# Slaughter Day

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

Gun In Hand ...

Carter -hid in the shadows, his presence

unsuspected by Anis—Koulami's woman.

The deadly seductress knocked on the

hotel room door.

As the door opened, Carter moved. He

grabbed Anis and crashed into the room.

Inside were three men. Three Walther

PPKs popped into their hands.

Carter held his Luger to Anisi head.

"Looks like a stalemate."

Koulami didn't think so. He fired point

blank into his woman. A slug ripped

through her, hitting Carter. He went

down


ONE

Dusk had fallen and the promise of a darker night

hung in the clouds. Carter drove slowly, checking the

brass numbers on the gates. When he found the one he

wanted, he sped up.

Two blocks farther on, he pulled into a closed filling

station and parked. Before getting out, he checked the

loads in Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger, and screwed a

four-inch silencer into the barrel.

With the gun comfortably back in its shoulder rig, he

stepped from the car and locked it.

He was in the Polo district outside Marseille. The

houses were small, spaced wide apart, with whitewashed

walls around them and generally well-tended lawns and

gardens. It wasn't an affluent area, but neither were the

people who lived there poor.

Most of them were Moroccan and Algerian middle

class, small-time shopkeepers and blue-collar workers.

He walked back the two blocks, passed the house,

and moved down an alley to the rear. The narrow

wooden gate in the wall was unlocked. Carter slipped


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NICK CARTER

into the garden and closed it silently behind him.

There was a light on in the kitchen. Inside, Carter

could see Allad Khopar moving around preparing a

meal. The man was dark, grossly overweight, and bald.

In appearance and background, Khopar fit the neigh-

borhood. Similarities ended there. If he'd wanted to. he

could have lived in one of the elaborate mansions in the

hills north of Marseille.

The man was rich.

He was a supplier. If someone wanted to go to Cairo,

or London, or Rome, or practically any city in the world

to make a kill, Khopar would have the gun they would

need waiting for them when they got there.

Jf a particular group wanted to blow up something, or

someone, Khopar could supply their choice of explo-

sive—Quarrex, Togel, Polar Gelignite, even Gelemax.

There wasn't a thing in the world Khopar couldn't

obtain for a price. And all of his customers were ter-

rorists.

Carter filled his hand with the Luger and rapped

lightly on the door. He heard a cup and saucer rattle,

and then the man's voice.

"Who's there?"

"Jalar sent me," Carter murmured.

'(l don't do business at the house" came the reply.

"See me at the warehouse in the morning."

"This is an emergency. "

There was a mumbled curse in Arabic and French

from the other side of the door, and the lock turned.

The moment Carter saw light, he shoved. The door

slammed into Khopar's fat gut and sent him down flat

on his ass. Carter stuck Wilhelmina up the man's nose

and heeled the door shut.

"What is this? Who are you?" the man gasped.

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"The name's not important,

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"The name's not important,

want information. Lots of it. "

"Get out!"

3

Khopar, but this is. I

He tried to struggle to his feet. Carter raised the

Luger and brought the barrel down across the man's

collarbone, breaking it with a sickening crunch.

Khopar went back down with a wail Of pain and his

eyes flew wide with fear. "Who are you ... ?"

"Your runner, Jalar, is dead."

"You?"

' 'That's right, pig, so you know I'm bad."

"What do you want?"

' 'Amin Koulami. The Puppet Master. "

Khopar lay on the tiled floor with his left arm hanging

limp, and choked. "You're mad!"

"A lot of people are," Carter hissed, and moved the

muzzle downward. "I think I'll blow off your kneecaps

before I kill you."

"No, no! I I don't know any Koulami."

"Bullshit! We've been on you for weeks. A month

ago two exiled Iranian businessmen were cut down in

San Francisco with a specially rigged Mannlicter single-

action CD-13. You supplied the gun and the loads. A

week ago in Paris, another Iranian, the head of an

antigovernment faction, was gassed along with his fam-

iiy. The weapon was a hermetically sealed six-inch

aluminum tube. It fired liquid poison. You supplied the

gun and the gas pellets. "

Carter spotted a lit cigar smoldering in aa ashtray.

There was a humidor of fresh ones nearby. He picked

up the lit cigar and used it to light a second one from the

humidor.

Khopar lay motionless as Carter puffed until the ends

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of both cigars were cherry red. Then he returned to the

fear-filled man and squatted.

"Koulami is the worst kind of terrorist. He's as

fanatical as the crazy imams he works for, and he's

suicidal to boot. He's set up cells all over Europe with

nuts like himself. He calls them puppets, and he's their

puppet master. Are you listening, Khopar?"

"Y-y-yesss."

"And you, for a price, supply them. Now, I know

that in the next few days something big is going down. I

want Koulami before that happens. "

"He ... he would kill me."

' 'I'll kill you," Carter growled. "But not before I

stuff these cigars in your ears and break your other col-

larbone. And that will be just for openers. It could be a

very long night, Khopar. "

The man's Adam's apple quaked as he swallowed.

His wide eyes never left the cigars, and his voice was

raspy with fear when he spoke.

' 'I've never met him, never even seen him."

' 'How do you make contact?"

"A dead drop in Paris. I get a phone call. Jalar flies

up and picks up the order. We fill it, and pick up pay-

ment from the same drop,"

"And you've never made face-to-face contact?"

' 'Never, I swear it!" The man's jowls were quivering

and his cheeks were pale, shiny with a film of sweat.

"How do you reach them in an emergency?"

There was a silent pause. It radioed the fact that the

man was going to lie. "I don't. They only contact me."

Carter didn't speak. He stabbed the cigars out on the

floor, one on each side of Khopar's head.

"Put an ad in the Tribune!" the man cried at once.

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"The night the ad comes out, go to the Club Marie.


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"The night the ad comes out, go to the Club Marie. The

upstairs women's lounge. The tank of the booth against

the windows. Use an oilskin bag."

"What's the wording in the ad?"

" 'Allah is great, Allah is wonderful, Allah is mer-

ciful to us all.' Sign it, Mennenamah."

"Wh-what are you going to do? My God, I told you

what you wanted to know. You're not—

Carter curled his arm around the man's neck. When

he was sure he had the carotid artery, he squeezed.

It took only seconds.

He dropped him back •to the tile, took a pound of

pure heroin from his jacket, and put it on the table.

Outside, he crossed the street to a black Renault

sedan. Inside were two solid, solemn types. They didn't

glance up at him when Carter leaned against the side of

the car.

"The junk is on the table. He's out on the kitchen

floor. Can you hold him for at least a week?"

"At least,"

replied one of the narcotics squad of*

ficers. "Probably longer."

"Tell the SDECE boys thanks for me. A week should

be plenty long enough. "

Carter strolled back to his car. By the time he pulled

out, both men had already left the Renault and disap-

peared around the corner of Khopar's house.

Carter requested and got a seat in the rear of the first-

class section of the Air France 727. The hop from Mar-

seille to Paris would be short, an hour, but he didn't feel

like exchanging recipes with some sweet old dowager

from Chantilly.

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i 'Would you care for a drink, monsieur?"

The stewardess looked exactly like French women are

supposed to look: sleek, trim, dark hair, high cheek-

bones, yet curves where curves are supposed to be.

In short, a thoroughbred.

"Scotch, one cube. Chivas if you have it. "

"Oui, monsieur. "

The liftoff was smooth, and even before the No

Smoking sign went off, she arrived with two miniatures

and a glass with one large cube on a tray.

C 'Monsieur. "

"Merci. "

Carter let his eyes scan her attractive cleavage as she

leaned over to set the tray and pour the drink.

"Did monsieur have a profitable day in Marseille? "

Then Carter remembered. She had also been on the

morning flight down from Paris. He hadn't paid much

attention then. His mind had been full of Khopar.

"Pretty boring, really. Everyday stuff. But I'm look-

ing forward to a day or two of relaxation in Paris."

Their eyes met, and to Carter's surprise, a charming

blush colored her cheeks. He also thought he saw invita-

tion. or even a challenge, in her eyes.

He didn't know it, but she had already told the other

two stewardesses that this one was "hers." She smiled

again. Carter smiled and lit a cigarette, realizing that

there were some small encounters that almost made con-

stant travel worthwhile.

As top agent and sometime executioner for super-

secret AXE, Nick Carter, N3, did more traveling than

most airline captains.

He had been on this one since the day, a month

earlier, the two Iranians had gotten themselves snuffed

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in San Francisco. Until that time, the FBI had followed


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in San Francisco. Until that time, the FBI had followed

suspects domestically, and the CIA had looked under

rocks abroad in this most recent organized round of ter-

ror.

Ordinarily, if the nuts. the radicals, and general bad

boys kept their in their own backyards, American

intelligence watched but kept hands off.

But when they started doing their hits on U.S. soil,

that—as the saying goes—was the straw that broke the

camel's back.

David Hawk, the cigar-chomping, gruff-mannered

head of AXE, had not minced words.

"The Langley boys are ninety-nine percent sure that

this Amin Koulami is behind it. He calls himself 'the

Puppet Master.' Go after him, Nick, and get the son of

a bitch."

So Carter went after him, turning over his own rocks,

rousting his own snitches, and swapping fists and lies

with lowlifes from Beirut to Munich to Rome to

Tangier.

It had taken a long time to sniff out the trail to

Khopar. Now he had a line on the Puppet Master

himself, and he planned to use it.

"Another drink, monsieur?"

"No, this is fine. Merci. "

She returned to the galley, and Carter, watching her

move, decided she was a ten from the back as well as the

front.

He leaned back, loosened his tie, and let his thoughts

drift to his quarry.

As a youth, Amin Koulami had been weaned on

radical terrorism during the reign of the Shah of Iran.

He had made his first bones at the age of twelve by tak-

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NICK CARTER

ing out four SAVAK agents in their car with a dynamite

bomb.

By the age of sixteen he was a trained and seasoned

killer, having taken his apprenticeship in munitions,

hand-to-hand, and general terror tactics in Syria and

Lebanon.

By the time he was in his twenties, Koulami was a

recognized leader and the Shah was gone. Since the

revolution, he had carried out the wishes of the new

regime on a worldwide basis.

In the last year or so, he had traveled all over the

world organizing highly complex cells. The men and

women he had recruited as followers were as fanatical as

he was.

For a long time the puppets and their master had dab-

bled in basic assassination and general terrorism. In the

last month, while Carter had hunted, he had turned up a

lot of evidence that Koulami and company were gearing

up for something big and much more direct than a few

random hits.

The Killmaster meant to find out what that something

big was and snuff it, as well as Koulami.

The seat belt light came on in preparation for landing

at Charles de Gaulle. Carter was busy strapping himself

in when the familiar voice was right at his ear.

"May I join you for the landing, Monsieur Carter?"

she asked with an even more enchanting smile than the

last one.

"Only if you call me Nick," he said with a grin.

When she sat down, her skirt slid well above her

knees. As she buckled up, she didn't bother to tug it

down.

"I am Stephanie. You are on business in Paris?"

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"Nothing that's going to take up all my time. Do you

live in Paris?"

"NO, I share a flat with my sister several miles outside

Paris. It is a long train ride after flying all day."

"l imagine you often stay in the city."

"Often, if I ian find the proper accommodations,"

she said.

' 'Will mine do? I'm at the Ritz."

"I adore the Ritz."

Stephanie Riquet was a woman who knew her own

mind. When she saw something she wanted, she

promptly went after it. In this case, what she wanted

was Carter.

And the Killmaster didn't mind at all. It would bea

very interesting evening. It would take the boredom out

of the Paris wait, and when the time came, it would be

much easier for Stephanie to plant the message in the

ladies' lounge than trying to do it himself.

The black Mercedes and the driver assigned to him by

XE Paris awaited them in the limousine area.

The driver was Charles LeMoine. He was a large

an, with blond hair, blue eyes, a military manner, and

beautifully tailored suit. He said nothing to Carter.

ut a sly smile tickled the corners of his mouth when the

illmaster helped the beautiful stewardess into the rear

f the Mercedes.

When they were settled into the luxurious glove

eather seats, she turned to Carter. 'S You have your own

ar and driver?"

' 'A perk provided by my company," he replied.

"Who do you work for? " she asked, wide-eyed.

' 'A company that specializes in cleaning up the en-

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vironment." The car pulled from the curb and maneu-

vered smoothly through traffic. "Did you get the ad in,

Cha

"Yes, sir. It will be in the morning Tribe"

' 'Good. "

"The Ritz?"

S 'Yeah, Charley, and that will be it for the night."

Another smile at Carter in the rearview mirror. "You

bet. "

Carter knew what was going through the young

the bastards get all the

driver's mind: Field agents . . .

action!

A half hour later the big car pulled silently up to the

entrance of the hotel. Carter passed both his and the

woman's bag to a waiting bellman.

"We checked in yesterday ... Suite Seven-ten."

"Oui, monsieur. "

The elevator was crowded. Carter put his arm around

Stephanie and pulled her to him to take up less space.

She smiled, and then suddenly frowned. Carter

thought he knew why, and was already formulating

answers to her questions in his mind.

In the suite, he tipped the bellman and built them

both drinks from the mini-bar.

They both felt tired and grimy from the flight and the

long day, and said so with just their eyes.

Stephanie took her travel bag and disappeared into

the bath without a word. After a few minutes, when she

had the shower going fuli blast, Carter joined her.

"One question?"

"Sure."

"I'm not the brightest girl in the world, but I could

swear that was a gun I felt under your jacket in the

elevator."

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"It was. "

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' 'Why does an environmental protectionist carry a

gun?"

Carter shrugged. "Sometimes the environment gets a

little rough."

"But—

"Shhh. That was your one question."

He took her in his arms and kissed her before she got

too inquisitive.

Minutes later, still wet, they hurried from the bath to

the bed. Carter threw the quilt down and they both

dived under the sheet.

"Do you think I am wanton?" Stephanie giggled,

throwing a naked leg over his body.

"Yes," Carter replied, pulling her to him and feeling

the fullness of her breasts pillow across his chest.

She kissed his neck below the ear and let her lips

travel over his cheek to his. At the same time, her hand

ran under the sheet, found him, and began to excite him

almost unbearably with the feathering touch of her long

red nails.

The kiss ended, but their lips lingered, just touching.

Carter ran his hand down her back and across the bare

leg still draped over him.

He heard her moan and felt her snuggle closer to him.

Then her soft hand grew more urgent, caressing him

fiercely.

Her breasts were marvelous, perfectly formed, and

responsive to his lips. The nipples swelled beneath the

teasing of his tongue.

"Oh, yes ... good, so good."

Slowly, with care, he slid his hand over the gentle rise

of her belly. Her thighs parted and his fingers found

her.

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She shivered and began to breathe faster. Her fingers

left him and snaked up, around his neck. Her breasts

pressed harder against his lips and her thighs molded to

his.

Clasping her by the buttocks, Carter drew her even

closer. He kissed her hungrily, now thrusting his tongue

deep into her sweet, willing mouth.

She moaned in pleasure, the sound an animal growl

deep in her throat. Her teeth nicked his lower lip. She

rolled her body expertly while her arms clutched tighter

and her fingers dug into his flesh.

Then he was between her thighs, taking her, both of

them reveling in the coupling. Beneath him the woman

lay panting quietly, pulsing internally around him.

When their explosion came it was violent, mutual,

and then they fell apart, gasping, not speaking.

They rested like that for several moments. Eventually

she sat up in the bed, completely at ease in her nudity

before him.

"I'm off tomorrow."

Carter smiled. "I suspected you might be. Are you

hungry

"Famished."

"We'll order up."

' 'And then?"

"Back to bed, of course." He laughed

. S'Uh,

Stephanie, tomorrow evening .. ."

"There's a little favor I'd like to ask of you .. g"


Two

There were fifteen tourists in the three o'clock tour of

the Tennessee Atomic and Space Development Author-

ity. They came in all shapes and sizes and ranged in age

from sixteen to sixty.

A few were attentive. Some were merely interested.

Others were downright bored.

One, a woman, was rapt.

She was in her late twenties, and had the kind of

beauty one sees staring from the covers of fashion

magazines or selling cosmetics on television. Her hair

was a deep brown with reddish highlights and caught up

in an intricate knot at the nape of her slender neck. The

eyes, full of intelligence, were large and as dark as her

hair. Her clothes, like her face, projected a smooth

sophistication.

She looked Latin, and when she spoke, her carefully

modulated voice had just the trace of an accent. But not

even a language expert could recognize her native

language. Her English was perfect, honed by years of

university study in England and the United States.

Her name was Selwa Rajon, and she had been born

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twenty-eight years before in Tehran, Iran. Since the age

of twelve she had been a confirmed revolutionary. Off

and on since her thirteenth birthday, she had been the

mistress of Amin Koulami.

Behind the glass before her she saw Dr. Hubert

Einmetz guide the delicate equipment used to open a

four-foot-square concrete storage vault.

Einmetz had devoted his entire adult life to atomic

research. He was considered a top authority in the field

of plutonium: its manufacture, storage, and movement.

In the Tennessee facility, he was in charge of final in-

spection and shipment of the potentially lethal product.

As Einmetz guided two mechanical claws into the

vault and extracted a long metallic cylinder, the tour

guide began his spiel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what you see is pure plu-

tonium. If we were exposed to its radioactivity for little

more than a second, it would kill us."

Selwa Rajon could hardly keep her hands still or her

lower lip from trembling as she watched the cylinder

being placed on a scale by the scientist.

"Plutonium has two characteristics: its radioactive

properties, and its fissionable elements. The only use for

these elements, in their pure form, is in the making of an

atomic or hydrogen bomb."

"Are we safe here?" asked the youngest member o

the group, a teen-age girl.

"Quite. There are warning devices all over the com

plex that would warn us immediately if there were th

slightest trace of leakage."

An Older man said, "Is there enough plutonium i

that cylinder to make a bomb?"

"As you can see from the scale, the cylinder Dr

Einmetz is weighing is exactly twelve pounds. Tha

would be about half the plutonium needed to construc

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a weapon. It takes about twenty-two or twenty-three

pounds to create a critical mass which will explode

without any alternate assistance. That is why the

plutonium is qored in cylinders of twelve pounds. In

this weight twenty-two pounds—the

plutonium is safe and cannot explode."

Selwa spoke. "Are the containers he is shifting now

going to storage?"

' 'No, they are part of a shipment. Now, if you will all

follow me

As they filed past the glass, the woman narrowed her

eyes to examine the side of the cushioned crates into

which the cylinders were being loaded.

She smiled when she saw the present day's date on

them.

The moon was in the first quarter, pale gold over the

valley. There was a high overcast, and scudding clouds

kept blotting out the moonlight.

Four figures, all in skintight black ski suits, worked

diligently in the center of the narrow, winding mountain

road. They worked in teams of two, about sixty yards

from each other. In each team, one man would dig with

pickax and shovel while the other stood by holding a

Russian-made T52 land mine.

The T 52 is shaped like a woman's purse compact. It is

about eighteen inches in diameter, five inches deep at

the center, and armed by a pressure device.

It is also powerful. An ordinary car will disintegrate

with the blast from one mine.

Each man carried an AR-12 slung over his shoulder

and a belt at his waist containing a U.S. army-issue .45

and a walkie-talkie.

The holes were dug and the two devices were placed.

All four men carefully covered them.

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They were barely finished when the walkies at their

belts came to life. "Mars, this is Jupiter. Do you read?"

It was a woman's voice.

replied the largest of the four

"Loud and clear,"

men, his English thickly accented.

"How close are you?"

"Finished."

"Good. They are through the gate and on the way,"

the woman said.

' 'As usual?"

' 'Yes. A jeep heading with four soldiers, all armed.

Thirty yards back, the armored truck. One driver, one

passenger, both armed. Behind the truck, a sedan with

three uniformed men and one civilian."

j' We'll be ready."

The four men moved to a prearranged position.

Two climbed the hill above the road. They hunkered

down and began assembling a Russian RPG-7 rocket

launcher.

The RPG-7 was an ideal weapon for the use it would

be put to this night. It was recoilless and equipped with

an infrared telescopic scope for night sighting. It was

capable of putting a very large hole in a tank, let alon

the flimsy skin of an ordinary car.

While the first man slung the RPG-7 to his shoulder

the second sighted in the scope of his Armalite.

Before the other two men left the road, they attache

incendiaries to both of the mines. They then ran fuse

up the back ten feet or so and attached them to shor

trees.

This done, they climbed down the slope and hi

themselves behind a mound of large rocks. Both me

unslung their Armalites, sighted them in on the center o

the road, and waited.

Minutes later they heard the vehicles climbing th

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long grade in low gear. First the headlights' glare came

into view, and then the lead jeep.

All four men lying in wait tensed, ready. The vehicles

seemed to be crawling. Then they heard the gears shift

and the lead feep spurted ahead.

The jeep's right front wheel set off the T52. A brilliant

flash of white quickly turned to orange as the incen-

diaries went off a millisecond later. The mine's blast

lifted the jeep and its occupants several feet into the air.

The force of the blast had been outward, away from

the hill, throwing the jeep toward the ravine. It came

down on its nose on the shoulder of the road and then

rolled on down the mountain.

It was like daylight around the remaining two

vehicles. The RPG man on the hill balanced the scope

sight against his forehead and fired.

There was a great whoosh as flaming gas shot from

the launcher's rear. The grenade itself flew from the

barrel, its fins opening as soon as it was clear.

The distance from the shooter on the hill was 150

yards. The rocket found its mark in one second. It made

a small hole in the side of the sedan. The crash-sensitive

fuse set off the main detonator right behind it in the

main shell.

Tiny fragments of steel exploded throughout the

sedan, shredding the four bodies inside.

In the glare Of the incendiaries, the firing from the

Armalites was pinpoint accurate and deadly. All six tires

were shot out two seconds after the initial mine blast.

Before driver or guard could find the armored truck's

firing slots with the muzzles of their machine pistols or

rub the glare of the blast from their eyes, a black figure

appeared in front of them.

It was the man with the RPG-7. A second rocket

hissed from its muzzle and penetrated the bulletproof

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windshield like a knife slicing butter.

The screams of the driver and guard had barely died

out before the two men were at the rear doors. One held

a power pack while the other cut a neat hole around the

lock and handle with a laser torch.

By the time Selwa Rajon arrived with a panel truck,

all the cylinders of plutonium had been carried from the

armored vehicles.

"Any survivors?" she asked.

"None."

"Excellent. How many cylinders?"

White teeth gleamed in the man's dark face. S 'Enough

to make two very fat bombs."

About five miles outside the town of Worthing, in the

county of Sussex in southern England, is the former

estate of the Earl of Tremont. It was—and is—a grand

old estate that only the Crown or a very eccentric

American billionaire could afford to keep up.

Hating the crude Americans, Lord Tremont ten years

ago sold the estate to the British government for enough

money to allow himself, his wife, and his mistress to live

comfortably in Marbella, Spain.

Within a year after its sale, the estate was converted

into a think tank and storage place for England's atomic

energy research. Its basements were made into vaults,

and an elaborate security system was installed.

Armed guards were always on duty, but the shifts

usually required only five men. After all, the only things

stored there were computer records and other paper

work.

The large formal drawing room had been converted

into a common room and general canteen. On this

night, four men sipped tea and awaited their watch. The

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men they would relieve were stationed around the

estate. Two men patrolled the grounds on foot, a third

was stationed in the computer room upstairs monitoring

the alarm system, and the fourth lolled in a chair outside

the vault rogms

Corporals Clary and Fitzmorris were the walking

guards on the grounds. They heard the sound, but

before they could bring their Sten guns into play, their

throats were cut. They were dead before they hit the

ground.

In the computer room, Sergeant Hadley Wells came

out of his seat as all the television screens monitoring

the house and grounds went black.

"Bloody things," he hissed, and reached for the in-

house phone.

On this bitter cold night a coal fire burned in the com-

mon room. In a smaller, adjoining room—once the

master's study and now the off-duty sleeping quarters

for the watch—Linus Baker growled and reached for

the phone.

"Baker here. What is it?"

"Wells .. ."

"l've a half hour yet, you bloody twit."

"J know that. Before you come up, check the master

cable. The tellies have gone off again."

Baker groaned. "Probably more bloody seepage.

They put 'em too near the rain drains."

"Just check the cutoffs, would you?"

Baker pulled on a heavy windbreaker and left by the

rear door. Stairs behind it led down to a rear exit from

the house.

A biting wind hit him in the face the moment he

opened the door and walked into the courtyard. He

heard nothing of the soft-soled shoes that stepped from

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NICK CARTER

the darkness behind him. He had no premonition of

danger as he bent over the cable box and fished in his

pocket for his keys.

"Blimey, the bloody padlock's gone!" he muttered.

Death was instantaneous as a single 9mm slug. fired

single-shot from a silenced Walther, drove into the back

of his skull.

"Is he dead?"

' 'Very."

"Get the keys."

Four men in black clothing with darkened faces

moved up the rear stairs. As they ran, they donned gas

masks and adjusted the tanks on their backs.

They went through the small sleeping area without a

pause and burst into the common room.

The four men looked up in total surprise. Not one of

them moved to save himself as the deadly cyanide gas

hit each of them full in the face.

The four attackers hardly paused. Two of them went

up the main staircase and ran down the hall to the com-

puter room. The other two went down the stairs to the

cellars.

A long narrow hall led them to the vault anteroom.

Through the small pane in the door they could see the

guard. He sat at a small table reading the Times. Behind

him was the steel door to the main vault.

The two men paused. One took a walkie from the belt

at his waist while the other packed the crack around the

door's latch and lock with C-4 explosive.

"Yes" came the reply from the walkie-talkie.

"We are there."

On the second floor, the man named Mogalli barked

C' Wait!" into his walkie and nodded to his comrade.

SLAUGHTER DAY

21


21

The man used the keys he had taken from the dead hand

Of Linus Baker.

Inside, Sergeant Hadley Wells sighed with anger.

Baker was relieving him, and the goddamned tellies

were still ouæ -He would have to check the cables

himself.

As the door opened, he swung around in his swivel

chair. "Baker, what the hell—

Two slugs ripped through his chest, rupturing

Sergeant Hadley Wells's heart before he even saw his

killers.

"GO back down and reconnect the power cable! "

"Yes, Mogalli."

As his comrade scurried from the room, the man

called Mogalli again pressed the button on his walkie.

"Mustafa, go!"

In the cellars below, the anteroom door exploded

from its hinges. The guard inside was blown from his

chair against the wall.

Dimly, through the haze Of smoke before him and the

tears in his eyes, he saw two dark figures enter the room.

He managed to claw the Webley halfway from its

holster before he was pinned harder against the wall by

double bursts of machine gun fire.

The man called Mustafa shoved the body from in

front of the vault door and went about his work without

a wasted motion.

He packed the whole door with C-4, jammed a

detonator into the doughy explosive, and ran back

down the hallway, closely followed by his comrade.

It was a twenty-second fuse and absolutely precise.

The blast reverberated through the entire house, and

within seconds after it had died out, both men were

going through the file drawers in the vault.

22


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NICK CARTER

They worked with purpose, ignoring everything that

didn't pertain to their needs.

By the time they entered the second-floor computer

room twenty minutes later with the computer access

codes, the man called Mogalli had already powered up

the computers.

"Excellent," he hissed, already letting his stubby

fingers fly over the keys of the computer.

Within a half hour the printer was clacking away,

spilling out the newly refined processing plans for the

cooling and refining of nuclear waste into raw

plutonium.

Mogalli, through an excellent knowledge of com-

puters and an uncanny sense for search, had also been

able to come up with two plus factors.

He had obtained the shipping codes and access

numbers needed to hook up with the computers of one

of the world's largest producers of raw uranium in the

Lake Athabasca region of northern Saskatchewan.

And from the center's personnel file he had obtained

the current status and location of the world-renowned

nuclear physicist, Dr. Josef Brussman.

Morgan Pawley could hardly believe his luck. He had

taken his weekly trip up to Bombay to convince his

bankers and other creditors to hold off foreclosure for a

little while longer.

As usual, they had screamed and shouted and finally

agreed to let Pawley continue to run his air service a

while longer.

After leaving them, he made the usual rounds of the

big hotels, trying to scrounge up a little business.

"Got a Beechcraft six-passenger. I usually charter,

but I do one-day sightseeing hops as well. No? How

about a helicopter ride? I've got a Bell that seats six,

SLAUGHTER DAY

23


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with cargo room. See Bombay from the air. My airfield is only a few minutes' drive south of Bombay, at Calapa Point . . ."


He hit five hotels and got no takers.


And then, in the Hilton lounge, he met her. She said her name was Rami. He never caught her last name and couldn't have cared less.


She said she was Lebanese, a refugee from the Beirut mess. She lived now with her rich aunt and uncle in London. She was vacationing with her aunt and was bored. Auntie had already gone to sleep up in the suite, so Rami had decided to come down to the lounge for a drink and a little fun.


Yes, she would adore a helicopter ride over Bombay at night. It would be romantic.


Pawley had driven like a madman back to the field. He had tried to steer her into bed without the helicopter ride, but she would have none of it.


Up they went and she had loved it. And she had been the most inquisitive passenger he had ever had, asking a million and one questions.


Where did he store his fuel? What were his clearance signals? Did he know of Trapur, north of Bombay? What were the little village's coordinates? Where did he store his charts?


He had answered everything without thinking why she asked.


He was much more interested in the wealth of her body under the chic jump suit she wore.


Pawley had been born and raised and damned near died a couple of times in India. He had inherited the flying service from an alcoholic uncle ten years earlier, along with all its debts. At the time, Pawley had been in London getting by as best he could with a little smuggling and gunrunning for mercs going to Africa.


24


The uncle's death came at a perfect time for him to return to India. He was on his way to jail in England.

“Thank you so much for the ride,” she said, moving into the living room of his apartment over the ramshackle hangar.


“Do you really have to go back to Bombay tonight?” Pawley asked, watching her move into the room in front of him.


She moved like an oiled machine inside the jump suit. Pawley could feel an ache in his groin as he imagined her long, smooth body. Her dark hair gleamed like silk and her almond-shaped eyes, when she glanced over her shoulder to reply, seemed to flame with a promise of uninhibited passion.

“Oh, yes, I do have to return to the hotel. But not before dawn.”

Ah, Pawley, you lucky bugger, you won't have to dig into your bloody kick for one of Madame Kohler's used-up whores tonight!

“Would you like a drink?”

“No. I think we have drunk enough tonight, don't you?”

“Ah, yes, lass, that we have.”

Her fingers barely seemed to move. They did something to the snaps at her neck, then he heard the zipper. Suddenly the jump suit was puddled around her feet and she wasn't wearing a thing beneath it.

“Jesus,” Pawley gasped, ripping at his own shirt and throwing it aside.


She was a beautiful, totally sexual creature. Her breasts were large and firm and showed slightly blue where the veins ran into the dark nipples. Her hips were wide and tapered down perfectly to her long, tanned legs.


Rami Sherif breathed deeply, expanding her voluptuousness, drawing him to her as the flame draws the candle towards it.

24 NICK CARTER

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SLAUGHTER DAY 25


tousness, drawing him to her as the flame draws the moth.

He came willingly, like a lamb led by the Judas goat to the slaughter. As he moved, he dropped his pants and nearly stumbled before he could kick them away.

Her waist-length hair was held by a barrette at the back of her neck. As he dropped to his knees and slobbered at her breasts, Rami undid the barrette. She shook out her hair and then leaned forward, letting its glossy fullness fall across his back.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” he groaned, letting his lips trail down across her belly as her nails worked their way up his back to his neck and throat.

He heard a tiny crack, like a glass breaking, but paid no attention as the musk from her body filled his nostrils.

Rami Sherif smiled. She was enjoying this. She loved to have men slobber and fawn over her. But only one man had ever truly claimed her.

Amin Koulami.

She shook the broken glass free from the needle and jammed it into Pawley’s neck.

The cyanide worked in seconds. When his body released her and slipped to the floor, she stepped over it and headed for his closet. Along the way she checked her watch.

She had plenty of time, four hours at least, before the raid started. In the helicopter she would reach the nuclear power station in Trapur in just over an hour.


SLAUGHTER DAY 25


THREE

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26

DAY SLAUGHTER

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27


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27

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28

CARTER NICK

of love a had always have I .un. be will lt .ourse. Of


"Of course. It will be fun. I have always had a love of intrigue, even though you won't tell me what it is all about. Shall we go?"

She took his arm and they walked to the corner.

"There it is."

In the middle of the block they saw a blinking neon sign on a three-story building: Café Marie. The small building housing the club seemed squeezed between its two neighbors.

There was a single large door, Carter opened it and they went inside. They were immediately assailed by loud rock music.

Wooden booths covered two walls. The other two were taken up with an elevated bandstand and a bar. On the bandstand were four female frights with purple and green hair. They banged guitars and drums, and were dressed in what appeared to be colorful underwear.

"Punk," Carter said.

"What?" Stephanie asked, leaning her ear to his lips to hear.

"I didn't think it would be quite this awful," he said and chuckled.

She laughed. "Don't worry, Nick—it's all in fun."

There were groups of small tables clustered around the bandstand and a small dance floor. A young girl who could have doubled as one of the band members led them to one of these tables.

Carter requested a booth or a table in the larger room on the second floor, but he was told there were none available.

They sat and ordered drinks.

The noise was deafening. It reverberated around the room and seemed to come up through the floorboards, through Carter's feet, to invade his body.

A few people were packed into a thick mass on the dance floor. They moved as one creature. He said so,

28


dance floor. They moved as one creature. He said so, and Stephanie laughed and shrugged, conveying by gesture that she couldn’t hear a thing he said.


They made their way through two drinks. Between them, Carter slipped the oilskin-wrapped envelope into her bag.


As the Killmaster ordered a third round, the band took a break. Between the time they left the bandstand and the recorded music started, Carter was able to make himself heard.


“'You know what to do?'”


She nodded, and he could detect only the slightest bit of hesitancy in her voice when she spoke. “'Upstairs john, last stall against the window.'”


“And?’


“'Slide it flat down the back of the tank so it doesn't interfere with the mechanism, and make sure it's submerged.'"


"Good girl. Go!"


She stood, and Carter watched her mount the stairs and disappear. He leaned back and lit a cigarette.


The band had returned and the dance floor was once again filled with writhing, agonized bodies. Several, he noticed thankfully, were dressed normally. In his tweed jacket, he'd felt very out of place.


Leisurely, he tried to take in most of the women. None paid him any more than glancing attention.


In about ten minutes she was back, leaning across the table to speak into his ear.


“'Sorry it took so long. The place was jammed. I had to restore my makeup, comb my hair, and practically redo my nails to get to that booth.'"


"No problem. Is it done?"


"It's done."


Carter reached beneath his jacket and flipped the


30

NICK CARTER


“'send'' button. At once there was a single pulsing throb


30 NICK CARTER


“send” button. At once there was a single pulsing throb against his chest, telling him that he had clicked in with LeMoine and the send/receive unit in the Mercedes.

‘’Do you dance?’’ he asked.

‘’Of course,’’ she said, nodding.

‘’I don’t, to this. But it won’t make any difference.’’


It didn’t. All they had to do was join the mass and move in the same general direction. The music was still ear-shattering, but thankfully the tempo had slowed.


Stephanie moved into his arms and buried her face in his neck. With the dance floor so crowded, it wasn’t so much dancing as shuffling and swaying.


Carter didn’t mind. Stephanie had molded her body to his and he was loving the touch and the smell of her.

‘’When you do whatever you have to do, will you come back to the hotel?’’


‘’Yes.’’


‘’I’ll be there.’’


‘’That’s why I gave you the key to the suite,’’ he whispered in her ear.


It was nearly midnight before the steady throb began against his chest. The envelope had been lifted from the water and activated.

‘’It’s a go,’’ he whispered.

She was good. She hadn’t forgotten a single thing Carter had told her. Without a word, she stood and went up the stairs.


Carter let his eyes roam constantly from the stairs to the front door and back again.

It was nearly impossible to tell. The front door kept opening and closing, expelling people as fast as others entered. Far over half of those coming and going were women.


‘’I found it,’’ she said, slipping back into her chair.


SLAUGHTER DAY 31


‘’The oilskin?’’


The oilskin?

She nodded. “Still wet, wadded up in the wastepaper basket.”

The throb was getting weaker against his chest. He threw a handful of bills on the table and grabbed Stephanie’s hand.

Outside, they turned right, made the corner, and turned right again. The Mercedes was gone. Carter guided her past the corner where it had been and headed for the Fiat. At the same time, he shook the miniature walkie-talkie from his right sleeve into his palm and brought it to his lips.


“Charley?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make her?”

“No, but I’ve got her beep. From the speed, I’d say she’s walking. On the grid it’s Saint-Michel toward the river. No . . . wait.” There was silence for a few seconds, and then he was back. “She’s turned right on Saint-Germain.”


“How far are you away from her?”

“Several blocks, no sighting.”

“Stay that way,” Carter rasped. “Don’t let her spot you. I’d say she’s good.”

“Yes.”

They reached the Fiat. “Keys,” Carter said.

She handed them over and they both got in. Carter gunned the little engine and they were away.


“One thing,” Stephanie said.

“No, he laughed. “Actually, truthfully, I’m a private detective. And you know what?”

“What?”


32


32


**NICK CARTER**


"You get part of the fee for this night's work."


Out of the corner of his eye he saw her relax in the passenger seat.


God, he thought, you get to be such a damned good liar in this business.


It was a merry chase. The lady walked, cabbed, walked, and cabbed again. The last cab dumped her in Montmartre. There she started walking again, but not for long. LeMoine guessed it was a motor scooter.


Carter sped up, then made a few quick turns in order to pass her in front.


"I've got her! Half blond and half purple hair with a scarf over it. Black leather blouse and miniskirt. She's on a Vespa, and just turned into Rue du Faubourg by Saint-Eugène."


Thirty seconds later, LeMoine came on again. "Got her. She stopped and locked up the Vespa in the parking lot beside Saint-Eugène. She's just tossed something . . . Christ, Nick, it's the envelope! She tossed it into a trash can!"


"Which way?"


"Left on Rue d'Enghien. I've got to go past, Nick. She'll spot me for sure."


Carter gunned the Fiat around two taxis and hung a right on Saint-Denis. At the corner of Rue d'Enghien, he slid to a stop and piled out.


"Stay here!" he barked to Stephanie.


Quickly he ran to the corner, cursing himself for not taking the SDECE boys up on their offer of a backup. His thinking had been that too many cooks would cause their quarry to smell the cookfire.


He had taken the chance, and now might be sorry.


Cautiously he peered around the corner, just in time to see the woman.


---


**SLAUGHTER DAY**


It was a drop.


It was a drop.

He edged up the street and watched her through the window. The café was crowded, jammed in fact. She could already have passed the message ten times.

Now he would have to stay with her.

Even as he thought this, he saw her rise and head for the door. In her hand she carried a sack.

Maybe not, Carter thought. Maybe she just bought some dinner.

She walked directly across the street and into a hotel. Carter checked the sign: Hotel Oriental. It was old, an eight-floor relic from the past.

Carter edged down the street and into an alley that ran adjacent to the hotel. About fifty yards in, he found it: a side exit.

Quickly he ran back to the car.

“Need one more favor. Here’s the scam. You were in that café across the street. You were talking to this girl . . . describe her to the desk clerk. She told you to come up for a drink, but you don’t remember her room number and she didn’t tell you her name.”

“Isn’t that a little farfetched?”

Carter smiled. “Of course it is. But when you slip all these bills to the desk clerk, he’ll think it’s perfectly normal.”

Stephanie shrugged and slipped the money into her purse. “This gets crazier all the time. Hey—what are you doing?”

“Trying to make your hair a little wilder. Get out your makeup . . .”

Stephanie followed Carter’s instructions about teasing her hair and applying an extra layer of makeup.

“Not bad. With your clothes, you’ll pass. Let’s hope the guy inside just figures birds of a feather flock together.”

34


Stephanie was shaking her head. “This is crazy.”

“Chérie, in this business, crazy things usually work just because they’re crazy. No, don’t put the hat back on.”


“What happens after I get the room number?”

“There’s an alley exit off the rear of the lobby. Take the stairs up until you’re sure the desk clerk has lost interest. Then take the back stairs down and come out that way. I’ll be waiting.”

He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek as he reached across her body and opened the door.


Stephanie arched an eyebrow. “Just what are you after this woman for?”


Carter thought fast. “She’s blackmailing her ex-lover, a married American millionaire. Go!”

She slid from the car, mumbling something like, “In France the wife would say so what, and the mistress would just find another millionaire!”


Carter tracked her with the Fiat until she entered the hotel, then he pulled into the alley. He stopped at the exit door, left the motor running, and stepped from the car.


It was only ten minutes but seemed an eternity. The instant the door cracked, Carter was there to grab it in case she forgot and let it slam shut.

“Well?”

“I don’t believe it,” she replied.

“What?”

“He believed me and I didn’t even give him the money!”

“Which room?”

“Four-eleven, in the rear.”

“You’re a princess,” he said, kissing her and giving her a gentle shove toward the Fiat.


SLAUGHTER DAY 35


"Nick . . ."

"Yeah?"

"He did say something about crazy foreigners taking over the hotel."

"I'll remember it."

He watched until her taillights disappeared around the corner, and then he slipped into the lobby.


"'Mademoiselle,' Carter growled, rapping on the door of 411. "'Mademoiselle?'"


'Oui?' The voice came from deep in the room. He rapped again as if he hadn't heard her. "'Mademoiselle?"


'Oui?' Nearer now. "'What is it?"

"I am staying in the room below yours. Is your tub overflowing?"

"What?"

"'Your tub. It must be overflowing. My poor wife is trying to dry her hair in the bathroom, and water from your tub is coming through the ceiling . . ."


The chain started to rattle halfway through Carter's speech. Then he heard the lock click and kept on talking.


"Monsieur, I assure you—"

Carter's shoulder hit the door and the door hit her. She spun backward over a chair and hit the floor on her back. But she was down only an instant.


She was on her feet like a cat and diving for the bed and her purse. Carter lunged at the same time. She saw it and, in midair, twisted.


Both of her knees caught him dead center in the chest. She recovered immediately and made the bed.


The Killmaster saw the silenced, six-inch tube gun in her hand and rolled just in time to avoid the slug. The


36 NICK CARTER

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sound it made firing was no more than a sudden rush of air.

He heard the slug drive into a far wall, and rolled over her. The tube gun was a single shot, so he had no more to fear from it.

Not so the woman.

She was like an octopus, a whirling dervish, with all four of her appendages and her head deadly.

Carter took a couple of good belts in the neck and one in the belly before he could curl his fingers around her neck and press hard with his thumbs just behind her ears.

Even out cold she struggled for a few seconds.

Beneath her skirt she wore black tights. Carter flipped the shoes from her feet, pulled off the tights, and ripped them in half. Then he dragged her into the bathroom and tied one of her wrists securely to the shower rod with one leg of the tights, and the other wrist to the shower head with the other.

Then he went through the hotel room like a dose of salts.

He pulled every dresser drawer, searched what they contained, and checked for anything taped beneath them. He emptied her suitcase and went through it. The far-out garb she wore was evidently the only outfit of its kind she owned. The clothes in the suitcase were fairly conventional and cheap. The few that had labels confirmed that the lady did a lot of traveling—one hell of a lot.

He stripped the bed and looked under the mattress. Nothing. The closet was empty.

He checked the baseboards and behind the furniture. In an ashtray on the bedside stand there was ash residue from a recently burned piece of paper.


SLAUGHTER DAY 37

Quickly he turned her purse over and dumped its contents into his own. He took out a few dollars, some coins, and a small amount of change in bills. The rest of the money was in a small leather wallet that she had stuffed inside.

He looked at it for a moment, then put it back in her purse. She must have been carrying this thing around with her all along. He wondered what kind of woman would carry such an item as that.


Quickly he turned her purse over and dumped its contents on the bed. A fat pen came apart and four spare .45 slugs for the tube gun fell into his hand. Concealed in the handle of her hairbrush was a four-inch stiletto. The powder in her compact had an odd aroma.


He held it far enough from his nose so none of it would go up his nostrils, and tried to nail it.


Eventually it came to him. He nailed the scent just about the same time he spotted the tiny silver fragments of phenol mixed in with the face powder.


It was phenol in its crystalline form, fairly harmless as is. But mixed with water and thrown in someone's face, it becomes a deadly weapon otherwise known as carabolic acid.


Nice lady I've dug up, Carter mused, lifting the passport from a small handful of francs. The passport was Italian.


The date of birth made her twenty-four years old. Probably about right. The place of birth was listed as Genoa, and the name was Lucera Babolini.


Carter was willing to bet the name and place of birth was as phony as the passport. As he slipped it into the false pocket behind his own wallet, there was a light groan and gasp from the bathroom.


Quickly he threw the contents of the purse and all her clothing into the suitcase. He even stripped the pillows and put the cases into the bag. The quilt and two sheets he left on the bed.


As a last thought before closing the bag, he grabbed the compact and slipped it into the false pocket along with her passport.


Using his own razor-sharp stiletto, Hugo, he cut about five feet out of the middle of the phone cord and stripped it. He cut a one-inch gash in the television


38


power line and wrapped one bare end of the telephone cord securely to the bare TV wire.

He then unplugged the television and carted it into the bathroom.


The woman was stirring but was not fully awake. Carter set the television on the floor and filled the water pitcher from the cold tap.

Unceremoniously, he threw the water into her face.

She came to, blubbering and cursing. Carter could curse—and understand cursing—in fifteen languages, including Arabic and Farsi.


‘Your passport is Italian. Where are you really from?’

She glowered.

“What’s your real name?”

She spat at him, barely missing his face. He flatted-handed her left cheek and backhanded the right.

“Did you already deliver the message from Allad Khopar?”

“What do you know of Khopar?” she gasped reflexively. Her English was almost fluent.

Carter smiled. “How do you think I found you?”

‘American?’

“Yes.”

“Fig.” She spat again.

Carter ignored it. “I don’t have a great deal of time to waste on you. I want the Puppet Master. I know he’s in Paris. Where?”

“Fuck you.”

Carter sent Hugo’s gleaming edge toward her right wrist, the one attached to the shower head. She tensed but didn’t cry out.

Instead of cutting her, he cut the nylon fabric, freeing her right arm. “Take off your clothes.”


SLAUGHTER DAY 39


39


“‘What?’”

“‘Remove your clothes.’”

“‘Kiss my ass,’”

“‘Some other time.’ He gathered the front of her blouse in his right hand. Pushing her chest above her breasts with his left, he shredded the garment from her body.

“‘Son of a pig!’” she wheezed in Arabic.

“‘The rest . . . down to skin.’”

She tried to kick him. It was futile. Carter chopped her ankle and she screamed in pain.

He reached for her bra. She slithered away, fumbling with the clasp between her breasts. The wispy garment came off and she threw it in his face.

He waited a few seconds and she struggled from the skirt. She kicked it away and stood in the sheer black panties she wore under the tights.

“‘Those, too.’”

She curled her thumb in the panties and pushed them down until she could also kick them in his direction. She stood nakedly defiant in front of him, her perfect body as taut as a string.

“‘Is it rape you want?’” she hissed.

“‘It’s the Puppet Master, Amin Koulami, I want. Where is he?’”

Silence, her black eyes unwavering, her full breasts rising and falling with the anger in each breath she took.

“‘One last time. Where is Koulami?!””

She turned her face from him.

Carter grabbed her right wrist and retied it, this time to the lower faucet. He turned on the shower, full force on cold, and plugged in the television set.

The way she was tied, she could not rise at all and she could only move a few inches forward or backward. In


40 NICK CARTER

short, she couldn’t get out of the water that had risen


short, she couldn't get out of the water that had risen above her ankles.


When he draped the bare end of the television wire over the edge of the tub, she gasped in realization.

"My God, you are going to electrocute me . . ."

"Only in stages," he replied.

"You can't torture me," she hissed, a red flush overpowering the olive tone of her face. "I have been tortured by experts . . . the SAVAK."


Carter dropped the bare end of the wire into the water for a millisecond, and yanked it right back out.


Her chest tried to scream but her throat was too constricted. Her back arched and every muscle and tendon in her stood out in definition.

"Where is Amin Koulami?"


The defiance in her black eyes bordered on being spectacular. He had never seen such a degree of defiance and hatred in one face.


The Killmaster wasn't kidding himself. This one was a fanatic, and a woman. Women naturally had more tolerance for pain in their minds and bodies than most men. It came with being a woman and having the knowledge that one day she might have to endure the ultimate pain, childbirth.


And this woman, whoever she was, could probably stand more pain than her sisters.

No, Carter wasn't kidding himself. He was merely playing a game . . . with only a fifty-fifty chance of winning.


"Where is Koulami?"


He didn't wait for an answer. He knew there was none coming.


This time he left the bare wire in the water three times as long.


SLAUGHTER DAY 41


Again the body lay on the bed. She opened her eyes and saw Carter standing over her, his face a mask of grim determination.

"Where is Koulami?" she asked weakly.


Carter's hand was on her shoulder now. "I'm not going to let you die," he said softly.


Again the body became like a board. She managed to emit one strangled scream that was drowned by the shower and the TV before she passed out.


Carter went into the other room and lit a cigarette at the window.


They were on high ground, and the buildings across the street were low.


Even from the fourth floor, he was looking out at the sparkling lights of Paris flowing in an unbroken line to the Seine and beyond to the Left Bank and the countryside.


“Nice postcard,” he murmured, and shook the mike into his palm. “Charley.”


‘Here. Christ, where the hell are you? I’ve got a fix on you from your belt beeper, but I can’t nail it without leaving the car.’


“I’m in a room on the fourth floor of the Hotel Oriental. I can see you parked across the street about half a block away.”


“The girl?”


“If you mean Stephanie, she’s back at the Ritz, I hope.” Then he went on to explain the situation. “No guarantee, but if this one comes out, be ready to pick me up.”


“Right on. What about the locals?”


‘Just the SDECE people, and keep them in backup.’


‘Will do. Be careful.’


“Yeah.” Carter slipped the mike back up his sleeve and returned to the bathroom.


The woman was awake and glaring, but she was worn down. There was fear in her eyes now as Carter bent to retrieve the wire.


But he also saw cunning.


“Where is Koulami?”


42

NICK CARTER


“Sure did!” He turned back into the mike. “No


42


NICK CARTER


“Go to hell.” He started playing out the wire. “No, my God, not again . . .”


“Where . . .”


“Please, I beg you, please . . .”


“Where is Koulami!”


“Fifteen Rue Legendre, flat Four-C. Please . . .”


“How many with him?”


“Two . . . bodyguards.”


“What’s the address again?”


“Fifteen Rue Legendre. It is near Saint-Marie.”


Carter unplugged the television and gathered her clothes from the floor. He showed her the mike.


“If Koulami is not there, I have a man nearby who will come up here and plug the television back in.”


The fear on her face as he turned away was almost real.


He stuffed the shredded clothes into the bag, snapped it, and left the room. The elevator indicator above the door pointed to “L.” He hoped it stayed there. This time of night it probably would.


The bag went down the garbage shoot. Carter went into the maid’s linen closet. He cracked the door a fraction of an inch, secured it, and sat down to wait.


ГЛАВА 4 Четвериая


The headlights picked out the potholes in the narrow, hard-packed dirt road, but there were far too many of them for the driver of the old Land-Rover to avoid. For every two potholes they avoided, the wheels would drop in one with a bone-jarring thud.


There were three dark-clad figures in the Land-Rover, two in front and one in the rear. Beside the rear-seat passenger, AK-47 assault rifles, bars of C-4 plastic explosive, fragmentation grenades, and extra magazines were neatly arranged.


A Saab truck followed the Land-Rover. It was driven by a dour-faced giant whose head was wreathed in smoke from the hashish cigarette between his lips.


"How much further?" asked the driver of the Land-Rover.


"Four kilometers to the village," replied the man in the rear, playing a penlight over the map on his lap.

"Another three to the plant."

The driver nodded. "Right on schedule."


They rode in silence the rest of the way to the village


43

44 NICK CARTER


of Trapur. There they slowed, unwilling to chance killing one of India's sacred animals. None of the men wanted to draw any attention to the passing of their vehicles through the village.


Ten minutes later they pulled off onto yet a smaller road. A half mile farther on, they stopped and killed the lights.


As one, the three men gathered their weapons and moved from the Land-Rover to the crest of the hill beside the road.


Nestled at the bottom of the gorge, about a quarter of a mile below them, was the Trapur nuclear power plant. It was lit from every conceivable angle. Searchlights on automat rotors scanned the chain link fence surrounding it. A ring of lights ran around the roof of every building, and more lights gleamed from the few windows.


"Achmed!"


"Yes?" replied the truckdriver from the darkness behind them.


"Remember, do not go until you see the flare." The speaker was a small man with dark, almost delicate, features. Although his voice carried great authority, his appearance was that of a young boy.


In fact he was just twenty-one years old. His name was Shakib.


He was Amin Koulami's younger brother.


"I remember."


The three men checked their watches, nodded, and started down the dusty, rock-strewn hill. Halfway to the bottom they detoured away from the lights. By the time they had reached the bottom they were in the only shadowed place around the plant: directly behind the huge reactor cone.


44

NICK CARTER


SLAUGHTER DAY 45


Without a word, the fence was cut and all three men rolled through silently. Each ran in a different direction.

One minute later all communication between the plant and the rest of India—both telephone and computer—had been severed.


There were two walking guards around the reactor cone. Both of these men were silently killed with garrotees of spring-loaded piano wire.


This done, the three men converged again and ran silently across the lighted compound toward the watch commander’s shed. It was located beside the rear entrance to the main plant.


Their timing was perfect. Three minutes after they had settled into the shadows between the shed and the whitewashed main building, the electronically operated door opened.


The watch commander, a uniformed officer in the Indian army, stepped out carrying a tray. On the tray was a teapot and three cups.


The officer and his two subordinates had tea every night at the same time.

Shakib Koulami raised a Soviet-made 9mm Stechkin pistol in both hands. He fired twice. The slugs entered the front of the man’s skull one inch apart.

He had barely hit the ground when one man was at the door holding it and the other had retrieved the officer’s keys.


He unlocked the shed and within seconds had turned off the plant’s interior alarm system.


The interior door, to the plant proper, could only be opened by dialing the correct code into its electronic lock.

They didn’t have those codes. Shakib burst by his comrade who was already blocking the outer door open.


---


46

NICK CARTER


He pressed an eighth of a cube of C-4 into the cracks around both hinges and jammed a detonator into each glob.


Ten seconds later, with all three men flattened against the outside wall, the blast tore the hinges loose. Their combined strength pushed it open enough for them to squeeze through.


At this time of night there were only three engineers on duty inside the plant. One of them was in a room just off the tunnel leading to the reactor. His job was to watch the various gauges that read out the amount of heat controlled by the constant cooling system.


A second man was in the master control room, monitoring the amount of power being put out and where it was directed in the Bombay region.


The third man handled the phone and computer system that directed the outstations to cut back or increase power through their feeder lines to various parts of the country according to need.


At that moment, this man was cursing the system's failure and dialing codes that would activate the backup system.


He couldn't get the backup system to work either. This was an emergency situation. He tried to raise the power control room and request a cutback until he could determine the reason for the failure of his computers and phones.


The intraplant phone system was also out. He would have to go below and order the cutback in person.


Cursing the fact that this happened on his watch, he dialed his code into the door lock and stepped into the hall.


He never saw the man that killed him.

Both of the other engineers were intent on their


46

NICK CARTER


SLAUGHTER DAY 47


various gauges when the waddings of C-4 blew open the doors behind them.

Both of them died without turning around in their chairs.


It was well rehearsed, clockwork perfection. Seventeen minutes after rolling through the fence, the three men were packing the door of the main storage room that contained lead-lined casks of nuclear reactor fuel.


At the same time, the man named Achmed was charging down the road toward the plant's main gate. The gate was time-controlled, set to open twice a day for the changing shifts. There was an outer and inner fence, with a parking area between. The gate on the inner fence was also time-controlled.


The front of the truck Achmed drove had two special characteristics that had been added to its factory construction.


The enclosed box behind its cab was lead-lined and self-contained. By throwing two levers, the box could be detached from the truck bed. On its bottom, small wheels similar to those beneath the legs of a piano had been attached. Because of these wheels, the box could be moved anywhere over a smooth surface by only one man.


The second alteration in the truck was its nose. The entire front end had been bolstered and reinforced with steel bars and plates. It had been made into a formidable battering ram.


Achmed splintered the first gate and rolled on through the second. In the inner compound he turned left and, hardly slacking his speed, raced for the loading dock outside the storage room.


The door was already sliding up as Achmed backed the truck up to the lip of the dock. They met perfectly.


48 NICK CARTER


The truck had scarcely rocked to a halt when two men darted forward. They flipped the levers, and with a gentle push the box rolled from the truck bed, across the loading dock, and into the storage area.


Shakib Koulami awaited it. He had already selected the four lead-lined casks of nuclear reactor fuel that were to be stolen.


“Hurry!” he hissed, consulting his watch. “We have only four minutes and twenty seconds to stay on schedule!”


In the distance, the four men could hear the steady drone of a helicopter.


In the rear of the canteen on the plant’s first floor was a small storage room. Besides the supplies for the canteen, the room contained a cot that was often used by workers to catch a quick nap between the rush of meals.


On this night the cot was occupied by a drowsing Pal Ramaj. Earlier, Ramaj had dawdled too long while cleaning one of the offices. By the time he had finished and put his equipment away, he had missed the last bus to Trapur.


It happened rarely, but when it did, the night engineers always allowed him to use the cot rather than walk home to the village. It was good for them, actually. They didn’t have to make their own tea and mid-watch food.


The sound of Achmed’s truck crashing through the gate brought Ramaj to his feet. He thought, in his dreaming, that he had heard gunfire and explosives. But to those he had paid little attention. They were part of his dream. Ramaj often thought of war in his dreams. He wanted to be a soldier.


SLAUGHTER DAY 49


But the roar of the truck crashing through the gates was another matter.


He bolted through the canteen area and up the stairs to the second floor. He saw the body from the landing, and then heard the roar of the helicopter.


Instantly he was down the length of the opposite hall and staring out at the parking lot.


A helicopter was landing. He saw movement below to his right. A truck was pulling away from the loading dock. He could see four men, all in black, with guns slung over their shoulders.


Ramaj was not a highly educated man. But he had survived in India for twenty-two years by being observant and cunning.


Without a second thought he ran back down to the main floor. Down a long hallway and then down a second flight of stairs, he came to the door of the armory. He already had his keys in his hands.


Inside, he pried the leg from one of the workbenches and went to work on the lock of the main arms cabinet. Like a wild man he pounded until the lock sprung and the door swung open.


He knew exactly what he was doing. He had spent hours down here with the soldiers. They all liked him and enjoyed showing off by explaining the way each gun worked.


He hoisted a .303 Vickers Berthier machine gun with tripod legs to his shoulder. He jammed a thirty-round magazine into the feed and filled his pocket with four more.


Back in the hall, he ran for the elevator that would take him up to the roof and the observation deck.

• • •


50

NICK CARTER


50 NICK CARTER


Rami Sherif handled the big Bell like the expert she was. She settled gently onto the parking lot, feathered the rotors, and ran to the rear cargo door.


She had barely slid it open before the box was being rolled in.

Shakib Koulami stood by the door of the truck grinning at her. “Any trouble?”

“None.”

“I didn’t think there would be. He couldn’t resist you.”

“Clear!” Achmed cried.

“Batten it down,” Shakib ordered, climbing into the cab of the truck. “Rami, get ready to fly!”

She threw her head back with an exhilarated laugh and darted back to the cockpit. Seconds later, Achmed was at her shoulder.

“The box is secure.”

They both watched the truck. Shakib parked it and dropped from the cab. He ran toward the helicopter with his AK above his head, shaking it in the victory sign.


Rami could see his perfect white teeth gleaming in a smile.


And then she saw the mouth drop open and blood spew. His eyes widened with shock and his body lifted into the air as if he had been swatted by a giant hand.

“Shakib!” she screamed when the body turned in the air and she saw the bloody rents in the back of his shirt.

“There, on the roof!” Achmed shouted, pointing.


She looked and saw the orange bursts. Shakib’s body was being riddled where it lay on the asphalt.


There was a momentary lull while the shooter changed magazines. Then the orange bursts started


SLAUGHTER DAY 51


again. She saw the spurts in the asphalt where the bullets hit.


The shooter was finding the range of the helicopter.

The two in the rear of the machine were firing back.

This was throwing off the aim of the man on the roof,

but it wouldn’t for long.

“Fly!” Achmed shouted.

“But Shakib . . .”

“Fly! It’s too late for Shakib now!”

Rami Sherif pushed forward on the throttle. They lifted.


At the same time she whirled, giving the man on the roof the smaller target of the helicopter’s tail.

“Hurry!” Achmed shouted over the ear-shattering noise.

“I am!” she replied. “It’s the weight!”

She gave the machine full power. The nose tilted, and at last they began to move.

In seconds they were zigzagging out of range.

“How?” she cried. “How? It was the perfect plan!”

“A miscalculation,” Achmed replied with a shrug,

and lit a hashish cigarette.


SLAUGHTER DAY 51


FIVE


It took over a half hour, about ten minutes longer than Carter expected, for the woman to free herself.


He stiffened and leaned forward, putting his eye as close as possible to the crack in the linen closet door. Then her door opened. She looked both ways in the hall and then darted to the elevator.


As it clanged up from the lobby, Carter took in her far-less-than-designer gown and smiled.


The lady was a thinker, and a creative one at that.

She had taken the bed sheet and draped it around her like an Indian sari. It was held in place by some clever tucks and folds, and was sashed at the waist with a slice of cord from the venetian blinds.


She might draw a few stares on the street, but probably more for her bare feet than the unusual dress.

The elevator door closed behind her and the Killmaster burst from his place of concealment.


“I’ll be damned,” he hissed as he took one look at the moving indicator and ran for the stairs.


The indicator, which he had expected to be heading


52

SLAUGHTER DAY 53


back down to the lobby, was going the other way.

And then he remembered the desk clerk's words to Stephanie about crazy foreigners taking over the hotel.

Koulami had probably moved in bag, baggage, and entourage, and made the place a base of operations.

Carter was running about even, maybe a second or two behind the elevator on floors five and six. At each landing he paused to make sure the old cage was still grinding. When it was, he continued climbing.

When he was sure there was no stop on seven, he increased his speed and shook down the mike.

“Charley!”

"Yeah?"

"He's here."

"In the hotel?"

"Yeah. Somewhere on the eighth floor . . . I think . . .

I hope. Have you got backup?"

"Yeah. They've agreed to play backup unless you give the word."


That meant only one thing. The French feds wanted Koulami out of the way as much as AXE did, and they were only too happy to let Carter do the job. That left them with only garbage cleanup and paper work.

"I'll try and find out what the big score is before I terminate," Carter growled into the mike.

"Keep me posted."

"As soon as I know."


Carter released the talk button and let the spring-cord pull the mike back up his sleeve. He filled his hand with Wilhelmina and crouched in the shadows of the eighth-floor landing.


His luck was too good to be believed.

The landing where he crouched was about ten feet starboard of the elevator. The door the woman went to


54

NICK CARTER


was directly across the hall and halfway between the elevator and the landing.


He would be able to hit them before they had an inkling of warning.

She rapped sharply and there was an instant reply from beyond the door.

“It is me, Anis.”

So much for Lucera Babolini, Carter thought, flipping the safety off the Luger and dropping into a tenser crouch.


The door cracked open and she started to slide through.

Carter moved, doing everything in one fluid motion. He cracked the door with his shoulder, curled his left arm around the woman’s shoulder and neck, and charged into the room with the Luger arcing.


There were three of them, all short, dark, and Middle Eastern-looking. The door had barely slammed shut before three ugly little Walther PPKs had popped into their hands.

“Anis, you stupid bitch. You’ve led them right to us!”

“No, I sent him—”

“Shut up!”

It was the one in the middle speaking. Besides his voice, everything about him bespoke authority. Carter focused on him.

“Amin Koulami, I assume.”

“I know no Koulami. Who are you?”

All three of them started to move as one.

“Don’t do it,” Carter hissed, tipping the silencer up until the business end was ground under the chin of Anis/Lucera. “Stalemate.”

Koulami had managed a couple of feet further than


SLAUGHTER DAY 55

his comrades. He stood flatfooted, the Walther steady in his hand as he waited for the signal to fire.

“Anis!”

The woman’s voice was soft and sweet but Carter could hear the fear in it. She had been a good friend of his, one who had helped him out when he needed it most.


his comrades. He stood flatfooted, the Walther steady in both hands, waist high, taking in Carter and the woman.

“Amin, I am sorry . . .”

“Shut up, you stupid whore. What do you want?” he snarled to Carter.


The Killmaster watched them all carefully for a moment, but he was able to take in the rest of the room as well.


It had truly been set up as a base of operations. All the furniture had been pushed to the walls. In its place an elaborate radio setup had been spread out. Carter could tell from the equipment that it had a lot of range. Charts were on the walls and a portable computer rested on a coffee table.

“To start with, I want those charts, the pages I see by the radio, and the software from the computer.”

>Your French is good, but I think that you are not French. American?”

“Get the material,” Carter barked, grinding a little harder with the gun.


Koulami’s hard black eyes shifted from Carter to the woman momentarily, and then he turned. He gathered the material, except for the charts, and started back.

It was in his eyes. Carter could see it, sense it from the way he was bringing the Walther back up.

But still the Killmaster didn’t believe it until it was too late.


From five feet away, Koulami began firing point-blank into the woman’s body. She shook in Carter’s hands. He felt one of the slugs rip through and slam into his left side.


He tried to right Wilhelmina and fire, but he got off only one wild one before the other two goons were on


---


56 NICK CARTER

They pummeled him with their Walthers on the


56 NICK CARTER


him. They pummeled him with their Walthers on the head, neck, and shoulders. He felt the woman being wrenched from his grasp, and then a wrist chop made him drop the Luger.


He was going down and everything behind his eyeballs was alternating black and red. His knees hit the floor and the carpet came up to meet him.


He was fading, but he could hear Koulami giving orders.

“Gather up . . . we can carry . . . we will have to leave the equipment . . . no, don’t shoot him . . . there are other ways . . .”

And then Carter passed out.


He was familiar with the nausea and the aching muscles when he awakened. He opened his eyes, but they wouldn’t focus. There were fuzzy faces that wouldn’t remain in one place.

“He’s awake.”

“Roll up his sleeve!”

He felt the needle go into his arm, and almost immediately the ache and the nausea went away. It was replaced by a feeling of euphoria.


He was fading, but he could hear the crackling of a radio . . . and a voice . . . and then Koulami’s voice replying.

“It is sad, but he is one with Allah now . . . we have learned of Brussman’s whereabouts . . . meet us in three days’ time at . . .”

Someone poured a bottle of ink over Carter’s eyes and it seeped clear through to his brain.


He was even foggier when he came around again. He opened one eye and then the other. He couldn’t make


SLAUGHTER DAY 57

anything move, but he could see, albeit with very fuzzy vision.

The room was dark except for a faint light from the window. The sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears.


He tried to sit up, but it hurt too much and he couldn’t do it. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to think what had happened. It didn’t help that he felt so cold and hungry.

The door opened and a man walked in. Carter could see him clearly now. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt underneath.


“Hello,” said the man. “I’m here for you.”


Carter tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t come out. The man sat down next to him on the bed.

“I know what happened,” he continued. “You were shot in the head and your body was taken away from you.”

He paused a moment, then added, “But I’m here now because I want to help you.”


Carter tried to speak again, but his voice wouldn’t come out.


“Can you tell me how you feel?” asked the man.


SLAUGHTER DAY 57


anything move, but he could see, albeit with very fuzzy vision.


He was in a car. It was still night, moonlight. There were trees running swiftly by the windows. Countryside. Whatever drug they had given him was wearing off slowly.


He came alert enough to realize he was in the back of a taxi. There was a partition between the front and back seat. He could see the driver, one of Koulami's boys, leering at him in the rearview mirror.


He looked around. Anis/Lucera's bullet-ridden body lolled in the seat beside him. His own Luger was in his lap. A Walther was in the seat between them.


And then he noticed his door: no handle.

He concentrated, moving one arm and then the other. Eventually he was able to sit up. He leaned forward, put his head between his knees, and gulped several deep breaths.


The exertion made him woozy and created a burning pain in his left side. Gingerly he pulled his coat aside. His shirt was half gone, and around what was left there was a huge clot of blood.


Then he remembered. One of the Walther's slugs had gone right through the woman and caught him.

Gently, he examined the wound. It was only a gash. Her body had taken most of the punch and Wilhelmina's holster had absorbed the rest.


The Luger was empty. He holstered it and checked the Walther. It was the same.


The driver was still leering as he slowed the car. Carter searched and saw only wilderness, plowed fields, trees, a dirt road.


The driver got out, opened the hood, and worked for a few seconds beneath it. Then, giving Carter a last


58 NICK CARTER

hid his arm around the side of the hood; he turned and


hideous grin around the side of the hood, he turned and started walking. Soon he was jogging.


Then, as realization of what was going to happen hit Carter, the driver was running just as fast as his legs would carry him.


Carter tried to galvanize himself into action, and immediately felt sicker. He lurched across the woman's body and tried the opposite door handle. It, too, was gone.


He pounded on the glass partition with his fists.

The nausea got worse.

He lay on the seat and tried to kick the side glass out with his feet. It didn't budge; it wouldn't even crack.

Then he did get sick.

It made the ache come back into his muscles. They slowed and his mind began to join them.


Hang on, he screamed at himself, you can't pass out!

Wildly he looked around the car for something stronger than his weakened legs to use on the windows.

Nothing.

He pushed the woman to the floorboard and yanked out the bottom of the seat. There was just a chance that he could get something from the trunk, a jack handle perhaps, if he could get into the trunk. Feverishly, his hands shaking, he worked at the screws holding the seat back.


It came loose and he pushed it aside. Behind it he found solid steel.

Everything was becoming fuzzy and seen through tunnel vision. He knew what was going to happen. He knew the car was going to blow. The question was, how soon?


He went back to the glass partition and pounded on it until, even through the numbness caused by the dope,


SLAUGHTER DAY 59

he could feel the knife in his hand.


he could feel pain in his hands.

He retched again.

Between his pounding and clawing, a slice of the wooden panel between the glass and the seat back came loose. He worked at that, more out of anger and frustration than any sense of purpose, until he had it mangled and ripped away.


And then a purpose entered his befogged brain. He could see down into the hollow back of the front seat. Using his penknife and his fingernails, he ripped and hacked at the upholstery until he had a hole in the base behind it. Then he lurched back and pounded at it with his feet.


“'Kick, kick, kick!'” he screamed aloud at his weakening legs.


At last the hole was big enough. He fell forward, throwing his hands into the hole. He searched for and found the wiring. He didn’t have time or the eyesight to figure out which went to the windows, which to seats, which to cigarette lighter, lights, or the myriad other electrical accouterments of the car. He just took Hugo and started sawing.


At last he was through them all. He put the stiletto in his teeth and rotated bare ends to bare ends. There was a sizzling sound and the scorching stench of flesh.


It was his own. But he didn’t stop, and at last he heard a whirring sound from the bowels of the seat.


He looked up. The glass divider was just disappearing into the seat.


Struggling, his stomach in knots, sure that his muscles had totally atrophied, he managed to pull himself through the opening and fall into the front seat.


He rolled from the driver’s side and somehow got to his feet. He lurched into a plowed field and ran. He fell,


---


60

NICK CARTER


and was caught by the car as it passed over.


somehow staggered back to his feet, and ran on.

He'd never make it, no way.

He fell again.

He was crawling when the ground shook beneath him.


An instant later the sound of the blast rolled through the field. He craned his head around in time to see parts of the car hit the earth a football field away. The blast had cut the car clean in half..

He thought of the woman in the car. So much for Koulami's loyalty to his puppets. And so much for Anis Whoever-the-hell-she-once-was.


He got to his feet and staggered into the trees.


It might have been an hour, it might have been five.

Carter didn't know. He had lost all track of time and direction. He had put as much distance between himself and the explosion as possible. Twice he had passed out, and another time he realized he had been going around in a large circle for an hour.


Somehow all the roads he had found led nowhere but back into thick trees.

He was close to delirium when he saw the light. It was about a hundred yards off the dirt road, through more trees.


As he stumbled toward it he realized that it was almost dawn. He could sense the first beginnings of gray light through the canopy of trees above him.


It was a farmhouse, a low, sprawling building of another age, in disrepair and badly in need of a coat of paint.

But there was a light.

Carter got to one of the windows and stared in.

He saw a buxom older woman with frizzy gray hair.


SLAUGHTER DAY 61

She was wearing old torn slippers, a men's shirt that


She was wearing old torn slippers, a man's shirt that was too small for her ample bust, and a wrinkled skirt that was strained by her wide hips. She was ironing a shirt, the iron plugged into an outlet near the door.


On the wall behind her head Carter saw a telephone.

He walked down a weed-choked path to the front door. Leaning against the doorframe, he pulled Wilhelmina from the holster and, holding it by the barrel, rapped on the door.


There was no response. As he raised the gun again, the door opened and the woman stood there, the hot end of the iron inches from Carter's face.

"No, please . . . accident . . . have to use your phone . . ."

"Non! Go away!"

"Please. Don't want to rob you . . . hurt you. Here . . ."


He held the Luger up butt-first to her. She eyed it and the mess he was.

"Please. I'm a police officer," he lied. "Phone."

She snatched the Luger from his hand and stepped back. Carter took two steps into the room and fell flat on his face.


The next thing he knew there was a cool cloth bathing his face.

"You are shot," she said.

"Yes."

"It was clotted. You will live. I was once a nurse."

"Call for me, Paris four-four-four-nine-ten."

She repeated the number.

"Ask for Charley . . . tell him Carter."

"Carter . . . Charley."

"That's right. Just Charley . . ."

And he passed out again.


SLAUGHTER DAY 61


SIX


Groggy but game, Carter fought his way out of the blackness. Everything was red, but he managed to get his eyes open and keep them that way. They focused on white, with wrinkles. Then dark hair with patches of gray was added to it.


“Welcome back to the living, Monsieur Carter.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Nesbitt. I am the doctor who put you back together.”


Carter rolled his eyes around the sterile room. It was all white and windowless. “Where am I?”


“A private clinic near Versailles.”


Carter nodded. He had heard of it, a place where SDECE people and friendlies could go when the roof had fallen in on them. A place where they either got patched up or died quietly out of sight.


“How long have I been here?”

“Since around eight this morning.”

“And what time is it now?”


The doctor glanced at his wrist. “Almost six.”


62


SLAUGHTER DAY 63


SLAUGHTER DAY 63


“Six P.M.?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus.”

“I must say you have marvelous recuperative powers.”

“What ails me?”


The man lifted a chart from the end of the bed and read his casualty report. “You have a minor concussion, a lacerated right ear, a broken nose, two cracked ribs, serious bruises on both shoulders and the upper back, and a gash in your left side that appears to have been made by a large-caliber bullet. Other than that, you’re a fine physical specimen.”


Carter managed a grin under the bandages. “Any of my people here I can talk to?”


He nodded. “I was told to summon a Monsieur Le- Moine when you showed signs of waking up. He should be here in a few minutes.”


“Thanks.”


The doctor was gone only a few seconds when a starchy little number in white with short blond hair and a no-nonsense stare glided in and grabbed his wrist.


“Is there anything I can get you?”


“Cigarette, scotch, food, and another cigarette . . . in that order.”


Her face managed to crack a smile. “Cigarettes are a no-no. Scotch is out of the question. But I will bring you a tray.”


Carter went through juice and an omelet and was down to coffee when a weary, gray-faced Charley Le- Moine arrived.


“How goes it, hot dog?”


“They tell me I’ll live. Gimme a cigarette.”


LeMoine produced two, lit them, and passed one to


64

NICK CARTER

Carter The Killmaster inhaled deeply, hurt, and


64 NICK CARTER


Carter. The Killmaster inhaled deeply, hurt, and coughed.

“Jesus, that tastes good. Lay it on me!”

“He got away,” LeMoine sighed.

“He what?”

“Koulami slipped us.”

“How?”

“I read it like this. One bozo takes you down the back stairs of the hotel.”

“With the woman’s body.”

“Right. By the way, she was one Anis Jarocam, student at the University of Beirut until she helped blow it up. We think she was part of the Shiite raiding team that blew up a busload of Israeli kids on the frontier about a year ago. She also set up the assassination of an Israeli couple in Nice last month. The rest of her record reads like a fanatic’s manual.”

“Nice lady.”

“Yes,” LeMoine growled, opening the brief he had carried in with him. “You can sure pick ‘em. Anyway, the bozo drives you and the woman out to the country to go boom. By the way, she had five thirty-eight slugs in her. Know anything about that?”

“In a minute. Tell me about Koulami.”

“Bozo number two comes out of the hotel. We’re set up, but we don’t know who he is and we don’t know your situation. He barely hits the sidewalk, spots us, and it’s the Fourth of July.”

“He opened up?” Carter said.

“With a machine pistol. He had it under his raincoat. The SDECE boys made him about twelve pounds heavier before he went down. Then we took the hotel.”

“And no Koulami.”

“That’s about it. We got his radio and computer


SLAUGHTER DAY 65


****** Result for Image/Page 1 ******

gear, but he was air. He probably went over the roof while we were doing the O.K. corral bit in the street.”


Carter nodded. “It would fit.” He told LeMoine about the cold-blooded killing of the woman while he was using her as a shield. By the time he was finished, the other man’s face was a shade grayer.


“Jesus, he’s one cold son of a bitch. You mean the one in the street did a suicide number so Koulami could disappear?”


“I’d bet on it,” Carter said. “That’s why they’re puppets and he’s the puppet master.”


Both men fell silent. Carter sniffed the butt and tried to put his mind in gear. “Do you think he’s in Paris?”


“No. I doubt if he’s even in the country now. He’s smooth, slick, and fast. Also, nobody on our side knows what the hell he looks like. He’s hard to pin.”


Carter grunted. “Nobody on our side knows what he looks like but me.”


“Yeah,” LeMoine said, “that could be a plus, eventually.”


Then Carter remembered. “What about Stephanie, the stewardess?”


“We cleaned you out of the Ritz. This was on top of your bag.”


Carter took the note and unfolded it:


My job is not as exciting as yours, but it’s the only one I have. I have to go do it. I hope you get your blackmailer. If you’re still in Paris on my next day off, here’s my phone number and address.


The number and address and a big S followed.


“We checked,” LeMoine said. “She’s back on the Paris/Nice/Marseille/Paris daily. Looks like no problem.”


“There won’t be. No way they could get a connec—


66 NICK CARTER


tion, especially with the . . . what was her name?'

"Jarocam."

"Yeah, with her dead."


LeMoine took a tiny recorder from his pocket and set it on Carter's chest. "We didn't get crap from any of the hotel rooms, not even a print. Want to put down everything you can remember about what happened and what you heard up there?"


"Sure."


He tried. He concentrated until his head hurt one hell of a lot worse than before.


But all he could remember were the physical parts, and voices while he was going under.

"Great. What did the voices say?"

More concentration and, if anything, a bigger blank.

"Nada. If there was anything big in what they said, it didn't register."


LeMoine shrugged and packed up the recorder.

"Maybe it'll come by morning. I'll dictate a report for you tonight and get it on the wire."

"Thanks."

"Get some sleep."

"Will do," Carter said. "Leave your cigarettes."


LeMoine set matches and cigarettes on the bedside table and strode out.


Five minutes later the blond nurse came in and whisked them into her uniform pocket.

"I told you," she said, fanning the air.

"You're a perverse witch."

"I also have a ninety percent record of discharging live patients. Here, take this."

"What is it?"

"A sleeping pill."


SLAUGHTER DAY 67


He didn't think he needed it, but he took it. "Do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"Send a dozen roses to this person at this address." He scrawled Stephanie's name on the note and handed it to her.

"Roses are out of season."

"Then send a dozen of something . . . very beautiful and very expensive."

"Any card?"

"Yeah. Tell her it was a hell of a flight. We'll do it again some time."

He dozed for about an hour and then she was back.

"You have a call. I told them you were—"

"I'll take it." He waited until she had scowled her way out of the room. "Yeah?"

"Charley, Nick. Hell's apoppin'!"

"How so?"

"Don't know the details, but the wires are humming. They just ID'd Koulami's little brother in Trapur, India. That's a piss in the wind from Bombay. He's dead, with about twenty slugs in him."

"Who iced him?"

"A janitor."

"What?"

"Do you know what's at Trapur, Nick?"

"Not offhand."

"It's a nuclear reactor station. Koulami the younger was ripping off nuclear reactor fuel."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, looks like our boy may be going big time. At least D.C. thinks so. Hawk and Company are taking the night flight out of Dulles. They want you at eight in the


68

NICK CARTER


68


NICK CARTER


morning. I'll have a car pick you up."

"'You're on. 'Night.'"

"One more thing . . . "

"Yeah?"

"A crazy hunch,' LeMoine said, "and maybe nothing. But your old subconscious may have something in it you don't know about."

"You mean the conversation in the hotel room?"

"Yeah. I'd like to dig for it."

"How?"

"Don't laugh. I'd like to try you first thing in the morning with a hypnotist."

Carter almost did laugh, and then saw the reasoning behind the other man's thinking.

"Sure, why not?"

"See you then."

Carter hung up, lay back on the pillows, and closed his eyes.

As he dropped off, his body reacted to the thought running through his brain. He could feel the woman in his arms as the slugs from the Walther ripped through her.


Even though heat was circulating through the big car, there was cold in Carter's bones. He pulled the collar of the trench coat up around his neck and wriggled further into it. Outside the car there was a clammy mood to the morning, as if it were about to snow or rain. He glanced over at the young agent who had picked him up just after dawn at the clinic.

His hair was sandy blond, his haircut was as precise as his suit, and his jaw was square and perfectly shaved. Carter suspected that the man had shaved twice that morning.


SLAUGHTER DAY 69


He was the new breed. Carter felt old and tired even though they had brought him new clothes from the skin out.


Carter lit his sixth cigarette of the morning and leaned back with a sigh. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the younger man's nose twitch.

"You don't smoke."

"No, sir."

"How long have you been in?"

"Two years," he replied, a slight flush creeping up his neck. He knew who the scarred veteran was beside him.

"How long in the field?"

"Six months."

"And you don't smoke?"

"No, sir."

"You will."


They headed away from the Seine and in no time passed all the places Carter thought they might be going. Then they started through the back streets of Pigalle, with its cafés, porno houses, and small nightclubs.


Five minutes later they were climbing the hill behind Sacré-Coeur. The old church, partially shrouded in fog, looked like a wealthy matron after a long, hard night.


They parked in the church parking lot where, in an hour or two, the first tourist buses would pull in to discharge their hordes of people and carbon monoxide on the old matron.

"What the hell are we doing in Montmartre?"

"It's an SDECE safe house, sir, right off the artists' square."


They walked down from the church and out onto the square. It was already, even at this early hour, lined


70

NICK CARTER


with umbrellas, rickety, makeshift stands, and wobbling tables full of paints and brushes.


Artists milled around in heavy coats, fur-fringed jackets, and faded denim. They drank coffee and blinked sleep from their eyes. From somewhere came the tinny sound of rock and roll, and there was the distinct smell of marijuana in the air.


“Jesus, Renoir would die,” Carter murmured.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing. Is this it?”


It was a flat, three-story building off the square, with an ornate door and tightly curtained windows.


The door opened on the first ring, and both men darted inside. A clone of Carter’s driver led him down a long hall without a word. He opened a door and Carter entered a woody, low-ceilinged room with books lining every wall.


A fire crackled and a bear of a man with a seamed, kindly face, white fringe around a bald head, and a steaming cup of coffee in his hand warmed his backside against it.

“Carter?”

“Good morning.”

“I’m Jeffrey Rudder.” Carter shook the proffered hand. “Did they give you any pills this morning?”


Carter shook his head. “I’m supposed to take a couple of antibiotics and a painkiller when you’re finished with me.”


“Good. Have you ever been hypnotized before?”

“A couple of times. They tell me I’m not a good subject.”


The old man slurped his coffee. “It often depends on the circumstances and the surroundings. This isn’t the


SLAUGHTER DAY 71


best, but it will have to do. They said you took a pretty bad beating and were shot. That won't help. The trauma might interfere."


Carter slumped into a chair by the fireplace and chuckled. "Don't worry about that. I lost the ability to be traumatized years ago. Shall we begin?"


They sat at a large round table in a third-floor room. It, too, had a roaring fire. Coffee and croissants were in the middle of the table, and there was the smell of old leather from the furniture in the air.


Charley LeMoine was to Carter's right. A large, square-jawed man with gray eyes and a Mierschaum in his teeth that never stopped billowing smoke was to Carter's left. He was Christian Peterson, head of the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission.


To Peterson's left was François Shelbain, director of the *Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage*. For short, SDECE, the French secret service.


Shelbain was about fifty, but his clear, cold blue eyes were thousands of years old. He had seen and done it all. One got the feeling, staring into those eyes, that he'd watched the dice roll at the foot of the cross.


Directly across from Carter was the head of AXE, David Hawk. He was a stocky, white-haired man whose head was usually obscured in mist from a cheap cigar. It was no different now, but the eyes gleaming through the gray fog were much like Shelbain's.


The only difference was, David Hawk had probably won the dice game.


Hawk was bringing the table up to date.

"I won't go into all the crap that Koulami has pulled


---


72

NICK CARTER

in the past. That's practically common knowledge.


72 NICK CARTER


in the past. That's practically common knowledge.

What we think he's up to now is what we're concerned with this morning."


He shuffled papers, passed copies around the table,

and went on.


"We might not have tumbled to a connection if

Shakib Koulami hadn't bought it at Trapur. The raid was well planned and perfectly executed. They must have sized everything for weeks before pulling it off."


"What did they get?" Carter asked, preferring to get his information quickly rather than wade through all of the papers before him.


Peterson replied. "Four lead-lined casks of nuclear reactor fuel."


"How did they get it out?" LeMoine asked.

"By helicopter," Hawk growled. "A shady character named Morgan Pawley ran a flying service south of Bombay. He's dead. A hypodermic loaded with cyanide in the neck. Bartender at one of the local hotel watering holes remembers he picked up a woman earlier that night. Pawley was going to give her a look at the sights of Bombay by night."


"The woman lifted the helicopter?"


"We assume so. The young man who wasted Shakib Koulami swears it was a woman at the controls. From the bartender's description, and the fact that the woman was a pilot and was probably close to Koulami, we've come up with a name. Rami Sherif. Find pictures A and B in your stack."


Carter found them.


The first photograph showed a beautiful dark-haired girl of about sixteen. She was in a bathing suit with the sea behind her. She had a fine, long nose, wavy black hair, and black eyes that looked coquettishly over her


SLAUGHTER DAY 73

shoulder at the camera. Her figure was full to the point


shoulder at the camera. Her figure was full to the point of voluptuousness, with long legs, high breasts, and athletic tone.


The second photo was more formal. In it she wore a mauve, low-cut cocktail dress. She was a little older in this one. Now there was a frank look in her eyes, unafraid and unimpressed by the camera.


The biggest difference between the two photos, besides the clothing and location, was in the eyes. In the second photo the coquetishness was gone. It was replaced with hard cruelty.


Hawk was speaking again. “There were two other raids pulled off within twenty-four hours and in practically the same manner. Peterson?”


“One was in the United States . . . Tennessee, to be exact. They got five canisters of high-grade plutonium. In knowledgeable hands that’s a little more than enough to build two bombs.”


LeMoine groaned.


“The other strike was in England, at the atomic research facility in Sussex. Whoever did it was a computer expert. Once they got the codes, he knew just what to go for in the memory banks and how to get it out.”


“What was the damage there?” Carter asked.


“The plans for a new, improved, and speedier way of converting nuclear waste into raw plutonium. They also obtained the shipping codes and access numbers for the computers at the Lake Athabasca uranium mines in Saskatchewan.”


Hawk chimed in. “We have alerted the Canadian government. Security has been doubled and the codes changed.”


“How do you know just what they got out of the computer?” Shelbain asked, his voice coming out in a


74

NICK CARTER


74 NICK CARTER


cigarette-and-whiskey-induced growl.

“Luckily,” Peterson replied, “a monitor was installed only a few days ago on the printers. We know everything they printed out. Besides the information on Athabasca and the nuclear plants, they also printed out the center’s personnel file.”


There was a several-second silence around the table, eventually broken by Hawk.


“Gentlemen, I think we can make some pretty clear deductions from all of this. They have the makings to create a bomb—or two—right now. They have the fuel to kick off a reactor to create nuclear waste. And they have the plans to convert that waste into plutonium to build future bombs. And I think we all know who Koulami works for.”


Carter took a deep drag on his cigarette and expelled it slowly through his nostrils as he spoke.

“Iran wants the bomb.”


François Shelbain and LeMoine brought the rest of them up to date on Paris.


The equipment left behind in the hotel room had been traced back to West Germany. All of it, plus the automobiles, had been stolen weeks before.


The owners and staff of the Café Marie were clean. It had only been used as a drop.


The man killed outside the hotel had been identified as Yuval Heikal, a longtime associate of Amin Koulami. Other than an Islamic medallion around his neck, the body was clean.


The Babolini passport was a good forgery. It, along with the arms, was probably supplied by Allad Khopar.

“Also, Nick,” LeMoine added, “you were right about the powder in the compact. It was laced with


75 SLAUGHTER DAY


pheno. They don't miss a trick."


Carter turned to Shelbain. "What about Khopar? Have your people gotten anything out of him?"


"Nothing, and it's impossible to find his real records. The warehouse in Marseille has been gone through inch by inch. Everything we turned up has been legally invoiced. You can bet there are illegal arms stored somewhere, but our chances of finding them are one in a million. He's being transferred to Toulouse this morning for arraignment on the dope charge, but you know how much chance we have of making that stick."


"All right," Hawk declared, lighting a fresh cigar, "we might have something. I've gone over the tape of your session with Dr. Rudder this morning, Nick. There are some things on it that might give us a leg up."


He hit the play button on the tape machine at his elbow, and Carter's voice, sleepily droning but clear, filled the room.


"'Needle . . . and the radio . . . Koulami's voice and a woman, spoke in both French and Arabic . . ."


Long silence, then Rudder's voice, urging: "The voices, what did they say? Can you remember as close to verbatim as possible what they said?"


A short pause and then Carter's drone again: 'Uh . . . he is with Allah . . . Brussman . . .'


"Is Brussman the woman or one of the other men in the room?"


"No . . . Brussman's whereabouts, learned Brussman's whereabouts. Will meet Brussman . . . no meet us in three days' time . . ."


Hawk cut the machine. "We put the name through the computer and came up with Dr. Josef Brussman. He's one of the three top nuclear physicists at the Sussex atomic research facility in England."


---


76

NICK CARTER


"Make your own decision, Nick," he said. "That's why they're all over the place."


76


**NICK CARTER**


LeMoine snapped his fingers. “That’s why they wanted the personnel list!”


“Exactly,” Hawk said. “Brussman is rather unique among his fellows. He is not only one of the top nuclear physicists in the world, he is also an accomplished engineer.”


“Jesus,” Carter muttered. “Not only can the guy build a bomb for them, he can construct a reactor.”


“It would appear that’s why they have pinpointed him. The top people in Sussex are required to leave word at all times as to their status and location. Right now Dr. Brussman, his daughter Eliza, and his assistant, Peter Donahue, are attending a scientific convention in Alexandria. When the convention is concluded they plan on taking a three-week vacation cruising the Nile, touring the ruins, and seeing Cairo.”


“They’re going to snatch them!” Carter hissed.


“I’d say that, Nick. We have contacted MI6 in London. They are sending a three-man team right now. Her Majesty’s government is not the least bit averse to you joining them. Are you up to it?”


“More than up to it, sir.”


Hawk leaned forward, the cigar grinding between his teeth. “Nick, I want Koulami. I want the bastard's ears.”


Just then an aide popped through the door and moved to François Shelbain’s chair. He leaned close to the SDECE chief’s ear and whispered.


The man’s face clouded. He nodded, dismissing the aide, and looked gravely around the table.


“Gentlemen, a half hour ago in Marseille a sniper killed Allad Khopar with four bullets from a high-powered rifle.”


Koulami, Carter thought, doesn’t miss a trick.


SEVEN


It was a small boat to be out so far, but the man and woman handling it knew exactly what they were doing. Behind them the coast road ran picturesquely along the Egyptian Riviera. To their left, the buildings of Alexandria gleamed in the hot Mediterranean sun. Green rolling hills and sun-scorched beaches ran west as far as the eye could see.


They had left a tiny marina in Alexandria nearly two hours earlier and were now directly in front of Maimura Beach about two miles out.


Selwa Rajon slipped off the white slacks and shirt she was wearing and folded them in the well of the boat over her shoes. Then she pulled the black wet suit top on over her bathing suit and turned to the man at the tiller.


“Kamal . . .”


“Yes, Selwa?”,


“Help me with the tanks?”


On his knees behind her, he lifted the tanks until she could slide her arms through the shoulder straps. He helped adjust them and then fit the heavy utility belt around her hips.


78

NICK CARTER


“The weight of the belt will tire you fast, Selwa. Be careful.”


78


**NICK CARTER**


“The weight of the belt will tire you fast, Selwa. Be careful.”


She chuckled, “It will be much lighter on the swim back out.”


After a final check of her air lines and the rest of the equipment, she fit her face mask and slipped over the side. It was cold but not cold enough to impede movement. She loosened the valve to give herself a little more air, and dived under the surface of the sea.


The water was deep and clear. Rays of sunshine angled down through it, giving off a glow of soft light. Fish that darted away when she first splashed into the water reappeared to swim along with her.


Breathing through the mouth, usually awkward, became natural after just a few strokes. When her arms began to tire, she gave them a rest at her sides and used only the powerful thrust of her kicking feet in the flippers.


When the first shadows of land appeared on the surface, she came up. Her head, dark in the rolling water, barely broke the surface.


She got her bearings and dived again.


Now she distanced herself, a yard and a half with each smooth, untiring stroke.


Again she came up, this time three hundred yards offshore on a direct line with the villa and its private pier. Moored to the pier was an eighty-five-foot, three-decked floating palace of the *Moira* class. Her sides gleamed white in the sun, and the polished brass on her decks sparkled.


By narrowing her eyes, Selwa Rajon could read the name and home port. Her name was *Darvais Pride*, printed on the stern in both English and Arabic. Just beneath it was the home port, Manama, the capital of Bahrain.


---


**SLAUGHTER DAY**


79


Quickly, Selwa's trained eyes took in everything. There were three armed guards: one on the foredeck, one aft, and one in the wheelhouse. There were two more at the top of the steps leading from the gardens behind the villa down to the pier.


She let the weight of the belt take her under again; and let the light and dark reflections off the surface tell her when she had reached the yacht's hull.


Around her belt were eight self-contained bombs. Seven contained two pounds of C-4 explosive in a hermetically sealed steel box; one held much less. Attached to each was a smaller Teflon-coated box holding a two-channel receiver. The receivers were in miniature, the same kind found in the fuselage of radio-controlled model airplanes.


Two conductor rods, the area around them also sealed, connected the dual boxes. The inner cores of the rods were the antennae detonators that would blow the C-4.


Carefully, starting just forward of the stern, she placed each explosive device approximately ten feet apart. The casings themselves were magnetized so that all it took on the woman's part was a slight rub, a bit of friction against the hull, and the bombs held fast.


In the eighth and final bomb there was also a tiny beeper device that could be monitored from miles away with a small directional finding unit. She did not arm the detonators. This would be done when the time came by a separate send unit.


A half hour later, Selwa Rajon climbed back into the boat and sprawled, spent, on the bottom.


“Done?”


“Done,” she replied, absently stroking her body through the wet suit. “Hurry, let's get back. I can't wait to tell Amin!”


80 NICK CARTER


80


NICK CARTER


• • •


The customs inspector flipped through Carter's special diplomatic passport, stamped it, and handed it back with a slight bow.

"Have an enjoyable time in Cairo, Mr. Carter."

"Thank you."


Carter got his bag from the VIP gate and walked immediately to the bank window where he converted one thousand American dollars into Egyptian pound notes. From there he went to the rental car desk and gave his name to the clerk.


"How long will you be needing the car, sir?"

"It's difficult to say. Perhaps several days. Can I drop it off in Alexandria?"

"I can make note of it."

"Do that."


He had taken Pan Am through Rome to Cairo International. He could have flown Cairo to Alexandria via United Arab Airlines, but there were a couple of stops he wanted to make between the two cities.


The Killmaster signed the forms, showed his international driver's license, and paid the deposit in cash. A valet escorted him to the parking lot and opened the door of a four-door, dark blue Cortina.


Carter tipped him, threw his bags into the rear seat, and drove the traffic maze until he was free of the airport. After only one wrong turn he found the Alexandria highway and headed north.


He drove for nearly an hour, glancing often into the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn't being followed.

It was unlikely that Koulami would have the Cairo airport tabbed, but Carter was naturally cautious.


The explosion of the car had been purposely played down in the Paris newspapers. The report did state that two bodies had been discovered in the aftermath of the


SLAUGHTER DAY 81


SLAUGHTER DAY 81


inferno, a man and a woman, both burned beyond identification.


Koulami had no reason to believe that Carter was still alive, let alone in Egypt.


At the halfway point, he stopped at a small village oasis. It was a combination gas station, run-down hotel, bar, restaurant, and way station for desert traders heading west to east toward the Nile.


This was only too evident, comparing the front and rear of the buildings. There were several large trucks and older model cars parked in front. In the rear were stables filled with camels, horses, and various other livestock. A hundred yards beyond the stables, several brightly colored and festooned tents had been erected.


Carter locked the car and generously tipped the old, toothless car guard before going inside.


Except for some of the merchandise, the first room could have been a country general store in America. To the right was a restaurant. In the rear was a small bar modeled after an English pub.


Carter entered the bar and ordered a small dish of kabob and a local beer. “Do you have a telephone?”


“We do. On the wall there. To where do you call?”


“Alexandria.”


“You will need change.”


Carter passed over several pound notes and got a handful of coins in return.


He took a long swallow from the beer when it came, lit a cigarette, and strolled back to the phone.


The operator answered in Arabic. Carter switched her to English and asked for an Alexandria number. He deposited half his coins as he listened to an odd ringing tone on the other end of the line.


A low, sultry voice answered in Arabic.

“Do you speak English?” Carter asked.


82 NICK CARTER


957