# The -Gallagher Plot 197

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

St. Hilaire had gone. The taxi that had brought him re-

turned to pick him up two hours after it had first shown

up.

"You'll hear from me in about a week, Mr. Harding,"

i, he called out and then settled back in his seat. The cab

turned in the circular drive and disappeared.

i I went back into the villa in time to answer the tele-

phone. It was Franqois. The conversation was brief.

I put down the telephone to see Brenna standing in the

doorway of the study. She was dressed in white slacks, a

red-and-white striped jersey pullover and thin sandals.

i Her hair was brushed so that it shone, but her eyes held

the puffiness of lack of sleep.

"Who was that?"

' 'On the telephone? Frangois."

"No. Who was here? I saw someone drive off in a

taxi."

"With Dieter out of the picture, I've had to make other

arrangements to purchase the arms. You want the man's

name?"

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"No." She seemed listless. 'S You let me oversleep," she

accused me.

S' You needed it. Last night was exhausting for you."

"I'm supposed to be with you every minute."

I said. "I told you Gallagher will

"That's ridiculous,"

get what he wants. How and where and from whom I ob-

tain the arms is none of his business."

She had lost the fire of the day before. Dieter's death

had had a strong impact on her. It's one thing to talk

about killing and torture and another to actually see the

burnt flesh, blistered and blackened, of your victim.

"I'm going into Marseilles," I said. "I'll be back in a

few hours."

Brenna began to protest weakly. I cut her off.

"You're not coming with me whether Gallagher likes it

or not."

"To complete your arrangements?"

I evaded the question. "I have business there."

"Will you be long?"

"About two hours," I said reassuringly. "Go tell Mme.

Giraud what you'd like for brunch."

I caught the fear in her eyes. "You needn't worry about

being alone, I' Ve arranged for protection. You probably

won't see him, but if you do, his name's Jean-Louis."

"A bodyguard?"

"He's very good," I said. "Go tell Mme. Giraud,"

Brenna started to turn away, hesitated and then said,

C 'Quinn, about Dieter Hoffman. I'm sorry. I really am."

"I'm sure you are," I said, not giving a damn if she did.

"Gallagher wasn't involved, was he?" she asked almost

pleadingly.

I could have told her what I thought but there wasn't

any reason to. I still wasn't sure myself.

"It doesn't make any difference," I said and left her.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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I drove back to Marseilles the same way I'd driven out

the night before. I came into town on the Avenue du

Prado, around the circle at Place Castellane, headed north

on Rue de Rome and turned west onto Rue Drogon. Be-

cause the streets are one-way, I took Rue Breteuil, turned

right onto Boulevard Vauban and right again onto Rue

Fort-du-Sanctuaire, ending up in the auto park on the

Plateaux de la Croix'. Below me, the streets of Marseilles

spread out in a tangled pattern to the north and to the

east.

There were not too many other vehicles in the parking

area. I could see no one as T shut and locked the door of

the Citroön, but I knew that I was being observed. Fran-

cois had told me to meet the man here,

I walked across the parking lot and up to the espla-

nade. Here on the broad sweep of the walk, there were a

number of tourists strolling along with cameras, taking

pictures of the enormous cathedral and of the port below.

The view spread out magnificently in front of me. The

waters of the old port pushed into the land mass of the

city like a square thumb with a narrow base, guarded at

its entrance by Fort St. Jean to the north and Fort St.

Nicholas to the south. I could see the docks and the fish-

ing vessels tied up alongside, their masts and booms look-

ing like so many black toothpicks from this distance, their

sails hanging slackly to dry:

I recognized the burly figure walking toward me. There

was no attempt at a clandestine meeting. Shimon ben-

Dror was only an inch or so shorter than my own six feet

in height but he was heavier. The Israeli's face was broad

andftanned and his nose had been broken at one time so

that the bridge was thickened. He held out a hand to me

as he came up.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"Francois said I'd find you here," he said in the way of

both a greeting and a password.

He fell into step, strolling along with me.

"Loring had me tell you in New York about the wire-

guided missiles that my government lost. You also know

that Mavropoulos has them."

"We want them back."

"What's that got to do with me?" I asked. "You know

I work for The Company. My assignment is to rescue the

Marat girl."

"But not at our expense," ben-Dror said. "We want

your help in getting back the five hundred SS-II missiles

that Mavropoulos has. Our agents are having trouble in

locating the man. We know he's going to have to contact

you. When he does, let us know. We'll handle the rest.

We want those missiles."

"So does Gallagher."

"We're aware of that."

"If Gallaghpr doesn't get them, the girl dies," I said.

Ben-Dror smiled at me engagingly and threw one arm

around my shoulders in a gesture of comradeship. I could

feel the weight of his heavy, muscled arm across my back.

"I think I will have to tell you a few things, my friend,"

he said confidentially. "From the time our intelligence

service learned that Mavropoulos had the missiles, we've

kept a watch on him. We knew he approached Gallagher,

even before the kidnaping took place. We think it was

Mavropoulos who planted the idea in Gallagher's head.

We know for a certainty that he talked to Willi Vander-

Hoven, Armand LaCoste and Dieter Hoffman. The

chances were good that he'd wind up doing business with

one of them if Gallagher succeeded in laying his hands on

the Marat girl. We bugged the offices and homes of Van-

derHoven, LaCoste and Hoffman."

I thought of the two men who'd beaten Dieter in his

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

109

apartment. Did ben-Dror have a recording of that attack?

Almost as if he'd read my thoughts, he said, "We have a

recording of two men holding Dieter at gunpoint in his

home while they extracted information from him. Would

you be interested in what we learned?"

"l know about what went on there," I said. I was giv-

ing nothing away.

"Do you know who the men were?" he asked. "I think

you plan on doing something about them. What are you

prepared to give for the information?"

"It doesn't matter any more," I told him. "Dieter's

dead."

"That's what Francois told me." Ben-Dror took his

arm away from my shoulders. "I'm sorry to hear about

last night."

"Francois told you?"

"Francois is one of us. He's a Shin Beth agent. I

thought you knew."

"l thought he worked for The Company."

"He does. Both Loring and I use him. We each know

that he works for the other. Look—about Dieter—after

what was done to him last night, I think that more than

ever you'd want to know who broke into his house in

Brussels."

s 'It was Gallagher," I said bitterly. "He speaks French

with a miserable accent. The other doesn't count."

"How could you recognize Gallagher's voice? Are you

guessing?"

"Yes, I'm guessing, but I gave it a lot of thought. I'm

right, aren't I?"

"You are. British Intelligence has a tape recording of

Gallagher in its file of Provo leaders. They compared our

recording with the one they have. A voice print analysis

shows it is the same voice, although he's speaking French

on one tape and English on the other. Gallagher wants

those missiles badly. Enough, to threaten Dieter in order

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

to get them included in the purchase of arms the old man

was to make for you. •How did Gallagher know that Die-

ter was your agent?"

"He doesn't trust me," I said. "He's had me followed

ever since I left the States. A led him to Dieter. It's the

only way I can figure it."

"Have you thought that Gallagher could be the one

who ordered Dieter tortured and killed?"

"I've thought about it,'b I said candidly. "But, it doesn't

make sense. Dieter was killed because of something he

knew that was important enough for him to fly down here

to tell me. When I figure out what it was that Dieter

learned, I'll find out who killed him. Or gave the orders."

"Whoever it was wants you dead, too."

"Not necessarily. The attack on me could have been an

accident. It could have been that I got there before Die-

ter's killer got away and he panicked."

"What if it were planned? What if you were to have

been a victim, too?"

I thought of the attack on me in New York the night I

first got involved in this mess. So far, there'd been no ex-

planation for that.

"It's something to think about," I said.

"What about Mavropoulos?" ben-Dror asked. "Will

you help us with him?"

"Mavropoulos is your problem. I'm keeping my hands

-off."

"Are you going to buy the anti-tank missiles from

him

"That's my business."

' 'No," said ben-Dror. I could hear the toughness come

into his voice. "It's our business, my friend. We think of

five hundred wire-guided anti-tank missiles in the hands

of the PLO terrorists and we shudder! We would like you

to help us, We would appreciate your cooperation in this

matter. But, if you purchase the weapons from Mavro-

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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poulos, we would no longer be interested in Mavropoulos.

We would come after you."

"He put a hand on my arm and turned me to face him.

I saw the heavy line of ben-Dror's chin tighten, the inten-

sity of his stare, the thick eyebrows that drew down as his

eyes narrowed.

"No matter what the cost," ben-Dror said, ' 'we will get

those weapons. Don't get in our way, Harding. Do I make

myself clear?'

"lt's my job to see that Gallagher gets his arms," I

said. "That's his price. Why don't you wait until he gets

them and releases the girl?"

"We can't take a chance on waiting that long."

'Clf Gallagher gets his hands on the weapons, he'll use

them in Ireland, not Israel,"

I said. "It won't be any

concern of yours, then, will it?"

"If Gallagher can get them into Ireland," ben-Dror

Ipointed out, "it will be a miracle. The British will do their

; damnedest to prevent it. If you're involved, they'll go af-

ter you just as fast as we will. You met Thorndike. He's

no fool. He's tough and ruthless. Quinn, do yourself a fa-

vor and turn Mavropoulos over to us."

"No," I said stubbornly. "There's a girl's life to think

about. Have you thought about her?"

"We have," said ben-Dror soberly. ' 'But her life against

hundreds? From that point of view, she's just not impor-

tant. We must be realists."

"Even one life is important," I said.

Ben-Dror uttered a harsh, short laugh. "My God! You

sound like one of our Talmudic scholars. Of course one

is important. Do you have to tell that to an Israeli?

..But how many lives is this one girl worth? Who would

.byou have die for her, Quinn? A hundred Israelis? Three

Iihundred innocent people in Belfast whose only crime is

ilbeing Protestant? Fifty young British soldiers? Who„ god-

. k damit? Who?"

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NICK CARTER: KILT-MASTER

The slight accent ben-Dror normally had when speak-

ing English had become thicker as the anger mounted

within him. ' 'In my country, we are only a few, and every

life is precious to us—so precious that we will do any-

thing, whatever is necessary, to save a single one of us.

Don't tell me how important one life can be! My job is to

see that none of us dies violently because of people like

Mavropoulos. Not one! Not if I can help it!"

Viciously, he threw away the remnant of the cigarette

he had been smoking. It streamed an arrowhead of sparks

as it arced through the air.

"Yes, I would like to save the girl," he went on. c 'But

not at the expense of others. It is as simple as that."

"If I can save the girl .. .," I began and broke off.

"Yes?"

"Let me think about it," I said.

"All right," benDror suddenly conceded. "l think

you've made up your mind. I hope you've decided to co-

operate with us, Quinne I won't push you any more. I'll

give you a few days. I also think you've already been in

touch with Mavropoulos and that you've set up the deal.

But, don't forget you're in danger. We think that the at-

tempt on your life last night was deliberate. If you want

our help, let us know."

"I told you I'd think about it."

"Then think about this. If you decide to go your own

way—if those weapons are ever in your hands and you

don't turn them over to us—we'll go after you without

mercy. Understand?"

"You've made yourself clear."

Ben-Dror walked solidly beside me without looking at

me. He said, "You know that if I have to, I'll kill you,

Quinn."

"I know."

I looked at the man with respect, I felt I would like to

know him better, that I would like to be his friend. It was

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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a strong feeling, but I put it out of my mind because I

knew that as long as I was an AXE agent I could not be-

come friendly with anyone. As long as I bore the desig-

nation of Killmaster, the world of close friendship was

barred to me. The time might come when I would have to

kill one of them.

Someday, I thought, I would like to be able to afford

the luxury of friendship the way other people did.

Then I realized that ben-Dror had already reached that

point in his life. He could afford to like people, to become

a man's friend if he chose to, and not worry about what

would happen if he was ordered to kill him.

I had never known a man so secure in himself, so com-

plete in his own self-confidence and with inner acceptance

of himself as a person. I wondered how much ben-Dror

had suffered to have arrived at such security.

"Well," said ben-Dror, breaking the silence. "How

much longer before the shipment will be ready?"

"A week," I said truthfully. "Give or take a day or

two."

Ben-Dror made up his mind. "All right, Quinn. For the

time being, we'll leave you alone. We'll go after Mavro-•

poulos. If you need any help, call on us. Francois knows

how to reach me."

I nodded. "If I need help."

"Be careful," said ben-Dror. "l think there's more to

all this than we know about."

I glanced quickly at him, but the Shin Beth agent was

looking straight ahead without expression on his face. We

made another half-circuit of the promenade. Casually,

without shaking hands, we said goodbye. I walked back to

the car by myself.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

The black Peugot sedan would have been innocuous un-

der most circumstances, and the fact that it followed me

out of the parking area would not normally have made

me suspicious. Several other cars followed me out, too.

What made me wonder about this was the fact that in a

country where it was almost a personal affront to let an-

other car get in front of you, the driver of the Peugot al-

lowed two vehicles to cut in ahead of him. Two cars, no

more.

He remained that way as I came down the hill into the

city. When I reached the Place Castellane circle, I picked

up the Avenue de Toulon going east instead of continuing

south on Avenue du Prado toward Cassis.

As I swung onto the autoroute, the Peugot was still two

cars behind me, although the cars between us had

changed several times. Between Marseilles and Aubagne,

the highway was wide and fast. I pressed down on the ac-

celerator. The Maserati engine swept the coupe along at

high speed. I pulled away from the cars behind.

At Aubagne I'd intended turning south to cut back to

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Cassis but as I slowed down, I noticed the Peugot coming

into sight. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps not, but I

decided to make sure. I drove on toward Gémenos. so

did the sedan.

Dusk had fallen by this time. I switched on the head-

lights and drove the few kilometres between Aubagne and

Gémenos, the Peugot not far behind me. This time, I

didn't try to outrace it.

When I turned northeast at Gémenos on the road that

would take me into the Ste. Baume massif area and found

that the sedan made the same turn, I was positive that I

was deliberately being followed. The road is a scenic

mountain route with nothing but a few small villages

along the way. It leads to the Hötellerie de la Ste. Baume,

whose main attraction is the Forét Domaniale de la Ste.

Baume and the peak of St. Pilon where tourists take

woodland walks in the daytime. No one goes there at

night.

I passed the Parc de St. Pons three kilometres from

Gémenos. It was closed. A few kilometres further on, I

swung into the first of the tight, narrow hairpin turns as

the road steepened its climb. I shifted down into third

gear and lowered the Citroen's chassis so that it huggecl

the road.

The Peugot was still behind me, its headlights on, try-

ing to close up. I increased my speed. I wasn't worried

about the Peugot catching up with me, not with the car I

was driving. Part of my mind was paying attention to the

tight, swinging curves, but another part was wondering

who it was that was following me and what they intended

to do if they caught up with me. They had long since

given up any pretense of not being on my tail.

The Ste. Baume massif is the largest and the highest of

the mountain chains in the Provencal country. The road

from Gémenos turns north between the peaks of Téte de

Roussargue and Rogue Forcade in a series of climbing

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NICK CARTER: KJLLMASTER

switchbacks along the eastern slope of Téte de Roussar-

gue. Then it cuts over and around the northern slope Of

Roque Forcade. It's not a wide road, and you'd damn

well better drive it in low gear even in the daytime.

I dropped down into second gear. The Maserati engine

responded. The Citroen SM settled itself to the steady

grind, boring through the night. Only the lightest touch on

the wheel was enough. Two turns from lock to lock made

the car's steering ultra sensitive. Front-wheel drive pulled

the coupe around the tight switchbacks, At the speed I

was going, few other cars could keep up with me. There

were times when I could look directly down the side of

the slope and see the Peugot's headlights laboring up the

switchbacks after me.

It bothered me. They must have known they couldn't

catch me, not in the car they were driving. The Peugot

simply isn't in the same class as a Citroen SM. Then what

were they after? I wondered.

Once the road reached the crest, it started its descent

on the northern slope of the massif, but there were fewer

switchbacks and practically no hairpin curves, certainly

none as sharp as on the climb. I could go faster. I roared

on through the darkness that by now had completely

fallen. My headlights were on high beam; the road was

brilliantly lit far ahead of me.

I passed the Hotellerie and, in another kilometre or so,

swung sharply left toward Nan-Ies-Pins. And then I delib-

erately let my speed drop off, idling along, waiting. There

were no other cars on the road behind me, but in a mo-

ment or two I saw through my rear-view mirror the lights

ota car as it turned north to follow me.

I was irritated. It was almost as if they "knew where I

was going. I let the Citroän go flat out, the car hurtling

along in the blackness like a low-slung, gray ghost, fol-

lowing the twisting track of the country road. I roared

through Nan-les-Pins, swung over to pick up D280, and

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then, when it made a junction with N560, I turned west.

St. Zacharie came and went. The Peugot was now no

longer in sight. My rear-view mirror showed only the soft

blackness of the might behind me, but I did not slow

down. I passed through Autiol, turned south along the

upper Huveaune valley, through Roquevaine and Pont de

l'ÉtoiIe, back to Aubagne.

More than two and a half hours had passed, I'd driven

a grand circle of the Ste. Baume area, and I was tired. At

Aubagne, I turned south. Minutes later, I came to the

junction of the coast road to Toulon, a few kilometres

east of Cassis, near where the turnoff lay to the lane that

led to my villa.

I was angry at the time I'd wasted, puzzled by what

had happened because it made no sense to me, and the

tenseness I'd felt when I'd been driving at high speed

along the dark, narrow country roads was still with me.

Perhaps that's what accounted for my carelessness. Be-

cause I'd lost the Peugot, I thought I was no longer in

danger as I drove slowly along the lane that twisted

through the wooded escarpment. It came when I braked

to make the first of the sharp turns to the left.

I saw the movement of the darker shadow within the

shadows. It was movement that alerted me because the

night was too dark and the contrast between the area

brilliantly lit by my headlights and the darkness at each

side of the lane was too great for me to have made out

anything distinctly.

It was the movement and the fact that there should

have been no movement that made me throw myself to

my right, flat along the seat.

The window on my left exploded inward in a stream of

flying glass and leaden pellets. Tiny slivers of glass sliced

into my back. The Citroen left the road, ploughing into

the brush. There came• a second blast. The glass of the

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

rear window blew in. Flying pellets starred the windshield

with the third shot.

My hand was on the latch of the passenger door. I

flung it open and pushed myself through the open door at

the same instant that the car slewed around to a

jolting stop. Momentum flung me clear of the coupe.

I landed on my right shoulder, L rolling in a tight ball,

knees against my chest, chin tucked in, arms wrapped

around my head to protect my eyes. I crawled away from

the car as fast as I could. Then I stopped, pressing myself

full length into the dirt.

The Citroen was at an angle to me. Its engine had

stalled. The right door of the car was jammed tightly up

against a tree. The interior light that had gone on briefly

was now off. There was no sound. There were only the

twin, bright beams lighting up the area away from me. I

lay in the shadows, trying to control my breathing, trying

not to make the slightest noise. I felt blood running down

my back inside my shirt where I'd been cut by the glass

splinters when the window shattered. The back of my

neck bled.

I heard a rustle of sound. A foot was set down. Leaves

crackled under its weight. I heard quick, heavy breathing.

The sounds came from the far side of the Citroén. The

footsteps were louder now. I heard the far door of the

coupe being opened and an exclamation that could have

been a curse as the interior light went on. I caught a mo-

mentary glimpse of a dark face that was pulled hastily

back into the shadows as the man leaped away from the

car and slammed shut the door. The light went off again.

I used the sound of the man's movements to cover my

own. I scuttled backward into the brush, pausing every

once in awhile, moving only when I heard the man move.

I saw him move quickly around the back of the

Citroen. He was carrying a shotgun at the ready. By now,

I was some thirty yards away and in comparative safety,

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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but I was unarmed. Wilhelmina and Hugo were at the

post-offce in a package I'd addressed to myself. The

Browning automatic was locked away in the desk in the

study. I swore at myself for having left it behind, until I

remembered I'd scrambled out of the Citroen too fast to

have taken it with me even if it had been clipped to its

usual place beneath my seat.

The man began casting around in the brush, making a

wide circle around the car. He was nervous. His head

whipped from side to side as if he were afraid that I

would leap on him out of the shadows. I remained where

I was.

The man made a quick semi-circle of the coupe, never

walking in front of the headlights. Then he swung around

behind the car, almost at a trot, and headed back up the

lane toward the highway.

I didn't move. They'd pulled one trick on me that made

me ashamed of myself. You push a man and you let him

know he's being pushed. You follow him closely while he

tries to outrun you or lose you. Finally, you let him lose

you so that he thinks he's outsmarted you. But no matter

wherehe runs, you know where he's finally going to head

for, and that's where you've set up your ambush ahead of

time. By the time he gets there, he's relaxed his guard.

at's when you hit him. Fast and hard and it's all over

with inside of seconds.

Ben-Dror was right. I was a target. They had been af-

ter both Dieter Hoffman and me. Dieter's killer had not

panicked. He had deliberately waited for me.

I continued to lie flat on my stomach, not moving at

all. I was not about to be lured into the trap of thinking I

was. safe because I'd seen the man go off. There could al-

ways be a back-up man waiting. I doubted it, but, un-

ed as I was, I took no chances. Time was on my side,

f I had the patience. The blood on my back had stopped

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

flowing. I could feel my shirt sticking to my skin as it be-

gan to coagulate. I made no move. I remained lying on

the ground in the brush and, this time, as long as I didn't

move; the darkness was my ally instead of my enemy.

Jean-Louis was waiting for me. He looked at my

stained slacks and my bloodstained shirt, and he lifted his

eyes to my face, noticing the streaks of ground-in dirt.

"You had trouble, hein?"

C' You heard the shots." I brushed past him, heading for

the study to get myself a drink. Jean-Louis followed me.

"Of course I heard the shots. I didn't think you'd need

my help. What if they came here? You think that girl can

take care of herself? She's like a child."

"You did the right thing," I assured him. I poured

scotch over ice cubes, added soda and swirled the cubes

around, I tasted it. I took the drink over to an armchair

and sank tiredly into it.

"How close did they come?" asked Jean-Louis.

"They shot up the Citroen. Left door and window,

windshield. The whole damn rear deck. All the uphol-

stery, too."

Jean-Louis shook his head sadly. "Francois is going to

be unhappy, I can tell you that. That car was his special

pride."

"Better the car than me."

"Three shots did all that damage?'

"They used a shotgun again," I said uncomfortably. I

couldn't lean back in the chair because of the splinters of

glass in my back.

"You left the car there?"

"It's jammed against a tree," I said. c 'The battery's

probably dead, too. The headlights were pretty -weak

when I left it. I didn't dare take a chance on getting close

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121

to it. I cut through the woods to get here. They could still

have a man on stake-out."

"Not for so long," observed Jean-Louis. "Fifteen,

twenty minutes, yes. Not for two hours."

"What about the girl?"

Jean-Louis shrugged. "At first she was worried because

you did not come back when you said you would. Then,

after a long time, she became angry. Finally, we heard the

shots, and it was all I could do to keep her from running

up the road to find you. And then, after more than an

hour, when you still hadn't shown up, she was convinced

that they'd killed you. She was almost hysterical."

'CIs she all right now?"

"She's upstairs. I think she's crying. You might want to

go up and let her know that nothing has happened to

you."

"In a minute," I said. "Let me finish my drink." I took

out a cigarette.

"Your hands are steady enough," Jean-Louis noted.

"Are we going after them?"

'Clf I knew who they were, we would." I saw the disap-

pointment in Jean-Louis' face. "There'll be time enough.

We'll get them, whoever they are."

I told Jean-Louis about being followed by the Peugot.

Jean-Louis nodded agreement. "lt's an old trick. But that

means there are several of them. At least one, if not two,

in the Peugot. One waiting in ambush for you. And one

to give them orders."

"Only one counts," I said. "The one who's giving the

orders. "

Jean-Louis let a tiny smile touch his lips. "And that

one you are saving for yourself, eh, mon ami?"

I shook my head. "If you can find him, he's all yours. I

don't 'care who gets him."

"We'll see when the time comes," said Jean-Louis eas-

ily. He looked at his watch. "It's after midnight. I'll call

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

Francois about the car, then I'm going to bed. I suggest

you do the same."

"Make your call," I said. "I'm going to stay up for

awhile,"

After Jean-Louis left, I got up and made a second

highball and had another cigarette. I put in a call to the

States. It took an interminable length of time to get

through and the connection wasn't the best, but I finally

got my party. Preston Graham's voice kept fading, and I

could hear him shouting at the operator, but he finally un-

derstood what I was telling him

"I'll be there tomorrow," Graham shouted. "Every-

thing's set up. All we need is your signature. What time

do you want to make it?"

I told him. Graham had to repeat the address several

times before I could make it out. I wrote it down on a slip

of paper.

"Is it possible for you to bring the papers to where I

am?" I asked.

"Can't be done," said Graham. "Too many legal for-

malities if we do it outside the country. You come up

there."

"All right," I said. "Now, I want you to do another fa-

vor for me. Get in touch with your friend, Joey Marat. I

want the name of a contact in Marseilles. Someone he

does business with. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

C 'Dammit," I shouted into the telephone, "did you hear

what I said?"

"I heard you," Graham replied. "Are you running into

trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle. I just want insurance. You

bring along the name of that contact, understand?"

"Right," said Graham. "Anything else?'

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"That's it," I said. "I'll see you in Vaduz tomorrow."

I hung up and went upstairs to take off my clothes and

shower and to get Brenna to pick the glass splinters out of

the flesh of my back.

C] [D 88 a P P

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Francois was at the villa at six-thirty in the morning to

drive me to the airport. We had time for croissants and

coffee and a cigarette before the 8:30 Air Inter flight to

Paris.

"It'll be two or three weeks before the Citroön is re-

paired," Francois told me. "The body work isn't the prob-

lem, it's getting the new seats. They blew the hell out of

the leather. The whole front end is shot, too."

"How soon can you get me another like it?"

Francois thought a moment. "There's a dealer in Nice

who has one. Brand new. Same model, same color, identi-

cal. But, it's a week's work getting it run in and tuned up

the way you like it."

'61 need transportation," I said. "What can you do for

me in the meantime?"

"I'll •have something for you," Francois promised.

"When will you be back?"

"Maybe tonight. Possibly tomorrow."

"It'll be waiting. What about the Citroen?"

124

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"Get the new one," I said. "And when it arrives,

change the windows. I want bullet-proof glass."

Frangois whistled. "That will be a job to put in. You

know how long it'll take? And the cost?"

"How much is it worth to stay alive?"

"Yes," Francois admitted. "That's one way of looking

at it."

"Do something else, too," I said. "See what you can

find out about who's been hired to do this assignment.

Jean-Louis must have some contacts that you don't have.

He can ask a few questions, too. But be discreet."

"How much will you pay for the information?"

'"Whatever it takes."

"And when we find out?"

"We'll turn Jean-Louis loose on them."

"He comes high."

"If he does the job properly, he'll be worth it. I want

the men found. I want them killed. And I want word to

get out that the same thing will happen to anyone else

who even thinks of coming after me."

"And the one who gave the orders? If these men are

killed, how do you expect to find him?"

"Not through them. I don't think they'd be able to lead

me back to him. Whoever he is, he's smart enough to

have covered his tracks. I'll find him my own way."

Francois shrugged. "You always do things your own

way."

I smiled at him and got to my feet. "I'll call you from

Paris on my way back," I said. "Meet me here at the air-

port."

"Have a nice flight," said Frangois, making no move to

get up from his chair. "What do you want me to tell the

girl

C Nothing," I said. "She was asleep when I left. If

necessary, Jean-Louis can tell her I'll see her on my re-

turn, and for her not to worry."

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NICK CARTER: KILT-MASTER

I walked away, carrying a small overnight bag in my

left hand, heading for the gate and the waiting Caravelle.

We landed at Orly-Oest at 9:50 a.m. promptly. The

Swissair flight to Zurich didn't depart until 11:20 a.m.„

but it gave me no more than a bare margin of time be-

cause of the delay in taxiing to the gate. Fifteen minutes

after landing in Zurich, I was in a rented Mercedes 230 SL

headed for Liechtenstein and Vaduz.

The office was small and it smelled of age. Not that it

was dusty. On the contrary, it was scrubbed and clean

and the wood panelling was waxed and oiled. It was just

that everything in the offce and about the offce was old.

The building in which it was housed was ancient. The

stairs were wooden and the bannister was worn. The of-

fice was on the second floor. Outside, the dark brick of

the building seemed to shrink from the sunlight, and the

double oaken doors had a deep coat of varnish. Fastened

to the side of the building beside the doors were a series

of small brass plaques, each bearing the name of one of

the firms occupying offices in the building.

Graham was waiting for me when I entered the inner

offce, seated in a leather chair near the window. The

ashtray beside him was half full of cigarette stubs. As I

came into the room, the man behind the large cherrywood

desk rose to his feet and came around the desk to meet

me. He was of medium height, slim, middle aged and

wore round, rimless glasses. Like the office and the build-

ing, he gave off an aura of being older than he was.

Graham got to his feet. ' 'Everything's okay, isn't it?" he

asked anxiously, without preamble.

"No problem," I said. I introduced myself to the law-

yer. We shook hands in a quick up and down movement.

"I have all the papers ready, Mr. Harding," the lawyer

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127

said. His English was almost without accent,

"If you'd

care to read them.... " He gestured to the desk.

"Just tell me about them."

"What we have done," said Herr Doktor Bauer, 'Cis to

make you an officer of the corporation. To save time, we

are using an already existing corporate shell. That is this

first set of papers. The second is your letter of resignation.

As you see, we've left the date blank. We will fill it in

when you are finished with your—" He hesitated, search-

ing for the right word.

"—Chore," I said.

Bauer smiled briefly and went on. "Now, as for the Iet-

ter of credit, we need some information." He sat down

behind the desk and pulled a form over to him.

"In whose favor is it to be made out?"

"St. Hilaire InterEuropean Enterprises," I said.

Bauer wrote down the name in his small, precise hand-

writing.

"And the exact amount?"

"Two million, five hundred thousand dollars, or its

equivalent in Swiss francs."

I heard Graham whistle

softly.

"And the documentation that must be presented for its

release?"

C'A receipt bearing my signature that I have custody of

the shipment of merchandise."

Bauer lifted his head and stared at me in surprise.

"Most unusual," he said. "Are there no other documents?

Bills of lading? Shipping receipts?"

I shook my head. "No, only this." I took a sheet of pa-

per from my pocket and handed it to Bauer. "But it must

bear my signature in exactly the same manner it is written

Bauer took the paper and shrugged. He bent over the

desk.

"And a description of the merchandise?"

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

For a moment, I was tempted to say, "Illegal arms,"

just to see if Bauer's expression would change, but I

resisted the temptation.

"Miscellaneous machine tools."

The lawyer completed the form. He rose from his desk.

'Clf you'll excuse me for a moment," he said. "I'll have

my secretary type up the application for your signature.

In the meantime, you can put your name to the other

documents." He indicated the pen he had left lying on

the desk and left the office. I began signing the forms in

quadruplicate.

When I put the pen down, Graham said nervously,

"You're sure there'll be no hitch? Christ, if anything goes

wrong, Marat will go out of his mind. My life won't be

worth ten cents. Neither will yours."

"Nothing will go wrong," I assured him. "Did you

bring what I asked for?"

"You mean the name of someone in Marseilles?"

"Yes."

Graham nodded. He reached into his pocket and took

out a slip of paper. He handed it to me.

"That's what had Marat worried. He thinks you're

asking for help. Harding, if you've run into trouble, you'd

better let us know right now."

"Nothing I can't handle," I said easily. I looked at the

paper. "Only a name and telephone number?"

"Marat says that's enough. I had a hell of a time per-

suading him to give me even that much. He wants to

know what the hell you want from this guy."

"I might throw some business his way," I said.

Bauer came back into the room, walking in quick, pre-

cise steps.

"The forms will be ready in a few minutes," he said,

peering at the desk. 'CAh, very good, you've signed the

others." He smiled at me. Graham turned back to the

window and nervously lit a cigarette.

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129

"How long will it be before the money is in Zurich?"

Bauer straightened the piles of paper in front of him.

"Rready to be drawn upon? Within forty-eight hours at

the most. Mr. Graham tells me there is considerable ar-

gency connected with this transaction. I, personally, will

be in Zurich tomorrow morning. Transfer of funds to the

corporate shell we are using will be completed by tomor-

row evening together with the letter of credit. I could say,

actually, within twenty-four hours, but I'd prefer to allow

a little time for contingencies. Forty-eight hours, let's say,

to be on the safe side. Is that fast enough."

"Yes," I said. "Thank you." I looked at my watch.

There was just enough time to drive back to Zurich to

catch the Swissair flight to Paris and connect with an

early evening plane to Marseilles.

Francois was waiting for me at the airport when I de-

planed. We walked out to the parking lot together.

"I got you a Renault Gordini," he said to me as we

came up to the bright red sports car. "Nothing to com-

pare with your Citroen SM, but nice enough in its own

way."

I slid behind the wheel. Frangois got in the other side.

"The girl was furious," Frangois said on the way into

town. "Jean-Louis had all he could do to keep her from

flying at him. She's a tigress, that one!"

"She's out of her depth. I should never have brought

her down here," I said.

Francois nudged me in the ribs. There was a knowing

smile on his face. "I would have done the same thing. To

o to bed with that one—" He put his thumb and two fin-

ers together and kissed the tips with his lips, flipping his

fingers away from his mouth as he did so often. "Quelle

emme."

We came into town, and I swung off into the side

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

streets. I dropped Francois off in one of the narrow,

cobbled streets of the Vieux Port and then turned and

drove to the L'Hotel de la Mer hotel on the Avenue de

Marzargues.

I used the telephone in the lobby to make my call to

the name on the paper that Graham had given me in

Vaduz.

The voice that answered was guarded. "Oui •

oui,

this is Edouard Girard."

"Quinn Harding. We have a mutual friend—Joseph

Marat."

"Ah, yes, Monsieur Harding. I have been expecting

you to call. I talked with Joseph earlier today. Would you

like to dine with me tonight?"

"That would be fine. Any particular place?"

"The Calypso, perhaps? You know it?"

"l know it."

"Shall we say in about three-quarters of an hour?"

"I have a few things to do first," I said. "Would two

hours from now be too late?"

There was a slight pause. Then, "No, of course not. In

two hours. I shall reserve a table for us. A bientöt."

I hung up and went over to the registration desk to

check in. Fifteen minutes later, I was ensconced in a suite

on the fourth floor with a Michelin guide in front of me

and the telephone on the table beside me. I began with

the better class hotels. On my fourth attempt, I found the

hotel that Marius St. Hilaire was registered in. The clerk

gave me St. Hilaire's room number and then asked me if

I'd like to be connected. I hung up on him.

I really wasn't too surprised that it had been that easy

to find St. Hilaire. A man of St. Hilaire's tastes wouldn't

stay in any but the best hotels. And he was vain enough

to use his real name. I wondered if he knew about the Is-

raeli agents looking for him. I wrote down the hotel tele-

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

131

)hone number on a scrap of paper together with St. Hi-

aire's room number and pushed it into my pocket.

I was in the bathroom, my coat off, my sleeves rolled

rp, lathering my face to shave, when a thought struck me.

washed the lather off my face and dried my hands and

vent back to the telephone.

This time I found my man on the first try. I simply

:alled St. Hilaire's hotel and asked for Monsieur Galla-

I had to spell out the name for the clerk, but after

hat there was no diffculty. Unfortunately, the clerk told

ne, his voice deep with regret, Monsieur Gallagher had

one out for the evening, therefore, would I be kind

mough to leave my name? I said I'd call back later and

tsked for Gallagher's room number. I wrote it down on

he slip of paper beside St. Hilaire's suite number, notic-

ng without much surprise that the suites adjoined each

)ther. Nor was I really too surprised that they'd used

heir real names; French hotels require that you show ei-

her a passport or a carte didentité when you register.

I called Girard again. Girard had no objections to

eeting within the half hour. He would call the Calypso

nd move up our reservations. I went back to the

athroom, finished shaving, put on my suit jacket and

vent out to meet Girard.

Edouard Girard was stocky, middle-aged, expensively

Iressed, and smelled of eau de cologne splashed on too

leavily. He carried himself with the strong assurance of

man who was accustomed to success and to giving

rders. There was a knife scar on his left jaw, a pale

elt along his chin. I was waiting for him at the table when

Jirard arrived.

We shook hands perfunctorily as Girard sat down. I

oticed that two other men who had arrived with him

ere being seated at a table close to ours.

Girard ordered an aperitif for himself.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"Well, now," he said, "what is it that you would like

me to do for you?"

"For Marat," I corrected him.

Girard nodded. "Ah, yes, for my friend, Joseph. What

is it that fran do for him?"

"I want a boat," I said.

Girard shrugged. "That encompasses everything from a

skiff to a freighter. What kind?"

"I want it to be able to do better than thirty-five knots

with a low silhouette and with a reinforced deck. I think

you know what I have in mind."

Girard raised his eyebrows.

"What you're talking about is a converted MTB," he

said. "There aren't many of them. It's been almost thirty

years since the war. You realize they take a crew of four-

teen."

' They can be handled with fewer men."

"Four," said Girard. "That is the minimum."

"Then I want a crew of four. Men you can trust. Can

you get the MB and crew for me?"

"Let's say that I can," replied Girard. "What else?"

I pushed a piece of paper across the table. "Willi Van-

derHoven in Amsterdam. Get in touch with him- He has

surplus 20 mm aircraft cannon. I want a pair of them,

plus half a dozen drums of fresh ammunition for each."

"Will there be any problems with this VanderHoven?"

' 'Not if you use my name," I said.

"And the MTB—when do you want that?"

"I want everything—the MTB, the cannons mounted

on it—the whole works in not more than five days from

now."

E'lmpossible."

"No," 1 said. "Just difficult."

"Is it that important?"

"It is to Marat. He'll be in debt to you for the rest of

his life."

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' 'In that case," said Girard, ' 'it'll be a pleasure."

133

' 'One more thing," I said. "About the ammunition—the

drums are to be loaded with alternate rounds of armor-

piercing and high explosive. One tracer every fourth

round."

"You sound as you are about to start a war," Girard

observed calmly.

"It's already started," I said.

"Who pays for all this?"

"Marat."

"Good enough."

Girard finished his aperitif. The waiter approached us.

Girard said to me, "Allow me to suggest the Poissons

flambés aux Fenouil. I think you'll like it."

We were half way through the meal when Girard

asked, "Where would you like me to have this vessel de-

livered?"

"At sea," I said. "I'll let you know the details later."

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As I walked into the lobby of L'HoteI de Ia Mer and

headed for the elevators, a slender young man, black-

haired and deeply tanned, turned away from the house

phones and followed me. We were the only two occupants

of the elevator; when it stopped at my floor, the young

man got off with me. The elevator doors closed. I waited

deliberately, taking time to crush out my cigarette in the

ash tray by the doors, hesitating until I saw the young

man move down the corridor in the direction opposite to

my rooms. Then, as I turned and started down the hall, I

heard my name called softly.

I turned to find the young man aiming a .38 calibre

revolver at me. We were about fifteen feet apart, too far

for me to jump him. The corridor walls revented me

from moving sideways more than a foot or two, and the

muzzle of the .38 had the obscenely fat cylinder of a

silencer screwed onto the end of it.

"S'il vous plait,"

said the young man politely. "Turn

around and walk to your room. I will be behind you all

134

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

135

the way. We do not want to harm you, so I would appre-

ciate it if you did nothing foolish."

I stared at the young man for a second, noticing his

gun hand was steady and that he was balanced to move

quickly if I tried to leap at him. I turned my back and be-

gan walking to my suite.

As we came to the door, the young man said, "There's

no need for you to reach for your keys. The door is un-

locked. Open it and go in. If you have any ideas in your

mind, let me tell you that there is someone waiting in-

side."

I turned the doorknob and walked in. The living room

lights were on; across the room, seated in an armchair,

was Marius St. Hilaire. He held a small pistol casually in

one plump hand.

St. Hilaire smiled pleasantly at me. "Good evening, Mr.

Harding. Forgive me for intruding, but it seemed neces-

sary for me to meet with you again, and I thought it

prudent on my part to take these precautions."

"Is he necessary?" I asked, gesturing over my shoulder

at the young man who had closed the door behind us.

"Nikos? I'm afraid so. I'm really not a man of violence.

But, Nikos is. Nikos is a very nasty person. Do sit down."

"I'll do my talking from here," I said, and before I

could move Nikos slammed the barrel of the .38 against

the side of my head from behind. I staggere&. Nikos

raised the gun again.

"No!" St. Hilaire's voice cracked authoritatively across

the room. Nikos lowered his hand, the gun pressing hard

into my spine.

I felt the blood running down the side of my face. My

cheekbone was numb, the flesh puffed and split where the

silencer had struck it. Pain came and went in waves

through the entire side of my head. I took out my hand-

kerchief and pressed it to my cheek to stem the flow of

blood.

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NICK CARTER: KLLMASTER

"l told you that Nikos is violent," St. Hilaire said

reprovingly. "Sometimes he can be almost impossible to

control. Do as you're told, Mr. Harding."

I moved across the room to sit on the couch. Nikos re-

mained by the door, his gun pointed at me.

"All right, Mavropoulos, what's up?"

"Please," admonished the fat man, "St. Hilaire, or

Marius. I don't like the name Mavropoulos."

"What's it about?"

"Have you completed the arrangements for the pay-

"Have you made the arrangements for the delivery of

the merchandise?" I countered.

St. Hilaire smiled his fat man's smile at me. "Oh, yes.

That was done yesterday. My people in Athens have re-

ceived their instructions and have begun to assemble the

shipment. The ship is scheduled to depart shortly after

midnight tonight."

"And when does it arrive in Marseilles?"

St. Hilaire held up a cautionary finger.

"In the Marseilles area," he said. "Our arrangements

called for delivery to be made at sea. Now, have you

taken care of the matter of paying for it?"

' 'Two million, five hundred thousand," I said, ' Cvia a

letter of credit. Yes, it's set up."

"And the documents of receipt?"

"There'll be a set at our bank in Zurich by tomorrow

for you to pick up or have sent to you—whichever you

prefer. I'll sign them when I take over the cargo."

'Tm sure," said St. Hilaire, "you brought a set of cop-

ies with you. Yes?"

I nodded. "Yes. In my pocket."

St. Hilaire beamed. "Then we can save a great deal of

time by having you sign them now."

"No," I said.

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137

"My dear Mr: Harding," St. Hilaire sighed. "Must I

turn Nikos loose?"

"It wouldn't do you a damn bit of good " I informed

him. "The bank has instructions only to honor my signa-

ture on the original documents. Duplicates aren't worth

the paper they're printed on."

C' You're not a trusting person, Mr. Harding."

"I've no reason to trust you."

St. Hilaire was not offended. "Quite true."

"Did you really expect me to take a chance on paying

out two and a half million and not get the goods?" I

asked.

"Of course not," St. Hilaire conceded. He took a paper

from inside his suit jacket. "However, if you could have

signed the documents of receipt, I would have transferred

ownership of the goods to you as of this moment."

He leaned forward ponderously and handed me the pa-

per.

"All in perfectly legal order," said St. Hilaire. "You

see, I've even appended my signature. The goods would

have been yours. I am not a thief, Mr. Harding. As I told

you the other day, my prime concern is transferring

ownership of—i' he glanced at Nikos, C '—of certain goods

as rapidly as possible. I thought we might do that this

evening."

"Not until I have physical possession of them," I said.

The pain had subsided to a dull throbbing ache. I took

the bloodied handkerchief away from the side of my face,

refolded it and pressed it back again. "Why the big rush?"

"Because I received word this afternoon that two of my

warehouses were broken into last night," St. Hilaire told

me. "Under extremely strange circumstances. Nothing

was stolen, but almost every crate was broken open. For-

tunately, the goods were elsewhere. Does that suggeSt

anything to you?"

"One, the Israelis; two, the IRA; three, the British." I

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

ticked off the alternatives on my fingers. "You want

more?"

"That's enough. Do you blame me for feeling a con-

siderable amount of anxiety?"

"There's not a damn thing I can do about it," I said.

C' You can sign the papers as soon as I get them from

Zurich. Tomorrow, I think you said?"

"l thought you said you didn't underestimate me," I re-

plied.

St. Hilaire stared at me uncomprehendingly.

"Well?" he finally asked. "What else have you done?"

"I took a precaution that might help keep me alive.

Not only do I have to sign the documents, but I have to

countersign them in the presence of a bank official no

sooner than twenty-four hours after you get them and no

later than ten days. Otherwise the bank will not pay out

the money."

St. Hilaire did not take his eyes off my face.

"I see," he said thoughtfully. "A bank official."

"He'll be in Marseilles a week from today," I said.

'That's about the time the shipment will arrive, right?"

St. Hilaire nodded, still without speaking.

"When I get the goods, I'll sign the papers and be glad

to be done with you. You're a tricky bastard, Marius. In

the meantime, take your little playmate and get the hell

out of here!"

St. Hilaire flushed and shot a glance at Nikos. Nikos

moved into the room, his eyes suddenly filled with hatred.

St. Hilaire said, hurriedly, "No, no, Nikos ... he didn't

mean it that way. Be still."

He pushed himself out of the chair. "Very well then,

Mr. Harding. Shall we now settle how you're going to get

to the freighter that's bringing the merchandise? Have you

any thoughts on that matter?"

"When your ship arrives, I'll meet you here in town.

We'll go out to the freighter together. You won't have to

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139

tell me where the ship is, and I won't have to worry about

surprises until I get to it."

"Ingenious," murmured St. Hilaire, "Except I'm not at

all sure I would like to be at sea with you in a small boat,

especially when you're bringing your own crew with you."

"There won't be any crew," I said. "Just you and

-me—and Gallagher."

St. Hilaire's thin brows arched in surprise.

"Gallagher?"

"Yes. Gallagher. I'll sign the papers for you. YouSII be

paid off. Gallagher can take delivery right then and be on

his way—ship, cargo and all. You and I will then come

back to Marseilles together and I'll countersign the pa-

"Your insurance policy ... yes, indeed."

' 'Exactly," I said. "I'd like to remain alive after the

transaction."

"Quite," said St. Hilaire. He paused and then asked,

"About Gallagher—you'll see to it that he comes with

"If I can get in touch with him."

"Do try."

"It would be easier for you."

"He's in the suite next to yours," I told him, watching

St. Hilaire's jowled face. "Just knock on his door and tell

him you'd like to talk to him."

There was no change of expression on St. Hilaire's face

as he said, "I told Gallagher he was taking a chance. He's

much too reckless for my taste."

"Tell him I want to see him," I said.

St. Hilaire nodded. His chins trembled over his collar.

c 'I shall do that. Where is he to meet you?"

"Here. Tonight."

St. Hilaire put his small pistol away, tucking it into a

back pocket of his trousers. He straightened and rebut-

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

toned his suit jacket, pulling down his cuffs and flicking at

a piece of lint on his sleeve.

"How did you know I was registered here?" I asked.

St. Hilaire smiled, a superior twist of his lips. c swe used

your trick of phoning around until we located you. The

desk clerk at my hotel alerted me immediately after you'd

called."

"I left no word."

' 'That's what alerted me," he said. ' 'No one else knew I

was in Marseilles."

St. Hilaire walked to the doorway. He turned as he

came abreast of Nikos in the small foyer.

"I trust there'll be no trouble between you and Galla-

gher."

"Not on my part," I said, and smiled at him.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gallagher never showed up. It was past two in the morn-

ing when my telephone rang.

"l can't get in touch with Gallagher." St. Hilaire's voice

Iwas tired, frustrated and plaintive. "He's not in the hotel.

God only knows where he's gone to."

"All right."

"I tried."

After I hung up, I threw my stuff into the small over-

night bag and went down to check out. I drove the twenty

;odd kilometres back to the villa near Cassis.

I left the Renault in the gravel circle in front of the ga-

rage and came in the back door. I dropped the overnight

hag in the kitchen and used the servants' stairs to the sec-

.ond story. For a moment, more out of habit than anything

else, I almost went into the master bedroom before I

•remembered that Brenna would be asleep and I didn't

.want to wake her, so I went down the hall to one of the

guest rooms.

I'd hardly taken off my jacket when the door to the

bedroom opened.

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I spun around, pulling my gun out of my belt, to find

Brenna standing in the doorway. She was wearing one of

my shirts as a night gown, the sleeves rolled back to her

elbows, but her long, slender legs were bare from mid-

thigh and the shirt was opened in a wide vee over her full

breasts.

She looked at the gun in my hand and then up at my

face with a horrified expression.

I put the gun away. "Why are you still awake?"

"l can't sleep by myself," she said, simply. "Not since

the other night."

"Jean-Louis is here."

"l know. I'm still frightened."

She sat down on the bed, curling her legs under her. I

got up and stripped off my shirt. I finished undressing in

the bathroom, washed and came out to find Brenna lying

under the top sheet. The shirt she had worn lay on the

floor beside her. The lights were off, except for a night

lamp.

"What's happening, Quinn?" she asked. "It's about

time you told me, isn't it?"

I lay down on the far side of the bed. In the pale light

of the bed lamp, I saw Brenna examine my body. She

touched the old scars along my rib cage and on my right

thigh.

"Last I patched up your back. Tonight, you

greet me with a gun. When is it going to end? Who's try-

ing to kill you?"

There was nothing I could say to that. I remembered

the first attack on me in New York. But that had come

before Hawk had told me about this assignment, before

I'd met Gallagher. I really couldn't figure out why "they"

were trying to kill me, whoever they were. It didn't make

sense.

Brenna said, "Get under the covers, Quinn," reaching

over to turn out the lamp. In the darkness, I slid into bed.

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143

renna moved closer to me until her body was touching

nine. She was naked. Her arm came up and went across

my chest.

"Hold me," she said, in a soft whisper.

I lifted my arm and Brenna put her head on my shoul-

Her skin had the smoothness and life of a fresh petal

-still on the flower, ripe with sun. It was cool in places,

Ind warm in others where the heat of her breasts and

ubic arch pressed against me. The delicate scent of her

nair, where her face lay against my shoulder, came into

my nostrils. I felt the tiny tremors of fright that ran

:hrough her body. We lay like that for a few minutes

without talking, and finally the tremors went away.

Brenna pressed closer to me, her hand moving in gentle

-circles across my chest.

I felt her head move. Her hand came up and touched

me on the chin, gently pressing my face toward hers. The

:ouch of her lips came as a surprise because they were so

•soft. She kissed me on the chin and then our lips were

glued together, her mouth opening greedily to mine; our

:ongues searching each other in gentle, slow probings.

She turned so that her breasts pressed heavily on my

chest, their heat warming me. My left hand came up,

nolding the back of her head, stroking the softness of her

[ong hair, moving under the heavy fall of it to grasp her

oy the softness of the back of her neck, and my fingers

*pread out to trace the fine musculature of her shoulders

nnd along the length of her spine. She shivered in my

arms. I turned slightly to face her, one hand now cupping

-a buttock, the other under a breast, feeling its weight and

heat and softness in the palm of my hand.

The tremors came back again, but this time they were

not from fear. This time, the tremors grew stronger, and I

knew that she was enjoying them, losing herself in the

rhythm that our bodies had fallen into. We explored each

3ther, not knowing what we were seeking, until we found

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

all the privately moist places, trembling as each of us was

touched by the other, hunting for the ultimate pleasure

and unconsciously giving to the other what each sought so

selfishly.

Brenna's arms were around me. She moved onto me,

mounting me as she would a horse, guiding me into her,

sitting erect on me as if she were in a saddle and then

she began to ride.

I grasped her breasts with both hands and her move-

ments grew more frantic. She was at a gallop now, her

long black hair swinging violently from side to side in

great sweeps that brushed my face, uttering cries of ex-

citement, urging me to greater efforts as I bucked and

heaved beneath her.

She was lost in a world of her own, her eyes were

closed, her hands gripping my shoulders as she would the

withers of a great stallion, sliding up and down my length

in a rhythm that grew faster and faster and more uncon-

trolléd, until finally our world was one of sensation alone

and the moistness of our bodies and the cries that came

out of her mouth turned into one great scream that came

ripping out of her throat.

The week passed lazily. We awoke late in the morn-

ings, had coffee and croissants in bed served by an impas-

Sive Mme. Renaud who did not indicate in the slightest

whether or not she approved or disapproved of our ar-

rangement. Jean-Louis kept pretty much out of sight.

In the afternoons, we'd drive into Cassis and stroll

along its narrow streets and along the dock area. Twice I

saw ben-Dror there. The big Israeli made no attempt to

hide himself, nor did he make any attempt to speak to

me. He passed us once on the street and as soon as he

spotted me, he crossed to avoid a direct confrontation.

Once he was seated at a table at an outdoor cafe as we

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

145

walked past. I didn't acknowledge him any more than he

acknowledged me.

And then, early one morning at the end of the week,

Gallagher telephoned.

"I think it's about time we got together," he said. "You

should be receiving the merchandise pretty soon."

"l haven't heard from St. Hilaire yet," I pointed out.

"l have," said Gallagher. I could almost hear the

amusement in the man's voice. It irritated me. "That's

why I want to meet with you. Can you be in Cassis at

three o'clock?"

"Where?"

"The southeast corner of Place Clemenceau."

I said, "You're taking a hell of a chance, Gallagher.

I'm being tailed. They expect me to lead them to you."

Gallagher didn't ask who I meant by "they".

C 'I'm not foolhardy. I won't be there myself, Mr. Hard-

ing. You'll be met and brought to me."

"By whom?"

"He'll know you. That's all you need to know."

"Not good enough," I said.

"Then bring Brenna with you. She'll recognize the

man. Three o'clock."

"Wait a second." I stopped him from hanging up. "Is

the Marat girl all right?"

"She's healthy," said Gallagher. "And the sooner we

complete our arrangements, the sooner she can go free."

He hung up.

I put down the receiver. Jean-Louis was lounging in the

doorway of the study.

"Gallagher?" he asked.

' 'He wants me to meet him in Cassis this afternoon."

The Frenchman was puzzled. "I think he's not as intel-

ligent as you think he is," he said, finally.

"Oh, he's smart enough. He's smarter than any of us

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

have given him credit for being. That's what bothers me.

He's a tricky one."

"You want me to come along with you?"

I considered the suggestion and rejected it.

"Not with me," I said. "I don't need protection. I want

Gallagher, but I don't think he's anywhere near Cassis,

and I don't think he's going to come anywhere near it. It's

too small a town for him to hide in."

"Shall I follow you, then?"

I shook my head.

"Hell, there are enough agents following me, now. It's

a wonder they're not tripping over one another."

"Ben-Dror was one. But there had to be at least an-

other Israeli. agent, if not two, to spell him. Thorndike

probably had a couple of his British boys there. And if

Loring was running true to form, he'd have a man or two

on the scene trying to second guess me. Add one or two

from Gallagher and St. Hilaire. Christ. There were

enough of them around for a convention.

"Then what do you want me to do, mon arm?'

"I want you to contact someone for me. Do you know

Edouard Girard?"

I caught the flicker of expression in Jean-Louis' eyes.

"Oui."

"Why the surprise when I mention his name?"

"That you know such a man. He's very big, that one."

"He has a boat for me," I said. "It's time we put it to

use. Tell him I sent you. I'll be in Cassis at three o'clock.

I want that boat waiting outside the harbor by then."

Jean-Louis frowned. "What do you have in mind?"

"If Gallagher isn't going to be in Cassis, then I'm going

to be brought to him, right?"

"Daccord."

"There are only two ways out of Cassis. By road—

"Too easy to follow you. You think they will take you

by sea?"

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

"It's the only logical way. I'm betting on it."

"How do we find you?"

147

"Watch for a power boat of some-kind heading out of

the harbor shortly after three o'clock."

Jean-Louis snorted. "As well look for a particular sea

gull!"

I reached into the drawer of my desk and pulled out a

small, rectangular metal object. It fit easily into the palm

of my hand.

"Do you recognize this?"

Jean-Louis looked at the flat black box and then shook

his head.

"I took it off the Renault last night," I said. "It's a

beeper. A miniature radio transmitter. It's been on the car

from the time Francois delivered it to me so they could

keep track of my movements."

"They?"

"Come off it," I said sharply. "You know that Francois

works for The Company."

Jean-Louis let a smile touch his lips. "And do you, per-

haps, think that I, too, work for them?"

"Only at times," I said. "But I know that you also

know Edouard Girard a hell of a lot better than you let

on."

Jean-Louis gave a noncommital shrug of his shoulders.

want you to get the direction-finding equipment from

Francois and have it aboard the boat that Girard has

promised me."

"And that's how we'll be able to locate you among the

many boats coming from the harbor?"

"Exactly."

"And then what?"

"Just follow us," I told him. ' Vl)on't do anything. Don't

try to intercept us. I can promise you that Gallagher

won't be aboard when we leave Cassis. And, for God's

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

sake, keep a few miles away from us, because Girard

promised me a motor torpedo boat. You'll stand out like

a sore thumb if you come anywhere close enough for

them to put glasses on you."

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Brenna wore white flare-bottomed jeans, a faded blue

sailor's jersey and blue boating sneakers. She carried an

oversized, white leather shoulder bag. I wore a T-shirt

and brown slacks. There was no way in the world I could

have carried Wilhelmina or Hugo with me without either

of the two weapons being seen, so I left them at the villa.

We stood on the southwest corner of Place Clem-

enceau, the fishing boats bobbing gently in the oily

water that lapped against the pilings of the quays, the

smell of the harbor all around us—a composite of dried i,

salt and rotting fish scraps and tar, oil, gasoline, paint and

heat, with a breeze to blow it into our nostrils and then

away from us. Brenna recognized the little man first.

"It's Emmett Cleary," she said to me.

Cleary came up to us, a small, thin-legged man. His

hair was cut short; his face and forearms red with the to-

mato ripeness of a fresh sunburn.

He gestured at us to follow him and turned away, walk-

ing rapidly down to Quai St. Pierre and then along Quai

des Moulins. Halfway down the dock, he stopped.

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"In you go," he said, 'Sand mind your step."

The boat was a thirty-six-foot sports cruiser, about ten

years old, but its brightwork gleamed with care. Among

the sturdy work boats of the fishing fleet, its racy lines

looked out of place.

Nimbly, Cleary took in the bow and stern lines, and the

man on the flying bridge, whose face I couldn't see, eased

the throttles forward to move us out into the waters of the

small harbor. We moved down the channel toward open

sea.

I sat back in the cockpit, Brenna beside me. I was con-

scious of the weight of the beeper's rectangular, metal

housing in my hip pocket.

Once into the open sea, we put on speed. Cleary came

up to stand in front of me on his short, thin legs. He'd

smeared his face and forearms with a heavy suntan lotion,

which made him look more than ever like a cooked lob-'

ster.

I craned my neck to look behind him, past the stern of

the boat toward the harbor we'd just left.

"You looking for someone?" Cleary asked, a knowing

smile on his sharp, clever face.

"Yes," I said, and looked again at the indentation of

the bay now far behind us. The cruiser began to move

with the slight swell of the Mediterranean. Behind us a

white, wide wake streamed out like a broadening pennant

against the blue of the sea. The day was mild, the sun in

an almost cloudless sky, and there was practically no

wind. Even the waves weren't much higher than on a

fresh water lake.

"Who're you lookin' for? Who'd you think'd be fol-

lowin' us?" Cleary had to raise his voice over the sound

of the engines.

"Anyone," I replied. "Gallagher's at sea, isn't he?'

'That's your guess."

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

151

"He's at sea. And if we're being followed, you're taking

them straight to Gallagher."

Cleary laughed, a sound as bright as the day, filled with

amusement and tinged with awaren•ess of his own clever-

ness.

'CSo you're watchin' to see who comes after us?"

"Yes."

"It won't make any difference," Cleary said, the smart

smile on his face and impudence dancing in his eyes. "It

won't make any difference," he repeated.

The cruiser roared on for half an hour or so. The

shoreline was no longer to be seen, nor could we be seen

from the shore. And then, catching me by surprise, the

engines were eased off, the bow settled into the

we kept just enough way under us to head into the gentle

swells and prevent us from wallowing.

I'd seen the MTB standing well out from shore when the

sports cruiser we were on first came out of the harbor.

There were two figures on its bridge. One was holding a

pair of binoculars on us.

As the cruiser made its way through the fishing vessels

just off the mouth of the .harbor, the MTB turned and

kept the same distance between us, heading out to sea.

Half an hour later when our sports fisherman cut short

its run the MTB was a distant speck on the horizon.

We lay to for about forty-five minutes. Then I heard it.

The faint persistent buzzing of an aircraft engine some-

where in the sky.

At the first sound of the engine, Cleary ran up to the

flying bridge and began to scan the sky, holding one hand

above his eyes to shade the sun. I spotted it before he did.

The seaplane came in from the southwest, flying low

above the water. As it came over us, it was less than a

hundred feet in the air.

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The plane crossed over our stern and pulled up sharp-

ly. I heard the engine throttle back as it banked into a

tight turn to head into the wind. It let down half a mile

from us, spray leaping out from its pontoons as they

touched the sea. Then the engine shut down and the

seaplane waited for us, bobbing in an ungainly way, like

an albatross fat on the water out of its element.

On the cruiser's bridge, the skipper pushed the throttles

forward and spun the wheel hard over. The cruiser heeled

around in a sharp curve, straightened out and made a run

for the seaplane.

Cleary scuttled down to the deck, dropping fenders

along the port side of the boat. The skipper cut his en-

gines, expertly losing way so that we came up to the

seaplane gently, the port bow nudging between the

wingroot and the empenage of the aircraft, a Cessna 180.

The right hand door pushed open.

"In you go," said Cleary, holding the plane to the side

of the cruiser with a boat hook caught onto a pontoon

strut.

I dropped over the bow onto the pontoon, turned and

held out my arm for Brenna. She stepped gingerly over

the low railing and jumped down onto the pontoon. The

plane tilted slightly under our weight. I helped her move

forward under the wing and in through the door to the

back seat. I climbed into the front seat alongside the pilot.

Cleary pushed us apart. The skipper reversed his props

and moved the cruiser away from the plane until he was

completely clear.

I closed and latched the door. The pilot switched on his

magnetos and engaged the starter. The prop kicked over

and caught. Weather vaning into the wind, he fed in the

throttle. The plane picked up speed, surging through the

sea, slamming against the low waves faster and faster. I

felt the familiar. hard bounce and par as the pontoons

struck and rebounded from the water, and then the plane

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

153

lifted up onto the step. In a moment the pontoons broke

free and the pounding stopped abruptly as we were air-

borne.

The albatross had come back to its element and was

part of the clean, clear sky, soaring effortlessly aloft.

The pilot turned the plane onto a southwest course, still

not climbing any higher than three or four hundred feet

above the water. Behind us, the sports cruiser became a

speck, a dot that finally disappeared completely.

And then we were passing almost directly over the

MTB with its direction finding equipment, its hard-bitten

crew of tough Marseilles thugs and the two 20mm can-

none

I looked down almost directly at them as we passed

over them and flew off.

They weren't going to do me a damn bit of good.

The pilot flew a southwesterly course for almost twenty

miles before he dropped down to less than fifty feet above

the wave tops and banked the seaplane in a tight, gut-

wrenching wing-down turn. I watched the gyro compass

roll slowly through an arc of almost 1300 until we were

headed almost due east before he levelled off. The pilot

kept the plane barely mast high above the sea. No shore

based radar in the world could have tracked us.

Ten minutes later he took up a southeasterly heading. I

realized that he was keeping a course roughly parallel to

the shoreline but well away at sea.

We turned northeast. I visualized a chart of the coast-

line. Using my wristwatch and the air-speed indicator as

guidelines, I made a rough dead reckoning that the Hy-

eres islands should be off to our portside, well over the

horizon. If so, then another three-quarters of an hour

should bring us into the area between St. Tropez and Cap

d'Antibes. I switched my attention to the clock on the in-

strument panel, watching the second hand sweep around

the dial.

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NICK CARTER: KJLLMASTER

I was in error by only five minutes when the pilot

pulled up the nose of the plane, gained a thousand feet of

altitude, banked to port and began scanning the waters

ahead of us.

The Mediterranean, between St. Tropez and Cap d'An-

tibes, is filled with vessels of every descr•iption, size and

kind. Motor sailors, fishing craft, diesel-powered sports

cruisers, ketches, yawls, schooners, trawlers, inter-island

freighters, passenger ferries and pleasure craft from thirty

footers to blue-water, ocean-going yachts. It was a perfect

place in which to hide. One more vessel, of any size or

description, would become quickly merged into the mass

of other ships, just as one gull becomes lost in the flock

the moment it joins it.

Somewhere down there was Gallagher.

It was an ocean-cruising, diesel-powered yacht. I saw it

turn out of the pack and put on speed, making for the

open sea. From the air, I had a chance to examine it and

to admire its long, sleek lines. Over one hundred and

thirty feet in length, the vessel was painted a crisp, gleam-

ing white from its sharply curved bow to its rounded stern

cockpit. Abaft its bridge a stubby mast, bristling with ra-

dio antennae, raked back sharply.

This late in the afternoon the Mediterranean had taken

on a lavender color from the sinking sun that painted the

few clouds and stained the sea, and the white, turbulent

wake of the vessel, streaming from its white painted hull,

was harpoon sharp against the sea.

Throttled back, with half flaps to reduce its speed even

further, the plane swung in a long, lazy circle, first away

from the ship and then back to it, so that we finally came

together some twenty minutes later, long after the motor

yacht was by itself with no other ships around. The big

yacht lost speed; the plane banked and the pilot made an-

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

155

Other smooth landing, coming to a stop less than a

hundred yards away. By the time he had swung around to

close the distance between us, a motor dinghy from the

yacht was already approaching.

Brenna and I climbed out of the plane and were helped

into the dinghy. It had hardly turned back to the yacht

when the plane took off again.

Brenna mounted the ladder first. I was close behind

her. We stepped onto the deck and a familiar voice said,

CSWelcome aboard." I turned to look at the pudgy figure

of Marius St. Hilaire. He wore a navy blue yachting

blazer, white flannels and white buckskin shoes. St. Hi-

laire's plump face wore a pleased half-smile.

"Are you surprised?" he asked.

I let him have his little victory. "In a way," I admitted.

"Come along, then," said St. Hilaire. "I'm sure you're

anxious to see Gallagher."

He turned; we followed him forward along the narrow

starboard deck. I saw that there were armed sailors at

each end of the deck. Tough, swarthy-skinned men whose

faces carried no expressions of any sort, they held their

carbines as if the weapons were familiar to them. I had

the feeling that they were more than just a crew of ordi-

nary seamen. I wondered how many of them were aboard.

From the size of the yacht, I estimated it would require a

crew of ten to twelve.

Under my feet I felt the slight vibration of the engines

through the teak decking as the yacht got under way

again.

St. Hilaire turned in at one of the stateroom doors

that opened off the main deck. Brenna and I followed him

in. I saw that we were in the owner's day cabin. It ran the

full width of the ship's beam and was twice the size of an

average stateroom. Once St. Hilaire had closed the door

behind us, it was hard to realize that we were on a ship at

sea.

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The cabin was panelled in mahogany and cypress.

Coarsely woven drapes in brown and orange concealed

the windows. Thick carpeting covered the deck from

bulkhead to bulkhead. The stateroom was air-conditioned

and lighting came from both lamps and concealed fixtures

built into the panelling. There was an enormous desk

made of refinished ship's planking; sturdy, thick oak.

Along two sides of the room ran built-in leather couches.

St. Hilaire sat himself behind the desk. Gallagher was

sitting on one of the couches. He made no move to get

up as we entered. A brief nod to Brenna was as much

as he allowed himself to acknowledge her presence. I sat

down on the other couch. Unconsciously, Brenna sat be-

side me; only her large white leather bag separated us.

"Well." St. Hilaire smiled at me almost unctuously.

Then his bottom lip came out in a mild pout. "I should

be quite angry with you Mr. Harding. You lied to me the

last time we were together. That wasn't at all nice of you."

I waited impassively.

"It took me only a day or two to find out. What did

you think to gain by telling me that story abouta bank

offcial having to come to Marseilles to accept the papers

and your counter-signature?"

"Time," I said. "What would Nikos have done to me

otherwise?"

"Nothing—if you'd signed the papers."

"And if I hadn't signed?"

St. Hilaire sighed. "Yes, of course: It would have been

unpleasant."

"Are the arms aboard?" I asked. C 'Let's look at them.

If they meet Gallagher's approval, we can get on with our

business."

I saw Gallagher and St. Hilaire exchange a quick

glance.

"The arms are not aboard," said St. Hilaire. "Not on

this vessel, The weapons are on another ihip."

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Gallagher spoke up.

157

"Did you think I'd be fool enough to bring you to the

ship itself?" he asked. "The minute you were back ashore

the British would have you describing it in detail. There'd

be an air search of every inch of the Mediterranean. Not

a vessel would get through Gibraltar into the Atlantic

without being photographed and identified, and those pro-

ceeding on a course leading anywhere toward Ireland

would be boarded at sea under one pretext or another.

No, Mr. Harding, you'll not see that freighter if I can help

it."

"l don't have to," I said easily. "My job's done the

minute you accept the arms and release the girl."

C 'Ah, yes," said Gallagher reluctantly. "The girl. Well,

Mr. Harding, I'm afraid we'll have to wait awhile longer

for that. She's the only protection I have right now."

"That wasn't the deal," I reminded him.

Gallagher smiled at me, running a stubby hand through

his coarse reddish-gray hair.

"True," he admitted in a casual tone of voice. c 'But,

circumstances change. It's not working out as easily as I'd

thought. Somehow or other the British have gotten them-

selves into this—I'

"And the Israelis," St. Hilaire added.

"—And what started out as a simple thing, isn't as

simply as I'd planned. It'll only be awhile longer, and

then we'll release the lass."

'"You're a liar," I said, quietly. "You never planned on

letting the girl go until the arms had been smuggled into

Ireland, did you?"

Brenna said nothing. She looked at me and then at

Gallagher. Gallagher dropper his pretense. His grin disap-

peared. I could see the coldness come into his face as the

tough, singlemindedness of the man came to the surface.

It was the first time that Gallagher had let me sense the

intensity of the fury that churned within him. Suddenly I

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knew that Gallagher was a driven man, not in control of

himself, using himself as harshly as he would use any one

else to gain his ends. Irish patriot. What was there about

the phrase that caught the imagination of so many Irish?

Was it that the poverty of the country extended even to

its legends—that there were so few of them that each

Irish hero had to be blown out of proportion to his deeds?

Or was it that they still thought the only road to legend-

ary deeds was through the path of martyrdom? Whatever

it was that drove Gallagher—and I wasn't even sure the

man himself knew—it was something that could only be

stopped by death. Gallagher's eyes told me he, too, had

recognized that we had suddenly reached a point where

the two of us were no longer opponents—we were ene-

mies.

"You should never call a man a liar, Mr. Harding. It

makes for ill feeling."

"Do you have the weapons?" I demanded, ignoring his

remark.

Gallagher nodded. "I have. Now, pay the gentleman."

St. Hilaire pulled open a drawer of the desk and took

out the originals of the letter of credit. He'd been busy

during the previous two days, his activities most likely in-

cluding a trip to Zurich. He stroked the crisp paper with a

thumb edge as he spread the sheets out on the desk top.

'Your signature if you please, Mr. Harding."

I stared first at St. Hilaire and then at Gallagher and

then back at the fat man again.

you really care if I don't pay him?" I asked Galla-

gher. "You've got what you want, haven't you?"

St. Hilaire froze. Then in one furious shove, he pushed

his bulk halfway to his feet.

"Sit down!" Gallagher snapped. He cocked his head to

one side. "What are you saying, Mr. Harding?"

St. Hilaire sank back into his chair, outrage showing on

every line of his face.

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159

I said, "If you have the weapons, what business is it of

yours whether or not I pay Mavropoulos? It's his prob-

lem, right?"

St. Hilaire opened his mouth to protest. Gallagher cut

him off. His eyes narrowed and his broad face took on a

look of appraisaL

"I think you'd better explain yourself, Mr. Harding,"

he said. "I think you have something to tell me."

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I took my time. I lit a cigarette and stared at St. Hilaire's

expectant face. He was trembling with anger and anxiety.

I matched Gallagher's hard glare with my own, breathing

out a long streamer of smoke, our eyes meeting through

the blue-gray haze. In the silence, the tension mounted.

Gallagher gave way first. "Well?"

I inclined my head toward St. Hilaire. "He knows why

I won't pay him one damned cent for what you've got.

Ask him."

Gallagher turned toward St. Hilaire. "What the hell is

he talking about?"

St. Hilaire's cheeks quivered in denial as he shook his

head. "I haven't the faintest idea. Really, old man, it's all

quite a mystery to me."

Gallagher got to his feet, a heavy, menacing figure in

the low ceilinged stateroom. Walking over to the desk, he

bent down and placed his hands flat on the surface, his

arms supporting his barrel chest. Aggressively, he pushed

his broad, pugnacious face toward St. Hilaire.

"What the hell is he talking about?"

160

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161

St. Hilaire shrank back. The corners of his mouth

twitched as if he were giving still-born birth to an aborted

smile.

"I—I don't know," he protested.

Without moving Gallagher said over his shoulder to

me, "Does he know what you're talking about, Mr.

Harding?"

"He knows," I said.

The Irishman straightened up and reached into his hip

pocket. He brought out a small, flat automatic pistol and

pulled back the slide.

"I haven't any time to waste," he said to St. Hilaire.

"Talk up!"

St. Hilaire cleared his throat, his eyes focusing first on

the blue steel and then on the open, deadly hole of the

barrel, finally wandering away to a point midway between

Gallagher and me.

"It—it's all a misunderstanding, I'm sure," he said. I

got the impression that St. Hilaire was hunting for the

right words and was having trouble finding them. Marius

St. Hilaire had made his devious way through life with his

wits. "It has to do with Dieter Hoffman—I think." He

paused, waiting for a reaction from me. He found none.

My face was poker-player blank.

"He's completely wrong, of course. The whole idea is

preposterous! I had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all!"

His voice rose unconsciously as he protested.

' 'What's Dieter Hoffman got to do with this?" Galla-

gher asked me. I saw that he was truly puzzled and my

last doubt left me.

"He was tortured to death," I said.

c 'By him?" He nodded at St. Hilaire.

"l had nothing to do with it!" St. Hilaire shouted.

"By him." I ignored Marius's outburst. "Dieter was a

friend of mine. He set up the arrangement with St. Hi-

laire. Under pressure. That was you, Gallagher. And then

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St. Hilaire discovered that Dieter had learned something

so important that Dieter came from Brussels down to

Cassis in person to tell me what it was. St. Hilaire ordered

him killed. He was tortured to death."

The picture of the old man's bony legs ending in burnt

flesh crawled in my mind. Beside me Brenna shivered,

remembering the scene and her own frightened reaction

and how long it had taken before she could erase that

scene from her mind.

I went on. "For a long time I thought it might have

been you, Gallagher. I finally realized that you'd have

nothing to gairi if Dieter told me what he'd learned. Only

Mavropoulos could profit by its remaining a secret. When

attempts on my life stopped right after I'd made out the

letter of credit, I was sure."

I raised my voice. "Tell me, Mavropoulos, there were

two men at my villa that night, weren't there? The one I

killed and someone else. It was the other man who did

the torturing, wasn't it?"

Sweat broke out in beads on St. Hilaire's high forehead

and ran down the sides of his cheeks. I could see the

soaked cloth of his shirt clinging under his armpits.

"Was it Nikos?" 1 asked.

St. Hilaire slowly nodded. "Yes, it was Nikos. How-

ever, he exceeded my instructions. You must believe me!

I said that I wanted him to find out if Dieter really knew.

Nothing more, I telephoned Nikos from Paris. Nikos was

waiting for Dieter at the airport when he flew into Mar-

seilles. He followed the old man to your vina."

St. Hilaire caught the merciless look on my face. It

frightened him. Words began spewing out of his mouth in

a burst of terror. "I swear I never told Nikos to do—eto

do what he did. That was his idea, nof mine! I was horri-

fied when he told me. After all, I'd known Dieter

Hoffman for many years—2'

"Cut it out!" I said sharply. "You knew how Nikos op-

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

163

erated. You knew Dieter couldn't be left alive to tell me

what he'd discovered. It would blow all your plans to hell,

wouldn't it?"

Gallagher turned toward me.

"Now, I'll ask you," he said, his rough voice as hard as

when he'd been talking to St. Hilaire. "What the hell are

you talking about? What is it that Dieter Hoffman knew?"

"That Mavropoulos doesn't have the wire-guided anti-

tank missiles or the rocket launchers. He never did have

them."

Gallagher seemed to gather himself in. It was as if he'd

been slammed in the gut with a hard punch. If it was at

all possible, his tough, seamed face became harsher than

before.

"Say that again."

I said, "It took me a long time to put the pieces to-

gether. Mavropoulos learned that you were in the market

for arms. He knew there could be a couple of million dol-

lars in it for him if he could come up with a scheme that

would make you insist on buying exclusively from him.

He didn't have the missiles, but he knew the chances were

damned good.you'd never find out about it until it was

too late. It was Mavropoulos who contacted you first, and

not you who got in touch with him, right?"

Gallagher nodded.

"He told you that he had possession of five hundred

Soviet wire-guided, anti-tank missiles and rocket launch-

ers. He described what they could do to a British Cen-

turion tank—and you flipped!"

said Gallagher reflectively.

"I'd seen the photographs,"

"The newspapers were full of them at the time of the Oc-

tober war. British-made tanks. Wiped out. Destroyed.

Burnt out hulks on the Sinai desert. When St. Hilaire

told me that he'd got his hands on those anti-tank

weapons. . . i"

His big grizzled head moved from side to side. "l had

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to have them. I could see the picture in my mind so

clearly—my boys in Belfast, lying hidden in mi alley, the

sights of a launcher lining up a Centurion tank as it came

crawling up the street on its fat, steel treads. And them

thinkin' no one could get at them. Sittin' inside, feelin' so

safe. So much better than the rest of us. And then my

boys pull the trigger! I tell you, that picture in my mind

was glorious. It would have been a mighty blow for Irish

freedom. I could watch that tank explode in my mind's

eye. I could almost smell the cordite, the stink of burnin'

oil. And the fright. Ah, yes, the lovely fright the Black

and Tans would be in. The "way they'd be scurryin'

around at headquarters in a panic, knowin' there'd not be

a tank on the streets anywhere in Northern Ireland that'd

be safe from me!"

There was exultation on his face, fanaticism in every

line. His eyes shone with the light of an inner vision.

"And what would it cost me to get them? Not a thing!

The only price would be to deal through St. Hilaire.

That's no price to pay."

"If he had the missiles," I pointed out. "But he never

had them. That was the secret that cost Dieter Hoffman

his life and almost cost me mine. For a long time, I

couldn't figure out why someone tried to kill me in New

York the night before I met you. It couldn't have been on

your orders, Gallagher. You knew nothing about me. But

Mavropoulos did. He knew my reputation as an arms

dealer. He was afraid I'd see through his scheme, so he

tried to have me eliminated. What I couldn't figure out

was how he knewæven before I did that I was going to be

involved.

Gallagher growled, c 'I told him. We'd kept in touch

since our first meeting. When it came to giving me the list

of acceptable arms dealers, I asked for his advice. That's

how he knew you were the final choice."

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Gallagher spun around to face St. Hilaire. The look on

his face was one of cold anger.

"Is it true what he's sayin'? Are there no anti-tank mis-

Siles in the shipment?"

Gallagher's finger tightened on the trigger of the auto-

matic pistol. He held it so that the muzzle pointed straight

at St. Hilaire's forehead. His voice was a hoarse rasp of

sound, filled with the fury of a man cheated of his dream.

St. Hilaire pushed himself away from the center of the

desk, his eyes fixed on the pistol.

"Is it true?" Gallagher shouted, his face red-mottled,

his eyes glaring.

St. Hilaire threw himself toward one corner of the desk,

his fingers jabbing frantically at the buttons of the inter-

com box sitting there. Gallagher fired at him and missed.

He fired again. Desperately, St. Hilaire went on pressing

the buttons again and again.

I heard sound of bells clamoring on the deck. There

was the pound of running feet. The door burst open. Two

of the crewmen raced into the stateroom, their carbines

aimed at Gallagher and me.

St. Hilaire fell back into his chair, his face and fore-

head so wet With the perspiration of fear that his few lank

strands of hair were plastered to the bald dome- of his

head. His breath came in tight, hard, shallow gasps. He

pointed his finger at Gallagher's pistol.

"Put ... put it down," he gasped. "They'll kill you if

. if I give give the word."

Gallagher stared at the two men in the doorway. One

of them lifted his carbine to his shoulder, aiming at Galla-

gher's head.

"For the love of God, Gallagher," Brenna implored.

"Do as the man says! There're more important things to

do with your life than to throw it away on scum like this.

Ireland needs you."

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Slowly, like a man waking from a dream, Gallagher put

his pistol down on the desk top.

"Sit down." St. Hilaire's voice still had a strange high-

pitched tone in it. Contemptuously, Gallagher turned his

back on the armed crewmen and walked back to the

couch.

St. Hilaire took out his handkerchief and wiped his

forehead and his face and his neck. He folded the linen

and put it back into his pocket. He took a deep breath.

"It's all true, I'm afraid. But you haven't been cheated.

You've got fuu delivery of all the armament you originally

requested."

'S You lied to me," Gallagher said accusingly.

St. Hilaire shrugged. "Merely business, my friend. You

should have no complaints. What difference does it make

to you if the arms were purchased from one source or a

dozen. You have them. They're on the freighter now, en-

route to Ireland with your own crew aboard. So we're

even. The only reason for your presence here was to reas-

sure Mr• Harding that you had received delivery. Now

that that's done with, my business is with him."

"1'11 kill you for this!"

St. Hilaire shrugged. s 'I've been threatened before," he

said. "However, I don't think you will. It's England that

wm occupy your thoughts of revenge, not me."

Gallagher swore. "You British! You bloody double-

crossing British!"

St. Hilaire looked at his wristwatch. "Your pilot is due

back any minute, Mr. Gallagher. Let's not have any un-

pleasantness."

While St. Hilaire talked, I reached into my hip pocket

and slid out the small rectangular box that housed the

miniature radio transmitter. It now lay between my right

thigh and Brenna's carryall shoulder bag. I'd planned to

shove it beneath the cushions so it wouldn't be found on

me if I were searched, but the mention of Gallagher's pi-

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lot and Gallagher's imminent departure triggered a wild

thought in my mind. It was a long shot. The odds were

that it wouldn't work. But there was nothing to lose.

Slowly I unfastened the catch of her shoulder bag and

pushed back the flap.

Gallagher said to St. Hilaire, ' 'I'll not rest until I've

evened the score. Be assured of that."

He got to his feet, and as he moved the muzzles of the

crewmen followed him. St. Hilaire seemed to inch back in

his chair. Without taking my eyes from the two of them, I

slid the beeper deep into the miscellany of Brenna's bag.

It weighed so little I knew she wouldn't notice it.

"You're being foolish," said St. Hilaire placatingly. He

looked at me.

"Am I not right, Mr. Harding? You've been quiet.

What's your opinion?"

'GI think Gallagher means what he says. For your own

sake, kill him now while you have the chance." I heard

Brenna gasp and felt her recoil from me.

St. Hilaire smiled for the first time, a superior, smug

tremor of the lips.

"And have his Provos come after me? I'm not that stu-

pid, Mr. Harding. No, Mr. Gallagher will come to his

senses by and by. He'll realize that I haven't done him out

of anything. He has the weapons he wanted. He'll hate

me, but he'll not waste time or effort in sending men after

me. Correct, Mr. Gallagher?"

Gallagher's gaze iced over the fat man. He got to his

feet, holding out a hand to Brenna. Brenna stood up and

then looked at me.

"Quinn?"

It was a long unspoken sentence, a plea asking me to

understand that she had no choice, that her loyalties lay

with Ireland and with Gallagher, that no matter how she

would have preferred things to be, she was as bound by

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her vows as if they were steel links, a chain around her

heart and body.

"Goodbye." For a moment our eyes met. I had the

feeling that Brenna was taking in every line, every angle,

every feature of my face, photographing me so that she

would be able to recall me for the rest of her life.

"Goodbye, Quinn."

She picked up her purse and slung its strap over her

shoulder. Gallagher went to the door, pushing the armed

crewmen out of his way and went out onto the deck.

Brenna did not turn her head as she followed him.

St. Hilaire reached across the desk and picked up Gal-

lagher's pistol. He placed it in the center drawer of the

desk, locking the drawer.

' 'If you sign the papers, you could go with them, Mr.

Harding."

' 'That's a lie and you know it. You don't dare let me

St. Hilaire pursed his lips, amused. "No, no. Once you

sign the papers, we'll have concluded our business."

I shook my head. "I'm not a fool, Mavropoulos.

You've more than one reason to have me killed. So long

as I don't sign, you can't collect the money. You've got to

keep me alive."

St. Hilaire laughed amiably. If I hadn't known how su-

perb an actor St. Hilaire was, I would have felt that he

was truly sincere in his offer to let me go.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Harding. It's only dollars—and

not yours at that. Why on earth should I have you killed?

What gives you that idea?"

"Dieter," I replied. "What you did to Dieter—if you

don't kill me, I'm going to kill you. We both know that,

Mavropoulos, don't we?"

"Please—not Mavropoulos. St. Hilaire or even Marius.

I've mentioned it before."

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"You're still Mavropoulos, with his sly tricks," I said.

"If I sign, how long will you wait to kill me?"

The actor's mask slipped away from St. Hilaire's face.

For the first time; he let me see him as he really was.

"Do you know how I got the name Mavropoulos?" he

asked. "I was a major in the Commandos during World

War IL Quite young to have so high a rank, I might add.

When we evacuated Crete, I was left behind to set up

guerilla actions because I spoke both classical and demot-

ic Greek. And I was successful. Mavropoulos became my

code name. It was a name the Germans came to hate be-

cause I was so completely ruthless. I had to be. There

was no other way. And I learned that it's the only way if

one wants to succeed in life." He sighed. "It's an attitude

that has continued the rest of my life, I'm afraid," he

added.

"How long?" I asked again.

"Only until Gallagher's gone," St. Hilaire said brutally.

"Not a minute longer."

I settled back in the leather couch. "Well," I said, "I

told you I'll be damned if I sign away two million, five

hundred thousand dollars to you. How do you plan on

making me change my mind?"

St. Hilaire tapped the edge of the desk with his fingers.

"Nikos is aboard, Mr. Harding," he said. "I think I'll

let him try to convince you."

St. Hilaire waited until Gallagher and Brenna had been

ferried out to-the returning seaplane and the motor dinghy

had come back to the yacht. He left me in the saloon

guarded by two armed sailors. It was more than twenty

minutes before he came into the stateroom again.

He looked at me.

"Last chance, Mr. Harding. You can save usboth con-

siderable trouble if you sign the letter of credit now."

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I made no answer.

"Take him to the aft cabin."

The taller of the two crewmen moved to my side, prod-

ding me with the barrel of the carbine. I got to my feet.

St. Hilaire opened a door that gave onto a passageway,

stepping out of the way as the sailors pushed me ahead of

them. The passageway was narrow. Doors on either side

led to guest cabins. There was another door at the far end

of the passageway and it was through this that they

shoved me.

Nikos was sitting on the bed. His eyes glared at me.

"Tie him up!"

As one of the crewmen started to put down his rifle, I

dove at Nikos, my right arm sweeping across in a flat-

handed chop aimed for the bridge of his nose where only

a thin shard of bone, separates that point from the brain

itself. The blow would have killed him if it had landed.

The second crewman thrust up his rifle, catching me

alongside the head, stunning me momentarily and knock-

ing me off balance.

My blow landed off target. It struck Nikos on the side

of his face and he groaned.

As I stumbled, the sailor struck at me again. He

missed, but the first crewman had turned back. Out of the

corner of my eye I saw his carbine barrel descending

toward my skull—and that was all. There wasn't even the

feeling of dropping into blackness.

I came back to consciousness slowly. An immense

throbbing of pain surged in waves at the back of my neck

and on the side of my head. The pain in my side was

sharper:and more excruciating than I remember pain ever

having been. And in this half state of consciousness the

sharp, knife-edge of pain in my rib cage came like a great,

driving blow from a pole-axe, smashing the air from my

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lungs and sending fresh agonies through my chest.. I

sensed rather than heard the moan come out of my

throat.

"That's enough, Nikos! We don't want to kill him just

yet."

My eyes opened in time to see a foot swing back and

then at me. I tried to roll out of the way but found that I

could not move. My wrists. were tied behind my back,

lashed securely to my drawn up ankles so that I lay

helpless on my side on the cabin carpeting. The kick

caught me just above the sternum, driving the breath

from me.

"I said enough!" St. Hilaire's voice was sharp.

Blurrily, I saw Nikos step away from me. I needed air,

yet each breath I took thrust long blades of sharp steel

into my ribs. I wondered how long Nikos had been kick-

ing me.

St. Hilaire did not bother to bend down. see you are

awake, Mr. Harding." His voice came to me as if from a

great distance away.

Waves of blackness surged through my mind. I knew

St. Hilaire was talking to me, but I couldn't hold on to the

words in my head. And then I Was drifting off, hearing St.

Hilaire's voice clearly one moment and then not hearing it

at all. ...

Hours later I came to again. This time, I found myself

lying on my back on the bed. My ankles were still lashed

together as were my wrists, but now my wrists were tied

in front and my hands lay heavily across my groin.

I opened my eyes slowly and turned my head. St. Hi-

laire was standing by the bed. Nikos was a pace behind

him. The -shorter of the two sailors, swarthy and scar-

faced, was by the far bulkhead, his carbine in his hands.

The other crewman was gone.

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SCAwake, Mr. Harding?"

I said nothing. The pain in my chest was so great I felt

I would scream if I opened my mouth to speak.

"That was just the beginning," St. Hilaire went on.

' 'Nikos is eager to get on with his work. Sign the papers. I

give you my word that you'll be set free."

The tone and aura of honesty was in St. Hilaire's voice.

It made me want to believe him. I had to remind myself

that the man was not only an actor but a consummate

liar.

"Believe me, Mr. Harding, once the papers are signed

it would do me no good to have you killed. Nikos will be

satisfied with what he's already done to you. Sign the pa-

pers. I'll have you put ashore at once."

I closed my eyes. I forced all thought from my mind,

driving myself mercilessly into a state of complete uncon-

sciousness where I could feel nothing. My heartbeat

slowed, first to a gentle pulsing and then the pulses came

slower and slOwer until, finally, it was almost undetecta-

ble.

The pain receded and became nothing. The sound Of

St. Hilaire's voice faded and came back. I felt nothing.

For a time I would be able to hear and to see but not to

feel. I retreated deep into the unreachable vastness of my

inner mind and suspended myself there.

St. Hilaire prodded at my inert figure.

"Come now, Mr. Harding—

He put his hand against my mouth and nose. There

was no breath coming from them, He snatched at my

wrist, pressing his fingertips deeply into the inner surface

just above the tendons, searching for a pulse. There was

none. He bent his head and touched his ear to my chest.

There was no heartbeat.

Completely puzzled he straightened up. Ruthlessly he

jabbed his knuckles into my ribs where Nikos had so bru-

tally kicked me again and again. He twisted his knuckles

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

173

hard. The broken ribs grated under my skin, but I felt no

pain.

Not the slightest tremor or sign showed on my face.

There was absolutely no response from my body.

St. Hilaire turned furiously on Nikos. "You've killed

him!" he screamed. G' You bloody fool! You've thrown

away more than two million dollars!"

He reached out to slap Nikos' face and then stopped

himself with a tremendous effort of will. Nikos cringed in-

voluntarily. St. Hilaire glared at him with hatred. Bitterly,

he turned away, his lips trembling in rage so intense he

couldn't bring himself to utter the words he wanted to

scream out loud.

The dark-faced crewman walked over to the bed. He

reached out and touched my face. He bent down and put

his own nose up against mine.

"What the hell are you doing, you bloody Lascar!"

The sailor straightened up.

' "He alive," the crewman said. "l see this one time in

Bombay. All up here." He tapped his forehead with one

dark finger. "Hindu sadhu. Holy man. He close eyes. Stop

breathe. Like dead."

"Trance? Is that what you mean? He's put himself in a

trance?"

The Lascar nodded soberly. "Just like dead. You put in

him pins knife no matter. He no feel nothing. He

no bleed. Like dead. Big mystery."

"How long does this go on?" St. Hilaire asked.

maybe four

The Lascar shrugged. "Maybe t'ree . . .

hours. Maybe more."

St. Hilaire looked at his wristwatch. "Well time's one

thing we have," he said finally, more to himself than to

S•likos or the crewman. "We can wait him out. He'll gain

nothing by this trick."

"Let's go on deck," he said to Nikos. Nikos went out

he door. The Lascar looked expectantly at St. Hilaire.

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"Guard the door," St. Hilaire ordered.

"Inside here?" asked the crewman.

"Of course, you bloody fool. I don't trust him. I want

you to watch bim closely. Call me as soon as he comes

out of it."

The Lascar pulled a chair against the bulkhead and sat

down, his carbine in his lap.

For one long moment St. Hilaire stared curiously at my

recumbent body before he turned and left the stateroom.

Then the last of my consciousness faded away from me. I

knew no more.

Consciousness drifted back in waves, like an ebb tide

exposing more and more of the sand flats of an estuary,

until at last I was fully aware of myself and where I was.

Still, I did not open my eyes. I was aware of pain, but it

was remote from me—as if it were attacking another

body. I didn't know how much time had passed; I only

knew it must have been hours.

I lay on the bed controlling my breathing, waiting with

infinite patience, not one muscle stirring.

I heard the door open. Someone came into the state-

room.

Nikos's voice, tight almost muffed by his bandages,

asked: "Has he moved yet?"

"No. No move."

That would be the crewman, I thought, trying to place

the strange accent.

"AII right. I'll take over for awhile. You can go."

"Boss say so?"

Nikos swore angrily. "I say so! Get the hell out!"

I heard sounds of the cabin door opening and Closing. I

heard footsteps approach the bed and knew it was Nikos.

The feeling of someone standing over me was palpable.

I heard Nikos murmuring to himself more than to me,

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

175

auttering imprecations in French and in Greek. I heard

-nough to realize what Nikos was planning. I suddenly re-

li7,ed that St. Hilaire had not sent Nikos to relieve the

ailor.

Nikos was going to kill me. I knew that with certainty.

NIikos didn't give a damn about the two million dollars al-

nost within St. Hilaire's grasp---onvhat St. Hilaire would

do to bim when he found out.

It was then that I heard the click. A switchblade knife

nas a distinctive sound when it flicks open. A sound once

leard, never forgotten. I allowed my eyelids to drift open

fraction of an inch.

I saw Nikos holding out the knife in his right hand. Its

;harp edge was outw.ard, its point aimed down. One driv-

ng blow downward was all he needed to kill me.

Nikos's eyes were fastened on my chest, measuring the

"Oint of impact. As Nikos bent over me, I reacted. My

egs snapped up, bending at the knees, catching Nikos on

lis left shoulder and arm. Simultaneously both of my

)ound hands swept up and crashed down, my locked fin-

ters forming a double fist that struck the right side of Ni-

Eos's head with tremendous power.

The two blows, each in an opposite direction, struck

{ikos powerfully at exactly the same instant with a shear-

ng effect. There was only his neck to take the frill brunt

f the impact. It could only give to a certain degree be-

e the spinal cord could bend no more. The snap of the

'ertebra in his neck as it broke was like the cracking of

knuckle. There was not even the smallest outcry from

lim. Death was instantaneous.

Nikos sprawled across the bed, inert across my legs, his

rm to one side, the knife still clenched firmly in his fin-

ers.

I squirmed to one side, moving down until I positioned

e blade bebveen my wrists so that its razor edge was

ressing against the cords that bound them. In half a

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

dozen up-and-down movements of my forearms, I cut

through the fastenings.

Sitting up, I pried the knife out of Nikos' hand. I

pushed the body off the bed and bent forward, slashing

through the cords at my ankles.

Then, gathering a deep breath, I swung myself to a sit-

ting position. Pain lanced through the left side of my rib

cage as I inhaled. Gently I probed with my fingers despite

the agony. Three of my ribs were broken.

I looked down dispassionately at Nikos' limp form

sprawled on the floor. I turned my eyes away and began

to think.

There was an alarm clock on top of the bedside table.

Idly, I noted it was three o'clock and that the lamp as

well as the overhead lights had been turned on. But the

stateroom was so heavily curtained I didn't know if it

were daytime or night. With effort I got to my feet and

walked stiffy to the portholes. I moved the curtain back a

cautious half inch. It was dark outside. I let the curtain

fall back into place and returned to the bed.

Three o'clock in the morning. My mind began to func-

tion. No wonder Nikos hadn't worried about the possibil-

ity of St. Hilaire walking in on him. St. Hilaire most likely

was sound asleep in his cabin.

And now came the question of what I was going to do.

If the passageways were deserted, I could make my

way undetected topside; if no one spotted me and if I

could get to the railing—the chances were that I might

possibly slip overboard.

But suppose I did make it away from the yacht, then

what? I didn't know how far at sea we were. Or where in

the Mediterranean we were. Nor did I know how close to

the shipping lanes we were.

A man can float just as dead in the warm Mediter-

ranean as he can in the cold North Atlantic.

If I was going to die, then I was going to make sure

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

177

that St. Hilaire died before I did. I knew that no matter

what happened to me my sole purpose now. was to

destroy St. Hilaire. The man who'd ordered Dieter

Hoffman's torture and death couldn't be allowed to live.

I got down behind the bedside table and disconnected

the lamp cord from the electrical outlet. Some eight feet

of insulated wire ran from the base of the lamp to the

plug, Using the switchblade I cut through the cord as if

there was no copper wire center. Hastily I rolled the cord

and plug into a tight coil and stowed it in my pocket.

Next, I disconnected the alarm clock and pried off its

plastic face. I scraped at the clock's hands and was re-

lieved to find they were made of metal, not plastic.

I went to the door and opened it a hair. Peering into

the dimly lit passageway, I saw no one. The Lascar had

followed Nikos's orders. He was gone.

Knife in my right hand, clock in my left, I moved

silently out of the stateroom.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The engine room was amidships, one deck down from

where I was. I could hear the quiet throb of its diesels.

Alert for troublea made my way along the passageways,

the knife poised for instant use.

I knew there had to be at least one crewman on duty in

the engine room. At this time of night, and with the

yacht's big Mercedes-Benz diesels almost completely trou-

ble-free, the chances of a second crewman being there

would be slim: From the _vibrations under my feet, I

guessed that the ship was moving at no more than eight or

nine knots.

There was only one sailor in the engine room. Making

sure there was no one else in sight, I dropped down the

companionway in a single leap.

The jar as my feet struck the deck brought searing pain

to my ribs. The crewman turned at the noise, a wrench in

his hand. But before he could act, my forearm sent the

switchblade whipping through the air, striking him in the

center of his chest.

He dropped the wrench. Both hands went to the shaft

178

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

179

of the knife as he staggered forward. I leaped toward him,

sweeping the wrench off the floor and in one continuous

motion I brought it across the side of his head. The

scream that was on the verge of bursting from his throat

never got started. As his knees buckled, I grabbed him

under the arms and eased his body to the metal plating of

the engine room deck.

I looked around. Diesel fuel wouldn't do for my pur-

pose. It wasn't explosive enough. Gasoline was what I

needed.

I knew a yacht would carry a store of gas. They had to

run the dinghy's outboard motor and the standby electric

generators. I found the ship's stores just off the engine

room. As I suspected, two fifty-five gallon drums of gaso-

line stood in one corner. I loosened the bunghole cap on

each drum, keeping it tight enough to keep the gas from

running out, but needing only a twist of my wrist to open

it fully.

I found a screwdriver and used it to unfasten the wire

cage around the overhead bulb. A quick search of the

ship's supplies unearthed a socket plug in a par•ts bin

which I screwed in place of the light bulb. I took the elec-

trical cord from my pocket, scraped the ends of the wires

until the copper shone clean and twisted each of the leads

around one of the hands of the alarm clock. When the

hands came together, the copper wires of the cord would

make contact with each other. I set the hands ten minutes

apart, just time enough for me to get away.

I went back into the engine room. Using the wrench I

loosened the fuel lines so that the heavy diesel oil began

to pour out onto the deck plating in a steady stream, yet

leaving enough to continue to feed the engines.

Back at the ship's stores I plugged the clock into the

outlet and checked and reset the time exactly. In just ten

minutes, the minute hand would contact the hour hand,

bringing the copper wires together and closing the circuit.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

I turned to the gas drums. With a quick twist of my

wrist I undid each of the lower spigot hole caps. The pun-

gent odor of raw gasoline struck my nostrils as the fuel

began to gush out. Swiftly, I left the stores closet, shutting

the hatchway almost completely to confine the fumes as

much as possible and yet allow the flame of the explosion

to escape. The blast would be more devastating than set-

ting off a case of dynamite.

Now I had less than ten minutes to make my way to

the deck, to get off the yacht and to swim as far away as I

could in the remaining time.

I wondered just how far I'd be able to swim with three

broken ribs.

I made it to the deck without being spotted. The motor

dinghy was suspended in davits over the stern. But I real-

ized that the first sound of the boat being lowered—the

first squeal of block and tackle—would bring half the

crew running to investigate.

I gave up the thought.

Carefully, keeping to the shadows as much as possible,

I made my way slowly aft.

I was almost to the stern when the call came. Someone

amidship had seen me. He shouted in Greek, "Who's

that?"

I kept moving, trying not to run.

This time the hail was a challenge.

"Goddam you! Answer when I call! Who the hell is

I kept on walking as if he weren't talking to me.

His first shot was a warning. The bullet slammed the

metal of the stateroom bulkheads not more than a foot

from my head and went screaming off into the night.

I broke into a run.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

181

His second shot was aimed. It gouged splinters from

the teak deck only inches from my pounding feet.

I don't know where the third shot went, because by

then I was within three feet of the stern rail and leaping

over it in a flat racing dive. The night closed in around

me as I bent my body in mid-air. I wanted to dive deep.

And then the water was all around me, white water

churned up by the ship's propellers deep under its fantail.

I stretched the dive as long as I could, ignoring the shock

of pain that engulfed my rib cage as I hit the water.

Now I was into the maelstrom of churning, turbulent

waters, twisted and turned and spun around by the vortex

created by the twin screws. Sucked down and then thrown

up and then caught again and sucked down, I held my

breath desperately, fighting to prevent myself from

screaming at the flashes of pain that made my ribs an ag-

ony Of fire. Underwater, I struck out at an angle to the

ship's wake. I didn't want to bob up to the surface

directly astern. They'd spot me easily in the whiteness of

the water.

One minute went by, then another thirty seconds. Fi-

nally, my breath running out, I fought desperately for the

surface. Only at the last second, as my head began to

break through, did I check my drive, turning my body so

that it floated in the waves.

I was more than two hundred yards from the ship when

I surfaced. I hadn't swum that far. The forward motion of

the yacht had contributed most of the distance. I saw the

churning of the propellers. They'd been thrown into re-

verse to slow the vessel but the yacht had too much mass

and momentum to be stopped as quickly as a small boat.

It was still moving slowly forward.

Taking a deep breath I dove underwater and began to

swim a clumsy, one-armed scissors-kick stroke. It was too

painful for me to use my left arm. Each time I tried to lift

it over my head, agony burned into my rib cage.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

Time became a blur. I swam until my breath gave out

and then surfaced to gulp in more air. Then underwater

again. I forced myself not to think about the pain as I

stroked. Up again. Another breath of air. Down. I had to

get as far away as I could.

Once when I surfaced, I saw the crew trying to lower

the motor dinghy. It had jammed in the davits so that one

end was almost touching the water and the Other was still

high in the air.

I wondered how long it had been since I'd left the en-

gine room. Surely, the ten minutes should be up. I went

under water again and once more began that slow, ex-

hausting stroke.

The next time I surfaced for air the sight greeted me.

First there was a sheet of flame soaring silently and blind-

ingly up into the night sky—yellow, whites blue, red,

against the velvet blackness. In slow motion I saw the

center of the yacht disintegrate. Bridge, radar mast and

deck. Amidships, the entire section went up in flames.

And then came the noise of heavy, thick 'blasting.

Almost simultaneously my body felt the impact through

the water, a hard smashing compression against my al-

ready aching rib cage.

There came a second explosion and then there were

flames leaping from the torn hulk, sweeping it from bow

to stern. I was too far away to hear any cries, but close

enough to feel the heat wave that surged through the air

at me.

All told, the explosions took less than a minute. Within

five minutes, the yacht had sunk, settling rapidly and

turning, heeling over to starboard as it sank, exposing its

keel obscenely as it completely turned turtle. Huge air

bubbles surfaced as it went down, and then the sea be-

came calm.

I was all alone.

I rested then, turning over onto my back in a dead

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

183

man's float, letting the sea cradle me in its softness. I had

patience, but I wondered how long my broken and bruised

body could hold out. I let the tiredness run through me. It

was nearly dawn. I figured if I were in a sea lane, I'd be

sighted soon enough. If not, St. Hilaire had set course

through the more deserted areas of the Mediterranean

and I'd drown. I wished I'd had time enough to find and

take a life jacket with me. It was all beyond anything I

could do now, so I floated and thought about my situation

as little as possible. I took whatever satisfaction there was

to be had in the fact that St. Hilaire had finally and irrev-

ocably paid for Dieter's torture and death. It was ironic, I

thought, that Dieter had died by fire—and so had St. Hi-

laire.

I wondered if I would die by water.

Each time I slipped into unconsciousness the sea

slapped at my face, washing into my nostrils, and I'd

come awake, coughing. Each cough sent spearheads of in-

tense pain into my ribs. I'd float until the pain subsided to

an almost tolerable level, then the tiredness would again

take over and I'd find myself drifting in the soft, danger-

ous embrace of the water, rising and falling on the waves,

drifting into the darkness of unconsciousness and slipping

once more deeper into the sea until it brought me sputter-

ingly awake.

Each cycle exhausted me more and more. At one time,

I felt a nudge against my legs and kicked instinctively at

it. It nudged me again. I turned and grasped for it with

my hand to push it away. Dimly, I realized it was flotsam

from the wreckage of the yacht. It took a moment for the

idea to come to me that it floated and. therefore might

help to support me.

Whatever it was, it was large, and I struggled to get my

torso and head on it. It seemed like hours before I man-

aged to get my body onto it before I passed out from the

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

pain and the exertion. This time, the sea didn't awaken

me.

It was the sun.

It burned down on my face, trying to push through my

eyelids with its intense heat and light that forced me into

wakefulness. My mouth was parched. Dried salt caked my

lips. My tongue felt thick. Pain was all I could think

about. When I tried to open my lids, I found they were

stuck together and I had to pull them gently apart. The

light was blinding. I turned away from it. I didn't have

energy enough to lift myself. All I could see was the blue

water and the blue sky, and somewhere in the blue sky,

the center of a huge crystal was on fire and its rays were

concentrated on me.

The salt I'd swallowed and the bobbing of the flotsam

raft under me began to make me sick. And then the sky

began to wheel around in a great, slow revolution, spin-

ning me hazily into unconsciousness.

The Italian freighter was old, rust-flaked and slow.

Later I found out that the able-bodied seaman who'd

sighted me had been leaning over the railing enjoying a

smoke. He hadn't been sure of what he saw, but he had

nothing else to do, and he was curious, so he borrowed

the third mate's binoculars for a closer look.

It was just past five o'clock in the afternoon when he

put the glasses to his eyes, focused them, and made out

the shape of a man's body lying motionless across some

indeterminate shape of broken wreckage. Less than fifteen

minutes later, I was being lifted aboard the freighter.

In the sick bay, stripped of my clothes, my ribs tem-

porarily taped by the first mate, sipping at a mug of thick

black coffee laced heavily with brandy, I was visited by

the ship's captain.

It took ten minutes of urging before the ship's master

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

185

reluctantly agreed to let me send a message to Marseilles.

The objection was because the message was in code, and

the captain had great reservations about getting involved

in matters he knew little about but was sure could lead to

trouble for him.

Two hours after the message was sent, a helicopter

came beating its clumsy way over the horizon, a dragonfly

in the clear blue sky of the Mediterranean. Whipping the

air with its long rotor blades, it set down on the aft cargo

hatch. I was helped into it.

I had time only to wave my thanks to the captain and

the mate, and to press whatever cash I had in my wallet

,into the hands of the seaman who'd spotted me. Then the

awkward craft flapped its way into the air and turned

back toward land.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Loring and ben-Dror and Thorndike were all in the hospi-

tal room while the doctor gave me a shot of morphine

and taped up my ribs. The morphine eased me out of the

pain of the beating that Nikos had given me, the broken

ribs and the hours in the water.

Thorndike's first question was blunt.

"Where are the arms?"

"On a freighter heading for the Gibraltar straits." My

voice was a hoarse croak from sea water and salt and

dryness from the sun.

"Christ! That's a lot of help! D'you know how many

ships are out there? Can't you give me a name? Give me

a description of the bloody vessel!"

"l don't know any more than that. I never saw the

Thorndike swore under his breath. Ben-Dror let out a

sigh of relief. Thorndike turned on him.

"What the devil are you so pleased about?"

' 'That the missiles aren't headed for the Middle East,"

the Israeli replied. "It's not my problem any more."

186

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

"You're mistaken," I informed him.

187

Ben-Dror was startled. S 'What the hell do you mean?"

"Mavropoulos never had them. He'd only heard about

them being lost. He made up a story that he had them

just to con Gallagher into buying the rest of the arms

shipment from him alone. There was two and a half mil-

lion dollars riding on that deal, and you know how devi-

ous Mavropoulos was."

It took a moment for the implication of my words to

sink in. Ben-Dror uttered a curse and bolted from the

room.

"And the rest of the arms? Did Gallagher get them?"

"I told you. They're on a freighter headed for Gibraltar

and then into the North Atlantic. Gallagher's aboard. So's

a young woman by the name of Brenna Kiernan. They'll

be no trouble to find."

Thorndike exploded. "No trouble to find! Dyou think

we can stop and search every vessel out there? British

gunboats engaged in stop and search operations on the

high seas? That's piracy! We can't do that! Every country

in the world would be up in arms against us! You're out

of your mind!"

"l can help you find them," I said. "Thanks to Loring."

Loring frowned and said, ' 'What the hell's this got to

do with me?"

"You had Francois plant a radio transmitter in that

Renault he delivered to me, right?"

Loring had grace enough to flush. "It was for your own

good," he protested. "One way or another we had to keep

track of you."

"Forget the reason. I put that beeper into Brenna Kier-

nan's shoulder bag. If she hasn't lost it, or dumped out its

contents, or changed bags—then that device is aboard the

freighter with her right now. And it's still turning out sig-

nals."

Thorndike was beginning to catch on.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"What's the range of that beeper?" he asked Loring.

"Six to ten miles," Loring answered. "Something like

that."

I turned to Loring, "Give Thorndike its broadcasting

frequency. An air search at fifteen to twenty thousand feet

will cover several hundred miles at a time. Thorndike?"

"Yes?"

"Can you geÜthe RAF to cooperate?"

c 'No trouble at all, old boy. Right out of the RAF base

at Gibraltar."

"Use half a dozen aircraft. You should be able to find

it and triangulate its position within a couple of hours at

the most."

Thorndike was almost beaming at me.

"But don't pick them up," I cautioned. "Just find the

freighter and follow it. Gallagher still has to get those

arms ashore. Let the Irish Republic forces do the job

when Gallagher tries to smuggle them in. If the Garda ar-

rest him, there'll be no stink. If you English do it, every

Irishman in the world will sympathize with the man. You'll

make a damn martyr out of him."

Thorndike pulled at his moustache. "Makes sense," he

admitted. "All right, we'll stay in the background."

"There's another reason," I said. "Everyone seems to

have forgotten that Gallagher still has his hands on the

Marat girl. He's threatened to kih her if he doesn't get

those arms into the country."

Thorndike eyed me carefully.

"What are you asking for?"

I told him. Thorndike shook his head.

"I'm not sure I can arrange it."

"Make a deal with them," I told him. "You give them

the arms—they give me Gallagher. They'll cooperate."

'CAII right,"

said Thorndike, dubiously. "I'll give it a

try. But the final word will have to come from the Garda.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

189

And now—if you'll excuse me----l'll see about getting the

RAF to do a little flying."

Loring gave him the beeper frequency and the English-

man left us. The drugs and the exhaustion were taking

their toll of me. I needed sleep. A lot of it.

Loring said, "I just want you to know that Marat is go-

ing to appreciate your efforts to rescue his daughter. The

girl means a lot to him."

"Sure," I said. "You mean he feels like a parent. Tell

me something, Loring If Marat wasn't so big with the

Mob, would you have made a Company assignment out of

his daughter's kidnapping?"

Loring flushed. "It wasn't my doing. I'm just following

orders."

"You're near the top," I said. "You think the way' your

bosses do."

"Well," said Loring defensively, "they can be of great

help to us. They've got contacts in a lot of places we can't

get our men into. They're quite valuable to us for a lot Of

things, you know."

"Like hit men," I said sarcastically. "They trade you a

few favors so you'll let them alone on stuff like narcotics,

gambling and prostitution. Good American businessmen is

what they are, right?"

Loring began a long winded protest, but his voice kept

getting fainter in my ears. I fell asleep while he was still

talking.

The night was damp and drizzling with the faint mist

that covers Ireland on so many nights of the year. The

lane was narrow. Because of the high hedges on either

side it was almost pitch black. The quarter moon did little

to light it up.

I was hidden in the brush about halfway down the lane,

soaked with the moisture that penetrated to my skin and

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NICK CARTER: KJLLMASTER

left me chilled. I had Hugo strapped to my right forearm,

where a flick of my wrist would send the keen blade

whipping into my hand. Wilhelmina, my 9mm Luger, was

tucked away neatly in a holster under my left armpit. For

the first time in a long time I felt complete, ready to take

on whatever came my way.

I kept my eyes on the far end of the lane. There was a

cottage there. Low walls made of stone and heavy thatch

on its steeply sloping roof.

Gallagher was in that cottage. He'd been in there about

half an hour now. I'd followed him from the Dublin

docks.

Five nights after I'd talked with Thorndike, I was flown

from Marseilles to Dublin. Gallagher's freighter was due

in port that night.

At the docks the rusty tramp streamer was nudged into

the pier by three small tugs. The lines went out, heavy

hausers were snubbed over the black, iron bollards. The

gangplanks came down.

And then, suddenly, the portable searchlights went on,

flooding the entire dock area with blindingly brilliant

light. Police cars roared out of the warehouses, con-

verging on the dock edge. Behind the freighter, two police

launches added their searchlights to the blaze.

On the deck of the freighter there was sudden conster-

nation. Men ran frantically from one end of the ship to

the other, ducking into the holds, scurrying out of Sight.

An amplified voice boomed out.

"This is the Garda. All men on the ship are to come

down the gangway one at a time with their hands in the

The voice had a rich Irish brogue.

The message was repeated. "All men on the ship are to

come down the gangway one at a time with their hands in

the air."

Half an hour later there wasn't a soul on the vessel.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

191

Man after man had come down and had been taken into

custody.

All except Gallagher and Brenna Kiernan.

I waited with the Garda offcer in charge in the small

watchman's shed.

"They're all accounted for," he told me. "Except for

Gallagher and the young lady."

"Did they get away?"

The police officer smiled conspiratorally at me. "They

got away—just as you requested."

"You haven't lost them, have you?"

"NO, sir. We've got a tail on them. They're on their

way out of the city now. We've got three cars on them."

We had two cups of coffee before word came back to

us via the police radio network.

"He's holed up," the Garda offcer gold me as we got

into his car. "We can take you there now."

The drive took almost thirty minutes. They dropped me

off about three hundred yards before the entrance to the

lane.

"The other cars are just up the road," said the Garda

offcer. "We'll close in as soon as you have a chance to

get to him

I made my way through the fields, around the lookout

that Gallagher had posted near the road. He wasn't a very

good sentry. He made too damn much noise crashing

around.

Now, wet through, I waited in the shrubbery a few

yards from the cottage that Gallagher had holed up in. I

was betting that it was the rone in which the Marat girl

had been held captive all this time.

And I was gambling on another thing—that Gallagher

didn't dare stay in the cottage for too long. He had to get

out of the country fast.

They came out of the cottage. Three of them, Galla-

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NICK CARTER:• KTLLMASTER

gher in the middle. The other two were shorter than he.

The light spilling out of the doorway as they left illumi-

nated them fully. I got a good look at them.

There was no mistaking Gallagher's face or his thatch

of reddish hair going gray on his bare head. The man on

his right wore a tweed overcoat a size too large for him

and a gray tweed cap, the brim pulled far down over his

sharp featured face. The second man looked like a coun-

try lout.

It was the smaller of the two men who interested me

the most. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his

overcoat, and he kept peering around like a weasel sniff-

ing the air for trouble. Gallagher's gunman.

I let them get a dozen steps away from the cottage be-

fore I stepped out into the lane. The heavy butt of my

Luger was comfortable in my hand. The: gun was cocked

and the safety was off.

"Gallagher!"

They stopped—but only for a fraction of a second. The

smaller man threw himself to one side, his hand coming

out of his pocket, the gun in his hand blasting off at me.

He got away two shots before I fired at him—a careful,

aimed shot that slammed into his chest. My second shot

took him in the knee.

He crumpled to the ground.

Gallagher tensed to run.

"Don't move!" I shouted.

He froze.

The man on the ground was squirming his body

around. His gun was still in his hand and he was desper-

ately trying to bring it up to fire at me when I shot it out

of his grip.

"You don't have to kill the lad!" Gallagher shouted at

me. "Let the man live!"

"Kick the gun away from him!" I ordered.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

193

Gallagher stepped to one side and hit the, gun with the

toe of his shoe. It skittered a few feet away.

"Turn around. Put your hands on top of your head."

Gallagher turned. The lout beside him was paralyzed.

"Turn around!"

Gallagher said, almost calmly, to the man, "Best do as

he says, bucko. You'll not be wantin' to get a bullet in

your gut."

The man turned his back to me.

They stood there, their hands on top of their heads as I

came up behind them.

I ran my hands over the lout's body, keeping the

muzzle of the Luger pressed into the small of his back.

He was clean except for a small leather bag filled with

sand tied with a thong to loop his wrist. As I took the sap

out of his pocket, he tried to make a move, but he was too

thick and muscle bound to move swiftly enough.

I hit him with the sap just under the ear. It was avery

efficient weapon. Quiet. Solid. It would leave no mark on

him, but it knocked him out as quickly as if I'd slugged

him with a baseball bat.

"Don't go too hard on the lad," Gallagher said to me

over his shoulder. C'He doesn't mean you any harm."

"No more than you do," I said. S' You've come close to

getting me killed more than once."

"It's all in the game," Gallagher shrugged. "l suppose

you've come to get the girl?"

"That's right."

"She's not here," said Gallagher bold as v brass. "I'll

trade you, bucko. The girl for me."

"Shut up," I told him, jabbing the Luger into his back

and running my hands over him,

"I'm not armed," he protested.

He wasn't, but I didn't trust him.

"Is Brenna in there?"

He hesitated.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"You were followed by the Garda," I told him.

"Brenna was with you when they let you slip through

their hands at the docks."

"It was deliberate, was it?" Gallagher asked over his

shoulder. "It was no accident we got away?"

"We knew where you were every inch of the way," I

said bluntly. "You walked into a trap. We led you by the

nose."

"How?" he asked, and for the first time the cockiness

was gone from him.

I told him about the beeper I'd planted on Brenna. I

told him how the RAF had maintained an air cover on

the freighter all the way to Dublin. •I told him how the

Garda had been informed and how the docks had been

covered by the police, and how they'd let him and Brenna

escape because they'd be able to follow him right to this

very cottage.

As I talked, I could see the man wilt. He shriveled to

ordinary size. The man had prided himself on his clever-

ness. He'd gotten to the top in the IRA Provos and then

broke with them to set up his own radical splinter group

because his overweening ego demanded that he be the

leader. Because he thought himself to be a cut above ev-

eryone else.

Now he suddenly found he wasn't .as good or as smart

as he'd thought himself to be. Heid been outfoxed every

step of the way. Dieter Hoffman had fooled him. Mavro-,

poulos had cheated him and gotten away with it and, at

the very end, I'd caught up with him in a trap so simple

that any fool should have watched for it.

I cut him down with words. I broke through the com-

placency of his egocentric shell. In less than two minutes,'

Gallagher's self-image lay shattered like a crystal bowl

dropped on a stone ffoor.

I asked again, "Is Brenna in there?'

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

195

It was a different, almost completely subdued, Galla-

gher who answered. "Yes, she's in there."

"Call her out."

Gallagher raised his voice. "Come out, Brenna! It's all

right, lass. Come on out!"

The door opened. Brenna slipped out into the night.

She looked at the two bodies lying on the ground, and

then she looked up at Gallagher. For a moment, because

Of the darkness and because she hadn't expected to see

me there, she didn't recognize me.

"He's got _a gun in my back," said Gallagher. "Do what

the man says."

She looked at me then.

' 'Hello, Quinn."

"Is the Marat girl inside?"

Brenna nodded. "She is."

"How many others are there in there?"

"Three," she said.

' 'Tell them to come out," I told her. "No guns and

their hands in the air."

Brenna hesitated.

"Do what he tells you," said Gallagher dispiritedly.

"It's all gone wrong, lass. There's a sour taste in my

mouth."

Brenna went into the cottage. I moved Gallagher off to

one side, my gun still in his back.

In less than a minute the three men came out in single

file, each of them with his hands folded on hop of his

head. Brenna was behind them.

"The girl's in the first bedroom," she said to me. "She's

safe and unharmed if that's what you'd like to know."

Gallagher said, "What do you plan on doing?"

' 'The police are waiting at the end of the lane. I'm

turning you in."

Brenna let out a gasp. Gallagher said, almost as if he

were talking about someone else, "I'm a wanted man, you

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NICK CARTER: 'KILLMASTER

know. The charge is murder. Of a police officer," he

added. "They'll hang me for it."

Strangely I was sorry for the man, but there wasn't a

damn thing I could do. I told him so.

"Well," he said, as if he'd come to a decision while I

was talking. s 'If you can't do anything, I'll have to do it

myself."

Without haste, he turned and began walking away from

me. Involuntarily, I raised my gun.

Brenna cried out, "No!" and leaped for my arm. I held

her off easily.

Gallagher's back was the biggest target I'd aimed at in

years. He was no more than ten feet away from me—

walking slowly, as if he expected to hear the blast of the

Luger and feel the tearing impact of a bullet in his spine.

The gun rose of its own volition. The barrel leveled off.

The vee of the rear sight lined up with the blade of the

front sight and the point of aim was Gallagher's spine,

right between his shoulder blades.

I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. It wasn't

Brenna or the cries that came out of her pleading with me

not to shoot.

It was something else.

I just couldn't bring myself to shoot a man in the back

in cold blood, with him offering himself to me as a target.

It was like Gallagher was asking me to be his execu-

tioner and that was a role that I wasn't going to play.

He kept on walking as I lowered the gun to my side.

In that moment, as if he knew that I wasn't going to

pull the trigger, he began to run down the lane.

He ran. with a big, awkward, loping off-balance stride.

As he ran, he began to shout defiantly at the top of his

lungs.

Brenna slipped away from. me. She was a shadow

crouched over the gravel of the lane. Out of the corner of

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THE -GALLAGHER PLOT

197

ay eye, I saw her pick up a glittering object. It took me a

noment to recognize it as the gun that I'd had Gallagher

fick away from his henchman.

I spun around, my Luger swinging toward her, hoping

rantically that I wouldn't have to shoot her.

Brenna raised the gun over her head, pointing its

nuzzle into the sky, and pulled the trigger.

Once! ... Twice! Three times! ,

The gun clicked on an empty shell.

Gallagher was almost to the end of 'the lane when the

hots were fired. He was still running, still shouting defi-

ence at the top of his lungs.

The sound of the shots that Brenna fired cracked

hrough the night air.

From the end of the lane where the police line was sta-

ioned along the road, came a single murderous burst of

ubmachine gun fire.

Gallagher's body was hurled off its feet. One second

here had been a man running hard and awkwardly—and

he next, there was a lurching, stumbling, twisting, dis-

Dinted mass of arms and legs that crashed to the ground.

The sudden silence as the burst ended was palpable

nough to feel as well as to hear.

Brenna looked at me, straight in the face. The gun

ung down by her side. She relaxed her hand and the

evolver fell to the ground.

"You did that deliberately," I said.

"l couldn't let you be his killer. His fight was with

hem."

"They'd have taken him alive."

"He couldn't stand being in jail," she said. "Nor the in-

ignity of a trial He couldn't have faced walking up the

allows' steps and having a hangman place a noose

round his neck."

She let out her breath in a long, trembling, tired ex-

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

halation. The faint moonlight glinted on the moisture in

her eyes.

"l saved him all that," she said.

She turned away from me and said, "The girl's in the

house. Go and get her."

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CHAPTER TWENTY

We lay close together on the wide bed in the master bed-

room of the Manhattan townhouse. Michelle had thrown

the covers back so that we lay on the sheets. In the semi-

darkness of the room, lit only by a dim nightlight, I could

see the long stretch of her slim, nude body lying next to

mine.

"Quinn?"

"Yes?"

"You were gone for a long time, chéri. What did you

do in Europe all that time?"

"Business," I said.

Idly, I thought of the letter that had awaited my return.

It was a half sheet of notepaper with just one word

scrawled on it in a bold hand. Thanks. The signature was

a simple Marat.

And I thought of my meeting with David Hawk at

AXE headquarters in Washington and. the angry ex-

pression on his face when I'd told him how tight the ties

were between The Company and the Mob.

199

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'We're watching them," he said grimly. "Especially

Loring. You've done a fine job, Nick."

"I'm still a little beat up," I reminded him.

"Is that French girl still waiting for you in New York?"

he asked abruptly.

"Yes, sir."

"She still think of you as Quinn Harding?"

C 'Yes, sir."

"Well, don't tell her any differently. Let her go on

thinking that."

'Yes, sir."

"Three weeks," he growled. "Not a day longer."

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