# The Parisian Affair22

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professional assassin.

I thumbed through the thick pile of papers be-

hind each picture. There were assignment sheets,

medical histories, biographies, and press clippings.

Just about everything I would need for a complete

background check.

"Nick, can we get out of here?" Laufen asked,

tugging at my sleeve. "If I don't get out of these

wet clothes, I think I'm going to catch pneu-

monia. "

"Just a few more minutes," I promised. "I want

to make copies of these and return the originals to

the files." I was tempted to remind her that she had

insisted on coming along, but I decided to let it

pass.

"There's a Xerox machine down the hall. You

might as well let me make the copies—God knows

I've had enough practice. "

The big copier made a quiet humming noise that

was barely audible unless you were standing by it.

Lauren fed the photos and papers in while I held

the flashlight and we soon had full copies of all

three folders. I slipped the whole packet into an

envelope I'd brought along and tucked it under my

belt. If we did run into anyone, I wanted to have

my hands free.

We quickly replaced the originals and began to

thread our way through the desks, back toward the

stairs. It was then that I heard it—the sound of

footsteps almost masked by the hard, drumming

noise the rain made on the windows.

"Down," I whispered, pulling Lauren to the

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floor. We were behind a big metal desk with the

rear wall of the building just a few feet in back of

us. The stairs and elevator were both on the other

side of the room, so our location made an ideal

observation point with a fairly small risk of being

discovered. Of course, I wasn't taking any chances.

I'd already drawn Wilhelmina; thp 9mm Luger felt

cool and comfortable in my hand.

The footsteps grew louder as they reached the

top of the stairs. There were two people coming up,

one heavy-footed, the other light. I peered over the

desk just as they reached the top. In the darkness

they were nothing more than vague, shadowy

forms.

"Turn on a light," a deep, gutteral voice de-

manded. "I'll be damned if I'm going to break a leg

tripping over all this crap. " The words were harsh

and forceful, with just the slightest trace of a

Spanish accent.

"Okay, you don't have to shout," a woman an-

swered.

I heard a click and one of the desk lamps came

on, casting a pale cone of light on the two figures.

One of them I knew and one of them I didn't.

The man was squat and powerfully built, with

broad-shoulders and a barrel-chest. His face was

squarish and craggy, featuring thick brows, a bro-

ken nose, and a drooping moustache that didn't

quite hide the hard set of his mouth. In the

lamplight his face looked like the crudely carved

stone head of an Aztec deity—-one of their many

cruel and uncompromising blood-gods. He was

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wearing a rumpled gray suit and a heavy overcoat,

the front of which was stained with cigarette ash.

The pink rosebud pinned to his lapel was withered

and brown at the edges.

"Let's get on with it, bitch. I don't have all

night."

"Sure, Hector, whatever you say. "

I'd recognized the woman he'd called "bitch" as

soon as the light went on. It wasn't difficult, con--

sidering that I'd been looking at her picture only a?

few minutes earlier. Gail Huntington looked even-

beeter in person. The black-and-white photo'

couldn't capture the warm chestnut color of her

shoulder-length hair or the depth of her luminous/

green eyes. It also didn't hurt that she had a figure

that would make any man stop and stare. The blue!

jumpsuit she was wearing hugged the contours of,

her body like a second skin. Now I could see why

Lauren had developed an inferiority complex

working there.

I watched as the American model leaned overl

one of the desks and detached a plastic-wrapped

bag tapped beneath it. She carried it over to the

man called "Hector," holding it out in front of her

at arm's length. I had a feeling that she didn't want

any physical contact with him.

"The weight feels right," he said, hefting the bag;

with one hand. "I don't think you'd be stupid/

enough to try and short me. You wouldn't look

nearly so pretty after they fished your bloated body

out of the Seine. Comprendo?"

"I'd never do anything like that," she said quick-

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ly. Her voice was dry-throated and crackling with

fear.

"How reassuring," Hector said, grinning. "As

long as you remember that, we won't have any

problems. Because I settle them all the same way——

swiftly and eternally."

The hand he'd kept in his overcoat pocket came

out holding a gun. It was a German-made Sauer-

Selbsladepistole, a 7.65mm automatic that they'd

stopped making after the war. He held it low and

to the side, not quite pointing at her. Still, he only

needed to move it a few inches for a perfect stom-

ach shot.

"Can't you put that away?" she asked meekly.

"Please , Hector."

He smiled, exposing uneven teeth stained with

nicotine. "It makes you nervous, no? I like it when

people are nervous, they listen better that way.

Now I want you to pay close attention to what I'm

going to say."

She nodded silently, her eyes never leaving the

gun.

"The rendezvous I told you about before is defi-

nite now. The consul is anxious to meet you and

it's going to be big. A real killing, unless you screw

it up."

"I won't, Hector. I promise you everything will

be perfect."

' 'It had better be. Now get going. When I leave

here in five minutes, I want you to be halfway

home."

Without speaking she headed for the stairs,

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pausing only once for a quick, frightened glance

over her shoulder. I listened as the sound of her

footsteps faded into silence.

Hector put the plastic bag down and lit a

cigarette. Ilis other hand was still loosely gripped

around the vintage automatic.

I slipped my arm around Lauren and pulled her

close. She'd been shivering ever since we'd

crouched down behind the desk. Whether it was

from her wet clothes or Hector's presence, I

couldn't be sure. Most likely, it was a combination

of both.

When five minutes had passed, Hector ground

out his second cigarette on the desk top and slipped

the package into his overcoat pocket. He took a

slow, careful look around the room and thcn

switched off the light. Lauren and I listened to his

heavy tread on the stairs and then, a few seconds

later, the sound of the street door closing.

I helped Lauren up and tucked Wilhelmina back

into my shoulder hoister.

"What an evil man," she said in a hushed voice.

"Have you ever seen him before?"

She shook her head. "He isn't someone you're

likely to forget."

When we reached the street I saw his broad back

about a block and a half ahead of us. He was

headed south, walking at a leisurely pace in spite of

the rain. We closed the distance to a couple of hun- •

dred feet and followed him for three blocks until he I

entered an apartment building on Rue de Belgrade..

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Standing in the shadows, I watched the lights go on

in the third-floor front apartment. It was a pretty

good guess that our friend Hector was home for

the night.

"I'm freezing," Lauren complained. "Can we go

back to the hotel now, Nick?"

"I have to make a phone call first, but there's a

café down there on the other side of the street. I

think we both could use a double Remy to fight off

the chill."

It was near closing time and the café was

almost empty. The man behind the zinc poured us

generous doubles and gave me a jeton for the

phone. While I made my call, Lauren pulled up a

chair next to the big pot-bellied stove that heated

the place. When I looked back over my shoulder, I

saw she was smiling again.

"This is N3," I said after I'd exchanged the rec-

ognition code with the woman who answered. "l

want round-the-clock surveillance, effective imme-

diately, on number 16 Rue de Belgrade and

number 20 Avenue Gabriel." I went onto describe

Hector and Gail Huntington, and told the field-

office operator that under no circumstances were

the agents to come in contact with the two subjects.

I hung up the phone and sat there for a moment.

Our trip to the agency had turned up more than I

expected, but it also gave me some new questions to

find the answers to. Like, who was Hector and

what were he and the American model up to? And

what did the bag contain—narcotics, explosives, or

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something else? Three words that Hector had

spoken kept running through my mind-—"ren-

dezvous, consul, killing. " Maybe I'd already föund

my assassin.

54


Chapter Seven

The bedside phone rang a few minutes after nine. I

picked it up quickly before the noise could waken

the tousle-haired figure lying next to me.

"Allö. "

"Bon jour, M'sieur Carter. This is the concierge

speaking. I hope I didn't disturb you, but you

asked to be informed the moment your car arrived.

I'm happy to say it's here. I took the liberty of hav-

ing your driver put it in our garage. If you like, I

can send the keys up to your room."

"Thanks, but I'll be coming down in about fif-

teen minutes. Don't bother to have the attendant

bring it around. I'd rather take care of that my-

self. "

"Whatever you wish, M'sieur Carter."

I was glad to hear it had finally arrived. When

Hawk had ordered me to Paris, I'd had to leave the

Ferrari 512 Boxer down in Naples and take the

first available flight. Before I'd left, I'd made ar-

rangements with Dave Harris, an old friend and

ex-North American Racing Team engineer, to

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drive the car up for me. It was a favor he'd been

more than willing to do. When I'd bought the

twelve-cylinder Ferrari, I'd let him spend a few

hours behind the wheel. It was a classic case of love

at first sight. Even though we were good friends, I

wasn't surprised that he hadn't waited to say hello.

There was probably some car he wanted to look at

here in Paris. Dave had always related better to

cars than to people.

"Morning," Lauren said in a soft, sleepy voice.

"Good morning. I've got to go out for awhile.

Why don't you sleep in?"

"Excellent idea," she muttered, smiling at me

with half-closed eyes. She sighed once and rolled

over on her stomach, her long legs kicking back the

covers.

I knew I was beginning to care too much for this

lovely and vulnerable woman. It was an occupa-

tional hazard that comes from too many nights

spent in dark doorways and too many face-to-face

meetings with sudden death. God knows, I'd had

more than my share of women—beautiful, exotic,

and talented women. But there was something spe-

Cial about Lauren. I didn't look forward to the day

when it would have to come to an end.

After I'd showered, shaved, and dressed, I had

just enough time left to gulp down a cup of room

service coffee. Neither Bellows nor Monroe, the

field agents in charge of the surveillance teams, had

phoned in yet, which meant that nothing out of the .

ordinary had taken place. Still, I was anxious to be •

there myself. And I'd decided the Huntington

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stakeout would be first on my list.

Her file had made for some very interesting read-

ing. First, there was her background. According to

her personal data sheet, her mother had died in

childbirth and she'd been raised single-handedly by

her father, Sergeant Vincent Huntington, an Army

weaponry instructor. She'd participated in numer-

ous rifle and handgun competitions, and had won

nearly a dozen trophies by the time she was seven-

teen.

The other thing that had caught my eye was of a

rather different nature. Written at the top of her

employment record in thick block letters were the

words: "Refuses to work with blacks of any na-

tionality." The single word "blacks" had been un-

derlined three times for emphasis.

The marksmanship and the racism fit in per-

fectly with the profile I'd been developing of our

unknown assassin. Add the scene I'd witnessed last

night and it made an even stronger case against

her. I certainly wasn't eliminating Christine Calton

and Ann-Marie Michaels yet, but Gail Huntington

was far and away my leading candidate.

I spotted the Ferrari the moment I walked

through the garage door. Harris had backed it into

a corner slot where it was less likely to get clipped

by a careless driver. The 512 is a sleek-and graceful

two-seater with a low roof and a steeply slanting

windshield and hood. Mine was British racing

green in color. The car was too conspicuous to use

for tailing jobs, but unparalleled when it came to

precision driving and speed. It could go from zero

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to seventy in 6.8 seconds with a top speed of one

hundred and sixty-four mph.

I eased it out into the flow of traffic and headed

north on Avenue Montaigne. Like Rome, Paris is

one of those cities where drivers are not noted for

their courteous attitude toward pedestrians. They

prefer flicking their brights to using their brakes. It

sometimes makes crossing the street a real test of

your running ability.

I crossed the Champs Élysées through the

Rond Point and turned right on the Avenue

Gabriel. Number 20, where Gail Huntington lived,

was a small but well-kept building with a porte

cochére gateway and a cobblestone courtyard in

front. I drove by slowly but didn't stop. In my rear-

view mirror I caught a glimpse of Steve Woodriss,

an AXE field operative attached to the Paris office.

He was sitting in a blue Renault parked directly

across from the building. If he'd seen me, he did

nothing to acknowledge it. I drove two more

blocks down Gabriel and parked the car opposite

the British Embassy.

"Nick, old boy. They told me you'd be dropping

by. How are you?"

"Fine, Steve," I said, sliding into the front seat.

"How about yourself?"

"Couldn't be better, thank you. The American

girl took off half an hour ago with Monroe tailing

her. Left me here to keep an eye on the place."

"Any activity?"

'*No, it's been as quiet as a country churchyard. "

Some people think that vodka doesn't have any

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odor, but Woodriss literally reeked of it. I'd caught

the full power of his sour breath when he'd turned

to answer my questions. On the seat beside him

was a brown paper bag just about the right size and

shape to hold a pint.

"Care for a nip?" he asked when he saw me look-

ing at it. "I know it's against the regs," he added

quickly, "but I've got to have something to keep the

old circulation going."

"No thanks, Steve."

' 'Suit yourself," he said, turning his red-rimmed

eyes back to the building.

It's never pleasant to watch someone falling

apart. Woodriss had been a good agent once; not

Killmaster level, but a solid and capable field man.

That was before the Khmer Rouge got hold of him

back in '75. He'd been heading out of Cambodia

with important information about troop move-

ments in the interior. When we'd finally gotten him

out two months later, there wasn't a whole lot left

of the man we'd known. The physical scars even-

tually healed, but time didn't seem to help what the

Khmer Rouge had done to his mind.

AXE always takes care of its own. Hawk gave

him a desk job in Paris when he was well enough to

go back to work. He'd been there ever since then,

shuffling papers and gradually drinking more and

more. He could still handle the daily routine, but

they rarely sent him out on even a simple sur-

veillance assignment unless they were understaffed.

"Cigarette?" Woodriss offered, holding out a

pack of Craven A. I would have preferred my own

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custom brand, but I took one just the same. He

already felt bad enough that I'd caught him drink-

ing; there was no need to make him feel worse.

His hand trembling slightly, he lit us both, and

tossed the match out the window. The cigarettes.

were only one of the British mannerisms he had.

Other more obvious ones were his neatly trimmed

"regimental" mustache and the Harris tweed

sports coats he wore year round. Actually, he was

Anglo-American, since his mother was from Lon-

don and his father from Baltimore. He'd gone to

one of the better English schools and always took

a great deal of pride in wearing the school tie. If he

hadn't been recruited by AXE, it could have just as

easily wound up working for Britain's M15.

"You know I'm taking an early retirement," he

said, breaking the long silence. "End of the year.

I've already put a down payment on a small house

on the Costa del Sol. I don't think I'm going to

miss this much. A few people like yourself maybe,

but that's all. I'll give you the address and if you're

ever down that way, you can stop by for a visit."

"I'd like that, Steve."

"So would I." He smiled and turned his face

back to the window.

Suddenly, a big truck moved out of the traffic,

pulling in close to us. It stopped a few feet in front

of the Renault, wedging us between two parked

cars and blocking off our view of the building. The

gold lettering on the side read Cygne Meubles, but

if it was a furniturevan, they'd certainly picked an

odd place to park.

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I slipped Wilhelmina out, keeping the Luger low

and out of sight.

"Nick," Woodriss said quietly. "I'm not armed.

I'm sorry, but I didn't think it would be that kind

of job."

I cursed him silently, but said nothing. I was too

busy watching the rear-view mirror. Three men

were approaching us from behind. They were wear-

ing workman's coveralls, but I don't think they'd

ever moved any furniture. It's not easy to carry a

sofa and a Stoner light machine gun at the same

time.

The tight formation fanned out, with one of

them hanging back while the other two moved up,

one on either side of the car. They stopped when

the muzzies of the A1's were level with the open

windows.

"What's the meaning of this?" Woodriss de-

manded. He sounded like a shocked British tourist

who'd just found a dead moth floating in his soup.

But our friends weren't buying it. The one cover-

ing Steve prodded him with the gun and said, "Out

and keep your

of the car .

. slowly please . . .

hands up where I can see them."

He spoke with a thick Spanish accent, Colom-

bian possibly or Venezuelan. Both he and his two

partners were short and muscular, with swarthy

complexions and thick black hair. From their high,

angular cheekbones and full lips, I guessed that

there was more than just a trace of Indian blood in

their ancestry. They opened the car doors for us so

we could keep our hands at eye level.

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When I'd realized that we didn't have the fire-

power to take them on, I'd slipped Wilhelmina un-

der the seat. Anyway, one gun would have been

useless against three light machine guns at close

range. They had the momentary advantage and I

wanted to keep it that way. If we played this right,

it could possibly lead me straight to the embassy

assassin.

"Don't think I won't inform the proper author-

ities," Woodriss said in a quivering voice. He was

still playing the outraged innocent, trying to gain

information and keep them off balance at the same

time. ' 'If you think you're going to get away with

this," he went on, "I have to warn you that .

The rest of the sentence was lost as the butt of the

Stoner came crashing down on his face.

Woodriss staggered against the side of the trunk ,

his broken nose pouring out blood. He wobbled a

bit, but managed to stay on his feet. Slowly, so that

the move wouldn't be misinterpreted, he eased out

the handkerchief from his breast pocket and

staunched the bleeding.

The gunman who'd clubbed him smiled and the

other two smiled back at him. He was fast and he

knew it. Much faster than I'd expected.

They herded us to the rear of the truck, where

one of them jumped up on the tailgate and un-

locked the twin steel doors. He stepped back about

ten feet and motioned us up. "Move it,"

the man

behind me ordered, just in case I hadn't gotten the

message.

We climbed in with the other two following at a

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safe distance. Then they closed and bolted the

doors. From the outside it had looked like a nor-

mal moving van, but the dim light from the single

Coleman lantern showed me they'd made one ma-

jor interior alteration. Soundproofing. The walls,

ceiling, floor, and doors were all covered with a

thick layer of sound-absorbing tiles.

We were on one of the busiest streets in Paris,

only a few blocks away from the British and Amer-

icanembassies, and yet they could have started fir-

ing all three Stoners and no one would have heård

a thing. What we'd walked into was nothing less

than a killing ground on wheels.

"I see you're admiring the modifications," the

one who had entered first said, smiling. "It was my

own idea, and I think, you'll have to admit, a fairly

ingenious one. We've used it on several occasions

with great success."

"I'm sure you have," I said, looking at him more

closely. He was slightly taller than his two compan-

ions and his features were more refined. But what

really set him apart was his speech---clear, unac-

cented Middle American.

"University of Minnesota," he said as though he

had read my thoughts. "My father and brothers

went there also; it's a Rodrigo family tradition. But

enough talk about myself. Which one of you would

like to start explaining why you were watching

Mademoiselle Huntington's apartment?"

"That's ridiculous," Woodriss protested. "l

wasn't watching anyone's flat, I was merely waiting

for a friend—Mr. Carter here. We were about to

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take off when you blocked in my car."

"How unfortunate," Rodrigo said, grinning. 'VA

very nice story except for one detail. You've been

parked across from the apartment since three this

morning. Nobody waits for a friend that long. "

I could see this wasn't getting us anywhere and

that the conclusion to our little chat had already

been predetermined. Whatever we said, Rodrigo

intended to terminate us right here in the middle of

Paris. Still, I needed to keep him talking if we were

going to have any chance at all of surviving.

"I think I'd better explain our real reason for

being here," I said with quiet resignation. "It might

help if you took a look at my wallet first."

"All right," Rodrigo said, "but take it out slowly

and keep both hands out as you approach me."

I did as he asked. Rodrigo took the wallet from

my hand and motioned me back. He studied it for

a moment and then tossed it on the floor.

"Amalgamated Press and Wire Services," he said

slowly. "l fail to see what that has to do with the

situation. "

"It's very simple," I said. "Both Woodriss and

myself are working on an article, an exposé really,

detailing what goes on behind the scenes in the

modeling business. I'm sure you know what I mean

—models being forced to sleep with agency clients,

orgies, drugs, all-expense-paid junkets. Not that I

think Miss Huntington is involved in anything like

that,"

I added quickly. "It's just that as a fellow

American I'd hoped she'd be able to help me make

a few contacts. I called her several times, but she

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refused to meet with me. I thought maybe if we met

face to face, seemingly by chance, she might be

more willing to talk."

Rodrigo stared at me for a moment and then

laughed. "You show more imagination than your

friend, Mr. Carter, but your story is still full of

holes. Why didn't Woodriss here go after Gail

when he saw her leaving this morning? Another

man followed her, but he just stayed where he was

and continued to watch the house. You see, we also

had someone watching Miss Huntington—some-

one who was already here when your two friends

arrived. "

"Perhaps you're with a rival news service?" I

suggested. I didn't mind playing dumb, just as long

as I could keep him talking.

"Hardly, Mr. Carter. I have a great deal of mon-

ey invested in Gail and like any good business man,

I like to keep an eye on my investments. Perhaps

now you'd care to have one more try at explaining

yourself?"

I shook my head. "l told you the truth. If you

can't accept it, then there's nothing else to say."

I'd stalled long enough to accomplish what I had

in mind. The single Coleman lantern had given me

the idea. It really only illuminated a small area of

the van and if I could position myself where part of

my body was in shadow, I'd be able to gradually

ease Hugo out of my chamois arm-sheath and into

my hand. I could have done it easily by flicking my

wrist, but that would have taken a split second, a

split second I couldn't spare. I had to have it in my

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hand when we made our move. OtherwiseÄhe

Stoners would cut us down where we stood.

I'd managed it with the press card. After I'd

handed it to Rodrigo, I'd moved back close to

where I'd been standing before. Only now I was

about a foot and a half closer to the wall. My right

arm and shoulder were just outside the light spill.

With my captor paying more attention to Rodrigo

than to me, I soon had the pencil-thin stiletto rest-

ing comfortably in my hand. Now all I had to do

was signal Steve so we could move in unison. But

we hadn't worked together in years and I couldn't

think of one damn code word that would send him

into action.

"This is very disappointing," Rodrigo said soft-

ly. "l had hoped that one of you would be a little

more forthright. Because I am going to find out

why you've been spying on Gail. After Juan and

Fredrico finish with you, you'll be begging to tell

me. They always enjoy these things—the simple

pleasure of primitive amusements—but believe me

you won't enjoy it. Is there anything else you want

to say, Carter?"

There was, but not to Rodrigo. I had finally

found the right word for Steve: "Harrow."

We both dived at the same time. I came in low,

under the muzzle of the Stoner, burying Hugo to

the hilt in the Indian's stomach. He screamed and

twisted as I raised him over my head, his legs kick

ing frantically. The A1 slipped from his grasp, let

ting loose a burst of rapid fire as it clattered to the

floor.

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I hurled the dying man at Rodrigo, who fired

wildly, stitching a bloody line across the flying

corpse. The impact of the body knocked him to the

floor and sent the Stoner skating across the tiles.

At least for the moment, Rodrigo was out of the

game.

I turned just in time to see the other Indian snap

Woodriss's neck. It made a sharp cracking sound

and then his watery blue eyes went dead. The Indi-

an let him fall to the floor and turned to face me.

We were both about six feet from where one of

the Stoners lay between us. I began to move slowly

forward with Hugo in my hand, the long, thin

blade smeared with blood. The Indian grinned,

reached behind his back, and came out with his fist

wrapped around a wicked-looking ebony-handled

dagger.

He went into a crouch as we closed in on the

machine gun, his knife hand feinting and jabbing. I

knew what he was trying to do—-he was trying to

keep me from looking at Rodrigo. There'd been

just enough time for him to recover and shove the

body off. Maybe he was already bringing the

Stoner into firing position.

I raised Hugo and threw it in a spinning arch

that drove it into the Indian's chest just below the

breastbone. He Ict out a shrill, piercing scream as a

crimson stain began to spread across the front of

his coveralls. He tried to pull the stiletto out, but

his legs buckled and he hit the floor with an echo-

ing crash.

I dove, rolled, and came up with the Stoner in

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my hand. I swung it toward the rear of the van

where I knew Rodrigo would be waiting for me.

But it turned out I was wrong. He wasn't waiting to

blow me away and he wasn't still pinned beneath

the dead Indian—in fact, he wasn't there at all.

I held on to the Stoner and probed the shadows,

walking a complete circuit of the van. There was no

place for him to hide; just a few packing cases scat-

tered about, none of them large enough to conceal

a man. Then I saw it—a thin strip of light about

three feet long where the floor and wall came to-

gether.

I moved in from the side and cautiously pushed

the wall above the line. It gave way under my hand

and daylight flooded the interior of the truck. A

built-in escape hatch. Rodrigo had decided not to

hang around and see how the fighting came out.

He'd done a "rabbit" on his friends, turning tail

and scurrying to safety even though the odds were

on their side.

Turning away from the escape hatch, I walked

over to where Steve lay sprawled out on his side. I

rolled him onto his back and closed his bloodshot

eyes. Then, almost without thinking, I reached

down and straightened the school tie he'd always

been so proud of. During the last few years, he

hadn't been much more than a burn-out shell of a

man who drank to keep his ghosts at bay. Still, he

hadn't lost his nerve or tried to make a run for it.

Despite everything that had happened to him, he

would never be one of the Rodrigos of this world.

I left Woodriss and pulled Hugo out of the!

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Indian's chest, wiping the blade clean on his cov-

eralls before I slipped it back into my arm-sheath.

tit was time to get out of this charnal house on

wheels. I retrieved my wallet and pushed open the

escape hatch, jumping down into the sun-filled

Gtreet.

I walked back to the Renault for Wilhelmina

nnd then made a phone call in a nearby café. In

hbout ten minutes, two men in work clothes would

come and drive the "furniture" van away. Steve

would get a decent, if somewhat quiet burial, and

maybe the AXE lab crew would come up with a

:ead or two from their examination of the truck.

"Harrow," I said under my breath as I crossed

the cobblestoned-courtyard of number 20 Avenue

Gabriel. I'd known Steve would move on that

word because it meant so much to him. Harrow . .

the name of the English school he'd attended.

69


Chapter Eight

I stood outside Gail Huntington's door and liv

tened to the sound of the bell fade back into s

lence. That was the third time I'd rung it. Eith

she wasn't back yet or she wasn't opening the d

to unexpected callers. It didn't make any differen

to me. I knelt down and picked the "burgla

proof' double-lock system in just under tw

minutes.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, r

vealing a circular foyer with a polished marb

floor and twin Empire side-tables, each one bea

ing a large vase of freshly cut flowers.

"Miss Huntington,"

I called out, movi

through the archway and into the living room.

also was deserted, but the furnishings told m

something about the owner. There were pillows e

erywhere, large and small ones in different shad

of pastel silk. "I hey were piled up in corners a

scattered over the couch along with almost a doze

fur and sheepskin rugs. She was obviously the kin

of woman who liked things soft, comfortable, an

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not too far out of reach.

Then there were the ashtrays. Every one I saw

was filled to overflowing with crushed-out butts,

each of the filters ringed with deep-red lipstick

smears. Maybe she was a lousy housekeeper or just

damn nervous. Considering the way Hector had

treated her last night, nervous seemed the most

likely choice.

There was nothing unusual about the guest

room, kitchen, or bath, but the master bedroom

had several interesting touches. Like a fully

stocked wet bar in one corner and the huge mirror

suspended over the king-sized bed. She hadn't had

a chance to make it before she left. The pale-blue

I satin sheets were rumpled and twisted as if she'd

spent a restless night. Next to it on the floor, an

empty Moet bottle floated on the surface of a

water-filled ice bucket.

I had a feeling that she spent most of her time

here and it seemed as good a place as any to start

a thorough search. Ten minutes later I knew I'd

been right when I found the false-bottomed an-

tique dresser. It took me a while to figure out how

to open it, but finally I twisted one of the rosette-

carved knobs and a deep wooden tray slid out.

There was nothing feminine or soft about its

contents: a Russian Dragunov, one of the few semi-

automatic rifles specifically designed for sniping;

and three handguns—a Luger, a snub-nosed Colt,

and a single-action Smith and Wesson .357. All

four of them were perfect weapons for killing at a

certain range. I checked over each of them care-

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fully; they were all loaded, spotlessly clean, and in

perfect working order. There were also four full

boxes of ammo stacked in the drawer beside them.

The innocent explanation, the one her data sheet

provided, was that she was just a "gun nut" who/

liked to test her marksmanship in competitive(

shooting events. But her little arsenal was also,

something else—it was every type of weapon a proe

fessional assassin would ever need.

I put everything back the way I'd found it and

slid the drawer back into place. It took me an hour

to search the rest of the apartment, but I didn't

turn up anything worth a second glance. It was

almost noon, time for me to collect the Ferrari and

drive over to the other stakeout.

I locked up, using the picks again, and had just

slipped them back in my pocket when I heard th

sound of the elevator doors sliding open.

I quickly put my finger to the bell as a cool,

feminine voice asked, "What the hell do you think

you're doing?"

72


Chapter Nine

I turned around and smiled. "Miss Huntington?" I

asked tenatively.

"Yes, I'm Gail Huntington. Now would you

mind telling me what you're doing here? The con-

cierge has instructions not to let anyone past the

desk without phoning me first. And never," she

added tersely, "to allow anyone up here if I'm not

home."

"I didn't see any concierge," I said, shrugging.

That was true enough; I'd picked the lock on the

service door and come up the back stairs. "I would

have waited in the lobby," I went on, "but since we

had an appointment, I figured you were expecting

me."

"Appointment?" She repeated the word with a

puzzled expression on her face.

"Yes," I said, smiling again. "Don't you re-

member? I'm Nick Carter, Amalgamated Press and

Wire Services." I flipped open my wallet and held

it out so she could see the ID card.

"l still don't understand," she said slowly, but

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there was no hostility in her voice now.

Seeing her close-up for the first time, I couldn't

help wondering how anyone that beautiful could

have anything in common with Rodrigo and Hec-

tor. But then, money and politics make for some

pretty strange relationships. On this morning she

was dressed in beige slacks and a rust-colored silk

blouse that complimented her shining chestnut-

brown hair. She wore surprisingly little makeup for

a model, and the only jewelry she had on was a

simple gold chain around her neck. I guess when

you look that good, you don't need a lot of extras.

"I called you last month," I continued, "and we

set up an interview for noon today. It's for the arti-

cle I'm doing on successful American women

working in Paris. Does that sound familiar?"

"Frankly, no. Not that I doubt your word," she

added quickly. "It's just that I've been very busy

lately and sometimes these things slip my mind. If

it won't take too long, I'll be happy to talk with

you."

"Half an hour at most. "

She fished a ring of keys out of her shoulder bag

and unlocked the door. "After you," she said, step-

ping to the side. She'd moved just enough to let me

by, but not without brushing up against her. If that

was the way she wanted to play it, it was fine with

me. I slid past, my leg grazing her thigh. She'd

done it casually, but it was one of the most sexual

split seconds I'd ever spent with my clothes on.

"We can talk in the living room," she said, lead-

ing me across the foyer with her hand on my arm.

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"I usually have a glass of wine around this time of

day. Would you care to join me?"

"Thanks, but don't go any trouble on my ac-

count."

"It's no bother," she said, flashing me a warm

smile. "Just make yourself comfortable and I'll be

right back."

I watched her make a graceful exit, her hips

swaying gently as she strode through the arched

door that led to the kitchen. Pushing some of the

pillows aside, I settled down on the couch and lit a

cigarette. I needed a minute or two to think this

thing through.

She'd fallen for my "appointment" story, or at

least it seemed that way on the surface. But there

were a few other factors to be considered. Like the

strong possibility that she was the graveyard sniper

who'd blown Julot away and that she recognized

me as the man who'd come to meet him. Or that

she'd been in contact with Rodrigo and had let me

talk my way in.

The transition from hostile to more than friendly

had been a little too sudden for my taste. Maybe

the smiles, the wine, and the come-on were all a

part of her act. If so, she was damn good at it. I'd

been in this type of situation many times before.

About one out of every six had turned out to be a

setup—-an attempt to get classified information, or

else to terminate me. I'd probably know within the

next hour: business as usual or just another victim

of Carter's boyish charm?

I heard the tap of her heels returning from the

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kitchen. I quickly unstrapped Wilhelmina and

Hugo and slipped them under a pillow. If she was

going to try some more body language on me, I

didn't want to have to take time out for awkward

explanations. But if things turned sour, the Luger

and stiletto were still close at hand.

"Now that didn't take so long," she said, re-en-

tering the room. She was carrying an open red bot-

tle of Pouilly-Fuissé in one hand and a pair of

long-stemmed glasses in the other. "Will you pour,

Nick?" she asked, offering me the bottle.

"My pleasure." I filled both glasses to the half-

way point, leaving room enough to savor the bou-

quet. There was another, stronger scent nearby.

Gail had daubed on perfume, a heady, exotic fra-

grance that reminded me of the jungle. She also

had decided we were now on a first-name basis.

"You don't have to rush with the interview," she

said softly. "I phoned the agency and told them to

cancel my afternoon shooting. I thought it was the

least I could do under the circumstances. I'm usual-

ly not that rude, or forgetful. Honest."

"You don't have to apologize," I told her. "It's

just as much my fault. I should have called you

yesterday and confirmed it. I really appreciate your

giving me the extra time."

"l wouldn't have it any other way," she said in a

breathy whisper.

The message was clear enough. If I wanted her,

I could have her. And I did want her, even if the

phone call she'd just told me about was to Rodrigo

and not to the Agency Castel.

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She picked up her wine and sat down beside

me. At close range her perfume was almost

overpowering. Images flashed through my mind——

a dark, sweltering rain forest; a jaguar stalking its

prey; a rough stone altar. All of them seemed ap-

propriate for Gail Huntington.

"Well," she said pleasantly, "what would you

like to know? I've done a number of interviews be-

fore, but everyone seems to have a different set of

questions. Some of which I wouldn't answer, even

for you."

"Don't worry," I said, laughing. "I'm doing this

for a family-oriented magazine. Since we have

plenty of time, why don't we start at the beginning?

The agency told me something about your

background. .

. that you were what we used to call

an 'army brat' and that as a teenager you were a

prize-winning handgun and rifle shot."

"That's right. My father was an Army weaponry

instructor. While the other girls on the base were

still playing with dolls, he had me out on the range

blasting away at targets with his .45 service re-

volver. Since he couldn't have a son," she said,

grinning, "he had to settle for a tomboy."

"He must be very proud of you."

"If he were still alive he would be," she said in a

cold, flat voice. "He died five years ago. He was on

his way home one night when three black bastards

jumped him in the base parking lot. They razored

him so bad that he bled to death before they could

get him to a hospital."

The bitterness and hatred there was so intense I

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could almost feel it. Her eyes burned with rage un-

diminished by time.

"Did the MP's catch them?" I asked softly.

"Yes, and it's lucky they did because I was out

looking for the sons of bitches myself. But the

MP's got to them first. They had a trial, even

though that kind doesn't deserve it. All three of

them pulled ten years hard time with a dis-

honorable discharge at the end of it. But that

wasn't nearly enough as far as I was concerned.

They should have shot them, right?"

Instead of answering the question, I quickly

asked another. ' 'Was it a random act of violence or

did some kind of motive come out at the trial?"

"Motive, shit,"

she said harshly. "They were

three recruits, just backwoods trash. My dad had

been having a little fun with them during gunnery

practice that morning. I guess a few of the boys got

carried away, roughed them up a little. But hell, it

wasn't anything to get crazy over."

There wasn't much I could say. I'd been in the

Deep South too many times to accept her story at

face value. In spite of all the new laws and reforms,

there were still a few twisted types left who liked

their "fun", most of it failing under the categories

of arson, assault, and rape. The real shame of it

was that the South had changed. There were just

some people too afraid to change with it.

"Pour me some more wine," she said, holding

out her glass. ' 'Every time I start talking about my

father's death I feel like bustin' loose, squeezing the

trigger on an M-16 and not easin' up until the mag-

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azine is empty. I guess we'd better not talk about it

anymore," she added in a softer voice. "And I

don't have to tell you that everything I just said is

strictly off-the-record."

"Don't worry," I assured her. "I wouldn't even

consider writing about something as personal as

that. What I'm after is a profile, not an exposé."

I refilled both our glasses, emptying the bottle.

"Tell me," I said casually, "do you get to do much

competition shooting over here?"

"None at all," she answered quickly. "I don't

really have the time anymore. In fact, I sold my

gun collection before I moved to Paris. I can't even

remember the last time I held a gun, let alone fired

one."

"Too bad," I said, trying to sound disappointed.

"It would have made an interesting angle for the

story."

One thing about Gail—she lied well. If I hadn't

uncovered her personal arsenal, I would have

sworn she was telling the truth. That didn't make

me feel very comfortable about the phone call

she'd made from the kitchen.

"Losing interest?" she asked. I think she meant

it to be seductive, but there was a petulant under-

tone to the question.

"No," I said, grinning. "I was just lost in

thought for a moment."

"Thinking about me?"

"No one else," I answered truthfully.

"You know you could have been a model your-

self, Nick. Not the pretty-boy type—your face has

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too much character for that. No," she said softly,

'fit would have to be something rough and mascu-

line."

She put down her wine glass and began to slowly

run her fingertips over the contours of my face.

"Rough and masculine," she whispered again,

"that's what attracts me."

I slipped my arm around her and pulled her

close. Our lips met, gently at first, but then we

began kissing with a kind of wild hunger. Her

mouth was dry and hot, her tongue eager and prob-

ing. She squirmed in my grasp, brushing against

me in a slow, sensuous rhythm.

Pushing me away, she suddenly stood up on the

couch. She teetered a little on her high heels until

she balanced herself with a hand against the wall.

"Watch," she said in a throaty whisper.

Her nimble fingers quickly undid the buttons on

her blouse. She pushed it back off her shoulders,

letting it fall on the floor. Wiggling her hips, she

slipped out of her slacks in even less time. She

wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her long,

supple body was evenly tanned to a deep golden

brown.

The discarded blouse also had concealed a broad

silver armband that encircled her arm just above

the elbow. It was crude beaten-silver, probably

hammered out by some local Indian craftsman in

the Andes. A single rough-edged piece of jade had

been mounted in the center.

"That never comes off," she said with a mocking

grin. Standing over me with her hands on her hips,

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she looked like an Amazon, or some savage and

defiant goddess about to accept a sacrifice from her

followers.

I undressed, palming the tiny gas bomb attached

to my thigh as I slipped out of my trousers. I

tucked it behind a cushion, reached out, and pulled

Gail down onto the couch.

There was nothing gentle about our love-mak-

ing. We came together, our bodies coupling in

furious, unthinking abandon. Gail twisted and

moaned, her arms locked around me and her long

onails digging into my back. The rhythm built

quickly to a pounding, savage tempo. She looked

up at me with her mouth in a half-open smile, her

deep green eyes bright with pleasure.

We slipped off the couch and onto the floor.

Both of us were glistening with sweat now and

holding on to each other all the more tightly.

In the frenzy of climax we knocked over the

empty wine bottle. It hit the table edge with a loud,

sharp crack and shattered over the rug. Neither

Gail or I even bothered to look in that direction.

We were still together, motionless now; the room

strangely silent except for the short, shallow

sounds of our breathing.

When we drew apart, she padded into the

bedroom and came back with a thick white bath

towel. "Dry yourself off," she said, tossing it to

me. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I nodded and returned her smile. I had a feeling

she was headed for the shower and I was starting to

wonder why I hadn't been invited along. We'd al-

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ready ruled out modesty, so maybe it was just

something she preferred doing on a solo basis.

Another possibility was that the time had come

for something unpleasant to happen. Now was cer-

tainly the ideal moment for it. My weapons were

all tucked away under the pillows and I was naked,

something that always gives the clothed assailant a

psychological advantage.

I retrieved the Luger and briskly rubbed myself

dry, knotting the towel around my waist when I

finished. Traffic noises floated up from the avenue,

while down the hallway I heard the sound of a

shower being turned on full blast.

I dressed quickly, putting all three of my weap-

ons back in their proper places. I was still half ex-

pecting Rodrigo or Gail herself to make a sudden

reappearance. Not carrying wine this time, but her

nasty little snub-nosed Coltl Maybe it sounds para-

noid, but unless you're prepared for all the possi-

bilities your chances of surviving in this business

are pretty bleak.

"You were good," she said, emerging from the

hallway some ten minutes later. "I might even say

excellent, but I'd have to get to know you better

first. "

I suppose she meant it as a compliment. Only her]

tone of voice made it sound as though she were

passing judgment on the Pouilly-Fuissé we'd had

earlier. At least I had gotten a better-than-average

rating.

"So were you," I said quietly. I knew she'd exs

pected me to say something in return and besides

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iif you like them wild, it was an accurate enough

Jappraisal.

Gail tossed back her head and laughed. "I al-

fready know that, Nick. Still, it's nice of you to say

(SO."

"My pleasure. Don't let it go to your head,

f though."

We both laughed and Gail crossed the room to

isit next to me on the couch. Her shower had

y washed away the jungle scent, leaving her smelling

fresh and clean as a schoolgirl. She'd put on a

'white-silk wraparound robe and had pinned up her

: hair at the back. The savage goddess was once

again a sophisticated Parisian woman.

"I guess the modeling business has given me

tmore than my share of ego," she admitted with a

trueful smile. "It's hard to keep it under control.

(Feople are always telling you you're gorgeous . . .

I beautiful

perfect. After awhile it becomes

almost impossible to accept anything less."

"I understand," I said, holding out my cigarette

case. "In fact, it's a good angle for my story, if you

don't mind my using it?"

"No, that's fine. As long as you don't make me

look like too much of an egomaniac," she added

quickly.

"Don't worry, I promise I won't."

She took one of my cigarettes, her hand trem-

bling as she fumbled with the metal clip that holds

them in the case. She could barely keep it steady

when I lit it for her—the end dipped and danced in

and out of the flame.

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After the way we'd spent the last hour, I would

have expected her to be more relaxed than any-

thing else. Now, suddenly, Gail Huntington had

very bad case of the shakes.

"You'd better go now," she said quietly. "If you

call me later in the week we can set up a time for

finishing the interview."

"Whatever you say." I could feel the room tem-

perature rapidly dropping to below freezing. This

was certainly a very changeable lady. I leaned over

and kissed her chastely on the forehead. In return

she gave me a weak, half-hearted smile.

"Talk to you soon," I said, rising to my feet.

"So long." The two words came out in a barely

audible whisper.

I had my hand on the doorknob when I heard

her call out my name.

I quickly retraced my steps. She was sitting

where I'd left her just a moment. ago, only now she

had her arms wrapped around herself as if she were

shivering from the cold.

"Is there something wrong, Gail?"

She stared at me; from the look in her eyes I

knew she was making some kind of decision.

"No," she said finally, "there's nothing wrong. I

thought you'd forgotten your cigarette case .

that's all. You'd better get out of here now,

please."

It was a feeble, transparent lie. Nothing at all

like her earlier performance.

On the way downstairs I couldn't help thinking

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DLit how she had called my name. I'd never heard

poken quite that way before. With desperation

d fear is the best way I can describe it.

85


Chapter Ten

I spent the rest of the afternoon with the stakeou

team covering Hector. Before I arrived only twc

things had happened worth noting: one dull, the

other very interesting.

"He went out to lunch," Bellows informed me ir.

his usual laconic manner. "Came out of the build*

ing at exactly one and walked directly to a restau-

rant four blocks away on Rue Valadon. That

the first time any of us had seen him since we took

up our positions last night."

"Did anything happen at the restaurant?" I

prompted. Getting information out of Jeff Bellows

took patience—lots of patience. Still, I had asked

to have him assigned to the stakeout because h

was the most accurate and painstaking surveillance

man we had in the Paris area.

"He ate," Bellows said finally.

"Snails, a

casserole, and half a carafe of Tavel to wash it

down. O'Neil got a seat at the bar and kept him

under observation the whole time. The only time

Hector spoke was when he ordered his meal from

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the patron. When he finished he walked straight

back to his apartment."

"l hope that's not the interesting item," I said

with a rueful smile. "I'd really hate to hear the dull

one. "

Bellows shook his head and took another minute

to relight his pipe with that "flame-thrower" light-

er of his that had already charred away half the

bowl. There was no point in prodding him. It only

made for a longer wait in the end.

"He had a visitor," Bellows continued when the

pipe was finally drawing right. "A male in his mid-

to late-thirties, five-ten, stocky, with bone struc-

ture, skin, and hair color suggesting mestizo an-

cestry. He was wearing a tan raincoat over

workman's coveralls. Also, he walked as though he

were experiencing pain or discomfort. If I were to

hazard a guess, which I rarely do, I'd say he'd been

in a fight recently."

"l can put a name to your man," I told him.

"Rodrigo. He and a couple of his hoods killed

Steve Woodriss about three hours ago."

After a moment's silence Bellows said, "1'11 keep

that in mind." He and Woodriss had been friends.

The way he spoke the simple phrase made it sound

like a death sentence.

"This is a hands-off operation," I reminded him.

"At least for the time being."

Bellows nodded and went on with his report.

"Rodrigo arrived at two-fourteen and rang

Hector's apartment from the lobby. Hector came

down to meet him and the pair walked around the

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gardens of the Champ de Mars for about twenty

minutes. I couldn't risk getting anyone in close

enough to eavesdrop," he added apologetically,

"but from the way they were gesturing I'd say both

men were highly agitated. When they split up, I put

O'Neil on Rodrigo and followed Hector back to I

the apartment myself."

"Does their garden stroll suggest anything to

you?" I asked.

"We're obviously thinking along the samel

lines," Bellows replied with a wan smile. "They're

more afraid that Hector's apartment is bugged

than they are of being seen together. Otherwise,]

why talk in a public place when you can do it in

"Exactly. Here's what I want you to do, Jeff.]

The next time our friend goes out, check the place

for bugs. If an electronic sweep doesn't turn any

up, then plant one of our own. If you do find some,

then leave them and try to locate the listening post.

Clear enough?"

"I'll handle it personally."

I sat with Bellows in the tiny Austin for two

more hours. Apart from acquiring a strong

aversion to the maple-scented pipe tobacco he

smoked, I got nothing for my troubles. Finally I

gave up, collected the Ferrari, and headed back to

the hotel.

The streets were clogged with commuter traffic.]

I ignored the blaring horns and curses that were

standard fare in the Paris rush hour, concentrating

instead on what had happened that day. Despite

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the noise, the city had a calming effect on me.

Overhead, the low skyline glowed with sunset color

that was broken only by the Eiffel Tower and the

white-stone basilica of the Sacré Coeur.

One thing I knew for certain now—that Gail

Huntington, Hector, and Rodrigo were all con-

nected in some way. Linking together what I'd wit-

nessed last night at the Agency Castel, the "death

truck" incident, and my encounter with Gail, the

whole thing added up to a conspiracy. But a con-

spiracy to what end? There were still too many fac-

tors that didn't set right. The embassy assassina-

tions were the work of top-flight professionals.

Would they use someone like Gail with her

volatile, unstable nature and frequent mood-

swings?

In spite of the way he had set up the truck,

Rodrigo, too, was an amateur. A real pro would

have searched me and found Hugo strapped to my

arm. Hector was a hard case, an enforcer with

more muscle than brains. So if they were the group

that had been terminating Third World diplomats

so successfully, then who was the master planner,

the puppeteer concealed in the shadows who pulled

all the strings?

It was a question I would have to answer soon.

The Arab oil summit was only two days away.

I garaged the Ferrari and went up to my room.

Wes Dryer was sitting on a window ledge at the

end of the corridor. He smiled, waved, and came

forward to meet me.

"Anything happening?" I asked.

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Lauren's shadow for the day shook his head.

"She only left the room once to pick up some

cigarettes and a paper at the counter in the lobby. "

"Okay. Thanks, Wes, I'll take over now. You're

back on duty at the same time tomorrow."

As I turned to unlock the door, the lanky field

agent put a restraining hand on my arm. "Nick,"

he said, grinning, "is this really a top security tail-

job or just some pretty lady you're worried about?"

"A little of both," I admitted, smiling. "But that

doesn't mean you shouldn't take it seriously. She's

been through a lot and I'm still not sure there isn't

more to come. I wouldn't have asked you to be

here if I didn't think she needed round-the-clock

protection. "

"I wasn't questioning your judgment," he said

defensively. "If you say she needs watching, that's

good enough for me." Before I could say anything

else, he turned on his heel and hurried down the

stairs.

I found the object of our conversation sitting out

on the balcony. She was dressed in her suede jeans,

accompanied by one of my shirts with the sleeves

rolled up. When she heard my footsteps behind

her, she jumped up and ran into my arms.

"Nick," she said breathlessly, "I've been so wor-

ried. I expected you back hours ago. When you

didn't phone or anything, I was sure .

well, I

thought something had happened to you."

I held her close and kissed her. Lauren's repri-

mand made me feel strangely domestic, like some

overworked husband who'd stayed too late at the

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office , totally forgetting that it was their night to go

out to dinner. It was a pleasant feeling, but one I

could never really experience unless I retired from

AXE.

Of course, I'd have to find the right woman, too.

Lauren? I already knew that I was more involved

with her than I ever wanted to admit to myself.

Was there any truth in what Wes Dryer had hinted

at? Was my desire to protect her professional or

personal?

"I'm sorry I'm late," I said truthfully. ' 'I'm

going to make it up by taking you to a very posh

diplomatic reception. I'll even spring for an eve-

ning gown, though I'll have a hell of a time explain-

ing that to the old guy who vests my expense ac-

count."

"You're forgiven." she said, kissing me again.

"But we'd better get moving—the shops are only

open another two hours."

91


Chapter Eleven

Somalia is one of Africa's newest countries and

also one of its poorest. So I wasn't surprised when

their consulate turned out to be a modest three-

story brick building on Rue Lecourbe.

Even the Rollses and Mercedes lining the curb

looked a bit out of place this far over on the Left

Bank. But it was definitely where the reception was

being held. The sounds of polite conversation and

clinking glasses drifted from the open windows on

the second floor. And over the main entrance the

country's blue and white flag rippled and swayed in

the breeze.

"That man's staring at me," Lauren complained

in a low whisper. But I could tell from the smile on

her face that she was enjoying the attention. In her

low-cut evening gown she was worth staring at. It

was a deep red silk that left her back and shoulders

bare while the soft, flowing fabric emphasized the

graceful contours of her body.

"Want me to have a word with him?" I asked. It

really wasn't a serious question.

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"No," she said quickly. I looked back at the

chauffeur who'd been eying her. He grinned and

tipped his cap. Paris.

"Your invitation, sir," requested the tall black

man guarding the door. I handed it over, noticing

when he reached out to take it that he was wearing

a gun and shoulder holster under his suit coat.

With four diplomats dead already, he probably

wasn't the only member of the staff carrying a con-

cealed we apon.

"Just take the elevator to your right," he said,

stepping aside to let us pass. "The reception is on

the second floor."

Upstairs, the doors opened onto a noisy,

crowded room. Among the babble of voices I rec-

ognized at least half a dozen languages that I was

fairly fluent in. Most of the men and women were

in formal attire, but there were also guests dressed

in galabeyas and brightly colored African dashikis.

A few heads turned as we entered the room, then

quickly looked away again when they realized we

weren't important.

The room itself was a curious blend of Eastern

and Western cultures. The crystal chandelier,

heavy drapes, and furniture were typical of

diplomatic decor, but the wall decorations were

strictly Somalian. There were carved native staffs

and spears, bright squares of hand-woven fabric,

and one entire wall lined with long wooden prayer

boards.

"Look," Lauren said, tugging at my sleeve.

"There're Ann-Marie and Christine. And I think

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they're heading our way." I turned in the direction

Lauren indicated and got my first look at the two

women. It was difficult to say who was the more

beautiful.

Christine Dalton was a statuesque blonde with

icy pale-blue eyes. Dark and intense were the best

ways I could describe Ann-Marie Michaels. Her

hair was thick and black, cascading down to her I

shoulders in curls. Neither one of their photo-

graphs did them justice.

"Who's their escort?"

"I don't know," Lauren whispered. Both models

were with a tall, white-haired man who was wear-

ing a tuxedo. As the trio drew nearer they all

smiled.

"Lauren, what a surprise to see you," Christine

Dalton said in French. "I didn't realize you moved]

in these lofty circles. "

"Then you must have a very limited social life,"

Lauren retorted. She wasn't about to let the blonde

model get away with anything.

"Nice to see you, Lauren," Ann-Marie •said,

deftly slipping in-between the two combatants.

"Don't mind Christine. She saw a wrinkle this

morning and it's soured her entire day."

Lauren and Ann-Marie laughed while Christine

silently glared at them. To help ease the tension, I

stopped a passing waiter with a tray-load of chame

pagne and handed out glasses to everyone.

Christine tossed hers back in one gulp and

grabbed another one from the retreating waiter.

"What a lovely gown," she said, looking Lauren

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over from head to toe. "Something like that must

have cost an entire month's wages. It must be dif-

ficult to save that much on an office girl's salary.

Or did your patron buy it for you? For services ren-

dered," she added softly.

I knew it was going to happen. With a flick of

her wrist, Lauren threw her champagne in

Christine's face. A moment of stunned silence fol-

lowed.

"Bitch," Christine said through clenched teeth,

"you'd better start looking for a new job tomor-

row. Because I'm going to make sure you're fired

from the agency."

"I quit yesterday," Lauren said, smiling. That

wasn't really true, but I knew she didn't want to

give Christine the satisfaction of having her dis-

missed.

The tall blonde accepted a handkerchief from

her escort and began to dry her face. The cham-

pagne had caused little damage; her make-up was

streaked in a few places and there were a couple of

spots on her turquoise silk dress. Still, she was star-

ing at Lauren as if she would like to murder her.

Ann-Marie Michaels noticed it too. "Why don't

we get another drink," she suggested, slipping her

arm through Lauren's. "It's cooler out on the

balcony and we can talk there. That is," she added,

smiling at me, "if your handsome escort doesn't

"Go ahead," I said in English. "I'll come out

and join you in a while."

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As the two women began to tread their way

through the crowd, the white-haired man said,

"Please excuse my manners. I don't believe we've

been introduced. Colonel Victor Épernay."

"Nick Carter." I grasped the gloved hand he ex-

tended and found it stiff and unyielding. An

artificial replacement, plastic or possibly wood.

"A souvenir of Dien Bien Phu," he explained

with a tight smile. "Monsieur Carter, Made-

moiselle Dalton." The cool blonde acknowledged

the introduction with a brief nod.

"Were you also in Indochina, Monsieur Carter?

Or as you Americans now call it, Vietnam? I only

ask," he added, "because you have that hard, com-

petent look about you. The look of a veteran."

"I spent some time in Southeast Asia," I an-

swered evasively. I had come to the reception for a

look at Christine and Ann-Marie. What I'd seen so

far was interesting, but I didn't want to get side-

tracked listening to war stories or a lecture on

France's former colonial glory.

"Perhaps Monsieur Carter would find the con-

versation more stimulating if he'd lost a brother in

the war as I did?" Christine said softly.

"That was twenty-seven years ago," Épernay

quietly reminded her. "l remember because I was

there, but you weren't even born then, child."

"Don't talk down to me," Christine said angrily.

Before the Colonel could defend himself, she

turned away and was lost in the crowd.

"Deserted on all sides," Épernay said with a

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weary smile. "Christine was always a sensitive

child, and a spoiled child in many ways. Her par-

ents died in an automobile accident less than a year

after she was born. Christine was raised by a maid-

en aunt who gave her all the comforts, luxuries

even, but not much in the way of real affection."

"Then she feels her brother was part of a family

she never had?"

The Colonel nodded. "He served under me in

Indochina. Not a bad soldier, but not a great one

either. In her mind, Christine has turned him into

this noble and heroic figure. Actually, that's how

we came to know each other. She found out I was

her brother's commanding officer and came by to

visit, wanting to know what I could tell her about

him. Perhaps because of her beauty, I told her pret-

ty much what she wanted to hear."

"I don't blame you," I said, grinning, "but I'm

surprised to find her here. Her brother died defend-

ing the colonial way of life. Somalia was a former

colony of both the British and the Italians. If she

feels that strongly about it, she can hardly have

much love for Somalia or any other emerging na-

tion. "

Epernay shrugged. "Women. I'm almost seventy

and I still don't understand them. I know that

doesn't answer your question, Monsieur Carter,

but it's the best I can do. Perhaps she comes to

keep an old man company. At least I'd like to think

so."

J decided it was time to change the subject.

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