# The Gallagher Plot

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

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CHAPTER ONE

At eleven-thirty that Saturday night, I turned the corner

of East 62nd Street with an early copy of Sunday's New

York Times under my arm. It was a pleasant spring night

and the walk had cleared my head. I was looking forward

to doing the crossword puzzle in the magazine section

with Michele. The brownstone townhouse was in the

middle of the block, the paper was heavy under my arm,

and Michele had put •on a pot of fresh coffee to brew

while I'd gone out to get the paper.

I'd bought the paper at a late-night newsstand a few

blocks away, along with a pack of Gauloise cigarettes for

Michele, and took my time walking back. With the

Memorial Day department store sales coming up, the pa-

per was bulky and awkward under my arm. Normally, the

Sunday Times has eleven to fourteen sections, not count-

ing two or three advertising supplements dropped into it.

This one was fatter than most. It ran a couple of hundred

pages.

East 62nd Street at eleven-thirty at night is dark, even

with the high intensity street lamps they've erected. What

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the lights do is create sharp, crisp shadows and pools of

darkness when the sidewalk trees are leafed out from late

spring to early fall.

The sidewalks are narrow, the doorways and doorsteps

of most of the townhouses are right on the sidewalk,

and—like every other New Yorker—I kept an eye out for

muggers.

I was almost to the townhouse when he came out of

the darkness of an adjacent doorway arch, moving fast—a

heavy, solid mass of momentum, his arm already swinging

in that hard, underhand killing sweep that will bury a

knife blade in you instantly.

If he'd waited until I'd taken another step, he might

have succeeded in shoving the blade between my lower

ribs before I could react.

As it was, he was off in his timing by a fraction of a

second, and I've been trained to react instarytly without

thinking. I caught the first faint foreign movement of

darkness in the shadows in the corner of my eye. As he

sprang, I was already turning to meet him.

The knife blow would have taken me in the back, close

to my spine, aimed upward to reach my heart from below,

but I'd already turned almost halfway around as the point

of the blade reached me.

Two hundred pages of newsprint folded in half will

stop a .38 caliber revolver bullet. My assailant had ex-

pected soft flesh and resilient rib bones. When he hit wit

the knife blade, it was like hitting a concrete wall. The

knife was jarred loose from his hand.

For one fleeting second the light that shone on his face

showed an expression of surprise, and then my right hanc

swept through a short arc, catching him in a cross blow a

the base of his neck.

He stumbled away, his arm paralyzed from the chop..

let him move two steps before I leaped, lashing out higl

with a kick to his head. Itie sole of my shoe landed fla

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

9

along his jaw with an impact that jarred my leg to the

knee.

He dropped unconscious to the sidewalk.

Quickly, I looked around. The street was still deserted.

I pulled him into the arch of the doorway from where

he'd leaped at me and began to go through his pockets.

Who the hell was he?

Why the attack?

I wasn't involved in an assignment at present, nor had I

been for the past several months.

He wasn't a mugger. Muggers aren't assassins. Mugging

is one offense. Murder is another.

So who the hell was he? And why was he after me?

In the light of the street lamps I thumbed through the

papers I'd taken from him. Driver's license. Credit cards.

Hell, even a Social Security card.

But each one was made out in a different name.

I dropped the papers on his limp body. For a moment I

was tempted to drag him into the townhouse only two

doors away, but then I thought of Michele and the ques-

tions she'd ask, and I let him lie there.

The study was off to the right as I walked in the front

door of the townhouse. I let myself in quietly, shutting the

door to the study behind me. It was a room with old bind-

ings on the books, a polished mahogany desk, deep, soft

leather armchairs and couches, everything bathed in the

pale yellow light from under the green glass shades of

student lamps.

I dialed the private number to Washington.

Hawk answered the phone as he usually did—crisp,

curt, and no nonsense.

Quickly, I described what had just happened. When I

finished, I said, "I don't know why the hell he jumped

me. It wasn't an accidental mugging. I'm sure of that.

And I'm not on an assignment, so

"Well," Hawk interrupted, "as a matter of fact, you

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

9

along his jaw with an impact that jarred my leg to the

knee.

He dropped unconscious to the sidewalk.

Quickly, I looked around. The street was still deserted.

I pulled him into the arch of the doorway from where

he'd leaped at me and began to go through his pockets.

Who the hell was he?

Why the attack?

I wasn't involved in an assignment at present, nor had I

been for the past several months.

He wasn't a mugger. Muggers aren't assassins. Mugging

is one offense. Murder is another.

So who the hell was he? And why was he after me?

In the light of the street lamps I thumbed through the

papers I'd taken from him. Driver's license. Credit cards.

Hell, even a Social Security card.

But each one was made out in a different name.

I dropped the papers on his limp body. For a moment I

was tempted to drag him into the townhouse only two

doors away, but then I thought of Michele and the ques-

tions she'd ask, and I let him lie there.

The study was off to the right as I walked in the front

door of the townhouse. I let myself in quietly, shutting the

door to the study behind me. It was a room with old bind-

ings on the books, a polished mahogany desk, deep, soft

leather armchairs and couches, everything bathed in the

pale yellow light from under the green glass shades of

student lamps.

I dialed the private number to Washington.

Hawk answered the phone as he usually did—crisp,

curt, and no nonsense.

Quickly, I described what had just happened. When I

finished, I said, "I don't know why the hell he jumped

me. It wasn't an accidental mugging. I'm sure of that.

And I'm not on an assignment, so

"Well," Hawk interrupted, ' 'as a matter of fact, you

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NICK CARTER: KILLMÅSTER

are. Although I'm surprised that word's gotten out so

fast."

I got mad.

"You think I might be let in on the secret/ sir? After

all—

"Calm down, Nick," he said placatingly. "It was only

this afternoon that the matter came up. I thought I'd give

you another day or two without interrupting your vaca-

tion."

"Can you give me a clue as to what it's about?" I

asked.

"I've loaned you out to The Company for a job,"

Hawk said. "You remember the cover you used the last

time they needed your services?"

The last time had been two years ago, and the cover

Hawk was referring to was one to keep The Company

from knowing who I really was. The Company is one of

the intelligence agencies that abound in Washington.

Hawk didn't think they should know about AXE, or that

I was Nick Carter, otherwise listed as N3. And especially

not that I had a Killmaster designation.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Well, you're Quinn Harding as far as they're con-

cerned," said Hawk. "You'll hear from them soon." He

hung up.

That's one of the things about Hawk. Sometimes he

likes you to find out on your own what it's all about.

At one o'clock the telephone rang. It was from a man

who identified himself as Preston Graham. His voice was

nervous. Tension crackled in every syllable. I listened

carefully to what he said and what he wanted of me. He

had my private telephone number and he called me Quinn

Harding.

When he was through, I said "AII right" and we hung

up. I turned out the light on the bedside table and rolled

back to Michele, to her soft smooth body and the gentle

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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exciting curves that waited impatiently for my hands, and

the long thighs and the hot, secret recess between them

that was still moist for me.

Quinn Harding. He existed in files and computer lists.

He had bank accounts and credit cards. He had a wide

acquaintanceship in Europe and South America and Af-

rica, although he was seen only infrequently. He owned a

luxurious townhouse in the East Sixties in Manhattan. He

traveled extensively. He had an investment portfolio, a tax

lawyer, an accountant and charge accounts. Every year,

he filed his income tax statements with the IRS. Occupa-

tion: dealer in arms.

Armaments. Firearms of all kinds in every quantity.

Only Quinn Harding didn't exist. He was a total paper

man. For years I'd assumed this identity when it pleased

Hawk to lend me out to other intelligence agencies in

Washington. "Quinn Harding" had been created to pro-

tect my true identity as Nick Carter and the supersecret

status of AXE.

Or, as now, an identity to hide behind when I took a

lengthy rest between assignments.

Michele murmured in French and her slender arms

came up to touch me with her hands on both sides of my

face. She turned my head so that our lips met and I could

taste the soft wetness of hers. Her tongue slid slowly

along my teeth, pressing them apart.

I stopped thinking about the man I wasn't.

There was the incredible slimness of her body, the fine

bones wrapped in silken flesh and firm sheaths of long,

supple muscle covered by skin so delicate that it was un-

believable.

I pulled her closer to me, feeling the taut stomach

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

muscles press against mine. Her head slipped into the hol-

low of my neck, her teeth nipping and biting against my

skin, pressing sharply against the tendon. I cupped my left

hand behind her head, pressing her face closer to me.

Michele moaned, her head rocked back and forth, and

then her mouth was on my chest, the moistness of her lips

and tongue spreading a path of heat along the bones Of

my rib cage. My stomach muscles contracted under the

sliding touch of her hands.

Her fingers slid along the length of my thighs, stroked

upwards, stopping, cupping, stroking, fondling, and then

her body twisted and slid down. I felt her head in my

groin and the heat and slick wetness as she took me into

her mouth, and I felt my own powerful expansion.

Her hair was long and silken. My fingers wrapped

strands of it around themselves. The shape of her head

impressed itself into my palm.

And when I could bear it no more, I reached dourn

with both hands, caught her under the armpits and, in one

strong motion, I pulled her up, rolling her exquisite body

onto her back. Her legs came apart; her hands pressed me

into the dark, hot, secret place we both loved so well.

And then, surging, stroking, fast, slow and then fast

again, her moans coming louder, her hands on my back,

her fingers hooked, her nails clawing my shoulders and

waist in a blind frenzy of excitement, she bucked furiously

under me in uncontrollable rhythmic spasms.

Exhausted, we lay together. Now her hands were

gentle; stroking my back in smooth, soothing motions, the

skin of her palms producing a gentle heat.

She whispered, "That was good, mon Cher. Of the best,

oui?"

"Yes," I said, huskily.

"I love you, Quinn," Michele said, softly.

Quinn.

The name brought me back to myself.

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It was Quinn Harding, not Nick Carter, who had made

love to this slender, incredibly beautiful French girl. It

was Quinn Harding she knew and not Nick Carter, AXE

agent, Killmaster N3.

Someone out there wanted to kill Quinn Harding.

Or did they know we were the same man?

The bar was on Third Avenue in the Eighties. It was

one of the last of the neighborhood taverns, still hanging

on from the days when the tenements were filled with

Irish families whose cooking enrichened the hallways •with

the pungent smell of boiling cabbage and beef and when

the avenue was darkened, even on a bright day, with the

black, skeletal structure of the elevated tracks. Now the eI

and the Irish were both gone, had been gone for so many

years that hardly anyone ever remembered them, certainly

not the young secretaries and junior executives who had

swarmed into the remodeled brownstones and the gutted

and rebuilt tenements.

I came in out of the bright sunshine blinded by the

darkness of the bar. Sawdust on the oiled, warped boards

of the floor. Smell of rancid beer. Smell of the disinfectant

tablets from the urinals in the men's loom.

I paused just inside the doorway, waiting until my eyes

adjusted to the gloom. After awhile, I could make out the

long, mahogany bar and the polished brass rail that ran

along its length some eight inches above the floor. The

mirror behind the bar had lost most of its silver and what

remained was badly pitted and tarnished. Three men sat

in a booth near the back. Three others were at the bar.

No one paid attention to me.

I walked over to the bar.

"Harp," I said to the bartender and waited until the

man brought me the bottle of Harp beer and a glass and

filled the glass for me.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

I took out a pack of cigarettes, flipped one halfway out

and lifted it to my lips. I put the package on the bar next

to my beer. r reached into my pocket again and took out

a book of matches. I opened the cover, pulled off one

match and struck it. After I lit my cigarette, I put the

matches down beside the cigarettes with the cover open

and two of the matches bent so that they stood up. I paid

no attention to the other men at the bar.

At quarter of the hour, one of the men sitting in the

booth got up and came over to the bar, standing close to

me. He was a big man with crisp gray hair that still re-

tained traces of the red it once was.

"15 II take a refill," he said to the bartender, holding out

his glass.

He fished in the pocket of his shirt until he pulled out a

crumpled pack of cigarettes. He tore the remnants of the

foil to get at the remaining few cigarettes, took one out

and put it in his mouth. He put his hand in his pocket,

looking for matches. The book he pulled out was empty.

"You wouldn't have a light by any chance?" he asked

me.

I gestured at the matches on the bar top.

"Help yourself."

The man picked up the matches and tore off one of the

two that I'd bent into an upright position. He lit his ciga-

rette. 'Ihen he bent another match upright and casually

tossed the folder back onto the bar top.

The bartender came back with his filled glass and went

away again.

The man said to me, "If you'd care to join us---"

"Yes," I said, and picked up my beer glass and the

bottle of Harp. The two of us walked over to the booth.

Gallagher sat down, looked at me,. and started talking.

"We've already got the girl," he said in his rich brogue,

his forefinger tapping me on the arm. "And it's not like

we took her here in the States where your FBI can be

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GALLAGHER PLOT

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brought in. The Garda are nowhere near as good as the

FBI. They're a bunch of clods when they're up against a

man like me."

He grinned at me, a wide flashing of strong teeth.

"Not only that," he said, winking, "but it's surprisin*

how many of the Garda are sympathizers."

"Provos?" I asked. "Is that what you are?"

Gallagher's grin grew wider. "Does it make any difer-

ence, bucko?"

guess not."

"The less you knoW the better off we all are," Galla-

gher said. "We could be Provos—-or we could be the IJI-

ster Defense."

"Not if you mention the Garda," I pointed out. "And

the girl was taken from Shannon airport. Eire, not

Northern Ireland."

"You're a clever one," said Gallagher, admiringly, "to

seize on a word like that."

C What's all this got to do with me?" I asked. 6 Where

do I come into the picture?"

"Well," said Gallagher, "it's like this. The way it's been

set up, no one gets hurt. It's the ransom we're after, you

see. God knows, we've enough bloodshed without any

more bein' spilled needlessly."

"You know who you're going up against?' I asked.

"And you still say you're not looking for bloodshed?"

Gallagher rubbed the thumb of his left hand over the

knuckles of his right hand. Then he rubbed the side Of his

nose with the ball of his left thumb.

"Ah-h-h," he said, "they're not lookin' for blood to be

let either. They'll be wantin' to get their girl home safe.

After all, she's the only child."

6 'And afterward? You think they won't come after

you?"

'CCome after who?" Gallagher challenged. "Me? I'll not

be in this country after tonight."

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NICK CARTER'. KILLMASTER

"These two, for example."

"Who? Dooley and O'Rourke? Dooley can't tell you

anything because he doesn't know anything. And

O'Rourke doesn't know any more than I've already told

you. You don't smash a telephone for bringin' you bad

news, do you?"

"They might. They've been known to do it."

Gallagher shook his head.

"No," he-said. c 'It'll all be quiet and no one will be

hurt. They've the money, you see. What we're askin' for

isn't so much as to make them create an uproar• They'll

want to keep it as quiet as we. Skim money, I think that's

the proper term for it. They wouldn't want to call atten-

tion to it."

"How much are you asking?"

"Whatever this adds up to," said Gallagher, pushing a

sheet of paper across the table to me. "You're the expert.

That's why you're here."

I looked down at the paper. I read the column of items

and the quantities of each. Gallagher watched me. Dooley

drank the last of the beer in his glass. O'Rourke stretched

and shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench of

the booth.

Finally, I looked up. I tapped the paper with a finger.

"If you can get it—if you can buy it—what you've got

here will come to around two million dollars."

"That's what we've been told," said Gallagher easily.

"But, like I said, we're not interested in how much it

costs. That's for them to worry about. We want the

guns."

"Automatic rifles, submachine guns, mortars, pistols,

ammunition. That's what I see."

"Don't forget the plastique," said Gallagher. "lhat and

the detonators."

don't like any part of it," I said and pushed the pa-

per back to him.

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"You don't have to like it. You've no more choice in

the matter than the girl had."

' 'Is that a threat?"

Gallagher shook his head. ' 'No. You'll go along with us

because buying and selling material like that is your

business, Mr. Harding. You'll not only make a bit of

profit, you'll be helping the girl as well."

"And if they think I'm part of it? If they think I'm one

of you, how long do you think they'll let me live?"

Gallagher said patiently, "I told you it's been cleverly

worked out. They picked you. Not us. When we got in

touch with them the first time, there had to be an inter-

mediary that both sides could trust, you see. So we asked

them to come up with a dozen names on their own, and

we picked six and then they picked three, and we picked

one, and they chose the last one from the last two names.

You're the one they selected. If anyone has any doubts

about you, it'll be us, not them."

"What about these two?" I asked, gesturing at

O'Rourke and Dooley.

"Like I said, telephones."

"How?"

"You call either one of them when you want to pass

word on to me," said Gallagher.

"And they'll call you?"

Gallagher shook his head. "Oh, no. If they knew a

number where to reach me, it would be worth their lives.

Someone will call them every day to find out if there's a

message from you to pass along. It's protection, you see.

If we can't get in touch with either one of them every day,

well—too bad for the girl."

think I should mention that when I talk with them."

"By all means. That's why I told you how it works. We

wouldn't want Dooley or O'Rourke bein' hurt for help-

in' out. They're telephones, you see. Someone's got to do

it."

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MCK CARTER:

6'And when do you let the girl go?"

"When we take delivery of the guns," Gallagher said.

"You don't expect me to smuggle them into Ireland for

you, do you?"

"No. That'd be askin' more than you can do," said

Gallagher. "We're reasonable men. We'll take delivery at

sea and do our own gun runnin'. We're better at it than

you."

"Nor would you want me to know where they'd be

coming ashore, would you?"

"There's that, too," Gallagher was thoughtful. ' 'Except

you can tell them that the girl is bein' taken care of INce

she was one of our own. No one's laid a hand on her. Or

' 'Unless the ransom isn't paid."

"Well, naturally," said Gallagher seriously. "That's a

different story. We hope it doesn't come to that."

"Would it bother you? A young girl like that. Not

much more than a teenager."

Gallagher's face became a slab of stone.

"As much as it troubles me when I send one of our

own out in Belfast and the poor lad is killed. But it would

be done, Mr. Harding. Believe me."

He slid a book of matches at me across the table. I

picked them up.

"What's this for?"

'Sullivan's Bar' is what it advertises. Dooley or

O'Rourke. It doesn't matter which of them you talk to.

The telephone number is printed on the cover. One of

them will be here every afternoon between five-thirty and

seven. When can we expect to hear from you?"

"I'll have to pass the word on to Graham. In a few

days, at the most."

"Don't take too long," said Gallagher, getting up out of

the booth. He left the sheets of paper lying on the table in

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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front of me. Gallagher's list. O'Rourke and Dooley stood

up, too.

Gallagher grinned at me again, and said, "By the way,

bucko, your first name is Quinn. Would you be Irish?"

I shook my head. "It's short for Quincy. Quincy

Adams Harding is my full name."

"English, is it?"

"I don't know," I said lying. "They took me from an

orphanage in Seattle. I could be anything."

"Well—" said Gallagher.

"Was that your man who came after me last night with

a knife?" I asked, abruptly, cutting in on his last remark.

If I'd thought to catch him off-guard, I was wrong. He

shook his head commiseratingly.

"It's a rough city, this is," he said. "Was it that you

ere mugged last night?"

"Forget it," I told him.

"Have another beer before you leave," said Gallagher,

atting me on the shoulder. "There's no rush, lad."

The three of them walked out of the bar. I picked up

he two sheets of paper and folded them before I tucked

-hem away in the breast pocket of my jacket. The juke

DOX was playing a recording: Margo's "Destination Done-

I watched the door to the saloon close behind the

-hree of them and started to get out of the booth to follow

them. A massive hand fell on my shoulder, pushing me

ack down onto the seat.

"He doesn't like to be followed," said the heavy voice.

I turned my head. He was big, with a red face, muscled

;houlders and a broken nose, and he acted tough and he

robably thought he was tough.

"Sit down," I said. "Sit down and have a beer with

e."

He bent to slide in across the booth from me. That's

When my hand wrapped itself around the neck of one Of

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

the beer bottles and swept it across at his heaé. It cracked

against his temple. His eyes glazed and closed and his

torso crashed heavily onto the tabletop.

I stood up, the bottle in my hand, only now the end of

it was broken, jagged and sharp and deadly.

Two of the men at the bar looked at me and then

looked away. The bartender watched me without ex-

pression on his face.

I walked out fast.

The bright sunlight hit me in the eyes. Neither Galla-

gher or his two henchmen were anywhere in sight. I didn't

expect them to be. The few seconds I'd been delayed gave

them enough time to get around the corner and into a car

and be gone.

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CHAPTER TWO

Brown tinted glass and brown anodyzed metal chain-Jink

curtains cutting the glare of the late afternoon sunlight.

On Park Avenue, tramc spasmodically snarled and untan-

gled. In the cocktail lounge of the expensive restaurant it

was quiet, conversations were subdued,

Preston Graham waited until the waiter put down the

two drinks and moved out of earshot.

"You met with them?"

"This afternoon," I said.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know. I can give you names. The names won't

do you any good."

"Give me the names. We'll take care of them."

"Not unless you want to lose the girl," I said. I lit a

cigarette and tasted my drink. "I'll give you the names. I

don't think they care. There's Dooley and O'Rourke.

They're nothing. We give either one of them a message

and they pass it on. You can't touch either one of them.

And then there's Gallagher."

"What about Gallagher?"

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"He set it up. He made the arrangements for communi-

cations. By now he's on his way back to Ireland. You

won't see him again."

Graham made a sound in his throat. He put his hand

up and adjusted his necktie. Beautiful silk. The suit was

the latest Parisien tailoring. Without seeing them, I knew

his loafers would be Italian and by now, a status cliché.

Graham was in his early thirties.

"What do they want?"

I handed him the sheet of paper. Graham opened it

and read down the list. I could see his face whiten under

his tan.

"Are they crazy?" Graham demanded, incredulously.

"We don't touch stuff like this. We never have."

"I do. Weapons are my business."

"You're in it with them?"

"If you think so, you're a damn fool. You picked me.

You told me so yourself. I didn't know what it was all

about until last night when you telephoned me. I never

heard of you before."

"Gallagher's been seeing the wrong kind of movies,"

said Graham. "If you were to give me ten grand right

now, I wouldn't know where to go buy a pistol, except at

a sporting goods store. What kind of wild ideas does he

have?"

"He's had a very smart idea," I said. "He's given it a

lot of thought. It's practically foolproof."

• 'Money. I can understand money," said Graham,

puzzled. "Why doesn't he ask for cash?"

"We're talking about two million dollars. And Galla-

gher's not interested in money. He wants guns."

C' You made your point," said Graham.

"That's what's ingenious about it. No • cash. Not a

penny. The companies I'll have to buy from are legitimate

businesses in Europe. They'll accept a certified check or a

bank draft."

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

23

"You've got to be kidding," said Graham, pushing his

drink aside. "You think we're foolish enough to write a

check with our names on it? For two million? We might

just as well send the IRS an invitation to subpoena our

books."

"Stop the nonsense," I said sharply. "How would you

work it if you were in their shoes?"

"Assuming I had the money in the first place?"

"Your people have it. Come on, Graham. They know

it's skim money. Gallagher said so. Right out of Vegas

and the Bahamas. How many clubs do your people have

points in?"

"Enough," said Graham, evasively.

' 'That's right. Enough so that a couple of million isn't

going to cripple you. And we're talking about skim

money. It's already in Europe because it's got to be laun-

dered before you can use it back here again. You have

more than enough in Switzerland to take care of the tab.

The money's already out of the country and. there's no

problem about that. How would you go on from there?"

Graham thought about it. "First, I'd set up a couple of

corporations in, let's say, Liechtenstein. Capitalized at

around three million. We'd know exactly how much once

you told us what it's going to cost. You make the buys.

We issue letters of credit to the people you buy from.

Then we close down the corporations. Nobody knows

anything. Nobody can trace anything. Right?"

I nodded. "That's the way he'd like it set up."

CCWhat about afterward?"

"He'll let the girl go."

"How soon?"

"When he's taken delivery of the goods. Three weeks,

maybe a month. It'll take that long to assemble them and

ship them."

"That long?"

I nodded again.

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MCK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"Jesus, what an idea! So goddam smooth! There's no

way to get at him, is there?"

"No," Isaid. "There isn't. I've done what you asked

me to do. It's up to your people from now on."

Graham shook his head. ' 'They haven't heard all the

details. rm not going down there and tell them by myself.

They have a habit of thinking everyone's on the take, that

everybody's got an angle. They have a permanent way Of

discouraging guys like that so no one else will get ideas.

You're coming down with me. You tell them in person."

' 'No way," I said.

"Look," said Graham threateningly. "By myself I have

enough muscle to make it uncomfortable for you."

"I didn't ask to get involved."

'"It doesn't make any difference. Once you're in, you're

in all the way. You understand me? Besides, they proba-

bly think you have a piece of the action since you're going

to do the buying. What's your commission on a couple Of

million dollars?"

"Not on this deal," I said.

'Don't try to con me. Even if it's the truth, you're

wasting your time. I'm the wrong guy. You have to sell

them."

"All right," I said. "When are you leaving?"

"Tonight. We'll catch a late flight. I'll make the reser-

vations and let you know.?'

Graham looked up and caught the waiter's eye and

made a scribbling motion in the air. The waiter brought

him the check. He scrawled his name and we stood up to

go.

"Are you going away, Quinn?" Arthur Loring touched

the luggage stacked in the townhouse foyer with the toe of

a carefully polished shoe. Loring was from The Company.

"I could have just come back."

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

6'No, you're going away. Miami?"

25

•"You seem to know a hell of a lot about it, Arthur.

HOW come? I've been away from The Company for a long

time now."

' 'We need your help, Quinn. We need an arms dealer

with contacts in Europe."

"You mean the Mob needs my help. It's hard to be-

lieve that The Company is working hand in glove with

them."

"They do a lot of favors for us from time to time," Lor-

ing said apologetically.

"So you told them to call on me?"

"Not before we cleared it at the top, Quinn. It was

okayed at a really high level."

I knew who the high level had to be. David Hawk.

Hawk with his pale blue eyes and rumpled suit and cheap

smelling cigars. The Company brass had to come to him

and David Hawk had loaned me out to them one more

time.

"Who is Gallagher, Arthur? What do you know about

him?"

"Didn't he tell you about himself?"

"No."

"The British have been looking for him for a long

time."

"What is he, Arthur? IRA Provo?"

"Something of the sort. He heads a radical splinter

group: Very nasty crowd. They're completely opposed to

any sort of political compromise. 'Ireland free from the

center to the sea'—that sort of thing, and the Ulster Pro-

testants can all go hang. Gallagher believes in terror tac-

tics. The Garda are almost positive Gallagher's been re-

sponsible for at least one bombing in Dublin, trying to lay

the blame on the Ulster Defense Forces. His goal is to

keep the pot boiling until there's actual warfare between

Eire and the Northern Counties. Even the IRA Provos,

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

extreme as they are, disown him. No one can control the

man. He's an embarrassment all around."

"Is that the word from British Intelligence?"

"Yes."

"Informers?"

"I suppose so. Our British friends didn't tell us how

they got the information on Gallagher, but informing is an

old Irish habit.„ They do it for patriotism, so they say."

"And money?"

"No. Revenge. An Irishman can nurse a gudge longer

than anyone else."

"Why are you here, Arthur? What do you want?"

Loring said, worriedly, "A young girl is kidnapped

from Shannon airport on her way home from a two

month tour of Europe. The girl's father is way up in the

syndicate ranks. Joseph Marat. Marrazzo-—the grandfa-

ther still keeps the old name-—still frightens them in New

England. Last night you received a phone call from

Preston Graham—

C 'What's Graham's place in this?"

"You talked to Graham today. He's a front for the

Mob. Graham and Sturgis, Investment Counsellors. Class.

Dignity. A couple of financial hotshots who don't care

where the money comes from. Now you tell me, what

does Gallagher want from Graham?"

I reached into •my breast pocket and took out the sheet

of paper. I handed it to Loring.

"That's what he wants for the girl, Arthur."

Loring read the list of items.

"It's illegal as hell, Quinn," he said, handing back the

paper. "l mean, you won't be breaking any laws in buying

that stuff, but the British will have you by the short hairs

if you try to smuggle it into Northern Ireland. You'll have

to be careful."

"I'm not getting involved," I said.

"It seems to me that you're already involved."

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.THE GALLAGHER PLOT

27

"I don't buy it. I met with Gallagher. He told me what

he wants. I saw Graham. I told him what Gallagher

wants. Now Graham wants me to go down to Miami to

tell his people about it."

Loring said, "What about setting up the buy?"

"Find somebody else," I said, and waited for his reply.

I wanted to know just how far The Company would coop-

erate with the Mob.

"The. Company would like you to go all the way on this

one, Quinn," Loring said. "It won't be enough just to set

it up."

"Have your boys been following me, Arthur?"

He hesitated.

"Yes."

"This afternoon?'

"Yes."

' 'Then how come you didn't pick up Gallagher when he

left Sullivan's bar?"

"We didn't know it was Gallagher. Not until later."

"Would you have picked him up if you'd known who

he is?"

"You mean, knowing we'd be endangering the girl's

life?"

"Yes."

"He hasn't done anything in this country for us to pick

him up on, has he?" asked Loring, evading the question.

"You mean Marrazzo wouldn't like it if you took a

chance like that with his granddaughter's life."

Loring said, apologetically, "I just work for The Com-

pany, Quinn. I don't make policy decision."

"Sure," I said. "You just follow orders."

Loring said, "I'll see you when you get back from Mi-

"The Mob tells you everything, don't they?" I asked.

"Just about," he said. "Don't get upset, Quinn."

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CHAPTER THREE

By the time we came over Rickenbacker Causeway, it was

after two o'clock in the morning. The night was humid

and warm with only a trace of a breeze blowing as we

drove across Virginia Key, through Crandon Park onto

Key Biscayne. Neither of us had said a word from the

time we got into the white Cadillac limousine at the air-

port.

The car turned off Crandon Boulevard, made several

turns and finally pulled in through tall wooden gates onto

a circular drive of white crushed rock and shells.

Graham opened the door. I followed him out into the

house. Graham walked through the hallway and into the

living room to the far end. Only two lamps were burning

in the living room. He went through French doors onto a

screened loggia. The loggia was large enough to surround

a swimming pool but the only light came from two insect

repellant candes on a wicker table at the far end.

As he came up, the man seated in one of the wicker

armchairs got to his feet.

28

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

29

"This is Quinn Harding," Graham said. The man in-

clined his head but didn't put out'his hand to be shaken.

He was wearing a short-sleeved, open-necked pullover

and blue denim shorts. Arms, legs, face, neck were a deep

tan, contrasting sharply with silver hair.

"Quinn, this is Joseph Marat," said Graham. He

looked around. "No one else coming?"

"He can talk to me. Get him a drink."

Throughout my recital of what had happened so far,

Marat was silent. When I had finished, he said, "How do

you see it?"

I shrugged. "I don't."

"You have to have an opinion."

C' You know as much as I do," I said. ' 'More, probably.

I'm only passing on the word from Gallagher."

"This Gallagher, he's a tough one?"

"I think so," I said. "He talks like a man who can take

care of himself in a rough situation."

c SThey know who they're up against?"

'They know it."

"They're not afraid of the muscle we can send against

them?"

"Send where?" I asked bluntly. "Send after whom?

ou're going to send button men into Dublin? Into

elfast? The IRA themselves can't find Gallagher's group.

If you can find Gallagher, you'll be doing what the IRA,

-he Garda, the Ulster Defense Forces and the British can't

. You think your boys can do that?"

After awhile Marat said, "I see what you mean. So now

hat?"

"It's up to you. You know what they want. The next

tep is to let them know what you decide."

"We'll pay," said Marat bitterly. "It's my own kid. My

wn daughter!" He shook his head angrily. '61 told the

•d, next year, I told her. Next year, your mother and me,

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NICK CARTER: • KILLMASTER

we'll go with you, but no, she wants to go this year. By

herself! So look what happens. Dumb kids!"

"I'll tell you something, Harding," Marat continued

fiercely, "if we find out you had any part of this, you'd be

better off dead—you know what I mean?"

"You trying to scare me?"

"You'd better be scared. You better be good and

scared if you got a hand in this. Even if you got just a fin-

ger in this, you better be crapping in your pants right

now.

Graham spoke up. "He's not in it, Joey."

Marat turned on him. ' 'How do you know, big mouth?"

C'Because we picked him."

" 'We'? Who's 'we'?"

"The old man," said Graham. "Guilio. Papa Marrazzo.

He made the final decision which guy. Your own father.

He called a friend of his in Washington. The Company

told us to get touch with this guy."

6'1 don't like it,"

said Marat, still angry. "He's Irish,

isn't he? With a name like Quinn, he's got to be."

They were talking about me as if I weren't there.

"So he's Irish! So's twenty percent of the country. Part

Irish, anyhow."

Marat turned to me. ' 'How much Irish are you?"

"The name is Quincy Adams Harding," I said. "And I

don't know."

Marat let out a sound. "You dumb bastard," he said to

Graham. "How come you didn't know his name?"

"Gallagher thought the same thing," I said. "He

thought I was Irish, too."

Marat waved his hand. The subject was closed.

"You tell Gallagher we'll pay," he said. "But, if any-

thing happens to my daughter, Ireland or not, we'll rip

the goddam country apart to get him and his whole god-

dam bunch "

"I'll pass the word."

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

31

"Next thing," said Marat. S'How long will it take you to

make the buy?"

'Tm out," I said. "I want no part of this. I only came

lown because Graham said you wouldn't believe anybody

ut me because I talked to Gallagher in person."

Marat shook his head. "Don't give me that crap,

aarding. We don't have time to go out and find somebody

'Ise with your connections. Buying and selling guns, that's

our business. Right? How many others you think are in

-hat business?"

' 'Enough."

"Not enough! •It don't make any difference if there's a

housand. Graham says my old man picked you himself.

You think I'm going to tell the old man you don't want to

TO along to help us? For Christ's sake, that's his

ddaughter they got their hands on. He's from the old

untry. A real Mustache Pete! It's going to be bad

nough telling him they got us by the balls and we can't

.10 anything about it. You're in, all the way--—until the girl

s safe. What do you want? You want a bonus from us,

00? The commission on two million isn't enough?"

"There won't be a commission."

"Bullshit!" said Marat. "One way or another, a piece of

he action's going to wind up in your pocket. Nobody's

Toing to turn down ten, fifteen percent of two million.

kay. We don't care. You make a commission, you make

t. Let's call it—what's the word?" He snapped his fin-

verse

"—for services rendered," said Graham.

"Right," said Marat. "Now, I asked you, how long Will

t take you to make the buy?"

Bulldozers, I thought. Nothing, no one stands in their

way. They buy you or threaten you or do both, but they

'et what they want. Even with The Company.

Before I could speak, Graham leaned forward and said

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

urgently, "Quinn, forget a minute who we are, okay? For-

get everything, except there's a young girl. A teenager.

You want her to be killed? You talked to Gallagher. You

know he means what he said. The money's no problem.

We've got it. If all he wanted was cash, we'd get it to him

by tomorrow morning. But guns? Armament? Sure,

maybe a case of pistols or two. But, where the hell do we

go to buy this kind of stuff? Automatic rifles? Submachine

guns? Grenades? Plastique? Twenty millimeter cannon?

For god's sake, how are we supposed to know the sources?

Who do we contact? And, if we did get out hands on

what's on that list Gallagher gave you, it's spread all over

Europe, you told me. How do we get it together? How do

we smuggle it out? How do we get it into Gallagher's

hands? You tell me!"

I began to shake my head, and Graham said, plead-

ingly, ' 'Think of the girl, Quinn!"

Marat said, quietly, "Mr. Harding—

Graham stopped talking.

"Mr. Harding, I think I made a mistake," Marat said,

slowly, searching for the right words. "l don't make many

mistakes, but this time I think I made a big one. What I

said before, you're not the kind of guy I should have said

it to, you know what I mean? Sometimes I forget the

whole world isn't like the kind of people I do business

with all the time. So I'm going to ask you, you forget

what I said before, okay? This time, like Graham says,

you think of the girl."

He paused and drew a deep breath. I could sense that

whatever he was going to say next was something he was

not used to saying.

"Please?" said Marat, very quietly.

They're suspicious as hell if you cooperate willingly.

They think there's a catch in it unless they believe they've

imposed their will on yours.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

33

D I let them think that, and now Joseph Marat was

inced he'd talked me into working for them.

farat was waiting for my answer.

All right," I said. "I'll help you."

C] [D 88 a P P

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CHAPTER FOUR

Loring was waiting for me on Monday afternoon whe

got to the Regency bar. He motioned for me to tak

seat beside him. The waiter brought over a drink.

"You into the picture now, Quinn?" he asked.

'GI don't understand it, Arthur," I said. "Since w

does The Company get involved in a simple kidnapping?

"It's not as simple as it looks on the surface," Lor

answered.

"Gallagher wants arms instead of cash for a ransom,

said. "That's about the only difference."

Arthur smiled at me, I never did like his cold smile.

"You going to tell me about it?" I asked.

"l think I'll let these gentlemen do that," said Lorin

looked up to see two men threading their way through

tables toward us.

The bigger of the two men wore a heavy R

mustache and had a beefy red face. The other was

much shorter but he was dark haired and heavily tanned

As they sat down at our table, -Loring said, "Thi.

James Thorndike, British Intelligence. The other

34

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

35

on ben-Dror, Israeli Intelligence. Gentlemen, Quinn

ding."

shook hands with them.

'horndike got right to the point.

How much do you know?" he asked me.

Only what I've been able to find out from Gallagher

from Marat," I said. "Gallagher has the girl and

ts a ransom in arms."

horndike sniffed. His mustache went well with his

ized, beveled beak of a nose. He stroked the

'tache, once to each side.

id you know that both the Provos and the Ulster

e have learned about Gallagher's scheme to get

ey5re each making plans to hijack the shipment

it's assembled. They plan on letting Gallagher do the

work and take it away from him at the last minute.

Provos would like to let him smuggle the arms into

tnd and take the shipment then. The Ulster Defense

on taking it away at sea before it gets to Irish soil."

Gallagher's got enemies," I commented.

ey're also a threat to you," said Thorndike.

What makes you say that?"

horndike shrugged. "There's nothing to prevent either

from trying to take the arms shipment away from

after you've assembled it and before you turn it over

lallagher, is there?"

es Gallagher know about the Provos' plans?" I

d.

suppose he must," said Thorndike. He turned to Lor-

"Aside from the kidnapping, why is your agency get-

involved?"

Well," said Loring, dryly, 'Cit may be British troops

'II get blown up, and civilians who'll get killed if the

shipment ever gets to Northern Ireland, but once

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

someone gets away with something like this over the

it'll be only a matter of time before it happens here. F

every terrorist group you have in Ireland, we have

hundred. So far, they haven't gone in for heavy weap

because they don't know how to lay their hands on the

This would serve as an example for them. We want to p

a stop to it before it gets started."

"Heavy weapons?" asked Thorndike, puzzled.

looked at Loring sharply. "What did you say about hea

weapons?"

"I think ben-Dror had better tell you about that," s

Loring.

"We almost lost the October war," the Israeli agent

gan. "We expected that if the Egyptians worked the

selves up enough to attack us, we'd throw our armor

forces across the Suez and take the West Bank in two

three days. In less than a week, we thought we would

in Cairo. We were wrong. They had two weapons that

only delayed us until the very end, but almost stopped

completely."

"SAM-7s," said Loring, "the Soviet ground-to-air m

si.le.

"That was one of them," said ben-Dror. C' The Sovi

had supplied them with more SAM-7s than we realiz

And -they were thoroughly trained in their use. Our

force suffered fantastic losses. Only the best of our pil

could escape a SAM-7-—and you know how good e

the worst of our pilots are. The timing for evasive man

vers must be split-second. Even then, you don't alw

get away. You must be lucky, too. I know. I was alm

caught myself."

"And the other weapon?"

"Wire-guided, anti-tank rocket missiles," ben•Dror

plied. "Our tank losses were so heavy that, in the end,

could mount only enough for one drive. It was a desp

ation measure, I can tell you that. In another week

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

37

ting in the Sinai we'd have been so reduced we would

have had the armor to penetrate to the West Bank

get a salient on the other side of the Suez.

What makes the missiles so efficient is that they're

jed all the way," ben-Dror continued. "From the mo-

it they leave the muzzle of the rocket launcher until

jact, they trail a wire behind them. The gunner lines

the tank through an optical sight. He centers the tank

the cross-hairs and pulls the trigger. Off goes the

ket. Unlike older versions, the gunner does not have to

ce allowances for the speed of the tank or the angle at

ch it is moving. From the instant he pulls the trigger

he time of the impact, he just keeps the tank centered

he cross-hairs of his sight. Every movement, no matter

slight, of the sighting mechanism goes through a mini-

lputer which sends out electrical impulses to the

cet through the trailing wire, and the rocket makes

rections in mid-flight. Now you can see why they are

I ccurate."

*I'd hate to be in the tank," I said, idly.

They did not miss too often," ben-Dror went on. "If

Egyptians had more of them at this time, they'd have

ed us out. Fortunately, they were in short supply since

Soviets also had to supply a large number of them to

Syrians on the northern battlefields."

All this is interesting, no doubt," Thorndike put in.

hat's it to do with our present problem?"

tapped an impatient finger on the table top.

James," he asked, "the bulk of Israeli armor—what

s it consist of?"

Centurions," answered Thorndike. "British Centurion

Your best?"

Of course they're our best!"

They were knocked off like that!" ben-Dror snapped

fingers. "Even at two thousand yards."

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"You can't fault us for that!" Thorndike was indignan

"Rocket missiles carry a shaped charge designed to bla

through thicker steel plating than any tank can carry. Th

Centurion is the best tank in the world. The Soviet

haven't anything quite as good."

"And what armor are you using to patrol the streets

Belfast?"

"Centurions," said Thorndike, and suddenly his fac

wore a look of consternation. "Shimon, what did Tel Avi

authorize you to let us know?"

"Three months ago, a delivery of five hundred Nor

SS-II anti-tank missile launchers scheduled for delive

never arrived. The ship on which they were loaded

small freighter—never got to Haifa. It simply disa

peared."

"And now you've located them?"

"No. We2ve only heard about them. Yesterday, one

our agents sent in word from Crete. Mavropoulos is offe

ing them for sale."

After awhile, Thorndike said thoughtfully, "If Mavr

poulos is offering them for sale, every arms dealer in E

rope will be flogging them to his clients. They'll bring

bloody fortune."

Loring said, , "Quinn Harding , here does a lot

business with Willi VanderHoven and Dieter Hoffman."

Thorndike and ben-Dror looked at me with sudden r

specti Loring had named two of the biggest dealers on

Continent.

Thorndike said, "Gallagher's list. Most of it is wind

dressing, isn't it? He doesn't give a tinker's damn abo

pistols, submachine guns dr auto-rifles. It's the anti-ta

missiles he's after."

In our own minds we each pictured the havoc that

lagher could wreak on British tanks patrolling the narr

streets of Belfast.

"Well," said Thorndike, turning. to me, "I supp

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

39

'II just have to see that Gallagher doesn't lay his hands

them, old boy. Right?"

'There's a young girl whose life's at stake," I pointed

'If Gallagher can smuggle those anti-tank missiles into

and," Thorndike answered coldly, "there'll be a lot

re dead than just one girl. You'll count the bodies by

hundreds. He'll succeed in starting that bloody civil

r everyone's trying to avoid!"

After they'd gone, Loring and I had another drink.

coring said, SSThat's your assignment, Quinn. Not the

napping. The Nord SS-II wire-guided missiles. Five

ndred of them floating around in the wrong hands—

rist! I hate tb think of what could happen if any of

got into the States!"

"And the Marat girl?"

He shrugged. "Use your own judgment. We'll back you

as best we can."

I knew about support from The Company. The organi-

lion was as full of holes as a sieve. It leaked informa-

n.

'Thanks," I said, "but I'd prefer to use my own con-

-its."

Loring said, "Have it your own way. Just get the job

ne."

Michele curled herself into my side and let one hand

"1 up and down along my rib cage. Her head lay on my

)ulder. With only a slight turn she brought her mouth

linst my chest and gently nipped the flesh with her

thi

r touched the tip of her nose. Impishly, she turned her

e up to me.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"Take me along, Quinn." She had the barest trace of

French accent.

"Not this trip, Michele. I'll be gone for a few days a

the most."

C' You never take me any place," she pouted.

"I take you everywhere, but not when it's business."

She sat up quickly, the sheet sliding away from he

shoulders, her small breasts curving. Green eyes in a fau

face, wide, down-curving mouth. Face alive with curiosity.

"What is your business, Quinn? You never told me. W

live together, yet I know nothing about you."

"I've told you. Trading."

"Trading what, chéri?"

"Foreign trade."

Michele made a moue. "Pahl You couldn't. It's s

dull."

dull."

"You? Never! Tell me what is it you really do? Is i

something exciting?"

buy and sell things, Michele. effat's all," I lied.

"What things? Why do you never let me come to yo

omce?"

told you, machinery. Things like that."

Michele leaned over and traced her finger along th

outline of my lips.

"You are such a liar, chéri. Take me with you on thi

trip, please? We will have fun. I want to shop in Paris!

haven't been there for almost three years."

"I'm not going to Paris."

"Where?"

"Elsewhere," I said, and drew her down to kiss me. Af

ter a moment, she pulled free.

' 'You can go from here to Paris and leave me ther

while you do your business and pick me up on the wa

home. Yes?"

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41

She pulled away from me completely, throwing herself

on her back, crossing her arms over her breasts.

' 'I hate you, Quinn! You are selfish."

"You've never had it so good," I told her, amused.

"Oh? You think you are the first? Before you there was

a man with much money. More than you have!"

"You shouldn't have left him."

'fl didn't leave him for you. I left him because he was a

cochon. He had no class."

I reached over to the bedside table and picked up a

cigarette.

"Give me one, too, mon amour."

I handed her the first cigarette and lit another for my-

self.

Michele saw me smiling.

"You believe I left him because he ran out of money?

Is that what you think?" she asked, angrily.

I shrugged. "It's none of my business why you left

"I might leave you, too, Quinn."

"I'm sure you will."

Michele sat up again, twisting to face me.

'CWhy are you so nasty to me, Quinn? Why do you say

that?"

"Because it's true."

"I love you, Quinn. I will never leave you." she ex-

claimed vehemently.

I laughed at her. We'd known each other all of three

weeks. Michele tried to slap me, but I caught her by the

wrist and held her easily, the slender bones of her forearm

almost lost in my large hand. It was like trapping a bird, I

thought. Bones as fragile' as hers could be bruised if I

weren't careful.

"All right, then! I hate you! I will leave you! Is that

what you want to hear?"

"When?"

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"Now! Tonight! This very moment! As soon as I can

pack!" Her long amber hair, streaked with sunbursts of

gold, fell in front of her face. Impatiently, she brushed it

away.

"Tonight?" I asked.

"Not tonight. Not until Friday," she said.

"I'll be in Europe tomorrow," I told hen "Wait until I

get back. Then you can leave me."

"You are making fun of me! Why are you never angry

with me, Quinn? Is it because you don't love me?"

"Possibly."

"l love you!"

"Do you?"

Impishly, she grinned at me. "No, not really. I like to

say it. I like to make love with you."

"Then stop talking."

Michele threw the sheet away from her in a long,

sweeping motion of her slender arm. Her body was very

thin, and under the delicate skin, it was very strong. I had

only a moment to marvel at the lines of her face, the high

delicate cheekbones and the cat curve of her eyes, the

sculptured smallness of her nose. She pressed her face un-

der my jaw and her mouth opened and I felt her small

teeth against the flesh of my throat.

"So," I heard her say in a muffed voice. "You will not

take me to Europe? I'll teach you to behave like that."

I felt her hand move down my body and seize me.

She lifted her face and, just before she placed her

mouth over mine, she said, "Businessman! Ha. Trader!

Tell me, trader, what will you trade me for this?"

"What do you want?" I said against her lips, stroking

the slenderness of her body. I felt a shiver run down the

length of her back.

"Rien du tout," she murmured huskily. "Parce que je

t'aimeP' Nothing at all—because I love you.

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CHAPTER FIVE

We sat in the old man's offce sipping coffee. I had been

in Amsterdam the day before. Amsterdam to Brussels is a

short flight. As soon as I'd gotten off the plane, I took a

taki to the old man's offce.

"Did you see Willi VanderHoven in Amsterdam?" Die-

ter asked me.

"He met me at Schipol airport when I flew in from the

States yesterday," I said. C' We had time for a short talk."

"He's doing well, that Willi?"

"Not too badly. How about yourself, Dieter?"

The old man shrugged his thin, bent shoulders. "I do

what I can. I'm getting old, Quinn. They go to other

dealers. Younger men. I'm almost seventy. That's too old

to be in this business. Another few years, and I retire."

I kept my smile to myself. Dieter Hoffman would never

see seventy-five again.

"Tell me, Quinn, I thought we were good friends, nicht

wahr? Why did you go to Willi first? You think that

Dutchman can give you a better deal than I can? Who

has better contacts?"

43

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"You have," I assured him

"Of course I have! That's why I'm surprised you went

to Willi before you came to see me."

"It was more convenient for me to take KLM," I said.

"Sabena doesn't fly direct from Kennedy to here? Why

are you lying to me? Do you think you'll hurt my

feelings? You've already hurt my feelings. Don't make it

worse. Tell me the truth."

'Because I'm not sure I want you involved in this

thing," I told him.

Dieter Hoffman peered across the desk at me. He took

off his steel-rimmed spectacles and polished the lenses,

not looking at them but staring at me with small, pale

blue eyes.

He looped the spectacles over his large ears and said,

"I'm surprised at you, Junge. Why all of a sudden are you

so concerned for me?"

"It doesn't make any difference now," I said. "l had a

little talk with Willi—"

"In the airport? Which lounge?"

I shook my head. "No, in his car--—

"Tell me about his car. What does VanderHoven drive

these days?"

"A two-tone brown Mercedes Benz 600," I said. "The

stretched model Why the interest in Willi's car?"

"To find out if you're telling me the truth. This last

year, Willi has become very cautious. He will not discuss

business anywhere except in his Mercedes. He has it

checked over every day, sometimes two and three times a

day, by his chauffeur—-

"Checked for what?"

Dieter smiled. "For 'bugs'—that is the word you use,

ja? Ja, for 'bugs'. Willi is afraid of being overheard."

"What for? Trading in arms isn't illegal."

Dieter peered over the rims of his spectacles at me.

"Did I say anything about 'illegal'? The business has

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

45

become so competitive that we spy on each other all the

time. It's terrible. You know how much it costs me a year

for informants? Not just about Willi. Everywhere. Just to

be sure I'm not left out if there is some business to be

had. How do you think I knew about your meeting with

Willi, eh? You were still in his car talking to him in the

airport parking lot when the telephone call came through

to me. 'Willi's talking to an American.' All right, so?

'They're in Willi's car.' Ah-ha! That's a different story!

Willi's talking business! And who does this American turn

out to be? You!"

"Stop crying on my shoulder, Dieter. You've got the

business."

"You mean, you will give me a little so I won't feel

completely left out. A small taste, no? Who else are you

going to see?"

"No one, Dieter. I'm going to leave the entire matter in

your hands. If you haven't got what I want, then go buy

what's needed from Willi, from LaCoste—-"

"So! You know that crook, too. I'm surprised you

would even mention his name to me—2'

"Be quiet, Dieter. I don't care who you buy from. All I

want is speed. I want it as quicldy as you can assemble it

for me."

Dieter Hoffman held out his hand.

"Give me the list, then I will tell you how long it will

take me."

"How do you know I have a list?"

' 'You always have a list. Like a hausfrau going to

market. Everyone knows this little habit of yours. The

rest of us, we are secretive. Not you. Not the American,

Quinn Harding. Give me the list."

His frail hand stretched across the desk, fingers wig-

gling impatiently. I took the sheets of paper out of my

breast pocket and handed it to Dieter.

"A Xerox copy? You are not afraid to make copies?

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How many of these did you run off? Did you give Willi a

copy, too? Then you get us to bid against each other? Is

that—

His voice dropped off as his eyes scanned the list.

"Who is it for?" he asked, after a moment-or two.

"The usual parties," I told him.

Dieter shook his head.

"Never! Why do you try to fool an old friend? Do you

think I am a dummkopf, a blockhead? This has been my

business for more than forty years. Not even Willi would

believe you. Look at the list, Junge. What does it tell me,

"First, you want handguns—9mm Lahti's or

Husqvarna's or Beretta's, the 9mm Modello 1951'. Did

you know that the 9mm Beretta is used by both the Egyp-

tian and the Israeli armies?"

"Dieter, I don't need a lecture on handguns."

"No, no, don't interrupt me, Junge. Let me go on.

What have we here. Uzi machine guns? Easy to get, es-

pecially since Fabrique National d'armes de Guerre make

them under license right here in Belgium, in Herstal-löz-

"Dieter—

"Sh-h-h-h

also the Mitraillette Vigneron M-2. The

Belgian army left thousands of them behind when we

pulled out of the Congo. Like the Uzi, it uses 9mm Para-

bellum ammunition. Whoever prepared this list is smart

enough so that all these weapons usethe same calibre. It

makes for good logistics."

Behind the steel-framed spectacles, the pale blue eyes

grew stern.

"So far, nothing extraordinary. Nothing to arouse my

suspicions. But the next item! 'Machine carbine, 9mm

Sten, Mark 2.' You think I don't know that one? Every

terrorist group in the world wants them. The silenced ver-

Sion of the Sten. They haven't manufactured them since

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

47

Korea. For field operations, they are worthless, but to use

in a city—2'

Dieter tapped the papers on his desk with a forefinger.

"I keep thinking, 'Why does he want silenced machine

pistols?' Then I come to the ARI-7 plastique and finally,

there it is—anti-tank weapons!"

He leaned toward me, anger in his voice.

"You are not talking old fashioned bazookas, are you,.

Quinn? You want Blowpipes, Saggers, As-I Is, SS-I Is!

The newest wire-guided anti-tank rockets and launchers!"

C'%at's right," I said. "That's what I want."

' 'You know that Mavropoulos has five• hundred of

them?" Dieter asked quietly, his eyes examining my face

carefully.

"I've heard."

"Is that what you want, Quinn? The five hundred SS-

I Is that Mavropoulos would like to sell?"

C' Yes."

"For terrorists?"

I made no reply.

Dieter said, "There is a difference between revolu-

tionary and a terrorist, Quinn. For the terrorist, politics is

an excuse to kill. He enjoys the killing. Bombs in airports.

Bombs in cars. Bombs in buildings. Machine gun am-

bushes where innocent people are slaughtered. He doesn't

care. Women, children, old people!"

The old man drew a deep, quivering breath.

'No, Quinn, I will have nothing to do with the

crazies!"

He took off his spectacles and laid them carefully on

his desk. With the end of his pencil, he pushed the sheets

of paper across to me.

"Go somewhere else. This is not for me. War is one

thing. This is murder. And if you have no shame, then I

have enough for both of us that you are involved."

He began to polish his spectacles furiously.

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NICK CARTER: KILT-MASTER

"It's not what you think, Dieter."

I told him the story from the beginning. The only thing

I didn't tell him was that I was an AXE agent and that

my name is Nick Carter. He's known me for too long as

Quinn Harding. Apart from that, I told him about Galla-

gher, and Graham, and the Marat girl, and the Marrazzo

family.

The old man put on his glasses and took out a ciga-

rette, fitting it into a stained amber holder.

When I finished, Dieter said, through a cloud of smoke,

"This Gallagher, he -is one of the crazies. A terrorist of

the worst kind. And you want to involve me?"

"Yes. There's no one else I can trust to do what needs

to be done."

Dieter cocked his fragile, white-haired head and gazed

steadily at me.

"It is dangerous?"

C Very dangerous."

C 'What is it you want to do, Junge?"

I told him.

At the end, Dieter nodded and said, "Yes. It is very

dangerous. Now I understand why you came to me. It's

because I'm an old man. I have not many years to live. Is

that it?"

"No. I came because of the years you've already lived."

Dieter frowned. "l don't understand."

"Where were you born, Dieter?"

' 'You know. Poznan. Potsdam. Now it is in East Ger-

many."

"And you escaped from the Nazis in 1936?"

"Of courses They would have had me in the ovens."

"Where did you escape to, Dieter?"

"England. Where else—ah-ha! I see what you mean! I

owe die Engländer for my life. Is that it?"

'Cln a way."

Dieter let out a sigh. "Yes, it's true. The whole war I

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

49

here. Afterwards, I could not go back to Potsdam,

{hile the Russians were there. So I came here to

els. I have had a good life, all because die Englisch

tne in. It would be little enough for me to do to re-

lem for all those years I was alive instead of dead."

hen you'll do it?"

'3ter Hoffman got up from his chair behind the desk

alked over to the window. His back was to me. The

was open, and he stared out of it for a long time

lg down at the narrow street that led into the Place

oucl&re.

cussels is such a wonderful city to live in, Junge.

ings that are two, three, four hundred years old side

with the most modern of architecture. Sidewalk

museums—you must come with me sometime to

.useum of Ancient Art. Such fine pictures,"

tapped his forefinger on the glass pane. "Out there,

, a city of culture."

turned around and came over to me. He put his

on my shoulder. For the first time, I realized how

frail the old man was. Dieter's hand was like the

t of a drifting leaf. The veins were dark blue, swol-

•acings under a skin mottled with age marks and

ucent everywhere else.

smiled at me. Only the old can Smile with that

-l kind of tired understanding.

us go and have a beer, Junge. My favorite cafe is

next block. I will have a Gueuze and grenadine,

•ou—if I remember—you prefer a West Malle. A

beer. You see, I forget very little, for such an old

bobbed his head; thin white hair fell across his wide

s, Junge, I will help you."

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CHAPTER

I had given my order to the waiter—Civet de liévre a

Flamande—jugged rabbit Flemish style—and was stari

out the wide picture window at the panorama of Bruss

spread out below me in the late twilight. Out of the fric

of roof tops, the dark mass of the cathedral loomed pc

derously, seeming to be both part of the sky and part

the ground at the same time.

The girl sat down in the chair opposite me in a flu

graceful motion that pulled my attention away from

window. She seemed to be in her late twenties. She

tall and she sat erect in her chair with the kind of postl

they teach at finishing schools, the same kind of eleg,

straightness that comes from riding horses since chi

hood. I could almost picture her in a black riding bowl

white stock, black jacket, cream-colored breeches a

black boots. I wondered what she did with her hair w

she wore a riding cap. It was black and glossy and

straight down in a thick sheave. Her skin was the liq

skin of a Celtic blonde. The dress she wore was a sim

blue sheath, sleeveless, but with a high mandarin coll

50

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

51

silk fit every curve of her breasts as if the material

)een molded to them. The dress was the same shade

10ky blue as her eyes.

'm Brenna Kiernan," she said. "We haven't met be-

jut we have a mutual friend."

"allagher?" I said, and looked at her more carefully.

that's right."

{ecause Gallagher can't be here."

fow do I know you're from Gallagher? Can you

it?"

enna's lips were humorless. "O'Rourke and Dooley.

le names mean anything to you?"

on.

ullivan's Bar," she said. "On Third Avenue. Would

ike the number you're to call to pass on messages to

gher?" She slid a match book across the table to me.

s from Sullivan's Bar.

ooked at it and nodded. "All right. What does Galla-

want to know?"

ust that everything's going all right. That nothing's

g."

o far nothing's happened. I'm making progress."

low soon will the shipment be ready?"

00k out a package of cigarettes. I missed the special

in my monogrammed ones, but Quinn Harding

a regular American brand so I put up with them.

-Ted one to Brenna. She refused.

'II let Gallagher know when the shipment is ready," I

her.

10," she said, shaking her head slightly. ' 'You'll let

,now. For the time being, I'm your 'telephone' to Gal-

low is the girl?" I asked.

•enna shrugged. "She hasn't been harmed, if that's

you're wondering about."

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NICK CARTER : KILL-MASTER

"Have you seen her yourself?"

' 'Then you don't really know, do you?"

She flushed. With her pale complexion, it was like t

creamy petal of a white rose tinged by the rays of a

ting sun.

"l was told you'd ask about her," she said, "and I w

also told to tell you that she is in good health. Why a

you staring at me that way?"

"Because kidnapping's such a dirty business."

"And you're surprised to find someone like me i

volved? Is that it?"

"I suppose you believe that the end justifies t

means?" I asked. "And anything goes."

"In this case, yes."

I knew it would be no use arguing with her, so I simv

said, "Look, as long as the girl is returned safely, Gal]

gher will get what he wants."

"Go to hell!" Brenna said, angrily. "We're doing t}

for Ireland! We believe in Irish unity and .1rish freedor

We're patriots—and Gallagher's the best of us!"

know," I said cynically. "You'll die for Irelar

You'll kill for Ireland. The trouble is, you won't let othc

live if they disagree with you."

"What do you know about it?" Brenna demandc

'SYou're not one of us."

"God save us from the ones who'd save us from 01

selves," I said to her. "They're the worst kind."

"I'm here to keep you from being killed."

"That's a dramatic statement," I said. ' 'How do y,

figure that?"

"They're going to try to take the shipment away frc

you," said Brenna. "They won't make any attempt.

your life until you've assembled the arms. After th

watch out."

"Who's 'they'?"

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

53

The Provos or the Ulster Defense. Either or both.

knows, they each want that shipment. I'm here to see

it goes to Gallagher."

Is that what Gallagher sent you to tell me?"

Yes."

And you're here to make sure that I don't make any

Is with the others," I pointed out bluntly.

ler eyes, I noticed, were not an ordinary blue. They

e the blue of smoke, the blue of distant haze. Her face

very beautiful, I decided, and wondered how often

d been told that. Even the tiny mole. high up on her

cheek added to her beauty. I wondered what she'd be

in bed.

Brenna said, "Gallagher wouldn't like it if you sold him

I suppose not." I was amused. "Shall we talk about it

r? I hate to spoil a good meal."

When we've finished dinner," she said, "we'll go to my

sat on the couch in the living room of Brenna Kier-

suite listening to the tape recording on the small

asonic RQ-212DS machine. There was no question

ut it. voice was Gallagher's.

'he voice stopped. Brenna snapped off the machine.

•e you satisfied now? Shall I play it again for you?"

No. I believe you."

watched Brenna reverse the tape and spin it back to

beginning: When the machine stopped, she inserted a

iature plug into the microphone jack and set the

hine on Record.

[s Gallagher serious about your being with me every

nent until he gets his hands on the shipment?"

He is."

Literally?"

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"We decided it's safer to assume we can't trust you."

"Do you move into my rooms or do I move in here?"

"Whichever you prefer."

I'd said it jokingly, but she was serious.

"I'm leaving Brussels in the morning. There's nothin

more to do here until the shipment is ready."

s 'Where are we going?"

I noticed the plural.

'"The Cöte d'Azur. Cassis," I told her.

"That's too close to Marseilles. I would assume th

Marat family have connections with the underworld ther

I don't think I'd like to make a target of myself," Brenn

said firmly. "Not that it would do them much good. Ga-

lagher would never give up the girl for me."

"You're a damn fool if you think the Mob can't get

you anywhere in Europe," I said bluntly.

"Then it really doesn't make any difference where w

go, does it?" She gave in reluctantly.

"You might even enjoy Cassis."

"What's it like?"

"Picturesque. A little fishing village. La Ciotat Plage

further along the coast toward Toulon."

I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. Di

ter had asked me to call before I left town to let hi'

know where he could reach me if he had to.

"I have to make a telephone call," I said to Brenna.

assume you intend to listen in?"

"Yes," she said. "There's an extension in the bedroon

I'll listen from there."

She moved with leonine grace, a big girl with a beaut

fully coordinated body. Long legs, sturdy hips, a sli

waist and a sculptured torso. I watched her cross tt

room, feeling a powerful stirring in my loins.

The phone rang six times before Dieter answered it.

"Hello, Dieter?"

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

55

SLh, Junge- How nice of you to call. Did you have a

sant meal?"

Excellent, Dieter. And you?"

y usual bowl of soup."

Did I awaken you? It took so long for you to answer

-elephone."

qo, no. I was just listening to some records. It took

few minutes to get to the telephone. What are you

ng about? Is there something else on that list you

me?"

slo. Just to tell you I'm leaving Brussels in the morn-

so I probably won't see you until next week some-

Thursday or Friday. You'll have it ready by then,

't you?"

( already have the first two items on the list."

That's good," I said, surprised.

[ thought so, too. Where are you going?"

rhe Cöte d'Aiur. There's no sense my hanging

End Brussels for a week—-

—When you could be sunbathing and swimming and

ng, nicht wahr? And watching the girls in bikinis, eh?

I wish I were twenty years younger. I envy you,

{e. Have a good time."

will, Dieter."

And if I need to be in touch with you before then?"

Send me a wire, poste restantej Cassis."

Good, good—a beautiful place. Is that all you have to

es. It's good you got the first two items so quickly,"

ld, stressing the phrase. I wanted him to know I un-

tood. "Auf weidersehen, Dieter."

4 uf weidersehen, Junge."

put down the telephone. Brenna came back into the

a.

It's early. Would you like to take me out for a drink?"

sked.

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

"51here's trouble."

She stared at me.

"Dieter's in trouble," I said. I looked at my wristwatct

It will take me about fifteen minutes to get to the

man.

I started for the door. Brenna came with me. As w

walked down the hotel corridor, she said, "I didn't hea

him say anything like that."

"You heard him say that he's got the first two items?"

'Yes."

' 'It's a code phrase. Two men. He's in trouble."

Impatiently I pushed at the elevator button. W

stopped at my room long enough for me to unpack

suitcase and take out a shoulder holster and Wilhelmina

my 9mm Luger. I strapped it on. Hugo, the slim stilettc

was already in place fastened to my forearm in its sof

chamois sheath. Brenna watched me without saying

word.

"Let's go," I said.

We picked up a taxi in front of the hotel on the Ave

nue de la Toison d'Or. I gave an address to the driver am

settled back in the seat. The taxi turned at the next intel

section. We were on the Boulevard Adolphe Max, an

then onto the Boulevard du Jardin Botanique. In a fe

minutes we were in the suburbs. Presently, the taxi pulle

over to the curb.

"Ici, m'sieu?"

"S'il vois plait. Merci bien." I paid the driver and

climbed out of the cab. We were on the corner of a sma

park no more than a city block square. The taxi made

U-turn and drove off.

"Now what?" Brenna asked.

' 'Dieter's house is across the park. When you get ther

I want you to walk down the street to the far end. If

see anyone, cross the road. Do you understand?"

"Anyone?"

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

"Anyone," I said firmly. "Let's go."

57

We went through the park. At *the far end, Brenna

walked out by herself. Hidden in the shadows, I watched

her stroll down the street. In front of Dieter's house, she

suddenly stepped off the curb, crossing to the far side,

and continued walking.

I ran to the corner of the small park and climbed over

the iron picket fence. This part of the park was just

across the street from the alley that ran behind Dieter's

row house. The alley was dark as I ran into it, pulling

Wilhelmina from its holster.

The iron guard bars that Dieter had installed on his

windows kept out intruders. The trouble was, they kept

me out, too. Crouching on the small metal balcony, I

could see in--—not too well and not too much. But I

couldn't get inside to help him.

I could have gone up to the roof and gotten in that

way, but for the moment it was more important to listen

to what Was being said. The window was half open. Every

word came through clearly, even though I couldn't see

who the men were.

I could see Dieter Hoffman sitting uncomfortably in the

old armchair he'd had for years. I saw him stir painfully.

The side of his head was bloody where he'd been struck.

His arms had been tied to the arms of the chair.

écoutez moil"

The voice was rough, as if the vocal cords had been

sandpapered. It grated in my ears. The accent was atro-

cious.

"You are awake?"

"I'm awake," I heard Dieter answer in French.

"You should not have struck him so hard," said an-

Other voice. "He has been unconscious for almost ten

minutes. A waste of time!"

Through the partly opened window I saw the silhou-

ettes of two men standing behind Dieter. At least that was

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good, I thought, because if they'd been standing in front

of him it would mean they didn't care if he could identify

them. They would let him live. Dieter stared into the fire-

place, careful not to turn his head.

An arm came over his shoulder. A paper was held in

front of his face.

"Is this the list the American gave you?"

Without his glasses Dieter couldn't read the type.

"What does it say?"

"You know what it says. It's a list of weapons."

"lf you took it from me, then it's the list I was given."

"By the American?"

"Yes."

"This is all he gave you?"

' 'Yes," said Dieter. "You didn't have to strike me. I'm

an old man. There's no special secret to the papers. I

would have given them to you."

The man laughed. "For the asking?"

"I don't argue when a gun is pointed at me. I'm sure

you have a gun. I would have given you the papers."

"Je crois que non. I think not. You wouldn't be so

willing to talk. A little fear is good for you, especially

since you know that we do not mind violence. What did

the American discuss with you?"

"What he usually talks about. Business."

"Don't be sarcastic. What business?"

"He is in the arms business, like me. We discussed

business."

'CI--le wants to buy arms from you?"

"Is this what he wants to buy from you?" The hand

waved the paper in front of Dieter's face again.

"If that is the list he gave me, yes."

"For whom?"

"He didn't tell me."

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59

The hand slammed brutally against his face from be-

hind.

"For whom?" the voice demanded.

Dieter wet his lips with his tongue. "It won't do any

good for you to beat me. I have no secrets worth my life.

I told you the truth. He didn't tell me who it was for." .

"Where did you talk?"

"First in my omce. Then we went to a cafe on the

Grand Place."

"Which cafe?"

"Café de Ia Grand Place."

"And you talked business there, too?"

"Of course not. One does not talk about the arms

business in public. We chatted."

"Do you know the name Gallagher?"

They had been speaking in French, but the voice said

"Gallagher" with an English or American pronunciation.

I couldn't tell which. The final syllable was short and

clipped.

6'No," said Dieter, lying. "Should I know the name?"

"Who?s your friend?"

"Quinn Harding," said Dieter.

Again there were whispers. I heard the second voice

protest, "Je ne sais pas! Je I'ai vu ce soir pour Ia premiére

fois!"

"Even if it was the first time, you should have recog-

nized him. You were given a description."

'Where will you get these arms for him?"

It took Dieter a moment to realize that the question

was directed at him. "Most of them from my own ware-

houses. What I don't have, I will buy from others."

"From whom?"

J'Willi VanderHoven. Armand LaCoste. If they have

what I need."

"And Mavropoulos?f'

"l haven't dealt with Mavropoulos in years," Dieter

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said, carefully. "I can get everything I need from Vander-

Hoven or LaCoste. I told you that I have almost every-

thing on that list in my own Warehouses. Why should I

deal with Mavropoulos?'t

"For the anti-tank weapons."

Dieter shook his head in spite of the pain. "Nonsense! I

have more than a hundred bazookas. Why should I go to

Mavropoulos for them? It's hard enough to sell what I al-

ready have on hand."

"You know what Mavropoulos has."

Dieter Ghose his words with care, knowing that his life

depended on what he was saying, "I know what he says

he has," he replied. "But Mavropoulos is a liar. Worse, a

cheat. That's why no one likes to do business with him.

Ask Willi VanderHoven. Mavropoulos once sold him a

consignment of Mauser MG3 machine guns. Willi told

him the crates must be marked 'machinery—spare parts,

automobile axles.' " In spite of his bloody mouth, Dieter

let out a short laugh.

"What's the joke?"

"That's what Willi got! Ten crates of worn-out truck

axles. On the other hand, it saved Willi from going to jail,

because the crates were opened by Bulgarian customs.

Willi was on the same train. He almost had a heart attack

standing there while they were opening crates. When they

turned out to be exactly what was listed on the manifest,

Willi almost had a second heart attack because Mavro-

poulos had cheated him. That's why no one will do

business with Mavropoulos any more. You can't trust

"Did Harding specify what kind of anti-tank weapons

he wanted?" the voice asked. I noticed that he pro-

nounced "Harding" without dropping the h .

"No," said Dieter.

"Is he telling the truth?" The question was not directed

at Dieter.

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61

The second man answered. "I don't know. We couldn't

tape record the conversation in the old man's office. Not

even with our best parabolic mikes. He had some kind of

a dem4ce there that makes it almost impossible to pick up

what is said."

"Is that true, Hoffman? You have such a device?"

"Of course," said Dieter. "It cost me a pretty penny to

have it installed, I can tell you."

"Why?"

' 'For the same reason Willi VanderHoven conducts his

affairs only in his Mercedes. Everyone spies on everyone

flse in this business."

"Suppose Mavropoulos has what he says he has?

Would your American friend be interested in buying?"

Dieter began to cough. The blood from the cuts in his

mouth trickled down his chin. He coughed again and

spewed blood on the arm of his white shirt. I felt sick in-

side watching the old man suffer.

"He's bleeding to death," said one of the voices. "You

shouldn't have hit him so hard."

"He'll be all right. Give him a minute to catch his

breath."

The spasm passed.

' 'Well? Would your American friend be interested in

buying what Mavropoulos has?"

"l doubt it," said Dieter.

"Why not? He asked for anti-tank weapons."

"Not the kind that Mavropoulos claims he has,"

said

Dieter, emphasizing the word. "Only a fool would buy

those weapons. Trading in arms is legal only to a certain

degree. Trading in stolen wire-guided rockets and missile

launchers is asking for trouble. I don't need that kind of

trouble. Neither does my friend."

"Mavropoulos doesn't seem to mind."

"Mavropoulos is a verdammte dummkopf! Look, if you

want to buy those weapons, why not buy them directly

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from the Greek? Why all this skulking around, attacking

old men like me? Go to Mavropoulos! He doesn't care

who he sells them to."

I listened to the pretended anger in Dieter's voice, and

felt proud of him. It was a fine performance.

"We don't want to buy them."

"Then why all this?"

"We want your American to buy them."

There was a long silence.

"Do you understand?"

"You want me to buy them as part of the consignment?

Is that it?" Dieter said slowly.

"That's it."

"Mavropoulos is paying you to do this to me. Just so

he can get those damned things off his hands. By God! I'll

get back at him! Wait and see!"

"Mavropoulos is not paying us. Just do as 'you're told.

You'll live longer."

I saw a pair of enormously large, powerful hands come

out of the shadows and close around Dieter's throat.

"Like a peasant twists the neck of a chicken," said the

voice, could wring your neck that easily. Think about

it, old man. Be sure to call Mavropoulos. We wouldn't

want anyone to buy them first."

The hands left his throat.

c TII remember," said Dieter, coughing.

I heard footsteps on the polished hardwood flooring of

Dieter's parlor. I heard the front door being opened.

"N'oubliez pas," Said the rough voice from across the

room. "Don't forget! Do what you've been told---or you'll

hear from us again."

Dieter did' not take his eyes away from the fireplace.

He made no attempt to turn his head.

I scrambled down from the balcony. Dropping to the

ground, I raced around to the front of the house. But by

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63

the time I got there the street was empty. Brenna ran

toward me from the corner.

"Did you spot anyone?" I demanded.

"Two men. They got into a car."

S'Did you see what they looked like?"

' 'No. They were too far away. It was too dark."

I turned and ran up the stairs. Dieter's door had been

left unlocked. The only light came from the small lamp in

the parlor where Dieter was tied to the armchair.

He heard the noise I made as I came in.

"So you're back," he said, without turning his head. "I

have nothing to tell you."

"lt's me, Dieter." I saw the relief on his face as I came

around in front of him. Hugo's keen blade slashed the

cords from his wrists and ankles.

"They play rough," he said through his swollen lips,

and tried to smile at me and almost fainted.

We cleaned him up and put him to bed. I gave him a

sleeping pill before Brenna and I left, and I made sure his

doors were bolted shut.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

"Will Dieter be all right?" Brenna asked. We were back

in the hotel in her suite. I'd taken off my jacket and

shoulder holster and hung them up in the closet carefully,

along with Hugo. I'd made myself a drink and was relax-

ing.

"He'll live. Dieter has a high survival quotient."

Brenna misunderstood. She looked up quickly. "You

mean he'd betray us?"

I thought for a moment about Dieter. Dieter had risked

his life by lying. He could have just as easily told the

truth, told them everything we'd talked about in his of-

fice—that I had no intention of letting the arms get into

Gallagher's hands.

Dieter hadn't •talked. Nor would he. I remembered the

stories I'd been told about the old man's courage—how

he'd gone into Nazi Germany and Occupied France a

dozen or more times during the war years.

"Well? Would he betray us?"

She was so goddammed singleminded!

"Certainly," I said sarcastically. "There's no loyalty in

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this business. Or trust. You ought to know that. Look at

you and me."

Brenna flushed. She changed the subject. "Who were

the two men?" she asked.

"They didn't introduce themselves," I said. "lt doesn't

matter. What's important is that I've been followed ever

since I arrived in Brussels. They made my connection

with Gallagher even before I got here. They knew about

Gallagher's list of weapons. They even knew what was on

the list."

I saw that Brenna didn't understand the implications of

what I was saying.

"They've seen the list?"

"They took it from Dieter. But they knew about it be-

fore."

Brenna bit her lip thoughtfully. She still didn't get it.

"Are we in danger from them?"

"Not for awhile. They won't do anything to disturb the

situation until the arms are ready for shipment."

"And then?"

"All hell will break loose."

"I think I ought to tell Gallagher about this," she said

after awhile.

"That would be a stupid thing to do."

"Why?" she demanded defensively. "Why shouldn't I

tell Gallagher about this?"

"Think about what I've just told you. How did those

two know about me? How did they know about the list?

Who told them?"

"Someone's talked? Is that what you mean?"

"Someone close to Gallagher. There's no other way for

them to have known about me and why I'm here."

"But if I tell Gallagher there's a leak in our organiza-

tion—

"—he'll go looking for the leak, and that's the same as

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telling them that I know about them. No, you can't tell

Gallagher."

"What are you going to do about it?"

told you. I'm going to take a week's vacation on the

Cöte d'Azur."

I saw that she didn't believe me. "So far, there's no

reason for me to change my plans. Nothing will happen

until all the weapons have been purchased, paid for and

shipped to a central collection point. I'm safe until the

money for the arms has been paid out and I get them on

their way to Gallagher. Dieter won't be touched until he's

finished the job of buying the weapons and getting them

shipped to someplace I designate."

I saw the question leap into her eyes and answered it.

"And you're safe because you're with me."

"And when the week is up?"

"Well," I said, "we all know too much and none of us

will be needed any longer."

"You mean they'll try to kill us?"

"What else would you expect them to do?"

c 'I don't know," she said, worriedly. "It would help if

we knew who they are."

' 'They could be anyone."

"Ulster Defense." Brenna was thinking out loud. "Or

the IRA. Neither of them care for Gallagher."

"It could be Gallagher himself," I pointed out.

"Never! He promised no harm if the ransom were paid.

Gallagher keeps his word!"

"He didn't promise me a damn thing," I snapped at

her. c CAII he ever said was he'd release the girl safely. He

didn't say anything about not harming me. Gallagher's a

sly one. He's too devious to suit me. I don't trust him."

"Gallagher's a man of integrity," she flared up at me.

C' You wouldn't know the meaning of that word, would

you?"

"He's playing games," I told her. "And then there's the

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67

IRA What about them? Or the Ulster Defense League?

Or the British? You think any of them will let Gallagher

get his hands on those weapons if they can help it? And

they all know about his goddammed list. Christ, this is the

worst kept secret I've ever heard about. You Irish just

can't help bragging about what you're doing-—or inform-

ing about what someone else is doing. You just don't

know how to keep your mouths shut."

Brenna's face was pale and furious. She didn't want to

hear a word of what I was saying.

"Gallagher's a damn fool," I said, cuttingly. "He's a

bloody incompetent. He could have had the money by

now."

"The money's no good by itself. It's the arms we need.

Gallagher couldn't buy the arms by himself. He's a

wanted man. He has to remain in hiding. The weapons

are what it's all about. We need arms to unify Ireland. To

set it free!"

I stared at her, surprised at the outburst of such inten-

sity. Her eyes were glowing with emotion. Her breath

came fast. Fine beads of perspiration sparkled on her up-

per lip.

"If you ever show that much passion for a man, he'll

be one lucky son-of-a-bitch," I commented' "Or is it

reserved for Gallagher?"

I hadn't thought she could move so fast. Her hand

slapped my face. I threw up an elbow warding off a sec-

ond blow, then caught her by the arms and pulled her

close to me. Our faces were inches from one another, our

eyes glared angrily at each other. Brenna's arms were at

her sides. Her perfume enveloped her in a hot female

scent. My hands felt the soft flesh of her arms. She was so

close to me that I could feel the heat from her breasts and

from her loins.

I pulled her closer, her moist lips only inches away.

Slowly, my eyes still fixed on hers, I lowered my face. She

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didn't move. My lips touched hers. I pressed her body to

me tightly, my arm around her back, my hand against the

back of her head.

Her eyes were still open, still staring into mine defi-

antly. But her mouth began to yield to me and her lips

came apart and her tongue went slowly into my mouth. I

moved my hand up, cupping the beautiful roundness of a

breast in the palm of my hand. I felt the heat of it and the

weight, and under the silk of her thin dress I felt the

nipple harden and press stiffy against my fingertips.

Her eyes were still open, challenging me, filled with an-

ger.

I reached up to the neck of her dress, caught the flimsy

material with my fingers and wrenched down. The dress

tore away from her, leaving her almost naked to the

waist.

My fingers fastened into her bra. The bra tore apart,

and her heavy breasts came hotly into my hands.

Her arms lifted, moved up to my head and then both

were around me, holding me tightly to her, disheveling

my hair in frantic movements. The hard bone of her pel-

vic arch pressed against my own strong hardness.

She was breathing in tight, shallow spasms. I tore the

dress away from her hips, pulled off the shredded rem-

nants of her bra and slid her bikini panties down from her

hips.

Brenna pulled away from me. Her long thick black hair

swung heavily as she flung her head back in a gesture of

abandon. The body I'd imagined under the dress was

even more glorious than I could have expected. A fine

sheen of moisture was on her shoulders, between her

breasts and on the slight concavity of her stomach. The

delicate hair of her mount was like a silken covering.

Muscles twitched all along the length of her long ta-

pered thighs. Brenna tossed her hair wildly again. Black

as night, black as a raven's wing. Soft as satin. It struck

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

69

me gently across my face. She said nothing as she reached

out for me in turn.

I let her put both hands on my shirt and rip it open vi-

Olently, the buttons flying wildly. She caught at it again

and tore it down in two long shreds. Her fingers fumbled

at my belt until it loosened, then pulled impatiently at my

trousers. I stepped out of them.

And then we were both savagely naked, inflamed with

anger, wanting only to do violence to each other. Hating

and loving and aflame with fury and with passion.

We came together, clawing at each other's bodies as we

had torn at the other's clothes. My hand found and

grasped the soft yielding moistness between her thighs

and wet my fingers instantly and fully. I felt her hands

grasping at my hardness and guiding it desperately toward

her, into her. I felt her teeth lock into my shoulder. I

wrapped my hand into the thickness of her flowing hair

and bent her head back away from me. Her eyes stared

into mine with hatred and defiance and anger and sexual

passion so intense it was burning her up. She pressed her

thighs against me in mounting desire.

And then we could wait no longer.. Even as we sank to

the thick carpet, her legs wrapped themselves around my

hips and I slid the length of my erection into her, fluidly

and easily and powerfully, hearing a deep, crying moan of

fulfillment come out of her throat.

We lost track of time. She fought against me, biting

me, clutching me, locking me to her so I could not get

away. She exploded against me and I exploded in her,

and still we were not satisfied. We did not come apart.

We lay resting for only a short period before we began to

attack each other again in every way we knew.

And then it was morning and there was one last savage

assault and her heels beat in a frenzied drumming stac-

cato against my back before she collapsed in total exhaus-

tion in my arms.

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Not once in all that time had either of us said a word

of love or affection or affirmation.

It had been a contest between us. I don't know who

won. It didn't make any difference when it was over.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

We checked out of the hotel shortly after eleven in the

morning. I noticed that in spite of her careful makeup,

Brenna had a tired, troubled expression on her face as if

she were fighting an inner battle with herself.

We were early for the train departure. L'Étoile du

Nord, the TransEuropean Express, left from the Midi sta-

tion which was only a few blocks from the hotel. I booked

seats for us in the dining car. The trip to Paris took just

about three hours and I wanted to relax over lunch. We'd

have to change trains in Paris for the run south to Mar-

seilles.

Before we left, I made a phone call to Marseilles and

another to Cassis. And I mailed a package to myself, care

of Post Restante, Marseilles. I'd pick it up after I got

there. Wilhelmina and Hugo were both wrapped securely

in the package along with a holster for each. We'd be

crossing the French border and I wanted to take no

chances with an overly zealous customs inspector. The

phone call to Marseilles was to Frangois.

Promptly at 11:30 A.M., moving almost imperceptibly

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NICK CARTER'. KILLMASTER

at first, the train began to slide out of the station and nose

its way through a maze of tracks. Once we left the last Of

the suburbs behind, it increased speed until finally we

were racing through the countryside on a gray, overcast,

chilly day.

We arrived in Marseilles around midnight. When we

came out of the Gare St. Charles, I ignored the taxis in

front of the station. I cut between them, angling diago-

nally across the street, Brenna at my side and a porter be-

hind us with our luggage.

The gray Citroen SM coupe was double parked, its

rear deck lifted and waiting. As we came up to it, the

driver got out of the front seat, leaving the door open. He

smiled and touched a forefinger to the bent peak of a

grimy cap. I held out my hand.

"Ca, va, Francois?"

We shook hands with a quick, single movement.

Francois's grin broadened, showing a gold front tooth.

"Va bien. Et vous, monsieur?" Everything was fine.

I touched the roof of the new Gran Turismo. High-

lights glinted from the polished metal, reflecting yellow

streaks from the street lamps. "Everything has been done

the way I asked?"

"'TO the last specification. I, myself, did all the work on

it."

"The engine has been run in?"

"For better than 800 kilometres. Then I brought it

back into the shop and tuned it up again as if it were my

own.

"When you had it on the highway, Francois, how fast

did you run it?" I cocked my head at him. Francois

shrugged.

' 'Factory specifications claim 220 kilometres an hour,

full out. What the hell, that's a Maserati C! 14-1 engine in

there with three double-barreled Weber carburetors and a

five-speed gear shift."

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

"So you ran it full out? You couldn't resist?"

73

Francois returned my grin, opening his hands, palms

up.

"Who could? I'll tell you she'll do better than that now.

She sings like a bird at high speed. Mon Dieu, how

sweetly she sings."

The porter finished stowing the luggage in the trunk.

Francois went around and opened the door for Brenna. I

got into the driver's seat. Frangois came back to stand

beside me.

In a low voice, he said, "Everything you asked for has

been installed. You have only to reach down and put your

hand on the gun. You can't miss it."

I turned on the ignition. Francois smiled. "She sounds

like an asthmatic, eh? These Maserati engines all do that

at low rpm."

I put the car in gear. Francois straightened up. He put

his hands on his hips and watched us as we drove Off.

Turning onto the Boulevard d'Athönes, I drove slowly

at first while I became accustomed to the feel of the Cit-

roän's front-wheel drive and its sensitive steering. We

crossed La and continued south on Cours

Lieutand, passing L'ÉcoIe des Beaux Arts et Biblioteque

on our left. At the Boulevard Baille, I turned right for

two blocks, swung around the rotary at Place Castellane

and picked up Avenue Prado. At this time of night the

traffic was comparatively light and I was in no hurry. We

drove out of Marseilles on N559.

The wind was from the sea. I asked Brenna to roll

down her window. The wind came in from her side, filling

the interior, sweeping away the new car smell, whipping

easily at our faces and in our hair.

The road angled behind the headland. The night was

clear. I flicked on the high beams and pressed down on

the accelerator. The Gran Turismo coupe picked up speed

almost instantly, Francois had adjusted the chassis height

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

a little too high for my liking. I moved the control lever

so that the car sank lower to the road. Now I let the speed

build up and as the car gained momentum in high gear, I

thought, Francois was right. She sings at high speed. She

sings like a bird.

Cassis is located on a small bay about twenty-two kilom-

etres from Marseilles. As we passed the turn-off for

Cassis, I began to slow down. The highway angles

southeast after its junction with the road to Aubagne, and

I slowed down even more. I drove on another kilometre

or two before I made a sharp right-hand turn onto a nar-

row lane.

"This isn't the road to Cassis? Is it?" Brenna asked.

"No, we passed it. We're close enough, though. We've

a villa to ourselves."

With my left hand I adjusted the hydraulic control and

the chassis of the Citroen began to rise higher off the

road. I let it run more than halfway up. The road was

potholed and rocky.

For a long time, it turned and twisted atop a plateau

between rocky, limestone spires. Finally, as the headlights

shone out into nothingness, I spun the wheel, the car

turned left and then to the right and we were in a drive

that led to a double garage attached to a large, two-story

stucco-walled building.

I turned off the headlights and the ignition.

' 'This is where we'll be for the week," I said.

I swung my door open and walked around to let her

out. I had to guide her in the darkness along the walk that

circled halfway around the darkened building. To our

right, the slope of lawn ended suddenly. Beyond the drop

was the sea. We could hear the sound of the waves on the

pebbles of the narrow strip of beach.

Two broad steps led to the veranda. As we came up to

the front door, I took my house key out of my pocket and

slid it into the lock—

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And then I was leaping to one side of the doorway,

pulling the girl with me, flattening us both against the

wall. My right hand pressed her against the roughness of

the stucco and my left hand was over her mouth to keep

her from uttering a sound.

That the door was unlocked when it should have been

locked was a small thing in itself. There could have been

any number of reasons for it. The caretaker might have

forgotten to lock it. Or the housekeeper, whom I'd tele-

phoned from Brussels to tell her to be sure the place was

cleaned and stocked with food.

But something, some buried sense far below the level of

conscious thought had taken control of my body and

caused me to leap away from the door as it spilled a flood

of adrenalin into my bloodstream.

Something was wrong. Something screamed danger! at

me.

I didn't try to figure it out. I'd do that later on. Right

now I held the girl, motioning her to keep silent and to

remain where she was. Brenna nodded her understanding

and I took my hand away from her mouth.

Bending down, I slipped off my shoes and flattened my-

self on the verandah floor. I crawled under the window,

rising only at the far end of the porch to drop over the

railing.

I kept the corner of the house at my back so that I

couldn't be seen from the inside as I made my way to the

car. I felt naked without Wilhelmina and Hugo. The tiny

gas bomb attached to my groin had only a limited use. I

needed a gun and Francois had put one in the car for me.

I came up on the driver's side. My hand was on the

door latch when at the last second I remembered that the

interior light would go on the instant the door opened.

I took my hand away.

The windows of the coupe were still open from our

ride. Leaning in, I reached down to the base of the

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driver's seat. Francois had done a workman-like job. The

kick plate swiveled at my touch as my fingers found the

butt of the automatic pistol that was clipped firmly under

the bottom of the seat. I withdrew my arm and head from

the window. Turning, I lowered myself onto my haunches,

my back resting against the door panel.

In the darkness, I checked the weapon. I wished again

that I had Wilhelmina with me. That 9mm Luger was al-

most an extension of my hand, but Francois had gotten

me a fine handgun—a Browning Fabrique National GP35

automatic.

No one but a damn reckless fool ever goes into action

without double checking his weapons. In spite of the ur-

gency I felt, I took time to look it over.

The safety was on. I pressed the magazine release, let-

ting the heavy clip fall into my left hand. One by one

I pressed the bullets into my hand, counting a full load of

thirteen 9mm slugs. I reloaded the magazine.

I checked the receiver. There was a cartridge in the

breech. I pushed the magazine back into the butt and felt

it click into place.

Still in a crouch, I moved away from the car, around

the left front fender, heading for the corner of the garage.

For all my silence, I moved swiftly.

At the garage, I paused only long enough to reach in-

side the doors and take down a folding aluminum steplad-

der. I carried it around the side of the building. Gun in

hand, I mounted the rungs and swung onto the roof of the

garage.

The roof was made of curved overlapping sections of

unglazed tile. I took a few seconds to peel off my socks so

that my feet wouldn't slip on its angled slickness.

With the pistol in my right hand, I moved crabwise up

the tiles of the garage roof in the same way a skier climbs

a slope, my toes gripping the tiles for whatever purchase I

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

77

could find, until, finally, I reached the second story wall

of the viMa.

A few feet away was the window of my bedroom. Like

the rest of the house, the window was dark. I moved

along the wall until I was directly under the window.

When my eyes came up to the level of the window I was

at an angle to the lower left-hand corner of the window,

ready to drop instantaneously if I had to, while I searched

the darkness of the room. I crawled over the sill.

I came out of the darkened bedroom on my stomach in

the silent combat attack crawl taught to every infantry-

man in the world. The thick butt of the Belgian-made

9mm Browning automatic filled my right. fist solidly.

In front of me was the balcony that circled three sides

of the second floor. Below was the entrance hall and part

of the living room. To my right a wide stairway mounted

from the foyer. Doors to four bedrooms opened onto the

balcony.

Belly flat to the floor, I inched closer to the railing until

finally, by lifting my head only slightly, I could look down

into the entrance hall. My eyes searched the gloom. I saw

the front door slightly ajar. Faint moonlight came through

it, but not enough to illuminate the room. I needed move-

ment to be sure that someone was there.

Slowly, careful not to make the slightest of sounds, I

inched my way back into the bedroom. On the night table

beside the bed was a ceramic water pitcher. I picked up

the heavy pitcher in my left hand and moved back to the

doorway again.

I shifted the water pitcher in my left hand until the

base was resting in my palm like a shot-put ball. I

brought it up to my shoulder, then pushed out with my

arm. The pitcher sailed through the air in a giant arc,

striking the door before it dropped onto the slate tiles of

the entrance hall, shattering into fragments and shattering

the silence.

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Immediately there was the blast of a shotgun. The

middle panel of the door blew apart. The muzzle flash

came from my left. Almost before it died away I fired—

aiming three feet behind it. I pulled the trigger a second

time and leaped toward the stairwell. My fingers found

the light switch and flicked it on.

As the foyer chandelier lit, I was ready to fire again.

Because I'd been expecting the light, I had a slight ad-

vantage. I saw the man rise from behind the settee, and I

saw the muzzle of his shotgun turn and point to where I'd

been a moment before. I pulled the trigger.

The first bullet from my automatic caught him in the

shoulder, throwing him off balance. The next shot hit him

full in the chest as he spun sideways. The pumpgun was

falling from his hands when my third shot took him in the

side.

He sprawled face down onto the floor, his arm out-

stretched as if reaching for the shotgun whose butt was

less than a foot away from his fingertips.

I walked down the stairs, the Browning pointing at the•

body. I pushed the shotgun away with my foot. Then L

knelt and, with the barrel of the pistol held against the'

man's head and my finger tightening on the trigger pulLl

until only a hair's weight was needed to set it off, I turned

the body over.

The man was dead.

I rose to my feet. I was sure that no one else was in the:

house, otherwise there would have been another gun join-4

ing in, but I took no chances. I walked to the living room*

archway, flicking on the light switch, and my eyes found!

what I'd been afraid I might find.

I didn't go into the living room. For a long time I re•'

mained in the doorway looking at the sight and feelingll

sick. Then I turned away and went into the dining rooml

and then the kitchen, switching on lights in each roorm;

making sure that no one else was hiding in the house.

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All the time the picture in my mind of what I'd found

in the living room was engraved in a part of my mind

where it would never be forgotten.

Finally, I was satisfied. I went back to the foyer and

turned on the portico light. I opened the smashed door.

"Come on in," I said to Brenna. "For the time being,

it's all over."

The girl was almost in a state of complete collapse. She

had been standing stock still in the darkness beside the

open door for almost twenty minutes while I'd picked up

the pistol and crept into the house. Then, with a sudden

explosion of sound, the front door had been blown apart

only a foot away from her. And then silence again. Fear

can build into panic in an instant yet all that time, not

knowing from instant to the next where I was- or what

would happen to her, she had withstood the terrible

pressure, the fright of waiting and the final startling blast

of gunfire and had fought down the terror that had almost

enveloped her mind.

Brenna came into the brightly lit hallway, stopping in

shock as her eyes adjusted to the light, looking down at

the body. Her eyes came up to meet mine with a silent

question.

"Yes, he's dead."

I saw her look at the pistol in my hand. I snapped on

the safety catch and shoved it into the waistband of my

slacks.

"Who—who is he?" she asked.

I reached out and took her by the arm, pulling her

around so that she was looking directly down at the body.

The man's head was turned at an angle, his cheek resting

on the tiles. I knelt and grasped the dead man's chin in

my hand. I turned the head. Now the face gaped up at

Brenna—the dead, white eyeballs wide open, staring

sightlessly at the chandelier.

"Do you know him?" I asked brutally.

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I saw her face drain to an ashen white. She spun away,

running through the front door to the portico railing. I

saw her bend over and heard the wrenching gasps as she

retched violently over the balustrade.

I let go of the dead man's head and got to my feet.

Brenna came back in, a handkerchief at her lips.

"Did you have to do that?" she said weakly.

"You haven't answered my question. I asked if you

knew him."

Brenna shook her head. "I've never seen him before."

I studied her face, not knowing whether or not to be-

lieve her. I took her by the arm again, walking her out Of

the foyer into the living room far enough for her to see

the body tied to an armchair by its wrists, elbows, chest

and knees. The head was slumped forward. She couldn't

see the face, but she could see that the trousers had been

rolled halfway up the shins and that the bare feet had

been burnt into fire-blackened flesh. A small propane

blow torch lay on its side on the floor beside the chair

legs. Permeating the room was the sickening smell of

scorched meat.

I went over to the body and stepped behind the arm-

chair. Gently, one hand under each side of the jaw, I

lifted the head for her to look at.

She could not tear her eyes away from the thin, rav-

aged, lined face and the white hair.

don't believe it—" she said.

'SI do," I said bitterly. "It's Dieter Hoffman."

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CHAPTER NINE

. Francois? . . .

Allo, Francois?"

"Oui ..

"C'est moi ... I have work for you. Some carpentry, a

little plastering, the disposal of some trash. The place

needs cleaning up. What do you think? Can you oblige

me?"

"Je crois que oui. Yes, I think so. When do you want it

done?"

"Some time today," I said, choosing my words care-

fully. "As early this morning as you can make it."

"Shall I bring a helper?"

"It would speed up the work," I replied. "But he must

be a good man."

"I'll bring Jean-Louis," there was a slight hesitation,

"by far the best workman in town." I caught the emphasis

that Francois had put on the word 'workman'.

"Good. I'll leave the matter in your hands."

"We'll be there."

bientot," I said and put down the telephone. I

looked at my wristwatch. It was after two o'clock.

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"'I think you should go to bed," I said to Brenna. "It's

late."

She had been sitting in the chair beside the desk. The

study was not large—the desk, a couch, two armchairs

across the room and a teak cabinet against the inside wall

was all the furniture it contained.

"Take any of the bedrooms. I'll bring up your

luggage."

"Which is your bedroom?"

"The one directly overhead. Why?"

"I don't think I could sleep alone," she said. c 'Not after

what's happened."

"There are sleeping pills in my medicine cabinet."

'C Yes, that might be a good idea."

"Would you like a drink? Cognac?"

"Not if I'm going to take a sleeping pill. Quinn, what

are you going to do about——

"—Dieter? Nothing, not just now. He'll be taken care

of." I wished she hadn't mentioned Dieter. I tried to keep

my anger out of my voice.

"And the other? You can't leave a dead body—

said it would be taken care of."

"That telephone call to Frangois? What's he going to

do for you?"

"Go to bed," I said wearily. "Stop asking questions."

"He's going to dispose of the bodies for you, isn't he?"

she persisted. I turned my back on her to go to the small

bar cabinet against the wall. I splashed Calvados into a

brandy glass.

"Quinn, who is Franqois that you can call him in the

middle of the night to have him do this for you as if it

were nothing unusual?"

"I'll bring your luggage upstairs," I said, trying to shut

the image of Dieter's tortured body out of my mind. I

sipped at the brandy. Over the rim of the balloon glass

my eyes were devoid of any expression. "If you want to

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

83

sleep in the master bedroom, it's the last doorway you

come to. The servants' stairway is just off the kitchen.

'You won't have to go through the foyer that way."

Brenna came up to me. "Quinn, for god's sake, who

are you? You're not just an arms dealer."

I set the brandy glass down on the cabinet. 'SGoddam

it. Leave me alone," I snarled at her, and walked out of

'the house to the car.

Francois and Jean-Louis were at the villa in less than

an hour.

Francois looked at the body in the foyer. He looked to

the top of the stairs.

"You got him from up there?"

"Yes."

The stocky Frenchman knelt down beside the body,

careful not to kneel in the pool of blood. He examined the

dead man dispassionately. "Three times in the chest. How

many times did you fire?"

"Two in the dark. Three more with the lights onP

"I'm surprised. I didn't think a Browning is that accu-

rate at such a distance."

"I was lucky."

"At a moving target? Don't be so modest." He reached

out and turned the dead man's face up to the light. "Do

you know him?"

'SI was going to ask you the same question?'

"I know him," Jean-Louis spoke up, blowing out the

wax match he had used to light his cigarette.

Francois let the face fall sideways to the tiles of the

floor and looked up at Jean-Louis.

"He was a nothing. A nobody. He was clumsy," Jean-

Louis said scornfully. "No one would trust him with any-

thing important because he was also stupid. Whoever

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hired him for this couldn't have been from Marseilles or

they'd have known his reputation. He's no great loss."

He flicked his match through the open door.

"He was waiting for you?" Francois asked me.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Dieter Hoffman's in the living room," I said. Francois

turned to me with an expression of surprise on his face.

"Dieter?"

I nodded. "He got to Dieter before I arrived."

Frangois said, "Merde," quietly. Then he asked, ' 'Was it

bad for him?"

"Go take a look."

Francois went away. Jean-Louis lounged against the

door frame. Idly, he fingered the splinters where the

middle panel of the door had been blasted by the shot-

gun.

"It's a good thing you weren't standing here when he

fired," he observed casually. "How many times?"

"Twice."

Jean-Louis shook his head. C 'Incompetent! At such a

close range once would have been enough if you had been

anywhere in front of him. But as I said, he was third-rate.

Look at the gun he was using."

"What about it?"

Jean-Louis shrugged. "The gun's decent enough. It's a

12 gauge Bred automatic. Spanish. But see where he's put

an extension magazine on it? That gives him seven shells.

What the hell. Did he think he was going to fight a war?"

Jean-Louis' voice held a note of disdain, a craftsman

commenting on the work of an amateur.

'CAIso, he has a quick-choke tube on the end of the

barrel, which makes the gun even longer. For work like

this, you want something like a P.O.S. 10 gauge double

barrel Something simple, nothing that might possibly jam

up on you. You cut about 30 centimetres Off the barrels.

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That not only makes the gun shorter, but it gives you .a

wide shot pattern. With a spread like that, and 10

gauge—you don't have to aim. You just point the thing

and pull the trigger. Zut! The job's done and you're off.

But this cochon—2'

Frangois came back into the foyer, his swarthy face

even darker with anger. He walked up to the dead body

and stood over it for a second. He spat on it and his leg

lashed out. The toe of his shoe thudded into the crotch

between the outflung legs.

"He's dead. It doesn't hurt him," Jean-Louis comment-

ed.

Francois drew in a trembling breath.

"We'll dispose of them," he said, roughly. "But sep-

arately. I wouldn't insult Dieter by putting him together

with that salaud!"

He looked around the foyer. "You'll need a new door."

I nodded.

"You know where the other two shots went?"

I pointed to the lower part of the wall. "They

ricocheted off the tiles. One here. The other there. And

one went through him completely. Over there."

"Some plaster and paint will take care of it," Francois

said. "Go to bed, mon vieux. Leave everything to us.

Where's the girl?"

"Upstairs."

"She was with you?"

"Yes."

"When you called me?"

"Yes."

"That was careless of you."

suppose it was," I said, "l wasn't thinking,"

Francois touched me on the arm. "You liked the old

man, eh bien?"

I nodded my head.

"So did I. He was more than a friend to me. I've

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known him sincel was a child. He was a friend of my fa-

ther's. Did you know that?"

"You never mentioned it before."

6' There was never a reason before. My father was in

the maquis during the war. Dieter came to stay with us

several times. Only when I grew up did I realize that my

father had been hiding Dieter from the Gestapo. You

know how much courage that must have taken. My father

was a fat, bald, middle-aged shopkeeper who loved his

family. The Boche caught him and hung him. It had noth-

ing to do with Dieter, but for years after the war, until my

mother married again, Dieter would send us money. We

would have starved without it."

Francois smiled ruefully. "My oldest brother was later

killed at Dienbienphu. Ironic, n'est ce pas? My father died

for France so that France could throw away the life of my

brother."

There was nothing for me to say. Jean-Louis stirred

restlessly.

Francois shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and

pushed the thoughts out of his mind.

The night light was the only illumination in the bed-

room when I finally came upstairs. Brenna was still

awake.

"The sleeping pill isn't working. I'm groggy but I can't

fall asleep."

"Do you want another one?"

"No. Just come to bed, please. I'm frightened. I feel

cold."

I took off my clothes and went into the bathroom. I

showered the sweat and the dirt off of me and dried my-

self and came back to her.

"I want to talk," Brenna said. The bed was king-sized.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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She lay against two pillows, her black hair framing her

face. I lay beside her, our legs touching.

"Give me a cigarette, please."

I lit two and passed one to her.

"It was horrible."

"It always is."

"You don't want to talk about it, do you?"

"Does it do any good?"

"Why was Dieter here?"

"l don't know. Whatever it was, it was important. It

was something he couldn't tell me about on the tele-

phone."

"The man you killed. Do you think he was one of the

men who broke into Dieter's house in Brussels?"

' 'I doubt it. This one was from Marseilles. A local thug.

He wouldn't have been used in Brussels. It wouldn't make

sense.

"How did Dieter get here before us?'

"Flew. We took all day by train. He could make it in a

couple of hours by plane. They probably followed him

from Brussels and picked him up at the airport when he

got here."

"Could they have been waiting here for you and Dieter

just happened to walk in?"

I shook my head. "Not likely. Damn few people know

about this place. No one but Dieter knew that I was

headed here. No, Dieter had to have been followed."

"Why would they try to kill you?"

"I don't know. It doesn't make sense. Not until I've

collected the arms."

"Do you think Dieter talked?"

There was a long pause. I crushed out the butt of my

cigarette in the ashtray and said, without looking at her,

"You saw him. You saw what they did to him. Do you

think he talked?"

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Brenna began to cry. "Quinn, I'm sorry. I'm ashamed

of what I said about him in Brussels."

There was no anger in me, just a dull, flat feeling. It

would be so easy to lay the weight of my own guilt on the

ones that Dieter had called "the crazies". To blame Galla-

gher. To blame Brenna.

If I had refused the assignment, if I had said no to

Graham, if I had told Marat to go to hell, would Dieter

now be alive? I knew I was tired. That's all I was sure of.

"'Go to sleep," I said to Brenna.

"How can people be so cruel?" the girl asked. "How

could they do what they did to an old man like that?"

I slid down in the bed, , reached out and turned off the

lamp.

"Did you ever stop to think that it could have been

Gallagher who gave the order?" I asked in the darkness.

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CHAPTER TEN

It was late afternoon when I saw the fat man squeeze

himself out of the taxi that pulled up in the driveway of

the villa.

As the taxi started off, he turned away, brushing at the

seat of his trousers, tugging down each sleeve of his jacket

in turn, and walked down the path to the front of the

house. He stepped lightly to the front door to press the

doorbell. He waited a moment, and when there was no

answer, he pressed it again.

"Can I help you?"

He turned at the sound of my voice. The fat man

smiled pleasantly at me, like a magazine salesman calling

from house to house. He ignored the gun I held in my

hand, the barrel pointing at him.

"Mn Harding?" The accent was pure public school—

British broad Sa', dropped 'r' and with a querying inflec-

tion, but the voice that rumbled out had a shade too

much of practiced timbre and resonance.

"Yes."

"I'm Marius St. Hilaire."

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The expression on his face beamed warmth, an-

nouncing that he expected the response of immediate

recognition. I walked up onto the veranda.' The fat man

held out his hand to be shaken, his smile broadening just

a little.

"What do you want?" I pushed the pistol into the left

side of his trouser waistband.

The smile remained on the plump face, but his eyes let

me read the hurt of rejection. -It was, I thought, a very

mobile face, and whoever St. Hilaire was, he was good at

projecting the feelings he wanted you to see,

"I'm St. Hilaire," he repeated, as if that were explana-

tion enough, letting his hand drop and allowing the jovial-

ity to disappear. The smile was almost gone, barely

enough of it left so that he could bring it back completely

if it suited him. "Hasn't Dieter. Hoffman told you to ex-

pect me?"

I waited. Most people don't know how to respond

when they've asked you a question and you don't answer.

It throws them off; it embarrasses them into saying some-

thing else; it takes the initiative away from them. The

ploy had no effect on the fat man. He simply continued to

gaze at me and wait, and when I didn't answer, he went

on as if I'd replied. "When did you last talk to Dieter?"

Again, I made no response.

Finally, the smile disappeared completely from his face,

and with irritation in his voice, he asked, "Are you sure

that Dieter said nothing to you about expecting me?"

here to introduce us."

c 'Oh, dear," said the fat man. "We're not going to start

answering questions with questions, are we?"

"You tell me," I said.

"I was supposed to meet with you. Dieter •was to be

here to introduce us."

"Why?"

"You are blunt, aren't you? My dear fellow, I've

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known Dieter Hoffman for some thirty years or so. I've

heard about you from him, but I've never before had the

opportunity of meeting you. He must have mentioned me

to you. Especially in the last day or two."

' 'And why should he do that?"

"Because of this little thing you have going with him,"

the fat man said, allowing a clever little smile to come

back onto his lips. It gave his plump face a knowing look.

"I think we'd better go inside," I said.

"Excellent. It's much too hot out here." He followed

me into the house and through the foyer to the study. I

sat down in the swivel chair by the desk. The fat man

dropped into an armchair. He took his handkerchief from

his breast pocket and mopped gently at his brow.

"All right," I said. "Tell me what it's all about."

St. Hilaire folded the handkerchief neatly along its

creases, replaced it in his pocket and patted it flat.

"You met with Dieter yesterday?"

"No."

"Sorry. Day before yesterday. You met with Dieter in

Brussels." It was no longer a question. "In his office first,

and then later, you had a drink with him at the Café de la

Grand' Place, correct?"

"Go ahead."

"If you're wondering how I know this," St. Hilaire said,

"it's because Dieter told me about your conversation with

him. You want him to act as your agent in purchasing a

quantity of arms."

"When did Dieter tell you this?"

"Yesterday."

"You met with Dieter yesterday?"

St. Hilaire shook his head. "No: We talked on the teleu

phone. Dieter called me at my hotel in Paris. He asked

me to meet both of you here at your villa. Don't be so

suspicious, Mr. Harding. How else would I- have known

how to instruct the taxi driver if Dieter hadn't given me

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explicit instructions? You are a bit off the beaten track,

you know,"

"Dieter said he was coming here?"

"Yes, indeed. He was about to catch a plane, to Paris

when he called me. He wanted us to fly down to Mar-

seilles together, but I'm frightened of airplanes. Silly of me.

It's something I simply. can't help. I take them only as a

last resort."

"What time did he call you?"

St. Hilaire reached into his breast pocket and brought

out a slim leather wallet. He extracted a slip of paper

from it. I saw that it was a sheet of hotel stationery:

"Somewhere around eleven-thirty," said St. Hilaire,

holding the paper almost at arm's length, squinting at it

slightly.

"Do you always write down the exact times you receive

telephone calls?" T asked.

St. Hilaire stared at me for a moment. "What an odd

question. Of course not." And then, as he understood, he

smiled genially at me. "Dieter was coming in on the noon

flight from Brussels. He wanted me to meet him at the

airport so we could go on together. That's why I have his

flight schedule written down."

He turned back to the paper. He had difficulty in read-

ing what was scrawled •on it, "If you'll excuse me," he

said to me, and took a pair of black rimmed, half-glasses

out of his shirt pocket. He slipped them on.

"Let's see. He was booked on Sabena flight number

643, leaving Brussels exactly at noontime and scheduled

to arrive at Le Bourget at 12:45. I was to have met him

at Orly-Oest. He said he'd already reserved seats for both

depa}ting 14:10 .

of us on flight number 1232 .

which would bring us into Marseille at . . .

let's see, oh

at 16:30." He looked up from the paper. "There-

yes ....

fore, Dieter called me no later than eleven-thirty. We

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

93

talked for only a few minutes before his flight was called,

you see."

He took off his glasses. "I trust that establishes my

veracity?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps. How did you come down from

"By train. As a matter of coincidence, it was the same

train you were on, Mr. Harding. We didn't get into Mar-

seilles until midnight, as you know. Much too late for a

meeting. That's why Dieter set it for this afternoon. It

would also give him ample opportunity to fill you in about

me."

' "How did you know I was on the afternoon train?"

St. Hilaire smiled pudgily. "I didn't until the moment I

rang your doorbell and you suddenly appeared behind

me. Immediately I set eyes on you, I said to myself, SAh,

he's the chap who was with that strikingly beautiful girl

on the train coming down from Paris!' I only recognized

you because she caught my attention. I must admit I en-

vied you her companionship, old boy' She's quite lovely."

"'And Dieter told you to meet us?"

"Quite right. Where is Dieter by the way?"

"He won't be here," I said. "What was the purpose of

our getting together?"

The genial expression was back on St. Hilaire's face.

"I told you before, old boy. It's about your wanting to

purchase a quantity of arms through Dieter."

"Where do you fit in?"

St. Hilaire said, with a touch of asperity, like a petulant

child, "Dieter really should have told you all this. I'm

here because Dieter doesn't have everything you've asked

for. I have what's missing."

"And what is that?"

"The wire-guided anti-tank missiles."

"Who said anything about anti-tank missiles?"

"Dieter."

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I shook my head. "The list I gave Dieter called for ba-

zookas."

St. Hilaire waved a plump hand at me.

"Much too old fashioned. Thirty years out of date. I'm

sure you'd want the latest equipment."

I leaned back in my chair. "What would you call the

latest equipment?"

"Wire-guided, rocket-propelled anti-tank, SS-II mis-

Siles of the latest design. Over a hundred of them."

St. Hilaire leaned his bulk back into the recess of the

armchair and folded the fingers of his plump hands to-

gether. He beamed at me.

I stared at the fat man.

"You're Mavropoulos."

' 'To some people, yes. I much prefer my real name.

Marius St. Hilaire is my real name you know. And I'm

not Greek, either. Did you know that, Mr. Harding?"

"Did you know that Dieter is dead, Mr. St. Hilaire?"

The smile slid completely off the fat man's face. He

stared at me in astonishment. If he was pretending„ he

was doing a fine job of acting.

"He was killed last night," I said.

St. Hilaire lifted a hand to his face, his thumb and fore-

finger pinching gently at his lower lip.

"You wouldn't care to tell me the circumstances of his

death, would you?"

"He was tortured to death."

St. Hilaire let go of his lip.

"By whom?"

"I don't know," I said.

"I think," said St. Hilaire slowly, "that I shan't ask any

more questions about the matter." He looked around the

study. "Would you be kind enough to offer me a drink,

Mr. Harding? I'm really quite upset about the news. Some

brandy, if you have it."

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

95

I went to the cabinet. I brought out two glasses and a

bottle of Armagnac.

"Thank you," said St. Hilaire, taking the glass from

me. He swallowed a mouthful and blew out his breath.

"Well," he said. "Well. I really don't know• what to

say." He lifted a hand to his face, one finger scratched

gently at a thin, almost semi-circular eyebrow.

"You've made your trip for nothing," I said and waited

to hear St. Hilaire's response.'

St. Hilaire shook his head. "I hope not. Dieter's death

shouldn't affect your purchase. I mean, you do intend to

go ahead with it, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then," said St. Hilaire easily, "without meaning

any disrespect for the dead, you are going to need another

source now that Dieter's out of the picture."

"l haven't given it any thought," I lied, and waited to

hear what the fat man would say.

"From what Dieter told me," St. Hilaire said reflec-

tively, not looking at me, "I gather there is some haste

connected with the venture."

"To a degree."

"In that case I can be of help to you, Mr. Harding. I'm

almost certain I can provide all the weapons you'll need."

"Have you seen the list?"

"How could I? Dieter only. mentioned that such a list

existed, that's all. He was certainly not about to read me

the contents over a public telephone. He did say he had

much of the material in his own warehouses, but he'd

need one or two items from me. However, now that he's

dead, it's all moot, isn't it? His estate will be tied up for

quite awhile. Which, of course, means that you'll have to

go elsewhere to obtain the merchandise. I can help you,

Mr. Harding, if you'll allow me. Do you have a copy of

the list here?"

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"How did Dieter know you were in Paris?" I was

abrupt.

St. Hilaire's lips twitched in amusement. "Are you try-

ing to trap me, Mr. Harding? Dieter called my offce in

Athens. My secretary informed him that he could reach

me at the Plaza Atheneé. He telephoned me there. I

would guess it took him all of' five minutes to locate me.

Now, may I see the list?"

I turned around and unlocked the center drawer of the

desk. I took out two sheets of paper and handed them to

St. Hilaire.

St. Hilaire again took his glasses from his pocket and

put them on. He lifted his head slightly so that he could

peer down through them. When he had finished reading,

he put down the paper and took off the glasses quickly.

As he tucked them away, he said, "No problem vat all,

Mr. Harding. I can provide you with every item. It will

come to a considerable sum, of course."

"Around two million," I said.

"A little more than two million," St. Hilaire replied.

"I'd need a few minutes to work out the exact figure. Can

we do business?"

I sipped the last of my Armagnac, thinking. I turned

the glass slowly in my hand, twisting it by the stem, en-

grossed in watching the last drop of the liquor swirl

around the bottom.

"All right," I agreed.

"It will have to be on a cash basis, of course," St. Hi-

laire said.

"Letter of credit. It's safer for both of us that way. I

don't think either of us would want to carry around two

million in cash, even for a few hours."

St. Hilaire pinched his bottom lip again.

"Irrevocable letter of credit? Goods to be released to

you as soon as my bank sends me verification that they

have the money?"

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

97

"That's a sucker's game," I scoffed openly at him.

"Don't try it on me, Mavropoulos."

"Please," he protested. "Marius, of St. Hilaire. How do

you see the payment being made?"

"The merchandise will be purchased by a legitimate

Liechtenstein corporation. The money will be on deposit

in its account in a Swiss bank in Zurich. I'll have them is-

sue a commercial letter of credit—

"Irrevocable," St. Hilaire said again.

"Of course ... in your favor, You'll be able to transfer

the money to your own account upon presentation of

documents of receipt."

"Not of shipping?"

"Of receipt," I said firmly.

"Most unusual ..

"Signed by me when I take possession."

"Extremely unusual. You're a cautious man, Mr.

Harding."

"Do you blame me?"

St. Hilaire's eyes twinkled. "Not at all. T admire a cau-

tious man. Especially in our business. You'll take pos-

session at my warehouse, of course."

"No."

"You're asking me to deliver the goods as well?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"I'd assumed that you'd want to arrange your own

transport."

I smiled and shook my head. There was no warmth in

my smile. I said, "We're talking about shipping more than

two million dollars worth of arms. Your warehouses are

in Greece—2'

"Some, not all."

"No matter. I just don't think I'd like to be aboard a

ship a mile or so out of Piraeus and look up to see a

Greek destroyer coming up alongside to board us. It

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NICK CARTER: KILLMASTER

would take only a casual hint to one or two officials for

that to happen, Am I rioht?'

St. Hilaire said nothing.

"And after the arms had been confiscated, somehow I

have the feeling they would eventually wind up back in

your warehouses."

St. Hilaire leaned over and placed the sheet of paper on

the desk.

C 'You're making things quite diffcult, Mr. Harding. In

doing business, one must have a certain amount of trust in

the other party. How do you suggest we work it out?"

"I'll take delivery in Marseilles," I said. "The arms are

your responsibility until then."

"Definitely not!" St. Hilaire's head shook from side .to

side, his fat jowls trembling. "Not through French cus-

toms. Absolutely not!"

"I'll take delivery off-shore," I offered. "Outside the

territorial limits. Will that satisfy you?"

St.• Hilaire thought about it. "It could work."

"You make the arrangements for the goods to be

shipped on a coastal vessel. Charter the damn thing be-

cause that's the only cargo I want it to carry. Can you do

that?"

"Yes. I should have no trouble in obtaining such a

vessel."

"Fine. A- small ship with a minimum crew, because

when I take it over, I'm taking over the whole ship. I'll

bring along my own crew."

St. Hilaire leaned back in the armchair, putting the

palms of his hands together, almost in an attitude of

prayer. "You're quite clever, Mr. Harding. As I see it,

you'll take over the cargo and the ship, sign the

documents, and then I, along with the original crew, will

return to Marseilles—"

"—-with documents made out in your name worth over

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

99

two million dollars that no one else in the world but you

can cash. No worries about being hijacked or held up."

St. Hilaire nodded. "It does provide the maximum pro-

tection for both of us, doesn't it?"

"Exactly."

"Who pays for the charter?"

"You do," I said.

"l shall have to include the cost of the charter in my

bill," St. Hilaire said, primly.

"I think you'd have slipped it in anyhow."

"And the insurance?'

C' What insurance?'$

"On the vessel."

"Why should it need more than the insurance it nor-

mally carries?"

"The value of the cargo, for one thing."

"Cargoes are insured separately—and you can't insure

illegal arms," I told him. "Stop trying to con me."

"The ship, then. We're going to turn it over to you.

Anything could happen to it with a new master and a dif-

ferent crew."

' 'Let the owner worry about that. He'll know the risk

he'll be taking, and it'll show up in the cost of the charter.

Why are you concerned with such details?"

said St. Hilaire, primly. "l should

"I'm the owner,"

hate for anything to happen to my property."

I picked up both glasses and went over to the bar. "Do

you want another drink?"

"If you please. When should I expect the return of my

vessel?"

I poured brandy into the glasses and returned to my

chair. St. Hilaire took one of the glasses and sipped deli-

•cately at it.

"Excellent Armagnac, Mr. Harding. When will you re-

turn the ship to me?"

"Give me about a week," I said, finally.

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"l shall add that time to the charter, of course."

"Of course," I said. "Now, how soon before you can

give me the total cost?"

St. Hilaire looked at his wristwatch. "In about half an

hour, if I may use your desk."

I said, standing up.. "Will you need

"Be my guest,"

anything else?"

St. Hilaire heaved himself out of the armchair. "Just

the list."

He sat himself in the chair in front of the desk.

Reaching into his breast pocket, he took out a slim elec-

tronic calculator and a pen. He put on his glasses and

bent over the list, his left hand moving down the column

item by item. Occasionally, his right hand would finger

the calculator swiftly; he would watch the tiny red num-

bers flick and glow on the screen, and he would jot nota-

tions on the sheet of paper. He made little humming

noises in his throat as he worked.

I finished the brandy in my glass and put it down on

the bar cabinet.

"I'll be outside when you're finished," I told St. Hilaire.

The fat man did not look up from his work.

"Yes, yes it shouldn't take long ... do be patient."

I walked out of the living room.

When St. Hilaire came out onto the lawn, I was sitting

in an aluminum and nylon web chaise, sipping a cold

drink, gazing out over the waters of the bay. Beside me, a

small metal table served as the base for an enormous

orange and white sun umbrella held aloft at an angle.

"Beautiful," observed St. Hilaire, making a sweeping

gesture with his arm that encompassed the iiew and the

bay, the lawn and the villa. "I envy you, Mr. Harding."

I saw no point in telling him it belonged to AXE and

that it was used for a lot more than just a vaqation house.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

"What's the total?" 1 asked.

101

St. Hilaire lowered his bulk with great care into a metal

and canvas director's chair. It creaked slightly; he tensed

and then relaxed.

"Two million, nine hundred thousand."

I looked sidewise at him.

"You're a damn thief," I said bluntly. "It shouldn't be

any more than two million. Two million, two—including

the charter, insurance and two weeks in Paris if you want

to throw in a vacation for yourself as a bonus."

"Please don't be facetious, Mr. Harding. I have many

other expenses."

"Including the costs of the bribes you'll have to pay to

whomever you pay them to—it's still no more than two

million, two."

St. Hilaire sighed. "You're a difficult man to do

business with, Mr. Harding. The price is firm. Two mil-

lion, nine hundred thousand."

"Two million three is as high as I'll go."

St. Hilaire took out his handkerchief, patted his brow

and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. He had a

great many gestures, I noticed, most of which he used

with care to emphasize whatever act he was putting on.

"Two million, five hundred thousand dollars, Mr.

Harding. You have no choice. There's no where else you

can go to get, the anti-tank missiles. They simply are not

available anywhere else. At this price, they're a bargain."

don't need those damn rocket launchers,"

I said.

CSNot for my client."

"You're wrong, Mr. Harding. I'm sure your client will

insist on them, even if it means giving up some of the

other items on the list. If we're at an impasse, I suggest

you check with him."

"Do you know who my client is?"

"He's been in touch with me."

"Who? Give him a name."

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"An Irishman, Gallagher."

1 lifted my glass to my lips and took a long swallow. I

put down the glass, reached for a pack of cigarettes, lit

one and blew out a lungful of smoke.

"When did Gallagher get in touch with you?'?

said St. Hilaire, smiling

"About a month ago,"

knowledgeably.

It had been only a few days since I'd walked into Sul-

livan's bar to meet Gallagher for the first time. I thought

about that for awhile. St. Hilaire stirred restlessly:

"He told you then that I'd be representing him?"

"Oh, no." St. Hilaire's gourd of a head shobk back and

forth. His tone was guileless. "Not by name. He said that

within a short time someone would be making a large

purchase of arms for him. He especially wanted 'to be sure

that the purchase included the particular weaponry I was

fortunate enough to have in my possession. Therefore, I

was not at all surprised to receive Dieter's phone call. In

a way, I was surprised that it was Dieter Hoffman and not

Willi VanderHoven or Armand LaCoste. I think you

know why. Dieter was doing less and less trading as he

grew older. He was beginning to develop scruples. It isn't

a thing that does one good in our profession."

I stirred the ice cubes in my drink with my finger,

pushing them aimlessly around in the glass. "Tell me

something, Marius, how did Gallagher happen to know

that you had these missiles?"

'€1 really don't kmow," the fat man replied. "Of course,

had been passing word around—very discreetly, you

derstand—that I had acquired such weapons. Apparently,

Gallagher got wind of it."

"Gallagher's not in the business," I said, lifting my gaze

from the glass in my hand and staring out across the bay.

"l am, yet I hadn't heard about those missiles until the

other day."

"I spoke to very few dealers," St. Hilaire said easily.

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THE GALLAGHER PLOT

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"Not more than three or four that I felt sure I could trust.

Do I have to tell you why I was so careful?"

"Because they're hot," I said. s CThey were stolen from

the Israelis."

I turned to face the fat man. "Marius, the whole deal

stinks," I said quietly.

St. Hilaire froze. "What do you mean by that?"

"The Israelis alone will pay you two million, five

hundred thousand to get back those missiles. You can

peddle them all over Africa. You can sell them to the Cu-

bans, or the Chinese. They'll pay through the nose so they

can copy them. There's a hell of a lot of Russian tanks on

their northern borders. They'd love to knock out a few."

I watched the color drain out of the fat man's face. A

muscle in his left cheek spasmed under the plump jowls. I

leaned toward him.

"How much would you like to get for them, Mavro-

poulos? I 'II take a straight ten percent commission and

still guarantee to net you more than your two million, five

hundred thousand. How's that for an offer?"

St. Hilaire cleared his throat. "That's a very remarkable

proposition, Mr. Harding."

"That's not all. There's something else that bothers me.

And you're smart enough to know that I could figure out

an angle like this."

"Yes?"

'Tm aware of the value of those weapons. Why

couldn't I just pay you the amount you want, give Galla-

gher half the missiles and then sell the rest of them for

whatever I can get for them? It would be one hell Of a

lot—and you know it."

"In that case, my dear sir, go right ahead. You take the

risk! Personally, I'm not prepared to risk having Galla-

gher's men hunt me up some dark night."

S 'Bullshit, Marius! You've got a reputation for taking

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risks. Frankly, I don't think you have those missileS. I

think it's all a con game on your part."

"My dear sir!" St. Hilaire was furious. His face was

suffused, his eyes wide with anger. He rose to his feet. "I

will not stand for such talk!"

"Sit down," I said calmly. "Mavropoulos has a reputa-

tion for being slick. It's something I wouldn't put past

you. Do you have the anti-tank weapons?"

"I most certainly have!"

"Then you give me an honest answer as to why you're

so willing to part with them so cheaply and I'll pay you

the full amount you're asking, Deal?"

St Hilaire nodded. "Because every moment they're in

my hands I fear for my life, Mr. Harding. You mentioned

the Israelis. If they were to find out these weapons were

in my possession, how long do you think it would be be-

fore they'd be after me?"

I didn't tell him that the Israelis already knew.

"Or the PLO." He shuddered delicately. "l understand

the Arabs have a fondness for knives. I've no wish to be

castrated. None at all. No, Mr. Harding, I'll take my two

million, five in a quick, clean deal and be glad to get rid

of the bloody things! The sooner the better! Are you sat-

isfied now?"

"I'm satisfied. It's a deal," I said. "You'll get the

money."

'SThe full amount?"

' 'Every penny," I said. "Two million, five. Under the

conditions I outlined earlier."

"Delivery at sea," said St. Hilaire, reviewing them.

"Letter of credit and all that." The handkerchief came

out of his pocket again and he dabbed at the perspiration

on his forehead. Then he wiped the palms of his hands.

They were sopping wet, I noticed.

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