

York who could keep a loose watch on her?"

"Frankly no, Nick. Do you think she's in any

danger?"

"She might be," I said.

Hawk was silent a moment. "I'll see what I can

40


40

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

1

do from this end," he said. ' 'How long do you

think you'll be staying in Chicago."

"Probably overnight. I'd like to take a closer

look at that computer room."

' e Yg/ith care, Nicholas," Hawk cautioned. "And

keep in touch."

"Yes, sir." I said, and I hung up.

I didn't think it would be too difficult to get into

the building later tonight, probably sometime after

midnight. They would have a pretty stiff security

set up, I imagined, especially after my little jaunt

through the floors this afternoon. But I've seen

tougher setups before.

The barman came down to my end of the bar a

few minutes later. "Are you Mr. Carter by any

chance?" he asked.

"Who wants to know?" I asked.

"There is a message at the desk for you, sir," he

said. "They tried your room but there was no an-

swer. They checked here."

"Thanks," I said, and I picked up the phone and

dialed for the desk. "Nick Carter," I said.

"Yes, sir," the operator said. "There is an urgent

mcssage that you immediately contact a Miss Pat

Staley in New York." She gave me the number,

and I asked her to ring it for me,

Something was wrong. She should have still been

in her board meeting.

It seemed to take forever for the call to go

through, and when it did, I had the Foundation's

operator on the line.

"Pat Staley," I said. "Nick Carter calling."

"One moment, sir."

Pat was on the line a second later. ' 'Nick? Is that

you?" she shouted.

RETREAT FOR DEATH

41


41

"It's Don .

. oh God, it's Don. He called here

twenty minutes ago. He sounded crazy. He said he

was going to kill himself and that it was the only

honorable thing for him to do."

"Calm down, Pat. Did he say where he was call-

ing from?"

"No," she wailed.

"Was it long distance? Could you tell?"

. I don't know," she cried. "Wait. It was

here in the city, I'm sure of it."

"Have you called his apartment?"

"There's no answer there," she said.

"His friends? A girl friend?"

"l don't know," she said. "l don't know any of

his friends. He's got a girl friend, I think. Or at

least he did."

"All right, listen to me. I want you to go over to

his apartment right now, but take Stewart At-

terbury with you. Get in there somehow and look

through your brother's things. See if you can find

anything that might indicate where he might have

gone. Also look for an address book or a telephone

index to see if you can find out who his friends are.

Start calling around."

"What about you?" she asked.

"I'm on my way. I'll be in New York on the first

plane. Just hang on, Pat. I'll be there."


FOUR

It was well after nine P.M. by the time I landed at

LaGuardia and got my overnight bag from incom-

ing luggage.

Up in the terminal I stopped at a pay phone and

dialed Don Staley's number. It was answered on

the first ring by a man.

"Hello?" he said guardedly.

"Stewart Atterbury?" I asked.

"Who's calling?"

"Nick Carter. Is Pat there?"

"This is Stewart Atterbury," he said. He

sounded relieved. "Yes, Pat's right here. We've

been waiting for you."

"Have you found Don?"

"No," Atterbury said. ' 'We've gone through his

apartment with a fine toothed comb. We found an

address book, and we called all the names, but no

one has seen or heard from him in the last four or

five weeks."

"Were there any signs that he had been there at

his apartment recently?"

"None that we could see," Atterbury said.

"There was some stale food in the fridge, and half

42

RETREAT FOR DEATH

43


43

a loaf of moldy bread in the cupboard. I'd guess he

hadn't been here in several weeks."

"How's Pat holding up?" I asked.

Atterbury hesitated a moment. "Not well," he

said.

"Tell her we'll find her brother," I said. "I'll be

there in twenty minutes."

"We'll be here," Atterbury said, and I hung up,

crossed the terminal, and got a cab immediately.

I was tired. I hadn't slept the night before, nor

had I been able to get much rest on the plane back

to Washington, D.C. or up to New York. As the

cab sped from LaGuardia Airport into the city and

Don's apartment on Park Avenue South, I let my

head rest back on the seat and closed my eyes.

Don had disappeared one month ago, and no

one had heard a thing from him. I started poking

around in Chicago, and suddenly he calls his sister

and tells her he's going to commit suicide. It didn't

really make much sense. Either the timing was

coincidental, which I didn't believe was the case, or

the Church of the Final Reward was more efficient

than I had anticipated.

It was possible that they had somehow found out

I was lying, and then had sent out the word for

Don to die.

I didn't put any of that past them. But there was

one major hitch to that line of thinking.

The church officials now knew that Don's will,

leaving his fortune to the church, was being ques-

tioned. In the face of that it didn't make much

sense that they would force his suicide. I would

have thought it would have been a lot smarter of

them to hold off for a while. Let the dust settle, and


44

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

1

either arrange an accident for him, or make his sui-

cide seem a little less forced.

Perhaps I was missing something. Some vital ele-

ment that would explain it all. Riding into the city

now, however, I couldn't think of a thing.

Atterbury cleared my entrance with the

doorman on the ground floor, and he was waiting

by Don's apartment door when I stepped off the

elevator.

He was a small man, not over five-feet-five, very

thin, with only whisps of white hair on his head,

and thick, wire-rimmed glasses. He appeared to be

in his late sixties or early seventies, and he looked

haggard.

"I'm glad you could get here, Mr. Carter," he

said shaking my hand and then leading me into the

apartment.

"Still no word?" I asked.

"Not a thing."

Don's apartment was large and tastefully deco-

rated. The stereo was playing softly, and only one

light was on in the living room.

"Where's Pat?" I asked him.

"Sleeping," Atterbury said. "I had her doctor up

here at around five. He gave her a powerful

sedative. She should be out for awhile yet."

"Have you telephoned the police?"

Atterbury shook his head. "I wanted to, but Pat

made me promise not to say anything to anyone

until after you had arrived."

I went across the room, opened the drapes, then

unlocked the balcony door and stepped outside.

It was just as cold here as it had been in Chicago.

RETREAT FOR DEATH

45


45

Don's apartment was on the twenty-fifth floor, and

far below the traffic was light. He could have com-

mitted suicide here.

Atterbury had come to the open door. "Can I

offer you a drink, Mr. Carter?" he said.

"Bourbon and water,"

I said turning back.

Something small and dark hanging from the back

of the drape caught my eye and I stepped closer.

"What is it?" Atterbury asked.

I knew exactly what I was looking at. "Plenty of

ice in that drink," I said, and then I motioned for

him to keep quiet.

We both stepped back inside the apartment, and

I motioned for him to go ahead and fix my drink.

He gave me a strange look, then went across the

room to the portable bar as I went to the far end

of the drapes and carefully pulled back one edge.

A thin wire led down the back of the drapes from.

the tiny microphone and disappeared into the thick

carpeting.

Following the baseboard around the room, I

came to a telephone jack. Coming up from the

carpet, and leading into the terminal, was the thin

wire.

Someone had bugged Don's apartment.

Atterbury had mixed my drink, and I went

across to him and took it. "This room is bugged,"

I whispered close to him. He flinched. "I'm going

to leave, but I'll be right back. Don't say any-

thing."

His eyes were wide, but he nodded.

I took a deep drink of the bourbon, then set the

glass down, crossed the apartment and softly let

myself out.

46


46

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

At the elevator I punched the button for the

basement, and on the way down I pulled out my

Luger, levered a round into the chamber, and

stuffed the gun in my jacket pocket.

The bug could have been placed in Don's apart-

ment months ago. But simply hiding the micro-

phone on the back of the drapes was sloppy. The

church did not use amateurs, or at least I didn't

think they would, which meant that the bugging

operation had been a hurry-up job. Like sometime

this afternoon before Pat and Atterbury showed

up. And probably in direct reaction to my snoop-

ing around in Chicago.

The elevator doors opened on the basement

storage area, mostly empty except for a few crates

to the left.

The lights toward the rear of the huge area were

out, and as I started forward, I pulled out my

Luger and snapped the safety off.

I angled off to the right out of the illuminated

area, and then very carefully followed the concrete

wall back.

The electric and telephone service entered the

building from the floor, near the back of the main

room.

I pocketed my Luger, pulled out my penlight and

shined it up on the large telephone terminal cabi-

net. It was locked, of course, but it didn't matter.

Just barely visible, along a seam in the concrete, a

thin wire emerged from the terminal cabinet and

disappeared through the back wall.

Unless I had been specifically looking for it, I

would have never spotted the wire. Although it had

been hastily installed, it was well done.

RETREAT FOR DEATH

47


47

I clicked my penlight off, and once again pulled

out my Luger as I followed the back wall away

from the terminal cabinet, coming finally to a steel

door.

I put my ear to it. There was the sound of ma-

chinery running on the other side. The room prob-

ably contained the heating plant for the building.

Softly, I opened the door a crack, and immedi-

ately I could smell cigarette smoke. Someone was

seated at a small table to the right, earphones on

his head, hunched over a tape recorder.

I yanked the door all the way open and stepped

inside, bringing my Luger up.

The man half turned, and when he saw me just

inside the door, he reached out toward his equip-

ment, and the lights went out.

I leaped to the left, crouching down, and a sec-

ond later the man fired two shots in my direction,

the bullets whining off the metal door.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I scrambled

behind the heating equipment. A third shot ri-

cochetted off the machinery just above my head.

And then the room was still, except for the

sounds of the heating equipment. Across the room

I could see a dim light coming from an indicator

dial on the tape recorder.

Whoever had bugged Don's apartment did not

want this confrontation, I was certain of it. But he

would not leave without the tape recorder.

I continued to watch the light. But then it went

out, or was blocked!

I fired three shots in quick succession , one direct-

ly where the light had been, one to the left and the

last to the right.

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48

+ 110%

NICK CARTER

The man cried out and then crashed to the floor.

I leaped up and was across the room in a couple

of strides, my Luger in my right hand and my

penlight in my left. I flicked on the light.

One of my shots had caught him in the right

shoulder; the other had blown the back of his head

off.

I holstered my Luger and quickly went through

his pockets, coming up with a wallet that contained

a security identification card from the Church of

the Final Reward. His name had been Robert

Biggs, and he had a New York address.

For a moment I stared at the card. A New York

address! That meant the church probably had of-

fices here in the city.

Christ! I slipped the ID card out of the man's

wallet, then replaced the wallet in his pocket. Next

I grabbed the tape recorder, ripping the wire out of

the wall, and left the furnace room, racing across to

the elevator.

The elevator car had not gone up. and the door

opened as soon as I punched the button.

Atterbury answered the apartment door on my

first knock, and when I came in with the tape

recorder he looked incredulous.

"Where did you find that?" he asked, following

me into the living room where I set the machine

down on the coffee table.

"In the basement," I said. "Call the information

operator and ask for the telephone number and ad-

dress of the Church of the Final Reward's office

here in New York."

"They have an office here?"

"Yes," I snapped. '"Now hurry!"

RETREAT FOR DEATH

49


536