# Society Of Nine

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

N3 goes to

the heart ot a

conspiracy that would

turn Africa into

a slave-empire!

THE SOCIETY OF NINE


THE CULT OF THE LEOPARD!

"He senses blood, W. Carter: I believe it is your blood

he smells. That is truly unfortunate. I shall have to kill

him. No cat can remain in capfivity who has tasted

human blood."

"You're breaking my heart," I hissed.

A sadistic smile broke out on his lips. Carefully, with one

eye still down the steps, he moved from the head of the

stairway.

"Vadu has always been my favorite pet," he spat. "But

since he must die, it is only fair he get a last meal.

Please, Mr. Carter, I wish you to walk down those

steps."

In answer, another rumbling roar carried up from the

stairwell. My belly iced over at the thought of facing

death at the leopard's jaws..

NICK CARTER IS IT!


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A OIVISON Of CHARtFR COMMUNICA'IONS INC.

A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY

SOCIETY OF NINE

Copyright 0 1981 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in

a review. without permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A Charter Original.

"Nick Carter" is a registered trademark of the Condé Nast Publica-

tions. Inc., registered in the United States Patent Office.

First Charter Printing April 1981

Published simultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

246809531


CHAPTER ONE

Teeming wasn't the word for Algiers. Boiling was

more apropos. Set between moderate Morocco to the

east and Libya to the west, and slightly left of crazy, it

boiled in the North African sun.

And I, Nick Carter, boiled along with it, even under

the sidewalk canopy of the Café Liberation. Shielding

my eyes were glasses of the darkest lens available, but I

still squinted beneath them at the glaring sun as it

danced off the multicolored tiles of the café's tiny

veranda.

Hot?

Hell, yes, it was hot, making me all too aware of my

own sweat as it seeped through the white linen of my

shirt and painted dark patches across the slightly over-

sized white jacket I was wearing.

I checked my issue wristwatch with the special

doodads that did special things.

Three-twenty.

My contact was now twenty minutes late. "Illat's

never a pleasant omen, but then no reason to get the

jitters, either. I downed the last few swallows of a sweet

mint tea, and allowed my eyes to wander.

"Ihe surroundings were anything but frightening.

ne café itself covered most of the sidewalk of one of

the large avenues leading into the Casbah. Around me

sat a mixture of business types and tourists, none of

whom showed any particular interest in me. All were

either lost in their own conversations, or gaping at the

endless parade of Arabs, Bedouins, and ass-pulled

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NICK CARTER

carts plodding their wares up this final block to the

walls of the old city.

In the distance I could hear that unmistakable pot-

pourri of chatter and music that signified their goal. *Ihe

Casbah, the world's oldest shopping center.

"Would the gentleman care for more tea?"

His voice took me three inches out of my chair.

As my eyes leaped up to his face, the waiter's puz-

zled expression quickly gave way to a smile that re-

vealed random gaps where teeth should have been.

"More tea, monsieur?"

C'Oh, yes! Yes, of course, " I sighed, using French.

fte language had lasted, even though the French

hadn't. "Merci, another tea, please."

He darted off, leaving me to gather up what remained

of my composure.

Back to the watch.

Three twenty-two.

Clever, Carter. All of two minutes since you last

checked. When you start looking once a minute, they

hand you a gold-plated timepiece and retire you to a

comfy condo in Florida.

Jumpy? Yeah, I was, and there were a lot of reasons

for it. Not the least of which was Algiers itself.

My eyes rolled back to the dusty street and down to

where it disappeared beneath a tiled arch in the old city

wall.

I'd been to them all—Tangier, Rabat, Casablanca,

Fez, even Qaddaffi's stronghold, Tripoli.

But Algiers was unique.

It was a haunting city, a casserole of mixed cultures

that had been left baking in the sun for thousands of

years, until it hardened into ceramic permanence. Any-

thing that unchangeable has got to be just a little bit

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But also mysterious ,

pleasantly mysterious.

Like the figures of two women walking up the av-

enue. Their long djellabas were barely rustling as they

made their way through the moving humanity in short,

petite strides. nieir faces were covered, but the flash-

ing onyx of their eyes beckoned like a muezzin calling

the faithful to prayer.

I have always been a believer in the old adage that the

female is most sensuous to the male when something is

left to the imagination. On that basis, Muslim women

win the championship, hands down, The men of Islam

have immersed their women in a sea of garments,

allowing only a tiny island ofolive skin to peer out from

behind their veils. And yet, in spite of their limited

exposure, Arab women seem able to reach down within

themselves and tell you volumes, using nothing more

than their eyes.

Eyes so soft you could curl up in them.

As the two women neared my table, the one closeSt

to me locked her eyes on mine. There was curiosity in

her gaze, curiosity and incredible youth. I smiled and

gave her a brief nod, fully expecting her to make an

embarrassed retreat.

She didn 't.

If anything, her ICK)k became even more penetrating.

I stiffened slightly in my chair while the deep appraisal

of her stare seemed to shoot right through me. A slight

charge of adrenaline hit my spine, bringing with it the

awareness that I just might be facing my contact.

I was just beginning a quick review of the agreed

upon recognition procedures, when the spell was bro-

ken.

The second woman, suddenly realizing the intensity

of contact between myself and her companion,

straightened up and drove her elbow into the young

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girl's shoulder. The youthful eyes left me, offered

meek apology to the older woman 's glare, and returned

a humble perusal of the street before her.

I settled back once more, and once more consulted

the mocking face of my watch.

Three twenty-seven.

A five minute lapse. Better, Carter, much better.

I couldn't help a small chuckle of embarrassment.

How could I have mistaken eyes that innocent for my

contact? In all my years in this business, I had encoun-

tered hundreds of unknown faces, all with their own

veils of secrecy; but always the same eyes.

Hard eyes, never soft, like that girl 's were. *Ihe eyes

I looked for were like chipped marble, that had no

warmth.

They were the same eyes I shaved with every morn-

ing.

There had been mystery in the young girl's eyes, but

no disguise. Ihe people I dealt with all hid behind a

disguise; either of their own making or someone else 's.

As I did now, in my own sweat, courtesy of Mr.

Willie Geis, New York.

Willie had two major characteristics: one, a wrist

you couldn't keep stiff with an iron bar, and two, a

genius for disguise that had saved my ass on more

occasions than I could recall.

With typical finesse, Willie had turned my hair

from its usual black, to the rusty red hue it now dis-

played. To this, he had added a moustache to match.

Then came the scar, starting at the end of my right

eyebrow and extending down across the cheekbone; a

scar so real a surgeon couldn't dispute it.

The final veil was provided by AXE. My identity:

Liam McDaniel, British citizen and Irish revolution-

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' 'Your tea, monsieur. ' '

"Merci." I pushed two dinars his way from the pile

on the table in front of me.

"l make this tea special, monsieur, just for you,

special. "

I studied the waiter's dark-skinned face uncertainly.

He was beaming like a schoolboy, his head alternating

between bobbing encouragement and quick darts to-

ward my cup.

With resignation I sipped at the steaming mixture

he had brought. The pungent mint of the tea seemed to

fill my head, but along with it came an unfamiliar bite.

My palate struggled to identify the flavor, but with no

success. Only one fact was clear.

Whatever he had thrown into the brew, it was al-

coholic, and it was strong.

' 'To what do I owe this honor?" I gasped.

His smile got impossibly broader. "Algiers is to

relax, monsieur. It is a city of life. I see you are not

relaxed, monsieur, so I say

I relax him!" His

"l did right, monsieur?"

smile drooped somewhat.

"Yes," I chuckled. "You did very right! "

I added two more dinars to his side of the table and

watched him bow away. I sat back, gratefully sipping

the result of my waiter's generosity . . . and courage.

This near the old town was very Muslim, and therefore

very nonalcoholic. His ass could be slinged if the man-

agement caught him moving booze to natives or

tourists.

Nothing had changed. The heat waves still danced

their crazy patterns up from the street. I didn 't let them

hypnotize me, and concentrated beyond them, search-

ing, looking for the unknown.

It was an occupational hazard, part of the business.

Ihe business?

NICK CARTER


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I work for AXE, a supersecret branch of United

States Intelligence. AXE is an elite club, whose select

members carry the rating of "Killmaster". It's a club

you don't get into easily, and you usually depart in a

coffin, if they find enough pieces to fill one up. You

don't spend as many years as I have maintaining your

membership, and not learn to rely very heavily on your

instincts.

My instincts were very clear: something about this

mission smelled.

I took another sip of my spiked tea, and allowed my

mind to recap all the events that had led me to the Café

Liberation.

It was hard to believe this• whole mess had started

only three days earlier. I had just come off assignment

in California. It seems some rather large quantities of

fissionable material were making their way out of the

nuclear power unit in San Onofre, and reappearing in

Libyan vessels off the coast. As far as most missions

go, this one was cleaned up rather easily; butl was still

due for a week or two of R and R.

And that meant Pam MacMahon.

Pam had been a growing fascination of mine, one of

those rare mamages of beauty and brains that could

make a man start to think serious thoughts. Facially she

was a study in chiseled excellence: perfectly sculpted

bones, surrounded by a halo of dark, silky hair. Physi-

cally she was of medium height, with elegantly tapered

limbs that bordered on slight. But however economical

mother nature had been with Pam 's torso, she had more

than made up for it with a pair of huge breasts that

danced teasingly beneath any gartnent that tried to

cover them.

And they had been dancing so beautifully that after-

noon three days before.

We were midway through an afternoon of tennis.

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What with the antics beneath her blouse, and my expec-

tations of the evening to come, she had me down two

sets to one and was leading five games to love in the

fourü.

I could not have cared less.

Twice before I had attempted to explore the promises

in the lovely lady 's eyes, and twice before the attempt

had disintegrated in an emergency summons from

Hawk. But not this time, I was determined.

She sent the ball sailing toward my backhand, and I

took a bead on it. But a surprising twist of English

turned it back into me; the best I could do was return it

limply into the net.

Set and match.

I moved to the net to congratulate her, basking in the

total radiance of her smile. She had teeth so perfect you

could taste them.

I was about to, when I heard a car screech to a halt

just beyond the courts.

I knew. Don't ask me how, I just knew. Without

lifting my lips from the promise of hers, I rolled to

peripheral vision and knew for sure.

Sedan. Dark blue with a radio that didn't play blues

or rock. It played two-way, from the car to a line that

hooked up to The Amalgamated Press And Wire Ser-

vice.

Just like the logo on its side said.

But to me it said AXE, and I knew, want to or not, I

was off again.

I muttered a brief apology to Pam, and went to meet

the approaching driver. I anticipated the worst, and got

it. Emergency summons: Code Red . . . Immediate.

'IT)at meant not even changing clothes, but I begged a

few seconds reprieve to present my excuses to the lady.

No sooner had I turned around, however, than I saw her

racquet bouncing off the court and her sweet buttocks


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charging out through the opposite gate in the chain link

fence.

I sighed, the driver shrugged, and together we made

the silent journey to Dupont Circle, the home of AXE

and its dedicated creator, David Hawk.

Dejectedly, I entered the outer office and found

Hawk 's secretary, Ginger Bateman, standing over her

filing cabinet.

Ginger was as firm and as fleshy as the peaches her

home state was famous for producing. But she also

wore an arrnor over that flesh that was harder and far

colder than steel. I'd dented it onco, and even put. a

couple of chinks in it, but I'd never penetrated it.

If anything or anyone could be better endowed than

the lady I had just left, it was Ginger. nat was why it

was so painful when she took one look at me and started

rippling with laughter. •mose ripples did things to her

chest that made me remember what I was missing at

that very moment with Pam MacMahon.

"You're laughing," I said.

s 'I can't help it."

' 'Something just hit me."

S' You look like you just came in from a rerun of 'I

I gave a quick glance to the tennis outfit I still wore,

and searched vainly for a comeback.

' 'Smart ass," was unfortunately the best I could

produce.

She must have sensed my mood, because her next

move was to walk over, put her arms around me, and

give me a light peck on the lips.

' 'Oh, honey," she purred, throwing every ounce of

her Southern upbringing into her voice. "Why, ah

declare, Ashley Masters, you do seem to be in quite a

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state. Now don't y'all worry none. Mah dance card is

yours at the next cotillion, ya heah?"

In spite of myself, a small smile creased my lips. I

stared down into the dark valley of cleavage between

her breasts, and felt Pam's image fog slightly in my

mind.

' 'Why, thank y'all, Louella-Lee. " I did my best to

match her syrupy southern elegance. "Does this mean

ah can be your beau?"

She laughed appreciatively, pressing herself even

tighter against me. "Well, ah don't rightly know,

Ashley . .

. but it does mean you can enter my gazebo

anytime y'all want."

The glint in her eye left no doubt as to her meaning,

and Pam took three more giant steps toward being a

memory. Once more I wondered why it was that I had

never tried to get to know Ginger outside of AXE's

somber surroundings.

As our mutual enjoyment ebbed, I thought I could

sense the same question lingering in her mind. It bee

came even more pronounced as the laughter of our

joking echoed off, leaving only the soft reality of our

touching bcxiies.

Pam who?

I moved my hands around until I could cup her soft

buttocks. "What are you doing for the next hour?"

"Having lunch, ' ' she intoned, "with the secretary of

the Secretary of State . . . right after I let you into the

boss 's office. "

"Did you ever do it in the back seat ofa Gevy when

you were a little girl?"

"No, darling . . . when I was a big girl. And it was

a Cadillac. "

A buzzer sounded and Hawk 's voice barked over the

intercom. "Bateman, get him in here! "

' 'How does he know?" I asked.

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"l dunno," she replied, "but he always does . .

doesn't he?"

"Always."

I reluctantly broke away composing my thoughts for

their entry into Hawk 's inner sanctum. As I neared the

door, Ginger's voice halted me.

C' Yeah." I turned.

An impish smile broke across her lovely face as she

gestured toward my tennis shorts. "Nice buns! " Her

eyebrows began leaping up and down like a poor man 's

Groucho Marx.

"Bitch." I moved through the door into Hawk's

office, doing my best to erase the smirk on my face.

I entered and was immediately hit with three differ-

ent sensations. One, the familiar smells of leather,

mahogany, and cigar smoke that always permeated

David Hawk's office; two, the chiseled features and

flinty eyes of David Hawk himself; and three, the

unexpected presence of a third party.

My gloom quickly turned into relief and pleasure as

the stranger's features registered. It was Davidson Har-

court, one of the finest minds British Intelligence ever

nurtured. We had crossed paths many times in joint

U.S.-British ventures, but mostly at opposite ends of

his desk. Only once had I worked with him in the field,

and his tradecraft proved to be as agile and creative as

his mind.

Harcourt's frail body, diminished even more by the

muted suit he wore, rose to greet me. His eyes revealed

their own delight, magnified behind the thick-lensed

spectacles he always wore. He thrust his slender hand

out toward me.

"I say, old man, good to see you! he said. "Doing

well, I see. Yes, very well indeed. "

"Definitely," I replied. "Very well indeed."

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I clasped his proffered hhd with the care one would

give an injured bird. It was one of those things about

Harcourt; that you always acknowledged his frailty

when, in reality, he could take all you had to give.

That was how he survived

. in a business Of

survival.

' 'Obviously no need for introductions. "

It was

Hawk's rasping voice. He too had risen, more in defer-

ence to his guest than me, I was sure, but the tone in his

voice let us all know that it was a time for business and

not reunions.

"Ihe three of us settled into chairs, and I awaited the

stern tones of Hawk's briefing.

It didn't take long.

"Sorry to pull you off N-3. It's irTegular, I

know, but this one just sort of dropped in on us. I'm

sure you'll see the necessity as we move along. "

"I understand, sir. It must be important. "

c 'It is," Hawk assured. "I suppose it would be best

if Harcourt filled you in on his end first. "

"Yes, of course, " said the Englishman as he shifted

in his chair and opened the briefcase lying on the floor

next to him.

"It all came about two days ago," he began. "It

seems there was a little case of hit and run in one of the

shabbier sections of Soho. Chap's name was Liam

McDaniel. "

Harcourt paused to retrieve a dossier, and handed it

over to me before continuing.

' 'fie local constables traced down his flat, and did a

routine search, of course. But it seems he possessed a

number of rather unroutine items. You 'II see them

listed about midpage. "

My eyes shot down to the bracketed listing. It was

unroutine indeed. (ONE BRITISH MADE SNIPER'S

RIFLE, CUSTOM-BORED, WITH FULL BREAK-

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