Рыбаченко Олег Павлович
Alexander The Third - Yeltorosia

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  • Аннотация:
    Alexander III is in power in Russia. Civil war breaks out in China. A special forces unit of children intervenes and helps Tsarist Russia conquer the northern regions of the Celestial Empire. The adventures of these brave child warriors continue.
  ALEXANDER THE THIRD - YELTOROSIA
  ANNOTATION
  Alexander III is in power in Russia. Civil war breaks out in China. A special forces unit of children intervenes and helps Tsarist Russia conquer the northern regions of the Celestial Empire. The adventures of these brave child warriors continue.
  PROLOGUE
  April has already arrived... Spring has arrived unseasonably early and stormy in southern Alaska. Streams are flowing, snow is melting... The flood could wash away the installations, too.
  But the girls and the boy tried hard to keep the floodwaters from breaking their formations. Fortunately, the flood wasn't too strong, and the water receded quickly.
  May turned out to be unusually warm for these parts. This is, of course, a good thing. Another piece of good news was the outbreak of war between Germany and France. Most likely, Tsarist Russia could now seize the opportunity to take revenge for its defeat in the Crimean War.
  But Britain is not sleeping. Once the weather warmed up and the mud cleared from the roads surprisingly quickly, a sizable army moved in from neighboring Canada to prevent Alexandria from being completed.
  One hundred and fifty thousand English soldiers-that's no joke. And with them, a new fleet moved in to replace the one sunk by the six earlier.
  So the military confrontation with Britain continued. The British still believed in revenge.
  Meanwhile, the girls and the boy were building fortifications and singing;
  We girls are nice guys,
  We will confirm our valor with a steel sword!
  A bullet in the forehead of the scumbags with a machine gun,
  We'll tear off the enemies' noses at once!
  
  They are capable of fighting even in the desert,
  What is the space part for us!
  We are beauties even though we are completely barefoot -
  But the dirt doesn't stick to the soles!
  
  We are hot in the fight and we chop hard,
  There is no room for mercy in the heart!
  And if we come to the ball, it will be stylish,
  Celebrate the inflorescence of victories!
  
  In every sound of the Motherland there is a tear,
  In every thunder there is God's voice!
  Pearls in the fields are like dewdrops,
  Golden ripe ear!
  
  But fate led us into the desert,
  The commander gave the order to attack!
  So that we can run faster barefoot,
  This is our army of Amazons!
  
  We will achieve victory over the enemy,
  Leo of Britain - quickly march under the table!
  So that our grandfathers would be proud of us in glory,
  May the day of Holy Love come!
  
  And then the great paradise will come,
  Every person will be like a brother!
  Let us forget the wild order,
  The terrible darkness of hell will disappear!
  
  This is what we are fighting for,
  This is why we don"t spare anyone!
  We throw ourselves barefoot under the bullets,
  Instead of life we give birth to death alone!
  
  And we don"t have enough of it in our lives,
  To be honest, everything!
  My sister's brother is actually Cain,
  And men are all crap!
  
  That's why I joined the army,
  Take revenge and tear off the paws of the males!
  The Amazons are only happy about this,
  To throw their corpses into the trash!
  
  We will win - that's for sure,
  There is no way to retreat now...
  We die for the Fatherland - blamelessly,
  The army is one family for us!
  Oleg Rybachenko, humming here, suddenly noted:
  - And where are the boys?
  Natasha answered with a laugh:
  - We are all one family!
  Margarita squeaked:
  - You and me too!
  And the girl pressed down on the shovel with her bare foot, making it fly much more energetically.
  Zoya remarked aggressively:
  - It's time to finish the construction and run and destroy the English army!
  Oleg Rybachenko logically noted:
  "England was able to assemble one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers at such a great distance from itself. That means it's taking the war against us very seriously!"
  Augustine agreed with this:
  - Yes, my boy! The Lion Empire seems to have taken the duel with Russia more than seriously!
  Svetlana answered cheerfully:
  - Enemy troops exist for the purpose of us collecting victory scores on them!
  Oleg laughed and cooed:
  - Of course! That's why the British forces exist: for us to beat them!
  Natasha remarked with a sigh:
  "How tired I am of this world! So tired of working with just saws and shovels. How I long to chop down the English and accomplish a whole host of new, most amazing feats."
  Zoya agreed with this:
  - I really want to fight!
  Augustine hissed, baring her teeth like a poisonous snake:
  - And we will fight and win! And this will be our next, very glorious victory!
  Margarita squealed and sang:
  - Victory awaits, victory awaits,
  Those who long to break the shackles...
  Victory awaits, victory awaits -
  We will be able to defeat the whole world!
  Oleg Rybachenko confidently stated:
  - Of course we can!
  Augustine barked:
  - Without the slightest doubt!
  Margarita rolled a clay ball with her bare foot and threw it at the English spy. He landed a hard blow on the forehead and fell down dead.
  The warrior girl chirped:
  - Glory to the boundless fatherland!
  And as it whistled... The crows fell down, and fifty English horsemen galloping in the direction of the girls and the boy fell down dead.
  Natasha noted, baring her teeth:
  - You have a very good whistle!
  Margarita, grinning, nodded and noted:
  - The Nightingale the Robber is resting!
  Oleg Rybachenko also whistled... And this time the fainted crows cracked the skulls of a whole hundred English riders.
  The boy-terminator sang:
  - It hovers menacingly over the planet,
  Russian, double-headed eagle...
  Glorified in the songs of the people -
  He has regained his greatness!
  Augustine replied, baring her teeth:
  Having lost the Crimean War, Russia, under Alexander III, rises up and takes a decisive revenge! Glory to Tsar Alexander the Great!
  Natasha shook her bare foot at her friend:
  "It's too early to call Alexander III great! He's still successful, but thanks to us!"
  Oleg Rybachenko confidently noted:
  - If Alexander III had lived as long as Putin, he would have won the war with Japan without our participation!
  Augustine nodded her head:
  - Definitely! Alexander III would have defeated the Japanese, even without the landing of time travelers!
  Svetlana logically noted:
  Tsar Alexander III is definitely the embodiment of courage and steely will! And his victories are just around the corner!
  Margarita squeaked:
  - Glory to the good king!
  Augustine growled:
  - Glory to the strong king!
  Svetlana cooed:
  - Glory to the king of kings!
  Zoya stamped her bare foot on the grass and yelped:
  - To the one who is truly the wiser of all!
  Oleg Rybachenko hissed:
  - And Russia will be the greatest country in the world!
  Margarita agreed with this:
  - Of course, thanks to us too!
  Oleg Rybachenko stated seriously:
  - And the dragon's curse will not touch her!
  Natasha confirmed:
  - The country ruled by Alexander III is not threatened by the dragon's curse!
  Augustina, baring her pearly teeth, suggested:
  - So let's sing about this!
  Oleg Rybachenko readily confirmed:
  - Let's actually go ahead and sing!
  Natasha growled, stamping her bare foot on the cobblestones:
  - So you sing and compose something!
  The boy-terminator and genius poet began composing on the fly. And the girls, without further ado, sang along with him in their full-bodied voices;
  The deserts breathe heat, the snowfalls are cold,
  We, warriors of Russia, defend our honor!
  War is a dirty business, not a continuous parade,
  Before the battle, it"s time for Orthodox Christians to read the Psalter!
  
  We people love righteousness and serve the Lord,
  After all, this is what our Russian, pure spirit contains!
  A girl with a strong spinning wheel spins silk down,
  A gust of wind blew, but the torch did not go out!
  
  The family gave us an order: protect Rus' with the sword,
  For Holiness and Fatherland - serve the soldier Christ!
  We need sharp spears and strong swords,
  To protect the Slavic and good dream!
  
  The icons of Orthodoxy contain the wisdom of all times,
  And Lada and the Mother of God are one sisters of light!
  Whoever is against our strength will be branded,
  Eternal Russia is sung in the hearts of soldiers!
  
  We are generally peaceful people, but you know we are proud,
  Anyone who wants to humiliate Rus' will be soundly beaten with a club!
  Let's build at a furious pace - we are paradise on the planet,
  We'll have a big family - my dear and I will have children!
  
  We'll turn the whole world into a resort, that's our impulse,
  Let us raise the flags of the Motherland, to the glory of generations!
  And let the folk songs have one tune -
  But a noble cheerfulness, without the slime of dusty laziness!
  
  Who loves the whole Fatherland and faithful duty to the Tsar,
  For Rus' he will perform this feat, he will rise in battle!
  I give you a kiss, my ripe girl,
  Let your cheeks blossom like a bud in May!
  
  Humanity is waiting for space, a flight above the Earth,
  We will sew the precious stars into a wreath!
  Let what the boy carried with his dream suddenly become real,
  We are the creators of nature, not blind parrots!
  
  So we made an engine - from thermoquarks, bam,
  A swift rocket, cutting through the expanse of space!
  Let the blow be not from the club to the eyebrow, but straight to the eye,
  Let us sing the anthem of the Fatherland in a mighty voice!
  
  The enemy is already running, like a hare,
  And we, in pursuing it, are achieving righteous goals!
  After all, our Russian army is a powerful collective,
  For the glory of Orthodoxy - let honor rule the State!
  War broke out between Tsarist Russia and China in 1871. The British actively supported the Celestial Empire, building a fairly large navy for China. The Manchu Empire then attacked Primorye. The Chinese were numerous, and the tiny coastal garrison was no match for them.
  But the children's special forces soldiers, as always, are on top of the situation. And ready to fight.
  Four girls from the children's special forces grew up a little and temporarily became women. This was done with the help of magic.
  And the six eternally young warriors rushed forward, flashing their bare, round heels.
  They ran along, and the girls sang beautifully and harmoniously. Their red nipples, like ripe strawberries, sparkled against their chocolate-colored breasts.
  And the voices are so strong and full-bodied that the soul rejoices.
  Komsomol girls are the salt of the Earth,
  We are like the ore and fire of hell.
  Of course, we have grown to the point of feats,
  And with us is the Holy Sword, the Spirit of the Lord!
  
  We love to fight very boldly,
  Girls, who are rowing the vastness of the universe...
  Russia's army is invincible,
  With your passion, in the constant battle!
  
  To the glory of our holy Motherland,
  A fighter jet circles wildly in the sky...
  I am a Komsomol member and I run barefoot,
  Splashing the ice covering the puddles!
  
  The enemy can't scare the girls,
  They destroy all enemy missiles...
  The bloody thief will not stick his face in our faces,
  The exploits will be sung about in poems!
  
  Fascism attacked my homeland,
  He invaded so terribly and insidiously...
  I love Jesus and Stalin,
  The Komsomol members are united with God!
  
  Barefoot we rush through the snowdrift,
  Dashing as swift bees...
  We are the daughters of both summer and winter,
  Life has made the girl tough!
  
  It's time to shoot, so open fire,
  We are accurate, and beautiful in eternity...
  And they hit me right in the eye, not in the eyebrow,
  From the steel that is called the collective!
  
  Fascism will not overcome our redoubt,
  And the will is stronger than durable titanium...
  We can find comfort in our Fatherland,
  And overthrow even the tyrant Fuhrer!
  
  A very powerful tank, believe me, the Tiger,
  He shoots so far and so accurately...
  Now is not the time for silly games,
  Because the evil Cain is coming!
  
  We must overcome the cold and heat,
  And fight like a mad horde...
  The besieged bear became enraged,
  The soul of an eagle is not a pathetic clown!
  
  I believe the Komsomol members will win,
  And they will raise their country above the stars...
  We started our hike from the October camp,
  And now the Name of Jesus is with us!
  
  I love my homeland very much,
  She shines radiantly upon all people...
  The Fatherland will not be torn apart ruble by ruble,
  Adults and children laugh in happiness!
  
  It's fun for everyone to live in the Soviet world,
  Everything about it is easy and simply wonderful...
  May luck not break its thread,
  And the Fuhrer stuck his mouth out in vain!
  
  I am a Komsomol member running barefoot,
  Although it's freezing, it's making your ears hurt...
  And there is no descent in sight, believe the enemy,
  Who wants to take us and destroy us!
  
  There are no more beautiful words for the Motherland,
  The flag is red, as if blood were shining in the rays.
  We will not be more obedient than donkeys,
  I believe victory will come soon in May!
  
  Berlin girls will walk barefoot,
  They will leave footprints on the asphalt.
  We have forgotten the comfort of people,
  And gloves are not appropriate in war!
  
  If there is a fight, let the fight begin.
  We'll scatter everything into pieces with Fritz!
  The Fatherland is always with you, soldier,
  Doesn't know what AWOL is!
  
  It's a pity for the dead, it's grief for everyone,
  But not to bring the Russians to their knees.
  Even Sam submitted to the Fritzes,
  But the great guru Lenin is on our side!
  
  I wear a badge and a cross at the same time,
  I am in communism and I believe in Christianity...
  Believe me, war is not a movie.
  The Fatherland is our mother, not the Khanate!
  
  When the Most High comes in the clouds,
  All the dead will rise again in a bright face...
  People loved the Lord in their dreams,
  Because Jesus is the Creator of the Table!
  
  We will be able to make everyone happy,
  Throughout the vast Russian universe.
  When any plebeian is like a peer,
  And the most important thing in the universe is Creation!
  
  I want to embrace the Almighty Christ,
  So that you never collapse before your enemies...
  Comrade Stalin replaced the father,
  And Lenin will also be with us forever!
  Looking at these girls, it"s clear: they won"t let their chance slip away!
  Very beautiful warriors, and the children are extremely cool.
  And closer and closer to the Chinese army.
  Warriors from the twenty-first century once again clashed with the Chinese of the seventeenth.
  The Celestial Empire has too many soldiers. They flow like an endless river.
  Oleg Rybachenko, chopping the Chinese with his swords, roared:
  - We will never give in!
  And from the boy"s bare foot a sharp disk flew!
  Margarita, crushing her opponents, muttered:
  - There is a place for heroism in the world!
  And from the girl"s bare foot, poisonous needles flew out, striking the Chinese.
  Natasha also threw her bare toes, murderously, releasing a lightning bolt from the scarlet nipple of her tanned breast and howling deafeningly:
  - We will never forget and we will never forgive.
  And her swords passed through the Chinese in the mill.
  Zoya, cutting down the enemies and sending pulses from her crimson nipples, squealed:
  - For a new order!
  And from her bare feet, new needles flew out. And they hit the eyes and throats of the Chinese soldiers.
  Yes, it was clear that the warriors were getting excited and furious.
  Augustina chops down the yellow soldiers, releasing cascades of lightning from her ruby nipples, squealing:
  - Our iron will!
  And from her bare foot flies a new, deadly gift. And the yellow fighters fall.
  Svetlana chops the mill, releases corona discharges from strawberry nipples, her swords are like lightning.
  The Chinese are falling like cut sheaves.
  The girl throws needles with her bare feet and squeals:
  - He will win for Mother Russia!
  Oleg Rybachenko is advancing against the Chinese. The boy-terminator is cutting down the yellow troops.
  And at the same time, the boy"s bare toes shoot out needles with poison.
  The boy roars:
  - Glory to the Future Rus'!
  And in motion he cuts everyone's heads and faces.
  Margarita also crushes her opponents.
  Her bare feet flicker. The Chinese are dying in large numbers. The warrior screams:
  - To new frontiers!
  And then the girl just takes it and chops...
  A mass of corpses of Chinese soldiers.
  And here's Natasha, on the offensive, sending lightning bolts from her scarlet nipples. She chops down the Chinese and sings:
  - Rus' is great and radiant,
  I'm a very strange girl!
  And disks fly from her bare feet. The ones that saw through the throats of the Chinese. Now that's a girl.
  Zoya is on the offensive. She chops down yellow soldiers with both hands. She spits from a straw. She throws deadly needles with her bare toes and spews pulsars from her crimson nipples.
  And at the same time he sings to himself:
  - Eh, little club, let's go!
  Oh, my dearest one will do!
  Augustine, chopping down the Chinese and exterminating the yellow soldiers, spewing gifts of death with her ruby nipples, squeals:
  - All shaggy and in animal skin,
  He rushed at the riot police with a baton!
  And with his bare toes he launches at the enemy something that would kill an elephant.
  And then he squeaks:
  - Wolfhounds!
  Svetlana is on the offensive. She hacks and slashes at the Chinese. With her bare feet, she launches death-gifts at them. And blots of magoplasm fly from her strawberry nipples.
  Runs a mill with swords.
  She crushed a mass of fighters and squealed:
  - A great victory is coming!
  And again the girl is in wild motion.
  And her bare feet launch deadly needles.
  Oleg Rybachenko jumped. The boy spun into a somersault. He chopped up a bunch of Chinese people in mid-air.
  He threw the needles with his bare toes and gurgled:
  - Glory to my beautiful courage!
  And again the boy is in battle.
  Margarita goes on the offensive, cutting down all her enemies. Her swords are sharper than mill blades. And her bare toes hurl gifts of death.
  The girl is on a wild attack, slaughtering yellow warriors without ceremony.
  And it jumps up and down every now and then and twists!
  And gifts of annihilation fly from her.
  And the Chinese drop dead. And whole mounds of corpses pile up.
  Margarita squeaks:
  - I am an American cowboy!
  And again her bare feet were hit by a needle.
  And then a dozen more needles!
  Natasha is also very powerful on the offensive. Using her scarlet nipples, she sends out lightning bolt after lightning bolt.
  And he throws things around with his bare feet and spits out of a tube.
  And he screams at the top of his lungs:
  - I am the sparkling death! All you have to do is die!
  And again the beauty is on the move.
  Zoya storms a pile of Chinese corpses. And from her bare feet, too, boomerangs of destruction fly. And her crimson nipples send forth cascades of bubbles, crushing and destroying everyone.
  And the yellow warriors keep falling and falling.
  Zoya screams:
  - Barefoot girl, you will be defeated!
  And from the girl's bare heel, a dozen needles fly, which plunge straight into the throats of the Chinese.
  They fall down dead.
  Or rather, completely dead.
  Augustina is on the offensive. She crushes the yellow troops. Her swords are wielded in both hands. And what a remarkable warrior she is. And her ruby nipples are at work, scorching everyone and turning them into charred skeletons.
  A tornado sweeps through Chinese troops.
  The girl with red hair roars:
  - The future is hidden! But it will be victorious!
  And on the offensive is a beauty with fiery hair.
  Augustine roars in wild ecstasy:
  - The gods of war will tear everything apart!
  And the warrior is on the offensive.
  And her bare feet throw out a lot of sharp, poisonous needles.
  Svetlana in battle. And so sparkling and feisty. Her bare legs spit out so much lethal energy. Not human, but death with blonde hair.
  But once it gets going, there's no stopping it. Especially if those strawberry nipples are shooting lethal lightning bolts.
  Svetlana sings:
  - Life won't be honey,
  So jump in a round dance!
  Let your dream come true -
  Beauty turns a man into a slave!
  And in the girl's movements there is more and more fury.
  Oleg's offensive is accelerating. The boy is beating the Chinese.
  His bare feet throw out sharp needles.
  The young warrior squeaks:
  - A mad empire will tear everyone apart!
  And again the boy is on the move.
  Margarita is a wild girl in her activity. And she thrashes her enemies.
  She threw a pea-sized explosive with her bare foot. It exploded and instantly sent a hundred Chinese flying.
  The girl screams:
  - Victory will come to us anyway!
  And he will run the mill with swords.
  Natasha sped up her movements. The girl cut down the yellow warriors. Her scarlet nipples erupted with ever-increasing intensity, emitting streams of lightning and mageplasm. And she screamed:
  - Victory awaits the Russian Empire.
  And let's exterminate the Chinese at an accelerated pace.
  Natasha, this is the terminator girl.
  Doesn't think about stopping or slowing down.
  Zoya is on the offensive. Her swords seem to be slicing through a meat salad. And her crimson nipples are spewing furious streams of magoplasm and lightning. The girl screams at the top of her lungs:
  - Our salvation is in force!
  And bare toes also throw out such needles.
  And a mass of people with pierced throats lie in mounds of corpses.
  Augustina is a wild girl. And she destroys everyone like a hyperplasmic robot.
  She's already destroyed hundreds, even thousands, of Chinese. But she's picking up the pace. Streams of energy are erupting from her ruby nipples. And the warrior is roaring.
  - I'm so invincible! The coolest one in the world!
  And again the beauty is on the attack.
  And from her bare toes, a pea flies out. And three hundred Chinese were torn apart by a powerful explosion.
  Augustine sang:
  - You won"t dare to seize our land!
  Svetlana is also on the offensive. And she doesn't give us a moment's respite. A wild terminator girl.
  And she cuts down the enemies and exterminates the Chinese. And a mass of yellow fighters has already collapsed into the ditch and along the roads. And the warrior is increasingly aggressively using lightning bolts from her strawberry-like, large nipples to shoot at the Chinese fighters.
  And then Alice showed up. She's a girl of about twelve, with orange hair. And she's holding a hyperblaster. And she's going to hit the Celestial Empire warriors. And literally hundreds of Chinese are incinerated by a single beam. And how terrifying it is.
  And they instantly char, turning into a pile of embers and grey ash.
  CHAPTER No 1.
  The Six went wild and started a wild battle.
  Oleg Rybachenko is back in action. He advances, swinging both swords. And the little terminator performs a windmill. The dead Chinese fall.
  A mass of corpses. Whole mountains of bloody bodies.
  The boy recalls a wild strategy game where horses and men also mingled.
  Oleg Rybachenko squeaks:
  - Woe from Wit!
  And there will be tons of money!
  And the boy-terminator is in a new movement. And his bare feet will take something and throw it.
  The genius boy roared:
  - Master class and Adidas!
  It was a truly awesome and awesome performance. And how many Chinese were killed. And the greatest number of the greatest yellow fighters were killed.
  Margarita is also in battle. She crushes the yellow armies and roars:
  - A large shock regiment! We're driving everyone into the grave!
  And her swords slashed at the Chinese. The mass of yellow fighters had already fallen.
  The girl growled:
  - I'm even cooler than the panthers! Prove that I'm the best!
  And from the girl"s bare heel a pea with powerful explosives flies out.
  And it will hit the enemy.
  And he will take and destroy some of the opponents.
  And Natasha is a powerhouse. She beats her opponents and doesn't let anyone off the hook.
  How many Chinese have you already killed?
  And her teeth are so sharp. And her eyes are so sapphire. This girl is the ultimate executioner. Although all her partners are executioners! And from her scarlet nipples she sends gifts of annihilation.
  Natasha screams:
  - I'm crazy! You'll get a penalty!
  And again the girl will cut down a lot of Chinese with swords.
  Zoya moved and cut through many yellow warriors. And released lightning bolts from her crimson nipples.
  And their bare feet throw needles. Each needle kills several Chinese. These girls are truly beautiful.
  Augustina advances and crushes her opponents. With her ruby nipples, she scatters magoplasma blots, scorching the Chinese. And all the while, she doesn't forget to yell:
  - You can't escape the coffin!
  And the girl will take her teeth and bare them!
  And such a redhead... Her hair flutters in the wind like a proletarian banner.
  And she is literally brimming with anger.
  Svetlana on the move. She's cracked open a ton of skulls. A warrior baring her teeth. And with nipples the color of overripe strawberries, she spews lightning.
  He sticks out his tongue. Then he spits from a straw. After which he howls:
  - You guys will be dead!
  And again, deadly needles fly from her bare feet.
  Oleg Rybachenko jumps and bounces.
  A barefoot boy emits a bunch of needles and sings:
  - Let's go on a hike, open a big account!
  The young warrior is at his best, as expected.
  He's already quite old, but he looks like a child. Only very strong and muscular.
  Oleg Rybachenko sang:
  - Even if the game is not played according to the rules, we will break through, suckers!
  And again, deadly and damaging needles flew from his bare feet.
  Margarita sang with delight:
  - Nothing is impossible! I believe the dawn of freedom will come!
  The girl again threw a lethal cascade of needles at the Chinese and continued:
  - The darkness will go away! The roses of May will bloom!
  And the warrior tossed a pea with her bare toes, and a thousand Chinese instantly flew into the air. The Celestial Empire's army melted away right before our eyes.
  Natasha in battle. Leaping like a cobra. Blowing up enemies. And so many Chinese die. And whole cascades of lightning and corona discharges fly off from her scarlet nipples.
  The girl of their yellow warriors with swords, and coal pellets, and spears. And needles.
  And at the same time he roars:
  - I believe victory will come!
  And the glory of the Russians will find!
  Bare toes shoot out new needles, piercing opponents.
  Zoya is in a frenzy of movement. She advances on the Chinese, chopping them into tiny pieces. And with her crimson nipples, she spews forth mass bursts of magoplasmic spittle.
  The warrior throws needles with her bare fingers. She pierces her opponents, and then roars:
  - Our complete victory is near!
  And she carries out a wild mill with swords. Now this is truly a girl like a girl!
  And now Augustine's cobra has gone on the offensive. This woman is a nightmare for all. And with her ruby nipples, she spews streams of lightning that sweep away her enemies.
  And if it turns on, then it turns on.
  After which the redhead will take and sing:
  - I'll crack open all your skulls! I'm a great dream!
  And now her swords are in action and cutting through the meat.
  Svetlana also goes on the offensive. This girl has no inhibitions. She chops down a mass of corpses. And from her strawberry nipples, she unleashes deadly lightning bolts.
  The blonde terminator roars:
  - How good it will be! How good it will be - I know it!
  And now a lethal pea flies from her.
  Oleg will mow down another hundred Chinese with a meteor. And he'll even take and throw a bomb.
  It is small in size, but deadly...
  How it will tear into small pieces.
  The Terminator Boy howled:
  - The stormy youth of scary machines!
  Margarita will do the same thing again in battle.
  And he will cut down a mass of yellow fighters. And he will cut large clearings.
  The girl squeals:
  - Lambada is our dance on the sand!
  And it will hit with renewed force.
  Natasha is even more furious on the offensive. She's pounding the Chinese like crazy. They're not exactly standing up to girls like her. Especially when their rose-petal-red nipples are blazing with lightning.
  Natasha took it and sang:
  - Jogging in place is a general reconciliation!
  And the warrior unleashed a cascade of blows on her opponents.
  And he will also throw discs with his bare feet.
  Here's the mill run. The mass of yellow army heads rolled away.
  She's a fighting beauty. To beat up such a yellow armada.
  Zoya is on the move, crushing everyone. And her swords are like the shears of death. And from her crimson nipples fly extremely deadly bolts.
  The girl is simply adorable. And her bare feet shoot out very poisonous needles.
  They strike down their enemies, pierce their throats, and make coffins.
  Zoya took it and squealed:
  - If there is no water in the tap...
  Natasha screamed with delight, and from her scarlet nipples she launched such a destructive charge that a mass of Chinese people flew into hellish hell, and the girl's shriek was devastating:
  - So it's your fault!
  And with her bare toes she throws something that kills thoroughly. Now that's a real girl.
  And from her bare legs a blade will fly, and strike down a multitude of fighters.
  Augustine in motion. Swift and unique in her beauty.
  What vibrant hair she has. It flutters like a proletarian banner. This girl is a real shrew. And her ruby nipples spit out what brings death to the warriors of the Celestial Empire.
  And she chops down her opponents as if she was born with swords in her hands.
  Red-haired, damn beast!
  Augustina took it and hissed:
  - The bull's head will be so big that the fighters won't lose their minds!
  And so she again crushed a mass of fighters. And then she whistled. And thousands of crows fainted in fear. And they struck the shaved heads of the Chinese. And they broke their bones, causing blood to spurt.
  Oleg Rybachenko muttered:
  - That's what I needed! This is a girl!
  And the boy terminator will also whistle... And thousands of crows, having suffered heart attacks, fell on the heads of the Chinese, striking them down with the most deadly battle.
  And then the karate kid kicked a bomb with his childish heel, knocking out the Chinese soldiers, and yelled:
  - For great communism!
  Margarita, throwing a dagger with her bare foot, confirmed:
  - Big and cool girl!
  And he too will whistle, knocking down the crows.
  Augustine readily agreed with this:
  - I am a warrior who will bite anyone to death!
  And again, with her bare toes, she will launch a murderous bolt. And from her sparkling ruby nipples, she will release a lightning bolt.
  Svetlana is no match for her opponents in battle. She's not a girl, but a flame. Her strawberry-colored nipples erupt like lightning bolts, incinerating a horde of Chinese.
  And squeals:
  - What a blue sky!
  Augustine, releasing the blade with her bare foot and spitting plasma with her ruby nipples, confirmed:
  - We are not supporters of robbery!
  Svetlana, cutting down her enemies and sending out burning bubbles with her strawberry nipples, chirped:
  - You don't need a knife against a fool...
  Zoya squealed, releasing a lightning bolt from her crimson nipple, throwing needles with her bare, tanned feet:
  - You'll tell him a whole bunch of lies!
  Natasha, chopping down the Chinese and spewing pulsars of magical plasma from her scarlet nipples, added:
  - And do it with him for a pittance!
  And the warriors will just jump up and down. They're so bloody and cool. There's a whole lot of excitement in them.
  Oleg Rybachenko looks very stylish in battle.
  Margarita threw the deadly boomerang of death with her bare toes and sang:
  - The blow is strong, but the guy is interested...
  The boy genius kicked something like a helicopter rotor into action. He cut off a couple hundred heads from the Chinese and squeaked:
  - Quite athletic!
  And both - a boy and a girl - are in perfect order.
  Oleg, chopping down the yellow soldiers and whistling away the crows, bellowed aggressively:
  - And a great victory will be ours!
  Margarita hissed in response:
  - We kill everyone - with bare feet!
  The girl really is such an active terminator.
  Natasha sang on the offensive:
  - In a holy war!
  And the warrior launched a sharp boomerang-like disk. It flew in an arc, cutting down a mass of Chinese. And then, from her scarlet nipple, she unleashed such a bolt of lightning that it incinerated a mass of yellow fighters.
  Zoya added, continuing the extermination and releasing lightning from her crimson nipples:
  - Our victory will be!
  And from her bare feet, new needles flew out, striking a multitude of fighters.
  The blonde girl said:
  - Let's checkmate the enemy!
  And she stuck out her tongue.
  Augustina, waving her legs and throwing sharp-edged swastikas, gurgled:
  - Imperial flag forward!
  And with ruby nipples, how it will launch destruction and annihilation.
  Svetlana readily confirmed:
  - Glory to the fallen heroes!
  And with a strawberry nipple it will give rise to a destructive annihilation flow.
  And the girls screamed in chorus, crushing the Chinese:
  - No one will stop us!
  And now the disc flies from the warriors' bare feet. The flesh tears.
  And again the howl:
  - No one will defeat us!
  Natasha flew into the air. A stream of energy erupted from her scarlet nipple. She ripped apart her opponents and said:
  - We are she-wolves, we fry the enemy!
  And from her bare toes a very lethal disk will fly out.
  The girl even twisted in ecstasy.
  And then he mutters:
  - Our heels love fire!
  Yes, the girls are really sexy.
  Oleg Rybachenko whistled, covering the Chinese like falling crows, and gurgled:
  - Oh, it's too early, the security is giving it!
  And he winked at the warriors. They laughed and bared their teeth in response.
  Natasha chopped up the Chinese, released burning streams from her scarlet nipples, and squealed:
  - There is no joy in our world without struggle!
  The boy objected:
  - Sometimes even fighting is no fun!
  Natasha, spewing from her bust that which brings total death, agreed:
  - If there is no strength, then yes...
  But we warriors are always healthy!
  The girl threw needles at her opponent with her bare toes and sang:
  - A soldier is always healthy,
  And ready for the feat!
  After which Natasha again chopped at the enemies and again released a destructive stream from her scarlet nipple.
  Zoya is quite the speedy beauty. She just launched a whole barrel at the Chinese with her bare heel. And tore apart a couple thousand in one explosion. Then she unleashed a devastating sword of hyperplasm from her crimson nipple.
  After which she squeaked:
  - We can't stop, our heels are sparkling!
  And the girl in battle dress!
  Augustina is no slouch in battle either. She thrashes the Chinese like she's beating them from a sheaf with chains. And from her ruby nipples she sends devastating gifts of destruction. And she hurls them with her bare feet.
  And chopping down his opponents, he sings:
  - Be careful, there will be some benefit,
  There will be a pie in the fall!
  The red-haired devil really does work hard in battle like a jack-in-the-box.
  And that's how Svetlana fights. And she gives the Chinese a hard time.
  And if she hits, she hits.
  Bloody splashes fly out from it.
  Svetlana remarked harshly as her bare foot sent sprays of skull-melting metal flying:
  - Glory to Russia, very much glory!
  Tanks rush forward...
  Division in red shirts -
  Greetings to the Russian people!
  And from the strawberry nipples a destructive stream of magical plasma will flow.
  Here the girls are taking on the Chinese. They're hacking and slashing them. Not warriors, but real panthers unleashed.
  Oleg is in battle and attacks the Chinese. He beats them mercilessly and screams:
  - We are like bulls!
  And he will send crows whistling at the Chinese.
  Margarita, crushing the yellow army, picked up:
  - We are like bulls!
  Natasha took it and howled, cutting down the yellow fighters:
  - It's not convenient to lie!
  And lightning will strike from the scarlet nipples.
  Zoya tore the Chinese apart and squeaked:
  - No, it's not convenient!
  And he too will take and release a star with his bare foot. And from the crimson nipple of hellish pulsars.
  Natasha took it and squealed:
  - Our TV is on fire!
  And from her bare leg flies a lethal bunch of needles. And from her scarlet nipple a stunning, burning cord.
  Zoya, also crushing the Chinese, squealed:
  - Our friendship is a monolith!
  And again she throws such a blast that the circles blur in all directions. This girl is pure destruction of her opponents. And her strawberry nipples throw out what brings death.
  The girl, with her bare toes, launches three boomerangs. And that only increases the number of corpses.
  After which the beauty will say:
  - We will give the enemy no quarter! There will be a corpse!
  And again, something deadly flies off from the bare heel.
  Augustine also quite logically noted:
  - Not just one corpse, but many!
  After that, the girl walked barefoot through the bloody puddles and killed many Chinese.
  And how he roars:
  - Mass murder!
  And then he'll hit the Chinese general with his head. He'll break his skull and say:
  - Banzai! You'll go to heaven!
  And with a ruby nipple he will launch that which brings death.
  Svetlana squeals very furiously in the attack:
  - You will have no mercy!
  And from her bare toes a dozen needles fly off. How she pierces everyone. And the warrior tries very hard, to shred and kill. And from her strawberry nipples flies something destructive and furious.
  Oleg Rybachenko squeaks:
  - Nice hammer!
  And the boy, with his bare foot, also throws a cool star in the shape of a swastika. An intricate hybrid.
  And a lot of Chinese people fell down.
  And when the boy whistled, even more fell down.
  Oleg roared:
  - Banzai!
  And the boy is once again on a wild attack. No, power is seething within him, and volcanoes are bubbling!
  Margarita is on the move. She'll rip everyone's bellies open.
  A girl can throw out fifty needles with one foot at a time. And a lot of various enemies are killed.
  Margarita sang cheerfully:
  - One, two! Grief is not a problem!
  Never be discouraged!
  Keep your nose and tail up.
  Know that a true friend is always with you!
  That's how aggressive this group is. The girl hits you and shouts:
  - The Dragon President will become a corpse!
  And it whistles again, knocking out a mass of Chinese soldiers.
  Natasha is a real terminator in battle. And she gurgled, roaring:
  - Banzai! Get it quickly!
  And a grenade flew off her bare foot. And it hit the Chinese like a nail. And it blew them apart.
  What a warrior! A warrior to all warriors!
  And the scarlet nipples of the opponents are knocked out.
  Zoya is also on the offensive. Such a fierce beauty.
  And she took it and gurgled:
  - Our father is the White God himself!
  And he will cut down the Chinese with a triple mill!
  And from the raspberry nipple it will give, as if driving into the coffin, like a pile.
  And Augustine roared in response:
  - And my God is black!
  The redhead truly is the embodiment of treachery and meanness. To her enemies, of course. But to her friends, she's a sweetheart.
  And with his bare toes he takes it and throws it. And a mass of warriors of the Celestial Empire.
  The redhead shouted:
  - Russia and the black God are behind us!
  And from the ruby nipples she sent the complete destruction of the army of the Celestial Empire.
  A warrior with immense combat potential. There's no better way to get under her.
  Augustine hissed:
  - We will grind all traitors into dust!
  And winks at her partners. This fiery wench isn't exactly the kind of peace-giver. Maybe deadly peace! And she'll also launch annihilating blows with her ruby nipple.
  Svetlana, crushing the enemies, said:
  - We'll sweep you away in a line!
  And with a strawberry nipple he will give it a good slap, crushing his opponents.
  Augustine confirmed:
  - We'll kill everyone!
  And from her bare feet, a gift of total annihilation flies again!
  Oleg sang in response:
  - It will be a complete banzai!
  Aurora, tearing the Chinese apart with her bare hands, chopping them with swords, and throwing needles with her bare toes, said:
  - In short! In short!
  Natasha, destroying the yellow warriors, squeaked:
  - In short - banzai!
  And let's hack at our opponents with savage ferocity, launching gifts of death with our scarlet nipples.
  Oleg Rybachenko, cutting down his opponents, said:
  - This gambit is not Chinese,
  And believe me, the debut is Thai!
  And again, a sharp, metal-cutting disk flew from the boy"s bare foot.
  And the boy whistles, showering the heads of the Chinese soldiers with downed and fainting crows.
  Margarita, cutting down the warriors of the Celestial Empire, sang:
  - And who will we find in battle,
  And who will we find in battle...
  We won't joke about that -
  We'll tear you to pieces!
  We'll tear you to pieces!
  
  And again it will whistle, knocking down the warriors of the Celestial Empire, with the help of crows who have suffered a heart attack.
  After beating up the Chinese, you can take a little break. But alas, you don't have much time to relax.
  New yellow hordes are creeping in.
  Oleg Rybachenko chops them down again and roars:
  - In a holy war, Russians never lose!
  Margarita throws deadly gifts with her bare toes and confirms:
  - Never lose!
  Natasha will again erupt from her scarlet nipples with a whole fountain of lightning, destroying the heavenly army.
  With his bare foot he will throw a dozen bombs and roar:
  - For the Tsarist Empire!
  Zoya released a blob of plasma from her crimson nipple and gurgled:
  - For Alexander, the king of kings!
  And with a bare heel he threw up such a ball that for the Chinese it was a deadly executioner.
  Augustine will also release a ruby nipple, a whole ray of complete and unconditional destruction. And she will roar:
  - Glory to the Fatherland Russia!
  And with his bare toes he will throw a grenade and tear apart a mass of fighters of the Celestial Empire.
  Svetlana will also take it and release a tsunami of plasma magic with her strawberry nipple, and cover the Chinese, leaving only bones of them.
  And with his bare toes he will throw a gift of annihilation, which will destroy everyone and tear them into the tiniest shreds.
  After which the warrior will exclaim:
  - Glory to the Fatherland of the wisest of the tsars, Alexander III!
  And again the six will whistle, knocking into a swoon the crows that drill into the tops of the Chinese heads in thousands.
  Oleg wanted to say something else...
  But the witch's spell temporarily transported them to another substance.
  And Oleg Rybachenko became a Pioneer in one of the German camps. And Margarita moved with him.
  Well, you can't spend all your time fighting the Chinese.
  LONDON WAS sweltering. It was the last week of July, and for several days the thermometer had been approaching eighty degrees. It's hot in Britain, and it's only natural that the consumption of beer, mild and bitter, and nutty ale, is directly proportional to the degrees Fahrenheit. Portobello Road. There was no air conditioning, and this dingy little public space was filled with the stench of beer and tobacco, cheap perfume, and human sweat. At any moment, the owner of the house, a fat man, would knock on the door and chant the words that drunks and lonely people dread. "Business hours are over, gentlemen, please empty your glasses." In a back booth, out of earshot of the other patrons, six men were whispering among themselves. Five of the men were Cockney, obvious from their speech, clothing, and mannerisms. The sixth man, who kept talking, was a little harder to spot. His clothes were conservative and well-tailored, his shirt was clean but with frayed cuffs, and he wore the tie of a well-known regiment. His speech was that of an educated man, and in appearance he bore a marked resemblance to what the English call a "gentleman." His name was Theodore Blacker-Ted or Teddy to his friends, of whom he had very few left.
  He'd once been a captain in the Royal Ulster Fusiliers. Until his dismissal for stealing regimental money and cheating at cards. Ted Blacker finished speaking and looked around at the five Cockneys. "Do you all understand what's expected of you? Any questions? If so, ask now-there won't be time later." One of the men, a short fellow with a knife-like nose, raised his empty glass. "Er... I have a simple question, Teddy." "How about you pay for the beer before that fat man calls closing time?" Blacker kept the disgust out of his voice and expression as he beckoned the bartender over. He needed these men for the next few hours. He needed them badly, it was a matter of life and death-his life-and there was no doubt that when you consorted with pigs, a little dirt was bound to get on you. Ted Blacker sighed inwardly, smiled outwardly, paid for the drinks, and lit a cigar to get rid of the smell of unwashed flesh. Just a few hours-a day or two at the most-and then the deal would be done, and he would be a rich man. He would have to leave England, of course, but that didn't matter. There was a big, wide, wonderful world out there. He had always wanted to see South America. Alfie Doolittle, a Cockney chieftain in size and wit, wiped the foam from his mouth and stared across the table at Ted Blacker. His eyes, small and cunning in a large face, were fixed on Blacker. He said, "Now watch, Teddy. There is to be no murder? Perhaps a beating if necessary, but not murder..." Ted Blacker made an irritated gesture. He glanced at his expensive gold wristwatch. "I've explained all that," he said irritably. "If there are any problems-which I doubt-they will be minor. There will certainly be no murders. If any of my, er, clients so much as 'get out of line,' all you men have to do is subdue them. I thought I made that clear. All you men have to do is see that nothing happens to me and that nothing is taken from me. Especially the last one. This evening I will be showing you some very valuable goods. There are certain parties who would like to have this goods without paying for them. Now, is everything clear to you at last?"
  Dealing with the lower classes, Blacker thought, could be too much! They weren't even smart enough to be good common criminals. He glanced at his watch again and stood up. "I expect you at two-thirty sharp. My clients arrive at three. I hope you'll arrive separately and not attract attention. You know all about the constable in the area and his schedule, so there shouldn't be any difficulty here. Now, Alfie, the address again?" "Number fourteen Mews Street. Off Moorgate Road. Fourth floor in that building."
  As he walked away, the little cockney with the pointy nose chuckled, "Thinks he's a real gentleman, doesn't he? But he's no elf.
  Another man said, "I think he's quite a gentleman for me. His fives are good, anyway." Alfie tipped back his empty mug. He gave them all a shrewd look and grinned. "You wouldn't know a real gentleman, any of you, if he came up and bought you a drink. I, no, I know a gentleman when I see one. He dresses and talks like a gentleman, but I'm sure this isn't him!" The fat landlord banged his hammer on the bar. "Time, gentlemen, please!" Ted Blacker, a former captain in the Ulster Fusiliers, left his taxi in Cheapside and walked down Moorgate Road. Half Crescent Mews was about halfway up Old Street. Number fourteen was at the very end of the mews, a four-story building of faded red brick. It was an early Victorian building, and when all the other houses and apartments were occupied, it was a stable, a thriving carriage repair shop. There were times when Ted Blacker, not known for his vivid imagination, thought he could still smell the mingled scents of horses, leather, paint, varnish, and wood wafting through the stables. Entering the narrow cobbled alley, he removed his greatcoat and loosened his regimental tie. Despite the late hour, the air was still warm and damp, sticky. Blacker was not allowed to wear a tie or anything associated with his regiment. Disgraced officers were not afforded such privileges. This did not bother him. The tie, like his clothes, his speech, and his manners, was now necessary. Part of his image, necessary for the role he must play in a world he hated, a world that had treated him very poorly. The world that had elevated him to an officer and a gentleman had given him a glimpse of Heaven only to chuck him back in the gutter. The real reason for the blow-and this Ted Blacker believed with all his heart and soul-the real reason was not that he had been caught cheating at cards, or that he had been caught stealing regimental money. No. The real reason was that his father had been a butcher, and his mother had been a housemaid before her marriage. For this, and this alone, he had been thrown out of the service penniless and without a name. He had been only a temporary gentleman. When they needed him, all was well! When they no longer needed him-out! Back to poverty, trying to earn a living. He walked up to number fourteen, unlocked the gray front door, and began the long climb. The stairs were steep and worn; the air was damp and stuffy. Blacker was sweating profusely when he reached the final tee. He paused to catch his breath, telling himself he was seriously out of shape. He had to do something about it. Maybe when he got to South America with all his money, he'd be able to get back into shape. Lose the belly. He'd always been passionate about exercise. Now, at only forty-two, he was too young to afford it.
  Money! Pounds, shillings, pence, American dollars, Hong Kong dollars... What difference did it make? It was all money. Beautiful money. You could buy anything with it. If you had it, you were alive. Without it, you were dead. Ted Blacker, catching his breath, fumbled in his pocket for the key. Opposite the stairs was a single large wooden door. It was painted black. On it was a large, golden dragon breathing fire. This decal on the door, in Blacker's opinion, was just the right exotic touch, the very first hint of forbidden generosity, of the joys and illicit pleasures that lurked behind the black door. His carefully selected clientele consisted mainly of today's young men. Only two things were required for Blacker to join his dragon club: discretion and money. Plenty of both. He stepped through the black door and closed it behind him. The darkness was filled with the soothing and expensive hum of air conditioners. They had cost him a pretty penny, but it was necessary. And worth it in the end. The people who came to his Dragon Club didn't want to stew in their own sweat, pursuing their varied and sometimes complicated love affairs. Private booths had been a problem for a while, but they'd finally solved it. At a greater cost. Blacker winced, trying to find the light switch. He currently had less than fifty pounds, half of which was earmarked for the cockney hooligans. July and August were definitely hot months in London, too. What did it matter? The subdued light seeped slowly into the long, wide, high-ceilinged room. What did it matter? Who cared? He, Blacker, wouldn't last much longer. Not a damn chance. Not considering he was owed two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling. Seven hundred thousand American dollars. That was the price he was asking for twenty minutes of film. He would get his money's worth. He was sure of it. Blacker walked over to the small bar in the corner and poured himself a weak whiskey and soda. He wasn't an alcoholic and had never touched the drugs he sold: marijuana, cocaine, weed, various highs, and, last year, LSD... Blacker opened the small refrigerator to get ice for his drink. Yes, there was money in drug sales. But not much. The real money was made by the big boys.
  
  They didn't have any notes worth less than fifty pounds, and half of them would have to be given up! Blacker took a sip, grimaced, and was honest with himself. He knew his problem, knew why he was always poor. His smile was painful. Horses and roulette. And he was the most miserable bastard who had ever lived. Right now, at this very moment, he owed Raft over five hundred pounds. He had been in hiding lately, and soon the security forces would come looking for him. I mustn't think about it, Blacker told himself. I won't be here when they come looking. I'll get to South America safe and sound and with all this money. I just need to change my name and my lifestyle. I'll start over with a clean slate. I swear. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. Just a few minutes past one. Plenty of time. His Cockney bodyguards would arrive at two-thirty, and he had it all planned out. Two in front, two behind, big Alfie with him.
  
  No one, no one, was to leave unless he, Ted Blacker, said the Word. Blacker smiled. He had to be alive to say that Word, didn't he? Blacker sipped slowly, looking around the large room. In a way, he hated leaving it all behind. This was his baby. He'd built it from nothing. He didn't like to think about the risks he'd taken to get the capital he needed: a jeweler's robbery; a load of furs stolen from an East Side attic; even a couple of cases of blackmail. Blacker could only smile grimly at the memory-both of them were notorious bastards he'd known in the army. And so it was. He'd gotten his damned way! But it had all been dangerous. Terribly, terribly dangerous. Blacker was not, and he admitted it, a very brave man. All the more reason he was ready to run as soon as he got the money for the film. This was too much, damn it, for a weak-willed man afraid of Scotland Yard, the DEA, and now even Interpol. To hell with them. Sell the film to the highest bidder and run away.
  
  To hell with England and the world, and to hell with everyone but himself. These were the thoughts, precise and true, of Theodore Blacker, formerly of the Ulster Regiment. To hell with him, too, come to think of it. And especially with that damned Colonel Alistair Ponanby, who, with a cold look and a few carefully chosen words, crushed Blacker forever. The Colonel said, "You are so contemptible, Blacker, that I can feel nothing but pity for you. You seem incapable of stealing or even cheating at cards like a gentleman."
  The words came back to him, despite Blacker's best efforts to block them out, and his narrow face twisted in hatred and agony. He hurled his glass across the room with a curse. The Colonel was dead now, beyond his reach, but the world had not changed. His enemies were not gone. There were many left in the world. She was one of them. The Princess. Princess Morgan da Gama. His thin lips curled into a sneer. So it had all worked out. She, the Princess, could pay for everything. Dirty little bitch in shorts, that she was. He knew about her... Note the beautiful, haughty manner, the cold disdain, the snobbery and royal bitchiness, the cold green eyes that looked at you without truly seeing you, without acknowledging your existence. He, Ted Blacker, knew everything about the Princess. "Soon, when he sells the film, a hell of a lot of people will know about it. The thought gave him insane pleasure, he glanced at the large sofa in the middle of the long room. He grinned. What he had seen the princess do on that sofa, what he did to her, what she did to him. God! He would like to see this image on every front page of every newspaper in the world. He took a deep gulp and closed his eyes, imagining the main story on the social pages: the beautiful Princess Morgan da Goma, the noblest woman of Portuguese blue blood, a harlot.
  
  Reporter Aster is in town today. Interviewed by this reporter at Aldgate, where she has a Royal Suite, the Princess declared she was eager to join the Dragon Club and engage in more esoteric sexual acrobatics. The haughty Princess, when pressed further, stated that ultimately it was all a matter of semantics, but insisted that even in today's democratic world, such things are reserved for the nobility and the well-born. The old-fashioned way, the Princess said, is still quite suitable for peasants.
  Ted Blacker heard laughter in the room. A hideous laughter, more like the squeal of hungry, crazed rats scratching behind paneling. With a shock, he realized the laughter was his own. He immediately dismissed the fantasy. Perhaps he was a little mad with this hatred. He had to watch it. The hatred was amusing enough, but it wasn't worth it on its own. Blacker hadn't intended to start the movie again until the three men, his clients, arrived. He'd seen it a hundred times. But now he picked up his glass, walked over to the large sofa, and pressed one of the small mother-of-pearl buttons so artfully and unobtrusively sewn into the armrest. There was a faint mechanical hum as a small white screen descended from the ceiling at the far end of the room. Blacker pressed another button, and behind him, a projector hidden in the wall shot a bright beam of white light at the screen. He took a sip, lit a long cigarette, crossed his ankles on the leather ottoman, and relaxed. If it weren't for the screening for potential clients, this would be the last time he watched the film. He was offering a negative, and he had no intention of deceiving anyone. He wanted to enjoy his money. The first figure to appear on screen was his own. He was checking the hidden camera for the correct angles. Blacker studied his image with rather grudging approval. He had developed a belly. And he was careless with his comb and brush-his bald spot was too obvious. The thought occurred to him that now, with his new wealth, he could afford a hair transplant. He watched himself sitting on the sofa, lighting a cigarette, fidgeting with the creases in his trousers, frowning and smiling in the direction of the camera.
  Blacker smiled. He remembered his thoughts at that particular moment-worried that the Princess would hear the hum of the hidden camera. He decided not to worry. By the time he turned on the camera, she would already be safe in her LSD trip. She wouldn't hear the camera or much else. Blacker checked his gold wristwatch again. It was a quarter to two. Still plenty of time. The film was only a minute or so into the half hour. Blacker's flickering image on the screen suddenly turned toward the door. It was the Princess knocking. He watched as he reached for the button and turned off the camera. The screen turned blindingly white again. Now Blacker, in the flesh, pressed the button again. The screen went black. He stood up and took more cigarettes from the jade pack. Then he returned to the couch and pressed the button again, activating the projector again. He knew exactly what he was about to see. Half an hour had passed since he let her in. Blacker recalled every detail with perfect clarity. Princess da Gama had expected others to be present. At first, she didn't want to be alone with him, but Blacker used all his charm, gave her a cigarette and a drink, and persuaded her to stay for a few minutes... It was enough time, because her drink was laced with LSD. Blacker knew even then that the princess had stayed with him only out of pure boredom. He knew she despised him, as her entire world despised him, and that she considered him less than dirt under her feet. That was one of the reasons he'd chosen her to blackmail. Hatred for everyone like her. There was also the pure joy of knowing her carnally, of making her do nasty things, of bringing her down to his level. And she had money. And very high connections in Portugal. Her uncle's high position-he couldn't remember the man's name-he held a high position in the cabinet.
  
  Yes, Princess da Gama was going to be a good investment. How good-or bad-that would be, Blacker hadn't even dreamed of at the time. All that came later. Now he watched the film unfold, a smug expression on his rather handsome face. One of his fellow officers had once remarked that Blacker looked like "a very handsome advertising man." He turned on the hidden camera only half an hour after the princess had unknowingly taken her first dose of LSD. He watched her demeanor gradually change as she quietly slipped into a semi-trance. She didn't object when he led her to a large sofa. Blacker waited another ten minutes before turning on the camera. During that interval, the princess began to talk about herself with devastating candor. Under the influence of the drug, she considered Blacker an old and dear friend. Now he smiled, remembering some of the words she used-words not usually associated with a princess of the blood. One of her first remarks truly struck Blacker. "In Portugal," she said, "they think I'm crazy. Totally crazy. They'd lock me up if they could. To keep me out of Portugal, you see. They know all about me, my reputation, and they really do think I'm crazy. They know I drink and take drugs and sleep with any man who asks me-well, almost any dude. I still draw the line at that sometimes." This, Blacker remembered, was not the way he heard it. It was another reason he had chosen her. Rumor had it that when the princess was drunk, which was most of the time, or on drugs, she slept with anyone in their pants or, faute de nue, in skirts. After a flurry of conversation, she had almost gone crazy, giving him only a vague smile as he began to undress. It was, he remembered now, watching the film, like undressing a doll. She didn't resist or help as her legs and arms were moved into any desired position. Her eyes were half-closed, and she seemed to genuinely think she was alone. Her wide red mouth was half-open in a vague smile. The man on the couch felt his loins begin to react as he saw himself on the screen. The princess wore a thin linen dress, not quite a mini, and she obediently raised her slender arms as he pulled it over her head. She wore very little underneath. A black bra and tiny black lace panties. A garter belt and long, textured white stockings. Ted Blacker, watching the movie, began to sweat a little in the air-conditioned room. After all these weeks, the damn thing still excited him. He enjoyed it. He admitted that it would forever remain one of his most precious and cherished memories. He unclasped her bra and slid it down her arms. Her breasts, larger than he would have thought, with pinkish-brown tips, stood firm and snow-white from her ribcage. Blacker stood behind her, playing with her breasts with one hand while he pressed another button to activate the zoom lens and capture her close-up. The princess didn't notice. In the close-up, so clear that the tiny pores in her nose were visible, her eyes were closed, and there was a gentle half-smile in them. If she felt his hands or responded, it was not noticeable. Blacker did not remove her garter belt and stockings. Garters were his fetish, and by this time he was so carried away by arousal that he almost forgot the real reason for this sexual charade. Money. He began to position those long, long legs-so enticing in long white stockings-exactly how he wanted them on the sofa. She obeyed his every command, never speaking or protesting. By this time, the princess had already left, and if she even noticed his presence, it was only in the vaguest form. Blacker was a vague addition to the scene, nothing more. Over the next twenty minutes, Blacker took her through the entire sexual gamut. He indulged in every position. Everything a man and a woman could do to each other, they did. Again and again...
  
  She played her part, he used the zoom lens for close-ups-Blacker had certain cameras on hand-some of the Dragon Club's clients did have some very strange tastes-and he used them all on the Princess. She accepted this, too, with equanimity, showing neither sympathy nor antipathy. Finally, during the last four minutes of the film, having demonstrated his sexual ingenuity, Blacker sated his lust in her, beating her and fucking her like an animal. The screen went black. Blacker turned off the projector and approached the small bar, checking his watch. The Cockneys would be arriving soon. Insurance that he would live through the night. Blacker had no illusions about the kind of men he would meet tonight. They would be thoroughly searched before being allowed up the stairs to the Dragon Club. Ted Blacker went downstairs, leaving the air-conditioned room. He decided not to wait for Alfie Doolittle to speak to him. For one thing, Al had a raspy voice, and for another, the telephone receivers might be linked together somehow. You never knew. When you were gambling for a quarter of a million pounds and your life, you had to think of everything. The tiny vestibule was damp and deserted. Blacker waited in the shadows under the stairs. At 2:29 p.m., Alfie Doolittle entered the vestibule. Blacker hissed at him, and Alfie turned, not taking his eyes off him, one meaty hand instinctively reaching for the front of his shirt. "Shit," Alfie said, "I thought you wanted me to blow you up?" Blacker put his finger to his lips. "Keep your voice down, for God"s sake!" Where are the others? "Joe and Irie are already here. I sent them back, like you said. The other two will be here shortly." Blacker nodded with satisfaction. He walked towards the big Cockney. "What do you have this evening? Let me see, please," Alfie Doolittle said, a scornful smile on his thick lips as he quickly pulled out a knife and a pair of brass knuckles.
  "Knuckle dusters, Teddy, and a knife if needed, if there's an emergency, you might say. All the boys have the same as me." Blacker nodded again. The last thing he wanted was a murder. Very well. I'll be right back. Stay here until your men arrive, then come on up. Make sure they know their orders-they are to be polite, courteous, but they are to search my guests. Any weapons found will be confiscated and will not be returned. Repeat-no return."
  
  Blacker figured his "guests" would need some time to acquire new weapons, even if they meant violence. He intended to make the most of this time, bidding the Dragon Club farewell forever and disappearing until they came to their senses. They would never find him. Alfie frowned. "My men know their orders, Teddy." Blacker headed back up. Over his shoulder, he said briefly, "Just so they don't forget." Alfie frowned again. Fresh sweat broke out on Blacker as he climbed. He couldn't find a way around it. He sighed and paused on the third landing to catch his breath, wiping his face with a scented handkerchief. No, Alfie had to be there. No plan was ever perfect. "I don't want to be left alone, unprotected, with these guests." Ten minutes later, Alfie knocked on the door. Blacker let him in, gave him a bottle of ale, and showed him where he should sit on a straight-backed chair, ten feet to the right of the huge sofa and on the same plane with it. "If it's no trouble," Blacker explained, "you must behave like those three monkeys. See nothing, hear nothing, do nothing..."
  He added reluctantly, "I'm going to show the film to my guests. You'll see it too, of course. I wouldn't mention it to anyone else if I were you. It could get you into a lot of trouble."
  
  "I know how to keep my mouth shut."
  
  Blacker patted him on the large shoulder, not liking the contact. "Then know what you're about to see. If you watch the film carefully, you might learn something." Ade gave him a blank look. "I know everything I need to know." "A lucky man," Blacker said. It was a pathetic joke at best, completely useless to the big Cockney. The first knock on the black door came a minute after three. Blacker pointed a warning finger at Alfie, who sat motionless as Buddha in his chair. The first visitor was small in stature, immaculately dressed in a fawn-colored summer suit and an expensive white Panama hat.
  He bowed slightly as Blacker opened the door. "Excuse me, please. I am looking for Mr. Theodore Blacker. Is that you?" Blacker nodded. "Who are you?" The small Chinese man held out a card. Blacker glanced at it and saw in elegant black print: "Mr. Wang Hai." Nothing more. Not a word about the Chinese Embassy. Blacker stood to the side. "Come in, Mr. Hai. Please take a seat on the large sofa. Your seat is in the left-hand corner. Would you like a drink?" "Nothing, please." The Chinese man did not even glance at Alfie Doolittle as he took his place on the sofa. Another knock at the door. This guest was very large and shiny black, with distinctly Negroid features. He wore a cream-colored suit, slightly stained and out of fashion. The lapels were too wide. In his enormous black hand he held a shabby, cheap straw hat. Blacker stared at the man and thanked God for Alfie"s presence. The black man was menacing. "Your name, please?" The black man's voice was soft and slurred, with some kind of accent. His eyes, with cloudy yellow corneas, stared into Slacker's.
  
  The black man said, "My name doesn't matter. I'm here as a representative of Prince Sobhuzi Askari. That's enough." Blacker nodded. "Yes. Please sit down. On the sofa. In the right-hand corner. Would you like a drink or a cigarette? The Negro declined. Five minutes passed before the third customer knocked on the door. They passed in uneasy silence. Blacker kept glancing quickly, slyly at the two men sitting on the sofa. They did not speak or look at each other. Until... and he felt his nerves begin to tremble. Why hadn't the bastard come? Had something gone wrong? Oh, God, please don't! Now that he was so close to that quarter of a million pounds. He almost sobbed with relief when at last the knock came. The man was tall, almost thin, with a shock of curly dark hair that needed a cut. He was hatless. His hair was bright yellow. He wore these black socks and brown, hand-knotted leather sandals.
  "Mr. Blacker?" The voice was a light tenor, but the contempt and disdain in it cut like a whip. His English was good, but with a distinct Latin tint. Blacker nodded, looking at the bright shirt. "Yes. I'm Blacker. Did you previously...?" He didn't quite believe it. "Major Carlos Oliveira. Portuguese Intelligence. Shall we get to it?"
  
  The voice said what the words couldn't: pimp, pimp, sewer rat, dog shit, the foulest of bastards. The voice somehow reminded Blacker of the Princess. Blacker kept his cool, speaking in the language of his younger clients. Too much was at stake. He pointed to the sofa. "You will sit there, Major Oliveira. In the middle, please." Blacker double-locked the door and slid the bolt. He took three ordinary postcards with stamps from his pocket. He handed each of the men on the sofa a card.
  
  Moving away from them a little, he delivered his little prepared speech. "You will notice, gentlemen, that each postcard is addressed to a post box in Chelsea. Needless to say, I will not be taking the cards personally, although I will be close by. Close enough, of course, to see if anyone makes any effort to follow the person who collects the card. I would not advise that if you really want to do business. 'You are about to see a half-hour film. The film is being sold to the highest bidder - over a quarter of a million pounds sterling. I will not accept a bid lower than that. There will be no cheating. There is only one print and a negative, and both are selling for the same price...' The little Chinese man leaned forward a little.
  
  - Please, do you have a guarantee for this?
  Blacker nodded. "Honestly."
  
  Major Oliveira laughed cruelly. Blacker flushed, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and continued, "It doesn't matter. Since there can be no other guarantee, you'll have to take my word." He said with a smile that didn't fade. "I assure you I'll keep it. I want to live out my life in peace. And my asking price is too high for me not to resort to treason. I..."
  The Negro's yellow eyes pierced Blacker. "Please continue with the terms. There aren't many."
  Blacker wiped his face again. The damn air conditioner had stopped working? "Of course. It's very simple. Each of you, after you've had time to confer with your superiors, will write your bid amount on a postcard. Only in numbers, no dollar signs or pound signs. Also, write down a telephone number where you can be reached in complete confidentiality. I think I can leave that up to you. After I receive the cards and study them, I will call the highest bidder in due course. Then we will arrange payment and delivery of the film. It's, as I said, very simple.
  
  "Yes," said the little Chinese gentleman. "Very simple." Blacker, meeting his gaze, felt he saw a snake. "Very ingenious," said the black man. His fists formed two black maces on his knees. Major Carlos Oliveira said nothing, only looked at the Englishman with empty dark eyes that could have held anything. Blacker fought his nerves. He walked over to the sofa and pressed the pearl button on the armrest. With a small gesture of bravado, he indicated the waiting screen at the end of the room. "And now, gentlemen, Princess Morgan da Game in one of her most interesting moments." The projector hummed. The princess smiled like a lazy, half-asleep cat as Blacker began to unbutton her dress.
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  THE DIPLOMAT, one of London's most luxurious and exclusive clubs, is located in a posh Georgian building near Three Kings Yard, not far from Grosvenor Square. On this hot and sticky night, the club was dull. Only a few well-dressed people came and went, mostly leaving, and the games at the roulette tables and in the poker rooms were truly stifling. The heat wave sweeping London had relaxed the sporting crowd, depriving them of gambling. Nick Carter was no exception. The humidity didn't particularly bother him, although he could have done without it, but it wasn't the weather that bothered him. The truth was, Killmaster didn't know, truly didn't know, what was bothering him. He only knew that he was restless and irritable; earlier, he had been at a reception at the embassy and dancing with his old friend Jake Todhunter in Grosvenor Square. The evening was less than pleasant. Jake set Nick up with a date, a beautiful little girl named Limey, with a sweet smile and curves in all the right places. She was eager to please, showing every sign of being at least accommodating. It was a big YES, written all over her, in the way she looked at Nick, clung to his hand, and pressed herself too close to him.
  
  Her father, Lake Todhooter said, was an important man in the government. Nick Carter didn't care. He was struck-and only now began to guess why-by a severe case of what Ernest Hemingway called "a prancing, stupid ass." After all, Carter was as close to rude as a gentleman could get. He excused himself and left. He emerged and loosened his tie, unbuttoned his white tuxedo, and strode with long, sweeping strides through the burning concrete and asphalt. Through Carlos Place and Mont Street to Berkeley Square. There were no nightingales singing there. Finally, he turned back and, passing the Diplomat, impulsively decided to stop for a drink and refresh himself. Nick had many cards at many clubs, and the Diplomat was one of them. Now, almost finished with his drink, he sat alone at a small table in the corner and discovered the source of his irritation. It was simple. Killmaster had been inactive for too long. Almost two months had passed since Hawk had given him the assignment. Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd been out of work. No wonder he was frustrated, sullen, angry, and difficult to get along with! Things must be moving incredibly slowly in Counterintelligence-either that, or David Hawk, his boss, was keeping Nick out of the fight for his own reasons. Either way, something had to be done. Nick paid up and prepared to leave. First thing in the morning, he'd call Hawk and demand the assignment. That could make a man rusty. In fact, it was dangerous for a man in his line of work to be idle for so long. True, some things had to be practiced daily, no matter where in the world he found himself. Yoga was a daily routine. Here in London, he trained with Tom Mitsubashi at the latter's gym in Soho: judo, jiu-jitsu, aikido, and karate. Killmaster was now a sixth-degree black belt. None of that mattered. Practice had been great, but what he needed now was real business. He still had vacation time. Yes. He would. He would drag the old man out of bed-it was still dark in Washington-and demand immediate assignment.
  
  Things might go slowly, but Hawk could always come up with something if pressed. For example, he kept a small black book of death, where he kept a list of the people he most wanted to see destroyed. Nick Carter was already leaving the club when he heard laughter and applause to his right. There was something strange, odd, false about the sound that caught his attention. It was slightly unsettling. Not just drunk-he had been around drunks before-but something else, a high, shrill note that was somehow wrong. His curiosity aroused, he stopped and looked in the direction of the sounds. Three wide, shallow steps led up to a Gothic arch. A sign above the arch, in discreet black script, read: "Private Bar for Gentlemen." The high-pitched laughter rang out again. Nick's alert eye and ear caught the sound and connected the dots. A men's bar, but a woman was laughing there. Nick, drunk and laughing almost madly, descended the three steps. This was what he wanted to see. His good mood returned when he decided to call Hawk. After all, it could be one of those nights. Beyond the archway was a long room with a bar along one side. The place was gloomy, save for the bar, where lamps, apparently tucked here and there, had transformed it into something like a makeshift catwalk. Nick Carter hadn't been to a burlesque theater in years, but he recognized the setting immediately. He didn't recognize the beautiful young woman making such a fool of herself. This, he thought even then, wasn't so strange in the scheme of things, but it was a shame. For she was beautiful. Enchanting. Even now, with one perfect breast jutting out and her doing what seemed like a rather sloppy combination of go-go and hoochie-coochie, she was beautiful. Somewhere in a dark corner, American music was playing from an American jukebox. Half a dozen men, all in tails, all over fifty, greeted her, laughed, and applauded as she paced and danced up and down the bar.
  
  The elderly bartender, his long face slanted with disapproval, stood silently, arms folded across his white-robed chest. Killmaster had to admit to a slight shock, unusual for him. After all, this was the Diplomat Hotel! He'd bet his bottom dollar that management didn't know what was going on in the gentlemen's bar. Someone moved in the shadows nearby, and Nick instinctively turned like a flash to meet the potential threat. But it was only a servant, an elderly servant in club livery. He was smirking at a dancing girl at the bar, but when he caught Nick's eye, his expression immediately changed to pious disapproval. His nod to Agent AXE was obsequious.
  "It"s a shame, isn"t it, sir! A great pity, it really is. You see, it was the gentlemen who put her up to it, though they shouldn"t have. Wandered in here by mistake, poor thing, and those who should have known better instantly got her up and started dancing." For a moment the piety vanished, and the old man almost smiled. "I can"t say she resisted, though, sir. Walked right into the spirit, yes. Oh, she"s a perfect terror, that one. It"s not the first time I"ve seen her do these tricks." He was interrupted by a fresh burst of applause and shouts from the small group of men at the bar. One of them cupped his hands and shouted, "Do it, Princess. "Take it all off!" Nick Carter looked at this with half-pleasure, half-anger. She was too good to humiliate herself with such things. "Who is she?" he asked the servant. The old man, without taking his eyes off the girl, said: "The Princess da Gam, sir. Very rich. Very high society nastiness. Or was, at least. Some of the piety returned. "Too bad, sir, as I said. So pretty, and with all her money and blue blood... Oh, my God, sir, I think she'll take it off!" The men in the bar were now insistent, shouting and clapping their hands.
  
  The chant grew louder: "Take off... take off... take off..." The old servant glanced nervously over his shoulder, then at Nick. "Now gentlemen are going too far, sir. My work is worth finding here." "Then why," Kilbnaster suggested softly, "don't you leave?" But there was the old man. His watery eyes were fixed on the girl again. But he said, "If my boss ever interferes with this, they'll all be banned from this establishment for life-every one of them." His boss, Nick thought, would be the manager. His smile was slight. Yes, if the manager suddenly showed up, there would definitely be hell to pay. Quixotically, without really knowing or caring why he did it, Nick moved to the end of the bar. Now the girl had sunk into an unabashed routine of bangs and sounds that could not have been more straightforward. She was wearing a thin green dress that reached to mid-thigh. As Nick was about to bang his glass on the bar to get the bartender's attention, the girl suddenly reached up to grab the hem of her miniskirt. In one swift motion, she pulled it over her head and threw it away. It glided through the air, hung for a moment, and then fell, light, fragrant and smelling of her body, on Nick Carter's head. Loud shouts and laughter from the other men in the bar. Nick extricated himself from the fabric - he recognized Lanvin perfume and a very expensive one - and placed the dress on the bar next to him. Now all the men were looking at him. Nick returned their imperturbable gaze. One or two of the more sober among them shifted uneasily and looked
  The girl-Nick thought he'd probably heard the name da Gama somewhere before-was now wearing only a tiny bra, her right breast exposed, a pair of thin white panties, a garter belt, and long lace panties. She was wearing black stockings. She was tall, with slender, rounded legs, gracefully folded ankles, and small feet. She wore patent leather pumps with open toes and high heels. She danced with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. Her hair, jet black, was cut very short and close to her head.
  
  A fleeting thought occurred to Nick that she might own and use several wigs. The record on the jukebox was a medley of old American jazz tunes. Now the band briefly broke into a few hot bars of "Tiger Rag." The girl's writhing pelvis caught the rhythm of the tiger's roar, the hoarse oompah of the tuba. Her eyes were still closed, and she leaned back far, legs spread wide, and began to roll and fidget. Her left breast now slipped out of her tiny bra. The men below were shouting and beating time. "Hold that tiger, hold that tiger! Take it off, princess. Shake it, princess!" One of the men, a balding fellow with a huge belly, dressed in evening clothes, tried to climb onto the counter. His companions pulled him back. The scene reminded Nick of an Italian film whose name he couldn't remember. Killmaster, in fact, found himself in a dilemma. Part of him was slightly outraged by the sight, feeling sorry for the poor drunk girl at the bar; the other part of Nick, the brute that couldn't be denied, began to react to the long, perfect legs and bare, swaying breasts. Due to his bad mood, he hadn't had a woman in over a week. He was now on the verge of arousal, he knew it, and he didn't want it. Not like this. He couldn't wait to leave the bar. Now the girl noticed him and began dancing in his direction. Cries of irritation and indignation came from the other men as she strutted over to where Nick stood, still shaking and jiggling her toned buttocks. She was looking straight at him, but he doubted she actually saw him. She barely saw anything. She stopped directly above Nick, her legs spread wide, her hands on her hips. She stopped all movement and looked down at him. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw a faint glimmer of intelligence in the green, alcohol-soaked depths.
  
  The girl smiled at him. "You're handsome," she said. "I like you. I want you. You look like... you can be trusted... please take me home." The light in her eyes went out, as if a switch had been flicked. She leaned toward Nick, her long legs starting to buckle at the knees. Nick had seen it happen before, but never to him. This girl was losing consciousness. Coming, coming... Some joker in the group of men shouted, "Timber!" The girl made one last effort to brace her knees, achieved some rigidity, the stillness of a statue. Her eyes were empty and staring. She fell slowly from the counter, with a strange grace, into the waiting arms of Nick Carter. He caught her easily and held her, her bare breasts pressed against his large chest. What now? He wanted a woman. But in the first place, he wasn't particularly fond of drunk women. He liked women alive and energetic, mobile and sensual. But he needed her if he wanted a woman, and now he thought, what he wanted, he had a whole book full of London phone numbers. The fat drunk, the same man who had tried to climb onto the bar, tipped the scales. He approached Nick with a frown on his plump, red face. "I'll take the girl, old man. She's ours, you know, not yours. I, we have plans for the little princess." Killmaster decided on the spot. "I think not," he said quietly to the man. "The lady asked me to take her home. You heard. I think I'll do it:" He knew what "plans" were. "On the outskirts of New York or in a posh club in London. Men are the same animals, dressed in jeans or evening suits. Now he glanced at the other men in the bar. They kept to themselves, muttering among themselves and looking at him, paying no attention to the fat man. Nick picked up the girl's dress from the floor, walked up to the bar, and turned to the servant, still lingering in the shadows. The old servant looked at him with a mixture of horror and admiration.
  
  Nick tossed the dress to the old man. - You. Help me get her to the dressing room. We'll dress her and... -
  
  "Wait a damn minute," said the fat man. "Who the hell are you, a Yankee, to come out here and run off with our girl? I've been buying that whore drinks all night, and if you think you can... uhltirimmppphh ...
  "Nick was trying very hard not to hurt the man. He extended the first three fingers of his right hand, flexed them, turned his palm upward, and struck the man just below the sternum. It could have been a fatal blow if he'd intended it to be, but AX-Man was very, very gentle." The fat man suddenly collapsed, clutching his swollen belly with both hands. His flabby face turned gray, and he groaned. The other men muttered and exchanged glances, but made no attempt to intervene.
  Nick gave them a hard smile. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your patience. You're smarter than you think." He pointed at the fat man, still gasping for breath on the floor. "Everything will be fine once he catches his breath." The unconscious girl was swaying over his left arm...
  Nick barked at the old man. "Turn on the light." When the dim yellow light came on, he straightened the girl, holding her under the arms. The old man waited with the green dress. "Wait a minute." Nick, with two quick movements, shoved each velvety white breast back into the cradle of the bra. "Now-put this over her head and pull it down." The old man didn't move. Nick smirked at him. "What's the matter, veteran? You've never seen a half-naked woman before?"
  
  The old servant summoned the last vestiges of his dignity. "No, sir, about forty years old. It"s something of a, er, shock, sir. But I"ll try to cope. You can do it," Nick said. "You can do it. And hurry up with it." They threw the dress over the girl"s head and pulled it down. Nick held her upright, his arm around her waist. "Has she got a handbag or anything? Women usually do." "I suppose there was a purse, sir. I seem to remember it somewhere in the bar. Perhaps I can find out where she lives - unless you know?" The man shook his head. "I don't know. But I think I read in the papers that she lives at the Aldgate Hotel. You will find out, of course. And if I may, sir, you can hardly take a lady back to the Aldgate in this -" "I know," said Nick. "I know. Bring the purse. Let me worry about the rest." "Yes, sir." The man darted back into the bar. She leaned against him now, stood up quite easily with his support, her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed, her broad red forehead a little damp. She breathed easily. A faint aroma of whiskey, mingled with a subtle perfume, emanated from her. Killmaster felt the itch and ache in his loins again. She was beautiful, desirable. Even in this state. Killmaster resisted the temptation to go and run at her. He had never slept with a woman who didn't know what she was doing-he wasn't going to start tonight. The old man returned with a white alligator skin handbag. Nick stuffed it into his jacket pocket. From another pocket, he pulled out a couple of pound notes and handed them to the man. "Go see if you can call a taxi." The girl leaned her face close to his. Her eyes were closed. She was dozing peacefully. Nick Carter sighed.
  
  
  "You're not ready? You can't do this, huh? But I have to do all this. Okay, so be it." He threw her over his shoulder and walked out of the dressing room. He didn't look into the bar. He climbed the three steps, under the arch, and turned toward the lobby. "You there! Sir!" The voice was thin and grumpy. Nick turned to face the owner of the voice. The movement caused the girl's thin skirt to rise slightly, billowing, revealing her toned thighs and tight white panties. Nick pulled the dress off and adjusted it. "Sorry," he said. "Did you want something?" Nibs - it was undoubtedly a he - stood and yawned. His mouth continued to move like a fish out of water, but no words came out. He was thin, balding, blond. His thin neck was too small for the stiff collar. The flower on his lapel reminded Nick of dandies. AX-man smiled charmingly, as if having a pretty girl sitting on his shoulder with her head and breasts hanging forward was a daily routine.
  He repeated, "Did you want something?" The manager looked at the girl's legs, his mouth still silently moving. Nick pulled her green dress down to cover the white strip of flesh between the top of her stockings and her panties. He smiled and started to turn away.
  "Sorry again. I thought you were talking to me."
  The manager finally found his voice. It was thin, high-pitched, and filled with indignation. His small fists were clenched and he shook them at Nick Carter. "I... I don"t understand! I mean, I demand an explanation for all this, what the hell is going on in my club?" Nick looked innocent. And confused. "Continue? I don"t understand. I"m just leaving with the princess and..." The manager pointed a trembling finger at the girl"s backside. "Alaa - Princess da Gama. Again! Drunk again, I suppose?" Nick shifted her weight onto his shoulder and grinned. "I suppose you could call it that, yeah. I"m taking her home." "Okay," the manager said. "Be so kind. Be so kind and make sure she never comes back here."
  
  He clasped his hands in what might have been a prayer. "She's my terror," he said.
  "She's the bane and scourge of every club in London. Go, sir. Please go with her. At once." "Of course," said Nick. "I understand she's staying at Aldgate, eh?"
  The manager turned green. His eyes bulged. "My God, man, you can"t take her there! Even at this hour. Especially not at this hour. There are so many people there. Aldgate is always full of newspapermen, gossip columnists. If those parasites see her and she talks to them, tells them she was here tonight, I"ll be there, my club will be..." Nick was tired of playing. He turned back to the foyer. The girl"s arms dangled like a doll"s from the movement. "Stop worrying," he told the man.
  "She won't talk to anyone for a long time. I'll see to it." He winked meaningfully at the man, and then said, "You really should do something about these louts, these brutes." He nodded toward the men's bar. "Did you know they wanted to take advantage of that poor girl? They wanted to take advantage of her, to rape her right there in the bar when I arrived. I saved her honor. If it weren't for me-well, talk about the headlines! You'd be locked up tomorrow. Nasty guys, they're all there, all of them. Ask the bartender about the fat one with the bad belly. I had to hit that man to save the girl." Nibs staggered. He reached for the railing at the side of the stairs and grabbed it. "Sir. Did you hit someone? Yes-rape. In my gentlemen's bar? It's just a dream, and I'll wake up soon. I-" "Don't bet on it," Nick said cheerfully. "Well, the lady and I had better leave. But you'd better take my advice and cross a few people off your list." He nodded toward the bar again. "Bad company down there. Very bad company, especially the one with the big belly. It wouldn't surprise me if he was some kind of sexual deviant." A new look of horror gradually appeared on the manager's pale face. He stared at Nick, his face twitching, his eyes tense with pleading. His voice trembled.
  
  
  
  "A big man with a big belly? With a ruddy face?" Nick's return gaze was cold. "If you call that fat, flabby fellow a distinguished man, then he might be the man. Why? Who is he?" The manager put a thin hand to his forehead. He was sweating now. "He owns the controlling interest in this club." Nick, peering through the glass door of the foyer, saw the old servant calling a cab to the curb. He waved his hand to the manager. "How pleased Sir Charles is now. Perhaps, for the good of the club, you can make him play blackball himself. Good night." And the lady wished him good night too. The man didn't seem to get the hint. He looked at Carter as if he were the devil who had just emerged from hell. "Did you hit Sir Charles?" Nick chuckled. "Not quite. Just tickled him a little. Cheers
  The old man helped him load the princess into the car. Nick gave the old man a high five and smiled at him. "Thank you, Father. Better go now and get some smelling salts-Nibs will need them. Goodbye." He told the driver to head for Kensington. He studied the sleeping face, resting so comfortably on his large shoulder. He caught the scent of whiskey again. She must have been drinking too much tonight. Nick faced a problem. He didn't want to return her to the hotel in this state. He doubted she had a reputation to lose, but even so, that wasn't something you did to a lady. And a lady she was-even in this state. Nick Carter had shared a bed with enough ladies at different times and in different parts of the world to know one when he saw one. She might be drunk, promiscuous, a lot of other things, but she was still a lady. He knew this type: a wild woman, a whore, a nymphomaniac, a bitch-or any number of other things-she might be all of these. But her features and bearing, her regal grace, even in the throes of drunkenness, were impossible to hide. This Nibs was right about one thing: the Aldgete, though a posh and expensive hotel, was not at all sedate or conservative in the true London sense. The vast lobby would be bustling and bustling at this hour of the morning-even in this heat, London always has a few swingers-and there would certainly be a reporter or two and a photographer lurking somewhere in the wooden building. He looked at the girl again, then the taxi hit a pothole, an unpleasant springy bounce, and she fell away from him. Nick pulled her back. She murmured something and wrapped one arm around his neck. Her soft, wet mouth slid across his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  "Again," she muttered. "Please do it again." Nick released her hand and patted her cheek. He couldn't throw her to the wolves. "Prince's Gate," he told the driver. "On Knightsbridge Road. You know that..." "I know, sir." He would take her to his flat and put her to bed. "...Killmaster admitted to himself that he was more than a little curious about Princess de Gama. He vaguely knew who she was now. He'd read about her in the papers from time to time, or maybe he'd even heard his friends discussing her. Killmaster wasn't a "public figure" in any conventional sense-very few highly trained agents were-but he remembered the name. Her full name was Morgana da Gama. A real princess. Of royal Portuguese blood. Vasco da Gama was her distant ancestor. Nick smiled at his sleeping girlfriend. He smoothed his smooth dark head of hair. Maybe he wouldn't call Hawk first thing in the morning after all. He should give her some time. If she was so beautiful and desirable drunk, what could she be sober?
  
  Maybe. Maybe not, Nick shrugged his broad shoulders. He could afford the damn disappointment. It would take time. Let's see where the trail leads. They turned onto Prince's Gate and continued on toward Bellevue Crescent. Nick pointed to his apartment building. The driver pulled up to the curb.
  
  - Do you need help with her?
  
  "I think," Nick Carter said, "I can handle it." He paid the man, then pulled the girl out of the taxi and onto the sidewalk. She stood there, swaying in his arms. Nick tried to get her to walk, but she refused. The driver watched with interest.
  "Are you sure you don't need any help, sir? I'd be glad to-" "No, thank you." He slung her over his shoulder again, feet first, her arms and head dangling behind him. This was how it was supposed to be. Nick smiled at the driver. "See. Nothing like that. Everything is under control." Those words would haunt him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  KILLMASTER stood amid the ruins of the Dragon Club, fourteen Crescents of Mew, and pondered the untold truth of the old adage about curiosity and the cat. His own professional curiosity had nearly killed him-yet. But this time, it-and his interest in the princess-had gotten him into a hell of a mess. It was five minutes past four. There was a hint of chill in the air, and a false dawn was just below the horizon. Nick Carter had been there for ten minutes. From the moment he entered the Dragon Club and smelled fresh blood, the playboy in him had vanished. He was now a fully professional tiger. The Dragon Club had been trashed. Ravaged by unknown assailants who were searching for something. That something, Nick thought, would be film or films. He duly noted the screen and projector and found a cleverly hidden camera. There was no film in it; they had found what they were looking for. Killmaster returned to where a naked body lay sprawled in front of a large sofa. He felt a little sick again, but he fought it off. Nearby lay a bloody pile of the dead man's clothes, soaked in blood, as were the sofa and the surrounding floor. The man had been first killed and then mutilated.
  Nick felt sick looking at the genitals-someone had cut them off and stuffed them in his mouth. It was a disgusting sight. He turned his attention to the pile of bloody clothes. In his opinion, the position of the genitals was done to make it look disgusting. He didn't think it was done out of anger; there was no frantic beating of the corpse. Just a clean, professional slitting of the throat and removal of the genitals-that much was obvious. Nick took his wallet out of his pants and examined it...
  
  He had a .22 pistol, as deadly at close range as his own Luger. And it had a silencer. Nick grinned cruelly as he put the small pistol back in his pocket. It was amazing what you sometimes find in a woman's purse. Especially when that lady, Princess Morgan da Gama, was currently sleeping in his apartment in Prince's Gate. The lady was about to answer a few questions. Killmaster headed for the door. He had been in the club too long. No point in getting involved in such a horrible murder. Part of his own curiosity was satisfied-the girl couldn't have killed Blacker-and if Hawk ever found out, he'd have convulsions! Get out while you still could. When he arrived, the Dragon's door had been ajar. Now he closed it with a handkerchief. He hadn't touched anything in the club except his wallet. He quickly descended the stairs into the small vestibule, thinking he could walk to Threadneedle Street by cutting through Swan Alley and find a taxi there. It was the opposite direction from which he had come. But when Nick peered through the large, iron, barred glass door, he saw that going out wouldn't be as easy as going in. Dawn was imminent, and the world was bathed in mother-of-pearl light. He could see a large black sedan parked opposite the stable entrance. A man was driving. Two other men, large men, roughly dressed, wearing scarves and workmen's cloth caps, were leaning against the car. Carter couldn't be sure in the dim light, but they looked black. This was new-he had never seen a black food vendor before. Nick had made a mistake. He was moving too fast. They saw a flicker of movement behind the glass. The man behind the wheel gave the order, and the two big men headed down the stables toward the front door of number fourteen. Nick Carter turned and ran easily toward the back of the hall. They looked like tough guys, those two, and except for the derringer he'd taken from the girl's purse, he was unarmed. He'd been having a good time in London under an alias, and his Luger and stiletto lay under the floorboards at the back of the apartment.
  
  Nick found the door leading from the vestibule into a narrow passage. He picked up speed, pulling a small .22 pistol from his jacket pocket as he ran. It was better than nothing, but he would have given a hundred pounds for the familiar Luger in his hands. The back door was locked. Nick opened it with a simple key, slipped inside, taking the key with him, and locked it from the outside. That would delay them for a few seconds, maybe more if they didn't want to make noise. He was in a trash-strewn courtyard. Dawn was breaking quickly. A high brick wall, topped with shards of glass, enclosed the back of the courtyard. Nick tore off his jacket as he ran. He was about to throw it over a piece of broken bottle glass on the ridge of the fence when he saw a leg sticking out of a pile of trash cans. What the hell now? Time was precious, but he had lost several seconds. Two thugs, Cockney by the look of them, were hidden behind the dustbins, and both had their throats neatly slit. Sweat beaded in Killmaster's eyes. This was taking on the appearance of a massacre. For a moment he stared at the dead man closest to him-the poor fellow had a nose like a knife, and his powerful right hand clutched a brass knuckle, which had failed to save him. Now there was a noise at the back door. Time to go. Nick threw his jacket over the glass, vaulted over it, climbed down the other side, and pulled the jacket down. The fabric tore. He wondered, as he pulled on the tattered jacket, if old Throg-Morton would let him include it in his AX expense account. He was in a narrow passageway running parallel to Moorgate Road. Left or right? He chose left and ran down it, heading for the rectangle of light at the far end. As he ran, he glanced back and saw a shadowy figure straddling a brick wall, his hand raised. Nick ducked and ran faster, but the man didn't fire. He realized that. They didn't want the noise any more than he did.
  
  
  
  
  He made his way through the maze of alleyways and stables to Plum Street. He had a vague idea of where he was. He turned onto New Broad Street and then into Finsbury Circus, always on the lookout for a passing taxi. Never had the streets of London been so deserted. Even a solitary milkman should be invisible in the steadily growing light, and certainly not the welcome silhouette of Bobby's helmet. As he entered Finsbury, a large black sedan rounded the corner and rumbled toward him. They had had bad luck with it earlier. And now there was nowhere to run. It was a block of houses and small shops, locked and forbidding, all silent witnesses, but no one offering help. The black sedan pulled up next to him. Nick kept walking, a .22 revolver in his pocket. He was right. All three were black. The driver was small, the other two were huge. One of the big men rode up front with the driver, the other behind. Killmaster walked quickly, not looking directly at them, using his wonderful peripheral vision to look around. They were watching him just as carefully, and he didn't like that. They would recognize him again. If there ever was a "again." Right now, Nick wasn't sure they would attack. The big black guy in the front seat had something, and it wasn't a pea shooter. Then Carter almost made his own dodge, almost fell and rolled to the side in front, almost got into a fight with a .22. His muscles and reflexes were ready, but something stopped him. He was gambling that these people, whoever they were, didn't want an open, noisy showdown right there in Finsbury Square. Nick kept walking, the black guy with the gun said, "Stop, mister. Get in the car. We want to talk to you." There was an accent Nick couldn't place. He kept walking. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, "Go to hell." The man with the gun said something to the driver, a stream of hurried words layered on top of each other in a language Nick Kaner had never heard before. It reminded him a little of Swahili, but it wasn't Swahili.
  
  But he knew one thing now - the language was African. But what the hell could the Africans want with him? A stupid question, a simple answer. They were waiting for him inside the fourteen semicircular stables. They had seen him there. He had run. Now they wanted to talk to him. About the murder of Mr. Theodore Blacker? Probably. About what had been taken from the premises, something they didn't have, otherwise they wouldn't have bothered with him. He turned right. The street was empty and deserted. The corner where the hell was everyone? It reminded Nick of one of those stupid movies where the hero runs endlessly through lifeless streets, never finding a soul who could help. He never believed those pictures.
  He was walking right in the middle of eight million people and he couldn't find a single one. Just the cozy foursome of them-himself and three black men. The black car turned the corner and started chasing them again. The black man in the front seat said, "Dude, you better get in here with us or we're going to have to fight. We don't want that. All we want to do is talk to you for a few minutes." Nick kept walking. "You heard me," he barked. "Go to hell. Leave me alone or you're going to get hurt." The black man with the gun laughed. "Oh, man, that's so funny." He spoke to the driver again in a language that sounded like Swahili but wasn't. The car shot forward. It went fifty yards and hit the curb again. Two big black men in cloth caps jumped out and headed back toward Nick Carter. The short man, the driver, slid sideways across the seat until he was halfway out of the car, a short black machine gun in one hand. The man who had spoken before said, "Better come and talk to me, mister... We don't want to hurt you, really. But if you make us, we'll give you a good beating." The other black man, silent the entire time, lagged a step or two behind. Killmaster immediately realized that real trouble had arrived, and that he had to make a decision quickly. To kill or not to kill?
  He decided to try not to kill, even though it might be forced upon him. The second black man was six feet six inches tall, built like a gorilla, with huge shoulders and chest and long, dangling arms. He was black as an ace of spades, with a broken nose and a face full of wrinkled scars. Nick knew that if this man ever got to hand-to-hand combat, ever grabbed him in a bear hug, he would be finished. The lead black man, who had hidden his pistol, pulled it out of his jacket pocket again. He turned it over and threatened Nick with the butt. "You coming with us, man?" "I am," Nick said to Carter. He took a step forward, jumped high in the air, and turned to kick-that is, to drive his heavy boot into the man's jaw. But this man knew his business, and his reflexes were quick.
  He waved the gun in front of his jaw, protecting it, and tried to grab Nick by the ankle with his left hand. He missed, and Nick knocked the gun out of his hand. He fell into the ditch with a crash. Nick fell on his back, cushioning the blow with both hands at his sides. The black man lunged at him, trying to grab him and get closer to the bigger, stronger man, the one who could do the real work. Carter's movements were as controlled and smooth as mercury. He hooked his left foot around the man's right ankle and kicked him hard in the knee. He kicked as hard as he could. The knee gave way like a weak hinge, and the man screamed loudly. He rolled into the gutter and lay there, now speechless, clutching his knee and trying to find the gun he had dropped. He didn't yet realize the gun was underneath him.
  The gorilla-man approached silently, his small, glittering eyes fixed on Carter. He saw and understood what had happened to his partner. He walked slowly, arms outstretched, pressing Nick against the building's facade. It was some kind of storefront, and through it was an iron security bar. Now Nick felt the iron on his back. Nick tensed the fingers of his right hand and jabbed the huge man in the chest. Much harder than he had hit Sir Charles in The Diplomat, hard enough to maim and cause excruciating pain, but not hard enough to rupture his aorta and kill. It didn't work. His fingers ached. It was like hitting a concrete slab. As he approached, the large black man's lips moved in a grin. Now Nick was almost pinned to the iron bars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He kicked the man's knee and cut him, but not enough. One of the giant fists struck him, and the world wobbled and spun. His breathing was becoming increasingly labored now, and he could bear it as he began to whimper a little as the air hissed in and out of his lungs. He poked the man in the eyes with his fingers and gained a moment's respite, but this gambit brought him too close to those enormous hands. He backed away, trying to move aside, to escape the closing trap. It was no use. Carter tensed his arm, bending his thumb at a right angle, and slammed it into the man's jaw with a murderous karate chop. The ridge from his pinky to his wrist was rough and calloused, hard as boards, it could have broken a jaw with a single blow, but the big black man did not go down. He blinked, his eyes turning a dirty yellow for a moment, then he moved forward contemptuously. Nick caught him again with the same blow, and this time he didn't even blink. Long, thick arms with huge biceps wrapped around Carter like boa constrictors. Now Nick was scared and desperate, but as always, his superior brain was working, and he was thinking ahead. He managed to slip his right hand into his jacket pocket, around the butt of a .22 pistol. With his left hand, he fumbled around the black man's massive throat, trying to find a pressure point to stop the blood flow to a brain that now had only one thought: crushing him. Then, for a moment, he was helpless as a baby. The huge black man spread his legs wide, leaned back slightly, and lifted Carter from the sidewalk. He hugged Nick like a long-lost brother. Nick's face was pressed against the man's chest, and he could smell his scent, sweat, lipstick, and flesh. He was still trying to find a nerve in the man's neck, but his fingers were weakening, and it was like trying to dig through thick rubber. The black man chuckled softly. The pressure was growing-and growing.
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, the air left Nick's lungs. His tongue lolled and his eyes bulged, but he knew this man wasn't really trying to kill him. They wanted to take him alive so they could talk. This man only intended to render Nick unconscious and break a few of his ribs in the process. More pressure. The enormous hands moved slowly, like a pneumatic vice. Nick would have groaned if he had enough breath. Something was going to break soon-a rib, all of his ribs, his entire chest. The agony was becoming unbearable. Eventually, he would have to use the gun. The silenced pistol he'd pulled from the girl's purse. His fingers were so numb that for a moment he couldn't find the trigger. Finally, he grabbed it and pulled it out. There was a pop, and the small pistol kicked him in his pocket. The giant continued to squeeze it. Nick was furious. The stupid fool didn't even know he'd been shot! He pulled the trigger again and again. The gun kicked and writhed, and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The black man dropped Nick, who fell to his knees, breathing heavily. He watched, breathless, fascinated, as the man took another step back. He seemed to have forgotten all about Nick. He looked at his chest and waistband, where small red spots were oozing from under his clothes. Nick didn't think he had seriously wounded the man: he had missed a vital spot, and shooting such a big man with a .22 was like shooting an elephant with a slingshot. It was blood, his own blood, that frightened the big man. Carter, still catching his breath, trying to get up, watched in amazement as the black man searched among his clothes for the small bullet. His hands were now slippery with blood, and he looked as if he were about to cry. He looked at Nick reproachfully. "Bad," the giant said. "The worst thing is that you shoot and I bleed.
  A scream and the sound of a car engine brought Nick out of his stupor. He realized that only seconds had passed. The smaller man jumped out of the black car and dragged the man with the broken knee inside, shouting commands in an unfamiliar language. It was now fully light, and Nick realized that the little man had a mouth full of gold teeth. The little man glared at Nick, pushing the wounded man into the back of the car. "You better run, mister. You've won for now, but maybe we'll see you again, huh? I think so. If you're smart, you won't talk to the police." The huge black man was still looking at the blood and muttering something under his breath. The shorter man snapped at him in a language similar to Swahili, and Nick obeyed like a child, climbing back into the car.
  The driver got behind the wheel. He waved threateningly at Nick. "See you another time, mister." The car sped away. Nick noted that it was a Bentley and that the license plate was so covered in mud that it was illegible. Intentionally, of course. He sighed, gently felt his ribs, and began to gather himself... He took a deep breath. Ooooohh ... He walked until he found the entrance to the tube, where he boarded the Inner Circle train to Kensington Gore. He thought about the princess again. Maybe right now she was waking up in a strange bed, terrified and in the throes of a terrible hangover. The thought pleased him. Let her be patient for a while. He felt his ribs again. Oh. In a way, she was responsible for all of this. Then Killmaster laughed out loud. He laughed so shamelessly in front of a man sitting a little further down the carriage, reading the morning paper, that the man gave him an odd look. Nick ignored him. It was all nonsense, of course. Whatever it was, it was his fault. For sticking his nose where it didn't belong. He was bored to death, he wanted action, and now he got it. Without even calling Hawke. Maybe he wouldn't have called Hawk, but would have just handled this little diversion himself. He'd picked up a drunk girl and witnessed murders, and been attacked by some Africans. Killmaster began humming a French ditty about naughty ladies. His ribs no longer hurt. He felt good. This time, it could be fun-no spies, no counterintelligence, no Hawk, and no official restrictions. Just plain old murder lust and a pretty, absolutely lovely girl who needed rescuing. Snatched from a tight spot, so to speak. Nick Carter laughed again. This could be fun, playing Ned Rover or Tom Swift. Yes. Ned and Tom had never had to sleep with their ladies, and Nick couldn't imagine not sleeping with his. However, first, the lady had to talk. She was deeply involved in this murder, even though she couldn't have killed Blacker herself, personally. Still, the bad news was the red ink scrawled on the card. And the .22-caliber pistol that had saved his life, or at least his ribs. Nick eagerly awaited his next visit with Princess da Gama. He would be sitting there, right by the bed, with a cup of black coffee or tomato juice, when she opened those green eyes and asked the usual question: "Where am I?"
  A man in the aisle peered over his newspaper at Nick Carter. He looked bored, tired, and sleepy. His eyes were puffy but very alert. He wore a pair of cheap, wrinkled trousers and a bright yellow sports shirt with a purple pattern. His socks were thin and black, and he wore brown leather open-toe sandals. His chest hair, where it was visible from the wide V-neck of his shirt, was sparse and grayish. He was hatless; his hair was in dire need of a trim. When Nick Carter got off at the Kensington Gore stop, the man with the newspaper followed him unnoticed, like a shadow.
  
  
  
  
  He was sitting there, right by the bed, with a cup of black coffee, when she opened those green eyes and asked the usual question: "Where am I?"
  And she looked him in the face with some composure. He had to give her an A for effort. Whoever she was, she was a lady and a princess... He was right about that. Her voice was controlled when she asked, "Are you a cop? Am I under arrest?" Killmaster lied. The deadline for his meeting with Hawkeye was long, and he needed her cooperation to get her there. It would keep him out of trouble. He said, "Not exactly a cop. I have an interest in you. Unofficially at the moment. I think you're in trouble. Perhaps I can help you. We'll find out more about it later, when I bring you to someone." "See who?" Her voice grew stronger. She was starting to harden now. He could see the drink and pills working on her. Nick smiled his most ingratiating smile.
  "I can't tell you that," he said. "But he's not a cop either. He might be able to help you too. He'll definitely want to help you. Hawk might very well help you-if there was something in it for Hawk and AXE. It's the same thing." The girl grew heated. "Don't try to treat me like a child," she said. "I may be drunk and stupid, but I'm not a child." She reached for the bottle again. He took the bottle from her. "No drinks for now. Are you coming with me or not?" He didn't want to handcuff her and drag her along. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed longingly on the bottle. She tucked her long legs under her on the couch, making no attempt to pull her skirt down. Now that's a hint of sex. Anything to drink, even to give herself. Her smile was hesitant. "Did we happen to sleep together last night? You see, I have such memory lapses. I don't remember anything. The same would have happened to Hawk if this deal had fallen through again. The EOW code meant exactly that-whatever this mess was, and whatever her part in it was.
  
  
  Princess da Game was playing, this was deadly serious. Life and death. Nick walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. He was bluffing, but she couldn't know it. He made his voice rough, angry. And vulgar. "Okay, Princess, we'll just stop this shit now. But I'll do you a favor - I won't call the police. I'll call the Portuguese Embassy, and they'll take you away and help you, because that's what an embassy is for." He started dialing random numbers, looking at her with narrowed eyes. Her face crumpled. She fell down and started crying. - No... no! I'll come with you. I... I'll do whatever you say. But don't hand me over to the Portuguese. They... they want to put me in an insane asylum. "This," Killmaster said cruelly. He nodded towards the bathroom. "I'll give you five minutes there. Then we'll go."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  The Cock and Bull Inn stands in an ancient cobbled courtyard that was the site of hangings and beheadings in the early Middle Ages. The inn itself was built during the time of Christopher Marlowe, and some scholars believe it was here that Marlowe was murdered. Today, the Cock and Bull is not a busy establishment, though it has its share of regulars. It stands semi-isolated, far from the East India Dock Road and near the Isle of Dogs, an anachronism of pink brick and half-timbering, immersed in the bustling hustle and bustle of modern transport and shipping. Very few know about the cellars and secret rooms that lie beneath the Cock and Bull. Scotland Yard may know, as may MI5 and Special Branch, but if they do, they show no sign, turning a blind eye to certain violations, as is customary between friendly countries. Nevertheless, David Hawk, the hot-tempered and stubborn head of AXE, was well aware of his responsibilities. Now, in one of the basement rooms, modestly but comfortably furnished and air-conditioned, he stared at his number one and said: "We're all on slippery ground. Especially the blacks-they don't even have a country, let alone an embassy!"
  The Portuguese aren't much better. They have to be very careful with the British, who more or less support them at the UN on the Angolan issue.
  They don't want to twist the lion's tail - that's why they didn't dare deal with the princess before. Nick Carter lit a gold-tipped cigarette and nodded, and although some things were becoming clear, much remained foggy and uncertain. Hawk was clarifying, yes, but in his usual slow and painful manner. Hawk poured a glass of water from the carafe next to him, dropped in a large round tablet, watched it fizz for a moment, and then drank the water. He rubbed his stomach, which was surprisingly firm for a man his age. "My stomach hasn't caught up with me yet," Hawk said. "It's still in Washington." He glanced at his wristwatch and . Nick had seen that look before. He understood. Hawk belonged to a generation that didn't quite understand the jet age. Hawk said, "Just four and a half hours ago, I was asleep in my bed." The phone rang. It was the Secretary of State. Forty-five minutes later I was on a CIA jet, flying over the Atlantic at over two thousand miles an hour. He rubbed his stomach again. "Too fast for my guts. The secretary called himself, supersonic jet, this rush and meeting. The Portuguese started yelling. I don't understand." His boss didn't seem to hear him. He grumbled, half to himself, as he stuck an unlit cigar into his thin mouth and began to chew. "CIA jet," he muttered. "AXE should have its supersonic by now. I've had plenty of time to request..." Nick Carter was patient. It was the only way when old Hawk was in this mood. - a basement complex, overseen by two hefty AXE matrons.
  
  
  Hawk gave the order: get the lady on her feet, sober, with her wits about her, ready to talk, within twenty-four hours. Nick thought it would take some effort, but the AXE ladies, both RNs, were proving capable enough. Nick knew Hawk had hired quite a bit of "staff" for the job. In addition to the women, there were at least four burly AXE field fighters-Hawk preferred his muscles, big and hard, if a little obvious, to the pampered Ivy-type mommies sometimes employed by the CIA and FBI. Then there was Tom Boxer-there was only time for a nod and a quick hello-whom the Cillmaster knew as No. 6 or 7. This in AXE meant Boxer also held the rank of Master Assassin. It was unusual, highly unusual, for two men of such rank to ever meet. Hawk pulled down the wall map. He used an unlit cigar as a pointer. - Good question - about the Portuguese. Do you think it's strange that a country like the United States jumps when they whistle? But in this case, we did - I'll explain why. Have you heard of the Cape Verde Islands? "Uncertain. Never been there. Do they belong to Portugal?"
  
  Hawk's wrinkled farmer's face wrinkled around his cigar. In his disgusting jargon he said, "Now, boy, you're beginning to understand. Portugal owns them. Since 1495. Look." He pointed with his cigar. "There. About three hundred miles off the west coast of Africa, where it juts out into the Atlantic at its furthest. Not too far from our bases in Algeria and Morocco. Quite a few islands there, some large, some small. On one or more of them-I don't know which and don't care to know-the United States has buried some treasure." Nick was tolerant of his superior. The old man enjoyed it. "Treasure, sir?" "Hydrogen bombs, boy, a hell of a lot of them. "A whole damn huge mountain of them." Nick pursed his lips in a silent whistle. So this was the lever the Portuguese pulled. No wonder Uncle Sammy sent him! Hawk tapped his cigar on the map.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can you get the picture? Only about a dozen men in the world know about this, including you right now. I don't have to tell you it's top secret." Calmaster just nodded. His clearance was as high as that of the President of the United States. It was one of the reasons he'd been carrying a cyanide pill lately. All the Portuguese have to do is hint, just hint, that they might have to change their minds, that they might want those bombs out of there, and the State Department is jumping like a lion through hoops. Hawk put the cigar back in his mouth. "Naturally, we have other bomb caches all over the world. But we're sure-almost a hundred percent-that the enemy doesn't know about this deal in Cape Verde. We've gone to great lengths to keep it that way. If we have to budge, then of course the whole deal will fall apart. But it wouldn't come to that. All it would take is for some high-ranking official to do "Give a hint in the right place, and our ass is in danger." Hawk returned to his chair at the table. "You see, son, this case has ramifications. It's a real jar of scorpions."
  Killmaster agreed. He still didn't understand it all too clearly. There were too many angles. "They wasted no time," he said. "How could the Portuguese government react so quickly?" He told Hawk all about his wild morning, starting with picking up the drunk girl at the Diplomat. His boss shrugged. "That's easy. That Major Oliveira who was shot was probably following the girl, looking for a chance to snatch her without attracting attention. The last thing he wanted was publicity. The British get very annoyed about kidnappings. I imagine he was a little on edge when she got to that club, saw you escort her out, recognized you-the major worked in counterintelligence, and the Portuguese have files-and made a couple of phone calls. Probably fifteen minutes. The major called the embassy, they called Lisbon, Lisbon called Washington. Hawk yawned. "The secretary called me..." Nick lit another cigarette.
  
  
  That murderous look on Hawk's face. He'd seen it before. The same look a dog gets when it knows the location of a piece of meat but intends to keep it to itself for now. "What a coincidence," Nick said sarcastically. "She fell into my arms and 'fell at that moment.'" Hawk smiled. "These things happen, son. Coincidences do happen. It's, well, providence, you could say."
  Killmaster didn't rise to the bait. Hawk would pull the trigger when the time came. Nick said, "What makes Princess da Gama so important in all of this?" David Hawk frowned. He tossed his chewed cigar into the trash and peeled the cellophane off a new one. "Frankly, I'm a little puzzled myself. She's something of an X-factor right now. I suspect she's a pawn being pushed around, stuck in the middle." "In the middle of what, sir..." He looked through the papers, occasionally selecting one and placing it on the desk in some order. The smoke from his cigarette stung Nick's eyes, and he closed them for a moment. But even with his eyes closed, he could still seem to see Hawk, a strange-looking Hawk, smoking a cigar in an oatmeal-colored linen suit, like a spider sitting in the dead center of a tangled web, watching and listening, and every now and then tugging at one of the threads. Nick opened his eyes. An involuntary shudder ran through his large frame. Hawk looked at him curiously. "What's wrong, boy? Did someone just walk over your grave?" Nick chuckled. "Perhaps, sir..."
  Hawk shrugged. "I said I didn't know much about her or what made her important. Before leaving Washington, I called Della Stokes and asked her to gather everything I could. Maybe, otherwise, I know what I've heard or read in the papers: that the princess is an activist, a drunkard, and a public fool, and that she has an uncle who holds a very high position in the Portuguese government."
  She also poses for dirty photos. Nick stared at him. He remembered the hidden camera in Blacker's house, the screen and projector. "It's just rumors," Hawk continued. "I need to follow up on that, and I am. I'm sorting through a lot of material from one of our people in Hong Kong. It's mentioned in passing, you might say, that the princess was in Hong Kong a while ago and broke, and that she posed for a few photos to get money for her hotel account and travel. That's another way the Portuguese were trying to get her back-they were putting money into it. Cutting off her funds abroad. I imagine she's pretty broke by now." "She's staying at Aldgate, sir. That takes money." Hawk glanced at him sideways.
  
  
  
  "I have someone handling this now. One of the first things I did here..." The phone rang. Hawk picked it up and said something short. He hung up and smiled grimly at Nick. "She currently owes Aldgate over two thousand dollars. Answer your question?" Nick began to notice that it wasn't his question, but then forgot about it. The boss was looking at him strangely, sharply. When Hawk spoke again, his tone was oddly formal. "I very rarely give you advice, really." "No, sir. You don't advise me." "You very rarely need her now. Maybe you do now. Don't get involved with that woman, that Princess da Gama, an international drifter with an appetite for drink and drugs and nothing more. You can work with her if something works out, you certainly will, but let it stop there. "Don't get too close to her." Killmaster nodded. But he thought about how she had looked in his apartment just a few hours ago...
  
  
  
  
  KILMASTER - desperately tried to pull himself together. He did, to a certain extent. No, he didn't agree with Hawk. There was something good in her somewhere, no matter how much it was lost or buried now. Hawk crumpled the piece of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. - "Forget about her for the moment," he said. "We'll come back to her later. There's no mad rush. You two will be here for at least forty-eight hours. Later, when she's feeling better, let her tell you about herself. Now - I want to know if you've ever heard of these two men: Prince Solaouaye Askari and General Auguste Boulanger? Every top AXE agent was expected to be fairly familiar with world affairs. A certain knowledge was required. From time to time, unexpected seminars were held and questions were asked. Nick said, "Prince Askari is an African. I think he was educated at Oxford. He led the Angolan rebels against the Portuguese. He had some successes against the Portuguese, won some important battles and territory." Hawke was pleased. "Well done. What about the general?" This question was tougher. Nick was racking his brains. General Auguste Boulanger hadn't been in the news lately. Slowly, his memory began to betray the facts. "Boulanger is a renegade French general," he said. "An unyielding fanatic. He was a terrorist, one of the leaders of the OAS, and he never gave up. Last I read, he was sentenced to death in absentia in France. Is that the man?" "Yes," Hawke said. "He's a damn good general, too. That's why the Angolan rebels have been winning lately. When the French stripped Boulanger of his rank and sentenced him to death, he was able to go along with it. He contacted this Prince Askari, but very discreetly. And one more thing: Prince Askari and General Boulanger have found a way to raise money. Lots of money. Enormous sums. If they keep this up, they'll win the Macau War in Angola.
  There's going to be another new country in Africa. Right now, Prince Askari thinks he's going to run that country. I bet if this thing works at all, General Auguste Boulanger will be running it. He'll make himself a dictator. That's just the type. He's capable of other things, too. He's a lecher, for example, and an utter egotist. It would be good to remember those things, son. Nick stubbed out his cigarette. Finally, the gist was starting to come together. "Is this the mission, sir? Am I going against this General Boulanger? Or Prince Askari? Both?"
  He didn't ask why. Hawk would tell him when he was ready. His boss didn't answer. He picked up another thin piece of paper and studied it for a moment. "Do you know who Colonel Chun Li is?" That was easy. Colonel Chun Li was Hawk's counterpart in Chinese counterintelligence. The two men sat on the other side of the world from each other, moving pieces on an international chessboard. "Chun Li wants you dead," Hawk said now. "Perfectly natural. And I want him dead. He's been in my black book for a long time. I want him out of the way. Especially since he's been really picking up steam lately-I've lost half a dozen good agents to that bastard in the last six months." "So this is my real job," Nick said.
  "That's right. Kill this Colonel Chun-Li for me." "But how do I get to him? Just like he can't get to you." Hawk's smile was indescribable. He waved a gnarled hand over all the things on his desk. "Here's where it all starts to make sense. The Princess, the adventurer Blacker, the two Cockneys with their throats slit, the dead Major Oliveira, all of them. None are important in themselves, but they all contribute. Nick... He didn't quite get it yet, and that made him a little sullen. Hawk was a spider, damn him! And a damned spider with a closed mouth at that.
  
  
  Carter said coldly. "You're forgetting the three Negroes who beat me up," - And killed the major. They had something to do with it, didn't they? Hawk rubbed his hands with satisfaction. - Oh, they did too... But not too important, not now. They were looking for something on Blacker, right, and they probably thought it was on you. Anyway, they wanted to talk to you. Nick felt a pain in his ribs. "Unpleasant conversations." Hawk smirked. - That's part of your job, huh, son? I'm just glad you didn't kill any of them. As for Major Oliveira, that's a shame. But those Negroes were Angolan, and the major is Portuguese. And they didn't want him to get the princess. They want the princess for themselves."
  "Everyone wants the Princess," Killmaster said irritably. "I'll be damned if I understand why." "They want the Princess and something else," Hawke corrected. "From what you told me, I'm guessing it was some kind of movie. Some kind of blackmail movie-another guess-very dirty footage. Don't forget what she did in Hong Kong. Anyway, screw all that-we have the Princess, and we're going to keep her."
  "What if she doesn't cooperate? We can't force her." Hawk looked stony. "I can't? I think so. If she doesn't cooperate, I'll hand her over to the Portuguese government for free, without compensation. They want to put her in a mental institution, right? She told you that.
  Nick said yes, she told him so. He remembered the look of horror on her face. "She will play," Hawk said. "Now go and rest. Ask everything you need to. You will not leave this place until we put you on a plane to Hong Kong. With the Princess, of course. You will travel as man and wife. I am preparing your passports and other documents now." The Kinmaster stood up and stretched. He was tired. It had been a long night and a long morning. He looked at Hawk. "Hong Kong? Is that where I am supposed to kill Chun-Li?" "No, not Hong Kong. Macau. And that is where Chun-Li is supposed to kill you! He is setting a trap now, it is a very neat trap.
  I admire that. Chun is a good player. But you'll have the advantage, son. You'll fall into his trap with your trap.
  Killmaster had never been as optimistic about these matters as his boss. Perhaps because his neck was on the line. He said, "But it's still a trap, sir. And Macau is practically in his backyard." Hawk waved a hand. "I know. But there's an old Chinese saying-sometimes a trap falls into a trap." "Bye, son. Interrogate the princess whenever she wants. Alone. I don't want you out there defenseless. I'll let you listen to the tape. Now go to sleep." Nick left him shuffling his papers and twirling a cigar in his mouth. There were times, and this was one of them, when Nick considered his boss a monster. Hawk didn't need blood-he had coolant in his veins. That description fit no other man.
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  KILLMASTER had always known Hawk to be skilled and cunning in his complex work. Now, listening to the tape the next day, he discovered the old man possessed a reserve of politeness, an ability to express sympathy-though it might have been pseudo-sympathy-that Nick had never suspected. Nor had he suspected that Hawk spoke Portuguese so well. The tape played. Hawk's voice was gentle, downright good-natured. "Nleu nome a David Hawk. Como eo sea name?" Princess Morgan da Gama. Why ask? I'm sure you already know that. Your name means nothing to me-who are you, Molly? Why am I being held captive here against my will? We're in England, you know, I'll put you all in jail for this:" Nick Carter, listening to the rapid flow of Portuguese, smiled with hidden pleasure. The old man was seizing the moment. It didn't seem as if her spirit had been broken. Hawk's voice flowed, smooth as molasses. "I'll explain everything in due time, Princess da Gama. In the meantime, are you like a naiad if we speak English? I don't understand your language very well." "If you like. I don't care. But you speak Portuguese very well."
  
  "Not even as well as you speak English." Hawk purred like a cat seeing a deep plate of thick yellow cream. "Obrigado. I went to school in the States for many years." Nick could imagine her shrugging. The tape rustled. Then a loud crack. Hawk ripping the cellophane off his cigar. Hawk: "How do you feel about the United States, Princess?" Girl: "What? I don't quite understand." Hawk: "Then let me put it this way. Do you like the United States? Do you have any friends there? Do you think the United States, given current world conditions, really tries its best to maintain peace and goodwill in the world?" Girl: "Then it's politics! So you're some kind of secret agent. You're with the CIA." Hawk: "I'm not with the CIA. Answer my question, please." For me, let's say, to do a job that can be dangerous. And well-paid. What do you think about that?
  Girl: "I... I could. I need the money. And I have nothing against the United States. I haven't thought about it. I'm not interested in politics." Nick Carter, who was familiar with every nuance of Hawk's voice, smiled at the dryness in the old man's answer. "Thank you, Princess. For an honest answer, if not an enthusiastic one." - I. You say you need money? I happen to know that's true. They blocked your funds in Portugal, didn't they? Uncle, Luis da Gama, is responsible for that, isn't he?" A long pause. The tape began to make noise. Girl: "How do you know about all this? How do you know about my uncle?" Hawk: "I know a lot about you, my dear. A lot. You've had a hard time lately. You've had problems. You're still having problems. and try to understand. If you cooperate with me and my government - you will have to sign a contract to this effect, but it will be kept in a secret vault, and only two people will know about it - if you do this, perhaps I can help you.
  With money, with hospitalization, if necessary, maybe even an American passport. We'll have to think about it. But most importantly, Princess, I can help you restore your self-respect. A pause. Nick expected to hear indignation in her answer. Instead, he heard fatigue and resignation. She seemed to be running out of steam. He tried to imagine her shaking, craving a drink, or pills, or an injection of something. The two AX nurses seemed to have done a good job on her, but it was tough, and it must have been hard.
  Girl: "My self-respect?" She laughed. Nick winced at the sound. "My self-respect is long gone, Mr. Hawk. You seem like some kind of magician, but I don't think even you can perform miracles." Hawk: "We can try, Princess. Shall we begin now? I'm going to ask you a series of very personal questions. You must answer them-and you must answer them truthfully." Girl: "And if not?"
  Hawk: "Then I will arrange for someone from the Portuguese embassy here. In London. I am sure they would consider it a great favor. You have been an embarrassment to your government for some time now, Princess. Especially your uncle in Lisbon. I believe he holds a very high position in the cabinet. From what I understand, he would be very happy to have you return to Portugal." Only later, much later, did Nick realize what the girl had said then. Said with utter disgust in her voice, "My uncle. This... this creature!" A pause. Hawk waited. Like a very patient spider. Finally, with molasses oozing out, Hawk said, "Well, young lady?" Showing defeat in her voice, the girl said, "Very well. Ask your questions. I do not want, I must not be sent back to Portugal. They want to put me in a madhouse. Oh, they won't call it that. They'll call it a monastery or a nursing home, but it will be an orphanage. Ask your questions. I won't lie to you. Hawk said, "Better not, Princess. Now I'll be a little rude. You'll be ashamed. It can't be helped.
  Here's a photo. I want you to look at it. It was taken in Hong Kong a few months ago. How I got it is none of your business. So, is this your photo? A rustling sound on the tape. Nick remembered what Hawk had said about the princess taking dirty photos in Hong Kong. At the time, the old man hadn't said anything about actually having any photos. Sobbing. She was breaking down now, crying quietly.
  - Y-yes, - she said. - It was me. I... I posed for this photograph. I was very drunk at the time. Hawk: - This man is Chinese, isn't he? Do you know his name? Girl: - No. I never saw him before or after. He was... just a man I met in the... studio. Hawk: - Never mind. He's not important. You say you were drunk at the time - isn't it true, Princess, that in the last couple of years you've been arrested for drunkenness at least a dozen times? In several countries - You were arrested once in France for drug possession? Girl: I can't remember the exact number. I don't remember very much, usually after I've been drinking. I... I know... I've been told that when I drink I meet terrible people and do terrible things. But I have complete lapses of memory - I really don't remember what I do.
  A pause. The sound of breathing. Hawk lights a new cigar, Hawk shuffles papers on the desk. Hawk, with a terrible softness in his voice: "That's all, Princess... We've established, I think, that you're an alcoholic, an occasional drug user, if not a drug addict, and that you're generally considered a woman of loose morals. Do you think that's fair?"
  A pause. Nick expected more tears. Instead, her voice was cold, tart, angry. In the face of Hawk's humiliation, she lied: "Yes, damn it, I am. Are you satisfied now?" Hawk: "My dear young lady! It's nothing personal, nothing at all. In my, er, profession, I sometimes have to delve into these matters. I assure you, it's as unpleasant for me as it is for you."
  Girl: "Let me doubt that, Mr. Hawk. Are you finished?" Hawk: "Finished? My dear girl, I've only just begun. Now, let's get down to business-and remember, no lies. I want to know everything about you and this Blacker. Mr. Theodore Blacker, now dead, murdered, lived at number fourteen, Half Crescent Mews. What did Blacker have on you? Did he have something? Was he blackmailing you?" Long pause. Girl: "I'm trying to cooperate, Mr. Hawk. You have to believe that. I'm scared enough not to try to lie. But about Teddy Blacker-this is such a complicated and intricate operation. I..."
  Hawk: Start from the beginning. When did you first meet Blacker? Where? What happened? Girl: "I'll try. It was a few months ago. I went to see him one night. I'd heard of his club, the Dragon Club, but I'd never been there. I was supposed to meet some friends there, but they never showed up. So I was alone with him. He... he was a horrible little worm, really, but I had nothing better to do at the time. I'd had a drink. I was practically broke, I was late, and Teddy had a lot of whiskey. I had a few drinks, and I don't remember anything after that. The next morning, I woke up in my hotel.
  Hawk: "Did Blacker drug you?" Girl: "Yeah. He admitted it later. He gave me LSD. I'd never taken it before. I... I must have been, like, on a long trip. Hawk: He made films about you, didn't he? Videos. While you were drugged?" Girl: "Y-yeah. I never actually saw the films, but he showed me a clip of a few stills. They were... they were horrific.
  Hawk: And then Blacker tried to blackmail you? He demanded money for these films? Girl: "Yes. His name suited him. But he was wrong - I didn't have money. At least, not that kind of money. He was very disappointed and didn't believe me at first. Later, of course, he believed it."
  
  Hawk: "Did you go back to the Dragon Club?" Girl: "No. I didn't go there anymore. We met in bars, pubs, and places like that. Then, one night, the last time I met Blacker, he told me I should forget about it. He stopped blackmailing me after all."
  Pause. Hawk: "He said that, didn't he?" Girl: "I thought so. But I wasn't happy about it. In fact, I felt worse. Those terrible pictures of me would still be in circulation - he said so, or actually did so." Hawk: "What exactly did he say? Be careful. It could be very important." A long pause. Nick Carter could picture the closed green eyes, the high white eyebrows furrowed in thought, the beautiful, not yet quite disfigured face, tense with concentration. Girl: "He laughed and said, 'Don't worry about buying the film.' He said he had other bidders for it. Bidders willing to pay real money. He was very surprised, I remember. He said the bidders were falling over themselves to get in line."
  Hawk: "And you never saw Blacker after that?" Trap! Don't fall for it. Girl: "That's right. I never saw him again." Killmaster groaned loudly.
  A pause. Hawk, his voice sharp, said, "That's not entirely true, is it, Princess? Would you like to reconsider that answer? And remember what I said about lying!" She tried to protest. Girl: I... I don't understand what you mean. I never saw Blacker again. The sound of a drawer opening. Hawk: Are these your gloves, Princess? Here. Take them. Examine them carefully. I must advise you to tell the truth again."
  Girl: "Y-yes. These are mine. Hawk: Care to explain why there are blood stains on them? And don't try to tell me they came from a cut on your knee. You weren't wearing gloves then.
  Nick frowned at the tape recorder. He couldn't explain his sense of ambivalence even if his life depended on it. How the hell had he ended up on her side against Hawk? The big AXE agent shrugged. Maybe she'd become such a rebel, so damn sick, helpless, depraved, and dishonest.
  Girl: "That puppet of yours doesn't miss much, does it?
  Hawk, amused: "A puppet? Ha-ha, I'll have to tell him that. Of course, that's not true. He's a bit too independent at times. But that's not our goal. About the gloves, please?"
  A pause. The girl sarcastically: "Okay. I was at Blacker's. He was already dead. They... mutilated him. There was blood everywhere. I tried to be careful, but I slipped and almost fell. I caught myself, but I had blood on my gloves. I was scared and confused. I took them off and put them in my purse. I wanted to get rid of them, but I forgot."
  Hawk: "Why did you go to Blacker's early in the morning? What did you want? What could you expect?
  Pause. Girl: I... I really don't know. It doesn't make much sense now that I'm sober. But I woke up in a strange place, really scared, nauseous, and hungover. I took some pills to stay on my feet. I didn't know who I came home with or, well, what we did. I couldn't remember what that person looked like.
  Hawk: Were you sure that was true?
  Girl: I'm not entirely sure, but when they pick me up, I'm usually drunk. Anyway, I wanted to get out of there before he came back. I had a lot of money. I was thinking about Teddy Blacker, and I guess I thought he'd give me some money if I... if I...
  Long pause. Hawk: "If you what?" Nick Carter thought: "Cruel old bastard!" Girl: "If only I... had been nice to him." Hawk: "I see. But you got there and found him dead, murdered and, as you say, mutilated. Do you have any idea who could have killed him?" Girl: "No, not at all. A bastard like that must have a lot of enemies."
  
  
  Hawk: "Did you see anyone else around? Nothing suspicious, no one followed you or tried to question you or stop you?" Girl: "No. I didn't see anyone. I didn't really look - I just ran as fast as I could. I just ran." Hawk: "Yes. You ran back to the Prince's Gale, where you just left. Why? I really don't understand, Princess. Why? Answer me."
  A pause. A continuation of the sobbing. The girl, Nick thought, was almost at her breaking point now. Girl: "Let me try to explain. One thing-I had enough money to pay for a taxi back to Prince Gale, not to my apartment. The other thing-I'm trying, you see-I'm afraid of my entourage-I'm afraid of them and didn't want a scene-but I suppose the real reason was that now I; I could be implicated in the murder! Anyone, whoever it was, would provide me with an alibi. I was terribly frightened because, you see, I really didn't know what I'd done. I thought this man might tell me. And I needed the money.
  Hawk, relentlessly: "And you were willing to do anything-your word, I believe, you were willing to be nice to a stranger. In exchange for money and, perhaps, an alibi?"
  Pause. Girl: Y-yes. I was prepared for this. I have done this before. I confess. I admit everything. Hire me now." Hawk, genuinely surprised: "Oh, my dear young lady. Of course I intend to hire you. Those or other qualities you just mentioned are those which make you eminently suitable for my, er, field of activity, you are tired, Princess, and a little unwell. Just a moment and I will let you go. Now that you are back at Prince's Gate, an agent of the Portuguese government tried to..... you. We will call it that. Do you know this man?" Girl: "No, not his name. I didn't know him well before, I saw him a few times. Here in London. He was following me. I had to be very careful. My uncle is behind this, I think. Sooner or later, if you hadn't caught me first, they would have kidnapped me and somehow smuggled me out of England. I would have been taken to Portugal and put in an asylum. I thank you, Mr. Hawk, for not letting them get me. No matter who you are or what I have to do, it will be better than this."
  Killmaster muttered, "Don't bet on it, sweetheart." Hawke: "I'm glad you see it that way, my dear. It's not an entirely inauspicious start. Just tell me, what do you remember right now about the man who drove you home from the Diplomat? The man who saved you from the Portuguese agent?
  Girl: I don't remember being in the Diplomat at all. Not least of all. All I remember about that man, your puppet, is that he seemed like a large and rather handsome man to me. Exactly what he did to me. I think he could be cruel. Was I too ill to notice?
  Hawk: "You have done well. As good a description as it gets. But if I were you, Princess, I would not use that word 'puppet' again. You will be working with this gentleman. You will travel together to Hong Kong and perhaps Macau. You will travel as husband and wife. 'My agent, as long as we call him that, my agent will be with you. In truth, he will have the power of life or death over you. Or what, in your case, you seem to think, is worse than death. Remember, Macau is a Portuguese colony. One betrayal on your part, and he will give you up in a minute. Never forget that." Her voice trembles. "I understand. I said I would work, didn't I... I'm afraid. I'm terrified.
  Hawk: "You can go. Call the nurse. And try to pull yourself together, princess. You have another day, no more. Make a list of the things you need, clothes, anything, and they will all be provided... Then you, go to your hotel. This will be monitored by, uh, certain groups." The sound of a chair being pushed back.
  Hawk: "Here, one more thing. Would you mind signing the contract I mentioned? Read it if you'd like. It's a standard form, and it binds you only for this mission. There you go. Right where I put the cross." A scratch of pen. She didn't bother reading it. The door opened, and heavy footsteps pounded as one of the AX matrons entered.
  Hawk: "I'll talk to you again, Princess, before I go. Goodbye. Try to get some rest." The door closes.
  
  Hawk: There you go, Nick. You'd better study that tape carefully. It's suitable for the job-more suitable than you think-but if you don't need it, you don't have to take it. But I hope you will. I'm guessing, and if my guess is correct, the Princess is our ace in the hole. I'll send for you whenever I want. A little practice on the shooting range wouldn't hurt. I imagine things will be very tough out there in the mysterious East. See you...
  
  End of tape. Nick pressed RWD, and the tape began to spin. He lit a cigarette and stared at it. Hawk continually amazed him; the facets of the old man's character, the depth of his intrigues, the fantastic knowledge, the basis and essence of his intricate web-all of it left Killmaster with a strange sense of humility, almost inferiority. He knew that when the day came, he would have to take Hawk's place. At that moment, he also knew that he could not replace him. Someone knocked on Nick's cubicle door. Nick said, "Come in." It was Tom Boxer, who was always hiding somewhere. He grinned at Nick. "Karate, if you like." Nick grinned back. "Why not? At least we can work hard. Wait a minute."
  
  He walked over to the table and picked up the Luger in its holster. "I think I'll do some more shooting today." Tom Boxer glanced at the Luger. "Man's best friend." Nick smiled and nodded. He ran his fingers along the shiny, cool barrel. That was damn right. Nick was beginning to realize it. The barrel of the Luger was cold now. Soon it would be red-hot.
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  They flew on a BOAC 707, a long journey with a stopover in Tokyo to give Hawk time to settle some matters in Hong Kong. The girl slept most of the way, and when she wasn't, she was sullen and taciturn. She had been provided with new clothes and luggage, and she looked frail and pale in a light faille suit with a moderate-length skirt. She was docile and passive. Her only outburst so far had been when Nick led her aboard the plane in handcuffs, their wrists bound but hidden by a cloak. The handcuffs weren't there because they were afraid she would escape-they were insurance against the princess being captured at the last moment. When Nick put the handcuffs on in the limousine that took them to London airport, the girl said, "You're not exactly a knight in shining armor," and Killmaster smiled at her. "This has to be done... Shall we go, Princess?" Before they left, Nick had been cooped up with his boss for more than three hours. Now, an hour's drive from Hong Kong, he looked at the sleeping girl and thought that the blonde wig, although it had radically altered her appearance, had done nothing to spoil her beauty. He also remembered that last briefing with David Hawk...
  When Nick walked into his boss's office, he said, "Everything's starting to fall into place." "Like Chinese boxes. They must be in it," Killmutter said, looking at him. He'd thought about it, of course-you always have to look for Chinese communists in everything these days-but he hadn't realized how deeply the Red Chinese had their fingers in this particular pie. Hawk, with a good-natured smile, pointed to a document that clearly contained fresh information.
  "General Auguste Boulanger is in Macau now, probably to meet with Chun-Li. He also wants to meet you. And he wants the girl. I told you he's a philanderer. Kong, and that provoked him. Now he has Blacker's film. He'll recognize the girl and want her as part of the deal. The girl-and we must agree to take several million dollars in rough diamonds off his hands."
  Nick Carter sat down heavily. He stared at Hawk, lighting a cigarette. "You're going too fast for me, sir. Chinese gold would make sense, but what about rough diamonds?" "It's simple once you know. That's where Prince Askari and Boulanger are getting all the money to fight the Portuguese. Angolan rebels are raiding Southwest Africa and stealing rough diamonds. They've even destroyed some Portuguese diamond mines in Angola itself. The Portuguese are naturally censoring things tightly, because they're on the receiving end of the first native uprising, and they're losing at the moment. Rough diamonds. Hong Kong, or in this case, Macau, is the natural place to meet and make deals." Killmaster knew it was a stupid question, but he asked it anyway. "Why the hell would the Chinese want rough diamonds?" Hawk shrugged. "A communist economy isn't like
  Ours, they need diamonds like they need rice. They have angles, naturally. Common troubles, for example. Another bait and switch. They can make this Boulanger and Prince Askari dance to their tune.
  He has nowhere else to sell his rough diamonds! It's a tough, strictly controlled market. Ask any dealer how difficult and dangerous it is to make a living selling diamonds on a freelance basis. That's why Boulanger and Askari want us in on the action. A different market. We can always bury them in Fort Knox with the gold. Killmaster nodded. "Understood, sir. We offer General and Prince Askari a better deal for their rough diamonds, and they set us up with Colonel Chun-Li.
  "For me," Hawk jabbed his cigar into his mouth, "it is. Partially. Boulanger is certainly a rat. We're playing both ends against the middle. If the Angolan uprising succeeds, he plans to slit Askari's throat and seize power. I'm not so sure about Prince Askari-our information on him is a bit sparse. From what I understand, he's an idealist, honest, and well-intentioned. Maybe a simpleton, maybe not. I just don't know. But you get the idea, I hope. I'm throwing you into a real shark tank, son."
  Killmaster stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He began to pace the small office. More than usual. "Yes," Hawk agreed. He wasn't privy to all aspects of the Blacker case, and he said so now, with a certain vehemence. He was a superbly trained agent, better at his murderous job-literally-than anyone in the world. But he hated being thwarted. He took a cigar, put his feet up on the desk, and began to expound with the air of a man enjoying himself. Hawk loved a complex puzzle. "Pretty simple, my son. Some of this is guesswork, but I'd bet on it. Blacker has started drugging the princess and blackmailing her with dirty movies. Nothing more. He discovers she's broken. That won't do. But he also somehow finds out she's
  has this very important uncle, Luis de Gama, in Lisbon. Cabinet of ministers, money, affairs. Blacker thinks he's in for a lot. "I don't know how Blacker arranged it, maybe a film clip, by mail, or maybe through personal contact. In any case, this uncle played it smart and alerted Portuguese intelligence. To avoid a scandal. Especially since her uncle holds a high position in the government.
  The Profumo affair, remember, almost brought down the British government - and how important could it become? Prince Askari, the rebels, have spies in Lisbon. They learn about the film and what Blacker is up to. They tell Askari, and, naturally, General Boulanger finds out. "Prince Askari decides immediately how he can use the film. He can blackmail the Portuguese government, generally create a scandal, maybe bring down this government. A.B., who is helping the rebels, through his black people in London. "But General Boulanger, I told you, he plays the other hand, he wants both the girl and the film. He wants this girl because he has seen her photographs before, and he fell in love with her; he wants the film, so he will have it, and Askari will not.
  But he can't fight the Angolan rebels, he doesn't have his own organization, so he asks his Chinese friends for help. They comply and let him use a guerrilla squad in London. The Chinese killed Blacker and those two Cockneys! They tried to make it look like a sex scene. General Boulanger got the film, or will soon, and now he needs the girl personally. He's waiting for you in Macau now. You and the girl. He knows we have her. I gave you a rough deal: we'll give him the girl and buy a few diamonds, and he'll frame Chun-Li for you. "Or will he frame me instead of Chun-Li?" Hawk grimaced. "Anything is possible, son."
  
  Lights flashed in English, French, and Chinese: "Fasten your seatbelts-no smoking." They were approaching Kai Tak Airport. Nick Carter nudged the sleeping princess and whispered, "Wake up, my beautiful wife. We're almost there."
  She frowned. "Do you have to use that word?" He frowned. "I bet I do. This is important, and remember that. We are Mr. and Mrs. Prank Manning, Buffalo, New York. Newlyweds. Honeymooning in Hong Kong." He smiled. "Did you have a good nap, dear?" It was raining. The air was warm and humid as they stepped off the plane and headed for customs. Nick, for once, was not particularly happy to be back in Hong Kong. He had a very bad feeling about this mission. The sky did not reassure him in any way. One glance at the sullen, fading clouds, and he knew that storm signals would be sounding over the Naval Shipyard on Hong Kong Island. Maybe just a gale - maybe something lighter. Strong winds. It was late July, turning into August. A typhoon was possible. But then, anything was possible in Hong Kong. Customs went smoothly, as Nick had just smuggled in a Luger and a Stiletto. He knew he was well covered by the AXE men, but he didn't try to spot them. It was pointless anyway. They knew their job. He also knew he was covered by General Boulanger's men. Perhaps Colonel Chun Li's men too. They would be Chinese and impossible to spot in an open public place. He was ordered to go to the Blue Mandarin Hotel in Victoria. There he was to sit and wait until General Auguste Boulanger got in touch. Hawk assured him he wouldn't have to wait long. It was a Mercedes taxi with a slightly dented fender and a small blue cross chalked on the snow-white tire. Nick pushed the girl toward it. The driver was a Chinese man Nick had never seen before. Nick said, "Do you know where the Rat Fink bar is?" "Yes, sir. The rats congregate there." Nick held the door for the girl. His eyes met the taxi driver's. "What color are rats?"
  
  "They have many colors, mister. We have yellow rats, white rats, and just recently we got black rats." Killmaster nodded and slammed the door. "Okay. Head to the Blue Mandarin. Drive slowly. I want to see the city." As they drove away, Nick handcuffed the princess again, tying her to him. She looked at him. "For your own good," he told her hoarsely. "A lot of people are interested in you, princess." In his mind, Hong Kong couldn't hold many pleasant memories for her. Then he noticed Johnny Wise Guy and forgot about the girl for a moment. Johnny was driving a little red MG, and he was stuck in traffic, three cars behind the taxi.
  Nick lit a cigarette and thought. Johnny wasn't exactly a subtle observer. Johnny knew Nick knew him-they'd once been quasi-friends, both in the States and around the world-and so Johnny knew Nick had noticed him immediately. He didn't seem to care. Which meant his job was simply to find out where Nick and the girl were. Killmaster pulled back to see the red car in the mirror. Johnny had already left five cars behind. Just before they reached that ferry, it would approach again.
  He wouldn't risk getting cut off on the ferry. Nick smiled grimly. How the hell was Johnny Smart (not his real name) going to avoid Nick on the ferry? Hide in the men's room? Johnny-Nick couldn't remember his Chinese name-was born in Brooklyn and graduated from CONY. Nick had heard thousands of stories about how crazy he was, a born bully who could be a man or a black sheep. Johnny had gotten into trouble with the cops several times, always won, and over time, he became known as Johnny Smart because of his flippant, cocky, and know-it-all demeanor. Nick, smoking and thinking, finally remembered what he wanted. The last thing he heard, Johnny ran a private detective agency in Hong Kong.
  Nick smiled sadly. The guy was his cameraman, all right. It would have taken a lot of powerful magic or money for Johnny to get a license. But he figured it out. Nick kept his eyes on the red MG as they began to merge into the heavy traffic on Kowloon. Johnny Wise Guy moved forward again, now only two cars behind. Killmaster wondered what the rest of the parade was like: Boulanger's Chinese, Chun Li's Chinese, Hawk's Chinese-he wondered what they would all make of Johnny Wise. Nick smiled. He was glad to see Johnny, glad he was taking action. This might be an easy way to get some answers. After all, he and Johnny were old friends.
  
  Nick's smile turned a little grim. Johnny might not see it at first, but he would come around. The Blue Mandarin was a swanky new luxury hotel on Queen's Road overlooking the Happy Valley racetrack. Nick uncuffed the girl in the car and patted her hand. He smiled and pointed to the dazzling white high-rise, the blue swimming pool, the tennis courts, the gardens, and the dense thicket of pine, casuarina, and Chinese banyan. In his best honeymoon voice, he said, "Isn't this lovely, darling? Just custom-made for us." A hesitant smile tugged at the corner of her full, red mouth. She said, "You're making a fool of yourself, aren't you?" He took her hand firmly. "All in a day's work," he told her. "Come on, princess. Let's go to paradise. For 500 bucks a day-Hong Kong, that is." Opening the taxi door, he added, "You know, this is the first time I've seen you smile since we left London?" The smile widened slightly, green eyes studying him. "Could I, could I just get a quick drink? Just... to celebrate the start of our honeymoon..." "We'll see," he said shortly. "Let's go." The red MG. The blue Hummer with the two men pulled up on Queen's Road. Nick gave the taxi driver brief instructions and led the girl into the lobby, holding her hand as he checked their hotel reservations.
  
  She stood obediently, her eyes downcast most of the time, playing her part well. Nick knew every male gaze in the lobby was assessing her long legs and buttocks, her slim waist, her full breasts. They were probably jealous. He leaned down to brush his lips against her smooth cheek. With a completely unperturbed expression and loud enough for the IT employee to hear, Nick Carter said, "I love you so much, darling. I can't keep my hands off you." From the corner of her beautiful red mouth, she quietly said, "You stupid puppet!"
  The clerk smiled and said, "The wedding suite is ready, sir. I've taken the liberty of sending flowers. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. and Mrs. Manning. Perhaps..." Nick cut him off with a quick thank you and led the girl to the elevator, following the two boys with their luggage. Five minutes later, in a plush suite decorated with magnolias and wild roses, the girl said, "I really think I've earned a drink, don't you think?" Nick glanced at his AXE wristwatch. He had a busy schedule, but there would be time for this. He had time for this. He pushed her onto the sofa, but not gently. She stared at him in amazement, too surprised to show indignation. Killmaster used his roughest voice. A voice that had the chill of death on some of his toughest clients in the world.
  "Princess da Gama," he said. "Let"s have a smoke. Just get a few things straight. First, there will be no drinking. No, I repeat, no drinking! No drugs! You will do as you are told. That"s it. I hope you understand I"m not joking. I don"t... I don"t want to do any physical exercise with you." Her green eyes were stony, and she glared at him, her mouth a thin scarlet line. "You... you puppet! That"s all you are, a muscle man. A big, stupid monkey. You enjoy bossing women around, don"t you? Aren"t you God"s gift to the ladies?"
  He stood over her, looking down, his eyes hard as agates. He shrugged. "If you're going to throw a tantrum," he told her, "throw it now. Hurry." The princess leaned back on the sofa. Her faille skirt rode up, revealing her stockings. She took a deep breath, smiled, and thrust out her breasts to him. "I need a drink," she purred. "It's been a long time. I... I'll be terribly good to you, terribly good to you, if you'll only let me..."
  With dispassion, with a smile that was neither cruel nor kind, Killmaster slapped her beautiful face. The slap echoed in the room, leaving red marks on her pale cheek. The princess leaped at him, scratching his face with her nails. Spat on him. He liked that. She had a lot of courage. She would likely need it. When she was exhausted, he said, "You signed a contract. You will live up to it for the duration of the mission. After that, I don't care what you do, what happens to you. You're just a hired piao, and don't put on airs with me. Do your job and you'll be well paid. Fail to do so, and I'll hand you over to the Portuguese. In a minute, without a second thought, just like that..." He snapped his fingers.
  At the word "piao," she turned deathly white. It meant "dog," the worst, the cheapest of prostitutes. The princess turned to the sofa and began to cry quietly. Carter glanced at his watch again when there was a knock on the door. It was about time. He let in two white men, large but somehow nondescript. They could have been tourists, businessmen, government clerks, anyone. They were AXE employees, brought from Manila by Hawk. At the moment, the AXE staff in Hong Kong was quite busy. One of the men was carrying a small suitcase. He extended his hand, saying, "Preston, sir. The rats are gathering." Nick Carter nodded in agreement.
  Another man, introducing himself as Dickenson, said, "White and yellow, sir. They're everywhere." Nick frowned. "No black rats?" The men exchanged glances. Preston said, "No, sir. What black rats? Should there be any?" Communication had never been perfect, even in AXE. Nick told them to forget about black rats. He had his own ideas about that. Preston opened his suitcase and began preparing a small radio transmitter. Neither of them paid attention to the girl on the sofa. She had stopped crying now and was lying buried in the pillows.
  Preston stopped fiddling with his gear and looked at Nick. "How soon do you want to contact the helicopter, sir?" "Not yet. I can't do anything until I get a call or a text. They need to know I'm here." The man named Dickenson smiled. "They need to know, sir. You had a veritable cavalcade of people coming from the airport. Two cars, including a Chinese one. They seemed to be keeping an eye on each other, as well as you. And, of course, Johnny Smart." Killmaster nodded approvingly. "You sent him too? You wouldn't happen to know his side of the story?" Both men shook their heads. "I have no idea, sir. We were very surprised to see Johnny. Could it have something to do with the black rats you were asking about?" "Perhaps. I plan to find out. I've known Johnny for years and-" The phone rang. Nick raised his hand. "It must be them," he answered, "Yes?" Frank Manning? The newlywed? It was a high-pitched Han voice speaking perfect English. Nick said, "Yes. This is Frank Manning..."
  
  
  
  
  They had been trying to fool them with this ruse for a long time. Which was to be expected. The goal was to contact General Boulanger without alerting the Hong Kong or Macau authorities. "It's both interesting and profitable to visit Macau for your honeymoon, right away. Without wasting time. The hydrofoil will get there from Hong Kong in just seventy-five minutes. If you like, we'll arrange transportation." I bet you agree! Nick said, "I'll arrange transportation myself. And I don't think I'll make it today." He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to one. His voice became sharp. "It must be today! There's no time to waste." "No. I can't come." "Then this evening?" "Perhaps, but it will be late." Nick smiled into the phone. Night was better. He needed darkness for what needed to be done in Macau. "It's very late. Well then. On Rua das Lorchas there's a hotel called the Sign of the Golden Tiger. You should be there at the Hour of the Rat. With the goods. Is that clear? With the goods - they'll recognize her.
  "I understand." "Come alone," the voice said. "Just the two of you with her. If you don"t, or if there"s any deception, we can"t be responsible for your safety." "We"ll be there," Carter said. He hung up and turned to the two AXE operatives. "That"s it. Get on the radio, Preston, and get that helicopter here. Quickly. Then give the order to start a traffic jam on Queen"s Road." "Yes, sir!" Preston started fiddling with the transmitter. Nick looked at Dickenson. "I forgot." "Eleven o"clock at night, sir."
  Do you have handcuffs with you? Dickenson looked a little startled. "Handcuffs, sir? No, sir. I didn"t think-I mean, I wasn"t told that they would be necessary." Killmutter tossed his handcuffs to the man and nodded to the girl. The princess was already sitting up, her eyes red from crying, but she looked cool and aloof. Nick would bet she hadn"t lost much. "Take her to the roof," Nick commanded. "Leave her luggage here. It"s just a show, anyway. You can remove the handcuffs when you get her on board, but keep a close eye on her. She"s merchandise, and we need to be able to show it. If we don"t, the whole deal is off." The princess covered her eyes with her long fingers. In a very quiet voice, she said, "Can I have at least one drink, please? Just one?"
  Nick shook his head at Dickenson. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing, unless I tell you. And don't let her fool you. She'll try. She's very sweet that way." The princess crossed her nylon-lined legs, revealing a long length of stockings and white flesh. Dickenson grinned, and Nick did too. "I'm happily married, sir. I'm working on it too. Don't worry." Preston was now speaking into the microphone. "Axe-One to Spinner-One. Begin mission. Repeat - begin task. Can you copy me, Spinner-One?" A tinny voice whispered back. "This is Spinner-One to Axe-One. Copy that. Wilco. Coming out now." Killmaster gave Dickenson a curt nod. "Good. Get her up there quick. Okay, Preston, start the plug. We don't want our friends following that 'helicopter.'" Preston looked at Nick. "Have you thought about phones?" "Of course we do! We have to risk it. But phones take time, and it's only three minutes from here to Siouxsie Wong's district." "Yes, sir." Preston started speaking into the microphone again. Points. Operation Weld has commenced. Repeat - Operation Weld has commenced. Orders started coming in, but Nick Carter was nowhere to be heard. He escorted Dickenson and the uncuffed girl to the roof of the hotel. The AXE helicopter simply descended. The large flat roof of the Blue Mandarin became an ideal landing pad. Nick, Luger in hand, stood with his back against the door of the small service penthouse and watched as Dickenson helped the girl into the helicopter.
  
  The helicopter rose, tilting, its spinning rotors throwing a cloud of dust and roof debris into Carter's face. Then it was gone, the loud motorcycle sound fading as it headed north, heading for the Wan Chai district and the waiting junk there. Nick smiled. The spectators, all of them, should have already hit the first major traffic jam, horrific even by Hong Kong standards. The Princess would be aboard the junk in five minutes. They weren't going to do them any good. They'd lost her. It would take them time to find her again, and they didn't have time. For a moment, Killmaster stood looking out over the bustling bay, seeing the clustered buildings of Kowloon and the green hills of the New Territories rising in the background. American warships were moored in the harbor, and British warships were moored at the government piers. Ferries darted back and forth like frantic beetles. Here and there, both on the island and in Kowloon, he saw the black scars of recent fires. There had been riots not long ago. Killmaster turned to leave the roof. He, too, didn't have much time. The Hour of the Rat was approaching. Much remained to be done.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  JOHNNY WISE'S office was on the third floor of a dilapidated building on Ice House Street, just off Connaught Road. It was an area of small shops and hidden corner stores. On the rooftop next door, strings of noodles dried in the sun like laundry, and at the entrance to the building stood a plastic flower stand and a tarnished brass plate on the door that read: "John Hoy, Private Investigation." Hoy. Of course. Strange that it had slipped his mind. But then, Johnny had been called "Smart Guy" ever since Carter had met him. Nick climbed the stairs quickly and silently. If Johnny was inside, he wanted to catch him off guard. Johnny had to answer some questions one way or another. The easy way or the hard way. John Hoy's name was written on the frosted glass door in both English and Chinese. Nick smiled faintly at the Chinese characters-it was difficult to express investigations in Chinese. Johnny used Tel, which, in addition to tracking and investigating, could also evade, advance, or push. This meant many other things, too. Some of these can be read as a double cross.
  The door was slightly open. Nick found that he didn't like it, so he
  Nick opened his coat, unbuckling the Luger in the new AXE-style holster he'd been using lately. He was about to push the door open when he heard the sound of running water. Nick pushed the door open, slid inside quickly, and closed it, leaning his back against it. He took in the single, small room and its astonishing contents in one quick glance. He drew the Luger from its holster to aim at a tall, black man washing his hands in the corner toilet. The man didn't turn around, but his eyes met the AXE agent's in the dirty mirror above the basin. "Stay where you are," Nick said. "No sudden movements, and keep your hands visible."
  He reached behind him and locked the door. Eyes-large amber eyes-stared back at him in the mirror. If the man was worried or scared, he didn't show it. He waited calmly for Nick's next move. Nick, the Luger pointed at the black man, took two steps toward the table where Johnny Smarty sat. Johnny's mouth was open, and a trickle of blood was leaking from the corner. He looked at Nick with eyes that would never see anything again. If he could speak-Johnny never minced words-Nickel could imagine himself saying, "Nickil Pally! Old pal. Give me five. Good to see you, boy. You could have used that, pal. It cost me a lot, so I'll have to-"
  It would be something like this. He would never hear it again. Johnny's days were over. The jade-handled paper knife in his heart made sure Killmaster moved the Luger just a little. "Turn around," he told the black man. "Keep your hands up. Press yourself against this wall, facing it, hands above your head." The man obeyed without a word. Nick slapped and patted him on the body. He was unarmed. His suit, an expensive-looking light wool with a barely noticeable chalk stripe, was soaked through. He could smell the harbor of Hong Kong. His shirt was torn and his tie was missing. He had only one shoe on. He looked like a man who had suffered some kind of mutilation; Nick Carter had had a good time
  and he was sure he knew who this man was.
  
  None of this showed on his impassive expression as he waved the Luger toward the chair. "Sit." The black man obeyed, his face impassive, his amber eyes never leaving Carter's. He was the most handsome black man Nick Carter had ever seen. It was like seeing a black Gregory Peck. His eyebrows were high, and his temples were slightly bald. His nose was thick and strong, his mouth sensitive and well-defined, his jaw strong. The man stared at Nick. He wasn't truly black-bronze and ebony somehow fused in smooth, polished flesh. Killmaster gestured to Johnny's body. "You killed him?"
  "Yes, I killed him. He betrayed me, sold me out, and then tried to kill me." Nick received two distinct, insignificant blows. He hesitated, trying to make sense of them. The man he had found there spoke Oxford or Old Eton English. The unmistakable tones of the upper class, the establishment. Another important point was the man's beautiful, dazzling white teeth-all filed to a point. The man watched Nick carefully. Now he smiled, revealing more teeth. They sparkled like small white spears against his dark skin. In a casual tone, as if the man he'd just admitted killing were over six feet tall, the black man said, "Do my teeth bother you, old man? I know they impress some people. I don't really blame them. But I had to do it, it couldn't be helped. You see, I'm a Chokwe, and it's the custom of my tribe." He held out his hands, flexing his strong, manicured fingers. "See, I'm trying to bring them out of the wilderness. After five hundred years of captivity. So I have to do something I'd rather not do. Identify myself with my people, you see. " The filed teeth flashed again. "They're just political ploys, really. Like your congressmen when they wear suspenders."
  "I"ll take your word for it," said Nick Carter. "Why did you kill Johnny?" The Negro looked surprised. "But I told you, old man. He did me a dirty deed. I hired him for a little job-I"m terribly short of intelligent people who speak English, Chinese, and Portuguese-I hired him, and he sold me out. He tried to kill me last night in Macau-and again a few days ago, when I was returning to Hong Kong on the boat. That"s why I"m bleeding, why I look like this." I had to swim the last half mile to the shore. "I came here to discuss this with Mr. Hoy. I also wanted to get some information from him. He was very angry, tried to point a gun at me, and I lost my temper. I really have a very bad temper. I admit, so before I knew it, I grabbed a paper knife and killed him. I was just washing myself when you arrived. "I see," Nick said. "You killed him - just like that." Sharp teeth flashed at him.
  "Well, Mr. Carter. He wasn't really much of a loss, was he?" "You know? How?" Another smile. Killmaster thought of the pictures of cannibals he'd seen in old National Geographics. "Very simple, Mr. Carter. I know you, just as you must know who I am, of course. I must admit, my own intelligence service is rather primitive, but I have some good agents in Lisbon, and we rely quite heavily on Portuguese intelligence." A smile. "They are very good indeed. They very rarely let us down. They have the most complete dossier on you, Mr. Carter, that I've ever photographed. It's currently at my headquarters somewhere in Angola, along with many others. I hope you don't mind." Nick had to laugh. "That doesn't do me much good, does it? So you're Sobhuzi Askari?" The black man stood up without asking permission. Nick held a Luger, but the amber eyes merely glanced at the pistol and dismissed it with disdain. The black man was tall; Nick would have guessed six feet three or four inches. He looked like a sturdy old oak tree. His dark hair was lightly frosted at the temples, but Nick couldn't tell his age. It could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty. "I am Prince Sobbur Askari," the black rais said. There was no longer a smile on his face.
  "My people call me Dumba - Lion! I'll let you guess what the Portuguese might say about me. They killed my father many years ago when he led the first rebellion. They thought that was the end of it. They were wrong. I am leading my people to victory. In five hundred years, we will finally throw out the Portuguese! That's how it should be. Everywhere in Africa, in the world, freedom is coming to indigenous peoples. So it will be with us. Angola will be free too. I, Lion, have sworn this."
  "I'm on your side," Killmaster said. "On that, anyway. Now how about we break away from the bickering and exchange information. An eye for an eye. A straightforward agreement?" Another knowing smile. Prince Askari had reverted to his Oxford accent. "Sorry, old man. I'm prone to pomposity. A bad habit, I know, but the people back home expect it. In my tribe, too, for that matter, a chieftain has no reputation for being an orator unless he also indulges in theatrical arts." Nick grinned. He was beginning to like the prince. To distrust him, like everyone else. "Spare me," he said. "I, too, think we should get the hell out of here." He jerked his thumb toward the corpse of Johnny Smart, who had been the most disinterested observer of this exchange.
  "We wouldn't want to get caught with this. The Hong Kong police are pretty casual about murder." The Prince said, "I agree. Neither of them wants to get involved with the police. But I can't go out like this, old man. Attract too much attention." "You've come a long way," Nick said shortly. "This is Hong Kong! Take off your other shoe and socks. Put your coat over your arm and go barefoot. Go." Prince Askari was taking off his shoe and socks. "I'd better take them with me. The police will come eventually, and these shoes are made in London. If they find even one..."
  - Okay, - Nick snapped. - Good idea, Prince, but come on! - The black man looked at him coldly. - You don't talk to a prince that way, old man. Killmaster looked back. . "I'm making a proposal. Now go ahead - make up your mind. And don't try to fool me. You're in trouble, and so am I. We need each other. Maybe you need us more than I need you, but no matter. How about it?" The Prince glanced at the body of Johnny Smarty. - You seem to have put me at a disadvantage, old man. I killed him. I even confessed to you. That wasn't very smart of me, was it? - Depends on who I am...
  "If we can play ball together, maybe I won't have to tell anyone," Nick blurted out. "You see a beggar," he said. "I have no effective staff in Hong Kong. Three of my best men were killed last night in Macau, trapping me. I have no clothes, no place to stay, and very little money until I can get in touch with some friends. Yes, Mr. Carter, I think we'll have to play ball together. I like that expression. American slang is so expressive."
  Nick was right. No one paid any attention to the barefoot, handsome, dark-skinned man as they walked through the narrow, bustling streets of the Wan Chai sector. He'd left the Blue Mandarin in the laundry van, and currently, interested parties would be frantically trying to find the girl. He'd bought himself a little time before the Hour of the Rat. Now he had to use it to his advantage. Killmester had already formulated a plan. It was a complete change, a sharp departure from the scheme Hawk had so carefully devised. But now he was in the field, and in the field, he always had carte blanche. Here, he was his own boss-and he would bear all the responsibility for failure. Neither Hawk nor he could have known that the prince would appear like this, ready to make a deal. It would be criminal, worse than stupid, not to take advantage of it.
  Killmaster never understood why he'd chosen the Rat Fink bar on Hennessy Road. Sure, they'd stolen the name of a New York cafe, but he'd never been to a New York establishment. Later, when he'd had time to think about it, Nick admitted that the entire aura of the mission, the smell, the miasma of murder and deceit, and the people involved, could best be summed up in one word: Rat Fink. A common pimp loitered in front of the Rat Fink bar. He smiled obsequiously at Nick but frowned at the barefoot Prince. Killmaster pushed the man aside, saying in Cantonese, "Knock on wood, we've got money and we don't need girls. Get lost." If rats frequented the bar, there weren't many of them. It was early. Two American sailors were talking and drinking beer at the bar. There were no singers or dancers around. A waitress in stretch pants and a floral blouse led them to a kiosk and took their order. She was yawning, her eyes were puffy, and she had obviously just arrived on duty. She didn"t even glance at the Prince"s bare feet. Nick waited for the drinks to arrive. Then he said, "Okay, Prince. Let"s find out if we"re on business-do you know where General Auguste Boulanger is?" "Of course. I was with him yesterday. At the Tai Yip Hotel in Macau. He has a Royal Suite there." He would like Nick to look over his question. "The General," said the Prince, "is a megalomaniac. In short, old man, he"s a little off his rocker. Dottie, you know. Nutty." Killmaster was a little taken aback and very interested. He hadn"t counted on this. Neither had Hawk. Nothing in their raw intelligence reports indicated this.
  "He really started to lose it when the French were driven out of Algeria," Prince Askari continued. "You know, he was the most unyielding of all the unyielding. He never made peace with de Gaulle. As head of the OAS, he condoned torture that even the French were ashamed of. Finally, they sentenced him to death. The general had to flee. He ran to me, to Angola." This time Nick put the question into words. "Why did you take him in if he's crazy?"
  I needed a general. He's a cheerful, wonderful general, crazy or not. First of all, he knows guerrilla warfare! He learned it in Algeria. That's something not a single general in ten thousand knows. We managed to hide the fact that he's crazy well. Now, of course, he's completely lost his mind. He wants to kill me and lead a rebellion in Angola, my rebellion. He fancies himself a dictator. Nick Carter nodded. Hawk was very close to the truth. He said, "Have you by any chance seen a certain Colonel Chun Li in Macau? He's Chinese. Not that you know, but he's a big boss in their counterintelligence. He's the man I really want." Nick was surprised that the Prince wasn't surprised at all.
  He expected a bigger reaction, or at least bewilderment. The prince merely nodded, "I know your Colonel Chun Li. He was also at the Tai Ip Hotel yesterday. The three of us, myself, the General, and Colonel Li, had dinner and drinks, and then watched a movie. All in all, quite a pleasant day. Considering they were planning to kill me later. They made a mistake. Two mistakes, really. They thought I would be easy to kill. And since they thought I was going to die, they didn't bother to lie about their plans or hide them." His sharp teeth flashed at Nick. "So you see, Mr. Carter, perhaps you were mistaken too. Perhaps it's just the opposite of what you believe. Maybe you need me more than I need you. In that case, I must ask you - where is the girl? Princess Morgana da Gama? It's imperative that I have her, not the General." Killmaster's grin was wolfish. "You admire the American slang, Prince. Here's something that might reach you - wouldn't you like to know?"
  "Of course," said Prince Askari. "I must know everything. I must see the princess, talk to her and try to convince her to sign some documents. I wish her no harm, old man... She is so sweet. It is a pity that she humiliates herself like this.
  Nick said, "You mentioned watching a movie? Movies about the princess?" A look of disgust crossed the prince's handsome dark features. "Yes. I don't like such things myself. I don't think Colonel Lee does either. The Reds are very moral, after all! Except for the murders. It's General Boulanger who's crazy about the princess. I've seen him drooling and working on the movies. He watches them over and over again. He lives in a pornographic dream. I think the General has been impotent for years and that these movies, the images alone, have brought him back to life." That's why he's so eager to get the girl. That's why, if I have her, I can put a lot of pressure on the General and on Lisbon. I want her more than anything, Mr. Carter. I have to!"
  Carter was now acting on his own, without sanction or communication with Hawk. So be it. If a limb was sawed off, it would be his ass. He lit a cigarette, handed it to the Prince, and narrowed his eyes as he studied the man through the clouds of smoke. One of the sailors dropped coins into the jukebox. Smoke got into his eyes. It seemed appropriate. Nick said, "Perhaps we can do business, Prince. Play ball. For that, we must trust each other to a certain extent, trust you to the corner with the Portuguese pataca." A smile... Amber eyes flashed at Nick. " As I do you, Mr. Carter." "In that case, Prince, we will have to try to make a deal. Let's look at it carefully - I have money, you do not. I have an organization, you do not. I know where the Princess is, you do not. I am armed, you are not. On the other hand, you have information that I need. I don't think you've told me everything you know yet. I might also need your physical assistance."
  Hawk warned that Nick must go to Macau alone. No other AXE agents could be used. Macau was not Hong Kong. "But in the end, they usually cooperated. The Portuguese were a different matter entirely. They were as playful as any small dog barking at mastiffs. Never forget," Hawk said, "the Cape Verde Islands and what's buried there."
  Prince Askari extended a strong, dark hand. "I am prepared to make a treaty with you, Mr. Carter. Shall we say, for the duration of this emergency? I am the Prince of Angola, and I have never broken my word to anyone." Killmaster somehow believed him. But he did not touch the outstretched hand. "First, let's get this straight. Like the old joke: let's find out who does what to whom, and who pays for it?" The Prince pulled his hand back. A little sullenly, he said, "As you wish, Mr. Carter." Nick's smile was grim. "Call me Nick," he said. "We don't need all this protocol between two cutthroats plotting theft and murder." The Prince nodded. "And you, sir, may call me Askey. That's what they called me at school in England. And now?" "Now, Askey, I want to know what you want. Just that. Briefly. What will satisfy you?"
  The prince reached for another of Nick's cigarettes. "It's simple enough. I need Princess da Gama. At least for a few hours. Then you can ransom her. General Boulanger has a suitcase full of rough diamonds. This Colonel Chun Li wants diamonds. This is a very serious loss for me. My rebellion always needs money. Without money, I cannot buy weapons to continue the fight." Killmaster moved away from the table a little. He was beginning to understand a little. "We could," he said softly, "simply find another market for your rough diamonds." It was a kind of chatter, a gray lie. And maybe Hawk could do it. In his own way, and using his own peculiar and insidious means, Hawk had as much power as J. Edgar.
  Perhaps that is so. "And," said the Prince, "I must kill General Boulanger. He has been plotting against me almost from the very beginning. Even before he went mad, as he has now. I did nothing for it because I needed him. Even now. In fact, I do not want to kill him, but I feel that I must. If my people had managed to get the girl and the film in London..." The Prince shrugged. "But I did not. You beat everyone. Now I must personally see to it that the general is removed from the road." "And that is all?" The Prince shrugged again. "For the moment, that is enough. Perhaps too much. In exchange, I offer my full cooperation. I will even obey your orders. I give orders and do not take them lightly. I will, of course, require weapons." "Naturally. We will talk about this later."
  Nick Carter beckoned the waitress with his finger and ordered two more drinks. Until they arrived, he gazed idly at the dark blue gauze canopy that hid the tin ceiling. The gilded stars looked gaudy in the midday light. The American sailors had already left. Apart from them, the place was deserted. Nick wondered if the possibility of a typhoon had anything to do with the lack of business. He glanced at his wristwatch, comparing it to his Penrod with the oval scale. A quarter past two, the Hour of the Monkey. So far, all things considered, it had been a good business day. Prince Askari was also silent. As the mama-san slipped away, her elastic pants rustling, he said, "Do you agree, Nick? With these three things?" Killmaster nodded. "I agree. But killing the general is your concern, not mine. If the cops from Macau or Hong Kong catch you, I don't know you." Never seen you before. "Of course." - Fine. I'll help you get your rough diamonds back, as long as it doesn't interfere with my own mission.
  This girl, I'll let you talk to her. I won't stop her from signing the documents if she wants to sign them. In fact, we'll take her with us tonight. To Macau. As a guarantee of my good faith. Also as bait, decoy, if we need it. And if she's with us, Askey, it might give you extra incentive to fulfill your role. You'll want to keep her alive." Just a glance at the sharp teeth. "I see you haven't been overestimated, Nick. Now I understand why your Portuguese file = I told you I have a photocopy, why it's marked: Perigol Tenha Cuidador Dangerous. Be careful.
  Killmaster's smile was icy. "I'm flattered. Now, Askey, I want to know the real reason the Portuguese are so eager to remove the princess from circulation. To put her in an asylum. Oh, I know a little about her moral turpitude, the bad example she sets for the world, but it's not enough. There has to be more. If every country locked up its drunks, drug addicts, and whores just to protect its image, there wouldn't be a cage big enough to hold them. I think you know the real reason. I think it has something to do with this uncle of hers, this big shot in the Portuguese cabinet, Luis da Gama." He was merely echoing Hawke's thoughts.
  The old man smelled a large rat among the smaller rodents and asked Nick to test his theory, if possible. What Hawk really needed was a source of counter-pressure against the Portuguese, something he could pass on to higher-ups that could be used to ease the situation in Cape Verde. The prince took another cigarette and lit it before answering.
  "You're right. There's more to it. Much more. This, Nick, is a very nasty story. "Nasty stories are my job," Killmaster said.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  The mini-colony of Macau is located about forty miles southwest of Hong Kong. The Portuguese have lived there since 1557, and now their rule is threatened by a gigantic Red Dragon, belching fire, brimstone, and hatred. This tiny, green piece of Portugal, precariously clinging to the vast delta of the Pearl and West Rivers, lives in the past and on borrowed time. One day, the Red Dragon will raise its claw, and that will be the end. Meanwhile, Macau is a besieged peninsula, subject to the every whim of the people of Beijing. The Chinese, as Prince Askari told Nick Carter, have captured the city in all but name. "This Colonel Chun Li of yours," said the Prince, "is giving orders to the Portuguese governor right now. The Portuguese are trying to put on a good face, but they're not fooling anyone. Colonel Li snaps his fingers and they jump. It's martial law now and there are more Red Guards than Mozambican troops. That was a breakthrough for me, the Mozambicans and the Portuguese are using them for garrison troops. They're black. I'm black. I speak a little of their language. It was the Mozambican corporal who helped me escape after Chun Li and the General failed to kill me. That could be useful to us tonight, Killmaster couldn't have agreed to more.
  
  Nick was more than pleased with the state of affairs in Macau. Riots, looting and arson, intimidation of the Portuguese, threats to cut off power and water to the mainland-all of it would work in his favor. He was going to stage what the AXE called a hellish raid. A little chaos would work in his favor. Killmaster hadn't prayed to Hung for bad weather, but he had asked three Tangaran sailors to do just that. It seemed to have paid off. The large seagoing junk had been steadily heading west-southwest for almost five hours, its bat-winged rattan sails pulling it as close to the wind as a junk could sail. The sun had long since disappeared behind a spreading black cloud bank to the west. The wind, hot and humid, blew erratically, now swooping in, now swooping in, small bursts of fury and occasional linear squalls. Behind them, to the east of Hong Kong, half the sky was outlined in deep blue twilight; the other half in front of them was a storm, an ominous, dark mess where lightning flashed.
  Nick Carter, something of a sailor, along with all the other qualities that made a first-class AXE agent, sensed a storm brewing. He welcomed it, as he welcomed the unrest in Macau. But he wanted a storm-just a storm. Not a typhoon. The Macau sampan fishing fleet, led by Red Chinese patrol boats, had vanished into the darkness to the west an hour ago. Nick, Prince Askari, and the girl, along with three Tangaran men, lay in full view of the sampan flotilla, pretending to fish, until a gunboat took an interest. They were well clear of the border, but when the Chinese gunboat approached, Nick gave the order, and they took off downwind. Nick had been gambling that the Chinese wouldn't want an incident in international waters, and the gamble had paid off. It could have gone either way, and Nick knew it. The Chinese were hard to understand. But they had to take the risk: by nightfall, Nick would be two hours from Penlaa Point. Nick, Prince Da Gama, and Princess Da Gama were in the hold of the junk. In half an hour, they would leave and reach their destination. All three were dressed as Chinese fishermen.
  
  Carter wore black jeans and a jacket, rubber shoes, and a conical straw rain cap. He carried a Luger and a stiletto, as well as a belt of grenades under his jacket. A trench knife with a brass knuckle handle hung from a leather strap around his neck. The Prince also carried a trench knife and a heavy .45 automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. The girl was unarmed. The junk creaked, groaned, and floundered in the rising sea. Nick smoked and watched the Prince and Princess. The girl looked much better today. Dickenson reported that she hadn't eaten or slept well. She hadn't asked for booze or drugs. Smoking a stinking Great Wall cigarette, Agent AXE watched his comrades talking and laughing over and over again. This was a different girl. Sea air? Release from custody? (She was still his prisoner.) The fact that she was sober and drug-free? Or a combination of all of those things? Killmaster felt a bit like Pygmalion. He wasn't sure he liked this feeling. It irritated him.
  The prince laughed loudly. The girl joined in, her laughter softening, with a pianissimo edge. Nick glared at them. Something was bothering him, and he'd be damned if he knew X was more than pleased with Askey. He almost trusted the man now-as long as their interests aligned. The girl proved obedient and extremely compliant. If she was frightened, it didn't show in her green eyes. She'd abandoned the blonde wig. She took off her raincoat and ran a slender finger through her short, dark hair. In the dim light of the single lantern, it gleamed like a black cap. The prince said something, and she laughed again. Neither of them paid much attention to Nick. They got along well, and Nick couldn't blame her. He liked Askey-and he liked her more and more with every passing minute. Why then, Nick wondered, was he showing symptoms of the same old darkness that had struck him in London? He extended a large hand toward the light. Steady as a rock. He had never felt better, never been in better shape. The mission was going well. He was confident he could handle it, because Colonel Chun-Li was unsure of himself, and that would make a difference.
  Why did one of the Tangar fishermen hiss at him from the hatch? Nick rose from his cortege and approached the hatch. "What is it, Min?" The man whispered in pidgin. "We're very close to Penha bimeby." Killmaster nodded. "How close now?" The junk heaved and rocked as a large wave hit it. "Maybe a mile... Don't get too close, I think not. Da have many many Red boats, I think, damn it! Maybe?" Nick knew the Tangar were nervous. They were good people, given a very sneaky hand by the British, but they knew what would happen if they were caught by the Chicoms. There would be a propaganda process and a lot of hype, but in the end it would be the same thing - minus three heads.
  A mile was as close as they could hope to get. They would have to swim the rest of the way. He looked at Tangar again. "Weather? Storm? Toy-jung?" The man shrugged his shiny, sinewy shoulders, wet with seawater. "Perhaps. Who can tell me?" Nick turned to his companions. "Okay, you two. That's all. Let's go." The prince, his sharp gaze gleaming, helped the girl to her feet. She looked at Nick coldly. "We will swim now, I suppose?" "Good. We will swim. It will not be difficult. The tide is right, and we will be pulled to the shore. Understood? Don't speak! I will speak everything in a whisper. You will nod your heads that you understand, if you understand." Nick looked intently at the prince. "Any questions? Do you know exactly what to do? When, where, why, how?" They repeated this over and over. Aski nodded. "Of course, old man. I understood literally everything. You forget that I was once a British commando. Of course, I was only a teenager then, but..."
  
  "Save that for your memoirs," Nick said shortly. "Come on." He started to climb the ladder up through the hatch. Behind him, he heard the girl's soft laughter. Bitch, he thought, and was struck again by his ambivalence towards her. Killmaster cleared his mind. The time for the murder was at hand, the final spectacle was about to begin. All the money spent, the connections used, the intrigues, the tricks and machinations, the spilled blood and the buried bodies - now it was approaching its climax. The reckoning was near. Events that had begun days, months, and even years before were approaching their climax. There would be winners and there would be losers. The roulette ball goes around in a circle - and where it stops, no one knows.
  An hour later, all three were huddled among the black, murky-green rocks near Penha Point. Each had their clothes wrapped tightly in waterproof bundles. Nick and the prince held their weapons. The girl was naked, but for a pair of tiny panties and a bra. Her teeth were chattering, and Nick whispered to Aski, "Quiet!" This guard walks right along the embankment during his patrol. In Hong Kong, he had been thoroughly briefed on the habits of the Portuguese garrison. But now that the Chinese are effectively in control, he'll have to play by ear. The Prince, disobeying the order, whispered back, "He can't hear well in this wind, old man." Killmaster elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut her up! The wind carries the sound, you damned fool. You can hear it in Hong Kong, the wind blows and changes direction." The chatter stopped. The large black man hugged the girl and clamped his hand over her mouth. Nick glanced at the glowing watch on his wrist. A sentry, one of the elite Mozambique regiment, should pass by in five minutes. Nick poked the Prince again, "You two stay here. He'll be past in a few minutes. I'll get you that uniform."
  
  The Prince said, "You know, I can do it myself. I'm used to killing for meat." Killmaster noticed the strange comparison, but dismissed it. To his own surprise, one of his rare, cold rages was brewing within him. He placed the stiletto in his hand and pressed it to the Prince's bare chest. "That's the second time in a minute you've disobeyed an order," Nick said fiercely. "Do it again and you'll regret it, Prince." Askey didn't flinch from the stiletto. Then Askey chuckled softly and patted Nick on the shoulder. Everything was fine. A few minutes later, Nick Carter had to kill a simple black man who had traveled thousands of miles from Mozambique to anger him, for reproaches he couldn't understand if he knew them. It had to be a clean kill, because Nick didn't dare leave any traces of his presence in Macau. He couldn't use his knife; the blood would ruin his uniform, so he had to strangle the man from behind. The sentry was dying hard, and Nick, panting slightly, returned to the water's edge and struck the rock three times with the handle of his trench knife. The Prince and the girl emerged from the sea. Nick didn't linger. "Up there," he said to the Prince. "The uniform is in excellent condition. There's no blood or dirt on it." Check your watch against mine, and then I'll be going." It was half past ten. Half an hour before the Hour of the Rat. Nick Carter smiled at the raging dark wind as he passed the old Ma Coc Miu Temple and found the path that would, in turn, lead him to the paved Harbor Road and into the heart of the city. He trotted, shuffling like a coolie, his rubber shoes scraping the mud. He and the girl had yellow stains on their faces. That and their coolie clothes would be enough camouflage in a city engulfed in unrest and an approaching storm. He hunched his broad shoulders a little more. No one was going to pay much attention to a lone coolie on a night like this... even if he was slightly larger than the average coolie. He had never intended to hold a rendezvous at the Golden Tiger's Sigh on Rua Das Lorjas. Colonel Chun Li knew he wouldn't. The Colonel had never intended to do that.
  
  The phone call was just an opening gambit, a way to establish that Carter was indeed in Hong Kong with the girl. Killmarrier reached the paved road. To his right, he saw the neon glow of downtown Macau. He could make out the garish outline of the floating Casino, with its tiled roof, curved eaves, and fake paddlewheel housings outlined in red lights. A large sign flashed intermittently: "Pala Macau." A few blocks later, Nick found a crooked cobblestone street that led him to the Tai Yip Hotel, where General Auguste Boulanger was staying as a guest of the People's Republic. It was a trap. Nick knew it was a trap. Colonel Chun Li knew it was a trap because he had set it. Nick's smile was grim as he remembered Hawkeye's words: sometimes a trap catches the catcher. The Colonel expects Nick to contact General Boulanger.
  Because Chun-Li surely knew the General was playing both flanks against the middle. If the Prince was right and General Boulanger really was crazy, then it was entirely possible the General hadn't yet fully decided who he was selling out to and who he was setting up. Not that it mattered. This was all a setup, orchestrated by the Colonel out of curiosity, perhaps to see what the General would do. Chun knew the General was crazy. As Nick approached the Tai Yip, he thought that Colonel Chun-Li probably enjoyed torturing small animals when he was a boy. Behind the Tai Yip Hotel was a parking lot. Opposite the lot, which was well-stocked and brightly lit by tall sodium lamps, stood a slum. Candles and carbide lamps seeped weakly from the shacks. Babies were crying. There was a smell of urine and dirt, sweat and unwashed bodies; too many people were living in too small a space; All this lay like a tangible layer on top of the dampness and the rising scent of a thunderstorm. Nick found the entrance to a narrow alley and squatted down. Just another coolie resting. He lit a Chinese cigarette, cupped it in his palm, his face hidden by a large rain cap, studying the hotel across the street. Shadows moved around him, and from time to time he heard the groans and snores of a sleeping man. He caught the sickly sweet scent of opium.
  Nick remembered a guidebook he once had, scented with the words "Come to Beautiful Macau - the Oriental Garden City." It had been written, of course, before our era. Before Chi-Kon. Tai Yip was nine stories high. General Auguste Boulanger lived on the seventh floor, in a suite overlooking Praia Grande. The fire escape could be accessed from both the front and back. Killmaster thought he'd stay away from the fire escapes. No point in making Colonel Chun-Li's job easy. Smoking his cigarette down to the last tenth of an inch, coolie fashion, Nick tried to imagine himself in the colonel's place. Chun-Li might think it would be a good idea if Nick Carter killed the general. Then he could capture Nick, the AXE assassin, caught red-handed, and stage the most venerable propaganda trial of all time. Then cut off his head legally. Two dead birds, and not even a single stone. He saw movement on the hotel roof. Security guards. They were probably on the fire escapes too. They would be Chinese, not Portuguese or Mozambicans, or at least they would be led by Chinese.
  Killmaster smiled in the fetid darkness. It looked like he'd have to use the elevator. Guards were there, too, to make it look legitimate, to keep the trap from being too obvious. Chun Li wasn't a fool, and he knew Killmaster wasn't either. Nick smiled again. If he walked right into the guards' arms, they'd be forced to seize him, but Chun Li wouldn't like that. Nick was sure of it. The guards were just a show. Chun Li wanted Nick to get to Cresson... He stood and walked down the sour-smelling alleyway deeper into the village's shacks. Finding what he wanted wouldn't be difficult. He had neither pavar nor escudos, but Hong Kong dollars would do just fine.
  He had plenty of those. Ten minutes later, Killmaster had a coolie frame and a sack on his back. The gunny sacks contained only junk, but no one would know that until it was too late. For five hundred Hong Kong dollars, he bought this plus a few other small items. Nick Carter was in business. He ran across the road and through the parking lot to a service door he had noticed. A girl was giggling and moaning in one of the cars. Nick grinned and kept on shuffling, bent at the waist, under the harness of the wooden frame, which creaked on his broad shoulders. A conical rain cap was pulled down over his face. As he approached the service door, another coolie emerged with an empty frame. He glanced at Nick and muttered in soft Cantonese, "No pay today, brother. That big-nosed bitch says come back tomorrow-as if your stomach can wait until tomorrow, because..."
  Nick didn't look up. He replied in the same language. "May their livers rot, and may all their children be girls!" He descended three steps to a large landing. The door was half open. Bales of all kinds. The large room was bathed in a 100-watt light that dimmed and brightened. A stocky, tired-looking Portuguese man wandered among the bales and boxes with invoice sheets on a clipboard. He was talking to himself until Nick entered with his loaded frame. Carter figured the Chinese must be putting pressure on gas and transportation.
  Most of what arrives at the docks now or from the mainland will be moved by coolie power.
  
  - The Portuguese muttered. - A man can"t work like this. Everything is going wrong. I must be going crazy. But no... no... He slapped his forehead with his palm, ignoring the large coolie. - No, Nao Jenne, do you have to? It"s not me-it"s this damned country, this climate, this no-paying work, these stupid Chinese. My mother herself, I swear, I... The clerk broke off and looked at Nick. "Qua deseja, stapidor." Nick stared at the floor. He shuffled his feet and muttered something in Cantonese. The clerk approached him, his puffy, fat face angrily. "Ponhol, put it anywhere, you idiot! Where did this cargo come from? Fatshan?"
  
  Nick gurgled, picked his nose again, and squinted. He grinned like a moron, then chuckled, "Yie, Fatshan has a yes. You give a lot of Hong Kong dollars once, don't you?" The clerk looked at the ceiling pleadingly. "Oh, God! Why are all these rat-eaters so stupid?" He looked at Nick. "No payment today. No money. Tomorrow maybe. You're a one-time subbie?" Nick frowned. He took a step toward the man. "No subbie. Want Hong Kong dolls now!" "Can I?" He took another step. He saw a corridor leading from the anteroom, and at the end of the corridor was a freight elevator. Nick looked back. The clerk didn't back down. His face was starting to swell with surprise and rage. A coolie talking back to a white man! He took a step toward the coolie and raised the clipboard, more defensively than threatening. Killmaster decided not to do it. Kill the man. He could pass out and be knocked down among all this junk. He pulled his arras from the straps of the A-frame and dropped them with a clatter. The little clerk forgot his anger for a second. "Idiot! There may be fragile items in there-I'll look at it and I won't pay for anything! You have names, yes?" "Nicholas Huntington Carter."
  The man's jaw dropped at his perfect English. His eyes widened. Under his coolie jacket, in addition to his grenade belt, Nick wore a belt of strong Manila rope. He worked quickly, gagging the man with his own tie and tying his wrists to his ankles behind him. When he was finished, he surveyed his work with approval.
  Killmaster patted the small clerk on the head. "Adeus. You're lucky, my friend. Lucky you're not even a small shark." The Hour of the Rat had long passed. Colonel Chun-Li knew Nick wouldn't come. Not to the Sign of the Golden Tiger. But then, the Colonel had never expected to see Nick there. As he stepped into the freight elevator and began the ascent, Nick wondered if the Colonel thought he, Carter, had chickened out and wouldn't come at all. Nick hoped so. That would make things a lot easier. The elevator stopped on the eighth floor. The corridor was empty. Nick descended the fire escape, his rubber shoes making no sound. The elevator was automatic, and it sent him down again. No use leaving such a sign. He slowly opened the fire door on the seventh floor. He was lucky. The thick steel door swung open the right way, and he had a clear view down the corridor to the door to the Getters' quarters. It was exactly as described in Hong Kong. Except for one thing. Armed guards stood in front of a cream-colored door with a large gold number 7 on it. They looked Chinese, very young. Probably Red Guards. They were hunched and bored, and didn't seem to expect trouble. Killmaster shook his head. They wouldn't get it from him. It was impossible to approach them unnoticed. After all, this had to be the roof.
  He climbed the fire escape again. He continued walking until he reached a small penthouse that housed the freight elevator mechanism. The door opened onto the roof. It was slightly ajar, and Nick could hear someone humming on the far side. It was an old Chinese love song. Nick dropped the stiletto into his palm. In the midst of love, we die, He had to kill again now. These were the Chinese, the enemy. If he defeated Colonel Chun-Li tonight, and he very well might, Nick intended to have the satisfaction of introducing a few enemies to their ancestors. A guard leaned against the penthouse just outside the door. Killmaster was so close he could smell his breath. He was eating kinwi, a hot Korean dish.
  He was just out of his reach. Nick slowly ran the tip of the stiletto along the wood of the door. At first, the guard didn't hear, maybe because he was humming, or because he was sleepy. Nick repeated the sound. The guard stopped humming and leaned toward the door. "O-o-o-other rat?" Killmaster closed his thumbs around the man's throat and dragged him toward the penthouse. There was no sound except the light scraping of small gravel on the roof. The man carried a submachine gun, an old American MS, over his shoulder. The guard was slim, his throat easily crushed by Nick's steel fingers. Nick eased the pressure a little and whispered in the man's ear. "The name of the other guard? Faster, and you live. Lie to me, and you die. Name." He didn't think there would be more than two of them on the roof itself. He fought for breath. "Wong Ki. I... I swear.
  Nick squeezed the man's throat again, then released it again when the boy's legs began to twitch desperately. "He speaks Cantonese? No lies?" The dying man tried to nod. "Y-yes. We're Cantonese." Nick moved quickly. He slid his arms into a full Nelson, lifted the man off his feet, then slammed his head into his chest with one powerful blow. It took a lot of force to break a man's neck like that. And sometimes, in Nick's line of work, a man had to lie as well as kill. He dragged the body back behind the elevator mechanism. He could have used a cap. He tossed his coolie hat aside and pulled the cap with the red star over his eyes. He slung the machine gun over his shoulder, hoping he wouldn't have to use it. Mar. Still. Killmaster sauntered out onto the roof, bending over to hide his height. He began humming the same old Chinese love song as his sharp eyes scanned the dark roof.
  
  The hotel was the tallest building in Macau, its roof darkened by the light, and the sky, now pressing down, was a damp, black mass of clouds where lightning played incessantly. Still, he couldn't find the other guard. Where was the bastard? Lazing around? Sleeping? Nick had to find him. He needed to clear this roof for the return trip. If only he existed. Suddenly, a wild flurry of wings swept overhead, several birds nearly brushing against him. Nick instinctively ducked, watching the dim, white, stork-like shapes swirl and swirl across the sky. They made a fleeting vortex, a gray-white wheel, only half visible in the sky, accompanied by the cries of thousands of startled quail. These were Macau's famous white egrets, and they were awake tonight. Nick knew the old legend. When the white herons flew at night, a great typhoon was approaching. Maybe. Maybe not. Where was that damn guard! "Wong?" Nick hissed the words. "Wong? You son of a bitch, where are you?" Killmaster spoke several dialects of Mandarin fluently, though his accent was mostly absent; in Cantonese, he could fool a local. He did it now. From behind the chinmi, a sleepy voice said, "Is that you, T.? What is it, ratan? I picked up a little phlegm-Amieeeeee." Nick held the man by the throat, suppressing the beginning of a scream. This one was bigger, stronger. He grabbed Nick's arms, and his fingers dug into the AXE agent's eyes. He brought his knee to Nick's groin. Nick welcomed the vicious struggle. He didn't like killing babies. He deftly dodged to the side, avoiding the knee to the groin, then immediately drove his knee into the Chinese man's groin. The man groaned and leaned forward slightly. Nick held him down, pulled his head back by the thick hair on his neck, and hit him in the Adam's apple with the calloused edge of his right hand. A fatal backhand blow that crushed the man's esophagus and paralyzed him. Then Nick simply squeezed his throat until the man stopped breathing.
  
  The chimney was low, about shoulder-height. He lifted the body and thrust it headfirst into the chimney. The machine gun, which he didn't need, was already on, so he tossed it into the shadows. He ran to the edge of the roof above the general's suite. As he ran, he began to unwind the rope around his waist. Killmaster looked down. A small balcony was directly below him. Two floors down. The fire escape was to his right, in the far corner of the building. It was unlikely that the guard on the fire escape could see him in this darkness. Nick secured the cord around a ventilator and tossed it overboard. His calculations in Hong Kong had proven correct. The end of the line caught the balcony railing. Nick Carter checked the rope, then swung forward and down, the trophy machine gun slung over his back. He didn't slide down; he walked like a climber, bracing his feet against the wall of the building. A minute later, he was standing on the balcony railing. There were tall French windows, open a few inches. Beyond them, it was dark. Nick leaped soundlessly onto the concrete balcony floor. The doors were ajar! Come in, said the spider? Nick's smile was grim. He doubted the spider expected him to use this route into the web. Nick got on all fours and crawled toward the glass doors. He heard a buzzing sound. At first, he couldn't understand it, and then suddenly he understood. It was the projector. The General was at home, watching movies. Home movies. Movies shot in London months earlier by a man named Blacker. Blacker, who eventually died...
  
  The Master Killer winced in the darkness. He pushed one of the doors open about a foot. Now he was flattened facedown on the cold concrete, peering into the dark room. The projector seemed very close, to his right. It would be automatic. Far at the end of the room-it was a long room-a white screen hung from the ceiling or from a garland. Nick couldn't tell which. Between his vantage point and the screen, about ten feet away, he could see the silhouette of a high-backed chair and something above it. A man's head? Killmaster entered the room like a snake, on its belly, and just as silently. The concrete turned to a wooden floor, the feel of parquet. Images flickered across the screen now. Nick raised his head to look. He recognized the dead man, Blacker, pacing around the large sofa at the Dragon Club in London. Then Princess da Gama walked onto the stage. One close-up, one look into her stunned green eyes was enough to prove she was drugged. Whether she knew it or not, she'd undoubtedly been taking some kind of drug, LSD, or something similar. All they had for that was the dead Blacker's word. It didn't matter.
  The girl stood tall and swayed, seemingly unaware of what she was doing. Nick Carter was a fundamentally honest man. Honest with himself. So he admitted, even as he drew his Luger from its holster, that the antics on screen were arousing him. He crawled toward the back of the high chair where the once-proud French army general now watched pornography. A series of quiet sighs and giggles emanated from the chair. Nick frowned in the darkness. What the hell was going on? A lot was happening on the screen at the back of the room. Nick immediately understood why the Portuguese government, entrenched in conservatism and rigidity, wanted the film destroyed. The royal princess was doing some very interesting and unusual things on screen. He felt the blood pounding in his own groin as he watched her eagerly join in with every little game and very inventive position Blacker suggested. She looked like a robot, a mechanical doll, beautiful and devoid of will. Now she wore only long white stockings, shoes, and a black garter belt. She assumed a slutty stance and cooperated fully with Blacker. Then he forced her to change position. She leaned over him, nodded, smiling her robotic smile, doing exactly as she was told. At that moment, Agent AXE realized something else.
  His unease and ambivalence about the girl. He wanted her for himself. In fact, he wanted her. He wanted the princess. In bed. Drunk, drug addict, harlot, and whore, whatever she was-he wanted to enjoy her body. Another sound burst into the room. The general laughed. A soft laugh, full of a strange, personal pleasure. He sat in the darkness, this product of Saint-Cyr, and watched the moving shadows of the girl who, he believed, could restore his potency. This Gallic warrior of two world wars, the Foreign Legion, this terror of Algeria, this cunning old military mind-now he sat in the darkness and chuckled. Prince Askari was absolutely right about that-the general was deeply insane, or, at best, senile. Colonel Chun-Li knew this and exploited it. Nick Carter very carefully placed the cold barrel of the Luger to the general's head, just behind his ear. He was told the general spoke excellent English. "Remain silent, General. Don't move. Whisper. I don't want to kill you, but I will. I want to keep watching the films and answering my questions. Whisper. Is this place bugged? Is it bugged? Is anyone around?"
  
  "Speak English. I know you can. Where is Colonel Chun-Li now?" "I don't know. But if you are Agent Carter, he is waiting for you." "I am Carter." The chair moved. Nick jabbed the Luger cruelly. "General! Keep your hands on the arms of the chair. You must believe that I will kill without hesitation." "I believe you. I have heard a lot about you, Carter." Nick jabbed the General in the ear with the Luger. "You made a deal, General, with my bosses to lure Colonel Chun-Li out for me. What about it?" "In exchange for the girl," the General said.
  That tremor in his voice grew stronger. "In exchange for the girl," he said again. "I must have the girl!" "I have her," Nick said softly. "With me. She's in Macau now. She's dying to meet you, General. But first, you must fulfill your end of the bargain. How are you going to catch the Colonel? So I can kill him?" He was going to hear a very interesting lie now. Wasn't it. The General might be broken, but he had a one-track mind. "I must see the girl first," he said now. "Nothing until I see her. Then I will keep my promise and give you the Colonel. It will be easy. He trusts me." Nick's left hand explored him. The General was wearing a cap, a military cap with a lapel. Nick ran his hand over the old man's left shoulder and chest - medals and ribbons. He knew then. The General was wearing full uniform, the dress uniform of a French lieutenant general! Sitting in the dark, wearing the clothes of bygone glory, and watching pornography. The shadows of de Sade and Charentane-death would be a blessing for this old man. There was still work to be done.
  
  "I don"t think," Nick Carter said in the darkness, "that the Colonel really trusts you. He"s not that stupid. You think you"re using him, General, but in reality he"s using you. And you, sir, are lying! No, don"t move. You"re supposed to be setting him up for me, but in reality you"re setting me up for him, aren"t you?" A long sigh from the General. He didn"t speak. The film ended, and the screen went dark as the projector stopped humming. The room was completely dark now. The wind howled past the little balcony. Nick decided not to look at the General. Auguste Boulanger. He could smell and hear and feel the decay. He didn"t want to see it. He leaned down and whispered even lower, now that the protective sound of the projector had disappeared. "Isn"t that the truth, General? Are you playing both sides against the middle? Planning to deceive everyone if you can? Just like you tried to kill Prince Askari!"
  The old man shuddered sharply. "Tried - you mean the Xari isn't dead??" Nick Carter tapped his withered neck with his Luger. No. He's absolutely not dead. He's here in Macau now. Colonel - I told you he was dead, huh? He lied, you told you he was wider apart?" - Oud... yes. I thought the prince was dead. - Speak more quietly, General. Whisper! I'll tell you something else that might surprise you. Do you have an attaché case full of rough diamonds?
  "These are fakes, General. Glass. Pieces of simple glass. Eon knows little about diamonds. Aski does. He hasn't trusted you in a long time. Having them is useless. What will Colonel Li say about this? Because they had grown to trust each other, at some point the Prince uncovered the ruse of the fake rough diamonds. He hadn't lied during their conversation at the Rat Fink bar. He had safely hidden the diamonds in a vault in London. The General had tried to trade in the fakes, but he was unaware of all this. Colonel Chun Li was also no diamond expert.
  The old man tensed in his chair. "The diamonds are fake? I can't believe it..." "You better, General. Believe this too, what will happen when you sell glass to the Chinese for over twenty million in gold, you will be in much more danger than we are now. Just like the Colonel. He will take it out on you, General. To save his own skin. He will try to convince him that you are simply crazy enough to try a scam like this. And then it will all end: the girl, the revolutionaries who want to seize power in Angola, gold in exchange for diamonds, a villa with the Chinese. That's it. You will be just an old former general, sentenced to death in France. Better think about it, sir," Nick softened his voice.
  
  The old man stank. Had he applied perfume to cover the smell of an old and dying body? ... Again, Carter was close to pity, an unusual feeling for him. He pushed him away. He drove the Luger hard into the old neck. "Better stay with us, sir. With AH and prepare the Colonel for me as originally planned. That way, at least you'll get the girl, and maybe you and the Prince can work something out between yourselves. After the Colonel's death. How about that?" He felt the General nod in the darkness. "It seems I have a choice, Mr. Carter. Very well. What do you want from me?" His lips touched the man's ear as Nick whispered. "I'll be at the Ultimate Ilappinms Inn in an hour. Come and bring Colonel Chun Wu with you. I want to see you both. Tell him I want to talk, make a deal, and that I don't want any trouble. Do you understand?" - Yes. But I don't know this place - the Inn of Ultimate Happiness? How can I find it?
  
  "The Colonel will know it," Nick said sharply. "The moment you walk through that door with the Colonel, your job is done. Get out of the way and stay away. There will be danger. Understood?" There was a moment's silence. The old man sighed. "Absolutely clear. So you want to kill him? On the spot!" "On the spot. Goodbye, General. Better safe than sorry this time." Killmaster climbed the rope with the agility and speed of a giant ape. He picked it up and hid it under the overhang. The roof was empty, but when he reached the small penthouse, he heard the freight elevator rising. The machines hummed wetly, counterweights and cables slid down. He ran to the door leading down to the ninth floor, opened it, and heard voices at the foot of the stairs speaking Chinese, arguing over which of them would go up.
  He turned toward the elevator. If they argued long enough, he might have a chance. He slid the iron bars of the elevator door open and held them open with his foot. He could see the roof of the freight elevator rising toward him, cables slithering past. Nick glanced at the top of the hull. There had to be room there. When the roof reached him, he easily stepped onto it and closed the bars. He lay flat on the grimy roof of the elevator as it clanked to a stop. There was a good inch between the back of his head and the top of the hull.
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  He remembered the rifle butt hitting him in the back of the neck. Now there was hot, white pain in that place. His skull was an echo chamber where a couple of jam bands were going crazy. The floor beneath him was as cold as the death he now faced. It was wet, damp, and Killmaster began to realize that he was completely naked and in chains. Somewhere above him, there was a dim yellow light. He made a supreme effort to lift his head, gathering all his strength, starting a long struggle from what he felt was very close to total disaster. Things had gone horribly wrong. He had been outsmarted. Colonel Chun-Li had taken him as easily as a lollipop from a child. "Mr. Carter! Nick... Nick) Can you hear me?" "Uhhh0000000-." He raised his head and looked across the small dungeon at the girl. She, too, was naked and chained to a brick pillar, like him. No matter how hard he tried to focus his gaze, Nick didn't find it particularly strange-when, in a nightmare, you act according to the rules of a nightmare. It seemed entirely appropriate that Princess Morgan da Gama should share this terrifying dream with him, that she should be chained to a post, lithe, naked, with large breasts, and completely frozen in terror.
  
  If ever a situation needed a light touch, this was it-if only to keep the girl from hysteria. Her voice said she was rapidly approaching her. He tried to smile at her. "In the words of my immortal Aunt Agatha, 'what occasion?'" A new panic flashed in her green eyes. Now that he was awake and looking at her, she tried to cover her breasts with her arms. The clanking chains were too short to allow it. She compromised, arching her slender body so that he could not see her dark pubic hair. Even at a moment like this, when he was sick, suffering, and temporarily defeated, Nick Carter wondered if he would ever be able to understand women. The princess was crying. Her eyes were puffy. She said, "You... you don't remember?" He forgot about the chains and tried to massage the huge bloody lump on the back of his head. His chains were too short. He swore. "Yes. I remember. It"s starting to come back now. I..." Nick broke off and put his finger to his lips. The blow had deprived him of all sanity. He shook his head at the girl and tapped his ear, then pointed to the dungeon. It was probably bugged. From above, somewhere in the shadow of the ancient brick arches, a metallic chuckle was heard. The loudspeaker buzzed and whined, and Nick Carter thought with a darkly bright smile that the next voice you will hear will be Colonel Chun Li. There is also cable television - I can see you perfectly well. But don"t let that interfere with your conversation with the lady. There is very little you can say I don"t know yet. okay, Mr. Carter?" Nick lowered his head. He didn"t want the telescanner to see his expression. He said, "Fuck you, Colonel." Laughter. Then: "That's very childish, Mr. Carter. I'm disappointed in you. In many ways - you really don't scold me much, do you? I expected more from the number one killer in AX to think that you're just a Paper Dragon, an ordinary person after all.
  But then life is full of little disappointments. Nick kept his face up. He analyzed his voice. Good, too precise English. Clearly he'd learned from textbooks. Chun-Li had never lived in the States, or could understand Americans, how they thought, or what they were capable of under stress. It was a faint glimmer of hope. Colonel Chun-Li's next remark truly struck the AXE man. It was so beautifully simple, so obvious once it was pointed out, but it hadn't occurred to him until now. And how is it that our dear mutual friend, Mr. David Hawk... Nick was silent. "That my interest in you is secondary. You are, frankly, just bait. It's your Mr. Hawk I really want to catch. Just like he wants me."
  It was all a trap, as you know, but for Hawk, not Nick. Nick was laughing his head off. "You're crazy, Colonel. You'll never get close to Hawk." Silence. Laughter. Then: "We'll see, Mr. Carter. You may be right. I have the greatest respect for Hawk from a professional point of view. But he has human weaknesses, like all of us. The danger in this matter. For Hawk." Nick said: "You have been misinformed, Colonel. Hawk is not friendly with his agents. He is a heartless old man." "It doesn't matter much," said the voice. "If one method doesn't work, another will. I'll explain later, Mr. Carter. Now I have some work to do, so I'll leave you alone. Oh, one thing. I'm going to turn on the light now. Please pay attention to the wire cage. Something very interesting is about to happen in this cell ." There was a hum, a buzz, and a click, and the amplifier shut off. A moment later, a harsh white light came on in a shadowed corner of the dungeon. Both Nick and the girl stared at each other. Killmaster felt an icy chill down his spine.
  It was an empty chicken wire cage, about twelve by twelve. A door opened in the brick dungeon. On the floor of the cage lay four short chains and handcuffs set into the floor. For holding a person. Or a woman. The princess had the same thought. She began to whimper. "Oh my God! W-what are they going to do to us? What is this cage for?" He didn't know and didn't want to guess. His job now was to keep her sane, from going hysterical. Nick didn't know what good it would do-except that it might, in turn, help him stay sane. He desperately needed them. He ignored the cage. "Tell me what happened at the Absolute Happiness Inn," he ordered. "I don't remember anything, and that rifle butt is to blame. I remember walking in and seeing you crouched in the corner. Askey wasn't there, even though he should have been. I remember asking you where Askey was, and then the place was raided, the lights went out, and someone rammed a rifle butt into my skull. Where is Askey, anyway?" The girl struggled for control. She glanced sideways and pointed around. "To hell with him," Nick grumbled. "He's right. He already knows everything. I don't. Tell me everything..."
  "We made a network, like you said," the girl began. "Aski dressed in the uniform of that f... that other man, and we went into town. To the Inn of Supreme Happiness. At first, no one paid any attention to us. It's... well, you probably know what kind of establishment it was?" "Yes, I know." He chose the Inn of Absolute Happiness, which had been converted into a cheap Chinese hotel and brothel where coolies and Mozambican soldiers hung out. A prince in a dead soldier's uniform would be just another black soldier with a pretty Chinese prostitute. Aski's job was to cover for Nick if he managed to lure Colonel Chun-Li to the inn. The disguise was perfect. "The prince was detained by a police patrol," the girl said now. "I think it was the usual routine.
  They were Mozambicans with a white Portuguese officer. Askey didn't have the proper papers, passes, or anything, so they arrested him. They dragged him out, and left me there alone. I waited for you. There was nothing else to do. But no luck. The disguise was too good. Nick swore he caught his breath. This couldn't be foreseen or defended. The Black Prince was in some prison or camp, out of sight. He spoke a little Mozambican, so he could bluff for a while, but sooner or later they would find out the truth. The dead guard would be found. "Asky will be handed over to the Chinese. Unless-and this was very vague, unless-the Prince can somehow make use of the black brotherhood, as before. Nick dismissed the thought. Even if the Prince was free, what could he do? One man. And not a trained agent...
  As always when the deep connection was in effect, Nick knew he could only count on one person to save his skin. "Nick Carter." The speaker crackled again. "I thought you might find this interesting, Mr. Carter. Please watch carefully. An acquaintance of yours, I presume? Four Chinese, all strong brutes, were dragging something through the door and into a wire mesh cage. Nick heard the girl gasp and stifle a scream as she saw the nakedness of General Auguste Boulanger as he was dragged into the cage. He was bald, and the sparse hair on his wasted chest was white, he looked like a shivering, plucked chicken, and in this primal, naked state, completely devoid of all human dignity and pride in rank or uniform. The knowledge that the old man was mad, that real dignity and pride were long gone, did not change the revulsion Nick felt now. A sickening pain began in his stomach. A premonition that they were about to see something very bad, even for Chinese. The general had put up a good fight for such an old man and a frail man, but after a minute or two he was sprawled on the floor of the room in a cage and chains.
  The loudspeaker ordered the Chinese, "Take out the gag. I want them to hear him scream." One of the men pulled a large piece of dirty rag from the general's mouth. They left and closed the door in the brick curtain. Nick, watching intently in the light of the 200-watt bulbs illuminating the cage, saw something he hadn't noticed before: on the other side of the door, at floor level, was a large opening, a dark spot in the brickwork, like a small entrance one might make for a dog or cat. The light reflected off the metal plates covering it.
  Killmaster's skin crawled-what were they going to do with this poor, crazy old man? Whatever it was, he knew one thing. Something was brewing with the general. Or with the girl. But it was all aimed at him, at Nick Carter, to frighten him and break his will. It was some kind of brainwashing, and it was about to begin. The general struggled against his chains for a moment, and then turned into a lifeless, pale lump. He looked around with a wild gaze that seemed to understand nothing. The loudspeaker croaked again: "Before we begin our little experiment, there are a few things I think you should know. About me... just to gloat a little. You've been a thorn in our side for a long time, Mr. Carter-you and your boss, David Hawk. Things have changed now. You're a professional in your field, and I'm sure you realize that. But I'm an old-fashioned Chinese, Mr. Carter, and I don't approve of new torture methods... Psychologists and psychiatrists, all the rest of them.
  They generally favor new methods of torture, more sophisticated and terrible, and I, for one, am the most old-fashioned in that sense. Pure, absolute, unmitigated horror, Mr. Carter. As you are about to see. The girl screamed. The sound pierced Nick's hearing. She was pointing at an enormous rat that had crawled into the room through one of the small doors. It was the largest rat Nick Carter had ever seen. It was larger than the average cat, glossy black with a long grayish tail. Large white teeth flashed on its muzzle as the creature paused for a moment, twitching its whiskers and looking around with wary, evil eyes. Nick suppressed the urge to vomit. The princess screamed again, loud and piercing... • "Shut up," Nick told her fiercely.
  "Mr. Carter? There's quite a story behind this. The rat is a mutant. Some of our scientists made a short trip, very secret, of course, to an island your people were using for atomic testing. There was nothing living on the island, but the rats-they somehow survived and even thrived. I don't understand it, not being a scientist, but it was explained to me that the radioactive atmosphere is somehow responsible for the gigantism you now see. Most fascinating, isn't it?" Killmaster seethed. He couldn't help himself. He knew this was exactly what the Colonel wanted and hoped for, but he couldn't contain his wild rage. He raised his head and yelled, cursing, shouting every dirty name he knew. He threw himself at his chains, cutting his wrists on the sharp cuffs, but felt no pain. What he did feel was the slightest weakness, the slightest hint of weakness, in one of the old ring bolts driven into the brick column. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a trickle of mortar running down the brick below the ring bolt. A strong jolt could easily tear the chain out. He realized this immediately. He continued to shake his chains and curse, but he no longer pulled on the chain.
  It was the first faint glimmer of real hope... There was satisfaction in Colonel Chun-Li's voice as he said, "So you are human, Mr. Carter? Do you actually respond to normal stimuli? That was pure hysteria. I was told it would make things easier. Now I will remain silent and let you and the lady enjoy the show. Don't be too upset about the General. He is crazy and senile, and really no loss to society. He betrayed his country, he betrayed Prince Askari, he tried to betray me. Oh, yes, Mr. Carter. I know all about it. Next time you whisper in a deaf person's ear, make sure his hearing aid is not tapped!" The Colonel laughed. "You were, in fact, whispering in my ear, Mr. Carter." Of course, the poor old fool didn't know his hearing aid was tapped.
  Nick's grimace was bitter, sour. He had a hearing aid. The rat was now huddled on the general's chest. He hadn't even whined yet. Nick hoped the old mind was too stunned to understand what was happening. The old man and the rat stared at each other. The rat's long, indecently bald tail twitched rapidly back and forth. Still, the creature didn't attack. The girl whimpered and tried to cover her eyes with her hands. Chains. Her smooth white body was now dirty, covered in stains and bits of straw from the stone floor. Listening to the sounds from her throat, Nick realized she was very close to going mad. He could understand it. He stood up. He himself was not so far from the abyss. The handcuffs and chain that bound his right wrist. The ring bolt shifted. The old man screamed. Nick watched, struggling with his nerves, forgetting everything but one important thing-the eyebolt would come out when he pulled hard on it. The chain was a weapon. But no good if he did it at the wrong time! He forced himself to watch. The mutant rat was gnawing at the old man, its long teeth sinking into the flesh around his jugular vein. It was a smart rat. It knew where to strike. It wanted the meat dead, quiet, so it could feed unhindered. The general continued screaming. The sound died away in a gurgle as my rat bit into a major artery, and blood spurted. Now the girl was screaming again and again. Nick Carter found himself screaming too, but silently, the sound locked in his skull and echoing around him.
  
  His brain screamed hatred and a thirst for revenge and murder, but to the spy's eye he was calm, collected, even smirking. The camera mustn't notice that loose ring bolt. The Colonel spoke again: "I'll send more rats now, Mr. Carter. They'll finish the job in no time. Not pretty, is it? As they say, in your capitalist slums. Only there, helpless babies are the victims. Right, Mr. Carter?" Nick ignored him. He looked at the slaughter in the cage. A dozen huge rats scurried in and swarmed over the red creature that had once been a man. Nick could only pray that the old man was already dead. Perhaps. He didn't move. He heard the sounds of vomiting and glanced at the girl. She had vomited on the floor and was lying there with her eyes closed, her pale, mud-spattered body twitching. "Pass out, baby," he told her. "Pass out. Don't look at this." The two rats were now fighting over a piece of flesh. Nick watched with horrified fascination. Finally, the larger of the two squabbling rats sank its teeth into the throat of the other and killed it. It then pounced on its fellow rat and began to eat it. Nick watched as the rat completely devoured its own kind. And he remembered something he had long ago learned and forgotten: rats are cannibals. One of the very few animals that eat their own kind. Nick tore his gaze away from the horror in the cage. The girl was unconscious. He hoped she didn't feel anything. The voice on the loudspeaker returned. Nick thought he detected disappointment in the Colonel's voice. "It appears," he said, "that my reports about you are correct after all, Carter, what you Americans call a remarkable poker face. Are you really that unfeeling, that cold, Carter? I cannot agree with that." The trace of anger in his voice was clearly evident now-it was Carter, not Mr. Carter! Was he starting to get the Chinese colonel a little worked up? It was a hope. Faint, like a promise.
  
  A weak ring bolt, that was all he had. Nick looked bored. He glanced at the ceiling where the camera was hidden. "That was pretty nasty," he said. "But I've seen a lot worse than that, Colonel. Worse, in fact. The last time I was in your country-I come and go as I please-I killed a couple of your guys, gutted them, and hung them from a tree by their own guts. A fantastic lie, but a man like the Colonel might just believe it." "Anyway, you were right about the old man," Nick continued. "He's a damned stupid lunatic and no use to anyone. What do I care what happens to him or how it happens?" There was a long silence. This time the laughter was a little nervous. "You can be broken, Carter. You know that? Any man born of a woman can be broken." Killmaster shrugged. "Maybe I"m not human. Just like my boss you keep talking about. Hawk-Hawk, now-he"s not human! You"re wasting your time trying to trap him, Colonel." "Perhaps, Carter, perhaps. We"ll see. Naturally, I have an alternative plan. I don"t mind telling you about it. It might change your mind."
  
  Killmaster scratched himself violently. Anything to piss the son of a bitch off! He spat cautiously. "Be my guest, Colonel. As they say in the movies, I"m at your mercy. But you could do something about the fleas in this lousy hole. It stinks, too." Another long silence. Then: "Putting everything else aside, Carter, I"m going to have to start sending Hawk pieces of you cut off piece by piece. Along with some agonizing notes, which I"m sure you"ll write when the time is right. How do you think your superior would react to that-getting pieces of you in the mail every now and then? First a finger, then a toe-perhaps later a foot or a hand? Be honest now, Carter. If Hawk thought there was even the slightest chance of saving you, his best agent, whom he loves like a son, don"t you think he"d go out of his way? Or try to make a deal?"
  
  Nick Carter threw his head back and laughed out loud. He didn't need to be coerced. "Colonel," he said, "have you ever been badly publicized?" "Over-publicized? I don't understand it." "Misinformed, Colonel. Misled. You were fed false information, duped, deceived! You could have cut Hawk and he wouldn't even bleed. I need to know that. Sure, it's a shame to lose me. I'm his favorite, as you say. But I'm replaceable. Every AK agent is expendable. Just like you, Colonel, just like you." The loudspeaker growled angrily. "Now you're misinformed, Carter. I can't be replaced. I'm not expendable." Nick lowered his face to hide the smile he couldn't contain. "Want to argue, Colonel? I'll even give you an example-wait until Beijing finds out you were duped about the fake rough diamonds. That you were planning to exchange twenty million dollars in gold for some glass stones. And that the prince was killed neatly and properly, and now you've killed a general. You've ruined all your chances of intervening in the rebellion in Angola. What was Beijing really after, Colonel? You wanted Hawke because you know Hawke wants you, but that's nothing compared to what Beijing thinks: they're planning on making a lot of trouble in Africa. Angola would be the perfect place to start.
  Nick laughed harshly. "Wait until all this leaks out to the right places in Beijing, Colonel, and then we'll see if you're fit for purpose!" The silence told him the barbs had hit their mark. He was almost starting to hope. If only he could anger the bastard enough to have him personally descend down here, into the dungeon. Not to mention the guards he'd be sure to bring. He just had to take the risk. Colonel Chun Li cleared his throat. "You're right, Carter. There may be some truth to what you're saying. Things didn't go as planned, or at least not as I expected. For one thing, I didn't realize how crazy the general was until it was too late."
  But I can fix everything-especially since I need your cooperation. Nick Carter spat again. "I won't cooperate with you. I don't think you can afford to kill me now-I think you need me alive, to take with you to Beijing, to show them something for all the time, money, and dead people you spent."
  With a hint of grudging admiration, the Colonel said, "Perhaps you"re right again. Perhaps you"re not. You"re forgetting the lady, I think. You"re a gentleman, an American gentleman, and therefore you have a very weak spot. An Achilles" heel. Are you going to let her suffer like a general?" Nick"s expression didn"t change. "What do I care about her? You should know her story: she"s a drunk and a drug addict, a sexual degenerate who poses for dirty pictures and movies. I don"t care what happens to her. I"ll match you, Colonel. In a place like this, I only care about two things-me and AXE. I won"t do anything that could harm either of us. But the lady you may have. With my blessing-"
  "We"ll see," said the colonel, "I"m going to give the order now, and we"ll definitely see. I think you"re bluffing. And remember, rats are very smart. They"ll instinctively pounce on weaker prey." The loudspeaker clicked. Nick looked at the girl. She had heard everything. She looked at him with huge eyes, her lips trembling. She tried to speak, but only wheezed. She very carefully did not look at the torn corpse in the cage. Nick looked and saw that the rats were gone. The princess finally managed to utter the words. "Y-you"re going to let them do this to me? Y-you mean - you meant what you just said? Oh, my God, don"t!" Kill me-can't you kill me first!" He didn't dare speak. The microphones picked up whispers. The television scanner stared at him. He couldn't give her any comfort. He stared at the cage and frowned, spat, and looked far away. He didn't know what the hell he was going to do. What he could do. He just had to wait and see. But it had to be something, and it had to be reliable, and it had to be fast. He listened to the sound and looked up. The Chinese man had crawled into the wire cage and opened the small door that led into the main dungeon. Then he was gone, dragging what was left of the general behind him. Nick waited. He didn't look at the girl. He could hear her sobbing breath across the dozen feet that separated them. He checked the ring bolt again. A little more, and it was so quiet, except for the girl's breathing, that he could hear a trickle of mortar trickling down a brick pillar. Rat stuck her face out of the door...
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  A RAT darted out of the wire cage and stopped. She squatted for a moment and washed herself. She wasn't as big as the man-eating rat Nick had seen, but she was big enough. Nick had never hated anything more in his life than he hated that rat right now. He remained very still, barely breathing. In the last few minutes, a plan of sorts had formed. But for it to work, he had to grab this rat with his bare hands. The girl seemed to have fallen into a coma. Her eyes were glassy, she stared at the rat and made eerie throaty sounds. Nick really wanted to tell her that he wouldn't let the rat get her, but right now he didn't dare speak or show his face on camera. He sat quietly, staring at the floor, watching the rat out of the corner of his eye. The rat knew what was going on. The woman was the weakest, the most frightened-the scent of her fear was strong in the rodent's nostrils-and so he began to crawl toward her. She was hungry. She hadn't been allowed to share the general's feast. The rat had lost most of her reproductive organs after the mutation. Her size now made him a match for most of her natural enemies, and she had never learned to fear humans. She paid little attention to the large man and wanted to get to the cowering woman.
  
  Nick Carter knew he'd only have one chance. If he missed, it would be all over. He held his breath and pulled himself closer to the rat-closer. Now? No. Not yet. Soon-
  At that very moment, an image from his youth intruded on his thoughts. He'd gone to a cheap carnival where there was a freak. It was the first freak he'd ever seen, and the last. For a dollar, he'd seen him bite the heads off live rats. Now he could clearly see the blood trickling down the freak's chin. Nick flinched, a purely reflexive movement, and it nearly ruined the game. The rat stopped, turned wary. He began to retreat, faster now. Killmaster lunged. He used his left hand to keep the ring bolt from snapping off and caught the rat right by the head. The furry monster squealed in fear and rage and tried to bite the hand that held it. Nick twisted the head off with one jerk of his thumbs. The head fell to the floor, and the body still trembled, thirsting for blood on his hands. The girl gave him a completely idiotic look. She was so petrified with terror that she didn't understand what was happening. Laughter. The loudspeaker said, "Bravo, Carter. It takes a brave man to handle a rat like that. And that proves my point - you're not willing to let a girl suffer."
  "That doesn"t prove anything," Nick croaked. "And we"re not getting anywhere. Fuck you, Colonel. I don"t care about the girl - I just wanted to see if I could do it. I"ve killed a hell of a lot of men with my own hands, but I"ve never killed a rat before." Silence. Then: "So what have you gained then? I"ve got plenty more rats, all huge, all hungry. Will you kill them all?" Nick looked at a television eye somewhere in the shadows. He poked his nose. "Maybe," he said, "send them here and we"ll see."
  He reached out and pulled the rat's head toward him. He was about to use it. It was a crazy trick he was trying, but it worked. The hit would work IF,
  Maybe the Colonel will get so angry that he'll want to come down and work on him personally. Killmaster hadn't really prayed, but he tried now. Please, please, make the Colonel want to come and work on me, beat the hell out of me. Hit me. Anything. Just get him within arm's reach. Two large rats crawled out of the wire cage and sniffed. Nick tensed. Now he would find out. Would the plan work? Were the rats really cannibals? Was it just a freakish coincidence that the biggest rat had eaten the smaller one first? Was it just a pile of shit, something he'd read and misremembered? The two rats smelled blood. They slowly approached Nick. Carefully, quietly, so as not to scare them, he tossed the rat's head to them. One of them pounced on him and began to eat. Another rat circled warily, then burst inside. Now they were at each other's throats. Killmaster, hiding his face from the camera, smiled. One of those bastards would be killed. More food for the others, more to fight over. He still held the body of the rat he'd killed. He grabbed it by the front paws and tensed the muscles, tearing it apart, ripping it down the middle like a sheet of paper. Blood and guts stained his hands, but he was content with more bait. With that, and one dead rat for every two fighting, he could keep a lot of rats busy. Nick shrugged his broad shoulders. It wasn't much of a success, really, but he was doing pretty well. Damn good, in fact. If only it paid off. The speaker had long since fallen silent. Nick wondered what the Colonel was thinking as he watched the television screen. Probably not happy thoughts. More rats poured into the dungeon. A dozen furious, squealing fights erupted. The rats paid no attention to Nick or the girl. The loudspeaker emitted a sound. It cursed. It was a multiple curse, combining Nick Carter's lineage with that of mongrel dogs and dung turtles. Nick smiled. And waited. Maybe now. Just maybe. Less than two minutes later, the doors slammed angrily.
  A door opened somewhere in the shadows behind the column holding the girl. More lights flickered on overhead. Colonel Chun-Li stepped into the circle of light and faced Nick Carter, hands on his hips, a slight frown, his high, pale eyebrows furrowed. He was accompanied by four Chinese guards, all armed with M3 submachine guns. They also carried nets and long poles with sharp spikes on the ends. The Colonel, never taking his eyes off Nick, gave the order to his men. They began catching the remaining rats in the nets, killing those they couldn't catch. The Colonel slowly approached Nick. He didn't glance at the girl. Killmaster wasn't quite prepared for what he saw. He had never seen a Chinese albino before. Colonel Chun- Li was of average height and slender build. He was hatless, and his skull was carefully shaved. A massive skull, a large braincase. His skin was faded khaki. His eyes, the most unusual thing about a Chinese man, were a brilliant Nordic blue. His eyelashes were pale, infinitesimally small. The two men exchanged glances. Nick glared haughtily, then spat deliberately. "Albino," he said. "You're something of a mutant yourself, aren't you?" He noticed that the Colonel carried his Luger, his own Wilhelmina, in an unintended sheath. Not an unusual quirk. Boasting the spoils of victory. Come closer, Colonel. Please! One step closer. Colonel Chun-Li stopped just beyond the deadly semicircle Killmaster had imprinted in his memory. While the Colonel climbed down, he completely loosened the ring bolt and reinserted it into the brickwork. Risked the telescanner being unattended. The Colonel looked Nick up and down. Involuntary admiration reflected on the pale yellow features. "You are most inventive," he said. "To set the rats against each other. I confess, it never occurred to me that such a thing was possible. It's a pity, from your point of view, that this only delays the matter. I will think of something else for the girl. Watch out, until you agree to cooperate. You will cooperate, Carter, you will. You have revealed your fatal weakness, as I have learned.
  You couldn't let the rats eat her-you couldn't stand by and watch her get tortured to death. You'll eventually join me in capturing David Hawk. "How are you holding up?" Nick chuckled. "You're a crazy dreamer, Colonel! Your skull is empty. Hawk eats your kind for breakfast! You can kill me, the girl, and many others, but Hawk will get you in the end."
  Your name is in his little black book, Colonel. I saw it. Nick spat on one of the Colonel's highly polished boots. The Colonel's blue eyes gleamed. His pale face slowly flushed. He reached for his Luger, but stopped the movement. "The holster was too small for a Luger. It was made for a Nambu or some other smaller pistol. The Luger's stock jutted out well beyond the skin, inviting a snatch. The Colonel took another step forward and slammed his fist into Nick Carter's face.
  Nick didn't roll, but took the blow, wanting to get closer. He raised his right arm in a powerful, smooth swing. The ring bolt flew in an arc with a hiss and slammed into the Colonel's temple. His knees buckled, and he began moving in perfectly synchronized motion. He grabbed the Colonel with his left hand, still chained with the other chain, and delivered a vicious blow to the enemy's throat with his forearm and elbow. Now the Colonel's body shielded him. He pulled his pistol from its holster and began firing at the guards before they could even realize what was happening. He managed to kill two of them before the other two had time to disappear from sight through the iron door. He heard it slam shut. Not as good as he'd hoped! The Colonel writhed in his arms like a trapped snake. Nick felt a tearing pain in his upper right leg, near the groin. The bitch came to life and tried to stab him, stabbing him backwards from an awkward position. Nick put the barrel of the Luger to the colonel's ear and pulled the trigger. The colonel's head was shot through.
  Nick dropped the body. He was bleeding, but there was no arterial ejection. He had a little time left. He raised the weapon that had stabbed him. Hugo. His own stiletto! Nick spun around, braced his foot against a brick column, and poured all his enormous strength into it. The remaining ring bolt moved, shifted, but did not give way. Hell! Any second they would look at that TV and see that the Colonel was dead. He gave up for a moment and turned to the girl. She was kneeling, looking at him with hope and understanding in her eyes. "Tommy gun," Nick shouted. "The submachine gun-can you reach it? Push it towards me. Faster, damn it!" One of the dead guards lay next to the princess. His machine gun skidded across the floor next to her. She looked at Nick, then at the submachine gun, but made no move to pick it up. Killmaster yelled at her. "Wake up, you damn whore! Move! Prove you're worth something in this world-shove that gun here. Hurry!" He shouted, taunting her, trying to snap her out of this. He had to have that machine gun. He tried to yank the ring bolt out again. It still held. There was a crash as she pushed the machine gun across the floor toward him. She was looking at him now, intelligence shining in her green eyes again. Nick lunged for the gun. "Good girl!" He aimed the submachine gun at the shadows clinging to the brick arches and began firing. He fired back and forth, up and down, hearing the clang and tinkle of metal and glass. He smirked. That should take care of their TV camera and loudspeaker. They were as blind as he was at this point. It would be an even keel on both sides. He braced his foot against the brick pillar again, braced himself, grabbed the chain with both hands, and pulled. Veins bulged on his forehead, huge tendons snapped, and his breathing hitched in agony.
  The remaining bolt ring came out and he almost fell. He picked up the M3 and ran to the girth. As he reached it, he heard the front door slam. Something bounced on the stone floor. Nick dove for the girl and covered her with his large naked body. They had seen it. They knew the colonel was dead. So they were mine grenades. The grenade exploded with an unpleasant red light and a pop. Nick felt the naked girl tremble beneath him. A grenade fragment bit his buttocks. Damn it, he thought. Fill out the paperwork, Hawk! He leaned over the column and fired at the triple-leaf door. The man screamed in pain. Nick continued firing until the machine gun glowed red-hot. Running out of ammo, he lunged for another machine gun, then fired a final burst at the door. He realized he was still half-lying on top of the girl. Suddenly, it became very quiet. Beneath him, the princess said, "You know, you're very heavy." "Sorry," he chuckled. "But this pillar is all we have. We have to share it." "What happens now?" He looked at her. She was trying to comb her dark hair with her fingers, rising from the dead. He hoped it was forever. "I don't know what's happening now," he said honestly.
  
  "I don't even know where we are. I think it's one of the old Portuguese dungeons somewhere beneath the city. There must be dozens of them. There's a chance all the shots were heard-maybe the Portuguese police will come looking for us." That meant a long time in prison for him. Hawk would eventually free him, but it would take time. And they would finally get the girl. The girl understood. "I hope not," she said quietly, "not after all this. I couldn't bear to be taken back to Portugal and put in an asylum." And so it would be. Nick, hearing this story from Prince Askari, knew she was right.
  
  If the Portuguese government official, Luis da Gama, had anything to do with this, they would have probably sent her to a mental hospital. The girl began to cry. She wrapped her filthy arms around Nick Carter and clung to him. "Don't let them take me, Nick. Please, don't." She pointed to the body of Colonel Chun Li. "I saw you kill him. You did it without a second thought. You can do the same for me. Promise? If we can't leave, if we get captured by either the Chinese or the Portuguese, promise you'll kill me. Please, it will be easy for you. I don't have the courage to do it myself." Nick patted her bare shoulder. It was one of the strangest promises he'd ever made. He didn't know whether he wanted to keep it or not.
  "Sure," he consoled. "Sure, baby. I'll kill you if things get too bad." The silence was starting to get on his nerves. He fired a short burst at the iron door, heard the whine and ricochet of bullets in the hallway. Then the door was open, or half-open. Was anyone there? He didn't know. They could be wasting precious time when they should be running. Maybe the Chinese had temporarily scattered when the colonel died. This man was operating with a small group, an elite one, and they would have to look to a higher echelon for new orders. Killmaster decided. They would take their chance and escape from here.
  He had already pulled the girl's chains from the pole. He checked his weapon. The machine gun had half a clip left. The girl could carry a Luger and a stiletto and... Nick came to his senses, rushed to the colonel's body and took off his belt and holster. He attached it to his bare waist. He wanted the Luger with him. He held out his hand to the girl. "Come on, darling. We're going to run from here. Depressa, as you always say, the Portuguese." They approached the iron door when gunfire started in the corridor. Nick and the girl stopped and pressed themselves against the wall just outside the door. Then followed screams, shouts and grenade explosions, and then silence.
  They heard cautious footsteps coming down the hallway toward the door. Nick put his finger to the girl's mouth. She nodded, her green eyes wide and frightened in her dirty face. Nick pointed the barrel of his rifle at the door, his hand on the trigger. There was enough light in the hallway for them to see each other. Prince Askari, in his white Mozambican uniform, tattered, torn, and bloodied, his wig askew, looked at them with amber eyes. He showed all his sharp teeth in a grin. He held a rifle in one hand and a pistol in the other. His backpack was still half full of grenades.
  They were silent. The black man's leonine eyes roamed up and down their naked bodies, taking it all in at once. His gaze lingered on the girl. Then he smiled at Nick again. "Sorry I'm late, old man, but it took a while to get out of this stockade. Some of my black brothers helped me and told me where this place was - I came as fast as I could. Looks like I missed the fun, sigh." He was still examining the girl's body. She returned his gaze without flinching. Nick, watching, saw nothing base in the Prince's gaze. Only approval. The Prince turned back to Nick, his filed teeth gleaming merrily. "I say, old man, that you two have made peace? Like Adam and Eve?"
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  KILLMASTER lay on his bed in the Blue Mandarin Hotel, staring at the ceiling. Outside, Typhoon Emaly was gathering steam, turning to foam after hours of threats. It turned out they were indeed in for a strong, devilish wind. Nick glanced at his watch. After noon. He was hungry and could use a drink, but he was too lazy, too full, to move. Things were going well. Getting out of Macau had been ridiculously easy, almost disappointing. The prince had stolen a small car, a battered Renault, and the three of them squeezed into it and sped off to Pehu Point, the girl wearing the prince 's bloody coat . Nick was wearing only a bandage on his hip. It was a wild ride-the wind pushed the tiny car around like chaff-but they reached the Point and found the life jackets where they'd hidden them among the rocks. The waves were high, but not too high. Not yet. The junk was where it needed to be. Nick, towing the girl-the prince wanted to but couldn't-pulled a small rocket from his life jacket pocket and sent it flying. A red rocket colored the windswept sky. Five minutes later, the junk picked them up...
  Min, the Tangara boatman, said, "By God, we were very worried, sir. We didn't wait another hour, perhaps. You won't be coming soon, we must leave you-we may not be able to get home safely yet." They hadn't come home easily, but they had come home badly. At dawn they were lost somewhere in the jungle when the junk sailed into shelter from the typhoons. Nick was on the phone with the SS, and some of his men were waiting. The transition from the Blue Mandarin to the Blue Mandarin had been easy and painless, and if the duty officer thought there was something odd about this wild-looking trio, he restrained himself. Nick and the girl had borrowed coolie clothes from Tangama; the Prince somehow managed to look regal in what remained of his stolen white uniform. Nick yawned and listened to the typhoon slither around the building. The prince was down the hall in a room, presumably asleep. The girl went into her room, adjacent to his, fell onto the bed, and immediately lost consciousness. Nick covered her and left her alone.
  
  Killmaster could use some sleep. Soon he got up and went to the bathroom, came back, lit a cigarette, and sat on the bed, lost in thought. He hadn't actually heard the sound, no matter how acute his hearing. Rather, the sound had intruded on his consciousness. He sat very quietly and tried to identify it. I see. The window sliding up. A window raised by someone who didn't want to be heard. Nick smiled... He shrugged his large shoulders. He half repeated it. He walked up to the girl's door and knocked. Silence. He knocked again. No answer. Nick stepped back and kicked the flimsy lock with his bare foot. The door swung open. The room was empty. He nodded. He was right. He crossed the room, not thinking that she had only taken one bag, and looked out the open window. The wind whipped rain across his face. He blinked and looked down. The fire escape was obscured by a gray blanket of fog and wind-blown rain. Nick rolled down the window, sighed, and turned away. He returned to the master bedroom and lit another cigarette.
  KILLMASTER For a moment, he allowed his flesh to feel the loss, then laughed harshly and began to forget about it. The irony, however, was that the princess's body, possessed by so many, was not meant for him. So let her go. He called off AXE's guards. She had fulfilled her contract with Hawk, and if the old man thought he was going to use her again for another dirty job, he just needed to think again. Nick wasn't entirely surprised when the phone rang a few minutes later.
  He took it and said, "Hello, Askey. Where are you?" The Prince said, "I don't think I'll tell you this, Nick. It's better if I don't. Princess Morgan is with me. We... we're going to get married, Old Man. As soon as we can. I explained everything to her, about the rebellion and all that, and the fact that as a Portuguese citizen she would be committing treason. She still wants to do it. So do I." "Good for you both," Nick said. "I wish you luck, Askey." "You don't look very surprised, old man." "I'm not blind or stupid, Askey."
  "I know who she was," the Prince said. "I"m going to change everything I need from the Princess. One thing, she hates her countrymen as much as I do." Nick hesitated for a moment, then said, "Are you going to use her, Askey? You know-" "No, old man. It"s out. Forgotten." "Okay," Killmaster said softly. "Okay, Askey. I thought you"d see it that way. But what about the, uh, merchandise? I made you a sort of semi-promise. You want me to get the wheels turning-" "No, mate. I"ve got another contact in Singapore, stop over there for our honeymoon. I think I can get rid of any-merchandise I can steal." The Prince laughed. Nick thought of the flashing, sharp teeth and laughed too. He said, "God, I haven"t always had this much stuff. Wait a minute, Nick. Morgan wants to talk to you."
  She came over. She spoke like a lady again. She might just be one, Nick thought as he listened. She might just come back from the gutter. He hoped the Prince would see to that. "I'll never see you again," the girl said. "I want to thank you, Nick, for what you've done for me." "I haven't done anything." "But you have-more than you think, more than you can ever understand. So-thank you." "No," he said. "But do me a favor, Prince... Try to keep that pretty nose of yours clean, the Prince is a good fellow." "I know that. Oh, how should I know that!" Then, with an infectious gaiety in her voice he'd never heard before, she laughed and said, "Did he tell you what I'm going to make him do?" "What?" "I'll let him tell you. Goodbye, Nick." The Prince came back. "She'll make me get my teeth taped," he said with mock sadness. "It's going to cost me a fortune, I assure you. I'll have to double my operations." Nick smiled into the phone. "Come on, Askey. Working in a cap doesn't cover much." "Hell, they don't," said the Prince. "For five thousand of my troops? I set an example. If I'm wearing a cap, they're wearing a cap. So long, old man. No monkey wrenches, huh? Out as soon as the wind dies." "No wrenches," Nick Carter said. "Go with God." He hung up. He stretched out on the bed again and thought of Princess Morgan da Gama. Seduced by her uncle at thirteen. Not raped, but seduced. Chewing gum, and then some more. A very secret affair, the most secret. How exciting it must have been for a thirteen-year-old girl. Then fourteen. Then fifteen. Then sixteen. The affair lasted three long years, and no one found out about it. And how nervous the evil uncle must have been when, finally, she began to show signs of disgust and protest against the incest.
  Nick frowned. Luis da Gama must have been a special son of a bitch. Over time, he had begun to rise in government and diplomatic circles. He was the girl's guardian as her uncle. He controlled her money, as well as her lithe child's body. And yet, he couldn't leave the girl alone. A luscious young girl was a deadly lure for old and tired men. With each passing day, the danger of exposure grew. Nick could see that the uncle's dilemma was dire. To be caught, exposed, pilloried-an incestuous relationship with his only niece for over three years! It meant the absolute end of everything-his fortune, his career, even his life itself.
  The girl, now old enough to understand what she was doing, sped up the pace. She ran away from Lisbon. Her uncle, terrified she'd talk, caught her and placed her in a sanatorium in Switzerland. There she chattered, delirious, high on sodium pentathol, and a cunning, fat nurse overheard. Blackmail. The girl had finally escaped the sanatorium-and simply continued living. She didn't speak. She didn't even know about the nanny, who had overheard and was already trying to persuade her uncle to shut up. Nick Carter's smirk was cruel. How the man sweated more than anyone! Sweated-and paid. When you were Lolita between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, your chances of a normal life later were slim. The princess stayed away from Portugal and steadily spiraled downward. Drink, drugs, sex-that kind of thing. The uncle waited and paid. Now he was very high up in the cabinet, he had a lot to lose. Then, finally, Blacker came along selling dirty films, and Uncle seized his chance. If he could somehow bring the girl back to Portugal, prove she was crazy, hide her, perhaps no one would believe her story. There might be some whispers, but he could wait it out. He began his campaign. He agreed that his niece was damaging Portugal's image in the world. She needed expert care, poor thing. He began cooperating with Portuguese intelligence, but only told them half the story. He cut off her funds. A campaign of sophisticated harassment began, aimed at returning the princess to Portugal, sending her to a "convent" - thus devaluing any story she had told or might tell.
  Alcohol, drugs, and sex had apparently broken her. Who would believe a crazy girl? Askey, with his superior intelligence hunting Portuguese intelligence, had stumbled upon the truth. He saw her as a weapon to be used against the Portuguese government to force them to make concessions. Ultimately, a weapon he had no intention of using. He was going to marry her. He didn't want her to be more dirty than she already was. Nick Carter stood up and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He frowned. He had a nasty feeling his uncle would get away with this-he would probably die with full state and church honors. Pity. He remembered the sharp teeth and what Askey had once said: "I'm used to killing my own meat!"
  Nick also remembered Johnny Smarty with a jade-handled paper knife stuck in his heart. Maybe his uncle wasn't home free. Maybe... He got dressed and walked out into the typhoon. The clerk and the others in the ornate lobby stared at him in horror. A big American would really go crazy if he went out into the wind. It wasn't as bad as he expected, really. You had to watch out for flying objects like store signs, trash cans, and wood, but if you stayed low and hugged the buildings, you wouldn't be blown away. But the rain was something special, a gray wave rolling through the narrow streets. He was soaked in a minute. It was warm water, and he felt more of Macau's slime wash off him. By some chance-just like that-he found himself back in the Wan Chai district. Not far from the Rat Fink bar. This could be a refuge, in this one. He discussed this when he had a new girlfriend. The wind knocked her down hard, leaving her sprawled across the running gutters. Nick hurried to pick her up, noting her beautiful long legs, full breasts, beautiful skin, and rather modest appearance. As modest as a disheveled girl could be. She was wearing a rather short skirt, though not a miniskirt, and no coat. Nick helped the nervous girl to her feet. The street was empty, but not for them.
  He smiled at her. She smiled back, the hesitant smile warming as she took him in. They stood in the howling wind and pouring rain. "I understand," Nick Carter said, "this is your first typhoon?" She clutched at her flowing hair. "Y-yes. We don't have those in Fort Wayne. Are you American?" Nick bowed slightly and gave her the smile Hawk often described as "like butter doesn't melt in your mouth." "Is there anything I can help you with?" She pressed herself against his chest. The wind clung to her wet skirt, to her good, very good, excellent, excellent legs. "I got lost," she explained, "I wanted to go out, leave the other girls, but I always wanted to get into a typhoon." "You," said Nick, "are a romantic after my own heart. Suppose we share a typhoon. After a drink, of course, and a chance to introduce ourselves and freshen up." She had large gray eyes. Her nose was upturned, her hair was short and golden. She smiled. "I think I'd like that. Where are we going?" Nick pointed down the street to the Rat Fink bar.
  He thought of the prince again, very briefly, then thought of her. "I know the place," he said. Two hours and several drinks later, Nick bet himself that the connection would be over. He lost. Hawk answered almost immediately. "The port has been redirected. You did a fine job." "Yes," Nick agreed. "I did it. Another name crossed out in the little black book, huh?" "Not on an open line," Hawk said. "Where are you? If you can get back, I'd appreciate it. There's a little problem and-" "There's a little problem here, too," Nick said. "Her name is Henna Dawson, and she's a schoolteacher from Fort Wayne, Indiana. Teaches elementary school. I'm learning. Did you know, sir, that the old ways are long out of date? I see Spot-you're Spot-Spot-the good dog-all that's in the past now.
  A brief silence. The wires hummed for miles. Hawk said, "Very well. I suppose you'll need to get this out of your system before you can do any work again. But where are you now-in case I need you urgently?" "Would you believe it," Nick Carter asked wearily, "Rat Fink Bar.
  Hawk: "I believe it." - Okay, sir. And there's a typhoon. I might be stuck for two or three days. Goodbye, sir. "But, Nick! Wait. I..." ...Don't call me, Killmaster said firmly. - I'll call you.
  
  
  END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Operation Moon Rocket
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Operation Moon Rocket.
  
  
  Translated by Lev Shklovsky
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  At 6:10 a.m. on May 16, the final countdown began.
  
  Mission controllers sat tensely at their control consoles in Houston, Texas, and Cape Kennedy, Florida. A fleet of tracking ships, a network of deep-space radio antennas, and several hovering communications satellites surrounded the Earth. Worldwide television coverage began at 7:00 a.m. Eastern Time, and those who rose early to witness the event heard the flight director at Mission Control in Houston announce, "All green and go."
  
  Eight months earlier, the Apollo spacecraft had completed orbital testing. Six months earlier, the lunar landing craft had completed space tests. Two months later, the massive Saturn V rocket made its debut unmanned flight. Now, the three sections of the lunar lander were joined and ready for their first manned orbit-the final test before the actual mission to the Moon.
  
  The three astronauts began their day with a quick medical checkup, followed by a typical breakfast of steak and eggs. They then drove a jeep across a bleak spit of sand and scrub called Merritt Island, past relics of an earlier space age-the Mercury and Gemini launch pads-and past an orange grove that somehow survived. 39, a massive concrete pad the size of half a football field.
  
  The lead pilot for the upcoming flight was Lieutenant Colonel Norwood "Woody" Liscomb, a gray-haired, taciturn man in his forties, a sober and serious veteran of the Mercury and Gemini programs. He glanced sideways at the haze hanging over the launch pad as the three men walked from the jeep to the preparation room. "Excellent," he said in his slow, Texas drawl. "This will help protect our eyes from the sun's rays during liftoff."
  
  His teammates nodded. Lieutenant Colonel Ted Green, also a Gemini veteran, pulled out a colorful red bandana and wiped his forehead. "It must be the 1990s," he said. "If it gets any hotter, they can just pour olive oil on us."
  
  Navy Commander Doug Albers laughed nervously. Boyishly serious, at thirty-two, he was the youngest member of the crew, the only one who hadn't yet been to space.
  
  In the preparation room, the astronauts listened to the final mission briefing and then donned their spacesuits.
  
  At the launch site, the launch pad crew began fueling the Saturn V rocket. Due to high temperatures, the fuel and oxidizers had to be cooled to temperatures lower than normal, and the operation was completed twelve minutes late.
  
  Above them, atop a fifty-five-story gantry elevator, a five-person crew of technicians from Connelly Aviation had just completed the final checkout of the thirty-ton Apollo capsule. Sacramento-based Connelly was NASA's prime contractor on the $23 billion project, and a full eight percent of the Kennedy lunar port's personnel were employees of the California-based aerospace firm.
  
  Portal Chief Pat Hammer, a large, square-faced man in white overalls, a white baseball cap, and frameless hexagonal Polaroids, paused as he and his crew crossed the catwalk separating the Apollo capsule from the service tower. "You guys go ahead," he called. "I'm going to take one last look around."
  
  One of the crew turned and shook his head. "I've been on fifty launches with you, Pat," he shouted, "but I've never seen you nervous before."
  
  "You can't be too careful," Hammer said as he climbed back into the capsule.
  
  He scanned the cabin, navigating the maze of instruments, dials, switches, lights, and toggle switches. Then, seeing what he wanted, he quickly moved to the right, dropped to all fours, and slid under the astronauts' couches toward the bundle of wires that ran beneath the storage door.
  
  He removed the Polaroids, pulled a leather case from his hip pocket, opened it, and put on a pair of simple, rimless glasses. He pulled a pair of asbestos gloves from his back pocket and placed them next to his head. He extracted a pair of wire cutters and a file from the second and third fingers of his right glove.
  
  He was now breathing heavily, and beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He put on gloves, carefully selected a wire, and began partially cutting it. Then he put down the cutters and began stripping away the heavy Teflon insulation until over an inch of shiny copper strands was exposed. He sawed through one of the strands and tore it off, bending it three inches from a solder joint of some ECS tubing...
  
  The astronauts moved across the concrete platform of Complex 39 in their heavy lunar spacesuits. They stopped to shake hands with some of the crew members, and Colonel Liscomb grinned when one handed him a three-foot-long mock-up of a kitchen match. "When you're ready, Colonel," the technician said, "just hit it on the
  
  
  
  
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  rough surface. Our rockets will do the rest."
  
  Liscomb and the other astronauts nodded, smiling through their faceplates, then moved toward the portal elevator and quickly ascended to the sterilized "white room" at the spacecraft level.
  
  Inside the capsule, Pat Hammer had just finished filing a soldered joint on the environmental control tubes. He quickly gathered his tools and gloves and crawled out from under the couches. Through the open hatch, he watched as the astronauts emerged from the "white room" and walked across the twenty-foot walkway to the capsule's stainless steel hull.
  
  Hammer rose to his feet, quickly stuffing his gloves into his back pocket. He forced a smile onto his lips as he stepped out of the hatch. "All right, boys," he called. "Have a good trip."
  
  Colonel Liscomb suddenly stopped and turned to face him. Hammer flinched, dodging an invisible blow. But the cosmonaut smiled, handing him a huge match. His lips moved behind the faceplate, saying, "Here, Pat, next time you want to start a fire."
  
  Hammer stood there with a match in his left hand, a smile frozen on his face as the three astronauts shook his hand and climbed through the hatch.
  
  They connected their silver nylon spacesuits to the environmental control system and lay down on their couches, waiting for them to pressurize. Command pilot Liscomb was positioned on the left, under the flight control console. Green, designated navigator, was in the middle, and Albers was on the right, where the communications equipment was located.
  
  At 7:50 AM, the pressurization was complete. The sealed dual hatch covers were sealed, and the atmosphere inside the spacecraft was filled with oxygen and increased to sixteen pounds per square inch.
  
  Now the familiar routine began, an endlessly detailed run-through designed to last more than five hours.
  
  After four and a half seconds, the countdown was stopped twice, both times due to minor "glitches." Then, at minus fourteen minutes, the procedure was halted again-this time due to static in the communications channels between the spacecraft and the technicians in the operations center. Once the static cleared, the countdown scenario resumed. The next steps required switching electrical equipment and checking glycol, the coolant used in the spacecraft's environmental control system.
  
  Commander Albers flipped a switch labeled 11-CT. Pulses from the switch passed through the wire, closing the section from which the Teflon insulation had been removed. Two steps later, Colonel Liscomb turned a valve that sent flammable ethylene glycol through an alternate line-and through a carefully threaded solder joint. The moment the first drop of glycol fell on the bare, overheated wire marked the moment the fog of eternity opened for the three men aboard Apollo AS-906.
  
  At 12:01:04 EST, technicians watching the television screen on pad 39 saw flames break out around Commander Albers' couch on the starboard side of the cockpit.
  
  At 12:01:14 a voice from inside the capsule shouted: "Fire in the spacecraft!"
  
  At 12:01:20, those watching television saw Colonel Liscomb struggling to free himself from his seatbelt. He turned forward from his sofa and looked to the right. A voice, presumably his, shouted, "The pipe is cut... Glycol is leaking..." (The rest is garbled.)
  
  At 12:01:28, Lieutenant Commander Albers's telemetry pulse jumped sharply. He could be seen engulfed in flames. A voice believed to be his screamed, "Get us out of here... we're burning..."
  
  At 12:01:29, a wall of fire rose up, obscuring the scene from view. The television monitors went dark. Cabin pressure and heat rapidly increased. No other coherent messages were received, though cries of pain were heard.
  
  At 12:01:32, the cabin pressure reached twenty-nine pounds per square inch. The spacecraft was destroyed by the pressure. Technicians standing at window level saw a blinding flash. Heavy smoke began to pour out of the capsule. Members of the portal crew raced along the catwalk leading to the ship, desperately trying to open the hatch cover. They were driven back by the intense heat and smoke.
  
  A powerful wind arose inside the capsule. White-hot air roared through the rupture, enveloping the cosmonauts in a cocoon of bright fire, wrinkling them like insects in heat exceeding two thousand degrees...
  
  * * *
  
  A voice in the darkened room said, "The portal chief's quick thinking prevented an even greater tragedy."
  
  An image flashed on the screen, and Hammer found himself staring at his own face. "That's Patrick J. Hammer," the newscaster continued, "a technician for Connelly Aviation, forty-eight years old, father of three. While others stood frozen in terror, he had the courage to push the control button.
  
  
  
  
  
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  this triggered the evacuation system..."
  
  "Look! Look! It's Daddy!" came the innocent, thin voices in the darkness behind him. Hammer winced. He automatically glanced around the room, checking the double-bolted door and the drawn curtains. He heard his wife say, "Quiet, children. Let's listen..."
  
  The commentator now pointed to a diagram of the Apollo-Saturn 5 spacecraft. "The escape system is designed to eject the capsule by parachute, landing off-pad in the event of an emergency during launch. Except for the astronauts, Hammer's quick thinking prevented the fire in the capsule from spreading to the third-stage rocket below the lunar module. Had it spread, the thunderous blaze of eight and a half million gallons of refined kerosene and liquid oxygen would have destroyed the entire Kennedy Space Center, as well as the surrounding areas of Port Canaveral, Cocoa Beach, and Rockledge..."
  
  "Mommy, I'm tired. Let's go to bed." It was Timmy, his youngest son, who had turned four that Saturday.
  
  Hammer leaned forward, staring at the television in the cluttered living room of his Cocoa Beach bungalow. His rimless glasses gleamed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes desperately clung to the commentator's face, but it was Colonel Liscomb, who grinned at him and handed him a match...
  
  The foul smell of hot iron and paint filled the room. The walls sagged toward him like a vast blister. A huge sheet of flame spread past him, and Liscomb's face melted before his eyes, leaving only charred, roasting, blistered flesh, eyes bursting inside a calcified skull, the smell of burning bones...
  
  "Pat, what happened?"
  
  His wife leaned over him, her face pale and drawn. He must have screamed. He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. She didn't know. He could never tell her.
  
  Suddenly the phone rang. He jumped. He'd been waiting for this all night. "I'll understand," he said. The commentator said, "Nine hours after the tragic event, investigators are still sifting through the charred debris..."
  
  It was Hammer's boss, Pete Rand, the team's lead pilot. "Better come on in, Pat," he said. His voice was amused. "I have a couple of questions..."
  
  Hammer nodded, closing his eyes. It was only a matter of time. Colonel Liscomb was shouting, "The pipe's cut." Cut, not broken, and Hammer knew why. He could see the case containing his Polaroid sunglasses, next to the solder and Teflon shavings.
  
  He was a good American, a loyal employee of Connelly Aviation for fifteen years. He worked hard, rose through the ranks, and took pride in his work. He idolized the astronauts who had launched into space using his creativity. And then-because he loved his family-he joined a community of the vulnerable and the underserved.
  
  "It's okay," Hammer said quietly, covering his mouthpiece with his hand. "I want to talk about it. But I need help. I need police protection."
  
  The voice on the other end sounded surprised. "Okay, Pat, of course. That can be arranged."
  
  "I want them to protect my wife and children," Hammer said. "I'm not leaving the house until they arrive."
  
  He hung up and stood, his hand shaking. A sudden fear twisted his stomach. He'd made a commitment-but there was no other way. He glanced at his wife. Timmy had fallen asleep in her lap. He could see the boy's tousled blond hair caught between the couch and her elbow. "They want me to work," he said vaguely. "I have to go in."
  
  The doorbell rang softly. "At this hour?" she said. "Who could it be?"
  
  "I asked the police to come in."
  
  "Police?"
  
  It was strange how fear made time seem worthless. Less than a minute ago, it felt like he'd been talking on the phone. He walked to the window and carefully pulled the blinds aside. A dark sedan by the curb had a dome light on the roof and a whip antenna on the side. Three men in uniform stood on the porch, their guns holstered at their hips. He opened the door.
  
  The first was large, sun-brown, with carrot-blond hair slicked back and a welcoming smile on his face. He wore a blue shirt, bow tie, and riding breeches, and carried a white hard hat under his arm. "Hello," he drawled. "Your name's Hammer?" Hammer looked at the uniform. He didn't recognize it. "We're district officers," the redhead explained. "NASA called us..."
  
  "Oh, okay, okay." Hammer stepped aside to let them in.
  
  The man directly behind the redhead was short, thin, dark-skinned, with deathly gray eyes. A deep scar encircled his neck. His right hand was wrapped in a towel. Hammer glanced at him with sudden alarm. Then he saw the five-gallon drum of gasoline held by the third officer. His eyes darted to the man's face. His mouth dropped open. In that moment, he knew he was dying. Beneath the white crash helmet, his features were flat, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes.
  
  A syringe in the redhead's hand
  
  
  
  
  
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  He spat out the long needle with a tiny gasp of escaping air. Hammer grunted in pain and surprise. His left hand reached for his arm, fingers clawing at the sharp agony lodged in his tortured muscles. Then he slowly fell forward.
  
  The wife screamed, trying to rise from the couch. A man with a scar on his neck strode across the room like a wolf, his mouth wet and glistening. A hideous razor protruded from a towel. As the blade flashed, she lunged at the children. Blood gushed from the vicious red gash he had made in her throat, muffling her scream. The children weren't fully awake. Their eyes were open, but still clouded with sleep. They died quickly, quietly, without a struggle.
  
  The third man went straight to the kitchen. He opened the oven, turned on the gas, and went down the steps to the storm shelter. When he returned, the gasoline drum was empty.
  
  Red removed the needle from Hammer's hand and stuffed it in his pocket. Now he dragged him onto the couch, dipped the lifeless index finger of Hammer's right hand into the pool of blood that quickly formed beneath it, and ran his finger along the white wall of the bungalow.
  
  Every few letters, he paused to dip his finger in fresh blood. When the message was finished, the other two men looked at him and nodded. The one with the scar on his neck pressed the hilt of the blood-soaked razor to Hammer's right hand, and all three helped carry him to the kitchen. They placed his head in the open oven, took one last look around, then walked out the front door, the last man clicking the latch, locking the house from the inside.
  
  The entire operation took less than three minutes.
  Chapter 2
  
  Nicholas J. Huntington Carter, N3 for AXE, leaned on his elbow and looked at the beautiful, sun-kissed redhead lying next to him on the sand.
  
  Her skin was tobacco brown, and she wore a pale yellow bikini. Her lipstick was pink. She had long, slender legs, rounded, firm hips, the rounded V-neck of her bikini peeked out at him, and her proud breasts in tight cups were like two more eyes.
  
  Her name was Cynthia, and she was a Florida native, the girl in all the travel stories. Nick called her Cindy, and she knew Nick as "Sam Harmon," an admiralty lawyer from Chevy Chase, Maryland. Whenever "Sam" was on vacation in Miami Beach, they always got together.
  
  A bead of sweat from the hot sun had formed beneath her closed eyes and on her temples. She felt him watching her, and her wet eyelashes parted; yellowish-brown eyes, large and distant, looked into his with distant curiosity.
  
  "What do you say we avoid this vulgar display of half-raw meat?" he grinned, revealing white teeth.
  
  "What's on your mind?" she countered, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
  
  "We two, alone, back in room twelve-eight."
  
  Excitement began to grow in her eyes. "Another time?" she murmured. Her eyes slid warmly over his brown, muscular body. "Okay, yeah, that's a good idea..."
  
  A shadow suddenly fell over them. A voice said, "Mr. Harmon?"
  
  Nick rolled over onto his back. The black-silhouetted Funeral Man leaned over him, blocking out part of the sky. "You're wanted on the phone, sir. Blue entrance, number six."
  
  Nick nodded, and the bell captain's mate left, stepping slowly and carefully across the sand to preserve the shine of his black Oxfords, which looked like a dark omen of death amid the riot of color on the beach. Nick rose to his feet. "I'll only be a minute," he said, but he didn't believe him.
  
  "Sam Harmon" had no friends, no family, no life of his own. Only one person knew he existed, knew he was in Miami Beach at that moment, in that particular hotel, in the second week of his first vacation in over two years. A tough old man from Washington.
  
  Nick walked across the sand to the entrance of the Surfway Hotel. He was a large man with slim hips and broad shoulders, with the calm eyes of an athlete who had dedicated his life to challenges. Women's eyes peered behind his sunglasses, taking stock. Thick, slightly unruly dark hair. A nearly perfect profile. Laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Women's eyes liked what they saw and followed him, openly curious. That sinewy, tapering body held the promise of excitement and danger.
  
  "Sam Harmon" faded from Nick's consciousness with every step he took. Eight days of love, laughter, and idleness vanished, step by step, and by the time he reached the cool, dark interior of the hotel, he was his usual, working self-Special Agent Nick Carter, chief operative of AXE, America's top-secret counterintelligence agency.
  
  There were ten telephones to the left of the blue entrance, mounted on the wall with soundproof partitions between them. Nick walked up to number six and picked up the receiver. "Harmon here."
  
  "Hello my boy, just passing by. Thought I'd see how you were doing."
  
  Nick's dark eye
  
  
  
  
  
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  eyebrows rose. Hawk - on the open line. Surprise number one. Here in Florida. Surprise number two. "All is well, sir. First vacation in a long time," he added meaningfully.
  
  "Excellent, excellent." The AXE boss said this with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "Are you free for dinner?" Nick glanced at his watch. 4:00 p.m.? The burly old bird seemed to read his thoughts. "By the time you get to Palm Beach, it will be dinner time," he added. "The Bali Hai, Worth Avenue. The cuisine is Polynesian-Chinese, and the maitre d' is Don Lee. Just tell him you're dining with Mr. Bird. Fiveish is fine. We'll have time for a drink."
  
  Surprise number three. Hawk was strictly a steak and potatoes kind of guy. He hated Middle Eastern food. "Okay," Nick said. "But I need a moment to get myself together. Your call was rather... unexpected."
  
  "The young lady has already been notified." Hawk's voice suddenly became sharp and businesslike. "She was told you were called away unexpectedly on business. Your suitcase is packed, and your street clothes are on the front seat of the car. You have already checked out at the front desk."
  
  Nick was furious at the arbitrariness of it all. "I left my cigarettes and sunglasses on the beach," he snapped. "Do you mind if I get them?"
  
  "You'll find them in the glove compartment. I take it you haven't read the newspapers?"
  
  "No." Nick didn't object. His idea of a vacation was to detoxify himself from the toxins of everyday life. These toxins included newspapers, radio, television-anything that conveyed news from the outside world.
  
  "Then I suggest you turn on the car radio," Hawk said, and N3 could tell from his voice that something serious was going on.
  
  * * *
  
  He shifted the Lamborghini 350 GT through the gearbox. Heavy traffic was heading toward Miami, and he had his half of US 1 mostly to himself. He sped north through Surfside, Hollywood, and Boca Raton, past an endless string of motels, gas stations, and fruit juice stands.
  
  There was nothing else on the radio. It was as if war had been declared, as if the president had died. All regular programming was canceled as the country honored its fallen astronauts.
  
  Nick turned onto Kennedy Causeway in West Palm Beach, turned left onto Ocean Boulevard, and headed north toward Worth Avenue, the main street that community observers call the "platinum watering hole."
  
  He couldn't understand it. Why had the head of AXE chosen Palm Beach for the meeting? And why Bali Hai? Nick reviewed everything he knew about the place. It was said to be the most exclusive restaurant in the United States. If your name wasn't on the social registry, or if you weren't fabulously wealthy, a foreign dignitary, a senator, or a high-ranking State Department official, you could forget about it. You wouldn't get in.
  
  Nick turned right onto the street of expensive dreams, passing the local branches of Carder's and Van Cleef & Arpels with their small display cases featuring stones the size of the Koh-i-Noor diamond. The Bali Hai Hotel, located between the elegant old Colony Hotel and the oceanfront, was painted like a pineapple peel.
  
  The attendant carried his car away, and the maitre d' bowed obsequiously at the mention of "Mr. Bird." "Ah yes, Mr. Harmon, you were expected," he murmured. "If you will follow me, please."
  
  He was led across a leopard-striped banquette to a table where a fat, country-looking old man with dull eyes sat. Hawk stood as Nick approached, offering his hand. "My boy, glad you could make it." He seemed rather wobbly. "Sit, sit." The captain pulled out a table, and Nick did. "Vodka martini?" Hawk said. "Our friend Don Lee is doing his best." He patted the maitre d''s hand.
  
  Lee beamed. "Always a pleasure to serve you, Mr. Bird." He was a young Hawaiian Chinese with dimples, dressed in a tuxedo with a bright sash around his neck. He chuckled and added, "But last week, General Sweet accused me of being an agent for the vermouth industry."
  
  Hawk chuckled. "Dick was always a bore."
  
  "I'll have a whiskey," Nick said. "On the rocks." He looked around the restaurant. It was lined with bamboo paneling up to table level, mirrored wall to wall, and wrought-iron pineapples on each table. At one end was a horseshoe-shaped bar, and beyond it, enclosed in glass, was a discotheque-currently the location for the "Golden Youth" of the Rolls-Royce suite. Stunningly bejeweled women and men with smooth, plump faces sat here and there at tables, picking at food in the dim light.
  
  The waiter arrived with drinks. He wore a colorful aloha shirt over black slacks. His flat, Oriental features were expressionless as Hawk downed the martini that had just been placed before him. "I take it you've heard the news," Hawk said, watching the liquid disappear onto the damp tablecloth. "A national tragedy of the gravest proportions," he added, pulling a toothpick out of the olive spilled from the drink and absentmindedly stabbing it. "I
  
  
  
  
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  "It will delay the lunar program for at least two years. Possibly longer, given the current public mood. And their representatives have caught the mood." He looked up. "This senator-what's his name, the chairman of the subcommittee on space-he said. "We're lost."
  
  The waiter returned with a fresh tablecloth, and Hawk abruptly changed the subject. "Of course, I don't come down very often," he said, popping the last of his olive into his mouth. "Once a year, the Belle Glade Club hosts a pre-duck-shoot banquet. I always try to make it."
  
  Another surprise. The Belle Glade Club, the most exclusive in Palm Beach. Money can't get you; and if you were inside, you might suddenly discover yourself for some unknown reason. Nick looked at the man sitting across from him. Hawk looked like a farmer, or perhaps the editor of the town newspaper. Nick had known him for a long time. "Deeply," he thought. Their relationship was very close to that of father and son. And yet, this was the first inkling that he had a social past.
  
  Don Lee arrived with a fresh martini. "Would you like to order now?"
  
  "Perhaps my young friend would agree," Hawk said, speaking with exaggerated caution. "It's all good." He glanced at the menu Lee held before him. "It's all glorified food, Lee. You know that."
  
  "I can have a steak ready for you in five minutes, Mr. Bird."
  
  "That sounds good to me," Nick said. "Make it rare."
  
  "Okay, two," Hawk snapped irritably. When Lee left, he suddenly asked, "What good is the moon on Earth?" Nick noticed his S's were slurred. Hawk drunk? Unheard of-but he'd given all the instructions. Martinis weren't his thing. A scotch and water before dinner was his usual fare. Had the deaths of three astronauts somehow gotten under that grizzled old skin?
  
  "The Russians know," Hawk said, not waiting for an answer. "They know minerals will be found there unknown to the rock scientists of this planet. They know that if nuclear war destroys our technology, it will never recover, because the raw materials that would allow a new civilization to develop have been exhausted. But the Moon... it's a vast floating orb of raw, unknown resources. And remember my words: 'Space Treaty or no, the first force to land there will ultimately control it all!'"
  
  Nick sipped his drink. Had he really been dragged out of his vacation to attend a lecture on the importance of the lunar program? When Hawk finally fell silent, Nick quickly said, "Where do we fit into all this?"
  
  Hawk looked up in surprise. Then he said, "You were on leave. I forgot. When was your last briefing?"
  
  "Eight days ago."
  
  "Then you haven't heard that the fire at Cape Kennedy was sabotage?"
  
  "No, there was no mention of this on the radio."
  
  Hawk shook his head. "The public doesn't know yet. They may never know. There's no final decision on that yet."
  
  "Any idea who did this?"
  
  "That's absolutely certain. A man named Patrick Hammer. He was the head of the portal crew..."
  
  Nick's eyebrows rose. "The news still touts him as the hero of the whole thing."
  
  Hawk nodded. "Investigators narrowed it down to him within hours. He asked for police protection. But before they could get to his home, he killed his wife and three children and stuck their heads in the oven." Hawk took a long sip of his martini. "Very messy," he muttered. "He slit their throats and then wrote a confession on the wall in their blood. Said he planned it all so he could become a hero, but that he couldn't live with himself and didn't want his family to live with shame either."
  
  "Took great care of him," Nick said dryly.
  
  They remained silent while the waiter served their steaks. When he left, Nick said, "I still don't understand where we fit into the picture. Or is there more to it?"
  
  "There are," Hawk said. "There's the Gemini 9 crash a few years ago, the first Apollo disaster, the loss of the SV-5D reentry vehicle from Vandenberg Air Force Base last June, the explosion on the J2A test stand at the Arnold Air Force Engineering Development Center in Tennessee in February, and dozens of other accidents since the project began. The FBI, NASA Security, and now the CIA are investigating every one of them, and they've concluded that most, if not all, are the result of sabotage."
  
  Nick ate his steak silently, thinking it over. "Hammer couldn't be in all those places at once," he finally said.
  
  "Absolutely correct. And that last message he scrawled was strictly a diversionary tactic. Hammer used the hurricane in his bungalow as a workshop. Before killing himself, he soaked the place with gasoline. He apparently hoped that a spark from the doorbell would ignite the gas and blow up the entire house. However, this did not happen, and incriminating evidence was found. Microdot
  
  
  
  
  
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  s with instructions from someone using the codename Sol, photographs, scale models of the capsule's life support system with the tube he was supposed to cut, painted red. And, interestingly enough, a card for this restaurant with the inscription on the back: "Sun, midnight, March 21st."
  
  Nick looked up in surprise. Then what the hell were they doing here, dining so calmly, talking so openly? He assumed they were in a "safe house" or at least a carefully "neutralized" zone.
  
  Hawk watched him impassively. "Bali Hai cards aren't handed out lightly," he said. "You have to ask for one, and unless you're very important, you probably won't get it. So how did a space technician making $15,000 a year get one?"
  
  Nick looked past him, seeing the restaurant with new eyes. Alert, professional eyes that missed nothing, searching for an elusive element in the pattern around him, something unsettling, something out of reach. He'd noticed it before, but, thinking they were in a safe house, he'd put it out of his mind.
  
  Hawk motioned to the waiter. "Have the maitre d' come here a minute," he said. He took a photograph from his pocket and showed it to Nick. "This is our friend Pat Hammer," he said. Don Lee appeared, and Hawk handed him the photograph. "Do you recognize this man?" he asked.
  
  Lee studied the moment. "Of course, Mr. Bird, I remember him. He was here about a month ago. With a gorgeous Chinese chick." He winked broadly. "That's how I remember him."
  
  "I understand he got in without any difficulty. Is that because he had a card?"
  
  "No. Because of the girl," Lee said. "Joy Sun. She's been here before. She's an old friend, actually. She's some kind of scientist at Cape Kennedy."
  
  "Thank you, Lee. I won't keep you."
  
  Nick stared at Hawk in amazement. Axe's top man, the troubleshooting arm of the American security forces-a man accountable only to the National Security Council, the Secretary of Defense, and the President of the United States-had just conducted this interrogation with all the subtlety of a third-rate detective. A scam!
  
  Had Hawk really become a security threat? Nick's mind suddenly filled with anxiety-could the man across from him really be Hawk? When the waiter brought them coffee, Nick casually asked, "Can we get some more light?" The waiter nodded, pressing a hidden button on the wall. A soft glow fell on them. Nick glanced at his superior. "They should be handing out miner's lamps when you get in," he smiled.
  
  The leather-clad old man grinned. A match flared, briefly illuminating his face. Good, it was Hawk. The acrid smoke from the foul-smelling cigar finally settled the matter. "Dr. Sun is already the prime suspect," Hawk said, blowing out the match. "With her as a backdrop, the CIA interrogator you'll be working with will tell you..."
  
  Nick wasn't listening. The tiny glow died with the match. A glow that hadn't been there before. He looked down to the left. Now that they had the extra light, it was faintly visible-a gossamer-thin wire running along the edge of the bench. Nick's gaze quickly followed it, searching for an obvious exit. A forged pineapple. He tugged at it. It wouldn't work. It was screwed to the center of the table. He dipped his right index finger into the lower half and felt the cool metal grille beneath the fake candle wax. A microphone for remote reception.
  
  He scrawled two words on the inside cover of a match-"We are being bugged"-and pushed them across the table. Hawk read the message and nodded politely. "Now the thing is," he said, "we absolutely must get one of our people involved in the lunar program. So far, we've failed. But I have an idea..."
  
  Nick stared at him. Ten minutes later, he was still looking incredulous when Hawk glanced at his watch and said, "Well, that's all, I have to go. Why don't you stay a while and have some fun? I'm very busy these next few days." He stood up and nodded toward the disco. "It's starting to heat up in there. It looks quite interesting-if I were younger, of course."
  
  Nick felt something slip under his fingers. It was a map. He glanced up. Hawk turned away and headed toward the entrance, bidding Don Lee farewell. "More coffee, sir?" asked the waiter.
  
  "No, I think I'll have a drink at the bar." Nick raised his hand slightly as the waiter departed. The message was in Hawk's handwriting. A CIA agent will contact you here, the message said. Recognisable phrase: "What are you doing here in May? The season is over." Response: "Social, maybe. Not hunting." Counter-response: "Mind if I join you-for the hunt, that is?" Underneath, Hawk wrote: "The card is water-soluble. Contact Washington headquarters no later than midnight."
  
  Nick slipped the card into a glass of water, watched it dissolve, then stood up and sauntered to the bar. He ordered a double scotch. He could see through the glass partition.
  
  
  
  
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  I saw the cream of Palm Beach's youth writhing to the distant roar of drums, electric bass and guitar.
  
  Suddenly the music grew louder. A girl had just walked through the disco's glass door. She was blonde-pretty, fresh-faced, slightly out of breath from dancing. She had that special look that signified money and deception. She was wearing olive-green pants, a blouse, and sandals that hugged her hips, and she held a glass in her hand.
  
  "I just know you'll forget Daddy's orders this time and put some real rum in my Coke," she told the bartender. Then she spotted Nick at the end of the bar and considered the situation carefully. "Why, hi!" she smiled brightly. "I didn't recognize you at first. What are you doing here in May? The season is practically over..."
  Chapter 3
  
  Her name was Candice Weatherall Sweet - Candy for short - and she concluded the exchange of confessions with a touch of self-assurance.
  
  Now they sat across from each other at a top-hat-sized table in the bar. "Dad wouldn't be some General Sweet, would he?" Nick asked grimly. "A member of the Belle Glade Club, who likes his martinis extra dry?"
  
  She laughed. "That's a wonderful description." She had a beautiful face, with wide-set, dark blue eyes beneath sun-pale lashes. "They call him a general, but he's actually retired," she added. "He's a big bastard in the CIA now. He was in the OSS during the war, didn't know what to do with himself afterward. Sweets, of course, don't do business-only government or civil service."
  
  "Of course." Nick seethed inside. He was riding an amateur, a debutante looking for excitement during summer vacation. And not just any debutante, but Candy Sweet, who had made headlines two summers earlier when a party she threw at her parents' house in East Hampton degenerated into an orgy of drugs, sex, and vandalism.
  
  - Anyway, how old are you? he asked.
  
  "Almost twenty."
  
  "And you still can't drink?"
  
  She gave him a quick smile. "Us Sweets is allergic to this product."
  
  Nick looked at her glass. It was empty, and he watched as the bartender poured her a solid drink. "I understand," he said, and added sharply, "Shall we go?"
  
  He didn't know where, but he wanted out. Out of Bali Hai, out of the whole thing. It stank. It was dangerous. He had no uniform. Nothing to hold onto. And here he was, in the middle of it, without even decent cover-and with a flighty, wimpy young moron in tow.
  
  Outside on the sidewalk, she said, "Let's go." Nick told the parking attendant to wait, and they headed down Worth. "The beach is beautiful at dusk," she said enthusiastically.
  
  As soon as they passed the mustard-yellow awning of the Colony Hotel, they both started talking. "This place was bugged." She laughed and said, "Do you want to see the installation?" Her eyes sparkled with excitement. She looked like a child who had just stumbled upon a secret passage. He nodded, wondering what he was doing now.
  
  She turned into a charming yellow brick alley lined with attractive antique shops, then quickly veered straight into a courtyard hung with plastic grapes and bananas, and made her way through a dark maze of overturned tables to a chain-link gate. She quietly opened the door and pointed to a man standing in front of a short section of cyclone fencing. He was looking away, examining his fingernails. "Back of the Bali Hai parking lot," she whispered. "He's on duty until morning."
  
  Without a word of warning, she drove off, her sandaled feet making no sound as she moved quickly across the open space of the palazzo's tiles. It was too late to stop her. All Nick could do was follow him. She moved toward the fence, inching along it, her back pressed against it. When she was six feet away, the man suddenly turned and looked up.
  
  She moved with the blurry speed of a cat, one foot hooked around his ankle and the other stepping on his knee. He collapsed backward as if caught in a coiled spring. As the breath left his lungs, her sandaled foot swung with controlled force toward his head.
  
  Nick watched in awe. A perfect strike. He knelt beside the man and felt his pulse. Irregular, but strong. He would be alive, but he'd be gone for at least half an hour.
  
  Candy had already dodged through the gate and was halfway to the parking lot. Nick followed her. She stopped in front of the metal-clad door at the back of the Bali High, reached into the back pocket of her hip-huggers, and pulled out a plastic credit card. Grabbing the doorknob, she pushed it hard against the hinges and inserted the card until it caught in the curve of the spring-loaded lock. It clicked back with a sharp, metallic click. She opened the door and walked in, grinning mischievously over her shoulder and saying, "Daddy's money will get you anywhere."
  
  They were in the back hallway of the disco. Nick could hear the distant rumble of amplified drums and
  
  
  
  
  
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  guitar. They tiptoed past an open door. He peered inside and saw a shiny kitchen with a couple of Chinese guys in tank tops sweating over a washing machine. The next door they came to was marked "Little Boys." The next was a door marked "Little Girls." She pushed him and walked in. Nick hesitated. "Come on!" she hissed. "Don't be a slob. It's empty."
  
  There was a service door inside. A credit card arrived. The door opened. They entered, and he closed the door behind them, letting the lock click quietly into place. They moved down a narrow passage. There was only one light, and it was above the door behind them, making them a perfect target. The passage took a sharp left, then another. "We're behind the banquettes now," she said. "In the restaurant section."
  
  The corridor ended abruptly before a reinforced steel door. She paused, listening. The credit card came out again. This time it took a little longer - about a minute. But the door finally swung open.
  
  There were two rooms. The first was small, cramped, with gray walls. A desk was pushed against one wall, a row of cabinets against the other, and a water cooler stood in the corner, leaving a small circle of black linoleum on the floor in the center.
  
  A steady, monotonous hum emanated from the room behind him. The door was open. Nick carefully walked around it. His jaw clenched at what he saw. It was a long, narrow room, and a two-way mirror took up the entire wall. Through it, he saw the interior of the Bali Hai restaurant-with an interesting difference. It was clearly lit. The people seated along the banquettes and at their individual tables were as clearly defined as if they were sitting under the neon lights of a hamburger stand. "Infrared coating on the glass," she whispered.
  
  More than a dozen slits above the mirror were 16mm. The film was tinted in individual strips into bins. The winding mechanisms of the hidden cameras quietly whirred, and the reels of a dozen different tape recorders also spun, recording conversations. Nick moved across the room toward the banquette where he and Hawk were sitting. The camera and tape recorder were turned off, the reels already filled with the entire recording of their conversation. On the other side of the mirror, their waiter was clearing dishes. Nick flicked the switch. A roar filled the room. He quickly turned it off.
  
  "I stumbled upon this yesterday afternoon," Candy whispered. "I was in the bathroom when suddenly this man came out of the wall! Well, I never... I just had to figure out what was going on."
  
  They returned to the living room, and Nick began trying the desk and file drawers. They were all locked. He saw that one central lock served them all. He resisted his "Burglar" special for almost a minute. Then it worked. He opened the drawers one by one, quickly and quietly scanning their contents.
  
  "You know what I think is going on here?" Candy whispered. "There's been all sorts of robberies in Palm Beach in the last year. The thieves always seem to know exactly what they want and when people are going to leave. I think our friend Don Lee has connections to the underworld and is selling information about what's going on here."
  
  "He sells more than the underworld," Nick said, rifling through a file drawer filled with 35mm film, developers, photo paper, microdot equipment, and stacks of Hong Kong newspapers. "Have you told anyone about this?"
  
  "Only dad."
  
  Nick nodded, and Dad said that Hawk and Hawk had agreed to meet here with their top operative and speak clearly into a microphone. Apparently, he wanted to show the two of them-and their plans, too. An image of Hawk spilling his martini and spitting olive oil flashed through Nick's mind. He, too, was looking for an outlet. That settled at least one thing Nick was worried about-whether to destroy the tape and the recording of their conversation. Apparently not. Hawk wanted them to have it.
  
  "What is this?" He found a photograph lying face down at the bottom of a drawer of microdot equipment. It depicted a man and woman on a leather, office-style couch. Both were naked and in the final throes of sexual intercourse. The man's head had been cut out of the photograph, but the woman's face was clearly visible. She was Chinese and beautiful, and her eyes were glazed with a kind of frozen obscenity that Nick found strangely disturbing, even in pictures.
  
  "It's her!" Candy gasped. "It's Joy Sun." She looked over his shoulder at the painting, fascinated, unable to tear her eyes away. "So that's how they got her to cooperate-blackmail!"
  
  Nick quickly stuffed the photo into his back pocket. A sudden draft told him a door had opened somewhere in the hallway. "Is there another way out?" She shook her head, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps.
  
  N3 began to move into position behind the door.
  
  
  
  
  
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  But we beat him to it. "Better if he sees someone," she hissed. "Keep your back to him," he nodded. The name of the game wasn't based on first impressions. This girl might have looked like a Vassar '68, but she had the brains and brawn of a cat. A dangerous cat.
  
  Footsteps stopped in front of the door. The key turned in the lock. The door began to open. A sharp intake of breath came from behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Candy take one long step and turn, forcing her foot to swing in an arc. Her sandaled foot caught the man square in the groin. Nick turned. It was their waiter. For a moment, the man's unconscious body froze in paralysis, then slowly melted to the ground. "Come on," Candy whispered. "Let's not pause for station identification..."
  
  * * *
  
  Fort Pierce, Vero Beach, Wabasso-lights flashed in the distance, flashing past and vanishing with monotonous regularity. Nick stomped his foot hard on the floor of the Lamborghini, his thoughts slowly taking shape.
  
  A man in a pornographic photo. The edge of his neck was visible. It was heavily scarred. A deep dent, caused by a rope cut or burn. He also had a dragon tattoo on his right bicep. Both should be easy enough to spot. He glanced at the girl sitting next to him. "Is there any chance the guy in the photo could be Pat Hammer?"
  
  He was surprised by her reaction. She actually blushed. "I need to see his face," she said dryly.
  
  A strange girl. Capable of kicking a man in the crotch one second and blushing the next. And at work, an even stranger mix of professionalism and amateurism. She was a master of lockpicking and judo. But there was a carefree nonchalance to her approach to the whole thing that could have been dangerous-for both of them. The way she walked down the hallway with the light behind her-it begged for it. And when they returned to Bali Hai to pick up the car, she insisted on tousling her hair and clothes, so it looked like they'd been on a beach by moonlight. It was too much, and therefore no less dangerous.
  
  "What do you expect to find in Hammer's bungalow?" he asked her. "NASA and the FBI are on the case with a fine-tooth comb."
  
  "I know, but I thought you should take a look at the place for yourself," she said. "Especially at some of the microdots they found."
  
  "It's time to find out who's boss here," N3 thought. But when he asked what instructions she had been given, she replied, "Cooperate with you completely. You're the best banana."
  
  A few minutes later, as they sped across the Indian River Bridge outside Melbourne, she added, "You're some kind of special agent, aren't you? Dad said your recommendation could make or break anyone assigned to work with you. And..." She broke off abruptly.
  
  He glanced at her. "So?" But the way she looked at him was enough. Throughout the United Security Forces, it was common knowledge that when the man known to his colleagues as Killmaster was sent on a mission, it meant only one thing: those who sent him were convinced that death was the most likely solution.
  
  "How serious are you about all this?" he asked her sharply. He didn't like that look. N3 had been in the game for a long time. He had a nose for fear. "I mean, is this just another summer fun for you? Like that weekend in East Hampton? Because..."
  
  She turned to face him, her blue eyes flashing angrily. "I'm a senior reporter for a women's magazine, and for the last month I've been on assignment at Cape Kennedy, doing a profile called 'Dr. Sun and Moon.'" She paused. "I'll admit I got NASA clearance faster than most reporters because of Dad's CIA background, but that's the only thing I had. And if you're wondering why they chose me as an agent, look at all the advantages. I was already on the ground, following Dr. Sun around with a tape recorder, going through her papers. It was the perfect cover for the real surveillance. It would have taken weeks of bureaucracy to get a real CIA agent as close to her as possible. Yeah. And there's no time for that. So I was drafted."
  
  "All judo and hacking," Nick smiled. "Did your dad teach you all that?"
  
  She laughed and suddenly became the mischievous little girl again. "No, my boyfriend. He's a professional killer."
  
  They drove down A1A through Kanawha Beach, past the missile site at Patrick Air Force Base, and arrived in Cocoa Beach at ten.
  
  Palm trees with long blades and frayed bases lined the quiet residential streets. Candy directed him to the Hummer Bungalow, which was on a street overlooking the Banana River, not far from the Merritt Island Causeway.
  
  They drove past but didn't stop. "Crawling with the cops," Nick muttered. He saw them sitting in unmarked cars on opposite sides of each block. "Green uniforms. What is this-NASA? Connelly Aviation?"
  
  "GKI," she said. "Everyone in Cocoa Beach was very nervous, and the local police were short-staffed.
  
  
  
  
  
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  ound. "
  
  "General kinetics?" Nick said. "Are they part of the Apollo program?"
  
  "They're part of the life support system," she replied. "They have a plant in West Palm Beach, another in Texas City. They do a lot of work with weapons and missiles for the government, so they have their own security forces. Alex Siemian loaned them to the Kennedy Space Center. Public relations, I think."
  
  A black sedan with a red light on the roof passed them, and one of the men in uniform gave them a long, stern look. "I think we better record the tracks," Nick said. The sedan came between them and the car in front; then it was pulled out, and they lost it.
  
  "Take the road to Merritt," she said. "There's another way to get to the bungalow."
  
  It was from a boathouse in Georgiana on Route 3. It had a flat-bottomed rig she'd obviously used before. Nick pushed it across the narrow neck of the waterway, heading for the shore between a five-foot seawall and a row of wooden pilings. After tying it up, they climbed the wall and crossed the open, moonlit backyard. The Hummer bungalow was dark and quiet. A light from the neighboring house illuminated its right side.
  
  They came across a darkened wall to the left and pressed against it, waiting. Ahead of them, a car with a dome light drove slowly past. Nick stood like a shadow among other shadows, listening, absorbed. When it became clear, he approached the closed kitchen door, tried the handle, pulled out his "Special Master Key," and loosened the single-action lock.
  
  The pungent smell of gas still lingered inside. His pencil flashlight probed the kitchen. The girl pointed to the door. "Hurricane shelter," she whispered. Her finger brushed past him into the hallway. "The front room, where it happened."
  
  They checked that first. Nothing had been touched. The sofa and floor were still caked in dried blood. Next were the two bedrooms. Then down the driveway into a narrow white workshop. A thin, strong beam of a flashlight scanned the room, illuminating neat stacks of cardboard boxes with open lids and labels. Candy checked one. "Things are gone," she whispered.
  
  "Of course," Nick said dryly. "The FBI required it. They're running tests."
  
  "But it was here yesterday. Wait!" she snapped her fingers. "I hid the sample in a drawer in the kitchen. I bet they missed it." She went upstairs.
  
  It wasn't a microdot, just a folded sheet of paper, transparent and smelling of gasoline. Nick unfolded it. It was a rough sketch of the Apollo life support system. The ink lines were slightly blurred, and beneath them were some brief technical instructions, code-signed "Sol." "Sol," she whispered. "Latin for sun. Doctor Sun..."
  
  The silence in the bungalow suddenly grew tense. Nick began folding the paper and putting it away. An angry voice came from the doorway: "Keep it like this."
  Chapter 4
  
  The man stood in the kitchen doorway, a huge, silhouetted figure in the moonlight behind him. He held a pistol in his hand-a small Smith & Wesson Terrier with a two-inch barrel. He was behind the screen door, pointing the gun through it.
  
  Killmaster's eyes narrowed as he looked at him. For a moment, a shark swirled in their gray depths, then it vanished, and he smiled. This man wasn't a threat. He'd made too many mistakes to be a professional. Nick raised his hands above his head and slowly walked toward the door. "What's wrong, Doc?" he asked pleasantly.
  
  As he did so, his foot suddenly flared, slamming into the back edge of the screen door, just below the handle. He kicked it with all his might, and the man staggered back with a howl of pain, dropping his gun.
  
  Nick rushed after him, catching him. He dragged the man into the house by the collar of his shirt before he could sound the alarm and kicked the door shut behind him. "Who are you?" he croaked. The pencil flashlight flickered and shoved into the man's face.
  
  He was large - at least six feet four inches - and muscular, with gray hair cut short to a bullet-shaped head and a tanned face covered with pale freckles.
  
  "The next door neighbor," Candy said. "Name's Dexter. I checked on him when I was here last night."
  
  "Yeah, and I noticed you wandering around here last night," Dexter growled, stroking his wrist. "That's why I was on guard tonight."
  
  "What is your name?" Nick asked.
  
  "Hank."
  
  "Listen, Hank. You've stumbled into a little official business." Nick flashed the official badge that was part of every AXEman's disguise. "We're government investigators, so let's keep calm, keep quiet, and discuss the Hammer case."
  
  Dexter narrowed his eyes. "If you're the government, why are you chatting here in the dark?"
  
  "We work for a top-secret division of the National Security Agency. That's all I can tell you. Even the FBI doesn't know about us."
  
  Dexter was clearly impressed. "Really? No kidding? I work for NASA myself. I'm at Connelly Aviation."
  
  "Did you know Hammer?"
  
  "A
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  A neighbor, of course. But not at work. I work in the electronics department on the cape. But I'll tell you something. Hammer never killed his family or himself. It was murder-to shut him up."
  
  "How do you know this?"
  
  "I saw the guys who did it." He glanced nervously over his shoulder, then said, "No kidding. I'm serious. I was watching the TV report on the fire that night. They just flashed Pat's picture on it. A few minutes later, I heard this scream, kindly. I went to the window. Parked in front of their bungalow was this car, no tracks, but with a whip antenna. A minute later, these three in police uniforms ran out. They looked like state troopers, only one of them was Chinese, and I knew right away it wasn't kosher. There are no Chinese on the force. The other one was in a can of gasoline, and he had these stains on his uniform. Later, I decided it was blood. They got in the car and drove away quickly. A few minutes later, the real cops arrived."
  
  Candy said, "Have you told anyone this?"
  
  "Are you kidding me? The FBI, the cops, NASA people-everyone. Look, we're all nervous as hell here." He paused. "Hammer hasn't been acting like himself for the last couple of weeks. We all knew something was wrong, that something was bothering him. From what I understand, someone told him he should play catch with them or his wife and kids. He'll get it."
  
  A car drove by on the street, and he froze immediately. He was almost invisible. His eyes flickered, but even in the dim light, Nick caught it. "It could have happened to any of us," Dexter said hoarsely. "We don't have any protection-nothing like the missile men have. Believe me, I'm very glad General Kinetics lent us their cops. Before, my wife was afraid to even take the kids to school or go to the mall. All the women here were. But GKI organized a special bus service, and now they do it in one trip-first they take the kids to school, and then they go to the Orlando mall. It's much safer. And I don't mind leaving them to work." He chuckled darkly. "Likewise, mister, can I have my gun back? Just in case."
  
  Nick pulled the Lamborghini out of the empty parking lot across from Georgiana's shipyard. "Where are you staying?" he asked her.
  
  The mission was accomplished. The evidence, still reeking of gasoline, lay folded in his back pocket next to the pornographic photos. The return trip across the waterway was uneventful. "At Polaris," she said. "It's on the beach, north of A1A, on the road to Port Canaveral."
  
  "Right." He stepped on the gas, and a powerful silver bullet shot forward. The wind whipped their faces. "How do you do it?" he asked her.
  
  "I left my Julia in Palm Beach," she replied. "Daddy's driver will be here in the morning."
  
  "Of course," he thought. He figured it out. Alfa Romeo. Suddenly she moved closer, and he felt her hand on his arm. "Are we off duty now?"
  
  He looked at her, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Unless you have a better idea."
  
  She shook her head. "I don't know." He felt her hand tighten on his. "What about you?"
  
  He glanced furtively at his watch. Eleven fifteen. "I need to find somewhere to settle," he said.
  
  Now he could feel her nails through his shirt. "The North Star," she murmured. "TV in every room, a heated pool, pets, a cafe, a dining room, a bar, and a laundry room."
  
  "Is that a good idea?" he chuckled.
  
  "It's your decision." He felt the firmness of her breasts against his sleeve. He glanced at her in the mirror. The wind had clung to her long, shiny blond hair. She brushed it back with the fingers of her right hand, and Nick could see her profile clearly-her high forehead, her deep blue eyes, her wide, sensual mouth with the faintest trace of a smile. "Now the girl has become a very desirable woman," he thought. But duty calls. He had to contact AXE headquarters before midnight.
  
  "The first rule of espionage," he recited, "is to avoid being seen in the company of your co-workers."
  
  He felt her tense and pull away. "Meaning?"
  
  They had just passed the Gemini Hotel on North Atlantic Avenue. "That I'll stay there," he said. He stopped at a traffic light and looked at her. His red glow turned her skin to flame.
  
  She didn't speak to him again on the way to the Polar Star, and when she left, her face was closed to him with anger. She slammed the door and disappeared into the lobby without looking back. She wasn't used to being rejected. No one is rich.
  
  * * *
  
  Hawk's voice cut into his ear like a knife. "Flight 1401-A departs Miami International Airport for Houston at 3:00 ET. Poindexter from the editor will meet you at the ticket counter at 2:30 AM. He will have all the necessary information with him, including a folder for review, about your background and current responsibilities."
  
  Nick was driving down Highway 1 again, heading south through a nameless world of bright lights and
  
  
  
  
  
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  ark. Hawk's voice began to fade, and he leaned forward, adjusting the knob of a tiny, ultra-sensitive two-way radio hidden among the dazzling array of dials on the dashboard.
  
  When the head of AX paused, he said, "If you'll excuse the expression, sir, I don't understand space. How can I hope to pass myself off as an astronaut?"
  
  "We'll get back to that in a moment, N3." Hawk's voice was so harsh that Nick winced and adjusted the volume on his earplugs. Any resemblance between the incoherent, glassy drunk of that day and the man now speaking to him from his desk at AXE headquarters in Washington was strictly the result of Hawk's acting skills and a gut as hard and rough as his hide.
  
  "Now about the Bali Hai situation," Hawk continued, "let me explain. There's been a high-level leak going on for months. We think we've narrowed it down to this restaurant. Senators, generals, top government contractors dining there. Talking casually. The microphones pick it up. But where it's going, we don't know. So this afternoon, I knowingly leaked false information." He allowed himself a short, humorless laugh. "More like tracking a leak by pouring yellow dye into a plumbing system. I want to see where that yellow dye is coming from. AXE has secret listening posts at every level in every government and spy organization in the world. They'll pick it up, and presto-we'll have a connecting pipeline."
  
  Through the curved windshield, Nick watched the reddish light rapidly grow. "So everything they told me at Bali Hai was a lie," he said, slowing before the Vero Beach interchange. He briefly thought about the suitcases containing his personal belongings. They were sitting in a room he'd never entered, at the Gemini Hotel in Cocoa Beach. He'd barely even checked in before he had to rush to his car to contact AXE. As soon as he contacted AXE, he was already heading back to Miami. Was the trip north really necessary? Couldn't Hawk have brought his puppet to Palm Beach?
  
  "Not all of them, N3. That's the point. Only a few points were false, but vitally important. I assumed the US lunar program was a mess. I also assumed it would be a couple of years before it got going. However, the truth is-and this is known only to me, a few senior NASA officials, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President, and now you, Nicholas-the truth is that NASA is going to attempt another manned flight in the next few days. Not even the astronauts themselves know it. It will be called Phoenix One-because it will emerge from the ashes of Project Apollo. Fortunately, Connelly Aviation has the equipment ready. They are rushing the second capsule to Cape Kennedy from their factory in California. The second group of astronauts is at the peak of their training, ready to go. One senses that this is the psychological moment for another shot." The voice fell silent. "This one, of course, must go off without a hitch. It feels like a resounding success at this point is the only thing that will take the bitterness of the Apollo disaster out of the public's mouth. And that taste must be removed if the US space program is to be saved."
  
  "Where," Nick asked, "does Astronaut N3 appear in the picture?"
  
  "There's a man in a coma at Walter Reed Hospital right now," Hawk said sharply. He spoke into the microphone on his desk in Washington, his voice a meaningless oscillation of radio waves, translated into normal human sounds by a complex series of microscopic relays in a car radio. They reached Nick's ear as Hawk's voice-and without losing any of its sharpness along the way. "He's been there for three days. Doctors aren't sure they can save him, and if they can, whether his mind will ever be the same again. He was the captain of the second backup team-Colonel Glenn Eglund. Someone tried to kill him at the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston, where he and his teammates were training for this project."
  
  Hawk described in detail how Nick sent the silver 350 GT racing through the night. Colonel Eglund was in a sealed prototype Apollo capsule, testing the life support system. Someone had apparently adjusted the controls externally, increasing the nitrogen content. This mixed with the astronaut's own sweat inside his spacesuit, creating the deadly, intoxicating gas amine.
  
  "Eglund clearly saw something," Hawk said, "or somehow knew too much. What, we don't know. He was unconscious when they found him and never regained consciousness. But we're hoping to find out. That's why you... N3 will take his place. Eglund is about your age, your height, and your general build. Poindexter will take care of the rest.
  
  "What about the girl?" Nick asked. "Sweetie."
  
  "Let it stay where it is for now. By the way, N3, what's your fingerprint?
  
  
  
  
  
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  ession her? "
  
  "At times she can be very professional, and at other times she can be an idiot."
  
  "Yes, just like her father," Hawk replied, and Nick sensed the ice in his tone. "I've never approved of the communal element in the upper echelons of the CIA, but that was before I said anything about it. Dickinson Sweet should have had more sense than to let his daughter get involved in things like that. That's another reason I flew to Palm Beach personally-I wanted to talk to the girl before she contacted you." He paused. "That raid on the back of Bali Hai you mentioned earlier-in my opinion, it was pointless and risky. Do you think you can keep her from upsetting any more apple carts?"
  
  Nick said he could, adding, "One good thing came out of it, though. An interesting photo of Dr. Sun. There's a man in there, too. I'll have Poindexter send him over for identification."
  
  "Hm." Hank's voice was evasive. "Dr. Sun is currently in Houston with the other astronauts. She, of course, doesn't know you're replacing Eglund. The only person outside AXE who knows is General Hewlett McAlester, NASA's top security chief. He helped arrange the masquerade."
  
  "I still doubt it will work," Nick said. "After all, the astronauts on the team have been training together for months. They know each other well."
  
  "Fortunately, we have amine poisoning," Hawk's voice rasped in his ear. "One of the main symptoms is impaired memory function. So, if you don't remember all your colleagues and duties, it will seem perfectly natural." He paused. "Besides, I doubt you'll have to keep up this charade for more than a day. Whoever made that first attempt on Eglund's life will try again. And they-or she-won't waste much time on it."
  Chapter 5
  
  She was even more beautiful than the pornographic photos suggested. Beautiful in a chiseled, almost inhuman way that unnerved Nick. Her hair was black-black as an arctic midnight-matching her eyes, even with the shimmering highlights and glare. Her mouth was full and luscious, accentuating the cheekbones inherited from her ancestors-at least from her father's side. Nick remembered the file he'd studied on the flight to Houston. Her mother was English.
  
  She hadn't seen him yet. She was walking down the neutral-smelling white corridor of the Manned Spacecraft Center, talking to a colleague.
  
  She had a beautiful body. The snow-white robe she wore over her street clothes couldn't hide it. She was a slender woman with full breasts, walking with a deliberate posture that provocatively showcased her beauty, each supple step highlighting the youthful swell of her hips.
  
  N3 quickly reviewed the basic facts: Joy Han Sun, MD, PhD; born in Shanghai during the Japanese occupation; British mother, Chinese businessman father; educated at Mansfield College in Kowloon, then MIT in Massachusetts; became a US citizen; specialist in aerospace medicine; worked first for General Kinetics (at the Miami School of Medicine GKI), then for the US Air Force at Brooks Field, San Antonio; finally, for NASA itself, dividing his time between the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston and Cape Kennedy.
  
  "Doctor Sun, can we see you for a minute?"
  
  It was a tall man with anvils on his shoulders standing next to Nick. Major Duane F. Sollitz, the Apollo Project's chief of security. Nick had been handed over to him by General McAlester for reprocessing;
  
  She turned to face them, a faint smile on her lips from the previous conversation. Her gaze slid past Major Sollitz and settled sharply on Nick's face-the face Poindexter from the editing department had spent nearly two hours working on that morning.
  
  She was fine. She wasn't screaming, running down the hallway, or doing anything stupid. The widening of her eyes was barely noticeable, but to Nick's trained eye, the effect was no less dramatic than if she had been. "I didn't expect you to be back soon, Colonel." Her voice was low, and her timbre was surprisingly clear. Her accent was British. They shook hands, European style. "How are you feeling?"
  
  "Still a little disoriented." He spoke with a distinctly Kansas lilt, the result of three hours of sitting with a tape recording of Eglund's voice inserted into his ear.
  
  "That's to be expected, Colonel."
  
  He watched the pulse beat in her thin throat. She didn't take her eyes off him, but the smile had faded, and her dark eyes were strangely bright.
  
  Major Sollitz glanced at his watch. "He's all yours, Dr. Sun," he said in a sharp, precise tone. "I'm late for a meeting around nine hundred. Let me know if there are any problems." He turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. With Sollitz, there were no wasted movements. A veteran of the Flying Tigers and Japanese POW camps in the Philippines, he was almost a caricature of unbridled militarism.
  
  General McAlester was worried about getting Nick past him. "He's smart," he said when visiting Nick on Lawndale Road in Eglund.
  
  
  
  
  
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  that morning. "Very abrupt. So don't relax around him for a second. Because if he gets the hang of it-you're not Eglund-he'll hit the alarm and blow your cover higher than the Washington Monument." But when Nick showed up at the major's office, everything went like magic. Sollitz was so surprised to see him that he only gave him the most cursory security check.
  
  "Follow me, please," said Dr. Sun.
  
  Nick fell behind her, automatically noting the smooth, flexible movements of her hips, the length of her long, firm legs. He decided the opposition was getting better and better.
  
  But she was an adversary. Make no mistake about it. And perhaps the killer, too. He recalled Hawk's line: "He or she will try again." And so far, everything pointed to "she." The person who tried to kill Eglund had to be (first) someone with access to the Medical Research Division and (second) someone with a scientific background, particularly in the chemistry of extraterrestrial life support. Someone who knew that a certain amount of excess nitrogen would combine with the ammonia in human sweat to form the deadly gas Amin. Dr. Sun, the head of medical research for the Apollo project, had access and training, and her specialty was sustaining human life in space.
  
  She opened the door to the small hallway and stepped aside, showing Nick. "Take off your clothes, please. I'll be with you."
  
  Nick turned to her, his nerves suddenly tensing. Keeping his tone casual, he said, "Is this absolutely necessary? I mean, Walter Reed released me, and a copy of their report has already been sent to you."
  
  The smile was slightly mocking. It began with her eyes, then spread to her mouth. "Don't be shy, Colonel Eglund. After all, this isn't the first time I've seen you naked."
  
  This was exactly what Nick had feared. He had scars on his body that Eglund had never had. Poindexter had done nothing about them, as it was a completely unexpected development. The editorial documentation department had prepared a false medical report on Walter Reed's stationery. They thought this would be sufficient, that NASA's medical agency would only test his vision, hearing, motor skills, and balance.
  
  Nick undressed and placed his things on a chair. There was no point in resisting. Eglund couldn't return to training until he got the go-ahead from Dr. Sun. He heard the door open and close. High-heeled shoes clicked in his direction. The plastic curtains were pulled back. "And shorts, please," she said. Reluctantly, he removed them. "Come out here, please."
  
  In the middle of the room stood a strange-looking surgical table made of leather and shiny aluminum. Nick didn't like it. He felt more than naked. He felt vulnerable. The stiletto he usually carried in his sleeve, the gas bomb he usually hid in his pocket, the simplified Luger he called Wilhelmina-all his usual "defense gear"-was far away-at AXE headquarters in Washington, where he'd left them before leaving on vacation. If the doors suddenly burst open and fifty armed men leaped through, he 'd be forced to fight with the only weapon available-his body.
  
  But it was deadly enough. Even at rest, he was sleek, muscular, and dangerous-looking. His hard, tanned skin was covered in old scars. The muscles were etched against the bones. His arms were large, thick, and veined. They looked built for violence-as befitted a man codenamed Killmaster.
  
  Dr. Song's eyes widened noticeably as he crossed the room toward her. They remained fixed on his stomach-and he was damn sure it wasn't just his physique that fascinated her. It was the memory of half a dozen knives and bullets. A dead giveaway.
  
  He had to distract her. Eglund was a bachelor. His profile mentioned him as a skirt-chaser, something like a wolf in astronaut clothing. So what could be more natural? A man and an attractive woman alone in a room, the man naked...
  
  He didn't stop as he approached her, but suddenly pinned her back against the surgical table, his hands sliding under her skirt as he kissed her, his lips hard and cruel. It was rough play, and she got the blow she deserved-right across his face, momentarily stunning him.
  
  "You're an animal!" She stood, pressed against the table, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes glowed white with indignation, fear, anger, and a dozen other emotions, none of which were pleasant. Looking at her now, he had trouble connecting Joy Sun with the frenzied, senseless girl in that pornographic photograph.
  
  "I warned you about this before, Colonel." Her mouth trembled. She was on the verge of tears. "I'm not the kind of woman you seem to think I am. I won't tolerate these cheap temptations..."
  
  The maneuver had the desired effect. All thoughts of a physical examination were forgotten. "Please get dressed," she said coldly. "You are obviously fully recovered. You will report this."
  
  
  
  
  
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  training coordinator, and then join your teammates in the simulation building."
  
  * * *
  
  The sky beyond the jagged peaks was pitch black, dotted with stars. The terrain between them was hilly, cratered, strewn with jagged outcrops and sharp shards of rock. Steep canyons cut through the rubble-strewn mountain like petrified lightning bolts.
  
  Nick carefully descended the gilded ladder attached to one of the LM's four legs. At the bottom, he placed one foot on the edge of the saucer and stepped out onto the lunar surface.
  
  The layer of dust beneath his feet had the consistency of crunchy snow. Slowly, he placed one boot in front of the other, then just as slowly repeated the process. Gradually, he began to walk. Walking was difficult. Endless potholes and sprouts of frozen rock slowed him down. Each step was uncertain, a fall dangerous.
  
  A steady, loud hissing sound echoed in his ears. It came from the pressurization, breathing, cooling, and drying systems of his rubberized lunar suit. He shook his head from side to side inside the tight-fitting plastic helmet, searching for the others. The light was blinding. He lifted his right thermal gauntlet and lowered one of the sun visors.
  
  The voice in the headphones said, "Welcome back to Rockpile, Colonel. We're here, at the edge of the Ocean of Storms. No, that's not it - to your right."
  
  Nick turned to see two figures in their bulky moonsuits waving at him. He waved back. "Roger, John," he said into the microphone. "Good to see you, good to be back. I'm still a little disoriented. You'll have to bear with me."
  
  He was glad he'd met them this way. Who could discern a person's identity through sixty-five pounds of rubber, nylon, and plastic?
  
  Earlier, in the lunar simulation prep room, he'd been on guard. Gordon Nash, captain of the first Apollo backup astronaut group, had come to see him. "Did Lucy see you in the hospital?" he asked, and Nick, misreading his sly grin, thought he was referring to one of Eglund's girlfriends. He made a faint crack and was surprised to see Nash frown. Too late, he remembered the file-Lucy was Eglund's younger sister and Gordon Nash's current romantic interest. He'd managed to find a way out of that alibi ("Just kidding, Gord"), but it had been close. Too close.
  
  One of Nick's teammates was collecting rocks from the lunar surface and storing them in a metal collection box, while another squatted over a seismograph-like device, recording the agitated movement of the needle. Nick stood watching for several minutes, uncomfortably aware that he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Finally, the one manning the seismograph looked up. "Shouldn't you be checking the LRV?" His voice crackled in N3's headphones.
  
  "Correct." Luckily, Nick's ten-hour training included this semester. LRV stood for Lunar Roving Vehicle. It was a lunar vehicle powered by fuel cells that moved on special cylindrical wheels with spiral blades instead of spokes. It was designed to land on the moon before the astronauts, so it needed to be parked somewhere on this vast, ten-acre model of the lunar surface, located in the heart of the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston.
  
  Nick moved across the barren, forbidding terrain. The pumice-like surface beneath his feet was brittle, sharp, riddled with hidden holes and jagged protrusions. Walking on it was torture. "Probably still in the ravine on R-12," said a voice in his ear. "The first team dealt with it yesterday."
  
  Where the hell was R-12? Nick wondered. But a moment later, he happened to glance up, and there, on the edge of the Modeling Building's vast, black, star-studded roof, he saw grid marks from one to twenty-six, and along the outer edge, from A.Z. Luck was still with him.
  
  It took him almost half an hour to reach the ravine, even though the Lunar Module was only a few hundred yards away. The problem was the reduced gravity. The scientists who created the artificial lunar landscape had replicated every condition one would find on the real thing: a temperature range of five hundred degrees, the strongest vacuum ever created by humans, and weak gravity-just six times weaker than Earth's. This made maintaining balance nearly impossible. Although Nick could easily hop and even glide hundreds of feet in the air if he wanted, he dared not move more than a slow crawl. The terrain was too rugged, too unstable, and it was impossible to stop suddenly.
  
  The ravine was nearly fifteen feet deep and steep. It ran in a narrow zigzag pattern, its bottom battered with hundreds of artificial meteorites. Network 12 showed no sign of the Lunar Lander, but that didn't matter. It could be just a few yards away, hidden from view.
  
  Nick carefully descended the steep slope.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  He had to grab every hand and support before putting his full weight on them. Tiny meteorite pebbles bounced ahead of him, kicked up by his boots. Reaching the bottom of the ravine, he turned left, heading for Seti 11. He moved slowly, picking his way through the tortured twists and jagged protrusions of the artificial ash flow.
  
  The constant hissing in his ears and the vacuum outside the suit prevented him from hearing anything behind him. But he either saw or felt a sudden flash of movement and turned.
  
  A shapeless creature with two glowing orange eyes swooped down on him. It transformed into a giant insect, then a strange four-wheeled vehicle, and he saw a man in a moonsuit similar to the one at the controls. Nick waved his arms wildly, then realized the man had spotted him and was deliberately speeding up.
  
  There was no way out.
  
  The moon machine rushed towards him, its huge cylindrical wheels with razor-sharp spiral blades filling the gorge from wall to wall...
  Chapter 6
  
  Nick knew what would happen if those blades tore through his suit.
  
  Outside, the simulated two-week lunar day was just a few minutes shy of noon. The temperature was 250№F, above the boiling point of water-higher than human blood. Add to this a vacuum so intense that pieces of metal spontaneously welded together upon contact, and you get the phenomenon scientists know as "boiling."
  
  This meant that the inside of a naked human body would boil. Blisters would begin to form-first on the mucous membranes of the mouth and eyes, then in the tissues of other vital organs. Death would occur within minutes.
  
  He had to keep well clear of those glittering, blade-like spokes. But there was no room on either side. Only one thing was possible. Hit the ground and let the monstrous three-ton machine roll over him. Its weight in the gravity-free vacuum was only half a ton, and this was further enhanced by the wheels, which flattened at the bottom like soft tires, to achieve traction.
  
  A few feet behind him was a small depression. He spun around and lay facedown in it, his fingers clinging to the scalding volcanic rock. His head, inside the plastic bubble, was the most vulnerable part of him. But he'd been aligned so that the space between the wheels was too narrow for the LRV to maneuver. His luck was still on the line.
  
  It rolled silently across it, blocking out the light. A powerful pressure struck his back and legs, pinning him to the rock. The breath was ripped from his lungs. His vision dimmed for a moment. Then the first pair of wheels flew over him, and he lay in the rushing darkness beneath the 31-foot-long car, watching the second pair rush toward him.
  
  He saw it too late. A low-hanging piece of equipment, shaped like a box. It hit his ECM backpack, flipping it over. He felt the backpack being ripped from his shoulders. The hissing in his ears stopped abruptly. Heat seared his lungs. Then the second wheels slammed into him, and pain exploded through him like a black cloud.
  
  He clung to a thin thread of consciousness, knowing he would be lost if he didn't. The bright light burned his eyes. He slowly struggled upward, overcoming physical torment, searching for the machine. Gradually, his eyes stopped floating and focused on it. It was about fifty yards away and no longer moving. The man in the moonsuit stood at the controls, looking at him.
  
  Nick's breath caught in his throat, but it was gone. The artery-like tubes inside his suit no longer carried cold oxygen from the main intake port at his waist. His bells scraped the torn rubber on his back where the environmental control pack had once been. His mouth hung open, lips moving dryly within the dead plastic bubble. "Help," he croaked into the microphone, but he, too, was dead, the wires to the Communications Power Unit severed along with the rest.
  
  A man in a lunar suit climbed down from the lunar ship. He pulled a box cutter from under the seat on the control panel and walked toward it.
  
  This action saved N3's life.
  
  The knife meant Nick wasn't finished, that he needed to cut off the last piece of equipment-and that's how he remembered the tiny bag strapped to his waist. It was there in case of a malfunction in the backpack system. It contained a five-minute supply of oxygen.
  
  He turned it on. A soft hissing sound filled the plastic bubble. He forced his exhausted lungs to inhale. Coolness filled them. His vision cleared. He gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet. His mind began to scan his body, to see what was left of it. Then suddenly there was no time to take stock. The other man took a long run. He leaped once to gain air, and flew toward him, light as a feather in the low-gravity atmosphere. The knife was held low, point down, ready for a quick upward flip.
  
  
  
  
  
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  This would have broken the emergency life preserver.
  
  Nick dug his toes into the ridge of volcanic rock. He swung his arms back in one motion, like a man performing a diving tackle. Then he catapulted forward, throwing all his pent-up strength into the lunge. He found himself flying through the air at alarming speed, but missed his target. The other man lowered his head, descending. Nick grabbed for the knife hand as he passed, but missed.
  
  It was like fighting underwater. The force field was completely different. Balance, thrust, reaction time-everything changed due to the reduced gravity. Once movement was initiated, stopping it or changing direction was virtually impossible. Now he was gliding toward the ground at the end of a wide parabola-a good thirty yards from where his opponent stood.
  
  He spun around just as the other man fired a projectile. It slammed into his thigh, knocking him to the ground. It was a huge, jagged piece of meteorite, the size of a small boulder. Unable to lift even under normal gravity. Pain shot up his leg. He shook his head and started to stand. Suddenly, his thermal glove fell off, scraping against his emergency oxygen kit. The man was already on it.
  
  He slipped past Nick and casually stabbed him in the pipe with a box cutter. It bounced harmlessly aside, and Nick lifted his right foot, the heel of his heavy metal boot meeting the man's relatively unprotected solar plexus at an upward angle. The dark face inside the plastic bubble opened its mouth in a silent exhalation, its eyes rolling back in its head. Nick jumped to his feet. But before he could follow, the man slithered away like an eel and turned toward him, ready to attack again.
  
  He feinted toward N3's throat and aimed a vicious mae-geri at his groin. The blow missed its target by less than an inch, numbing Nick's leg and nearly causing him to lose his balance. Before he could counter, the man spun around and then struck him from behind with a piledriver that sent Nick tumbling forward across the jagged ledges of the ravine floor. He couldn't stop. He kept rolling, the razor-sharp rocks tearing at his suit.
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man unzip his side pocket, pull out a strange-looking pistol, and carefully aim it at him. He grabbed the ledge and suddenly stopped. A streak of blinding blue-white magnesium light streaked past him and exploded against the rock. A flare gun! The man began reloading. Nick lunged at him.
  
  The man dropped his pistol and dodged a two-fisted blow to the chest. He lifted his left leg, making a final, furious lunge at Nick's unprotected groin. N3 grabbed the boot with both hands and swung it. The man fell like a felled tree, and before he could move, Killmaster was on top of him. A hand with a knife flashed toward him. Nick slashed with his gloved hand at the man's unprotected wrist. This dulled the forward thrust. His fingers closed around the man's wrist and twisted. The knife didn't fall. He twisted harder and felt something snap, and the man's hand went limp.
  
  At that very moment, the hissing in Nick's ear stopped. His reserve oxygen had run out. A searing heat pierced his lungs. His yoga-trained muscles automatically took over, protecting them. He could hold his breath for four minutes, but no longer, and physical exertion was impossible.
  
  Something rough and screamingly painful suddenly pierced his arm with such a jolt that he almost opened his mouth to breathe. The man shifted the knife to his other hand and cut his hand, forcing his fingers to unclench. Now he leaped past Nick, clutching his broken wrist with his good hand. He stumbled through the ravine, a stream of water vapor rising from his backpack.
  
  A vague sense of survival compelled Nick to crawl toward the flare gun. He didn't need to die. But the voices in his ear said, "It's too far to go." You can't do this. His lungs screamed for air. His fingers clawed at the ground, reaching for the gun. Air! His lungs continued to scream. It got worse, darker, with every second. Fingers closed around him. No strength, but he pulled the trigger anyway, and the flash of light was so blinding he had to slap his free hand over his eyes. And that was the last thing he remembered...
  
  * * *
  
  "Why didn't you go to the emergency exit?" Ray Phinney, the project's flight director, leaned over him anxiously as fellow astronauts Roger Kane and John Corbinett helped him remove his lunar suit in the Simulation Building's preparation room. Phinney handed him a small nasal oxygen dispenser, and Nick took another long swig.
  
  "Emergency exit?" he muttered vaguely. "Where?"
  
  The three men looked at each other. "Less than twenty yards from Net 12," Finney said. "You've used that before."
  
  This must have been the exit his opponent in the moonsuit was heading for. Now he remembered there had been ten of them, spotted around the lunar landscape.
  
  
  
  
  
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  Each had an airlock and a pressurization chamber. They were unmanned and opened into an underground storage area beneath the simulation building. So getting in and out wouldn't be a problem if you knew how to navigate them-and Nick's opponent obviously did.
  
  "Luckily, John spotted that first flare," Roger Kane Finney said. "We headed straight for it. About six minutes later, there was another one. By then, we were less than a minute away."
  
  "That pinpointed his position," Corbin added. "A few more seconds and he would have been finished. He was already turning blue. We hooked him up to Roger's emergency supply and started dragging him toward the exit. My God! Look at this!" he suddenly exclaimed.
  
  They removed the spacesuit and stared at the bloody inner clothing. Cain poked a finger at the thermal material. "You're lucky you didn't boil," he said.
  
  Finney leaned over the wound. "It looks like it was cut with a knife," he said. "What happened? You better start at the beginning."
  
  Nick shook his head. "Look, I feel pretty stupid about this," he said. "I fell on a damn utility knife when I was trying to get out of the ravine. I just lost my balance and..."
  
  "What about your ECM unit?" the flight director demanded. "How did that happen?"
  
  "When I fell, he caught on the ledge."
  
  "There's definitely going to be an investigation," Finney said grimly. "NASA safety wants reports on every accident these days."
  
  "Later. He needs medical attention first," Corbin said. He turned to Roger Kane. "Better call Dr. Sun."
  
  Nick tried to sit up. "Hell, no, I'm fine," he said. "It's just a cut. You guys can bandage it yourselves." Dr. Sun was the one person he didn't want to see. He knew what was coming. She insisted on giving him a pain-killing injection-and that injection would complete the job her accomplice had botched on the lunar landscape.
  
  "I have a bone to pick with Joy Sun," Finney snapped. "She should never have passed you by in the state you're in. The dizzy spells, the memory lapses. You should be home, flat on your back. Anyway, what's wrong with that lady?"
  
  Nick had a pretty good feeling. As soon as she saw him naked, she knew he wasn't Colonel Eglund, which meant he had to be a government contractor, which in turn meant he'd been led into a trap for her. So what better place to send him than a lunar landscape? Her comrade-or was it plural?-could arrange another convenient "accident."
  
  Finney picked up the phone and ordered some first aid supplies. When he hung up, he turned to Nick and said, "I want your car to come to the house. Kane, you drive him home. And Eglund, stay there until I find a doctor to look at you."
  
  Nick mentally shrugged. It didn't matter where he waited. The next step was hers. Because one thing was clear. She couldn't rest until he was out of sight. Constantly.
  
  * * *
  
  Poindexter converted the storm-tossed basement of Eglund's bachelor bungalow into a full-scale AXE field office.
  
  There was a miniature darkroom equipped with 35mm cameras, film, developing equipment, and microdot machines, a metal filing cabinet filled with Lastotex masks, flexible saws in strings, compasses in buttons, fountain pens that fired needles, watches with tiny transistor transmitters, and a sophisticated solid-state image communication system-a telephone that could instantly connect them with headquarters.
  
  "Looks like you've been busy," Nick said.
  
  "I have an ID with the man in the photo," Poindexter replied with carefully restrained enthusiasm. He was a white-haired, choirboy-faced New Englander who looked like he'd rather be hosting a church picnic than operating sophisticated devices of death and destruction.
  
  He unclipped a damp 8x10 from the dryer and handed it to Nick. It was a frontal view, head and shoulders, of a dark-skinned man with a wolfish face and dead gray eyes. A deep scar circled his neck just below the third vertebrae. "His name is Rinaldo Tribolati," Poindexter said, "but he calls himself Reno Tri for short. The print is a little blurry because I took it directly from a camera phone. It's a photograph of a photograph."
  
  "How so fast?"
  
  "It wasn't a tattoo. This type of dragon is quite common. Thousands of soldiers who served in the Far East, especially the Philippines during World War II, had them. These boys made an explosion and studied it. Caused by a rope burn. And that's all they needed to know. Apparently, this Reno Tree was once a hitman for Las Vegas gangs. However, one of his intended victims almost picked him up. Drove him half to death. He still bears the scar."
  
  "I've heard the name Reno Tree," Nick said, "but not as a hit man. As some kind of dance master for the Jet Set."
  
  "That's our boy," Poindexter replied. "He's legit now. The society girls seem to love him. Pic magazine called him
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Pied Piper of Palm Beach. He runs a discotheque in Bali Hai.
  
  Nick looked at the front view, the photo, and then at the copies of the pornographic image Poindexter had handed him. Joy Sun's rapt expression still haunted him. "He's hardly what you'd call handsome," he said. "I wonder what girls see in him."
  
  "Maybe they like the way he spanks them."
  
  "He is, right?" Nick folded the photos and stuffed them into his wallet. "Better get the headquarters going," he added. "I need to register."
  
  Poindexter walked over to the photophone and flicked the switch. "The crowd gave him permission to act as a Shylock and an extortionist," he said, watching the screen come to life. "In return, he killed and did power work for them. He was known as a last resort. When all the other Shylocks rejected a man, Rhino Tree would take him. He liked it when they didn't fulfill their obligations. It gave him an excuse to work on them. But most of all, he loved to torture women. There's a story that he had a stable of girls in Vegas, and that he'd slash their faces all over with a razor when he left town... A-4, N3 to the scrambler from HT station," he said, as a pretty brunette with a comm headset came into view.
  
  "Please wait." She was replaced by an iron-gray old man, to whom Nick had given all his devotion and most of his affection. N3 made his report, noting the absence of the familiar cigar, as well as the usual glint of humor in his icy eyes. Hawk was upset, worried. And he wasted no time in understanding what was troubling him.
  
  "The AXE listening posts have reported," he said sharply, concluding Nick's report. "And the news isn't good. This false information I'm spreading on Bali Hai has surfaced, but domestically, at a relatively low level in the criminal underworld. In Las Vegas, bets are being placed on NASA's lunar program. The smart money says it will be two years before the project gets off the ground again." He paused. "What really concerns me is that the top secret information I gave you about Phoenix One has also surfaced-and at a very high level in Washington."
  
  Hawk's grim expression deepened. "It'll be a day or so before we hear from our people in foreign spy organizations," he added, "but it doesn't look good. Someone very high up is leaking information. Long story short, our adversary has an operative high up within NASA itself."
  
  The full meaning of Hawk's words slowly sank in - now Phoenix One, too, was in danger.
  
  The light flickered, and out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Poindexter pick up the phone. He turned to Nick, covering his mouthpiece. "This is General McAlester," he said.
  
  "Put him in the conference box so Hawk can eavesdrop."
  
  Poindexter flipped the switch, and the voice of NASA's chief of security filled the room. "There has been a fatal accident at the GKI Industries plant in Texas City," he announced curtly. "It happened last night-in the division that manufactures a component of the Apollo life support system. Alex Siemian flew in from Miami with his chief of security to investigate. He called me a few minutes ago and said he has something vital to show us. As captain of the second backup crew, you are naturally expected to be involved. We'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."
  
  "Right," Nick said, turning to Hawk.
  
  "So it's already starting to happen," the old man said gloomily.
  Chapter 7
  
  The big Fleetwood Eldorado sped down the Gulf Highway.
  
  Outside, the Texas heat was bright, heavy, oppressive, shimmering on the flat horizon. Inside the limo, it was cool, but almost cold, and the tinted blue windows shaded the eyes of the five men seated in the comfortable seats.
  
  "Making sure GKI sends his limousine for us," General McAlester said, drumming his bells thoughtfully on the edge of his armrest.
  
  "Now, Hewlett, don't be cynical," Ray Phinney sneered. "You know there's very little Alex Siemian can do for us at NASA. And that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his company only makes one component of the lunar spacecraft and would like to do everything."
  
  "Of course not," McAlester laughed. "What's a million dollars compared to twenty billion? At least among friends?"
  
  Gordon Nash, captain of the first group of astronauts, swiveled around in his jump seat. "Look, I don't care what anyone else says about Simian," he snapped. "That guy is everything in my book. If his friendship jeopardizes our integrity, that's our problem, not his."
  
  Nick stared out the window, listening again to the escalating arguments. She kept hissing from Houston. Simian and General Kinetics as a whole seemed like a sore point, a much-discussed issue among the four of them.
  
  Ray Finney chimed in again. "How many houses, boats, cars, and televisions have each of us had to give up in the last year? I wouldn't want to add up the total."
  
  "Pure goodwill," Macalest grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  e. - How did Simian report this to the Senate Investigative Committee?
  
  "That any disclosure of gift offers could destroy the intimate and confidential nature of NASA's relationships with its contractors," Finney said with mock solemnity.
  
  Major Sollitz leaned forward and slid the glass panel closed. Macalester chuckled. "It's a waste of time, Dwayne. I'm sure the entire limo is bugged, not just our chauffeur. Simian is even more security-conscious than you are."
  
  "I just feel like we shouldn't be on record talking about this guy like that," Sollitz snapped. "Simian is no different from any other contractor. Aerospace is a rollercoaster business. And when government contracts are growing but shrinking, competition gets really fierce. If we were in his shoes, we'd be doing the same thing..."
  
  "So, Duane, I don't think that's quite fair," McAlester said. "There's more to this monkey business than that."
  
  "Excessive influence? Then why doesn't NASA abandon GKI entirely?"
  
  "Because they build the best life support system that can be made," Gordon Nash interjected hotly. "Because they've been making submarines for thirty-five years and know everything there is to know about life support, whether it's under the ocean or in space. My life and Glenn's life here," he gestured at Nick, "depend on theirs. I don't think we should downgrade them."
  
  "No one is downplaying their technical know-how. It's the financial side of GKI that needs some investigation. At least, that's what the Cooper Committee seems to think."
  
  "Look, I'm the first to admit that Alex Siemian's reputation is questionable. He's a trader and a dealer, that's undeniable. And it's part of the public record that he was once a commodity speculator. But General Kinetics was a company without a future five years ago. Then Siemian took over-and look at it now."
  
  Nick glanced out the window. They had arrived at the outskirts of GKI's sprawling Texas City facility. A tangle of brick offices, glass-roofed research labs, and steel-walled hangars whirred past. Overhead, jet contrails pierced the sky, and through the quiet hiss of the Eldorado's air conditioning, Nick could hear the whine of a GK-111 taking off for a mid-flight refueling stopover to reach American bases in the Far East.
  
  The limousine slowed as it approached the main gate. Security police in green uniforms, their eyes like steel balls, waved at them and leaned through the windows, verifying their credentials. Eventually, they were cleared to proceed-but only to a black-and-white barrier, behind which stood additional GKI police. A couple of them dropped to all fours and peered under the Caddy's harness. "I just wish we at NASA were more thorough," Sollitz said grimly.
  
  "You're forgetting why we're here," McAlester retorted. "Apparently, there's been a security breach."
  
  The barrier was raised and the limousine drove along a vast concrete apron past the white blocky shapes of workshops, skeletal missile launchers and huge machine shops.
  
  Near the center of this open space, the Eldorado stopped. The driver's voice said over the intercom, "Gentlemen, that's all the permission I have." He pointed through the windshield to a small building standing apart from the others. "Mr. Simian is waiting for you in the spaceship simulator."
  
  "Phew!" McAlester gasped as they stepped out of the car and a gusty wind blew over them. Major Sollitz's cap flew off. He lunged after it, moving awkwardly, clumsily, clutching it with his left hand. "Atta boy, Duane. That's giving them away," McAlester chuckled.
  
  Gordon Nash laughed. He shielded his eyes from the sun and stared at the building. "It gives you a good idea of how small a role the space program plays in GKI's business," he said.
  
  Nick stopped and turned. Something began to itch deep in his head. Something, some small detail, raised a tiny question mark.
  
  "That may be so," said Ray Finney as they set off, "but all of GKI's Defense Department contracts are going to be reviewed this year. And they say the government won't give them any new contracts until the Cooper Committee finishes their books."
  
  Macalester snorted contemptuously. "Bluff," he said. "It would take ten accountants working ten hours a day for at least ten years to unravel Simian's financial empire. The man is richer than any half-dozen small countries you could name, and from what I've heard about him, he carries it all in his head. What will the Defense Department do with fighter jets, submarines, and missiles while they wait? Let Lionel Tois build them?"
  
  Major Sollitz stepped behind Nick. "I wanted to ask you something, Colonel."
  
  Nick looked at him cautiously. "Yeah?"
  
  Sollitz carefully brushed off his cap before putting it on. "It's actually your memory. Ray Finney told me this morning about your dizzy spell on the moonlit landscape..."
  
  "AND?"
  
  "Well, as you know, dizziness is one of the consequences of amine poisoning." Sollitz looked at him, scratching his
  
  
  
  
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  Read his words carefully. "The other one is memory lapses."
  
  Nick stopped and turned to face him. "Get to the point, Major."
  
  "Okay. I'll be frank. Have you noticed any problems of this nature, Colonel? The time frame I'm particularly interested in is just before you entered the prototype capsule. If possible, I'd like a second... a second-by-second breakdown of the events leading up to that. For example, chances are you caught a glimpse of someone adjusting the controls outside. It would be very helpful if you could recall a few details..."
  
  Nick was relieved to hear General McAlester calling them. "Dwayne, Glenn, hurry up. I want to present Simian with a solid front."
  
  Nick turned and said, "Pieces of it are starting to come back, Major. Why don't I give you a full report - in writing - tomorrow?"
  
  Sollitz nodded. "I think that would be advisable, Colonel."
  
  Simian stood just inside the entrance to a small building, talking to a group of men. He glanced up as they approached. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm very sorry we must meet under these circumstances."
  
  He was a large, bony man with hunched shoulders, a long-nosed face, and wobbly limbs. His head was clean-shaven, like a billiard ball, enhancing his already strong resemblance to an eagle (gossip columnists suggested he preferred this to his receding hairline). He had high cheekbones and the ruddy complexion of a Cossack, accentuated by his Sulka tie and expensive Pierre Cardin suit. Nick estimated his age to be between forty-five and fifty.
  
  He quickly reviewed everything he knew about this man and was surprised to discover that it was all speculation, gossip. There was nothing special. His real name (it was said) was Alexander Leonovich Simiansky. Place of birth: Khabarovsk, in the Siberian Far East-but, again, this was conjecture. Federal investigators could neither prove nor disprove it, nor could they document his story that he was a White Russian, the son of a general in the Tsarist army. The truth was, no documents existed that would identify Alexander Simian before he showed up in the 1930s in Qingdao, one of the Chinese ports that signed the treaty before the war.
  
  The financier shook hands with each of them, greeted them by name, and exchanged a few short words. He had a deep, unhurried voice without a hint of an accent. Neither foreign nor regional. It was neutral. The voice of a radio announcer. Nick had heard it could become almost hypnotic when he described a deal to a potential investor.
  
  As he approached Nick, Simian playfully punched him. "Well, Colonel, still playing for what you're worth?" he chuckled. Nick winked mysteriously and moved on, wondering what the hell he was talking about.
  
  The two men Simian spoke with turned out to be FBI agents. The third, a tall, friendly redhead in a green GKI police uniform, was introduced as his chief of security, Clint Sands. "Mr. Simian an 'A flew in from Florida last night, as soon as we learned what happened," Sands drawled. "If you follow me," he added, "I'll show you what we found."
  
  The spaceship simulator was a charred ruin. The wiring and controls had melted from the heat, and fragments of a human body still stuck to the inner hatch cover testified to how hot the metal itself must have been.
  
  "How many dead?" General McAlester asked, looking inside.
  
  "There were two men working there," Simian said, "testing the ECS system. The same thing happened as on the cape-an oxygen flare. We traced it to the electrical cord powering the work light. It was later determined that a rupture in the plastic insulation allowed the wire to create an electrical arc on the aluminum deck."
  
  "We ran tests with an identical wire," Sands said. "They indicated that a similar arc would ignite flammable materials within a radius of twelve to fourteen inches."
  
  "This is the original wire," Simian said, handing them the wire. "It's certainly melted badly, fused to part of the floor, but look at the break. It's cut, not frayed. And that's fixing it." He held out a tiny file and a magnifying glass. "Pass them on, please. The file was found wedged between a floor panel and a bundle of wires. Whoever used it must have dropped it and couldn't get it out. It's made of tungsten, so it wasn't damaged by the heat. Notice the inscription etched on the end of the handle-the letters YCK. I think anyone who knows Asia or knows tools will tell you that this file was made in Red China by the Chong company of Fuzhou. They still use the same stamping device as in the pre-Red days."
  
  He looked at each of them in turn. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am convinced that we are dealing with a program of organized sabotage, and I am also convinced that the Chinese Reds are behind it. I believe the Chicoms intend to destroy both the US and Soviet lunar programs.
  
  
  
  
  
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  "Remember what happened to Soyuz 1 last year-when Russian cosmonaut Komarov was killed." He paused for dramatic emphasis, then said, "You can continue your investigation as you see fit, but my security forces are acting on the assumption that Beijing is behind our problems."
  
  Clint Sands nodded. "And that's not the end of it-far from it. There was another incident on the Cape yesterday. A bus full of Space Center dependents went out of control and crashed into a ditch on the way back from Orlando. No one was seriously hurt, but the kids were shaken, and the women were all hysterical. They said it wasn't an accident. Turns out they were right. We checked the steering column. It was sawed through. So we flew them to GKI Medical Center in Miami at Mr. Siemian's expense. At least they'll be safe there."
  
  Major Sollitz nodded. "Probably the best thing under the circumstances," he said. "The overall security situation on the cape is chaos."
  
  Nick wanted that tungsten file for AXE Labs, but there was no way to get it without blowing his cover. So, two FBI agents left with it. He made a mental note to have Hawk formally request it later.
  
  As they walked back to the limo, Siemian said, "I'm sending the remains of the spacecraft simulator to NASA's Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia, for a sophisticated autopsy by experts. When this is all over," he added unexpectedly, "and the Apollo program begins again, I hope you'll all agree to be my guests at Cathay for a week."
  
  "There's nothing I like more," Gordon Nash chuckled. "Unofficially, of course."
  
  As their limousine pulled away, General McAlester said heatedly, "I want you to know, Duane, that I object strongly to your remark about security conditions at Cape Kennedy. It borders on insubordination."
  
  "Why don't you finally face it?" Sollitz snapped. "It's impossible to provide decent security if contractors won't cooperate with us. And Connelly Aviation never did. Their police system is worthless. If we'd worked with GKI on the Apollo project, we'd have a thousand extra security measures in place. They'd be drawing men."
  
  "That's definitely the impression Simian is trying to convey," McAlester replied. "Who exactly do you work for-NASA or GKI?"
  
  "We may still be working with GKI," said Ray Phinney. "This Senate autopsy will certainly include all the accidents that plagued Connelly Aviation. If another one happens in the interim, a crisis of confidence will ensue, and the Moon contract will be put up for sale. GKI is the logical successor. If its technical proposal is strong and the bid is low, I think NASA's senior management will overlook Siemian's leadership and award them the contract."
  
  "Let's drop this topic," Sollits snapped.
  
  "Fine," Finny said. He turned to Nick. "What was that Simian shot about you playing your hand, what was it worth?"
  
  Nick's mind raced with answers. Before he could come up with a satisfactory answer, Gordon Nash laughed and said, "Poker. He and Glenn had a big game when we were at his house in Palm Beach last year. Glenn must have dropped a couple hundred-you didn't, buddy?"
  
  "Gambling? An astronaut?" Ray Finney chuckled. "That's like Batman burning his war card."
  
  "You can't escape it when you're around Simian," Nash said. "He's a natural gambler, the kind of guy who'll bet on how many birds will fly overhead in the next hour. I think that's how he made his millions. Taking risks, gambling."
  
  * * *
  
  The phone rang before dawn.
  
  Nick reached for it hesitantly. Gordon Nash's voice said, "Come on, buddy." We're leaving for Cape Kennedy in an hour. Something happened." His voice was tense with suppressed excitement. "Maybe we should try again. Anyway, Mom, and I'll pick you up in twenty minutes. Don't take anything with you. All our gear is packed and waiting at Ellington."
  
  Nick hung up and dialed Poindexter's extension. "Project Phoenix is ready," he told the man from the newsroom. "What are your instructions? Are you following or staying?"
  
  "I'm staying here on a temporary basis," Poindexter replied. "If your field of operations shifts here, this will be your base. Your man at the Cape has everything set up at this end. This is L-32. Peterson. He can be reached through NASA security. Eye contact is sufficient. Good luck, N3."
  Chapter 8
  
  Buttons were pressed, levers were pulled. The telescopic drawbridge retracted. The doors closed, and the mobile cabin, on its enormous wheels, slowly and deliberately sped toward the waiting 707.
  
  The two groups of astronauts stood tensely next to their mountains of equipment. They were surrounded by doctors, technicians, and site managers. Just minutes earlier, they had received a briefing from Flight Director Ray Phinney. Now they knew about Project Phoenix and that its launch was scheduled for exactly ninety-six hours later.
  
  "I wish it were us," said John C.
  
  
  
  
  
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  Orbinet. "Standing and waiting, which makes you nervous when you get up again."
  
  "Yeah, remember, we were originally the backup crew for the Liscomb flight," Bill Ransom said. "So maybe you'll still be going."
  
  "That's not funny," Gordon Nash snapped. "Take it away."
  
  "You better relax, all of you," Dr. Sun said, unfastening the restraint on Roger Kane's right arm. "Your blood pressure is above normal at this hour, Commander. Try to get some sleep on the flight. I have non-narcotic sedatives if you need them. This will be a long countdown. Don't strain yourself for the time being."
  
  Nick looked at her with cold admiration. As she took his blood pressure, she kept looking him straight in the eyes. Defiantly, icily, without blinking. It was hard to do that with someone you'd just ordered killed. Despite all the talk of clever spies, a person's eyes were still the windows to their mind. And they were rarely completely empty.
  
  His fingers touched the photograph in his pocket. He'd brought it with him, intending to press the buttons to make things happen. He wondered what he'd see in Joy Sun's eyes when she looked at them and realized the game was over.
  
  He watched her study the medical records-dark-skinned, tall, incredibly beautiful, her mouth painted with a fashionably pale 651 lipstick (no matter the pressure, the result was always a 651mm thick pink film). He imagined her pale and breathless, her mouth swollen with shock, her eyes filled with hot tears of shame. He suddenly realized he wanted to shatter that perfect mask, wanted to take a strand of her black hair and bend her cold, arrogant body beneath his again. With a rush of genuine surprise, Nick realized he physically desired Joy Sun.
  
  The lounge suddenly stopped. The lights flickered. A muffled voice barked something over the intercom. The Air Force sergeant at the controls pressed a button. The doors opened, and the drawbridge slid forward. Major Sollitz leaned out of the door of the Boeing 707. He held a PA megaphone in his hand. He raised it to his lips.
  
  "There will be a delay," he announced curtly. "There was a bomb. I guess it's all just a scare. But as a result, we'll have to dismantle the 707 piece by piece. In the meantime, we're preparing another one on Runway Twelve to make sure you're not delayed any longer than necessary. Thank you."
  
  Bill Ransom shook his head. "I don't like the sound of that."
  
  "It's probably just a routine safety check," Gordon Nash said.
  
  "I bet some prankster called in an anonymous tip."
  
  "Then he's a high-ranking jokester," Nash said. "In the highest ranks of NASA. Because no one below the JCS even knew about this flight."
  
  That's what Nick had just thought, and it bothered him. He recalled the events of yesterday, his mind reaching for that elusive little piece of information that was trying to be heard. But every time he thought he had it, he ran and hid again.
  
  The 707 rose quickly and effortlessly, its huge jet engines sending out long, thin trails of steam as they soared through the cloud layer into bright sunshine and blue sky.
  
  There were only fourteen passengers in total, and they were scattered throughout the huge plane, most of them lying on three seats and sleeping.
  
  But not N3. And not Dr. Sun.
  
  He sat down next to her before she could protest. A tiny flicker of worry flickered in her eyes, then vanished just as quickly.
  
  Nick was now looking past her, out the window at the white woolen clouds billowing beneath the jet stream. They'd been in the air for half an hour. "How about a cup of coffee and a chat?" he offered pleasantly.
  
  "Stop playing games," she said sharply. "I know perfectly well that you are not Colonel Eglund."
  
  Nick pressed the bell. An Air Force sergeant, who was also serving as a flight attendant, approached the aisle. "Two cups of coffee," Nick said. "One black and one..." He turned to her.
  
  "Also black." When the sergeant left, she asked, "Who are you? A government agent?"
  
  "What makes you think I'm not Eglund?"
  
  She turned away from him. "Your body," she said, and to his surprise, he saw her blush. "It's... well, it's different."
  
  Suddenly, without warning, he said, "Who did you send to kill me in the Moon Machine?"
  
  Her head snapped around. "What are you talking about?"
  
  "Don't try to fool me," N3 croaked. He pulled the photo out of his pocket and handed it to her. "I see you're wearing your hair differently now."
  
  She sat motionless. Her eyes were very wide and very dark. Without moving a muscle except her mouth, she said, "Where did you get this?"
  
  He turned, watching the sergeant approach with coffee. "They sell them on Forty-Second Street," he said sharply.
  
  The blast wave crashed down on him. The floor of the plane tilted sharply. Nick
  
  
  
  
  
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  The sergeant grabbed the seat, trying to regain his balance. Coffee cups flew.
  
  When his eardrums were relieved by the blast's sonic impact, Nick heard a terrifying howl, almost a scream. He was pressed hard against the seat in front of him. He heard the girl's scream and saw her lunge at him.
  
  The sergeant lost his grip. His body seemed to be stretched toward the howling white hole. There was a crash as his head passed through, his shoulders slamming against the frame, then his entire body vanished-sucked through the hole with a terrible whistling noise. The girl was still screaming, her fist clenched between her teeth, her eyes staring from her head at what she had just witnessed.
  
  The plane tilted sharply. The seats were now being sucked through the opening. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw cushions, luggage, and equipment floating skyward. The unoccupied seats in front of them folded in half, their contents exploding. Wires descended from the ceiling. The floor bulged. The lights went out.
  
  Then he suddenly found himself in midair, floating toward the ceiling. The girl flew past him. As her head hit the ceiling, he grabbed her leg and pulled her toward him, tugging her dress inch by inch until her face was level with his. Now they lay upside down on the ceiling. Her eyes were closed. Her face was pale, with dark, trickling blood running down the sides.
  
  A scream shattered his eardrums. Something slammed into him. It was Gordon Nash. Something else hit his leg. He looked down. It was a member of the medical team, his neck hanging at an odd angle. Nick looked past them. The bodies of other passengers floated through the fuselage from the front of the plane, bobbing against the ceiling like corks.
  
  N3 knew what was happening. The jet had gone out of control, rushing into space at fantastic speed, creating a state of weightlessness.
  
  To his surprise, he felt someone tug at his sleeve. He forced his head to turn. Gordon Nash's mouth was moving. It formed the words "Follow me." The cosmonaut leaned forward, moving hand in hand along the overhead compartment. Nick followed. He suddenly remembered that Nash had been in space on two Gemini missions. Weightlessness was nothing new to him.
  
  He saw what Nash was trying to achieve and understood. An inflatable life raft. However, there was a problem. The hydraulic component of the access door had been torn off. The heavy metal part, which was actually part of the fuselage skin, wouldn't budge. Nick motioned for Nash to step aside and "swam" to the mechanism. From his pocket, he pulled out a tiny two-pronged cable, the kind he sometimes used to start the engines of locked vehicles. With it, he managed to ignite the battery-powered emergency cap. The access door swung open.
  
  Nick grabbed the edge of the life raft before it was sucked through the gaping hole. He found the inflator and activated it. It expanded with a furious hiss to twice the size of the opening. He and Nash maneuvered it into position. It didn't last long, but if it did, someone might be able to reach the cabin.
  
  A giant fist seemed to slam into his ribs. He found himself lying face down on the floor. The taste of blood was in his mouth. Something had struck him in the back. Gordon Nash's leg. Nick turned his head and saw the rest of him pinned between two seats. The other passengers had torn away the ceiling behind him. The high roar of the engines intensified. Gravity was being restored. The crew must have managed to raise the nose of the plane above the horizon.
  
  He crawled toward the cockpit, pulling himself up from one place to another, fighting the terrifying current. He knew that if the life raft went, so did he. But he had to contact the crew, had to make a final report over their radio if they were doomed.
  
  Five faces turned to him as he swung open the cockpit door. "What's wrong?" the pilot shouted. "What's the situation?"
  
  "A bomb," Nick countered. "It doesn't look good. There's a hole in the fuselage. We sealed it, but only temporarily."
  
  Four red warning lights on the flight engineer's console lit up. "Pressure and quantity!" F.E. barked at the pilot. "Pressure and quantity!"
  
  The cockpit smelled of panicked sweat and cigarette smoke. The pilot and copilot began pressing and pulling switches, while the navigator's monotonous, drawn-out muttering continued: "AFB, Bobby. This is Speedbird 410. C-ALGY calling B for Bobby..."
  
  There was a crunch of tearing metal, and all eyes shifted to the right. "Number 3 incoming," the co-pilot croaked as the onboard capsule on the right wing broke away from the aircraft.
  
  "What are our chances of surviving?" Nick demanded.
  
  "At this point, Colonel, your guess is as good as mine. I'd say..."
  
  The pilot was interrupted by a sharp voice over the intercom. "C-ALGY, give me your position. C-ALGY..."
  
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  Igator stated his position and reported on the situation. "We have the go-ahead," he said after a moment.
  
  "We're going to try to find Barksdale Air Force Base in Shreveport, Louisiana," the pilot said. "They have the longest runways. But first, we have to use up our fuel. So, we're going to be in the air for at least two more hours. I suggest you all buckle up in the back, and then just sit back and pray!"
  
  * * *
  
  Jets of black smoke and orange flames erupted from the three remaining jet nacelles. The massive aircraft shook violently as they rounded a sharp turn over Barksdale Air Force Base.
  
  The wind roared through the plane's cabin, sucking them in fiercely. The seatbelts cut into their midsection. There was a metallic crack, and the fuselage split even further. Air rushed through the growing hole with a piercing scream-like a can of hairspray with a hole punched through it.
  
  Nick turned to look at Joy Sun. Her mouth was trembling. There were purple shadows under her eyes. Fear gripped her, slimy and ugly. "Are we going to do this?" she gasped.
  
  He stared at her with empty eyes. Fear would give him answers that even torture couldn't. "This doesn't look good," he said.
  
  By now, two men were dead-an Air Force sergeant and a member of the NASA medical team, whose spinal cord was fractured when he hit the ceiling. The other man, a cushion repair technician, was strapped into his seat but severely injured. Nick didn't think he'd survive. The astronauts were shaken, but no one was seriously injured. They were used to emergencies; they didn't panic. Dr. Sun's injury, a skull fracture, was superficial, but her concerns were not. N3 took advantage. "I need answers," he croaked. "You have nothing to gain by not answering. Your friends have deceived you, so you're obviously expendable. Who planted the bomb?"
  
  Hysteria was growing in her eyes. "A bomb? What bomb?" she gasped. "You don't think I had anything to do with this, do you? How could I? Why would I be here?"
  
  "Then what about this pornographic photo?" he demanded. "And what about your connection with Pat Hammer? You were seen together at Bali Hai. Don Lee said so."
  
  She shook her head vigorously. "Don Lee lied," she breathed. "I've only been to Bali Hai once, and not with Hammer. I didn't know him personally. My work never brought me into contact with the Cape Kennedy crews." She said nothing, then the words seemed to spill out of her mouth. "I went to Bali Hai because Alex Simian sent me a message to meet him there."
  
  "Simian? What is your connection with him?"
  
  "I worked at the GKI School of Medicine in Miami," she gasped. "Before I joined NASA." There was another crack, this time of fabric, and the inflated life raft, squeezing through the hole, disappeared with a loud crash. Air roared through the fuselage, shaking them, tearing their hair, blowing out their cheeks. She grabbed him. He hugged her automatically. "Oh my God!" she sobbed brokenly. "How much longer until we land?"
  
  "Speak."
  
  "Okay, there was more!" she said fiercely. "We had an affair. I was in love with him-I think I still am. I first met him when I was a girl. It was in Shanghai, around 1948. He came to visit my father to interest him in a deal." She spoke quickly now, trying to contain her rising panic. "Simian spent the war years in a prison camp in the Philippines. After the war, he got into the ramie fiber trade there. He learned that the Communists were planning to take over China. He knew there would be a fiber shortage. My father had a warehouse full of ramie in Shanghai. Simian wanted to buy it. My father agreed. Later, he and my father became partners, and I saw a lot of him."
  
  Her eyes gleamed with fear as another section of the fuselage tore free. "I was in love with him. Like a schoolgirl. I was heartbroken when he married an American in Manila. That was in '53. Later, I learned why he did it. He was involved in a lot of scams, and the men he ruined were after him. By marrying this woman, he was able to emigrate to the United States and become a citizen. As soon as he had his first papers, he divorced her."
  
  Nick knew the rest of the story. It was part of American business legend. Simian had invested in the stock market, committed murder, acquired a string of failing companies. He'd breathed life into them, and then sold them at fantastically inflated prices. "He's brilliant, but absolutely ruthless," Joy Sun said, looking past Nick into the widening hole. "After he gave me the job at GKI, we started an affair. It was inevitable. But after a year, he got bored and broke it off." She buried her face in her hands. "He didn't come up to me and tell me it was over," she whispered. "He fired me and, in the process, did everything he could to ruin my reputation." It shook her.
  
  
  
  
  
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  head in the memory of it. "Still, I couldn't get it out of my system, and when I got this message from him - this was about two months ago - I went to Bali Hai."
  
  "Did he call you directly?"
  
  "No, he always works through intermediaries. This time it was a man named Johnny Hung Fat. Johnny was involved in several financial scandals with him. He was ruined by this. He turned out to be a waiter at Bali Hai. It was Johnny who told me that Alex wanted to meet me there. However, Simian never showed up, and I spent the whole time drinking. In the end, Johnny brought this man. He's the manager of the discotheque there..."
  
  "Rhino tree?"
  
  She nodded. "He tricked me. My pride was hurt, I was drunk, and I think they must have put something in my drink, because the next thing I knew, we were sitting on the couch in the office and... I couldn't get enough of him." She shuddered slightly and turned away. "I never knew they took a picture of us. It was dark. I don't understand how..."
  
  "Infrared film".
  
  "I guess Johnny was planning on shaking me down later. Anyway, I don't think Alex had anything to do with it. Johnny must have just been using his name as bait..."
  
  Nick decided, damn it, if he was going to die, he at least wanted to watch. The ground was rising up to meet them. Ambulances, first aid vehicles, men in aluminum firefighting suits were already fanning out. He felt a soft thud as the plane touched down. A few minutes later, they rolled to an even smoother stop, and the passengers joyfully descended the emergency chutes onto the blessed, hard earth...
  
  They remained in Barksdale for seven hours while a team of Air Force doctors examined them, distributed medicine and first aid to those who needed it, and hospitalized two of the most serious cases.
  
  At 5:00 p.m., an Air Force Globemaster arrived from Patrick Air Force Base, and they boarded it for the final leg of their journey. An hour later, they landed at McCoy Field in Orlando, Florida.
  
  The place was swarming with FBI and NASA security personnel. White-helmeted deputies herded them toward the closed military zone of the field, where army reconnaissance vehicles waited. "Where are we going?" Nick asked.
  
  "Lots of NASA armor flew in from Washington," one lawmaker replied. "Looks like it's going to be an all-night Q&A session."
  
  Nick tugged at Joy Sun's sleeve. They were at the very end of the miniature parade, and gradually, step by step, they were moving deeper into the darkness. "Come on," he said suddenly. "This way." They dodged a fuel truck, then turned back toward the civilian area of the field and the taxi ramp he'd spotted earlier. "First thing we need is a drink," he said.
  
  Any answers he had he was going to send directly to Hawk, not to the FBI, not to the CIA, and above all not to NASA Security.
  
  At the Cherry Plaza cocktail bar overlooking Lake Eola, he talked with Joy Sun. They had a long conversation-the kind of conversation people have had after a terrible experience together. "Look, I was wrong about you," Nick said. "I'm breaking every tooth in my head to admit it, but what else can I say? I thought you were the enemy."
  
  "And now?"
  
  He smirked. "I think you're a big, juicy distraction someone threw my way."
  
  She tossed the bead aside to laugh-and the blush suddenly left her face. Nick glanced up. It was the ceiling of the cocktail bar. It was mirrored. "Oh my God!" she gasped. "That's what it was like on the plane-upside down. It's like seeing everything all over again." She began to tremble, and Nick hugged her. "Please," she murmured, "take me home." He nodded. They both knew what would happen there.
  Chapter 9
  
  Home was a bungalow in Cocoa Beach.
  
  They got there by taxi from Orlando, and Nick didn't care that their route would be easily traced.
  
  So far, he'd had a pretty good cover story. He and Joy Sun had been quietly chatting on the plane, walking hand in hand to McCoy Field-just what was expected of budding lovers. Now, after a grueling emotional experience, they'd slipped away for some alone time. Perhaps not quite what was expected of a true gay astronaut, but at least it hadn't yielded any results. At least not right away. He had until morning-and that would be enough.
  
  Until then, McAlester will have to cover for him.
  
  The bungalow was a square block of plaster and ash, right on the beach. A small living room stretched across the entire width. It was pleasantly furnished with bamboo lounge chairs upholstered in foam. The floor was covered with palm-leaf mats. Wide windows overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, with a door to the bedroom to the right and another door beyond that, opening onto the beach.
  
  "Everything is a mess," she said. "I left for Houston so suddenly after the accident that I didn't have a chance to clean up."
  
  She locked the door behind her and stood in front of it, watching him. Her face was no longer a cold and beautiful mask. The wide, high cheekbones were still there.
  
  
  
  
  
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  d - finely sculpted depressions. But her eyes glistened with shock, and her voice lost its calm confidence. For the first time, she looked like a woman, not a mechanical goddess.
  
  Desire began to build within Nick. He quickly approached her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her hard on the lips. They were hard and cold, but the warmth of her struggling breasts pierced him like an electric shock. The heat grew. He felt his hips thrash. He kissed her again, his lips hard and cruel. He heard a strangled "No!" She pulled her lips away from his and pressed her clenched fists against him. "Your face!"
  
  For a moment, he didn't understand what she meant. "Eglund," she said. "I kiss the mask." She gave him a trembling smile. "You realize I've seen your body, but not the face that goes with it?"
  
  "I'll go get Eglund." He headed for the bathroom. It was time for the astronaut to retire anyway. The interior of Poindexter's masterpiece had become damp from the heat. The silicone emulsion had become unbearably itchy. Besides, now his cover was also exhausted. The events on the plane from Houston had demonstrated that "Eglund's" presence actually posed a danger to the other lunar project astronauts. He took off his shirt, wrapped a towel around his neck, and carefully removed the plastic hair mask. He fished the foam from the inside of his cheeks, pulled his light eyebrows together, and vigorously rubbed his face, smearing the remnants of his makeup. Then he leaned over the sink and pulled the hazel-pupiled contact lenses from his eyes. He glanced up and saw Joy Sun's reflection in the mirror, watching him from the doorway.
  
  "A definite improvement," she smiled, and in the reflection of her face, her eyes moved, traveling over his metal-smooth torso. All the muscular grace of a panther was contained within that magnificent figure, and her eyes missed none of it.
  
  He turned to face her, wiping the remaining silicone from his face. His steel-gray eyes, which could smolder darkly or turn icy with cruelty, sparkled with laughter. "Will I pass the physical, Doc?"
  
  "So many scars," she said, surprised. "Knife. Bullet wound. Razor cut." She noted the descriptions as her ringer traced their jagged paths. His muscles tensed under her touch. He took a deep breath, feeling a knot of tension beneath his stomach.
  
  "Appendectomy, gallbladder surgery," he said firmly. "Don't romanticize it."
  
  "I'm a doctor, remember? Don't try to fool me." She looked at him with bright eyes. "You still haven't answered my question. Are you some kind of super secret agent?"
  
  He pulled her close, resting his chin on his hand. "You mean they didn't tell you?" he chuckled. "I'm from the planet Krypton." He brushed his wet lips against hers, gently at first, then harder. A nervous tension rose in her body, resisting for a second, but then she softened, and with a soft whimper, her eyes closed and her mouth became a hungry little animal, seeking him, hot and wet, the tip of her tongue seeking satisfaction. He felt her fingers undo his belt. Blood boiled inside him. Desire grew like a tree. Her hands trembled over his body. She removed her mouth, buried her head in his neck for a second, then pulled away. "Wow!" she said uncertainly.
  
  "Bedroom," he grumbled, needing to explode inside him like a pistol.
  
  "Oh, God, yes, I think you're the one I've been waiting for." Her breathing was ragged. "After Simian... then that thing in Bali Hai... I wasn't a man. I thought forever. But you could be different. I see it now. Oh, my gosh," she shuddered as he pulled her against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, and in the same movement ripped her blouse open. She wasn't wearing a bra-he knew it from the way the ripe buds moved beneath the fabric. Her nipples stood hard against his chest. She writhed against him, her hands exploring his body, her mouth glued to his, her tongue a swift, meaty sword.
  
  Without breaking contact, he half lifted, half carried her across the hall and across the palm-leaf mat to the bed.
  
  He laid her down on him, and she nodded, not even noticing how his hands moved over her body, unzipping her skirt, stroking her hips. He leaned over her, kissing her breasts, his lips closing over their softness. She moaned softly, and he felt her warmth spread beneath him.
  
  Then he no longer thought, just felt, escaping from the nightmarish world of betrayal and sudden death that was his natural habitat into the bright, sensual flow of time that was like a great river, concentrating on the feeling of the girl's perfect body floating at an ever-accelerating pace until they reached the threshold and her hands caressed him with increasing urgency and her fingers dug into him and her mouth pressed to his in a final plea and their bodies tensed and arched and fused together, hips straining deliciously
  
  
  
  
  
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  Mouths and lips mingled and she let out a long, shaking, happy sigh and let her head fall back against the pillows as she felt the sudden shudder of his body as his seed came...
  
  They lay in silence for a while, her hands moving rhythmically, hypnotically over his skin. Nick almost drifted off to sleep. Then, having stopped thinking about it for the last few minutes, it suddenly occurred to him. The sensation was almost physical: a bright light flooded his head. He had it! The missing key!
  
  At that very moment, a knock rang out, terrifyingly loud in the silence. He rushed away from her, but she came to him, entangling him with soft, caressing curves, unwilling to give him up. She twisted around him so much that even in this sudden crisis, he was close to forgetting his own peril.
  
  "Is anyone there?" a voice shouted.
  
  Nick broke free and rushed to the window. He pulled the blinds back a fraction of an inch. An unmarked patrol car with a whip antenna was parked in front of the house. Two figures in white protective helmets and riding pants were shining flashlights into the living room window. Nick gestured for the girl to throw on some clothes and open the door.
  
  She did, and he stood with his ear pressed to the bedroom door, listening. "Hello, ma'am, we didn't know you were home," a male voice said. "Just checking. The outside light was off. It's been on for the last four nights." A second male voice said, "You're Dr. Sun, aren't you?" He heard Joy say it. "You just got here from Houston, right?" She said it was. "Is everything okay? Was anything disturbed in the house while you were gone?" She said everything was fine, and the first male voice said, "Okay, we just wanted to make sure. After what happened here, you can't be too careful. If you need us quickly, just dial zero three times. We have a direct line now."
  
  "Thank you, officers. Good night." He heard the front door close. "More police from the GKI," she said, returning to the bedroom. "They seem to be everywhere." She stopped dead in her tracks. "You're coming," she said accusingly.
  
  "I'll have to," he said, buttoning his shirt. "And to make matters worse, I'm going to add insult to injury by asking if I can borrow your car."
  
  "I like that part," she smiled. "It means you'll have to bring it back. First thing in the morning, please. I mean, what..." She stopped suddenly, a startled expression on her face. "Oh my God, I don't even know your name!"
  
  "Nick Carter".
  
  She laughed. "Not very creative, but I suppose in your business, one fake name is as good as another..."
  
  * * *
  
  All ten lines at NASA's administration center were busy, so he started dialing numbers nonstop so that when the call ended, he would have a chance.
  
  A single image kept flashing through his mind: Major Sollitz chasing his hat, his left arm awkwardly reaching across his body, his right arm pinned tightly to his torso. Something about that scene at the Texas City plant yesterday afternoon had bothered him, but what it was eluded him-until he stopped thinking about it for a moment. Then, unnoticed, it surfaced in his mind.
  
  Yesterday morning Sollits was right-handed!
  
  His mind raced through the complex ramifications that spread in all directions from this discovery, as his fingers automatically dialed the number and his ear listened to the ringing sound of the connection being established.
  
  He sat on the edge of the bed in his room at the Gemini Inn, barely noticing the neat stack of suitcases Hank Peterson had delivered from Washington, or the Lamborghini keys on the nightstand, or the note beneath them that said: Let me know when you get in. Extension L-32. Hank.
  
  Sollitz was the missing piece. Take him into account, and everything else fell into place. Nick recalled the major's shock when he first entered his office and silently cursed himself. This should have been a tip-off. But he was too blinded by the sun-Dr. Sun-to notice anyone's behavior.
  
  Joy Sun was also surprised, but she was the one who first diagnosed Eglund's condition as amine poisoning. So her surprise was natural. She just didn't expect to see him so soon.
  
  The line has been cleared at the administrative center.
  
  "The red room," he told them in Glenn Eglund's Kansas City drawl. "This is Eagle Four. Give me the red room."
  
  The wire hummed and buzzed, and a man's voice came through. "Security," he said. "Captain Lisor speaking."
  
  "This is Eagle Four, top priority. Is Major Sollitz there?"
  
  "Eagle-Four, they were looking for you. You missed the report to McCoy. Where are you now?"
  
  "Never mind," Nick said impatiently. "Is Sollitz there?"
  
  "No, he's not."
  
  "Okay, find him. That's the top priority."
  
  "Wait. I'll check."
  
  Who, other than Sollitz, could have known about Phoenix One? Who, other than Apollo's chief of security, could have access to the medical center?
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  In which department of the Spacecraft Center? Who else knew every phase of the medical program, was thoroughly aware of its dangers, and could be seen anywhere without arousing suspicion? Who else had facilities in Houston and Cape Kennedy?
  
  Sollitz, N3, was now convinced it was Sol who had met Pat Hammer at Bali Hai in Palm Beach and plotted to destroy the Apollo capsule. Sollitz had attempted to kill Glenn Eglund when the astronaut learned of the major's plan. However, Sollitz hadn't been told of Nick's masquerade. Only General McAlester knew. So, when "Eglund" reappeared, Sollitz panicked. It was he who had tried to kill him on the lunar landscape. The tradeoff was a switch from right to left hand, the result of a broken wrist sustained in a knife fight.
  
  Now Nick understood the meaning of all those questions about his memory. And Eglund's answer that "bits and pieces" were slowly returning panicked the major even more. So, he planted a bomb in the "backup" plane, and then constructed a fake bomb, allowing him to replace the original plane with the alternative one without first having it checked by a demolition team.
  
  A sharp voice came over the wire. "Eagle Four, this is General McAlester. Where the hell did you and Dr. Sun go after your plane landed in McCoy? You left a whole bunch of high-ranking security officials there cooling their heels."
  
  "General, I'll explain everything to you in a minute, but first, where is Major Sollits? It's crucial that we find him."
  
  "I don't know," McAlester said flatly. "And I don't think anyone else does either. He was on the second plane to McCoy. We know that. But he disappeared somewhere in the terminal and hasn't been seen since. Why?"
  
  Nick asked if their conversation was encrypted. It was. That's what he told him. "Oh my God," was all the NASA security chief could say at the end.
  
  "Sollitz wasn't the boss," Nick added. "He did the dirty work for someone else. Maybe the USSR. Beijing. At this point, we can only guess."
  
  "But how the hell did he get security clearance? How did he get as far as he did?"
  
  "I don't know," Nick said. "I'm hoping his notes will give us a clue. I'm going to get Peterson Radio AXE with a full report, and I'm also going to request a thorough background check on Sollitz, as well as Alex Simian from GKI. I want to double-check what Joy Sun told me about him."
  
  "I just spoke to Hawk," McAlester said. "He told me Glenn Eglund finally regained consciousness at Walter Reed. They hope to interview him soon."
  
  "Speaking of Eglund," Nick said, "could you make the fake man relapse? With the Phoenix countdown underway and the astronauts tethered to their stations, his cover becomes a physical handicap. I need to be free to move."
  
  "That can be arranged," Macalester said. He seemed happy about it. "It would explain why you and Dr. Sun ran away. Amnesia from hitting your head on the plane. And she followed you to try to bring you back."
  
  Nick said everything was fine and hung up. He fell across the bed. He was too tired to even undress. He was glad things were going so well for McAlester. He wanted something convenient to come his way for a change. It did. He fell asleep.
  
  A moment later, the phone woke him. At least, it felt like a moment, but it couldn't have been because it was dark. He hesitantly reached for the receiver. "Hello?"
  
  "Finally!" Candy Sweet exclaimed. "Where have you been for the last three days? I've been trying to get you."
  
  "Called," he said vaguely. "What's going on?"
  
  "I found something terribly important on Merritt Island," she said excitedly. "Meet me in the lobby in half an hour."
  Chapter 10
  
  The fog began to clear early in the morning. Ragged blue holes opened and closed in the grayness. Through them, Nick caught glimpses of orange groves, rushing past like spokes on a wheel.
  
  Candy was driving. She insisted they take her car, a sports model GT Giulia. She also insisted he wait and actually see her opening. She said she couldn't tell him about it.
  
  "Still playing around like a little girl," he decided sourly. He glanced at her. Her hip-huggers had been replaced by a white miniskirt, which, along with her belted blouse, white tennis shoes, and freshly washed blonde hair, gave her the look of a schoolgirl cheerleader.
  
  She felt him watching her and turned. "Not much further," she smiled. "It's north of Dummitt Grove."
  
  The Space Center's lunar port occupied only a small portion of Merritt Island. More than seventy thousand acres were leased to farmers, who originally owned orange groves. The road north of Bennett's Drive ran through a wilderness of swamps and scrubland, crossed by the Indian River, Seedless Enterprise, and Dummitt Groves, all dating back to the 1830s.
  
  
  
  
  
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  The road now curved around a small bay, and they passed a cluster of dilapidated shacks on stilts at the water's edge, a gas station with a grocery store, and a small shipyard with a fishing dock lined with shrimp trawlers. "Enterprise," she said. "It's right across from Port Canaveral. We're almost there."
  
  They drove another quarter mile, and Candy put on her right turn signal and began to slow down. She pulled off the side of the road and stopped. She turned to look at him. "Been here." She picked up her purse and opened the side door,
  
  Nick climbed into his car and paused, looking around. They were in the middle of an open, deserted landscape. To the right, a vast panorama of saltwater Fiats stretched to the Banana River. To the north, the apartments had become a swamp. Dense thickets clung to the water's edge. Three hundred yards to the left, the electrified MILA (Merritt Island Launch Pad) fence began. Through the undergrowth, he could just make out the Phoenix 1 concrete launch pad on a gentle slope, and four miles beyond, the bright orange beams and delicate platforms of the 56-story auto assembly plant.
  
  Somewhere behind them, a distant helicopter hummed. Nick turned, closing his eyes. He saw the flash of its rotor in the morning sun over Port Canaveral.
  
  "This way," Candy said. She crossed the highway and headed into the bushes. Nick followed. The heat inside the reed brake was unbearable. Mosquitoes gathered in swarms, tormenting them. Candy ignored them, her tough, stubborn side emerging again. They came to a drainage ditch that opened onto a wide canal that had apparently once been used as a channel. The ditch was choked with weeds and underwater grass and narrowed where the embankment was washed away by the water.
  
  She dropped her purse and kicked off her tennis shoes. "I'll need both hands," she said, and waded down the slope into the knee-deep mud. Now she moved forward, bending over, searching with her hands in the murky water.
  
  Nick watched her from the top of the embankment. He shook his head. "What the hell are you looking for?" he chuckled. The roar of the helicopter grew louder. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. It was heading in their direction, about three hundred feet above the ground, the light reflecting off its spinning rotor blades.
  
  "I found it!" Candy shouted. He turned. She had walked about a hundred feet along a drainage ditch and bent down, picking at something in the dirt. He moved toward her. The helicopter sounded as if it were almost directly overhead. He glanced up. The rotor blades were tilted, increasing its rate of descent. He could make out white lettering on a red underside-SHARP FLYING SERVICE. It was one of six helicopters that flew on a half-hourly schedule from the Cocoa Beach amusement pier to Port Canaveral, then followed the MILA perimeter fence, allowing tourists to take photos of the VAB building and launch pads.
  
  Whatever Candy had found was now halfway out of the mud. "Get my purse, will you?" she called. "I left it there for a bit. I need something in it."
  
  The helicopter veered sharply. Now it was back, no more than a hundred feet above the ground, the wind from its spinning blades smoothing the overgrown bushes along the embankment. Nick found his purse. He leaned down and picked it up. A sudden silence lifted his head. The helicopter's engine cut out. It was skimming over the tops of the reeds, heading straight for him!
  
  He turned left and dove headfirst into the ditch. A huge, thundering roar erupted behind him. Heat wavered in the air like wet silk. A jagged ball of flame shot upward, followed immediately by plumes of blackish, carbon-rich smoke that blotted out the sun.
  
  Nick scrambled back up the embankment and ran toward the wreckage. He could see the figure of a man inside the blazing plexiglass canopy. His head was turned toward him. As Nick approached, he could make out his features. He was Chinese, and his expression was something out of a nightmare. He smelled of frying meat, and Nick saw that the lower half of his body was already ablaze. He also saw why the man wasn't trying to get out. He was tied hand and foot to the seat with wires.
  
  "Help me!" the man screamed. "Get me out of here!"
  
  Nick's skin crawled for a moment. The voice belonged to Major Sollitz!
  
  There was a second explosion. The heat pushed Nick back. He hoped the spare gas tank had killed Sollitz when it exploded. He believed it had. The helicopter burned to the ground, the fiberglass buckling and splintering in a machine-gun roar of red-hot, exploding rivets. The flames melted the Lastotex mask, and the Chinese face sagged and then ran, revealing Major Sollitz's own heroic deed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  res for a brief second before they too melted and were replaced by a charred skull.
  
  Candy stood a few feet away, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. "What happened?" she said, her voice shaking. "It looks like he was aiming right at you."
  
  Nick shook his head. "On autopilot," he said. "He was just there as a sacrifice." And the Chinese mask, he thought to himself, another red herring in case Nick survived. He turned to her. "Let's see what you found."
  
  Without a word, she led him along the embankment to where the oilcloth bundle lay. "You'll need a knife," she said. She glanced back at the burning wreckage, and he saw a shadow of fear in her wide-set blue eyes. "There's one in my purse."
  
  "Won't be necessary." He grabbed the oilcloth with both hands and pulled. It tore in his hands like wet paper. He had a knife with him, a stiletto named Hugo, but it remained in its sheath inches above his right wrist, awaiting more pressing tasks. "How did you happen upon this?" he asked.
  
  The package contained a short-range AN/PRC-6 radio and a pair of high-powered binoculars-8×60 AO Jupiters. "It was half out of the water the other day," she said. "Watch." She picked up the binoculars and aimed them at the launch pad, barely visible to him. He scanned them. The powerful lenses zoomed the portal so close that he could see the crew members' lips moving as they spoke to each other through earpieces. "The radio has fifty channels," she said, "and a range of about a mile. So whoever was here had accomplices nearby. I think..."
  
  But he wasn't listening anymore. Confederates... the radio. Why hadn't he thought of this before? The autopilot alone couldn't guide the helicopter to its target so accurately. It had to operate like a drone. That meant it had to be guided electronically, attracted by something they were wearing. Or carrying... "Your wallet!" he said suddenly. "Come on!"
  
  The helicopter's engine cut out as he picked up the purse. It was still in his hand when he dove into the drainage ditch. He climbed down the embankment and searched for it in the murky water. It took him about a minute to find it. He picked up the dripping purse and opened it. There, hidden under lipstick, tissues, a pair of sunglasses, a pack of chewing gum, and a penknife, he found Talar's twenty-ounce transmitter.
  
  It was the type used to land small planes and helicopters in zero visibility. The transmitter sent out a rotating microwave beam, which was detected by panel instruments connected to the autopilot. In this case, the landing point was on top of Nick Carter. Candy stared at the tiny device in his palm. "But... what is that?" she asked. "How did it get there?"
  
  "Tell me. Was the wallet out of sight today?"
  
  "No," she said. "At least I... Wait, yes!" she exclaimed suddenly. "When I called you this morning... it was from a booth on the Enterprise. That grocery store we passed on the way here. I left my wallet on the counter. When I left the booth, I noticed it had been moved aside by the clerk. I didn't think anything of it at the time..."
  
  "Let's."
  
  This time, he was driving. "The pilot's been restrained," he said, sending the Julia hurtling down the highway. "That means someone else had to get this helicopter off the ground. That means a third transmitter site has been installed. Probably in the Enterprise. Let's hope we get there before they dismantle it. My friend Hugo has some questions he wants to ask."
  
  Peterson had brought N3 protective devices with him from Washington. They were waiting for Nick in a false-bottomed suitcase at the Gemini. Hugo, a stiletto heel, was now tucked into his sleeve. Wilhelmina, a cut-down Luger, hung in a convenient holster on his belt, and Pierre, a deadly gas pellet, was hidden along with several of his closest relatives in a belt pocket. AXE's top operative was dressed to kill.
  
  The gas station/grocery store was closed. There was no sign of life inside. Or anywhere in Enterprise, for that matter. Nick glanced at his watch. It was only ten o'clock. "Not very enterprising," he said.
  
  Candy shrugged. "I don't understand. They were open when I got here at eight." Nick walked around the building, feeling the weight of the sun on him, sweating. He passed a fruit processing plant and several oil storage tanks. Overturned boats and drying nets lay along the edge of the dirt road. The dilapidated embankment was quiet, stifling in a blanket of humid heat.
  
  Suddenly he stopped, listened, and quickly entered the dark ledge of the overturned hull, Wilhelmina in his hand. The footsteps approached at a right angle. They reached their loudest point, then began to recede. Nick peered out. Two men with heavy electronic equipment were moving between the boats. They moved out of his line of sight, and for a moment I
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  After he heard the car door open and slam, he crawled out from under the boat, then froze...
  
  They were returning. Nick disappeared into the shadows again. This time he got a good look at them. The one in the lead was short and thin, with a blank stare on his hooded face. The hulking giant behind him had gray hair cut short to a bullet-shaped head and a tanned face covered with pale freckles.
  
  Dexter. Pat Hammer's next-door neighbor, who said he worked in Connelly Aviation's electronic controls division.
  
  Electronic guidance. The unmanned helicopter. The equipment the two of them had just loaded into the car. It all came together.
  
  N3 gave them a good head start, then followed, keeping things between them. The two men descended the ladder and walked out onto a small, weathered wooden jetty, which, on barnacle-strewn pilings, extended twenty yards into the bay. A single boat was moored at its end-a wide-beamed diesel shrimp trawler. "Cracker Boy," Enterprise, Florida, read the black lettering on the stern. The two men climbed aboard, opened the hatch, and disappeared below deck.
  
  Nick turned. Candy was a few yards behind him. "Better wait here," he warned her. "There might be fireworks."
  
  He raced along the dock, hoping to reach the wheelhouse before they returned to the deck. But this time he had no luck. As he flew over the tachometer, Dexter's bulk filled the hatch. The big man stopped dead in his tracks. He held a complex electronic component in his hands. His mouth dropped open. "Hey, I know you..." He glanced over his shoulder and headed toward Nick. "Listen, buddy, they made me do this," he croaked hoarsely. "They've got my wife and kids..."
  
  Something roared, slamming into Dexter with the force of a pile driver, spinning him around and throwing him halfway across the deck. He ended up on his knees, the component collapsed to the side, his eyes completely white, his hands clutching his intestines, trying to keep them from spilling onto the deck. Blood trickled down his fingers. He slowly leaned forward with a sigh.
  
  Another burst of orange light, a chopping sound, erupted from the hatch, and the blank-faced man rushed up the steps, bullets spraying wildly from the submachine gun in his hand. Wilhelmina had already fled, and Killmaster fired two carefully placed bullets at him with such speed that the double roar sounded like a single, sustained roar. For a moment, Hollowface stood upright, then, like a straw man, he crumpled and fell awkwardly, his legs turning to rubber beneath him.
  
  N3 tossed the submachine gun from his hand and knelt next to Dexter. Blood was pouring from the large man's mouth. It was light pink and very foamy. His lips worked desperately, trying to form words. "... Miami... going to blow it up..." he gurgled. "... Kill everyone... I know... I've been working on it... stop them... before... it's too late..." His eyes rolled back to his more important work. His face relaxed.
  
  Nick straightened up. "Okay, let's talk about it," he said to Empty Face. His voice was calm, kind, but his gray eyes were green, dark green, and for a moment a shark swirled in their depths. Hugo emerged from his hiding place. His vicious ice pick clicked.
  
  Killmaster flipped the gunslinger over with his foot and crouched down next to him. Hugo cut open the front of his shirt, not caring much about the bony, yellowish flesh underneath. The hollow-faced man winced, his eyes watering with pain. Hugo found a spot at the base of the man's bare neck and stroked it lightly. "Now," Nick smiled. "Name, please."
  
  The man's lips pressed together. His eyes closed. Hugo bit down on his gnarled neck. "Ugh!" A sound escaped his throat, and his shoulders hunched. "Eddie Biloff," he croaked.
  
  "Where are you from, Eddie?"
  
  Vegas.
  
  "I thought you looked familiar. You're one of the Sierra Inn boys, aren't you?" Biloff closed his eyes again. Hugo made a slow, careful zigzag across his lower abdomen. Blood began to ooze from tiny cuts and punctures. Biloff made inhuman sounds. "Isn't that right, Eddie?" His head jerked up and down. "Tell me, Eddie, what are you doing here in Florida? And what did Dexter mean about blowing up Miami? Speak, Eddie, or die slowly." Hugo slipped under the flap of skin and began to explore.
  
  Biloff's exhausted body writhed. Blood bubbled, mixing with the sweat pouring from every pore. His eyes widened. "Ask her," he breathed, looking past Nick. "She did it..."
  
  Nick turned. Candy stood behind him, smiling. She smoothly, gracefully lifted her white miniskirt. Beneath it, she was naked, save for the flat .22 caliber pistol strapped to her inner thigh.
  
  "Sorry, Chief," she smiled. The gun was now in her hand and pointed at him. Slowly, her finger tightened on the trigger...
  Chapter 11
  
  She pressed the gun to her side to soften the recoil. "You
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  You can close your eyes if you want, she smiled.
  
  It was an Astra Cub, a miniature twelve-ounce model with a three-inch barrel, powerful at short ranges, and by far the flattest gun N3 had ever seen. "You pulled a fast one when you went to Houston masquerading as Eglund," she said. "Sollitz wasn't prepared for that. Neither was I. So I failed to warn him you weren't really Eglund. As a result, he panicked and planted the bomb. That ended his usefulness. Your career, dear Nicholas, must end, too. You've gone too far, learned too much..."
  
  He saw her finger begin to squeeze the trigger. A split second before the hammer struck the cartridge, he jerked back. It was an instinctive, animal process-to move away from the shot, to imagine the smallest possible target. A sharp pain seared his left shoulder as he rolled over. But he knew he had succeeded. The pain was localized-the sign of a minor skin wound.
  
  He breathed heavily as the water closed over him.
  
  He was warm and smelled of rotting things, vegetable scum, crude oil, and mud that released putrefactive gas bubbles. As he slowly sank into her, he felt a surge of anger at how easily the girl had deceived him. "Take my purse," she'd told him as the helicopter zeroed in on the target. And that fake oilcloth package she'd buried just hours earlier. It was like all the other false clues she'd planted and then led him to-first to Bali Hai, then to Pat Hammer's bungalow.
  
  It was a subtle, elegant plan, built on a razor's edge. She coordinated every part of her mission with his own, assembling a setup in which N3 took his place as obediently as if under her direct orders. Rage was useless, but he allowed it to take hold anyway, knowing it would clear the way for the cold, calculating work to come.
  
  A heavy object hit the surface above him. He looked up. It was floating in murky water, black smoke billowing from its center. Dexter. She'd thrown it overboard. The second body splashed in. This time Nick saw silvery bubbles, along with black strings of blood. Arms and legs moved feebly. Eddie Biloff was still alive.
  
  Nick crept up to him, his chest tightening with the strain of holding his breath. He still had questions for the Las Vegas area. But first, he had to get him somewhere where he could answer them. Thanks to the yoga, Nick still had two, maybe three minutes of air left in his lungs. Byloff would be lucky to have three seconds left.
  
  A long metal figure hung in the water above them. The keel of the Cracker Boy. The hull was a blurry shadow, spreading out above it in both directions. They waited for the shadow to continue, pistol in hand, peering into the water. He didn't dare surface-even under the dock. Biloff could scream, and she would surely hear him.
  
  Then he remembered the concave space between the hull and the propeller. An air pocket could usually be found there. His arm closed around Biloff's waist. He pushed through the milky turbulence left by the other man's descent until his head hit the keel softly.
  
  He carefully felt around for it. Reaching a large copper propeller, he grabbed its edge with his free hand and pulled upward. His head broke the surface. He took a deep breath, choking on the foul, oil-stained air trapped above him. Biloff coughed and slurped sideways. Nick struggled to keep the other man's mouth above water. There was no danger of being heard. Between them and the girl on the deck hung a couple of tons of wood and metal. The only danger was that she might decide to start the engine. If that happened, they could both be sold for a pound-like mince.
  
  Hugo was still in Nick's hand. Now he was working, dancing a little jig inside Biloff's wounds. "You're not done yet, Eddie, not yet. Tell me everything about it, everything you know..."
  
  The dying gangster spoke. He spoke without interruption for almost ten minutes. And when he finished, N3's face was grim.
  
  He made a bone knot out of his middle knuckle and forced it into Biloff's larynx. He didn't relent. His name was Killmaster. It was his job to kill. His knuckle was like the knot of a noose. He saw the recognition of death in Bylov's eyes. He heard a faint croak of a plea for mercy.
  
  He had no mercy.
  
  It took half a minute to kill a man.
  
  A series of meaningless vibrations flashed across the radio waves emanating from the complex receiver disassembly apparatus in room 1209 of the Gemini Hotel, like the voice of Hawk.
  
  "No wonder Sweet asked me to look after his daughter," the head of AX exclaimed. His voice was sour. "There's no telling what that little fool got herself into. I started suspecting things weren't quite right when I received the report on that Apollo life support system sketch."
  
  
  
  
  
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  You found it in the Hummer's basement. It was a fake document, taken from a diagram that appeared in practically every newspaper after the crash."
  
  "Ouch," Nick said, not in response to Hawk's words, but to Peterson's help. The man from the newsroom was wiping his shoulder wound with a cotton swab soaked in some kind of stinging ointment. "Anyway, sir, I'm pretty sure I know where to find it."
  
  "Good. I think your new approach is the answer," Hawk said. "The whole case seems to be moving in that direction." He paused. "We're automated, but you'll still need to set aside a couple of hours to comb through the records. However, I'll have someone come to you this evening. Your transportation should be arranged locally."
  
  "Peterson already took care of that," Nick replied. The man from the newsroom was spraying something on his shoulder from a pressurized can. The spray was icy at first, but it eased the pain and gradually numbed the shoulder like Novocaine. "The problem is, the girl already has a couple of hours ahead of me," he added sourly. "Everything was very carefully organized. We went in her car. So I had to walk back."
  
  "What about Dr. Sun?" Hawk said.
  
  "Peterson attached an electronic tracker to his car before returning it to her this morning," Nick said. "He monitored her movements. They're pretty normal. Now she's back at her job at the Space Center. Frankly, I think Joy Sun is a dead end." He didn't add that he was glad she was there.
  
  "And this man... what's his name... Byloff," Hawk said. "He didn't give you any further information about the Miami threat?"
  
  "He told me everything he knew. I'm sure of it. But he was just a minor mercenary. However, there's one more aspect to look for," Nick added. "Peterson will be working on that. He'll start with the names of the dependents involved in the bus accident, and then work his way back to their husbands' activities at the Space Center. Maybe that will give us an idea of what they're planning."
  
  "Okay. That's all for now, N3," Hawk said decisively. "I'm going to be up to my eyeballs in this Sollitz mess for the next few days. The brass will be going all the way to the Joint Chiefs of Staff for allowing this man to rise so high."
  
  "Have you received anything from Eglund yet, sir?"
  
  "Glad you reminded me. We have. It appears he caught Sollitz sabotaging the space environment simulator. He was overwhelmed and locked down, and then the nitrogen was turned on." Hawk paused. "As for the Major's motive for sabotaging the Apollo program," he added, "it currently appears he was being blackmailed. We have a team reviewing his security records right now. They've found a number of discrepancies regarding his prisoner of war record in the Philippines. Very minor things. Never noticed before. But that's an area they're going to focus on, see if it leads to anything."
  
  * * *
  
  Mickey "The Iceman" Elgar-puffy, with a sallow complexion and the flat nose of a brawler-had the stern and unreliable look of a pool hall character, and his clothes were garish enough to accentuate the resemblance. So did his car-a red Thunderbird with tinted windows, a compass, large foam cubes hanging from the rearview mirror, and oversized round brake lights flanking a Kewpie doll in the rear window.
  
  Elgar roared all night down the Sunshine State Parkway, the radio tuned to a top-forty station. He wasn't listening to music, though. On the seat next to him lay a tiny transistor tape recorder, with a cord running to a plug in his ear.
  
  A male voice came over the line: "You've identified a hood, fresh out of prison, who can make a lot of money without looking suspicious. Elgar fits the bill. A lot of people owe him a lot of work, and he's the one who collects. He's also a gambling addict. There's just one thing you have to be careful about. Elgar was pretty close with Reno Tree and Eddie Biloff a few years ago. So there may be others around Bali Hai who know him. We have no way of knowing-or what their relationship to him might be."
  
  At this point, another voice intervened-Nick Carter's. "I have to take a chance," he said. "All I want to know is, is Elgar's cover up thorough? I don't want anyone checking and finding out the real Elgar is still in Atlanta."
  
  "No chance of that," the first voice replied. "He was released this afternoon, and an hour later a couple of AXEmen kidnapped him."
  
  "Would I have a car and money so quickly?"
  
  "Everything has been carefully crafted, N3. Let me start with your face, and we'll go over the material together. Ready?"
  
  Mickey Elgar, aka Nick Carter, joined the voices of those recorded on tape as he drove: "My home is Jacksonville, Florida. I worked a few jobs there with the Menlo brothers. They owe me money. I won't say what happened to them, but the car is theirs, and so is the money in my pocket. I'm loaded, and I'm looking for action..."
  
  Nick was playing
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  He flicked the tape through three more times. Then, flying through West Palm Beach and over the Lake Worth Causeway, he unplugged the tiny spool with a single ring, stuck it in an ashtray, and held a Ronson lighter to it. Spool and tape instantly burst into flames, leaving nothing but ash.
  
  He parked on Ocean Boulevard and walked the last three blocks to Bali Hai. The blare of amplified folk rock music was barely audible from the disco's curtained windows. Don Lee blocked his way into the restaurant. The young Hawaiian's dimples weren't visible this time. His eyes were cold, and the look they cast on Nick should have pierced his back four inches. "Side entrance, asshole," he hissed under his breath after Nick gave him the password he'd gotten from Eddie Biloff's dying lips.
  
  Nick walked around the building. Just beyond the metal-clad door stood a figure, waiting for him. Nick recognized his flat, Eastern face. It was the waiter who had served him and Hawk that first night. Nick had given him the password. The waiter looked at him, his face expressionless. "I was told you knew where the action was," Nick finally growled.
  
  The waiter nodded over his shoulder, motioning him in. The door slammed behind them. "Go ahead," the waiter said. This time, they didn't go through the ladies' room, but reached a secret passage through a pantry-like storeroom opposite the kitchen. The waiter opened the iron steel door at the end and led Nick into the familiar, cramped little office.
  
  This had to be the man Joy Sun had told him about, N3 thought. Johnny Hung the Fat. And judging by the overstuffed keychain he carried and the confident, authoritative way he moved around the office, he was more than just another waiter at Bali Hai.
  
  Nick remembered the brutal blow to the groin Candy had given him that night they were trapped here in the office. 'More acting,' he thought.
  
  "This way, prease," Hung Fat said. Nick followed him into a long, narrow room with a two-way mirror. Rows of cameras and tape recorders stood silent. No film was being pulled from the slots today. Nick looked through the infrared glass at women adorned with elaborate gemstones and men with round, well-fed faces who sat smiling at each other in pools of soft light, their lips moving in silent conversation.
  
  "Mrs. Burncastle," Hung Fat said, gesturing to a middle-aged widow wearing an ornate diamond pendant and sparkling chandelier earrings. "She has seven hundred and fifty of these pieces at home. She's going to visit her daughter in Rome next week. The house will be empty. But you need someone reliable. We'll split the proceeds."
  
  Nick shook his head. "Not that kind of action," he growled. "I'm not interested in ice. I'm loaded. I'm looking for gambling. The best odds." He watched as they entered the restaurant through the bar. They were obviously at a disco. The waiter led them to a corner table, slightly apart from the others. He swiped the hidden sign and leaned forward with all obsequiousness to fulfill their order.
  
  Nick said, "I've got a hundred G's to play with, and I don't want to violate my parole by going to Vegas or the Bahamas. I want to do the action right here in Florida."
  
  "A hundred G's," Hung Fat said thoughtfully. "Velly, that's a big bet. I'll make a phone call and see what I can do. Wait here beforehand."
  
  The scorched rope around Rhino Tree's neck had been thoroughly powdered, but was still visible. Especially when he turned his head. Then he curled up like an old leaf. His frown, his hairline pulled even lower, accentuated his attire-black trousers, a black silk shirt, an immaculate white sweater with belted sleeves, and a gold wristwatch the size of a grapefruit slice.
  
  Candy couldn't seem to get enough of him. She was all over him, her wide-set blue eyes devouring him, her body rubbing against his like a hungry kitten. Nick found the number that corresponded to their table and turned on the sound system. "...Please, baby, don't spoil me," Candy whined. "Hit me, yell at me, but don't freeze. Please. I can handle anything but that."
  
  Reno pulled a pack of cigarette butts from his pocket, shook one out, and lit it. He blew the smoke out through his nostrils in a thin, misty cloud. "I gave you a mission," he croaked. "You screwed up."
  
  "Baby, I did everything you asked. I can't help it that Eddie touched me."
  
  Rhino shook his head. "You," he said. "You led the guy straight to Eddie. That was just stupid." Calmly, deliberately, he pressed the lit cigarette to her hand.
  
  She sucked in a sharp breath. Tears streamed down her face. But she didn't move, didn't hit him. "I know, lover. I deserved this," she moaned. "I really failed you. Please find it in your heart to forgive me..."
  
  Nick's stomach flinched at the disgusting little scene that played out before his eyes.
  
  "Please don't move. Very quietly." The voice behind him lacked intonation, but
  
  
  
  
  
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  The gun pressed hard against his back carried its own message, one that wasn't easy to understand. "Okay. Step forward and turn around slowly, extending your arms in front of you."
  
  Nick did as he was told. Johnny Hung Fat was flanked by two gorillas. Big, beefy non-Chinese gorillas, wearing fedoras with buttons and fists the size of hams. "Hold him, boys."
  
  One snapped the handcuffs on him, and the other expertly ran his hands over him, rinsing the special .38 Colt Cobra, which-according to Elgar's cover-was the only gun Nick had packed. "So," Hung Fat said. "Who are you? You're not Elgar because you didn't recognize me. Elgar knows I don't talk like Charlie Chan. Besides, I owe him money. If you really were the Iceman, you would have slapped me for this."
  
  "I was going to, don't worry," Nick said through clenched teeth. "I just wanted to test the waters first; I couldn't figure out how you were acting, and that fake accent..."
  
  Hung Fat shook his head. "No good, friend. Elgar was always interested in ice heist. Even when he had dough. He couldn't resist the itch. Just don't fold." He turned to the gorillas. "Max, Teddy, stomping Brownsville," he snapped. "Eighty percent for newbies."
  
  Max punched Nick in the jaw, and Teddy let him hit him in the stomach. As he leaned forward, Max lifted his knee. On the floor, he saw them shift their weight to their left legs and braced himself for the next blow. He knew it would be bad. They were wearing soccer cleats.
  Chapter 12
  
  He rolled over, struggling to get to all fours, his head hanging toward the ground like a wounded animal. The floor was shaking. His nostrils smelled of hot grease. He vaguely knew he was alive, but who he was, where he was, and what had happened to him-he couldn't temporarily remember.
  
  He opened his eyes. A torrent of red pain pierced his skull. He moved his hand. The pain intensified. So he lay motionless, watching sharp reddish fragments flash before his eyes. He took stock. He could feel his legs and arms. He could move his head from side to side. He saw the metal coffin he lay in. He heard the steady roar of an engine.
  
  He was in some moving object. The trunk of a car? No, too big, too smooth. An airplane. That was all. He felt the gentle rise and fall, that feeling of weightlessness that accompanied flight.
  
  "Teddy, take care of our friend," said a voice somewhere to his right. "He's coming."
  
  Teddy. Maximum. Johnny Hung the Fat. Now it was back to him. Brooklyn-style stomping. Eighty percent-the most brutal blow a man can withstand without breaking his bones. Rage gave him strength. He began to rise to his feet...
  
  A sharp pain flared in the back of his head, and he rushed forward into the darkness rising up from the floor.
  
  It seemed like he was gone for a moment, but it must have lasted longer. As consciousness slowly seeped back, image after image, he found himself emerging from a metal coffin and sitting, strapped in, in some kind of chair inside a large glass sphere, bound with steel tubing.
  
  The sphere hung at least fifty feet above the ground in a vast, cavernous room. Walls of computers lined the far wall, emitting soft musical sounds like children's roller skates. Men in white coats, like surgeons, worked on them, pressing switches and loading reels of tape. Other men, wearing headphones with dangling plugs, stood and watched Nick. Around the edges of the room stood a collection of strange-looking devices-swivel chairs resembling giant kitchen blenders, tilting tables, disorientation egg drums spinning on multiple axes at fantastic speeds, heat chambers like steel saunas, exercise unicycles, Aqua-EVA simulation pools constructed of canvas and wire.
  
  One of the white-uniformed figures connected a microphone to the console in front of him and spoke. Nick heard his voice, tiny and distant, filtering into his ear. "...Thank you for volunteering. The idea is to test how much vibration the human body can withstand. High-speed rotation and somersaulting on return can alter a person's posture. A man's liver is as much as six inches..."
  
  If Nick could hear the man, then maybe... "Get me out of here!" he roared at the top of his lungs.
  
  "... Certain changes occur in zero gravity," the voice continued without pause. "Blood pockets and vein walls soften. Bones release calcium into the blood. There are significant shifts in fluid levels in the body, and muscle weakening. However, it's unlikely you'll reach that point."
  
  The chair began to turn slowly. Now it began to pick up speed. At the same time, it began to rock up and down with increasing force. "Remember, you are in control of the mechanism," said a voice in his ear. "That's the button under the index finger of your left hand. When you feel you've reached the limit of your endurance, press it. The movement will stop. Thank you."
  
  
  
  
  
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  "Back to volunteering. Over and out."
  
  Nick pressed the button. Nothing happened. The chair spun faster and faster. The vibrations intensified. The universe became a chaos of unbearable movement. His brain crumbled under the terrible onslaught. A roar echoed in his ears, and above it, he heard another sound. His own voice, screaming in agony against the devastating shaking. His finger slammed the button again and again, but there was no reaction, only the roar in his ears and the bite of the straps tearing his body apart.
  
  His screams turned into shrieks as the assault on his senses continued. He closed his eyes in agony, but it was no use. The very cells of his brain, the very cells of his blood, seemed to pulse, exploding in a crescendo of pain.
  
  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the onslaught ceased. He opened his eyes, but saw no change in the red-stained darkness. His brain pounded inside his skull, the muscles of his face and body trembled uncontrollably. Gradually, bit by bit, his senses began to return to normal. The scarlet flashes turned crimson, then green, and vanished. The background merged with them with increasing ease, and through the haze of his damaged vision, something pale and motionless shone.
  
  It was a face.
  
  A thin, dead face with dead gray eyes and a wild scar on the neck. The mouth moved. It said: "Is there anything else you want to tell us? Anything you've forgotten?"
  
  Nick shook his head, and after that there was nothing but a long, deep plunge into darkness. He surfaced once, briefly, to feel the faint rise and fall of the cool metal floor beneath him and know he was airborne again; then darkness spread before his eyes like the wings of a great bird, and he felt a cold, clammy rush of air on his face and knew what it was-death.
  
  * * *
  
  He woke up from a scream - a terrible, inhuman scream from hell.
  
  His reaction was automatic, an animalistic response to danger. He lashed out with his hands and feet, rolled to the left, and landed on his feet in a half-crouch, the coils of his right hand closing around the pistol that wasn't there.
  
  He was naked. And alone. In a bedroom with thick white carpeting and Kelly-colored satin furniture. He looked in the direction of the noise. But there was nothing there. Nothing moving inside or outside.
  
  Late morning sun streamed through the arched windows at the far end of the room. Outside, palm trees hung limp in the heat. The sky beyond was a pale, washed-out blue, and the light reflected off the sea in blinding flashes, as if mirrors played across its surface. Nick cautiously examined the bathroom and walk-in closet. Satisfied that no danger lurked behind him, he returned to the bedroom and stood there, frowning. All was very quiet; then suddenly, a sharp, hysterical scream awoke him.
  
  He crossed the room and looked out the window. The cage stood on the terrace below. Nick chuckled darkly. A myna bird! He watched it hop back and forth, its oily black plumage ruffling. At the sight, another bird came back to him. With it came the scent of death, pain, and-in a series of vivid, razor-sharp images-everything that had happened to him. He glanced at his body. Not a mark on it. And the pain-gone. But he cringed automatically at the thought of further punishment.
  
  "A new approach to torture," he thought grimly. "Twice as effective as the old one, because you recovered so quickly. No ill effects other than dehydration." He stuck his tongue out of his mouth, and the sharp taste of chloral hydrate immediately hit him. It made him wonder how long he'd been here, and where "here" was. He felt movement behind him and spun around, tensing, ready to defend himself.
  
  "Good morning, sir. I hope you are feeling better."
  
  The butler trudged across the heavy white carpet, carrying a tray. He was young and healthy, with eyes like gray stones, and Nick noticed the distinctive bulge beneath his jacket. He wore a shoulder strap. On the tray was a glass of orange juice and a Mickey Elgar wallet. "You dropped this last night, sir," the butler said softly. "I think you'll find it's all there."
  
  Nick drank the juice greedily. "Where am I?" he demanded.
  
  The butler didn't blink. "Ride on, sir. Alexander Simian's estate in Palm Beach. You washed ashore last night."
  
  "Washed ashore!"
  
  "Yes, sir. I'm afraid your boat has been wrecked. It's run aground on the reef." He turned to leave. "I'll tell Mr. Simian you're up. Your clothes are in the closet, sir. We've wrung them out, though I'm afraid the salt water hasn't done them any good." The door closed silently behind him.
  
  Nick opened his wallet. The hundred crisp portraits of Grover Cleveland were still there. He opened the closet and found himself looking into a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. Mickey E.
  
  
  
  
  
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  Igar was still there. Yesterday's "training" hadn't disturbed a single hair. Looking at himself, he felt a renewed admiration for the Editor's laboratory. The new, flesh-like polyethylene silicone masks might be uncomfortable to wear, but they were reliable. They couldn't be removed by any amount of movement, scratching, or smudging. Only hot water and know-how could do it.
  
  A faint scent of salt water emanated from his suit. Nick frowned as he dressed. So was the shipwreck story true? The rest a nightmare? Rhino Tree's face blurred into focus. Is there anything else you want to tell us? This was standard interrogation. It was used on someone who had just arrived. The idea was to convince them they'd already said it, that only a few points remained to be filled in. Nick wasn't going to fall for it. He knew he hadn't. He'd been in this business too long; his preparation was too thorough.
  
  A voice boomed in the hallway outside. Footsteps approached. The door opened, and the familiar head of a bald eagle leaned over it on enormous, hunched shoulders. "Well, Mr. Agar, how are you feeling?" Simian purred cheerfully. "Ready for a little poker? My partner, Mr. Tree, tells me you like to play for high stakes."
  
  Nick nodded. "That's right."
  
  "Then follow me, Mr. Elgar, follow me."
  
  Simian strode quickly down the hall and down a wide staircase flanked by cast stone columns, his footsteps ringing authoritatively on the Spanish tiles. Nick followed, his eyes busy, his photographic memory capturing every detail. They crossed the first-floor reception area with its twenty-foot-high ceiling and passed through a series of galleries lined with gilded columns. All the paintings hanging on the walls were famous, mostly from the Italian Renaissance, and the uniformed GKI police noticed a few and assumed they were originals, not prints.
  
  They climbed another staircase through a museum-like room filled with glass cases of coins, plaster casts, and bronze figurines on pedestals, and Simian pressed his belly button against a small David and Goliath. A section of the wall slid silently aside, and he gestured for Nick to enter.
  
  Nick did so and found himself in a damp concrete corridor. Simian walked past him as the panel closed. He opened the door.
  
  The room was dark, filled with cigar smoke. The only light came from a single bulb with a green shade hanging a few feet above a large round table. Three sleeveless men sat at the table. One of them looked up. "Are you going to play, damn it?" he growled at Simian. "Or are you going to wander around?" He was a bald, stocky man with pale, fishy eyes that now turned to Nick and paused for a moment on his face, as if trying to find a place to insert himself.
  
  "Mickey Elgar, Jacksonville," Siemian said. "He's going to get in the hand."
  
  "Not until we're done here, friend," Fisheye said. "You." He pointed at Nick. "Move over there and keep your trap closed."
  
  Nick recognized him now. Irvin Spang, from the old Sierra Inn crowd, was reputed to be one of the leaders of the Syndicate, a sprawling nationwide criminal organization operating at every level of business, from vending machines and loan sharks to the stock market and Washington politics.
  
  "I thought you'd be ready for a break," Simian said, sitting down and picking up his cards.
  
  The fat man next to Spang laughed. It was a dry laugh, the kind that made his large, slack jaws tremble. His eyes were unusually small and tightly lidded. Sweat trickled down his face, and he dabbed a twisted handkerchief inside his collar. "We'll take a break, Alex, don't worry," he croaked hoarsely. "As fast as we wrung you dry."
  
  The voice was as familiar to Nick as his own. Fourteen days of testimony before the Senate Committee on the Fifth Amendment ten years earlier had made it as famous as the voice of Donald Duck, which it crudely resembled. Sam "Bronco" Barone, another Syndicate director known as The Enforcer.
  
  Nick's mouth watered. He began to think he was safe, that the masquerade had worked. They hadn't broken him, they hadn't fallen on Elgar's mask. He even imagined himself leaving that room. Now he knew that would never happen. He had seen "The Enforcer," a man generally believed dead or hiding in his native Tunisia. He had seen Irvin Spang in his company (a connection the federal government could never prove), and he had seen both men in the same room with Alex Simian-a spectacle that made Nick the most important witness in US criminal history.
  
  "Let's play poker," said the fourth man at the table. He was a dapper, tanned Madison Avenue type. Nick recognized him from the Senate hearings. Dave Roscoe, the Syndicate's lead lawyer.
  
  Nick watched them play. Bronco went through four hands in a row, then got three queens. He showed, drew, but didn't get any better, and busted. Simian won with two pair, and Bronco showed his first position. Spang stared at the hello.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  m. "What, Sam?" he growled. "You don't like winning? You got beat by Alex's stunt doubles."
  
  Bronco chuckled darkly. "Wasn't good enough for my money," he croaked. "I want a big one when I catch Alex's purse."
  
  Simian frowned. Nick sensed the tension around the table. Spang swiveled in his chair. "Hey, Red," he croaked. "Let's get some air."
  
  Nick turned, surprised to see three more figures in the dark room. One was a man wearing glasses and a green visor. He sat at a desk in the darkness, a calculating machine in front of him. The others were Rhino Tree and Clint Sands, the GKI's chief of police. Sands stood and pressed a switch. A blue haze began to rise toward the ceiling, then vanished, sucked into the exhaust vent. Rhino Tree sat with his hands on the back of his chair, looking at Nick with a slight smile on his lips.
  
  Bronco passed two or three more hands, then he saw a thousand-dollar bet and raised the same amount, which Spang and Dave Roscoe called, and Siemian raised a thousand. Bronco raised two Gs. Dave Roscoe folded, and Spang saw. Siemian gave him another G. It seemed Bronco was waiting for this. "Ha!" He put in four Gs.
  
  Spang stepped back, and Simian glared at Bronco. Bronco smirked at him. Everyone in the room began to hold their breath.
  
  "No," Simian said grimly, throwing down his cards. "I'm not going to get caught up in this."
  
  Bronco laid out his cards. His best hand was a high ten. Simian's expression was dark and angry. Bronco began to laugh.
  
  Suddenly, Nick realized what he was up to. There are three ways to play poker, and Bronco was playing the third - against the person who was most desperate to win. He was the one who usually overplayed his hand. The need to win obliterated his luck. Piss him off, and he was dead.
  
  "What does this mean, Sydney?" Bronco croaked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
  
  The man at the teller turned on the light and tabulated some figures. He tore off a piece of tape and handed it to Reno. "That's twelve hundred G's less than he owes you, Mr. B," Reno said.
  
  "We're getting there," Bronco said. "We'll be settled by the year 2000."
  
  "Okay, I'm leaving," said Dave Roscoe. "I need to stretch my legs."
  
  "Why don't we all take a break?" Spang said. "Give Alex a chance to scrape together some cash." He nodded toward Nick. "You came just in time, buddy."
  
  The three of them left the room, and Simian gestured to a chair. "You wanted action," he told Nick. "Sit." Reno Tree and Red Sands emerged from the shadows and sat down on chairs on either side of him. "Ten G is a chip. Any objections?" Nick shook his head. "Then that's it."
  
  Ten minutes later, it was cleared out. But finally, everything became clear. All the missing keys were there. All the answers he'd been searching for, without even knowing it.
  
  There was only one problem: how to walk away with this knowledge and live. Nick decided the direct approach was best. He pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well, that's it," he said. "I'm down. I think I'll go."
  
  Simian didn't even look up. He was too busy counting Clevelands. "Sure," he said. "Glad you're sitting down. When you want to throw another bundle, contact me. Rhino, Red, take him."
  
  They walked him to the door and did it - literally.
  
  The last thing Nick saw was Rhino's hand quickly turning toward his head. There was a brief sensation of nauseating pain, and then darkness.
  Chapter 13
  
  It was there, waiting for him as he slowly regained consciousness. A single thought lit up his mind with an almost physical sensation: escape. He had to escape.
  
  At this point, the information gathering was complete. It was time to act.
  
  He lay perfectly still, disciplined by a training imprinted even on his sleeping mind. In the darkness, his senses extended tentacles. They began a slow, methodical exploration. He lay on wooden planks. It was cold, damp, and drafty. The air smelled of the sea. He heard the faint sound of water against the pilings. His sixth sense told him he was in a room, not very large.
  
  He tensed his muscles gently. He wasn't bound. His eyelids flew open as sharply as a camera shutter, but no eyes looked back. It was dark-night. He forced himself to stand. Moonlight filtered palely through the window on the left. He rose to his feet and walked over to it. The frame was screwed to the molding. Rusty bars ran across it. He walked softly to the door, tripped on a loose board, and almost fell. The door was locked. It was solid, old-fashioned. He could have tried to kick it, but he knew the noise would send them running.
  
  He returned and knelt by the loose board. It was a two-by-six, raised half an inch at one end. He found a broken broom in the darkness nearby and worked further down the board. It ran from the middle of the floor to the baseboard. His hand found a bin.
  
  
  
  
  
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  on it, stumbling upon rubble. Nothing more. And what's even better is that the crack under the floor and what looked like the ceiling of another room below was quite deep. Deep enough to hide a person.
  
  He went to work, part of his mind attuned to the outside noises. He had to lift two more boards before he could slip under them. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed. Then he had to lower the boards by pulling on the exposed nails. Inch by inch, they sank, but they couldn't touch the floor. He hoped the shock would prevent him from carefully examining the room.
  
  Lying in the cramped darkness, he thought about the poker game and the desperation with which Simian played his hand. This was more than just a game. Every move of the cards was almost a matter of life and death. One of the richest men in the world- yet he craved Nick's measly hundreds of G's with a passion born not of greed, but of desperation. Perhaps even fear...
  
  Nick's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock. He listened, his muscles tense, ready for action. There was a moment of silence. Then his feet scraped sharply across the wooden floor. They ran down the hallway outside and down the stairs. They stumbled briefly, then recovered. Somewhere below, a door slammed.
  
  Nick lifted the floorboards. He slid out from under them and jumped to his feet. The door slammed against the wall as he swung it open. Then he was at the head of the stairs, descending them in great leaps, three at a time, unconcerned about the noise because Teddy's loud, panicked voice on the phone drowned it out.
  
  "I'm not kidding, damn it, he's gone," the gorilla screamed into his mouthpiece. "Get the guys here-quick." He slammed down the phone, turned around, and the bottom half of his face practically fell off. Nick lunged forward with his last step, the fingers of his right hand tensing and tightening.
  
  The gorilla's hand struck his shoulder, but faltered in midair as N3's fingers sank into his diaphragm just below his sternum. Teddy stood with his legs apart and arms outstretched, sucking in oxygen, and Nick balled his fist and punched him. He heard teeth break, and the man fell sideways, hit the floor, and lay still. Blood flowed from his mouth. Nick leaned over him, pulled the Smith & Wesson Terrier from its holster, and rushed for the door.
  
  The house cut him off from the highway, and from that direction, footsteps echoed across the grounds. A shot rang past his ear. Nick turned. He saw the bulky shadow of a boathouse on the edge of the breakwater about two hundred yards away. He headed toward it, crouching low and twisting, as if running across a battlefield.
  
  A man emerged from the front door. He was wearing a uniform and carrying a rifle. "Stop him!" a voice shouted behind Nick. The GKI guard began to raise his rifle. The S&W roared twice in Nick's hand, and the man spun around, the rifle flying out of his hands.
  
  The boat's engine was still warm. The guard must have just returned from patrol. Nick pulled back and pressed the starter button. The engine immediately ignited. He opened the throttle wide. The powerful boat roared out of the slipway and crossed the bay. He saw tiny jets of water rising from the calm, moonlit surface ahead, but heard no gunshots.
  
  Approaching the narrow entrance to the breakwater, he eased the throttle and turned the wheel to port. The maneuver carried him smoothly. He turned the wheel fully outside, placing the protective rocks of the breakwater between him and the monkey compound. Then he opened the throttle wide again and headed north, toward the distant twinkling lights of Riviera Beach.
  
  * * *
  
  "Simian is in it up to his eyeballs," Nick said, "and he's operating through Reno Tree and Bali Hai. And there's more to it than that. I think he's broken and connected to the Syndicate."
  
  There was a brief silence, and then Hawk's voice came over the shortwave speaker in room 1209 of the Gemini Hotel. "You could very well be right," he said. "But with an operator like that, it would take government accountants ten years to prove it. Simian's financial empire is a labyrinth of complex transactions..."
  
  "Most of them are worthless," Nick concluded. "It's a paper empire; I'm convinced of that. The slightest push could topple it."
  
  "It's a mockery of what's happened here in Washington," Hawk said thoughtfully. "Yesterday afternoon, Senator Kenton delivered a devastating attack on Connelly Aviation. He talked about repeated component failures, cost estimates that had tripled, and the company's inaction on safety issues. And he called on NASA to dump Connelly and use GKI's services for the Moon program instead." Hawk paused. "Of course, everyone on Capitol Hill knows Kenton is in the back pocket of the GKI lobby, but there's a sha
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  has a poor understanding of public trust. Connelly shares fell sharply on Wall Street yesterday."
  
  "It's all numbers," Nick said. "Simian is desperate to get the Apollo contract. We're talking about twenty billion dollars. That's the amount he obviously needs to get his property back."
  
  Hawk paused, thinking. Then he said, "There's one thing we've been able to verify. Rhino Tree, Major Sollitz, Johnny Hung Fat, and Simian served in the same Japanese prison camp in the Philippines during the war. Tree and the Chinese man became entangled in Simian's fake empire, and I'm pretty sure Sollitz turned traitor in the camp and was later protected, then blackmailed, by Simian when he needed him. We still have to verify that."
  
  "And I still need to check on Hung Fat," Nick said. "I'm praying he's reached a dead end, that he has no connection to Beijing. I'll contact you as soon as I know."
  
  "Better hurry, N3. Time is running out," Hawk said. "As you know, Phoenix One is scheduled to launch in twenty-seven hours."
  
  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. "Twenty-seven!" Nick exclaimed. "Fifty-one, right?" But Hawk had already signed the contract.
  
  "You've lost twenty-four hours somewhere," said Hank Peterson, who was sitting across from Nick and listening. He glanced at his watch. "It's 3:00 PM. You called me from Riviera Beach at 2:00 AM and told me to pick you up. You were gone for fifty-one hours then."
  
  Those two plane rides, Nick thought, those tortures. It happened there. A whole day wasted...
  
  The phone rang. He picked it up. It was Joy Sun. "Listen," Nick said, "I'm sorry I didn't call you, I was..."
  
  "You're some kind of agent," she interrupted tensely, "and I understand you work for the U.S. government. So I need to show you something. I'm at work right now-at the NASA Medical Center. The center is on Merritt Island. Can you come here right now?"
  
  "If you give me permission at the gate," Nick said. Dr. Sun said she would be there and hung up. "Better put the radio away," he told Peterson, "and wait here for me. I won't be long."
  
  * * *
  
  "This is one of the training engineers," Dr. Sun said, leading Nick down the antiseptic corridor of the Medical Building. "He was brought in this morning, babbling incoherently about Phoenix One being equipped with a special device that would put it under external control at launch. Everyone here treated him like he was crazy, but I thought you should see him, talk to him... just in case."
  
  She opened the door and stepped aside. Nick entered. The curtains were drawn, and a nurse stood by the bed, taking the patient's pulse. Nick looked at the man. He was in his forties, his hair had gone gray prematurely. There were pinched marks on the bridge of his nose from his glasses. The nurse said, "He's resting now. Dr. Dunlap gave him an injection."
  
  Joy Sun said, "That's it." And when the door closed behind the nurse, she muttered, "Damn it," and leaned over the man, forcing his eyelids open. The students swam in them, unfocused. "He won't be able to tell us anything now."
  
  Nick pushed past her. "It's urgent." He pressed his finger to a nerve in the man's temple. The pain forced his eyes open. It seemed to momentarily revive him. "What is this Phoenix One targeting system?" Nick demanded.
  
  "My wife..." the man muttered. "They have my... wife and children... I know they'll die... but I can't keep doing what they want me to do..."
  
  Again, his wife and kids. Nick glanced around the room, saw the wall phone, and quickly walked over to it. He dialed the number for the Gemini Hotel. There was something Peterson had told him on the way from Riviera Beach, something about that bus carrying NASA dependents that had crashed... He had been so busy trying to figure out Simian's financial situation that he was only half-listening to "Room Twelve-o-nine, please." After a dozen rings, the call was transferred to the desk. "Could you check room twelve-nine?" Nick said. "There should be an answer." Anxiety was beginning to gnaw at him. He told Peterson to wait there.
  
  "Is this Mr. Harmon?" The clerk on duty used the name Nick had registered under. Nick said he was. "Are you looking for Mr. Pierce?" It was Peterson's cover name. Nick said he was. "I'm afraid you just missed him," the clerk said. "He left a few minutes ago with two police officers."
  
  "Green uniforms, white protective helmets?" Nick said in a tense voice.
  
  "That's right. GKI forces. He didn't say when he'd be back. Can I take it?"
  
  Nick hung up. They grabbed him.
  
  And because of Nick's own carelessness. He should have changed headquarters after Candy Sweet's angle blew up in his face. However, in his rush to finish the job, he forgot to do so. She pinpointed his location to the enemy, and they sent a cleanup team. Result: they had Peterson and possibly radio contact with AXE.
  
  Joy Sun watched him. "That was the GKI power you just described," she said. "They held cl
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  I've been followed for the past few days, tailing me to and from work. I was just talking to them. They want me to stop by headquarters on my way home. They said they want to ask me some questions. Should I go? Are they working with you on this case?
  
  Nick shook his head. "They're on the other side."
  
  A look of alarm crossed her face. She pointed at the man in the bed. "I told them about him," she whispered. "I couldn't reach you at first, so I called them. I wanted to know about his wife and children..."
  
  "And they told you they were okay," Nick finished for her, feeling ice suddenly trickle down his shoulders and fingertips. "They said they were at GKI Medical School in Miami and therefore perfectly safe."
  
  "Yes, that's exactly it..."
  
  "Now listen carefully," he interjected, describing the large room filled with computers and space testing devices where he had been tortured. "Have you ever seen or been in such a place?"
  
  "Yes, this is the top floor of the State Research Institute of Medicine," she said. "The aerospace research section."
  
  He was careful not to let anything show on his face. He didn't want the girl to panic. "You better come with me," he said.
  
  She looked surprised. "Where?"
  
  "Miami. I think we should explore this Medical Institute. You know what to do inside. You can help me."
  
  "Can you come to my place first? I want to buy something."
  
  "No time," he replied. "They will wait for them there." Cocoa Beach was in enemy hands.
  
  "I'll have to talk to the project director." She began to doubt. "I'm on duty now that the countdown has started."
  
  "I wouldn't do that," he said calmly. The enemy had infiltrated NASA, too. "You'll have to trust my judgment," he added, "when I say that the fate of Phoenix One depends on what we do in the next few hours."
  
  The fate of the lunar lander wasn't limited to just that, but he didn't want to go into details. Peterson's message returned: it involved women and children injured in a car accident, now being held hostage at the GKI Medical Center. Peterson checked her husbands' NASA records and discovered they all worked in the same department-electronic control.
  
  The sealed room was unbearably hot, but it was a random image that brought sweat to Nick's forehead. It was the image of the three-stage Saturn 5, lifting off and then swaying slightly as external controls took over, guiding its payload of six million gallons of flammable kerosene and liquid oxygen to its new destination: Miami.
  Chapter 14
  
  The attendant stood at the open door of the Lamborghini, waiting for the head waiter's nod.
  
  He didn't understand it.
  
  Don Lee's face looked "unconditional" as Nick Carter stepped out of the shadows into the circle of light beneath the Bali Hai sidewalk canopy. Nick turned, clasping his hand with Joy Sun's, allowing Lee a good look. The maneuver had the desired effect. Lee's eyes paused for a moment, uncertain.
  
  Two of them advanced on him. Tonight, N3's face was his own, as were the deadly trappings he carried: Wilhelmina in a convenient holster at his waist, Hugo in a sheath inches above his right wrist, and Pierre and several of his closest relatives tucked snugly into his belt pocket.
  
  Lee glanced at the notepad he held in his hand. "Name, sir?" It was unnecessary. He knew perfectly well that name wasn't on his list.
  
  "Harmon," Nick said. "Sam Harmon."
  
  The answer came instantly. "I can't believe what I'm seeing..." Hugo slipped out from his hiding place, the tip of his vicious ice pick blade probing Lee's stomach. "Ah, yes, there it is," the maitre d' breathed, trying hard to suppress the tremor in his voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Hannon." The attendant climbed behind the wheel of the Lamborghini and turned it toward the parking lot.
  
  "Let's go to your office," Nick croaked.
  
  "This way, sir." He led them through the foyer, past the cloakroom, snapping his fingers at the captain's mate. "Lundy, take the door."
  
  As they moved past the leopard-print banquettes, Nick muttered in Lee's ear, "I know about two-way mirrors, man, so don't try anything. Act natural-like you're showing us the table."
  
  The office was in the back, near the service entrance. Lee opened the door and stepped aside. Nick shook his head. "You first." The maitre d' shrugged and entered, and they followed. Nick's eyes darted around the room, searching for other entrances, anything suspicious or potentially dangerous.
  
  This was the "showcase" office where Bali Hai's legitimate operations were conducted. It featured a white carpet on the floor, a black leather sofa, a curved desk with Calder's cell phone above it, and a freeform glass coffee table in front of the sofa.
  
  Nick locked the door behind him and leaned against it. His gaze returned to the sofa. Joy Sun's eyes followed him, and she blushed. It was the celebrity sofa, Havin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  g plays a supporting role in the now famous pornographic photo.
  
  "What do you want?" Don Lee demanded. "Money?"
  
  Nick crossed the room on a swift, cold wind. Before Lee could move, Nick delivered a swift blow to the throat with the edge of his left scythe. As Lee doubled over, he added two hard hooks-left and right-to his solar plexus. The Hawaiian fell forward, and Nick lifted his knee. The man fell like a sack of slate. "So," N3 said, "I want answers, and time is running out." He dragged Lee toward the couch. "Let's say I know all about Johnny Hung Fat, Rhino Tri, and the operation you're running here. Let's start with that."
  
  Lee shook his head, trying to clear it. Blood made dark, squirming lines on his chin. "I built this place from nothing," he said dully. "I slaved away, day and night, poured all my money into it. Eventually, I got what I wanted-and then I lost it." His face twisted. "Gambling. I always loved it. I got into debt. I had to bring in other people."
  
  "Syndicate?"
  
  Lee nodded. "They let me stay on as the nominal owner, but that's their job. Absolutely. I have no say. You saw what they did to this place."
  
  "In that secret office in the back," Nick said, "I found microdots and photographic equipment that pointed to a connection with Red China. Is there anything to that?"
  
  Lee shook his head. "It's just some kind of game they're playing. I don't know why-they won't tell me anything."
  
  "What about Hong Fat? Is there a possibility that he could be a red agent?"
  
  Lee laughed, then clenched his jaw in sudden pain. "Johnny's strictly a capitalist," he said. "He's a con man, a gullible man. His specialty is Chiang Kai-shek's treasure. He must have sold him five million cards in every Chinatown in the big city."
  
  "I want to talk to him," Nick said. "Call him here."
  
  "I'm already here, Mr. Carter."
  
  Nick turned around. His flat, oriental face was impassive, almost bored. One hand clamped over Joy Sun's mouth, the other held a switchblade. The tip rested against her carotid artery. The slightest movement would pierce it. "Of course, we bugged Don Lee's office, too." Hong Fat's lips twitched. "You know how cunning we Easterners can be."
  
  Behind him stood Rhino Tree. What had seemed like a solid wall now contained a door. The dark, wolf-faced gangster turned and closed the door behind him. The door sat so flush with the wall that not a line or break in the wallpaper was visible for more than a foot. However, at the baseboard, the joint wasn't so perfect. Nick cursed himself for not noticing the thin vertical line in the white paint of the baseboard.
  
  Rhino Tree moved slowly toward Nick, his eyes flashing at the drill holes. "You move, we kill her," he said simply. He pulled a twelve-inch piece of soft, flexible wire from his pocket and tossed it on the floor in front of Nick. "Pick this up," he said. "Slowly. Good. Now turn around, hands behind your back. Tie your thumb."
  
  Nick turned slowly, knowing the first hint of a false move would send the switchblade plunging into Joy Sun's throat. Behind his back, his fingers twisted the wire, making a slight double bow, and he waited.
  
  Reno Tree was good. The perfect killer: the brain and sinew of a cat, the heart of a machine. He knew all the tricks of the game. For example, getting the victim to tie him up. This left the bandit free, out of reach, and the victim occupied and off-guard. It was hard to beat this man.
  
  "Lie face down on the couch," Rhino Tree said flatly. Nick walked over to him and lay down, hope fading. He knew what would happen next. "Your legs," Tree said. "You could tie a man up with that ligature with six-inch cord. It would hold him more securely than chains and handcuffs."
  
  He bent his knees and lifted his leg, bracing it against the crotch formed by the bent knee of his other leg, all the while trying to find a way out. There was no escape. The tree moved after him, grabbing his raised leg with lightning speed, pinning it to the ground so hard that his other foot caught the back of his calf and thigh. With his other hand, he lifted Nick's wrists, hooking them around his raised leg. Then he released the pressure on that foot, and it bounced off the thumb tie, leaving Nick's arms and legs painfully, hopelessly intertwined.
  
  Rhino Tree laughed. "Don't worry about the wire, friend. The sharks will cut right through it."
  
  "They need a boost, Rhino." That was Hung Fat speaking. "A little blood, you know what I mean?"
  
  "How is that for a start?"
  
  The blow felt like it had crushed Nick's skull. As he lost consciousness, he felt blood rushing through his nasal passages, choking him with its warm, salty, metallic taste. He tried to hold it back, to stop it with sheer willpower, but of course he couldn't. It came out of his nose, his mouth, even his ears. This time he was finished, and he knew it.
  
  * * *
  
  At first he thought
  
  
  
  
  
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  He was in the water, swimming. Deep water. Exit. The ocean has a wave, a body that a swimmer can actually feel. You rise and fall with it, like with a woman. Movement calms, gives rest, unravels all knots.
  
  That's how he felt now, except the pain in his lower back was becoming unbearable. And it had nothing to do with swimming.
  
  His eyes flew open. He was no longer lying face down on the couch. He was lying on his back. The room was dark. His hands were still clasped together, thumbs clenched. He could feel them ache beneath him. But his legs were free. He spread them. Something still held them captive. Two things, actually. His pants, pulled down to his ankles, and something warm, soft, and agonizingly pleasant around his stomach.
  
  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the silhouette of a woman's body moving skillfully and effortlessly above him, her hair swaying freely with every sinuous movement of her sleek hips and pointed breasts. The scent of Candy Sweet hung in the air, as did the breathless whispers that ignited his passion.
  
  It made no sense. He forced himself to stop, to push her aside somehow. But he couldn't. He was already too far gone. Systematically and with deliberate cruelty, he slammed his body into hers, losing himself in a brutal, loveless act of passion.
  
  With her last movement, her nails slid deep across his chest. She lunged at him, her mouth sinking into his neck. He felt her sharp little teeth sink into him for a moment, unbearably. And when she pulled away, a thin trickle of blood splashed across his face and chest.
  
  "Oh, Nicholas, baby, I wish things were different," she moaned, her breath hot and ragged. "You can't know how I felt that day after I thought I'd killed you."
  
  "Annoying?"
  
  "Go ahead, laugh, darling. But things could have been so wonderful between us. You know," she added suddenly, "I've never had anything personal against you. I'm just hopelessly attached to Reno. It's not sex, it's... I can't tell you, but I'll do whatever he asks if it means I can stay with him."
  
  "There's nothing better than loyalty," Nick said. He sent his spy's sixth sense to explore the room and its surroundings. It told him they were alone. The distant music had disappeared. The usual restaurant was playing, too. Bali Hai was closed for the night. "What are you doing here?" he asked, suddenly wondering if this might be another one of Reno's cruel jokes.
  
  "I came looking for Don Lee," she said. "He's here." She pointed to the table. "Throat slit from ear to ear. That's Reno's specialty-a razor. I guess they don't need him anymore."
  
  "It was Rhino who killed Pat Hammer's family, too, wasn't it? It was a razor job."
  
  "Yes, my man did it. But Johnny Hung Fat and Red Sands were there to help."
  
  Nick's stomach suddenly twisted with anxiety. "What about Joy Sun?" he asked. "Where is she?"
  
  Candy stepped away from him. "She's fine," she said, her voice suddenly cold. "I'll get you a towel. You're covered in blood."
  
  When she returned, she was soft again. She washed his face and chest and threw the towel away. But she didn't stop. Her hands moved rhythmically, hypnotically over his body. "I'm going to prove what I said," she whispered softly. "I'm going to let you go. A beautiful man like you shouldn't die-at least not the way Rino planned for you." She shuddered. "Roll over onto your stomach." He did, and she loosened the wire loops around his fingers.
  
  Nick sat up. "Where is he?" he asked, leading them the rest of the way.
  
  "There's some kind of meeting at Simian's house this evening," she said. "They're all there."
  
  "Is there anyone outside?"
  
  "Just a couple of GKI cops," she replied. "Well, they call them cops, but Red Sands and Rhino bred them out of the Syndicate. They're just hoods, and not the most colorful variety at that."
  
  "What about Joy Sun?" he insisted. She said nothing. "Where is she?" he demanded sharply. "Are you hiding something from me?"
  
  "What's the point?" she said dully. "It's like trying to change the direction of water flow." She walked over and turned on the light. "Through this," she said. Nick walked to the hidden door, glancing briefly at Don Lee's body lying in a halo of congealed blood beneath the table.
  
  "Where is this clue?"
  
  "In the parking lot in the back," she said. "Also in that room with the two-way glass. She's in the office next to it."
  
  He found her lying between the wall and a couple of folders, bound hand and foot with a telephone cord. Her eyes were closed, and the acrid smell of chloral hydrate hung over her. He felt her pulse. It was irregular. Her skin was hot and dry to the touch. An old-fashioned Mickey Finn-rough, but effective.
  
  He untied her and slapped her across the face, but she only mumbled something incoherent and rolled over. "You better concentrate on getting her to the car," Candy said from behind him. "I
  
  
  
  
  
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  We'll take care of the two guards. Wait here."
  
  She was gone for about five minutes. When she returned, she was out of breath, her blouse soaked in blood. "I should have killed them," she gasped. "They recognized me." She lifted her miniskirt and tucked a .22- caliber flat-faced pistol into her thigh holster. "Don't worry about the noise. Their bodies muffled the gunshots." She raised her hands and pushed her hair back, closing her eyes for a second to block out what was happening. "Kiss me," she said. "Then hit me-hard."
  
  He kissed her, but said, "Don't be silly, Candy. Come with us."
  
  "No, that's not good," she smiled weakly. "I need what Rino can give me."
  
  Nick pointed to the cigarette burn on her hand. "That one?"
  
  She nodded. "That's the kind of girl I am-a human ashtray. Anyway, I've tried to run away before. I always come back. So hit me hard, knock me out. That way I'll have an alibi."
  
  He hit her just as she'd asked, lightly. His knuckles cracked against her hard jaw, and she fell, arms flailing, landing full-length against the office. He walked over and looked at her. Her face was calm now, serene, like a sleeping child's, and the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. She was satisfied. Finally.
  Chapter 15
  
  The Lamborghini glided silently between the expensive buildings on North Miami Avenue. It was 4:00 a.m. The major intersections were quiet, with few cars and only the occasional pedestrian.
  
  Nick glanced at Joy Sun. She sank deep into the red leather bucket seat, her head resting on the folded tonneau cover, her eyes closed. The wind made insistent little ripples in her ebony-black hair. During the drive south from Palm Beach, outside Fort Lauderdale, she only shook herself once and muttered, "What time is it?"
  
  It would be another two or three hours before she could function properly. In the meantime, Nick needed to find a place to park her while he explored the GKI medical center.
  
  He turned west on Flagler, past the Dade County Courthouse, then north, northwest. Seventh, toward the string of motel apartments surrounding Seaport Station. A convenience store was about the only place he could hope to escort an unconscious girl past the front desk at four in the morning.
  
  He wandered up and down the side streets around the Terminal until he found one of the most suitable ones - the Rex Apartments, where the sheets were changed ten times a night, judging by the couple who left together but walked in opposite directions without looking back.
  
  Above the building marked "Office," a single, ragged palm tree leaned against the light. Nick opened the screen door and walked in. "I took my girlfriend outside," he said to the sullen Cuban behind the counter. "She's had too much to drink. Is it okay if she sleeps in here?"
  
  The Cuban didn't even look up from the women's magazine he was perusing. "Are you leaving her or staying?"
  
  "I'll be here," Nick said. It would have been less suspicious if he had pretended to stay.
  
  "That's twenty." The man held out his hand, palm up. "In advance. And stop here on the way. I want to make sure you don't have any hard-on with you."
  
  Nick returned with Joy Sun in his arms, and this time the clerk's eyes flickered upward. They touched the girl's face, then Nick's, and suddenly his pupils grew very bright. His breath made a soft hissing sound. He dropped the women's magazine and stood, reaching across the counter to squeeze the smooth, soft flesh of her forearm.
  
  Nick pulled his hand away. "Look, but don't touch," he warned.
  
  "I just want to see she's alive," he growled. He tossed the key over the counter. "Two-five. Second floor, end of the hall."
  
  The bare concrete walls of the room were painted the same unnatural green as the building's exterior. Light fell through a gap in the drawn curtain onto the hollow bed and threadbare carpet. Nick laid Joy Sun on the bed, walked to the door, and locked it. Then he went to the window and pulled back the curtain. The room overlooked a short alley. The light came from a bulb hanging from a sign on the building across the street: REX RESIDENTS ONLY - FREE PARKING.
  
  He opened the window and leaned out. The ground was no more than twelve feet away, and there were plenty of crevices he could catch his foot on his way back down. He took one last look at the girl, then hopped out onto the ledge and fell silently, like a cat, to the concrete below. He landed on his hands and feet, dropped to his knees, then rose again and moved forward, a shadow among other shadows.
  
  Within seconds, he was behind the wheel of a Lamborghini, racing through the glittering lights of the pre-dawn Greater Miami gas stations and heading northwest. 20 to Biscayne Boulevard.
  
  The GKI Medical Center was a huge, ostentatious glass rock that reflected the smaller buildings of the downtown business district, as if they were trapped within it. The spacious, freeform sculpture, made of wrought iron,
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Russian sign stood out in the foreground. Foot-tall letters, carved from solid steel, stretched across the building's facade, spelling out the message: Dedicated to the Art of Healing - Alexander Simian, 1966.
  
  Nick rushed past him on Biscayne Boulevard, keeping one eye on the building itself and the other on its entrances. The main one was dark, guarded by two figures in green uniforms. The emergency entrance was on Twenty-first Street. It was brightly lit, and an ambulance was parked in front of it. A police officer in a green uniform stood under a steel canopy, talking to his team.
  
  Nick turned south, northeast. Second Avenue. "Ambulance," he thought. That must be how they'd brought him there from the airport. That was one of the perks of owning a hospital. It was your own private world, immune to outside interference. You could do whatever you wanted in the hospital, and no questions were asked. The most horrific tortures could be inflicted in the name of "medical research." Your enemies could be put in straitjackets and locked away in a mental hospital for their own safety. You could even be killed-doctors always lost patients in the operating room. No one thought twice about it.
  
  A black GKI patrol car pulled into Nick's rearview mirror. He slowed and put on his right turn signal. The patrol car caught up with him, and the team stared at him as he turned onto Twentieth Street. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick noticed a bumper sticker: "Your safety; our business." He chuckled, and the chuckle turned into a shudder in the damp predawn air.
  
  Owning a hospital had other advantages, too. The Senate committee targeted the couple during its investigation of Simian's affairs. If you paid attention to tax matters and played your cards right, owning a hospital allowed you to maximize your cash flow with minimal tax liability. It also provided a place to meet with leading figures in the criminal underworld in complete privacy. At the same time, it provided status and allowed someone like Simian to climb another rung of the social ladder.
  
  Nick spent ten minutes in the growing traffic of downtown, keeping an eye on his mirror, heel-and-toeing the Lamborghini around the corners to clear away any marks. Then he carefully turned back toward the Medical Center and parked at a point on Biscayne Boulevard where he had a clear view of the building's main entrance, the emergency room entrance, and the clinic entrance. He rolled up all the windows, slid into the seat, and waited.
  
  At ten to six, the day shift arrived. A steady stream of hospital staff, nurses, and doctors entered the building, and a few minutes later, the night shift rushed toward the parking lot and nearby bus stops. At seven in the morning, three of the State Clinical Hospital's security guards were relieved. But that wasn't what caught Nick's attention.
  
  Unnoticed, unmistakably, the presence of another, more dangerous line of defense registered on N3's finely tuned sixth sense. Unmarked vehicles, crewed by civilians, slowly circled the area. Others were parked in side streets. The third line of defense watched from the windows of nearby houses. The place was a well-guarded fortress.
  
  Nick started the engine, put the Lamborghini in gear, and, keeping an eye on the mirror, pulled into the first lane. The two-tone Chevy pulled a dozen cars behind it. Nick began making square turns, block after block, flashing his lights against the amber and using his speed through Bay Front Park. The two-tone Chevy disappeared, and Nick sped toward the Rex Hotel.
  
  He glanced at his watch and stretched his lithe, yoga-trained body toward the first of the arms and legs in the alley. Seven-thirty. Joy Sun had five and a half hours to recover. A cup of coffee, and she should be ready to go. Help him find his way to the impenetrable Medical Center.
  
  He sat down on the windowsill and peered through the raised blinds. He saw that the light was on near the bed, and the girl was now under the covers. She must have been cold, as she pulled them up over herself. He pulled the curtain back and slipped into the room. "Joy," he said quietly. "Time to begin. How are you feeling?" She was almost invisible under the bedding. Only one hand was showing.
  
  He approached the bed. In his hand, palm up, fingers clenched, was something like a dark red thread. He leaned over it to examine it more closely. It was a drop of dried blood.
  
  He slowly threw back the blanket.
  
  There lay the horribly dead face and figure that had so recently clung to him in naked passion, covering his face and body with kisses. In the bed, emerging from the predawn darkness, was the body of Candy Sweet.
  
  The sweet, wide-set blue eyes bulged like glass marbles. The tongue, which had so impatiently sought its own, protruded from the blue, grimacing lips. The lining was complete.
  
  
  
  
  
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  - the figure's body was smeared with dried blood and cut with dozens of dark, brutal razor cuts.
  
  He tasted acid in his throat. His stomach heaved and shuddered. He swallowed, trying to suppress the nausea that washed over him. At times like these, Nick, a retired farmer from Maryland, wanted to quit the game forever. But even as he thought about it, his thoughts moved at computer speed. Now they had Joy Sun. That meant...
  
  He recoiled from the bed. Too late. Johnny Hung Fat and Rhino Three stood in the doorway, smiling. Their guns had sausage-shaped silencers. "She's waiting for you at the medical center," Hung Fat said. "We all are."
  Chapter 16
  
  Rhino Tree's cruel wolf mouth said, "It looks like you really want to get into the Medical Center, friend. So here's your chance."
  
  Nick was already in the hall, dragged along in their strong, irresistible grip. He was still in shock. No strength, no will. The Cuban employee danced in front of them, repeating the same thing over and over. "You'll tell Bronco how I helped, okay? Tell him, please, hockey?"
  
  "Yes, friend, of course. We'll tell him."
  
  "Funny, isn't it?" Hung Fat said to Nick. "Here we thought we'd lost you forever because of that bitch Candy..."
  
  "Then what do you know?" Rhino Tree chuckled from the other side of him. "You're checking into the Syndicate Hotel, and you've already tipped off the guy in the Lamborghini with the beautiful Chinese doll. Now that's what I call collaboration..."
  
  They were now on the sidewalk. A Lincoln sedan pulled up slowly. The driver leaned out and picked up the phone from the dashboard. "Simian," he said. "He wants to know where the hell you guys are. We're late."
  
  Nick was pulled into it. It was a seven-seater executive-type vehicle, flat-sided, massive, black with steel trim, and leopard-skin seats. A small television screen was mounted above the glass partition separating the driver from the other passengers. Simian's face loomed out of it. "Finally," his voice crackled over the intercom. "It's time. Welcome aboard, Mr. Carter." Closed-circuit television. Two-way reception. Quite smooth. The bald eagle's head turned toward the Rhino tree. "Come right here," he snapped. "Too close. The counter is already at T-minus-two-seventeen." The screen went black.
  
  The tree leaned forward and turned on the intercom. "Medical center. Get to it."
  
  The Lincoln pulled away smoothly and silently, joining the fast-moving morning traffic heading northwest. Seven. Now Nick was cool and deathly calm. The shock had passed. The reminder that Phoenix One was scheduled to lift off in just two hours and seventeen minutes brought his nerves back to optimal condition.
  
  He waited for them to turn, then took a deep breath and kicked the front seat hard, pulling himself out of range of Hung Fat's gun as he slammed his right hand into Rhino Tree's wrist. He felt the bones shatter beneath his impact. The gunman screamed in pain. But he was fast and still deadly. The gun was already in his other hand, covering him again. "Chloroform, damn it," Tree screamed, clutching his wounded penis to his stomach.
  
  Nick felt a wet cloth pull his nose and mouth tightly. He could see Hung Fat hovering above him. His face was the size of a house, and his features were beginning to float strangely. Nick wanted to hit him, but he couldn't move. "That was stupid," Hung Fat said. At least, Nick thought it was the Chinese man who said it. But perhaps it was Nick himself.
  
  A black wave of panic washed over him. Why was it dark?
  
  He tried to sit up, but was thrown back by the rope tied tightly around his neck. He could hear the watch ticking on his wrist, but his wrist was tied to something behind his back. He turned around, trying to see it. It took several minutes, but he finally saw the phosphorescent numbers on the dial. Three minutes past ten.
  
  Morning or night? If it was morning, there were only seventeen minutes left. If it was night, it was all over. His head swung from side to side, trying to find a clue in the endless starry darkness that surrounded him.
  
  He wasn't outside; he couldn't be. The air was cool, with a neutral scent. He was in some enormous room. He opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs. His voice bounced off a dozen corners, turning into a jumble of echoes. He sighed with relief and looked around again. Perhaps there was daylight beyond this night. What he first thought were stars, seemingly the blinking lights of hundreds of dials. He was in some kind of control center...
  
  Without warning, there was a bright flash, like a bomb exploding. A voice-Simian's voice, even, indifferent-said, "You called, Mr. Carter? How are you feeling? Are you receiving me well?"
  
  Nick turned his head towards the voice. His eyes were blinded by the light. He k
  
  
  
  
  
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  I squeezed them tightly, then opened them again. The head of a large bald eagle filled the huge screen at the far end of the room. Nick caught a glimpse of leopard-skin upholstery as Simian leaned forward, adjusting the controls. He saw a blurry stream of objects moving past the man's left shoulder. He was in a Lincoln, traveling somewhere.
  
  But the main thing Nick saw was the light. It blossomed in all its glory behind Simian's ugly head! Nick wanted to cry out his relief at the reprieve. But all he said was, "Where am I, Simian?"
  
  The huge face smiled. "On the top floor of the Medical Center, Mr. Carter. In RODRICK's room. That means missile guidance control."
  
  "I know what that means," Nick snapped. "Why am I still alive? What's the name of the game?"
  
  "No games, Mr. Carter. The games are over. We're serious now. You're still alive because I find you a worthy opponent, someone who could truly appreciate the intricacies of my master plan."
  
  Murder wasn't enough. First, Simian's monstrous vanity had to be stroked. "I'm not a very good captive audience," Nick croaked. "I easily tolerated that. Besides, you're more interesting than any plan you could have devised, Simian. Let me tell you something about yourself. You can correct me if I'm wrong..." He spoke quickly, loudly, trying to keep Simian from noticing the movement of his shoulder. His earlier attempt to see his watch had loosened the knots holding his right arm, and now he was desperately working on it. "You're bankrupt, Simian. GKI Industries is a paper empire. You cheated your millions of shareholders. And now you're in debt to the Syndicate because of your insatiable passion for gambling. They agreed to help you win the moon contract. They knew it was the only chance to get your money back."
  
  Simian smiled thinly. "True to a point," he said. "But these aren't just gambling debts, Mr. Carter. I'm afraid the Syndicate has its back to the wall."
  
  A second head entered the picture. It was Rhino Tree, in hideous close-up. "What our friend here means," he croaked, "is that he took the Syndicate to the cleaners from one of his boiler room operations on Wall Street. The mob kept pouring money into it, trying to get their initial investment back. But the more they invested, the worse it got. They were losing millions."
  
  Simian nodded. "Exactly. You see," he added, "the Syndicate takes the lion's share of any profits I make from this little venture. It's unfortunate, because all the original groundwork, all the brainwork, was mine. Connelly Aviation, the Apollo disaster, even the reinforcement of the original GKI police force with Syndicate hoods-they were all my ideas."
  
  "But why destroy Phoenix One?" Nick demanded. The flesh around his wrist was torn away, and the pain of trying to untie the knots sent shockwaves of agony through his arms. He gasped-and, to cover it, quickly said, "The contract practically belongs to GKI anyway. Why kill three more astronauts?"
  
  "First, Mr. Carter, there's the matter of the second capsule." Simian said this with the bored, slightly impatient air of a corporate executive explaining a problem to a troubled shareholder. "It must be destroyed. But why-you'll no doubt ask-at the cost of human lives? Because, Mr. Carter, the GKI factories need at least two years to participate in the lunar project. As things stand, that's NASA's strongest argument for staying with Connelly. But public revulsion at the coming carnage, as you can imagine, will require a delay of at least two years..."
  
  "A massacre?" His stomach churned with the realization of what Simian meant. The death of three people wasn't a massacre; it was a city ablaze. "You mean Miami?"
  
  "Please understand, Mr. Carter. This isn't just a senseless act of destruction. It serves a dual purpose-it turns public opinion against the lunar program, and it also destroys genuine evidence." Nick looked puzzled. "Evidence, Mr. Carter. In the room you're working on. Sophisticated directional tracking equipment. We can't leave it there after this, can we?"
  
  Nick shuddered slightly as a chill ran down his spine. "There's also the tax aspect," he croaked. "You'll make a tidy profit from destroying your own Medical Center."
  
  Simian beamed. "Of course. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. But in a world gone mad, Mr. Carter, self-interest approaches the level of mystery." He glanced at his watch; the chairman of the board had once again concluded the inconclusive shareholders' meeting: "And now I must bid you farewell."
  
  "Answer me one more question!" Nick shouted. Now he could slip away a little. He held his breath and gave one last tug on the ropes. The skin on the back of his hand tore, and blood ran down his fingers. "I'm not alone here, am I?"
  
  "It'll look like we were warned, won't it?" Simian smiled. "No, of course not. The hospital is fully staffed and has the usual compliments.
  
  
  
  
  
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  t patients."
  
  "And I'm sure your heart bleeds for us all!" He began to tremble with helpless rage. "All the way to the bank!" He bit out the words, spitting them onto the screen. The line slid easier because of the blood. He fought it, trying to clench his knuckles.
  
  "Your anger is pointless," Simian shrugged. "The equipment is automated. It's already programmed. Nothing you or I say now can change the situation. The moment Phoenix One lifts off the launch pad at Cape Kennedy, the automated guidance at the Medical Center will take over. It will seem to spin out of control. Its self-destruct mechanism will jam. It will hurtle toward the hospital, spewing millions of gallons of volatile fuel onto downtown Miami. The Medical Center will simply melt away, and with it all the incriminating evidence. What a terrible tragedy, everyone will say. And in two years, when the lunar project finally gets going again, NASA will award the contract to GKI. It's very simple, Mr. Carter." Simian leaned forward, and Nick caught a glimpse of coconut palms blurring over his left shoulder. "Now, good-bye. I'm transferring you to the program that's already running."
  
  The screen went dark for a moment, then slowly came to life. The enormous Saturn rocket filled it from top to bottom. The portal's spider-like arm had already retracted. A wisp of steam rose from its nose. A series of superimposed numbers floated across the bottom of the screen, recording the elapsed time.
  
  There were only a few minutes and thirty-two seconds left.
  
  The blood from his torn skin clotted on the line, and his first attempts to break the clots broke. He gasped in pain. "This is Mission Control," drawled the voice on the screen. "How do you like it, Gord?"
  
  "Everything is fine from here," replied the second voice. "We're going to P equals one."
  
  "That was Flight Commander Gordon Nash, taking a call from Mission Control, Houston," the announcer's voice broke off. "The countdown is now three minutes, forty-eight seconds to liftoff, all systems operational..."
  
  Sweaty, he felt fresh blood seeping from the backs of his hands. The rope slid easily through the provided lubricant. On his fourth try, he managed to work one knuckle and the widest part of his twisted palm.
  
  And suddenly his hand was free.
  
  "T minus two minutes fifty-six seconds," the voice announced. Nick covered his ears. His fingers were clenched with pain. He tore at the stubborn rope with his teeth.
  
  Within seconds, both hands were free. He loosened the rope around her neck, pulled it over her head, and began working on her ankles, his fingers trembling with the effort...
  
  "Exactly two minutes later, the Apollo spacecraft was renamed Phoenix One..."
  
  Now he was on his feet, moving tensely toward the door he'd seen illuminated on the screen. It wasn't locked. Why would that be? And there were no guards outside. Why would that be? Everyone was gone, the rats, abandoning the doomed ship.
  
  He hurried through the abandoned hall, surprised to find Hugo, Wilhelmina, Pierre, and the family still in their places. But then again, why not? What protection would they offer from the coming Holocaust?
  
  First he tried the stairwell, but it was locked. Then he tried the elevators, but the buttons had been removed. The top floor was walled up. He hurried back down the hallway, trying the doors. They opened onto empty, abandoned rooms. All but one, which was locked. Three sharp kicks with his heel tore the metal from the wood, and the door flew open.
  
  It was a sort of control center. The walls were lined with television monitors. One of them was on. It showed Phoenix One on the launch pad, ready for takeoff. Nick turned around, searching for a phone. There wasn't one, so he started turning on the remaining monitors. Various rooms and corridors of the medical center flickered before his eyes. They were overflowing with patients. Nurses and doctors were moving through the corridors. He turned up the volume and grabbed the microphone, hoping his voice would reach them, warn them in time...
  
  Suddenly he stopped. Something caught his attention.
  
  The monitors clustered around the one showing the rocket on its launch pad-they were recording various views of the lunar port at Cape Kennedy, and Nick knew one of those views wasn't open to regular television cameras! The one showing the top-secret interior of the launch control room.
  
  He plugged the microphone into the appropriate number on the console. "Hello!" he shouted. "Hello! Are you seeing me? Launch Control Blockhouse, this is the GKI Medical Center. Are you seeing me?"
  
  He realized what had happened. Simian instructed his divisional engineers to build a secret two-way communication system with the cape for use in emergency situations.
  
  A shadow flitted across the screen. A disbelieving voice barked, "What the hell is going on here?" A face blurred in close-up focus-a grim military fa with lantern jaws.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ce. "Who authorized this link? Who are you?"
  
  Nick said, "I must contact General McAlester - without delay."
  
  "You'll make it," the soldier croaked, grabbing the phone, "straight through J. Edgar Hoover. Gratz is here, security," he barked into the phone. "Hold on for the check. Something weird is going on. And bring McAlester here for the double."
  
  Nick collected the saliva back into his dry mouth. Slowly, he began to breathe again.
  
  * * *
  
  He sent the Lamborghini racing down palm-lined Ocean Avenue. The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky. The homes of the wealthy flashed past their discreet hedges and wrought-iron fences.
  
  He looked like a handsome, carefree playboy for an afternoon, but Agent N3's thoughts were steeped in revenge and destruction.
  
  There was a radio in the car. A voice said, "...a pinhole leak in Saturn's fuel tank has caused an indefinite delay. We understand they're working on it now. If repairs cause Phoenix One to miss the 3:00 p.m. launch deadline, the mission will be cleared within 24 hours. Stay tuned to WQXT Radio for further updates..."
  
  This was the story he and Macalester had chosen. It would protect Simian and his crowd from suspicion. At the same time, it made them nervous, sitting on the edge of their seats, their eyes glued to the television until Nick reached them.
  
  He knew they were in Palm Beach-at Cathay, Simian's seaside villa. He recognized the coconut palms fanning over the financier's shoulder as he leaned forward in the Lincoln to adjust the controls of the closed-circuit television. They were the palms that lined his private driveway.
  
  N3 hoped to dispatch a special AX cleanup team. He had a personal score to settle.
  
  He glanced at his watch. He'd left Miami an hour ago. The guidance engineers' plane was now flying south from Cape Kennedy. They'd have exactly forty-five minutes to unravel the complex electronic nightmare Simian had created. If it took longer, the mission would be postponed until tomorrow. But then, what was a twenty-four-hour delay compared to the fiery destruction of the city?
  
  Another plane, a small, private one, was heading north at that moment, and with it were Nick's best wishes and a few fond memories. Hank Peterson was sending Joy Sun back to her post at Kennedy Space Port Medical Center.
  
  Nick leaned over, driving with one hand, pulling Wilhelmina out of her hiding place.
  
  He entered the Cathay facility through the automatic gates, which opened as the Lamborghini passed the pedal. A stern-looking man in a green uniform emerged from a kiosk, looked around, and ran up to him, tugging at his service holster. Nick slowed. He extended his right arm, raising his shoulder high, and pulled the trigger. Wilhelmina flinched slightly, and the CCI guard hit the ground face-first. Dust rose around him.
  
  A second shot rang out, shattering the Lamborghini's windshield and raining down on Nick. He slammed on the brakes, opened the door, and dove in one fluid motion. He heard the gun roar behind him as he rolled, and another bullet hit the dust where his head had been. He spun halfway, then reversed his spin and fired. Wilhelmina shuddered twice in his hand, then twice more, coughing gutturally, and the four GKI guards approaching from either side of the kiosk sprawled as the bullets struck home.
  
  He spun around in a half-crouch, his left arm protecting his vitals in the FBI-approved manner, his Luger at the ready. But there was no one else. Dust settled on five bodies.
  
  Had they heard gunshots from the villa? Nick measured the distance with his eyes, recalled the sound of the surf, and doubted it. He approached the bodies and paused, looking at them. He aimed high, resulting in five fatalities. He selected the largest and brought it to the kiosk.
  
  The GKI uniform he donned allowed him to approach the next group of guards, killing one with Hugo and another with a karate chop to the neck. This led him inside the villa. The sound of the television and voices drew him through the deserted halls to a covered stone terrace near the east wing.
  
  A group of men stood in front of a portable television. They wore sunglasses and terrycloth robes, with towels wrapped around their necks. They seemed about to head toward the pool, visible to the left of the terrace, but something on the television held them back. It was the newscaster. He was saying, "We're expecting an announcement any moment. Yes, here it is. It just came in. The voice of NASA communicator Paul Jensen from Mission Control in Houston, announcing that the Phoenix 1 mission has been cleared for twenty-four hours..."
  
  "Dammitohell!" roared Simian. "Red, Rhino!" he barked. "Get back to Miami. We can't take any chances with this Carter guy. Johnny, get some lau."
  
  
  
  
  
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  Now I'm heading to the yacht."
  
  Nick's hand closed on the large metal ball in his pocket. "Wait," he croaked. "No one's moving." Four frightened faces turned toward him. At the same moment, he caught a sudden movement at the edge of his vision. A pair of GKI guards, lounging by the wall, rushed toward him, brandishing the butts of their machine guns. N3 gave the metallic marble a sharp turn. It rolled toward them across the slabs, hissing with deadly gas.
  
  The men froze in place. Only their eyes moved.
  
  Simian stumbled back, clutching his face. A bullet had struck Nick in the lobe of his right ear. It had been the pistol Red Sands had been holding as he stepped away from the terrazzo and crossed the lawn, moving ahead of the deadly fumes. Killmaster's wrist jerked upward. Hugo was launched into the air, plunging deep into Sands' chest. He continued his backflip, slamming his feet into the pool.
  
  "My eyes!" Simian roared. "I can't see!"
  
  Nick turned to face him. Rhino Tree had his arm around his shoulder, leading him off the terrace. Nick followed them. Something struck him on the right shoulder, like a board with incredible force. The impact knocked him down. He landed on all fours. He felt no pain, but time slowed until everything was visible in minute detail. One of the things he saw was Johnny Hung the Fat standing over him, holding a table leg. He dropped it and ran after Rhino Tree and Simian.
  
  The three of them walked quickly across the wide lawn, heading towards the boathouse.
  
  Nick rose unsteadily to his feet. Pain washed over him in dark waves. He moved after them, but his legs collapsed. They wouldn't support him. He tried again. This time he managed to stay awake, but he had to move slowly.
  
  The boat's engine roared to life as N3 pulled up alongside. Hung-Fatty turned it around, spinning the wheel, and peered over the stern to see how it was doing. Simian hunched over in the front seat next to him, still clawing at his eyes. Rhino Three sat in the back. He saw Nick approaching and turned around, trying to pull on something.
  
  N3 ran the last ten yards, reaching up and swinging from the low-hanging beam overhead, clutching his face and stretching, kicking hard on the rise and letting go while still rising. He landed on his toes on the edge of the boat's stern, arching his back, desperately grasping at the air.
  
  He would have lost his balance if Rhino Tree hadn't jabbed him with a boat hook. Nick's hands grabbed the hook and pulled. The shoulder pushed him forward onto his knees, causing Tree to twist and writhe in the backseat like a cornered eel.
  
  The boat burst out of the darkness into blinding sunlight, listing sharply to the left, the water curling around it on either side in a huge, foam-covered wake. Rhino had already drawn his pistol and pointed it at Nick. N3 lowered the boat hook. The bullet whizzed harmlessly past his head, and Rhino screamed as his good arm dissolved in blood and bone. It was a woman's scream, so high-pitched, almost silent. Killmaster stifled it with his hands.
  
  His thumbs dug into the arteries on either side of Rhino's straining throat. A wet, glistening wolf's mouth opened. Dead gray eyes bulged obscenely. A bullet struck Nick in the ear. His head rang with the concussion. He looked up. Hung Fat had turned in his chair. He steered with one hand and fired with the other as the boat raced down the intake, the engines screaming freely and revving as the landing gear spun in the air and then plunged back into the water.
  
  "Look out!" Nick shouted. Hung Fat turned. Killmaster's thumbs finished the job someone else had started. They dug into the purple scar of the Rhino Tree, nearly piercing the thick, calloused skin. The whites of the man's eyes flashed. His tongue lolled out of his open mouth, and a terrible gargling sound erupted from the depths of his lungs.
  
  Another bullet whistled past. Nick felt its wind. He removed his fingers from the dead man's throat and turned left. "Behind you!" he shouted. "Look out!" And this time he meant it. They roared between Simian's yacht and the breakwater, and through the spray-covered windshield he saw the nylon rope lashing the bow to the piling. He was no more than three feet away, and Hung Fat rose from his perch, looming over him for the kill.
  
  "It's the oldest trick in the world," he grinned, and then suddenly there was a dull thud, and the Chinese man was horizontal in the air, the boat sliding out from under him. Something came out of him, and Nick saw it was his head. It splashed into the water about twenty yards behind them, and the headless body followed, sinking without a trace.
  
  Nick turned around. He saw Simian blindly grab the wheel. Too late. They were heading straight for the pier. He dived overboard.
  
  The blast wave hit him when
  
  
  
  
  
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  He surfaced. Hot air blew around him. Shards of metal and plywood rained down. Something large crashed into the water near his head. Then, as his eardrums released some of the blast's pressure, he heard screams. Shrill, inhuman screams. A chunk of flaming debris slowly rose up the jagged stones of the breakwater. Looking closer, Nick saw it was Simian. His arms flapped at his sides. He tried to extinguish the flames, but he looked more like a huge bird trying to fly, a phoenix trying to rise from its funeral pyre. Only he couldn't, fell with a heavy sigh, and died...
  
  * * *
  
  "Oh, Sam, look! There it is. Isn't it beautiful?"
  
  Nick Carter lifted his head from the soft, rolling pillow of her chest. "What's going on?" he muttered inaudibly.
  
  The television sat at the foot of the bed in their Miami Beach hotel room, but he didn't notice. His thoughts were elsewhere-focused on the beautiful, tanned redhead with tobacco-brown skin and white lipstick named Cynthia. Now he heard a voice speaking quickly, excitedly: "...a terrifying orange flame roaring from Saturn's eight nozzles as liquid oxygen and kerosene explode together. It's the perfect launch for Phoenix One..."
  
  He gazed at the set with bleary eyes, watching the enormous machine rise majestically from Merritt Island and arch over the Atlantic at the beginning of its gigantic acceleration curve. Then he turned away, burying his face once more in the dark, fragrant valley between her breasts. "Where were we before my vacation was so rudely interrupted?" he muttered.
  
  "Sam Harmon!" Nick's girlfriend from Florida sounded shocked. "Sam, I'm surprised at you." But the shocked note turned languid under his caresses. "Aren't you interested in our space program?" she moaned as her nails began to scratch his back. "Of course," he chuckled. "Stop me if that rocket starts flying this way."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Spy Judas
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Killmaster
  
  Spy Judas
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to the Secret Service of the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  "What about their overall plan, Akim," Nick said, "you don't know anything?"
  
  "Just islands. We're so low in the water, it's slapping against the glass, and I can't see clearly."
  
  "What about that sail on the port side?"
  
  Nick concentrated on the dials, his hands busier than a hobby pilot's on his first instrument flight. He moved his large frame aside to allow a small Indonesian boy to rotate the periscope mount. Akim looked weak and frightened. "It's a big prau. It's sailing away from us."
  
  "I'll take her further. Keep an eye out for anything that will tell you where we are. And if there are any reefs or rocks..."
  
  "It'll be dark in a few minutes, and I won't be able to see anything at all," Akim replied. He had the softest voice Nick had ever heard from a man. This handsome young man must have been eighteen. A man? He sounded as if his voice hadn't changed-or maybe there was another reason. That would make everything perfect; lost on a hostile shore with a gay first mate.
  
  Nick grinned and felt better. The two-man submarine was a diver's toy, a rich man's toy. It was well-built, but difficult to handle on the surface. Nick held a course of 270 degrees, trying to control buoyancy, pitch, and direction.
  
  Nick said, "Forget about the periscope for four minutes. I'll let her settle down while we get closer. At three knots, we shouldn't have much trouble anyway."
  
  "There shouldn't be any hidden rocks here," Akim replied. "There is one on Fong Island, but not in the south. It's a gently sloping beach. We usually have good weather. I think this was one of the last storms of the rainy season."
  
  In the soft yellow light of the cramped cabin, Nick glanced at Akim. If the boy was frightened, his jaw was tense. The smooth contours of his almost handsome face were, as always, calm and composed.
  
  Nick recalled Admiral Richards's confidential comment before the helicopter had lifted them off the carrier. "I don't know what you're looking for, Mr. Bard, but the place you're going to is a seething hell. It looks like heaven, but it's pure hell. And look at that little guy. He says he's Minankabau, but I think he's Javanese."
  
  Nick was curious. In this business, you've gleaned and memorized every scrap of information. "What could that mean?"
  
  "As a New Yorker who claims to be a dairy farmer from Bellows Falls, Vermont, I spent six months in Jakarta when it was Dutch Batavia. I was interested in horse racing. One study says there are forty-six types."
  
  After Nick and Akeem boarded the 99,000-ton aircraft carrier at Pearl Harbor, it took Admiral Richards three days to deal with Nick. A second radio message on top-secret red paper helped. "Mr. Bard" was undoubtedly disruptive to the fleet, as were all State Department or CIA operations, but the admiral had his own opinion.
  
  When Richards discovered that Nick was reserved, pleasant, and knew a thing or two about ships, he invited the passenger into his spacious cabin, the only one on the ship with three portholes.
  
  When Richards discovered that Nick knew his old friend, Captain Talbot Hamilton of the Royal Navy, he took a liking to his passenger. Nick took the elevator from the admiral's cabin up five decks to
  
  The flagship bridge officer watched catapults eject Phantom and Skyhawk jets during a training flight on a clear day, and briefly glanced at the computers and sophisticated electronic equipment in the large war room. He was not invited to try out the admiral's white-upholstered swivel chair.
  
  Nick enjoyed Richards's chess and pipe tobacco. The admiral liked to test his passenger's reactions. Richards actually wanted to become a doctor and psychiatrist, but his father, a Marine colonel, prevented that move. "Forget it, Cornelius," he told the admiral-then J.-three years after Annapolis. "Stay in the Navy, where the promotions begin, until you make it in COMMAND CENTER. Navy papers are a good place, but they're a dead end. And you weren't forced to get out there; you had to work."
  
  Richards thought "Al Bard" was a tough agent. An attempt to push him beyond certain points was met with the observation that "Washington has a say in this matter," and, of course, you were stopped in your tracks. But Bard was a normal guy-he kept his distance and respected the Navy. You couldn't ask for more.
  
  Last night on board, Nick Richards said, "I took a look at that little sub you came with. Nicely built, but they can be unreliable. If you have any trouble right after the copter drops you in the water, fire the red flare. I'll have the pilot keep an eye on it for as long as possible."
  
  "Thank you, sir," Nick replied. "I'll keep that in mind. I tested the craft for three days in Hawaii. Spent five hours flying it at sea."
  
  "The guy - what's his name, Akim - was with you?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Then your weight will be the same. Have you experienced this in rough seas?
  
  "No."
  
  "Don't risk it..."
  
  "Richards meant well," Nick thought, trying to escape at periscope depth using his horizontal fins. That's what the designers of this little submarine had done, too. As they approached the island, the waves were stronger, and he could never match its buoyancy or depth. They bobbed like Halloween apples.
  
  "Akim, do you ever get seasick?"
  
  "Of course not. I learned to swim when I learned to walk."
  
  "Don't forget what we're doing tonight."
  
  "Al, I assure you, I can swim better than you."
  
  "Don't bet on it," Nick replied. The guy might be right. He'd probably been in the water his whole life. Then again, Nick Carter, as the number three man in the AXE, practiced what he called waterworks every few days of his life. He stayed in excellent shape and had a variety of physical skills to increase his chances of staying alive. Nick believed the only professions or arts that required a more rigorous schedule than his were those of circus athletes.
  
  Fifteen minutes later, he steered the small submarine straight onto the hard beach. He jumped out, tied a line to the bow hook, and with much help from the rollers cutting into the hazy surf, and some voluntary but weak tugs from Akim, he lifted the vessel above the waterline and secured it with two lines to the anchor and a giant banyan-like tree.
  
  Nick used the flashlight to finish the knot in the rope around the tree. Then he switched off the light and straightened, feeling the coral sand yield to his weight. The tropical night fell like a blanket. Stars splashed purple overhead. From the shoreline, the sea's glow shimmered and transformed. Through the crash and roar of the breakers, he heard the sounds of the jungle. Bird calls and animal cries that would have seemed endless if anyone had listened.
  
  "Akim..."
  
  "Yes?" The answer came from the darkness a few feet away.
  
  "Any ideas on which path we should take?"
  
  "No. Maybe I can tell you in the morning."
  
  "Good morning! I wanted to get to Fong Island this evening."
  
  A soft voice answered, "Tonight - tomorrow night - next week night. He'll still be there. The sun will still rise."
  
  Nick snorted in disgust and climbed onto the sub, pulling out two light cotton blankets, an axe and a folding saw, a pack of sandwiches, and a thermos of coffee. Maryana. Why do some cultures develop such a strong taste for an uncertain future? Relax, was their password. Save it for tomorrow.
  
  He laid the gear on the beach at the edge of the jungle, using the flash sparingly. Akim helped as best he could, stumbling in the darkness, and Nick felt a pang of guilt. One of his mottos was, "Do it, you'll last longer." And, of course, since they met in Hawaii, Akim had been excellent and worked hard, training with the submarine, teaching Nick the Indonesian version of Malay, and educating him about local customs.
  
  Akim Machmur was either very valuable to Nick and AX or he liked him
  
  On his way to school in Canada, the young man slipped into the FBI office in Honolulu and told them about the kidnapping and blackmail in Indonesia. The bureau advised the CIA and AXE on official procedures in international affairs, and David Hawk, Nick's immediate superior and director of AXE, flew Nick to Hawaii.
  
  "Indonesia is one of the world's hot spots," Hawk explained, handing Nick a briefcase of reference materials. "As you know, they've just had a gigantic bloodbath, and the Chicoms are desperate to salvage their political power and regain control. The young man may be describing a local crime ring. They have some hotties. But with Judas and Heinrich Müller on the loose in a large Chinese junk, I smell something. It's just their game of kidnapping young people from wealthy families and demanding money and cooperation from the Chicoms-the Chinese Communists. Of course, their families know it. But where else can you find people who would kill their relatives for the right price?"
  
  "Is Akim real?" Nick asked.
  
  "Yes. CIA-JAC radioed us a photo. And we brought in a McGill professor just for a quick check. He's the Muchmur boy, all right. Like most amateurs, he ran away and sounded the alarm before he knew all the details. He should have stayed with his family and gathered the facts. That, Nicholas, is what you're getting into..."
  
  After a lengthy conversation with Akeem, Hawk made a decision. Nick and Akeem would travel to a key hub of operations-the Machmura enclave on Fong Island. Nick was to maintain the role he'd been introduced to Akeem in, which he would use as his cover in Jakarta: "Al Bard," an American art importer.
  
  Akim had been told that "Mr. Bard" often worked for what was called American intelligence. He seemed quite impressed, or perhaps Nick's stern, tanned appearance and his air of firm yet gentle confidence helped.
  
  As Hawk drew up a plan and they began intensive preparations, Nick briefly questioned Hawk's judgment. "We could have flown in through the usual channels," Nick countered. "You could have delivered the submarine to me later."
  
  "Trust me, Nicholas," Hawk countered. "I think you'll agree with me before this case gets any older, or after you talk to Hans Nordenboss, our man in Jakarta. I know you've seen plenty of intrigue and corruption. That's the way of life in Indonesia. You'll appreciate my subtle approach, and you might need a submarine."
  
  "Is she armed?"
  
  "No. You will have fourteen pounds of explosives and your regular weapons."
  
  Now, standing in the tropical night with the sweet, musty scent of the jungle in his nostrils and the roaring sounds of the jungle in his ears, Nick wished Hawk hadn't shown up. A heavy animal crashed nearby, and Nick turned toward the sound. He had his special Luger, Wilhelmina, under his arm, and Hugo, with its sharp blade that could slide into his palm at the touch, but this world seemed vast, as if it might require a great deal of firepower.
  
  He said into the darkness: "Akim. Can we try walking along the beach?"
  
  "We can try."
  
  "What would be the logical route to get to Fong Island?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  Nick dug a hole in the sand halfway between the jungle line and the surf and plopped down. Welcome to Indonesia!
  
  Akim joined him. Nick smelled the boy's sweet scent. He dismissed his thoughts. Akim was behaving like a good soldier, obeying the orders of a respected sergeant. What if he was wearing perfume? The boy always tried. It would be unfair to think...
  
  Nick slept with feline alertness. Several times he was awakened by the sounds of the jungle and the wind splashing their blankets. He noted the time - 4:19. That would have been 12:19 in Washington the day before. He hoped Hawk was enjoying a good dinner...
  
  He woke up, blinded by the bright dawn sun and startled by the large black figure standing next to him. He rolled in the opposite direction, hitting his target, aiming for Wilhelmina. Akim shouted, "Don't shoot."
  
  "I didn't mean to," Nick growled.
  
  It was the largest ape Nick had ever seen. It was brownish, with small ears, and, after examining its sparse, reddish-brown hair, Nick saw that it was a female. Nick straightened up carefully and grinned. "Orangutan. Good morning, Mabel."
  
  Akim nodded. "They're often friendly. She brought you gifts. Look there in the sand."
  
  A few yards from Nick were three ripe, golden papayas. Nick picked one up. "Thanks, Mabel."
  
  "They're the most humanoid apes," Akim suggested. "She's like you."
  
  "I'm glad. I need friends." The large animal hurried into the jungle and reappeared a moment later with a strange, oval, red fruit.
  
  "Don't eat this," Akim warned. "Some people can eat it, but some people will get sick from it."
  
  Nick tossed Akim a delicious-looking papaya when Mabel returned. Akim instinctively caught it. Mabel screamed in fear and jumped on Akim!
  
  Akim spun and tried to dodge, but the orangutan moved like an NFL quarterback with a ball and an open field. She dropped the red fruit, grabbed the papaya from Akim, threw it into the sea, and began ripping Akim's clothes off. His shirt and pants were torn in one powerful rip. The ape was clutching Akim's shorts when Nick shouted, "Hey!" and ran forward. He grabbed the ape's head with his left hand, holding a Luger pistol at the ready in his right.
  
  "Go away. Allons. Vamos!..." Nick continued shouting in six languages and pointing at the jungle.
  
  Mabel-he thought of her as Mabel, and actually felt embarrassed when she pulled back, one long arm extended, palm up, in a pleading gesture. She turned slowly and backed into the tangled undergrowth.
  
  He turned to Akim. "So that's why you always seemed weird. Why did you pretend to be a boy, dear? Who are you?"
  
  Akim turned out to be a girl, petite and beautifully formed. She fiddled with her ripped jeans, naked except for a narrow strip of white fabric that squeezed her breasts. She wasn't in a hurry and didn't seem flustered, like some girls-she was seriously twirling her ruined pants from side to side, shaking her beautiful head. She had a businesslike manner and a sensible frankness about the lack of clothing Nick had noticed at the Balinese party. Indeed, this compact cutie resembled one of those perfectly formed doll-like beauties who served as models for artists, performers, or simply as delightful companions.
  
  Her skin was a light mocha shade, and her arms and legs, though slender, were covered in hidden muscles, as if painted by Paul Gauguin. Her hips and thighs were ample frame for her small, flat stomach, and Nick understood why "Akeem" always wore long, loose sweatshirts to conceal those beautiful curves.
  
  He felt a pleasant warmth in his legs and lower back as he looked at her-and suddenly realized that the little brown minx was actually posing for him! She inspected the torn fabric again and again, giving him the opportunity to inspect it! She wasn't being coquettish, there wasn't the slightest hint of smug condescension. She was simply acting playfully natural, because her feminine intuition told her this was the perfect time to relax and impress a handsome man.
  
  "I'm surprised," he said. "I see that you are much more beautiful as a girl than as a boy."
  
  She tilted her head and glanced at him sideways, a mischievous twinkle adding a sparkle to her bright black eyes. Like Akim, he decided, she was trying to keep her jaw muscles tight. Now, more than ever, she looked like the most beautiful of Balinese dancers or the strikingly sweet Eurasians you saw in Singapore and Hong Kong. Her lips were small and full, and when she calmed down, they pouted only slightly, and her cheeks were firm, high ovals that you knew would be surprisingly supple when you kissed them, like warm, muscled marshmallows. She lowered her dark lashes. "Are you very angry?"
  
  "Oh, no." He holstered the Luger. "You're spinning yarn, and I'm lost on the jungle beach, and you've already cost my country maybe sixty or eighty thousand dollars." He handed her the shirt, a hopeless rag. "Why should I be angry?"
  
  "I'm Tala Machmur," she said. "Akim's sister."
  
  Nick nodded expressionlessly. He must be different. Nordenboss's confidential report stated that Tala Makhmur was among the young people captured by the kidnappers. "Continue."
  
  "I knew you wouldn't listen to the girl. No one does. So I took Akim's papers and pretended to be him to get you to come and help us."
  
  "Such a long way. Why?"
  
  "I... I don't understand your question."
  
  "Your family could report the news to the American official in Jakarta or travel to Singapore or Hong Kong and contact us."
  
  "Exactly. Our families don't need help! They just want to be left alone. That's why they pay and keep quiet. They're used to it. Everyone always pays someone. We pay politicians, the army, and so on. It's a standard deal. Our families won't even discuss their problems with each other."
  
  Nick recalled Hawk's words: "...intrigue and corruption. In Indonesia, it's a way of life." As usual, Hawk predicted the future with computer-like precision.
  
  He kicked a piece of pink coral. "So your family doesn't need help. I'm just a big surprise you're bringing home. No wonder you were so eager to slip away to Fong Island without warning."
  
  "Please don't be angry." She struggled with her jeans and shirt. He decided she wouldn't go anywhere without her sewing machine, but the view was wonderful. She caught his solemn gaze and approached him, holding scraps of fabric in front of her. "Help us, and at the same time, you'll help your country. We've been through a bloody war. Fong Island escaped it, true, but in Malang, just off the coast, two thousand people died. And they're still searching the jungle for the Chinese."
  
  "So. I thought you hated the Chinese."
  
  "We don't hate anyone. Some of our Chinese have lived here for generations. But when people do wrong and everyone gets angry, they kill. Old grudges. Jealousy. Religious differences."
  
  "Superstition is more important than reason," Nick muttered. He'd seen it in action. He patted the smooth brown hand, noting how gracefully it was folded. "Well, here we are. Let's find Fong Island."
  
  She shook the bundle of fabric. "Could you pass me one of the blankets?"
  
  "Here."
  
  He stubbornly refused to turn away, enjoying watching her as she shed her old clothes and deftly wrapped herself in a blanket that became like a sarong. Her glittering black eyes were mischievous. "It's more comfortable this way, anyway."
  
  "You like it," he said. She unwound the white fabric band that bound her breasts, and the sarong was beautifully filled. "Yes," he added, "delightful. Where are we now?"
  
  She turned and gazed intently at the gentle curve of the bay, fringed on the eastern shore by gnarled mangroves. The shore was a white crescent, a sea sapphire in the clear dawn, except where green and azure breakers crashed onto a pink coral reef. A few sea slugs fell just above the surf line, like foot-long caterpillars.
  
  "We might be on Adata Island," she said. "It's uninhabited. A family uses it as a sort of zoo. Crocodiles, snakes, and tigers live there. If we turn to the north shore, we can cross to Fong."
  
  "No wonder Conrad Hilton missed this," Nick said. "Sit down and give me half an hour. Then we'll leave."
  
  He reattached the anchors and covered the small submarine with driftwood and jungle growth until it resembled a pile of debris on the shore. Tala headed west along the beach. They rounded several small headlands, and she exclaimed, "That's Adata. We're at Chris Beach."
  
  "Chris? A knife?"
  
  "A curved dagger. Snake, I think, is an English word."
  
  "How far is it to Fong?"
  
  "One pot." She giggled.
  
  "Explain further?"
  
  "In Malay, one meal. Or about half a day."
  
  Nick cursed silently and walked forward. "Come on."
  
  They reached a ravine that cut across the beach from the inside, where the jungle rose in the distance like hills. Tala stopped. "Perhaps it would be shorter to climb the path by the stream and head north. It's more difficult, but it's half the distance compared to walking along the beach, going to the western end of Adata, and returning."
  
  "Lead on."
  
  The trail was terrifying, with countless cliffs and vines that resisted Nick's axe like metal. The sun was high and ominous when Tala stopped at a pond with a stream running through it. "This is our finest hour. I'm so sorry. We won't gain much time. I didn't realize the trail hadn't been used in a while."
  
  Nick chuckled, cutting through the vine with the stiletto-like edge of Hugo. To his surprise, it pierced him faster than an axe. Good old Stuart! The AXE weapons chief always claimed Hugo was the finest steel in the world-he'd be pleased to hear that. Nick tucked Hugo back into his sleeve. "Today-tomorrow. The sun will rise."
  
  Tala laughed. "Thank you. You remember."
  
  He unwrapped the rations. The chocolate became mud, the cookies a slurry. He opened the K-Crackers and the cheese, and they ate them. A movement back down the trail alerted him, and his hand snatched Wilhelmina away as he hissed, "Down, Tala."
  
  Mabel walked along the rugged road. In the jungle shadows, she looked black again, not brown. Nick said, "Oh, shit," and tossed her chocolate and cookies. She took the gifts and nibbled happily, looking like a widow having tea at the Plaza. When she finished, Nick shouted, "Now run!"
  
  She left.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  After walking a couple of miles down the slope, they came to a stream in the jungle about ten yards wide. Tala said, "Wait."
  
  She went and undressed,
  
  , deftly made a small package out of her sarong and swam to the other bank like a slender brown fish. Nick watched in admiration. She called out, "I think everything's okay. Let's go."
  
  Nick removed his rubber-lined boat shoes and wrapped them in his shirt with the axe. He'd taken five or six powerful swings when he heard Tala scream and caught movement upstream out of the corner of his eye. A brown, gnarled log seemed to be sliding off the nearby bank under its own outboard motor. An alligator? No, a crocodile! And he knew crocodiles were the worst! His reflexes were quick. Too late to waste time flipping-didn't they say the splash helped? He grabbed his shirt and shoes in one hand, letting go of the axe, and lunged forward with powerful overhand swings and a wide thud.
  
  That would be a neck! Or would you say jaws and a leg? Tala loomed over him. She raised her stick and struck the crocodile across the back. A deafening scream ripped through the jungle, and he heard a gigantic splash behind him. His fingers touched the ground, he dropped the bag, and scrambled ashore like a seal swimming on an ice floe. He turned to see Mabel, waist-deep in the dark current, smashing the crocodile with a giant tree branch.
  
  Tala threw another branch at the reptile. Nick rubbed his back.
  
  "Oh," he said. "Her aim is better than yours."
  
  Tala collapsed next to him, sobbing, as if her small body had finally taken in too much and the floodgates had burst. "Oh, Al, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't see it. That monster almost got you. And you're a good man-you're a good man."
  
  She stroked his head. Nick looked up and smiled. Mabel stepped out onto the other side of the river and frowned. At least, he was sure it was a frown. "I'm a pretty good person. Still."
  
  He held the slender Indonesian girl in his arms for ten minutes until her hysterical gurgling subsided. She hadn't had time to rewind her sarong, and he noted with approval that her plump breasts were beautifully shaped, like something out of a Playboy magazine. Didn't they say these people weren't shy about their breasts? They only covered them because civilized women insisted. He wanted to touch one. Resisting the impulse, he sighed softly in approval.
  
  When Tala seemed calm, he went to the stream and fetched his shirt and shoes with a stick. Mabel had disappeared.
  
  When they reached the beach, which was an exact replica of the one they had left, the sun was at the western edge of the trees. Nick said, "One pot, huh? We ate a full meal."
  
  "It was my idea," Tala replied meekly. "We were supposed to go around."
  
  "I'm teasing you. We probably couldn't have had a better time. Is that Fong?"
  
  Across a mile of sea, stretching as far as the eye could see, and backed by triple mountains or volcanic cores, lay the beach and coastline. It had a cultivated, civilized air, unlike Adata. Meadows or fields rose from the highlands in elongated green and brown lines, and there were clusters of what looked like houses. Nick thought he saw a truck or bus on the road when he squinted.
  
  "Is there a way to signal them? Do you happen to have a mirror?"
  
  "No."
  
  Nick frowned. The submarine had a full jungle survival kit, but lugging it all around seemed foolish. The matches in his pocket were like mush. He polished Hugo's thin blade and tried to direct flares toward Fong Island, channeling the last rays of the sun. He supposed he might have managed to create some flares, but in this strange country, he thought gloomily, who cared?
  
  Tala sat on the sand, her shiny black hair falling over her shoulders, her small body hunched over with exhaustion. Nick felt the aching weariness in his own legs and feet and joined her. "Tomorrow I can thrash around on them all day."
  
  Tala leaned against him. "Exhausted," he thought at first, until a slender hand slid up his forearm and pressed against it. He admired the perfect creamy moon-shaped circles at the base of her nails. Damn, she was a pretty girl.
  
  She said softly, "You must think I'm terrible. I wanted to do the right thing, but it ended up a mess."
  
  He squeezed her hand gently. "It just looks worse because you're so tired. Tomorrow I'll explain to your father that you're a hero. You asked for help. There will be singing and dancing while the whole family celebrates your bravery."
  
  She laughed, as if enjoying the fantasy. Then she sighed deeply. "You don't know my family. If Akim had done it, maybe. But I'm just a girl."
  
  "Some girl." He felt more comfortable hugging her. She didn't object. She snuggled closer.
  
  After a while, his back began to ache. He slowly lay down on the sand, and she followed him like a shell. She began to lightly run one small hand over his chest and neck.
  
  Slender fingers stroked his chin, outlined his lips, caressed his eyes. They massaged his forehead and temples with a skilled dexterity that-combined with the day's exercise-almost lulled him to sleep. Except when a teasing, gentle touch brushed against his nipples and navel, he woke again.
  
  Her lips touched his ear softly. "You're a good man, Al."
  
  "You said that before. Are you sure?"
  
  "I know. Mabel knew." She giggled.
  
  "Don't touch my friend," he muttered sleepily.
  
  "Do you have a girlfriend?"
  
  "Certainly."
  
  "Is she a beautiful American?"
  
  "No. Not a nice Eskimo, but damn, she can make some good chowder."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Fish stew".
  
  "I don't really have a boyfriend."
  
  "Oh, come on. Beautiful little dish, aren't you? Not all your local boys are blind. And you're smart. Educated. And by the way," he gave her a light squeeze, hugging her, "thanks for punching that crocodile. That took guts."
  
  She gurgled happily. "Nothing happened." Seductive fingers danced just above his belt, and Nick inhaled the hot, rich air. That's how it is. A warm tropical night-hot blood boils. Mine is warming, and is resting such a bad idea?
  
  He rolled onto his side, tucking Wilhelmina under his arm again. Tala fit him as comfortably as a Luger in a holster.
  
  - Is there no handsome young man for you on Fong Island?
  
  "Not really. Gan Bik Tiang says he loves me, but I think he's embarrassed."
  
  "How confused are you?"
  
  "He seems nervous around me. He hardly touches me."
  
  "I'm nervous around you. But I love touching..."
  
  "If I had a strong friend - or husband - I wouldn't be afraid of anything."
  
  Nick pulled his hand away from those alluring young breasts and patted her shoulder. This required some thought. A husband? Ha! It would have been wise to research the Makhmurs before inviting trouble. There were strange customs-like, we penetrate the daughter, and we penetrate you. Wouldn't it have been nice if they were members of a tribe where tradition dictated that you would be honored to mount one of their underage daughters? No such luck.
  
  He dozed off. The fingers on his forehead returned, hypnotizing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Tala's scream woke him. He started jumping, and a hand pressed against his chest. The first thing he saw was a gleaming knife, two feet long, not far from his nose, with the tip at his throat. It had a symmetrical blade with a curved snake. Hands grabbed his arms and legs. Five or six people were holding him, and they weren't weaklings, he decided after an experimental tug.
  
  Tala was pulled away from him.
  
  Nick's gaze followed the gleaming blade to its holder, a stern young Chinese man with very short hair and neatly trimmed features.
  
  The Chinese man asked in perfect English: "Kill him, Tala?"
  
  "Don't do that until I give you a message," Nick barked. It seemed as smart as anything.
  
  The Chinese man frowned. "I am Gan Bik Tiang. Who are you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  "Stop!" - Tala shouted.
  
  "It's time for her to join the action," Nick thought. He lay motionless and said, "I'm Al Bard, an American businessman. I've brought Miss Makhmur home."
  
  He rolled his eyes and watched as Tala approached the dump. She said, "He's with us, Gan. He brought me from Hawaii. I talked to people from America and..."
  
  She continued a stream of Malay-Indonesian that Nick couldn't follow. The men began to dismount from his arms and legs. Finally, a skinny Chinese youth removed his kris and carefully placed it in his belt pouch. He held out his hand, and Nick took it as if he needed it. There was nothing wrong with grabbing one of them-just in case. He feigned clumsiness and looked hurt and scared, but once he got to his feet, he surveyed the situation, stumbling in the sand. Seven men. One held a shotgun. If necessary, he would disarm him first, and the chances were better than even that he would take them all. Hours and years of practice-judo, karate, savate-and deadly precision with Wilhelmina and Hugo gave you a huge advantage.
  
  He shook his head, rubbed his arm, and staggered closer to the man with the gun. "Please excuse us," Gan said. "Tala says you've come to our aid. I thought she might be your prisoner. We saw the flash last night and arrived before dawn."
  
  "I understand," Nick replied. "No harm done. Nice to meet you. Tala was talking about you."
  
  Gan looked pleased. "Where's your boat?"
  
  Nick gave Tala a warning glance. "The US Navy dropped us off here. On the other side of the island."
  
  "I see. Our boat is right on the shore. Can you get up?"
  
  Nick decided his game was improving. "I'm fine. How are things in Fong?"
  
  "Not good. Not bad. We have our own... problems."
  
  "Tala told us. Is there any more word from the bandits?"
  
  "Yes. Always the same thing. More money, otherwise they'll kill... the hostages."
  
  Nick was sure he was going to say "Tala." But Tala was there! They were walking along the beach. Gan said, "You're going to meet Adam Makhmur. He won't be happy to see you."
  
  "I heard. We can offer powerful assistance. I'm sure Tala told you I also have connections with the government. Why don't he and the other victims welcome this?"
  
  "They don't believe in government help. They believe in the power of money and their own plans. Their own... I think that's a tricky English word."
  
  "And they don't even cooperate with each other..."
  
  "No. It's not like they think. Everyone thinks that if you pay, everything will be fine and you can always get more money. You know the story about the chicken and the golden eggs?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "That's true. They can't understand how bandits can kill a goose that lays gold."
  
  "But you think differently..."
  
  They rounded a spit of pink-and-white sand, and Nick saw a small sailing vessel, a two-poster with a lateen sail half-masted, fluttering in the light breeze. The man was trying to correct it. He stopped when he saw them. Gan was silent for a few minutes. Finally, he said, "Some of us are younger. We see, read, and think differently."
  
  "Your English is excellent, and your accent is more American than British. Did you go to school in the United States?"
  
  "Berkeley," Hahn replied curtly.
  
  There was little chance to speak prau. The large sail made the most of the light wind, and the small vessel crossed the stretch of sea at four or five knots, the Indonesians throwing outriggers over it. They were muscular, strong men, all bones and sinews, and they were excellent sailors. Without speaking, they shifted their weight to maintain the best sailing surface.
  
  On a clear morning, Fong Island looked more busy than it had at dusk. They headed toward a large pier, built on stilts about two hundred yards from the shore. At its end was a complex of warehouses and sheds, housing trucks of various sizes; to the east, a small steam locomotive maneuvered tiny carriages at the railway station.
  
  Nick leaned toward Gan's ear. "What are you sending?"
  
  "Rice, kapok, coconut products, coffee, rubber. Tin and bauxite from other islands. Mr. Machmur is very wary."
  
  "How's business?"
  
  "Mr. Makhmur owns a lot of stores. A big one in Jakarta. We always have markets, except when world prices fall sharply."
  
  Nick thought Gan Bik was on guard too. They moored on a floating dock near a large pier, next to a two-masted schooner where a crane was loading sacks onto pallets.
  
  Gan Bik led Tala and Nick along the dock and up a paved walkway to a large, stately building with shuttered windows. They entered an office with a picturesque decor that blended European and Asian motifs. The polished wood walls were adorned with artwork that Nick thought was outstanding, and two giant fans swirled overhead, mocking a tall, silent air conditioner in the corner. A wide ironwood executive desk was surrounded by a modern calculating machine, switchboard, and recording equipment.
  
  The man at the table was large-broad, short-with piercing brown eyes. He was dressed in impeccable, tailored white cotton. On a bench of polished teak sat a distinguished-looking Chinese man in a linen suit over a light blue polo shirt. Gun Bik said, "Mr. Muchmur-this is Mr. Al Bard. He brought Tala." Nick shook his hand, and Gun pulled him toward the Chinese man. "This is my father, Ong Chang."
  
  They were pleasant people, without guile. Nick didn't sense any hostility-more like, "It's good you came, and it will be good when you go."
  
  Adam Makhmur said: "Tala will want to eat and rest. Gan, please take her home in my car and come back."
  
  Tala glanced at Nick-I told you so-and followed Gan out. Patriarch Machmurov gestured for Nick to sit down. "Thank you for returning my impetuous daughter. I hope there were no problems with her."
  
  "It's not a problem at all."
  
  "How did she contact you?"
  
  Nick put it on the line. He told them what Tala had said in Hawaii and, without naming AXE, hinted that he was an "agent" for the United States in addition to being an "importer of folk art." When he stopped
  
  Adam exchanged glances with Ong Chang. Nick thought they nodded, but reading their glances was like guessing the hole card in a good five-card stud.
  
  Adam said, "That's partly true. One of my children has been... uh, detained until I meet certain demands. But I'd prefer to keep him in the family. We're hoping to... reach a solution without any outside help."
  
  "They'll bleed white," Nick said bluntly.
  
  "We have significant resources. And no one is ever crazy enough to kill the golden goose. We don't want interference."
  
  "Not interference, Mr. Machmur. Assistance. Substantial, powerful assistance if the situation requires it."
  
  "We know your... agents are powerful. I've met several of them over the past few years. Mr. Hans Nordenboss is on his way here now. I believe he's your assistant. As soon as he arrives, I hope you both enjoy my hospitality and have a good meal before you leave."
  
  "You are called a very intelligent man, Mr. Makhmur. Would a smart general reject reinforcements?"
  
  "If they are associated with additional danger. Mr. Bard, I have over two thousand good men. And I can get as many faster if I want."
  
  "Do they know where the mysterious junk with the prisoners is?"
  
  Makhmur frowned. "No. But we'll do that in time."
  
  "Do you have enough of your own planes to look at?"
  
  Ong Chang coughed politely. "Mr. Bard, it's more complicated than you might think. Our country is the size of your continent, but it consists of over three thousand islands with a nearly endless supply of harbors and hideouts. Thousands of ships come and go. All types. It's a veritable pirate land. Do you remember any pirate stories? They operate even today. And very effectively, now, with old sailing ships and new powerful ones that can outrun all but the fastest naval vessels."
  
  Nick nodded. "I've heard that smuggling is still a major industry. The Philippines protests about it from time to time. But now consider Nordenboss. He's an authority on the matter. He meets with many important people and listens. And when we get weapons, we can call in real help. Modern devices that even your thousands of men and numerous ships can't match."
  
  "We know," Adam Makhmur replied. "However, no matter how influential Mr. Nordenboss may be, this is a different and complex society. I have met Hans Nordenboss. I respect his abilities. But I repeat-please leave us alone."
  
  "Will you tell me if there were any new demands?"
  
  The two older men exchanged quick glances again. Nick decided never to play bridge against them again. "No, that's none of your concern," Makhmur said.
  
  "Of course, we have no authority to conduct an investigation in your country unless you or your authorities wish us to do so," Nick admitted softly and very politely, as if he had accepted their wishes. "We'd like to help, but if we can't, we can't. On the other hand, if we happen to come across something useful to your police, I'm sure you'll cooperate with us-with them, I mean."
  
  Adam Makhmur handed Nick a box of short, blunt Dutch cigars. Nick took one, as did Ong Chang. They breathed in silence for a while. The cigar was excellent. Finally, Ong Chang remarked with an expressionless expression, "You'll find that our authorities can be perplexing-from a Western perspective."
  
  "I've heard some comments about their methods," Nick admitted.
  
  "In this area, the army is much more important than the police."
  
  "Understand."
  
  "They are paid very poorly."
  
  "So they pick up a little bit here and there."
  
  "As uncontrolled armies always have," Ong Chiang agreed politely. "It's one of those things your Washington, Jefferson, and Paine knew so well and defended for your country."
  
  Nick quickly glanced at the Chinese man's face to see if he was being played. He might as well try reading the temperature on a printed calendar. "Must be hard to do business."
  
  "But not impossible," Machmur explained. "Doing business here is like politics; it becomes the art of making things possible. Only fools want to stop trade while they're getting their share."
  
  "So you can handle the authorities. How are you going to handle blackmailers and kidnappers when they get more brutal?"
  
  "We will open the way when the time is right. In the meantime, we are being cautious. Most Indonesian youth from important families are currently under guard or studying abroad."
  
  "What are you going to do with Tala?"
  
  "We need to discuss this. Maybe she should go to school in Canada..."
  
  Nick thought he'd say "also," which would give him an excuse to ask about Akim. Instead, Adam said quickly:
  
  "Mr. Nordenboss will be here in about two hours. You should be ready for a bath and some food, and I'm sure we can outfit you well at the store." He stood up. "And I'll give you a little tour of our lands."
  
  His owners led Nick to the parking lot, where a young man in a tucked-in sarong was lazily drying a Land Rover in the open air. He wore a hibiscus flower tucked behind his ear, but he drove carefully and efficiently.
  
  They passed a sizable village about a mile from the docks, teeming with people and children, its architecture clearly reflecting Dutch influence. The residents were colorfully dressed, busy, and cheerful, and the grounds were very clean and tidy. "Your town looks prosperous," Nick commented politely.
  
  "Compared to cities or some of the poor agricultural regions or the overcrowded ones, we're doing quite well," Adam replied. "Or it might be a question of how much a person needs. We grow so much rice that we export it, and we have plenty of livestock. Contrary to what you may have heard, our people are hardworking whenever they have something worthwhile to do. If we can achieve political stability for a while and put more effort into our population control programs, I believe we can solve our problems. Indonesia is one of the richest, yet most underdeveloped, regions in the world."
  
  Ong intervened: "We were our own worst enemies. But we are learning. Once we start cooperating, our problems will disappear."
  
  "It's like whistling in the dark," Nick thought. Kidnappers in the bushes, an army at the door, a revolution underfoot, and half the natives trying to kill the other half because they didn't accept a certain set of superstitions-their problems weren't over yet.
  
  They reached another village with a large commercial building in the center, overlooking a spacious, grassy plaza shaded by giant trees. A small brown stream flowed through the parkland, its banks ablaze with vibrant flowers: poinsettias, hibiscus, azaleas, fire vines, and mimosas. The road ran right through the small settlement, and on both sides of the path, intricate patterns of bamboo and thatched houses decorated the path.
  
  The sign above the store simply read "MACHMUR." It was surprisingly well-stocked, and Nick was quickly supplied with new cotton trousers and shirts, rubber-soled shoes, and a fashionable straw hat. Adam urged him to choose more, but Nick declined, explaining that his luggage was in Jakarta. Adam waved off Nick's offer of payment, and they stepped out onto the wide veranda just as two army trucks pulled up.
  
  The officer who ascended the steps was firm, upright, and brown as a thorn bush. You could guess his character from the way several natives lounging in the shade retreated. They didn't seem frightened, just cautious-the way one might retreat from a disease carrier or a dog that bites. He greeted Adam and Ong in Indonesian-Malay.
  
  Adam said in English, "This is Mr. Al-Bard, Colonel Sudirmat, the American buyer." Nick assumed that "buyer" gave you more status than "importer." Colonel Sudirmat's handshake was soft, in contrast to his tough exterior.
  
  The soldier said, "Welcome. I didn't know you had arrived..."
  
  "He arrived on a private helicopter," Adam said quickly. "Nordenboss is already on his way."
  
  Fragile dark eyes studied Nick thoughtfully. The colonel had to look up, and Nick thought he hated it. "Are you Mr. Nordenboss's partner?"
  
  "In a way. He's going to help me travel and look at the goods. You could say we're old friends."
  
  "Your passport..." Sudirmat extended his hand. Nick saw Adam frown with concern.
  
  "In my luggage," Nick said with a smile. "Should I bring it to headquarters? I wasn't told..."
  
  "That's not necessary," Sudirmat said. "I'll look at him before I go."
  
  "I'm really sorry I didn't know the rules," Nick said.
  
  "No rules. Just my wish."
  
  They climbed back into the Land Rover and drove down the road, followed by the roar of trucks. Adam said softly, "We've lost the game. You don't have a passport."
  
  "I'll do it as soon as Hans Nordenboss arrives. A perfectly valid passport with a visa, entry stamps, and everything else required. Can we detain Sudirmat until then?"
  
  Adam sighed. "He wants money. I can pay him now or later. It'll take us an hour. Bing-stop the car." Adam got out of the car and called to the truck that had stopped behind them, "Leo, let's go back to my office and finish our business, and then we can join the others at the house."
  
  "Why not?" Sudirmat replied. "Get in."
  
  Nick and Ong drove off in the Land Rover. Ong spat over his side. "A leech. And he has a hundred mouths."
  
  They walked around a small mountain with terraces and
  
  with crops in the fields. Nick caught Ong's eye and pointed at the driver. "Can we talk?"
  
  "Bing is correct."
  
  "Could you give me any more information about the bandits or kidnappers? I understand they may have connections to China."
  
  Ong Tiang nodded grimly. "Everyone in Indonesia has connections to the Chinese, Mr. Bard. I can tell you're a well-read man. You may already know that we three million Chinese dominate the economy of 106 million Indonesians. The average Indonesian's income is five percent of that of a Chinese Indonesian. You'd call us capitalists. The Indonesians attack us, calling us communists. Isn't that a strange picture?"
  
  "Very. You say that you do not and will not cooperate with bandits if they are connected to China."
  
  "The situation speaks for itself," Ong replied sadly. "We're stuck between the waves and the rocks. My own son is being threatened. He no longer goes to Jakarta without four or five guards."
  
  "Gun Bik?"
  
  "Yes. Although I have other sons at school in England." Ong wiped his face with a handkerchief. "We know nothing about China. We've been here for four generations, some of us much longer. The Dutch persecuted us viciously in 1740. We think of ourselves as Indonesians... but when their blood gets hot, stones might start flying in the face of a Chinese man on the street."
  
  Nick sensed Ong Tiang welcomed the opportunity to discuss his concerns with the Americans. Why, until recently, had it seemed that the Chinese and Americans always got along? Nick said softly, "I know another race that has experienced senseless hatred. Humans are young animals. Most of the time, they act on emotion rather than reason, especially in a crowd. Now's your chance to do something. Help us. Get information or find out how I can get to the bandits and their sailing junk."
  
  Ong's solemn expression became less enigmatic. He looked sad and worried. "I can't. You don't understand us as well as you think. We solve our own problems."
  
  "You mean ignoring them. Paying the price. Hoping for the best. It doesn't work. You're just opening yourself up to new demands. Or the human-animals I mentioned have been brought together by a power-hungry despot, criminal, or politician, and you've got a real problem. Time to fight. Accept the challenge. Attack."
  
  Ong shook his head slightly and didn't want to say any more. They pulled up to a large, U-shaped house facing the road. It blended into the tropical landscape, as if it had grown in with the rest of the lush trees and flowers. It had large wooden sheds, wide glassed-in porches, and what Nick guessed were about thirty rooms.
  
  Ong exchanged a few words with a pretty young woman in a white sarong and then said to Nick, "She will show you to your room, Mr. Bard. She speaks poor English, but good Malay and Dutch, if you know them. In the main room-you can't miss it."
  
  Nick followed the white sarong, admiring its undulations. His room was spacious, with a modern, twenty-year-old British-style bathroom with a metal towel rack the size of a small blanket. He showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth, using the equipment neatly arranged in the medicine cabinet, and felt better. He undressed and cleaned Wilhelmina, tightening his seat belts. The large pistol needed to be perfectly slung to hide in his sweatshirt.
  
  He lay down on the large bed, admiring the carved wooden frame from which hung a voluminous mosquito net. The pillows were firm and as long as the stuffed sacks of barracks; he remembered they were called "Dutch wives." He braced himself and assumed a completely relaxed position, his arms at his sides, palms down, every muscle softened and gathering fresh blood and energy as he mentally commanded every individual part of his powerful body to stretch and regenerate. This was the yoga routine he had learned in India, valuable for rapid recuperation, for building strength during periods of physical or mental strain, for prolonged breath retention, and for stimulating clear thinking. He found some aspects of yoga nonsense, and others invaluable, which was not surprising-he had come to the same conclusions after studying Zen, Christian Science, and hypnosis.
  
  He briefly thought of his apartment in Washington, his small hunting lodge in the Catskills, and David Hawk. He liked the images. When the door to his room opened, very quietly, he felt refreshed and confident.
  
  Nick lay in his shorts, holding a Luger and a knife under his new, neatly folded trousers, which lay next to him. He silently placed his hand on the gun and tilted his head to see the door. Gun Bick entered. His hands were empty. He quietly approached the bed.
  
  .
  
  The young Chinese man stopped ten feet away, a slender figure in the dim light of the large, quiet room. "Mr. Bard..."
  
  "Yes," Nick answered instantly.
  
  "Mr. Nordenboss will be here in twenty minutes. I thought you wanted to know."
  
  "How do you know?"
  
  "A friend of mine on the West Coast has a radio. He saw the plane and told me the ETA."
  
  "And you heard that Colonel Sudirmat asked to see my passport, and Mr. Machmur or your father asked you to check on Nordenboss and give me advice. I can't say much about your morale here, but your communication is damn good."
  
  Nick swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He knew Gun Bik was studying him, pondering the scars, noting his refined physique, and appreciating the strength of the white man's powerful body. Gun Bik shrugged. "Older men are conservative, and perhaps they're right. But there are some of us who think quite differently."
  
  "Because you studied the story of the old man who moved the mountain?"
  
  "No. Because we look at the world with our eyes wide open. If Sukarno had good people who could help him, everything would be better. The Dutch didn't want us to get too smart. We have to catch up on our own."
  
  Nick chuckled. "You have your own intelligence system, young man. Adam Makhmur told you about Sudirmat and the passport. Bing told you about my conversation with your father. And that guy from the coast announced Nordenboss. What about the battle with the troops? Did they organize a militia, a self-defense unit, or an underground organization?"
  
  "Should I tell you what there is?"
  
  "Maybe not - yet. Don't trust anyone over thirty."
  
  Gan Bik was momentarily confused. "Why? That's what American students say."
  
  "Some of them." Nick quickly dressed and lied politely, "But don't worry about me."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "I'm twenty-nine."
  
  Gun Bik watched expressionlessly as Nick adjusted Wilhelmina and Hugo. Hiding the weapon was impossible, but Nick had the impression he could persuade Gun Bik long before he gave up his secrets. "Can I bring Nordenboss to you?" Gun Bik asked.
  
  "Are you going to meet him?"
  
  "I can."
  
  "Ask him to put my luggage in my room and give me my passport as soon as he can."
  
  "That'll do," the young Chinese man replied and left. Nick gave him time to walk down the long hallway, then stepped out into a dark, cool corridor. This wing had doors on both sides, doors with natural wood louvers for maximum ventilation. Nick chose a door almost directly across from the hall. Neatly arranged items indicated it was occupied. He quickly closed the door and tried another. The third room he explored was obviously an unused guest room. He entered, positioned a chair so he could peer through the doorways, and waited.
  
  The first to knock on the door was a young man with a flower behind his ear-the driver of a Land Rover Bing. Nick waited for the slender young man to move down the hallway, then silently approached him from behind and said, "Looking for me?"
  
  The boy jumped, turned around and looked confused, then put the note in Nick's hand and hurried away, even though Nick said, "Hey, wait..."
  
  The note said, "Beware of Sudirmat." See you tonight. T.
  
  Nick returned to his post outside the door, lit a cigarette, took half a dozen puffs, and used a match to burn the message. It was the girl's handwriting and a "T." That would be Tala. She didn't know that he assessed people like Sudirmat within five seconds of meeting them, and then, if possible, said nothing to them and let them get away from him.
  
  It was like watching an interesting play. The attractive girl who had shown him into the room approached softly, knocked on the door, and slipped in. She was carrying laundry. It might have been necessary, or it might have been an excuse. She left a minute later and was gone.
  
  Next was Ong Chang. Nick allowed him to knock and enter. He had nothing to discuss with the elderly Chinese man-for now. Ong continued to refuse to cooperate until events confirmed that it was best to change his ways. The only things he would respect from the wise old Chang were example and action.
  
  Then Colonel Sudirmat appeared, looking like a thief, pacing the mat, watching his back like a man who knows he's left his enemies behind, and someday they'll catch up. He knocked. He knocked.
  
  Nick, sitting in the darkness, holding one of the blinds open an eighth of an inch, grinned. His fist of power was ready to open, palm up. He was eager to ask Nick for his passport, and he wanted to do it in private if there was a chance he could earn a few rupees.
  
  Sudirmat left with a disgruntled expression. Several people passed by, washed, rested, and dressed for dinner, some in white linen, others in a mix of European and Indonesian fashions. They all looked cool, colorful, and comfortable. Adam Makhmur passed by with a distinguished-looking Indonesian, and Ong Tiang walked by with two Chinese men about his age-they looked well-fed, cautious, and prosperous.
  
  Finally, Hans Nordenboss arrived with a suit bag, accompanied by a servant carrying his belongings. Nick crossed the hall and opened his room door before Hans's knuckles hit the panel.
  
  Hans followed him into the room, thanked the young man, who quickly left, and said, "Hello, Nick. Whom I'll call Al from now on. Where did you fall from then?"
  
  They shook hands and exchanged smiles. Nick had worked with Nordenboss before. He was a short, slightly tousled man with close-cropped hair and a cheerful, pudding-like face. He was the kind of man who could deceive you-his body was made of muscle and sinew, not fat, and his cheerful, moon-like face masked a keen mind and knowledge of Southeast Asia that only a few Britons and Dutchmen who had spent their years in the region could match.
  
  Nick said, "I evaded Colonel Sudirmat. He wants to see my passport. He came looking for me."
  
  "Gun Bik gave me a tip." Nordenboss pulled a leather case from his breast pocket and handed it to Nick. "Here's your passport, Mr. Bard. It's in perfect order. You arrived in Jakarta four days ago and stayed with me until yesterday. I brought you clothes and such." He gestured to the suitcases. "I have more of your gear in Jakarta. Including a couple of confidential items."
  
  "From Stuart?"
  
  "Yes. He always wants us to try out his little inventions."
  
  Nick lowered his voice until it carried between them. "Child Akim turned out to be Tala Machmur. Adam and Ong don't need our help. Any word on Judas, Müller, or the junk?"
  
  "Just a thread." Hans spoke just as quietly. "I have a lead in Jakarta that will lead you somewhere. The pressure is mounting on these wealthy families, but they're paying off the situation and keeping the secret to themselves."
  
  "Are the Chinese coming back into the political picture?"
  
  "And how? Only in the last few months. They have money to spend, and Judas's influence exerts political pressure on them, I think. It's strange. Take, for example, Adam Makhmour, a multimillionaire, handing out money to those who want to ruin him and everyone like him. And he's almost forced to smile when he pays."
  
  "But if they don't have Tala...?"
  
  "Who knows what other member of his family they have? Akim? Or another of his children?"
  
  "How many hostages does he have?"
  
  "Your guess is as good as mine. Most of these magnates are Muslims or pretend to be. They have several wives and children. It's hard to verify. If you ask him, he'll make some reasonable statement-like four. Then you'll eventually find out the truth is closer to twelve."
  
  Nick chuckled. "These charming local customs." He pulled a white linen suit from his bag and quickly put it on. "This Tala is a cutie. Does he have anything similar?"
  
  "If Adam invites you to a big party where they roast pig and dance the serempi and golek, you'll see more cute dolls than you can count. I attended one here about a year ago. There were a thousand people in attendance. The feast lasted four days."
  
  "Get me an invitation."
  
  "I think you'll get one soon for helping Tala. They pay their debts quickly and provide good service to their hosts. We'll fly in for the party when it happens. I'm flying in tonight. It's too late. We leave early in the morning."
  
  Hans led Nick into the vast main room. It had a bar in the corner, a waterfall, refreshing air, a dance floor, and a four-piece combo playing excellent French-style jazz. Nick encountered a couple dozen men and women chatting endlessly, enjoying a wonderful dinner of rijsttafel-a "rice table" with lamb curry and chicken, garnished with a hard-boiled egg, sliced cucumber, bananas, peanuts, a tingling chutney, and fruits and vegetables he couldn't name. There was fine Indonesian beer, excellent Danish beer, and good whiskey. After the servants left, several couples danced, including Tala and Gan Bik. Colonel Sudirmat was drinking heavily and ignored Nick.
  
  At eleven forty-six, Nick and Hans walked back down the hallway, agreeing that they had overeaten, had a wonderful evening, and learned nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Nick unpacked his luggage and put on his clothes.
  
  He made a few notes in his small green notebook in his personal code - a shorthand so secret that he once told Hawk, "Nobody can steal it and find out anything. Often I can't understand what I've written."
  
  At twelve-twenty there was a knock on the door, and he let in Colonel Sudirmat, flushed from the alcohol he'd consumed but still exhaling, along with the fumes of the drink, an air of harsh power in a small package. The colonel smiled mechanically with his thin, dark lips. "I didn't want to disturb you during dinner. May I see your passport, Mr. Bard?"
  
  Nick handed him the brochure. Sudirmat examined it carefully, compared "Mr. Bard" with the photograph, and studied the visa pages. "This was issued very recently, Mr. Bard. You haven't been in the import business for very long."
  
  "My old passport has expired."
  
  "Oh. How long have you been friends with Mr. Nordenboss?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "I know about his... connections. Do you have them too?"
  
  "I have a lot of connections."
  
  "Ah, that's interesting. Let me know if I can help."
  
  Nick gritted his teeth. Sudirmat stared at the silver refrigerator Nick had found on the table in his room, along with a bowl of fruit, a thermos of tea, a plate of cookies and small sandwiches, and a box of fine cigars. Nick waved at the table. "Would you like a nightcap?"
  
  Sudirmat drank two bottles of beer, ate most of the sandwiches and cookies, pocketed one cigar, and lit another. Nick politely parried his questions. When the colonel finally stood, Nick hurried to the door. Sudirmat paused at the door. "Mr. Bard, we'll have to talk again if you insist on carrying a pistol in my neighborhood."
  
  "A gun?" Nick looked down at his thin robe.
  
  "The one you had under your shirt this afternoon. I have to enforce all the rules in my area, you know..."
  
  Nick closed the door. That was clear. He could carry his pistol, but Colonel Sudirmat would have to pay a personal license. Nick wondered if the colonel's troops ever saw their pay. The private Indonesian earned about two dollars a month. He made a living doing the same thing his officers did on a grand scale: extorting and taking bribes, extorting goods and cash from civilians, which was largely responsible for the Chinese persecution.
  
  Nick's briefing papers on the area contained some interesting information. He recalled one piece of advice: "...if he's connected with the local soldiers, negotiate for money. Most will rent their guns to you or the criminals for sixteen dollars a day, no questions asked." He chuckled. Perhaps he'd hide Wilhelmina and rent the colonel's weapons. He turned off all the lights except the low-wattage bulb and lay down on the large bed.
  
  The thin, shrill creak of the door hinge woke him at some point. He trained himself to listen for it and commanded his senses to follow it. He watched the panel open, motionless on the high mattress.
  
  Tala Machmur slipped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. "Al..." came a soft whisper.
  
  "I'm right here."
  
  Since the night was warm, he lay down on the bed wearing only a pair of cotton boxers. They had arrived in Nordenboss's luggage and fit him perfectly. They must have been excellent-they were made of the finest polished cotton available, with a hidden pocket in the crotch for storing Pierre, one of the deadly gas pellets that AXE's N3-Nick Carter, alias Al Bard-was authorized to use.
  
  He considered reaching for his robe, but decided against it. He and Tala had been through enough together, seen enough of each other, to make at least some formalities unnecessary.
  
  She crossed the room with short steps, the smile on her small red lips as cheerful as that of a young girl meeting either the man she'd admired and dreamed about, or the man she was already in love with. She wore a very light yellow sarong with floral patterns in soft pink and green. The glossy black hair she'd dyed at dinner-to Nick's delighted surprise-now cascaded down her smooth chestnut shoulders.
  
  In the soft amber glow she looked like every man's dream, beautifully curvaceous, moving with smooth muscular movements that expressed grace driven by great strength in her insanely rounded limbs.
  
  Nick smiled and collapsed on the bed. He whispered, "Hello. It's good to see you, Tala. You look absolutely beautiful."
  
  She hesitated for a moment, then carried the ottoman to the bed and sat down, resting her dark head on his shoulder. "Do you like my family?"
  
  "Very. And Gan Bik is a good guy. He has a good head on his shoulders."
  
  She gave a slight shrug and the noncommittal blink that girls use to tell a man-especially an older one-that the other or younger man is fine, but let's not waste time talking about him. "What are you going to do now, Al? I know my father and Ong Chang refused your help."
  
  "I'm going to Jakarta with Hans in the morning."
  
  "You won't find a junk or a Müller there."
  
  He immediately asked: "How did you hear about Müller?"
  
  She blushed and looked at her long, slender fingers. "He must be one of the gang that's robbing us."
  
  "And he kidnaps people like you for blackmail?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Please, Tala." He reached out and took one of the delicate hands, holding it as lightly as a bird. "Don't withhold information. Help me so I can help you. Is there another man with Müller, known as Judas or Bormann? A badly crippled man with an accent like Müller's."
  
  She nodded again, giving away more than she thought. "I think so. No, I'm sure of it." She was trying to be honest, but Nick wondered-how could she know about Judas's accent?
  
  "Tell me what other families they hold in their hands."
  
  "I'm not sure about many. No one is talking. But I'm sure the Loponousias have sons Chen Xin Liang and Song Yulin. And a daughter M.A. King."
  
  "Are the last three Chinese?"
  
  "Indonesian Chinese. They live in the Muslim region of North Sumatra. They are practically under siege."
  
  "You mean they could be killed at any moment?"
  
  "Not exactly. They might be fine as long as M.A. keeps paying the army."
  
  Will his money last until things change?
  
  "He is very rich."
  
  "So Adam is paying Colonel Sudirmat?"
  
  "Yes, except that conditions in Sumatra are even worse."
  
  "Is there anything else you want to tell me?" he asked softly, wondering if she would tell him how she knew about Judas and why she was free when, according to the information she had given, she should be a captive on the junk.
  
  She slowly shook her beautiful head, her long eyelashes lowering. She now had both hands on his right arm, and she knew a lot about skin contact, Nick decided as her smooth, delicate nails glided over his skin like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. They patted pleasantly on the inside of his wrist and traced the veins of his bare arm as she pretended to examine his hand. He felt like an important client in the salon of a particularly handsome manicurist. She turned his hand over and lightly stroked the fine lines at the base of his fingers, then followed them to his palm, outlining each line in detail. No, he decided, I was with the most beautiful gypsy fortune teller anyone had ever seen-what were they called in the East? Her index finger crossed from his thumb to his little finger, then down again to his wrist, and a sudden, tingling shudder shot deliciously from the base of his spine to the hair on the back of his neck.
  
  "In Jakarta," she whispered in a soft, cooing tone, "you might learn something from Mata Nasut. She's famous. You'll probably meet her. She's very beautiful... much more beautiful than I ever will be. You'll forget me for her." The small, black-crested head leaned forward, and he felt her soft, warm lips against his palm. The tip of her little tongue began to swirl in the center, where her fingers tugged at his every nerve.
  
  The tremor turned into alternating current. It tingled ecstatically between the crown of his skull and his fingertips. He said, "My dear, you are a girl I will never forget. The courage you showed in that little submarine, the way you held your head, the blow you delivered to that crocodile when you saw I was in danger-one thing I will never forget." He raised his free hand and stroked the hair of the small head, still curled in his palm near his stomach. It felt like heated silk.
  
  Her mouth left his hand, the ottoman caught on the smooth wooden floor, and her dark eyes were inches from his. They shone like two polished stones in a temple statue, but they were framed with a dark warmth that shone with life. "Do you really like me?"
  
  "I think you're one of a kind. You're magnificent." "No lie," Nick thought, "and how far will I go?" The gentle gusts of her sweet breath matched his own heightened rhythm, caused by the current she sent down his spine, which now felt like a red-hot thread embedded in his flesh.
  
  "Will you help us? And me?"
  
  "I will do everything I can."
  
  "And you will come back to me? Even if Mata Nasut is as beautiful as I say?"
  
  "I promise." His hand, freed, moved up behind her bare brown shoulders, like a cameo, and stopped above her sarong. It was like closing another electrical circuit.
  
  Her small, pinkish-pink lips were level with his own touch, then softened their full, almost plump curves into a drooling smile that reminded him of how she had looked in the jungle after Mabel had torn off her clothes. She dropped her head onto his bare chest and sighed. She shouldered a delicious burden, exuding a warm scent; a scent he couldn't type, but the woman's scent was arousing. On his left breast, her tongue began the oval dance he had practiced on his palm.
  
  Tala Makhmur, tasting the clean, salty skin of this large man who was rarely outside her secret thoughts, felt a moment of confusion. She was familiar with human emotions and behavior in all their complexities and sensual details. She had never known modesty. Until the age of six, she ran naked, spied again and again on couples making love on hot tropical nights, carefully observed erotic poses and dances at nighttime feasts when children should have been in bed. She experimented with Gan Bik and Balum Nida, the most handsome youth on Fong Island, and there was not a single part of the male body she did not explore in detail and test its reaction. Partly as a modern protest against unenforceable taboos, she and Gan Bik had copulated several times, and would have done so much more often if he had had his way.
  
  But with this American, she felt so different that it aroused caution and question. With Gan, she felt fine. Tonight, she briefly resisted the hot, tugging compulsion that dried out her throat, forcing her to swallow frequently. It was like what the gurus called the power within you, the power you can't resist, like when you thirst for cool water or are hungry after a long day and smell the aroma of hot, delicious food. She told herself, "I have no doubt that this is both wrong and right, as the old women advise, because they haven't found happiness and will deny it to others." As a contemporary, I consider only wisdom...
  
  The hair on his enormous chest tickled her cheek, and she stared at the brown-pink nipple standing like a tiny island before her eyes. She traced the wet mark it left with her tongue, kissed its tensely hard tip, and felt it twitch. After all, he wasn't much different from Gan or Balum in his reactions, but... ah, what a difference in her attitude toward him. In Hawaii, he had always been helpful and quiet, though he must often have considered her a stupid, problematic "boy." In the submarine and on Adat, she felt that no matter what happened, he would take care of her. That was the real reason, she told herself, that she hadn't shown the fear she felt. With him, she felt safe and secure. At first, she was surprised by the warmth growing within her, a radiance that drew its fuel from the very proximity of the large American; His gaze fanned the flames, his touch was gasoline on the fire.
  
  Now, pressed against him, she was almost overwhelmed by the fiery glow burning through her core like a hot, arousing wick. She wanted to embrace him, hold him, carry him away to keep him forever, so that the delicious flame would never die. She wanted to touch, caress, and kiss every part of him, claiming it as her own by right of exploration. She hugged him so tightly with her small arms that he opened his eyes. "My dear..."
  
  Nick looked down. "Gauguin, where are you now, when here's a subject for your chalk and brush, screaming to be captured and preserved, just like she is now?" Hot sweat shone on her smooth brown neck and back. She rolled her head onto his chest in a nervously hypnotic rhythm, alternately kissing him and looking at him with her black eyes, strangely arousing him with the raw passion that flared and sparkled in them.
  
  "The perfect doll," he thought, "a beautiful, ready-made, and purposeful doll."
  
  He grabbed her with both hands, just below the shoulders, and lifted her onto him, half-lifting her from the bed. He kissed her plump lips thoroughly. He was surprised by their suppleness and the unique sensation of their moist, abundant body. Enjoying their softness, her hot breath, and the feel of her touch on his skin, he thought how clever he was by nature-to give these girls lips that are perfect for lovemaking and for an artist to paint. On canvas, they are expressive-against yours, they are irresistible.
  
  She left the ottoman and, arching her lithe body, laid the rest of herself upon it. "Brother," he thought, feeling his hard flesh against her luscious curves; now it would take some twisting to change direction! He realized she had lightly lubricated and perfumed her body-no wonder it glowed so brightly as her temperature rose. The scent still eluded him; a blend of sandalwood and tropical flower essential oil?
  
  Tala made a writhing, pressing motion that pressed her against him like a caterpillar on a branch. He knew she could feel every part of him. After long minutes
  
  She gently pulled her lips away from his and whispered, "I adore you."
  
  Nick said, "You can tell me how I feel about you, beautiful Javanese doll." He lightly ran his finger along the edge of her sarong. "It's in the way, and you're wrinkling it."
  
  She slowly lowered her feet to the floor, stood up, and unfurled her sarong, as casually and naturally as she had when she was bathing in the jungle. Only the atmosphere was different. It took his breath away. Her twinkling eyes accurately assessed him, and her expression changed to the mischievous hedgehog, the cheerful look he had noticed earlier, so appealing because there was no mockery in it-she shared his delight.
  
  She placed her hands on her perfect brown thighs. "Do you approve?"
  
  Nick swallowed, jumped off the bed, and went to the door. The hallway was empty. He closed the blinds and the sturdy inner door with its flat brass bolt, the kind of quality reserved for yachts. He opened the window blinds to keep everyone out of sight.
  
  He returned to the bed and lifted her, holding her like a precious toy, holding her high and watching her smile. Her modest calm was more disturbing than her activity. He sighed deeply-in the soft light, she looked like a nude mannequin painted by Gauguin. She cooed something he couldn't understand, and her soft sound, warmth, and scent dispelled the doll-like slumber. As he carefully laid her down on the white coverlet next to the pillow, she gurgled joyfully. The weight of her ample breasts pushed them apart slightly, forming enticing plump cushions. They rose and fell with a faster rhythm than usual, and he realized that their lovemaking had awakened passions in her that resonated with his own, but she held them within herself, masking the seething ardor he now clearly saw. Her small hands suddenly lifted. "Come."
  
  He pressed himself against her. He felt a momentary resistance, and a small grimace appeared on her beautiful face, but it immediately dissipated, as if she were reassuring him. Her palms closed under his armpits, pulled him toward her with surprising strength, and crawled up his back. He felt the delicious warmth of delicious depths and thousands of tingling tentacles that embraced him, relaxed, trembled, tickled, gently stroked him, and squeezed again. His spinal cord became a strand of alternating nerves, receiving warm, tiny, tingling shocks. The vibrations in his lower back intensified greatly, and he was momentarily lifted by waves that washed over his own.
  
  He forgot the time. Long after their explosive ecstasy had flared and subsided, he raised his clammy hand and glanced at his wristwatch. "God," he whispered, "two o'clock. If someone's looking for me..."
  
  Fingers danced across his jaw, caressed his neck, flowed down his chest, and revealed relaxing flesh. They evoked a sudden new thrill, like the trembling fingers of a concert pianist trilling a fragment of a passage.
  
  "Nobody's looking for me." She raised her full lips to him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  On his way to the breakfast room, just after dawn, Nick stepped out onto the wide veranda. The sun was a yellow ball in the cloudless sky at the edge of the sea and the shore to the east. The landscape shone fresh and flawless; the road and the lush vegetation cascading down to the shoreline resembled a carefully crafted model, so beautiful it almost belied reality.
  
  The air was fragrant, still fresh from the night breeze. "This could be paradise," he thought, "if you would only drive out Colonel Sudirmats."
  
  Hans Nordenboss stepped out beside him, his stocky body moving silently across the polished wooden deck. "Magnificent, huh?"
  
  "Yes. What is that spicy smell?"
  
  "From the groves. This area was once a cluster of spice gardens, as they're called. Plantations of everything from nutmeg to pepper. Now it's a small part of the business."
  
  "It's a great place to live. People who are too bad can't just relax and enjoy it."
  
  Three trucks full of natives crawled like toys along the road far below. Nordenboss said, "That's part of your problem. Overpopulation. As long as people reproduce like insects, they'll create their own problems."
  
  Nick nodded. Hans the realist. "I know you're right. I've seen the population tables."
  
  "Did you see Colonel Sudirmat last night?"
  
  "I bet you saw him come into my room."
  
  "You won. In fact, I was listening to the roar and the explosion."
  
  "He looked at my passport and hinted that I would pay him if I continued to carry a gun."
  
  "Pay him if you have to. He comes to us cheap. His real income comes from his own people, big money from people like the Makhmurs, and pennies from every peasant right now. The army is seizing power again. We'll soon see generals in big houses and imported Mercedes.
  
  Their basic salary is about 2,000 rupees a month. That's twelve dollars."
  
  "What a setup for Judas. Do you know a woman named Mata Nasut?"
  
  Nordenboss looked surprised. "Dude, you're leaving. She's the contact I want you to meet. She's the highest-paid model in Jakarta, a real gem. She poses for real things and ads, not touristy junk."
  
  Nick felt the invisible support of Hawk's insightful logic. How appropriate was it for an art buyer to move in artist circles? "Tala mentioned her. Whose side is Mata on?"
  
  "On her own, like most everyone you meet. She comes from one of the oldest families, so she moves in the best circles, but at the same time, she lives among artists and intellectuals, too. Smart. Has a lot of money. Lives high."
  
  "She's neither with us nor against us, but she knows what we need to know," Nick concluded thoughtfully. "And she's perceptive. Let's approach her very logically, Hans. Perhaps it would be best if you didn't introduce me. Let me see if I can find the back stairs."
  
  "Go to it." Nordenboss chuckled. "If I were a Greek god like you, instead of a fat old man, I'd want to do some research."
  
  "I saw you work."
  
  They shared a moment of good-natured banter, a little relaxation for men living on the edge, and then went into the house for breakfast.
  
  True to Nordenboss's prediction, Adam Makhmur invited them to a party two weekends later. Nick glanced at Hans and agreed.
  
  They drove along the coast to the bay where the Makhmurs had a landing pad for seaplanes and flying boats, and they approached the sea in a straight line, free of reefs. An Ishikawajima-Harima PX-S2 flying boat sat on the ramp. Nick stared at it, recalling recent memos from AX detailing its developments and products. The craft had four GE T64-10 turboprop engines, a 110-foot wingspan, and a curb weight of 23 tons.
  
  Nick watched as Hans returned the greeting of a Japanese man in a brown uniform without insignia, who was unbuttoning his tie. "You mean you came here to drag me into this?"
  
  "Only the best."
  
  "I expected a four-person job with patches."
  
  "I thought you wanted to ride in style."
  
  Nick did the math in his head. "Are you crazy? Hawk will kill us. A four or five thousand dollar charter to pick me up!"
  
  Nordenboss couldn't keep his face straight. He laughed loudly. "Relax. I got him from the CIA guys. He didn't do anything until tomorrow, when he goes to Singapore."
  
  Nick sighed with relief, his cheeks puffing out. "That's different. They can handle it-with a budget fifty times ours. Hawk's been really interested in expenses lately."
  
  The telephone rang in the small hut by the ramp. The Japanese man waved to Hans. "For you."
  
  Hans returned, frowning. "Colonel Sudirmat and Gan Bik, six soldiers and two of Machmur's men-Gan's bodyguards, I presume-want a ride to Jakarta. I should have said 'fine.'"
  
  "Does this mean anything to us?"
  
  "In this part of the world, everything can mean something. They go to Jakarta all the time. They have small planes and even a private train car. Play it cool and watch."
  
  Their passengers arrived twenty minutes later. The takeoff was unusually smooth, without the rumbling roar of a typical flying boat. They followed the coastline, and Nick again recalled the exemplary landscape as they buzzed over cultivated fields and plantations, interspersed with patches of jungle forest and strangely smooth meadows. Hans explained the diversity below, pointing out that volcanic flows had cleared the areas over the centuries like a natural bulldozer, sometimes scraping jungle into the sea.
  
  Jakarta was in chaos. Nick and Hans said goodbye to the others and finally found a taxi, which sped through the crowded streets. Nick was reminded of other Asian cities, although Jakarta could be a little cleaner and more colorful. The sidewalks were filled with small brown people, many in cheerfully printed skirts, some in cotton pants and sports shirts, some in turbans or large round straw hats-or turbans with large straw hats on them. Large, colorful umbrellas floated above the crowd. The Chinese seemed to prefer quiet blue or black clothing, while the Arab types wore long cloaks and red fezzes. Europeans were quite rare. Most of the brown people were elegant, relaxed, and young.
  
  They passed local markets filled with sheds and stalls. Bargaining over various goods, live chickens in coops, tubs of live fish, and piles of fruits and vegetables was a cacophony of clucking, sounding like a dozen languages. Nordenboss directed a driver and gave Nick a short tour of the capital.
  
  They made a big
  
  loop in front of the impressive concrete buildings grouped around an oval green lawn. "Downtown Plaza," Hans explained. "Now let's look at the new buildings and hotels."
  
  After passing several giant buildings, some unfinished, Nick said, "This reminds me of a boulevard in Puerto Rico."
  
  "Yes. These were Sukarno's dreams. If he had been less of a dreamer and more of an administrator, he could have done it. He carried too much of the weight of the past. He lacked flexibility."
  
  "I take it he's still popular?"
  
  "That's why he's vegetating. He lives near the palace on weekends in Bogor until his house is finished. Twenty-five million East Javanese are loyal to him. That's why he's still alive."
  
  "How stable is the new regime?"
  
  Nordenboss snorted. "In a nutshell, they need $550 million in annual imports. $400 million in exports. Interest and payments on foreign loans amount to $530 million. The latest figures show the treasury had seven million dollars."
  
  Nick studied Nordenboss for a moment. "You talk a lot, but you seem to feel sorry for them, Hans. I think you like this country and its people."
  
  "Oh, hell, Nick, I know. They have some wonderful qualities. You'll learn about goton-rojong-helping each other. They're basically kind people, except when their damned superstitions drive them into the village. What in Latin countries is called siesta is jam karet. It means elastic hour. Swim, nap, talk, make love."
  
  They drove out of town, passing large houses on a two-lane road. About five miles further, they turned onto another, narrower road and then into the driveway of a large, wide, dark wood house set in a small park. "Yours?" Nick asked.
  
  "All mine."
  
  "What happens when you get transferred?"
  
  "I'm making preparations," Hans replied rather gloomily. "Perhaps that won't happen. How many men do we have who speak Indonesian in five dialects, as well as Dutch, English, and German?"
  
  The house was beautiful both inside and out. Hans gave him a brief tour, explaining how the former kampong-the laundry and servants' quarters-had been converted into a small pool cabin, why he preferred fans to air conditioners, and showed Nick his collection of sinks that filled the room.
  
  They drank beer on the porch, surrounded by a blaze of flowers that curled along the walls in bursts of purple, yellow, and orange. Orchids hung in sprays from the eaves, and brightly colored parrots chirped as their two large cages swayed in the gentle breeze.
  
  Nick finished his beer and said, "Well, I'll freshen up and go into town if you have transportation."
  
  "Abu will take you anywhere. He's the guy in the white skirt and black jacket. But calm down - you just got here."
  
  "Hans, you've become family to me." Nick stood up and walked across the wide porch. "Judas's there with half a dozen captives, using these people for blackmail. You say you like them-let's get off our asses and help! Not to mention our own responsibility to stop Judas from staging a coup for the Chicoms. Why don't you talk to the Loponousias clan?"
  
  "Yes," Nordenboss answered quietly. "Want some more beer?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Don't pout."
  
  "I'm going to the center."
  
  "Do you want me to go with you?"
  
  "No. They should know you by now, right?"
  
  "Sure. I'm supposed to work in oil engineering, but you can't keep anything secret here. Have lunch at Mario's. The food is excellent."
  
  Nick sat on the edge of the chair, facing the stocky man. Hans's features hadn't lost their cheerful demeanor. He said, "Oh, Nick, I've been with you all the way. But here you're taking advantage of the time. You don't mind. You haven't noticed how the Makhmurs are running around with empty lights, have you? Loponusii - Same thing. They'll pay. Wait. There's hope. These people are frivolous, but not stupid.
  
  "I see your point," Nick replied less heatedly. "Maybe I'm just a new broom. I want to connect, learn, find them, and go after them."
  
  "Thank you for offering me the old broom."
  
  "You said it, but I didn't." Nick slapped the older man's hand affectionately. "Guess I'm just an energetic beaver, huh?"
  
  "No, no. But you're in a new country. You'll find out everything. I have a native working for me in Loponusiah. If we're lucky, we'll find out when Judas is due to be paid again. Then we'll move on. We'll find out the junk is somewhere off the northern coast of Sumatra."
  
  "If we're lucky. How reliable is your man?"
  
  "Not really. But damn, you're taking a risk by crying.
  
  "How about searching for the junk from an airplane?
  
  "We tried. Wait until you fly to the other islands and see the number of ships. It looks like the traffic in Times Square. Thousands of ships."
  
  Nick let his broad shoulders sag. "I'll be running around town. See you around six?"
  
  "I'll be here. In the pool or playing with my equipment." Nick glanced up to see if Hans was joking. His round face was simply cheerful. His master jumped up from his chair. "Oh, come on. I'll call you Abu and the car. And for me, another beer."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Abu was a short, thin man with black hair and a strip of white teeth that he often showed. He had removed his jacket and skirt and now wore a tan and a black hat, like a cap worn abroad.
  
  Nick had two maps of Jakarta in his pocket, which he examined carefully. He said, "Abu, please take me to Embassy Row, where the art is sold. Do you know that place?"
  
  "Yes. If you want art, Mr. Bard, my cousin has a wonderful shop on Gila Street. Lots of beautiful things. And on the fence there, lots of artists display their work. He can take you with him and make sure you don't get ripped off. My cousin..."
  
  "We'll be visiting your cousin soon," Nick interrupted. "I have a special reason for going to Embassy Row first. Can you show me where I can park? It doesn't have to be near the art plazas. I can walk."
  
  "Of course." Abu turned, white teeth flashing, and Nick winced as they passed the truck. "I know."
  
  Nick spent two hours browsing the art in open-air galleries-some of them mere spaces on barbed-wire fences-on the walls of squares and in more casual shops. He'd studied the subject and wasn't enamored with the "Bandung School," which featured cut-out scenes of volcanoes, rice fields, and nude women in vibrant blues, purples, oranges, pinks, and greens. Some sculptures were better. "That's as it should be," the dealer told him. "Three hundred sculptors were left without work when work on the Bung Sukarno National Monument stopped. That's all there is-there, in Freedom Square."
  
  As Nick wandered along, absorbing the impressions, he approached a large store with a small name in the window, inlaid in gold leaf-JOSEPH HARIS DALAM, DEALER. Nick thoughtfully noted that the gold embellishments were on the inside of the glass, and the folding iron shutters, partially hidden at the edges of the windows, were as sturdy as anything he'd ever seen on New York's Bowery.
  
  The display cases contained only a few objects, but they were magnificent. The first featured two life-size carved heads, a man and a woman, crafted from dark wood the color of a well-smoked rosehip pipe. They combined the realism of photography with the impressionism of art. The man's features expressed a calm strength. The woman's beauty, with a combination of passion and intelligence, compelled you to move along the carvings, savoring the subtle shifts in expression. The pieces were unpainted; their entire grandeur was created simply by the talent that crafted the rich wood.
  
  In the next window-there were four in the shop-stood three silver bowls. Each one was different, each one an eyepiece. Nick made a mental note to stay away from the silver. He knew little about it and suspected one of the bowls was worth a fortune, while the others were ordinary. In case you didn't know, this was a tweak to the three-shell game.
  
  The third window held paintings. They were better than the ones he'd seen in the open-air kiosks and on the fences, but they were produced for the high-quality tourist trade.
  
  The fourth window held a nearly life-size portrait of a woman, wearing a simple blue sarong and a flower over her left ear. The woman didn't look quite Asian, though her eyes and skin were brown, and the artist had clearly spent a lot of time on her black hair. Nick lit a cigarette, looked at it, and thought.
  
  She might have been a mixture of Portuguese and Malay. Her small, full lips resembled Tala's, but there was a firmness to them that promised passion, expressed discreetly and unimaginably. Her wide-set eyes, set above expressive cheekbones, were calm and reserved, but hinted at a daring secret key.
  
  Nick sighed thoughtfully, stepped on his cigarette, and walked into the store. The burly clerk, with a cheerful smile, became warm and cordial when Nick handed him one of the cards marked BARD GALLERIES, NEW YORK. ALBERT BARD, VICE PRESIDENT.
  
  Nick said, "I've been thinking of buying a few things for our stores - if we can arrange wholesale..." He was immediately led to the back of the store, where the salesman knocked on the door, which was intricately inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
  
  Joseph Haris Dalam's large office was a private museum and treasure trove. Dalam looked
  
  card, dismissed the clerk and shook his hand. "Welcome to Dalam. Have you heard of us?"
  
  "In short," Nick lied politely. "I understand you have excellent products. Some of the best in Jakarta."
  
  "Some of the best in the world!" Dalam was slender, short, and agile, like the village youths Nick had seen climbing trees. His dark face had an actor's ability to portray instant emotions; as they chatted, he looked tired, wary, calculating, and then mischievous. Nick decided it was this empathy, this chameleon-like instinct to adapt to a customer's mood, that had brought Dalam from the gutter stand to this respectable store. Dalam watched your face, trying on faces like hats. For Nick, his dark complexion and gleaming teeth finally acquired a serious, businesslike yet playful look. Nick frowned to see what would happen, and Dalam suddenly became angry. Nick laughed, and Dalam joined in.
  
  Dalam jumped into a tall chest filled with silverware. "Look. Take your time. Have you ever seen anything like this?"
  
  Nick reached for the bracelet, but Dalam was six feet away. "There! Gold is going up in price-huh? Look at this little boat. Three centuries. A penny's worth a fortune. Priceless, really. The prices are listed on the cards."
  
  The price tag was $4,500. Dalam was far away, still talking. "This is the place. You'll see. Goods, yes, but real art. Irreplaceable, expressive art. Brilliant features frozen and torn from the flow of time. And ideas. Look at this..."
  
  He handed Nick a plump, intricately carved wooden circle the color of rum-coke. Nick admired the tiny scene on each side and the inscription around the edges. He found a silky yellow cord between the two sections. "That could be a yo-yo. Hey! It's a yo-yo!"
  
  Dalam mirrored Nick's smile. "Yes... yes! But what's the idea? You know about Tibetan prayer wheels? Spin them and write prayers in heaven? One of your compatriots made a lot of money selling them rolls of your superior toilet paper on which they wrote prayers, so that when they spun them, they wrote thousands of prayers per spin. Study this yo-yo. Zen, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Christian-see, hail Mary, full of grace, here! Spin and pray. Play and pray."
  
  Nick examined the carvings more closely. They were done by an artist who could have written the Bill of Rights on a sword hilt. "Well, I'll..." Under the circumstances, he finished, "...damn it."
  
  "Unique?"
  
  "You could say it's incredible."
  
  "But you're holding it in your hand. People everywhere are worried. Anxious. You want something to hold on to. Advertise it in New York and see what happens, huh?"
  
  Squinting, Nick saw letters in Arabic, Hebrew, Chinese, and Cyrillic that were supposed to be prayers. He could study this thing for ages. Some of the tiny scenes were so well done that a magnifying glass would be helpful.
  
  He pulled a loop of yellow cord and flipped the yo-yo up and down. "I don't know what's going to happen. Probably a sensation."
  
  "Promote them through the United Nations! All men are brothers. Buy yourself an ecumenical top. And they're well-balanced, look..."
  
  Dalam performed with another yo-yo. He looped the loop, walked the dog, twirled a whip, and finished with a special trick in which the wooden circle flipped over half the string, clenched in his teeth.
  
  Nick looked surprised. Dalam dropped the cord and looked surprised. "Never seen anything like it? The guy brought a dozen to Tokyo. Sold them. Too conservative to advertise. Still, he ordered six more."
  
  "How many?"
  
  "Retail twenty dollars."
  
  "Wholesale?"
  
  "How much?"
  
  "Dozen."
  
  "Twelve dollars each."
  
  "Gross price."
  
  Nick narrowed his eyes, focusing on the matter at hand. Dalam immediately imitated him. "11."
  
  "Do you have a gross?"
  
  "Not quite. Delivery in three days."
  
  "Six dollars apiece. Anything will be as good as this. I'll take a gross in three days and another gross as soon as they're ready."
  
  They settled on $7.40. Nick turned the sample over and over in his hand. Creating "Albert Bard Importer" was a modest investment.
  
  "Payment?" Dalam asked softly, his expression thoughtful, matching Nick's.
  
  "Cash. Letter of credit at Bank Indonesia. You must clear all customs paperwork. Airfreight to my gallery in New York, attention Bill Rohde. Okay?"
  
  "I'm delighted."
  
  "Now I'd like to look at some paintings..."
  
  Dalam tried to sell him some Bandung school tourist junk, which he kept hidden behind curtains in the corner of the store. He quoted some for $125, then dropped the price to $4.75 "bulk." Nick simply laughed, and Dalam joined in, shrugged, and moved on to the next pitch.
  
  Joseph Haris decided that "Albert Bard" couldn't exist and showed him a beautiful work. Nick bought two dozen paintings at an average wholesale price of $17.50 each-and they were truly talented works.
  
  They stood in front of two small oil paintings of a beautiful woman. She was the woman in the pictures in the window. Nick said politely, "She is beautiful."
  
  "This is Mata Nasut."
  
  "Indeed." Nick cocked his head doubtfully, as if he didn't like the brushstrokes. Dalam confirmed his suspicions. In this business, you rarely reveal what you already knew or suspected. He didn't tell Tala he'd glanced at a half-forgotten photograph of Mat Nasut from the sixty-odd Hawks loaned to him... he didn't tell Nordenboss that Josef Haris Dalam was listed as an important, possibly politically significant, art dealer... he wouldn't tell anyone that the AX technical data marked the Makhmura and Tyangi with a red dot-"doubtful-proceed with caution."
  
  Dalam said: "The hand-written drawing is simple. Go out and see what I have in the window."
  
  Nick glanced again at Mata Nasut's painting, and she seemed to return his gaze mockingly - reserve in her clear eyes, as firm as a velvet barrier rope, a promise of passion shown boldly because the secret key was a complete defense.
  
  "She's our leading model," Dalam said. "In New York, you remember Lisa Fonter; we're talking about Mata Nasut." He detected the admiration in Nick's face, which was momentarily undisguised. "They're perfect for the New York market, right? They'll stop pedestrians on 57th Street, huh? Three hundred and fifty dollars for that one."
  
  "Retail?"
  
  "Oh no. Wholesale."
  
  Nick grinned at the smaller man and received admiring white teeth in return. "Joseph, you're trying to take advantage of me by tripling your prices instead of doubling them. I could pay $75 for this portrait. No more. But I'd like four or five more similar to it, posed to my specifications. May I?"
  
  "Maybe. I can try."
  
  "I don't need a commission agent or a broker. I need an art studio. Forget about it."
  
  "Wait!" Dalam's plea was agonizing. "Come with me..."
  
  He moved back through the store, through another relic door at the back, down a winding corridor past warehouses filled with merchandise and an office where two short, brown-haired men and a woman worked at cramped desks. Dalam emerged into a small courtyard with a roof supported by pillars, the neighboring buildings forming its walls.
  
  It was an "art" factory. About a dozen painters and woodcarvers were working diligently and cheerfully. Nick strolled through the tightly packed group, trying not to express any doubt. All the work was good, in many ways excellent.
  
  "An art studio," Dalam said. "The best in Jakarta."
  
  "Good work," Nick replied. "Can you arrange a meeting with Mata for me this evening?"
  
  "Oh, I'm afraid that's impossible. You must understand that she's famous. She has a lot of work. She gets five... twenty-five dollars an hour."
  
  "Okay. Let's go back to your office and finish our business."
  
  Dalam filled out a simple order form and invoice. "I'll bring you the customs forms and everything else for you to sign tomorrow. Shall we go to the bank?"
  
  "Let's."
  
  The bank employee took the letter of credit and returned three minutes later with approval. Nick showed Dalam the $10,000 in the account. The art broker was thoughtful as they strolled through the crowded streets on their way back. Outside the store, Nick said, "It was very nice. I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon and sign these papers. We can meet again someday."
  
  Dalam's response was pure pain. "You're dissatisfied! You don't want Mata's painting? Here it is - yours, for your price." He waved at the sweet face looking out the window - a little mockingly, Nick thought. "Come in - just for a minute. Have a cool beer - or soda - tea - I beg you to be my guest - it's an honor..."
  
  Nick entered the shop before the tears began to flow. He accepted a cold Dutch beer. Dalam beamed. "What else can I do for you? A party? Girls-all the cute girls you want, all ages, all skills, all kinds? You know, amateurs, not professionals. Blue movies? The best in color and sound, straight from Japan. Watching movies with girls-very exciting."
  
  Nick chuckled. Dalam grinned.
  
  Nick frowned regretfully. Dalam frowned worriedly.
  
  Nick said, "Someday, when I have time, I would like to enjoy your hospitality. You are an interesting man, Dalam, my friend, and an artist at heart. A thief by education and training, but an artist at heart. We could do more, but only if you introduce me to Mata Nasut.
  
  Today or tonight. To sweeten your approach, you could tell her I want to engage her in modeling for at least ten hours. For that guy you have, after all, who paints heads from photographs. He's a good one."
  
  "He's my best..."
  
  "I'll pay him well, and you'll get your share. But I'll handle the deal with Mata myself." Dalam looked sad. "And if I meet Mata, and she poses for your man for my purposes, and you don't ruin the deal, I promise to buy more of your goods for export." Dalam's expression followed Nick's remarks like a roller coaster of emotions, but ended with a bright surge.
  
  Dalam exclaimed: "I will try! For you, Mr. Bard, I will try everything. You are a man who knows what he wants and conducts his affairs honestly. Oh, how good it is to meet such a man in our country..."
  
  "Stop it," Nick said good-naturedly. "Pick up the phone and call Mata."
  
  "Oh yes." Dalam began dialing the number.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  After several calls and long, fast conversations that Nick couldn't follow, Dalam announced in the triumphant tone of Caesar proclaiming victory that Nick could come to Mate Nasut at seven o'clock.
  
  "It's very difficult. Very lucky," the trader declared. "Many people never meet Mata." Nick had his doubts. Short shorts had long been common in the country. In his experience, even the rich often seek a quick wad of cash. Dalam added that he told Mata that Mr. Albert Bard would pay twenty-five dollars an hour for her services.
  
  "I told you I'd handle it myself," Nick said. "If she's holding me back, it's coming from your side." Dalam looked startled. "Can I use your phone?"
  
  "Of course. From my salary? Is that fair? You have no idea what expenses I..."
  
  Nick stopped his conversation with a hand on his shoulder-as if he were placing a large ham on a child's wrist-and leaned across the table to look straight into his dark eyes. "We are friends now, Josef. Will we practice gotong-rojong and prosper together, or will we play tricks on each other so that we both lose?"
  
  Like a hypnotized man, Dalam nudged Nick with the phone without looking at him. "Yeah, yeah." His eyes lit up. "Want a percentage on future orders? I can mark the invoices and give you..."
  
  "No, my friend. Let's try something new. We'll be honest with my company and with each other."
  
  Dalam seemed disappointed or disturbed by this radical idea. Then he shrugged-the small bones under Nick's arm twitched like a wiry puppy trying to escape-and nodded. "Great."
  
  Nick patted him on the shoulder and picked up the phone. He told Nordenboss he had a late meeting-would he be able to leave Abu and the car?
  
  "Of course," Hans replied. "I'll be here if you need me."
  
  "I'm calling Mate Nasut to take some photos."
  
  "Good luck, good luck. But watch out."
  
  Nick showed Abu the address Dalam had written on a piece of paper, and Abu said he knew the way. They drove past new houses, similar to the cheap projects Nick had seen near San Diego, then an older neighborhood where the Dutch influence was once again strong. The house was imposing, surrounded by bright flowers, vines, and lush trees that Nick now associated with the countryside.
  
  She met him on the spacious loggia and firmly extended her hand. "I am Mata Nasut. Welcome, Mr. Bard."
  
  Her tones had a pure, rich clarity, like genuine, premium maple syrup, with a strange accent but no false note. When she pronounced it, her name sounded different: Nasrsut, with the stress on the last syllable and the double o, pronounced with the soft lurch of a church and a long, cool coo. Later, when he tried to imitate her, he discovered it took practice, like a true French tu.
  
  She had the long limbs of a model, which he thought might be the secret to her success in a country where many women were curvy, attractive, and beautiful, but short. She was a purebred among the versatile Morgans.
  
  They were served highballs in the spacious, bright living room, and she said "yes" to everything. She posed at home. The artist Dalam would be summoned as soon as she had time, in two or three days. "Mr. Bard" would be notified to join them and detail his wishes.
  
  It had all been so easy. Nick gave her his most sincere smile, a guileless smile he refused to acknowledge, and imbued it with a boyish sincerity bordering on innocence. Mata looked at him coldly. "Business aside, Mr. Bard, how do you like our country?"
  
  "I am amazed at its beauty. Of course, we have Florida and California, but they do not compare to the flowers, varieties of your flowers and trees.
  
  I have never been so enchanted."
  
  "But we're so slow..." She left it hanging.
  
  "You got our project done faster than I could have in New York."
  
  "Because I know you value time."
  
  He decided the smile on her beautiful lips lingered too long, and there was definitely a sparkle in her dark eyes. "You're teasing me," he said. "You'll tell me your countrymen actually make better use of their time. They're slower, more gentle. I'd be delighted, you'll say."
  
  "I could suggest that."
  
  "Well... I guess you're right."
  
  His answer surprised her. She had discussed this topic many times with many foreigners. They defended their energy, hard work, and haste, and never admitted they could be wrong.
  
  She studied "Mr. Bard," wondering from what angle. They all had them: businessman-turned-CIA operators, bankers-turned-gold-smugglers, and political fanatics... she'd met them all. Bard, at least, was interesting, the most handsome she'd seen in years. He reminded her of someone-a very good actor-Richard Burton? Gregory Peck? She tilted her head to study him, and the effect was captivating. Nick smiled at her and finished his glass.
  
  "An actor," she thought. He acts, and very well, too. Dalam said he has money-lots of it.
  
  She decided he was very handsome, because although he was a giant by local standards, he moved his large, graceful body with a gentle modesty that made it seem smaller. So different from those who bragged, as if to say, "Move away, shorties." His eyes were so clear, and his mouth always had a pleasant curve. All men, she noticed, had a strong, masculine jaw, but boyish enough not to take things too seriously.
  
  Somewhere in the back of the house, a servant was rattling a plate, and she noted his wariness, his glance toward the end of the room. He would have been, she concluded cheerfully, the most handsome man in the Mario Club or the Nirvana Supper Club, if the sleek, dark actor Tony Poro hadn't been there. And of course, they were completely different types.
  
  "You are beautiful."
  
  Lost in thought, she flinched at the gentle compliment. She smiled, and her even white teeth accentuated her lips so beautifully that he wondered what she was like as a kisser-he intended to find out. It was a woman. She said, "You are clever, Mr. Bard." It was a wonderful thing to say after such a long silence.
  
  "Please call me Al."
  
  "Then you can call me Mata. Have you met many people since you arrived?"
  
  "Makhmurs. Tyangs. Colonel Sudirmat. Do you know them?"
  
  "Yes. We are a gigantic country, but what you might call an interesting group is small. Maybe fifty families, but usually they are large."
  
  "And then there's the army..."
  
  Dark eyes slid over his face. "You learn fast, Al. This is the army."
  
  "Tell me something, only if you want - I will never repeat what you say, but it might help me. Should I trust Colonel Sudirmat?"
  
  His expression was frankly curious, not revealing that he would not trust Colonel Sudirmat to take the suitcase to the airport.
  
  Mata's dark eyebrows drew together. She leaned forward, her tone very low. "No. Keep doing your job and don't ask questions like the others. The army is back in power. The generals will amass fortunes, and the people will explode when they're hungry enough. You're in a web with professional spiders, long practice. Don't turn into a fly. You're a strong man from a strong country, but you can die as quickly as thousands of others." She leaned back. "Have you seen Jakarta?"
  
  "Just the commercial center and a few suburbs. I'd like you to show me more - say, tomorrow afternoon?"
  
  "I will work."
  
  "Abort the meeting. Postpone it."
  
  "Oh, I can't..."
  
  "If it's money, let me pay you your regular rate as an escort." He grinned. "Much more fun than posing in the bright lights."
  
  "Yes, but..."
  
  "I'll pick you up at noon. Here?"
  
  "Well..." came the clanking sound from the back of the house again. Mata said, "Excuse me for a moment. I hope the cook isn't annoyed."
  
  She walked through the archway, and Nick waited a few seconds, then quickly followed her. He passed through a Western-style dining room with an oblong table that could seat fourteen or sixteen people. He heard Mata's voice from down an L-shaped hallway with three closed doors. He opened the first. A large bedroom. The next was a smaller bedroom, beautifully furnished and obviously Mata's. He opened the next door and ran through it as a man tried to climb through the window.
  
  "Stay right here," Nick growled.
  
  The man sitting on the windowsill froze. Nick saw a white coat and a head of sleek black hair. He said, "Let's go back. Miss Nasut wants to see you."
  
  The small figure slowly slid to the floor, pulled in its leg and turned around.
  
  Nick said, "Hey, Gun Bik. Are we going to call this a coincidence?"
  
  He heard movement in the door behind him and looked away from Gun Bik for a moment. Mata stood in the doorway. She held the small blue machine gun low and steady, aimed at him. She said, "I'd call this a place where you have no business. What were you looking for, Al?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick stood motionless, his mind calculating his chances like a computer. With an enemy in front and behind him, he'd probably take one bullet from this shooter before he got them both. He said, "Relax, Mata. I was looking for the bathroom and saw this guy coming out the window. His name is Gan Bik Tiang."
  
  "I know his name," Mata replied dryly. "Do you have weak kidneys, Al?"
  
  "Right now, yes." Nick laughed.
  
  "Put the gun down, Mata," Gun Bik said. "He's an American agent. He brought Tala home, and she told him to contact you. I came to tell you, and I heard him searching the rooms, and he caught me as I was leaving."
  
  "How interesting." Mata lowered the small weapon. Nick noted it as a Japanese Baby Nambu pistol. "I think you two should leave."
  
  Nick said, "I think you're my type of woman, Mata. How did you even get that gun so quickly?"
  
  She'd enjoyed his compliments before-Nick hoped they'd soften the chilly atmosphere. Mata entered the room and placed the weapon in a squat vase on a high carved shelf. "I live alone," she said simply.
  
  "Smart." He smiled his friendliest smile. "Can't we have a drink and talk about this? I think we're all on the same side..."
  
  They drank, but Nick had no illusions. He was still Al Bard, who meant cash for Mata and Dalam-regardless of his other connections. He extracted from Gan Bik a confession that he had come to Mata for the same purpose as Nick-information. With American help on their side, would she tell them what she knew about Judas's next payback? Was Loponousias really supposed to visit the junk?
  
  Mata didn't have any. She said in her calm tone, "Even if I could help you, I'm not sure. I don't want to get involved in politics. I had to fight just to survive."
  
  "But Judas is holding people who are your friends," Nick said.
  
  "My friends? My dear Al, you don't know who my friends are."
  
  "Then do your country a favor."
  
  "My friends? My country?" She laughed softly. "I'm just lucky to survive. I've learned not to interfere."
  
  Nick gave Gun Bik a ride back to town. The Chinese guy apologized. "I was trying to help. I did more harm than good."
  
  "Probably not," Nick told him. "You cleared the air quickly. Mata knows exactly what I want. It's up to me to decide if I get it."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The next day, Nick, with Nordenboss's help, rented a motorboat and took Abu along as pilot. He borrowed water skis and a basket of food and drink from the owner. They swam, skied, and talked. Mata was dressed beautifully, and Mata, in a bikini she only wore when they were far from shore, was a vision. Abu swam with them and skied. Nordenboss said he was absolutely trustworthy because he had paid him more than any bribe possible, and because he had been with the AXE agent for four years and had never made a false move.
  
  They had a wonderful day, and that same evening he invited Mata to dinner at the Orientale and then to a nightclub at the Intercontinental Indonesia Hotel. She knew a lot of people, and Nick was busy shaking hands and remembering names.
  
  And she was enjoying herself. He told himself she was happy. They made a striking couple, and she beamed when Josef Dalam joined them for a few minutes at the hotel and told her so. Dalam was part of a group of six, accompanying a beautiful woman who, according to Mata, was also a highly sought-after model.
  
  "She's pretty," Nick said, "maybe when she grows up she'll have your charm."
  
  Jakarta has an early morning, and just before eleven, Abu entered the club and caught Nick's attention. Nick nodded, thinking the man simply wanted him to know the car was outside, but Abu walked up to the table, handed him a note, and left. Nick glanced at it-Tala was there.
  
  He handed it to Mata. She read it and said almost mockingly, "So, Al, you have two girls on your hands. She must remember the trip you two had from Hawaii."
  
  "I told you nothing happened, my dear."
  
  "I believe you, but..."
  
  He thought their intuition was as reliable as radar. It was a good thing she hadn't asked him what had happened between him and Tala after they reached Makhmurov-or maybe she'd guessed. Soon, on the way home, she called for Tala again. "Tala is a charming young lady. She thinks like a foreigner-I mean, she doesn't have the shyness we Asian women used to have about certain things. She's interested in politics, economics, and the future of our country. You should enjoy talking to her."
  
  "Oh, I know," Nick said heartily.
  
  "You're teasing me."
  
  "Since you bring it up, why not take an active part in your country's politics? God knows there has to be someone besides the swindlers, con men, and tin soldiers I've seen and read about. The price of rice has tripled in the last six weeks. You see ragged people trying to buy rice in those wooden barrels the government puts out. I bet it's marked nine times and marked down twice before they give it out. I'm a stranger here. I've seen the filthy slums behind the shiny Hotel Indonesia, but wouldn't you say it isn't? Life in your villages may be possible for the poor, but in the cities it's hopeless. So let's not laugh at Tala. She's trying to help."
  
  Mata was silent for a long time, then said without much conviction: "In the countryside you can live with almost no money. Our climate - our abundance of agriculture - it's an easy life."
  
  "Is that why you're in town?"
  
  She walked toward him and closed her eyes. He felt a tear trickle down the back of his hand. When they stopped in front of her house, she turned to him. "Are you coming?"
  
  "I hope I was invited. With love."
  
  "Aren't you in a hurry to see Tala?"
  
  He walked her a few steps away from the car and Abu and kissed her tenderly. "Tell me... and I'll send Abu back now. I can take a taxi in the morning, or he can pick me up."
  
  Her weight was gentle, her hands gripping his muscles for a moment. Then she pulled away, shaking her magnificent head slightly. "Send him-darling."
  
  When he said he'd like to take off his tuxedo, belt, and tie, she briskly led him into the femininely decorated bedroom and handed him a coat rack. She sank onto the French chaise longue and looked at him, her exotic face buried in the pillow of her forearms. "Why did you decide to stay with me instead of going to Tala's?"
  
  "Why did you invite me?"
  
  "I don't know. Perhaps guilt over what you said about me and my country. You meant it. No man would say such things for romantic reasons-they are too likely to cause resentment."
  
  He took off his maroon belt. "I was honest, my dear. Lies have a way of sticking around like scattered nails. You have to be more and more careful, and eventually they'll catch you anyway."
  
  "What do you really think about Gun Bik being here?"
  
  "I haven't decided yet."
  
  "He's honest too. You should know that."
  
  "Is there no chance that he will be more true to his origins?"
  
  "China? He considers himself Indonesian. He took a huge risk to help the Machmurs. And he loves Tala."
  
  Nick sat down in the living room, which rocked gently like a giant cradle, and lit two cigarettes. "He said quietly through the blue smoke. "This is the land of love, Mata. Nature created it, and man tramples it all. If any of us can help rid ourselves of the Judas prototypes and all the others that weigh us down, we should try. Just because we have our own cozy little nest and corners, we can't ignore everything else. And if we do, one day our prototype will be destroyed in the coming explosion."
  
  Tears glistened at the lower edges of her gorgeous dark eyes. She cried easily-or perhaps she had accumulated a great deal of grief. "We are selfish. And I am just like everyone else." She rested her head on his chest, and he hugged her.
  
  "It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. Man is temporarily out of control. When you're popping up like flies and fighting for food like a pack of starving dogs, with only one little bone between you, you have little time for fairness... and justice... and kindness... and love. But if each of us does what we can..."
  
  "My guru says the same thing, but he believes that it is all predetermined."
  
  "Is your guru working?"
  
  "Oh, no. He's such a saint. It's a great honor for him."
  
  "How can you talk about fairness when others sweat instead of the food you eat? Is that fair? It seems unkind to those who sweat."
  
  She let out a soft sob. "You're so practical."
  
  "I don't want to be upset
  
  You." He lifted her chin. "Enough serious talk. You've decided for yourself whether you want to help us. You are too beautiful to be sad at this time of night." He kissed her, and the cradle-like sitting room tilted as he shifted some of his weight, carrying her with him. He found her lips like Tala's, voluptuous and abundant, but of the two-ah, he thought-there was no substitute for maturity. He declined to add-experience. She showed no shyness or false modesty; none of the tricks that, in the opinion of the amateur, do not aid passion but only distract it. She methodically undressed him, dropping her own golden dress with a single zipper, shrugging and turning. She studied his dark, creamy skin against her own, reflexively testing the large muscles of his arms, examining his palms, kissing each of his fingers and making artful patterns with her hands to keep his lips in contact.
  
  He found her body, in the reality of warm flesh, even more arousing than the promise of the portraits or the gentle pressure as they danced. In the soft light, her rich cocoa skin looked exquisitely flawless, save for a single dark mole the size of a nutmeg on her right buttock. The curves of her hips were pure art, and her breasts, like Tala's and many of the women he'd seen on these enchanting islands, were a visual delight and also inflamed the senses when caressed or kissed. They were large, perhaps 38C, but so firm, perfectly positioned, and supporting that you didn't notice the size; you simply inhaled in short gulps.
  
  He whispered into her dark, fragrant hair, "No wonder you're the most sought-after model. You're gorgeous."
  
  "I have to make them smaller." Her businesslike manner surprised him. "Luckily, plus-size women are my favorites here. But when I see Twiggy and some of your New York models, I worry. Styles might change."
  
  Nick chuckled, wondering what kind of man would trade the soft curves pressed against him for a skinny one that he'd have to feel around to find in bed.
  
  "Why are you laughing?"
  
  "It's all going to go the other way, darling. Soon there will be comfortable girls with curves."
  
  "You are sure?"
  
  "Almost. I'll check it out next time I'm in New York or Paris."
  
  "I hope so." She stroked his hard stomach with the back of her long nails, resting her head under his chin. "You're so big, Al. And strong. Do you have a lot of girlfriends in America?"
  
  "I know some, but I'm not attached, if that's what you mean."
  
  She kissed his chest, drawing patterns on it with her tongue. "Oh, you still have salt. Wait..." She went to the vanity and brought out a small brown bottle, like a Roman tear urn. "Oil. It's called Love's Helper. Isn't that a descriptive name?"
  
  She rubbed him, the gliding stimulation of her palms evoking tantalizing sensations. He amused himself by trying to control his yoga skin, commanding it to ignore her gentle hands. It didn't work. So much for yoga versus sex. She massaged him thoroughly, covering every square inch of his flesh, which began to tremble impatiently at the approach of her fingers. She explored and lubricated his ears with subtle artistry, turned him over, and he stretched contentedly as butterflies fluttered from his toes to his head. When the small, shimmering fingers curled around his loins for the second time, he relinquished control. He removed the bottle she had propped against him and placed it on the floor. He smoothed it out on the chaise lounge with his strong hands.
  
  She sighed as his hands and lips slid over her. "Mmm... that's good."
  
  He raised his face to hers. His dark eyes glowed like two pools of moonlight. He murmured, "You see what you've done to me. Now it's my turn. Can I use the oil?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  He felt like a sculptor, allowed to explore the incomparable lines of a genuine Greek statue with his hands and fingers. It was perfection-it was true art-with the captivating difference that Mata Nasut was ardently alive. When he paused to kiss her, she rejoiced, moaning and grunting in response to the stimulation of his lips and hands. When his hands-which he would be the first to admit were quite experienced-caressed the erogenous parts of her beautiful body, she writhed with pleasure, shuddering with delight as his fingers lingered on sensitive areas.
  
  She placed her hand on the back of his head and pressed his lips to hers. "See? Gotong-rojong. To share completely-to help completely..." She pulled harder, and he found himself immersed in a fiery, sultry, piercing softness as parted lips welcomed him, as a hot tongue suggested a slow rhythm. Her breathing was faster than her movements, almost fiery with intensity. The hand on his head jerked with surprising force and
  
  the second one suddenly pulled her by the shoulder - insistently.
  
  He accepted her insistent thrusts and gently approached her guidance, relishing the sensation of entering a secret, vexing world where time stood still with rapture. They merged into one pulsating being, inseparable and exultant, enjoying the blissful sensual reality each created for the other. There was no need to rush, no need to plan or exert effort-the rhythm, the oscillation, the small turns and spirals came and went, repeated, varied, and changed with mindless naturalness. His temples burned, his stomach and intestines tensed, as if he were in an elevator that had suddenly dropped-and dropped again-and again, and again.
  
  Mata gasped once, parting her lips, and moaned a musical phrase he couldn't understand before she closed her lips on his again. And again, his control vanished-who needed that? Just as she'd captured his emotions with her hands on his skin, she now enveloped his entire body and emotions, her blazing ardor an irresistible magnet. Her nails closed over his skin, lightly, like the claws of a playful kitten, and his toes curled in response-a pleasant, compassionate movement.
  
  "Yeah, right," she murmured, as if it were coming from his mouth. "Ahh..."
  
  "Yes," he answered quite willingly, "yes, yes..."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  For Nick, the next seven days were the most frustrating and exciting he'd ever known. With the exception of three brief encounters with photographers, Mata became his constant guide and companion. He had no intention of wasting his time, but his search for potential clients and contacts felt like dancing in warm cotton candy, and every time he tried to stop someone, she handed them a cool gin and tonic.
  
  Nordenboss approved. "You're learning. Keep moving with this crowd, and sooner or later you'll encounter something. If I get word from my Loponusium factory, we can always fly there."
  
  Mata and Nick visited the best restaurants and clubs, attended two parties, and watched a game and a football match. He chartered a plane, and they flew to Yogyakarta and Solo, visiting the indescribably wonderful Buddhist sanctuary of Borobudur and the 9th-century Prambana Temple. They flew side by side through craters with multicolored lakes, as if standing over an artist's tray, gazing at his mixtures.
  
  They took off for Bandung, skirting the plateau with its neat rice paddies, forests, cinchona, and tea plantations. He was amazed by the boundless friendliness of the Sundanese, the vibrant colors, the music, the instant laughter. They stayed overnight at the Savoy Homan Hotel, and he was struck by its superb quality-or perhaps Mata's presence cast a rosy glow over his impressions.
  
  She was wonderful company. She dressed beautifully, behaved impeccably, and seemed to know everything and everyone.
  
  Tala lived in Jakarta, with Nordenboss, and Nick kept his distance, wondering what story Tala had told Adam this time.
  
  But he made good use of it in her absence, on a warm day at the pool in Puntjak. In the morning, he took Mata to the botanical garden in Bogor; awestruck by the hundreds of thousands of varieties of tropical flora, they strolled together like long-time lovers.
  
  After a delicious lunch by the pool, he was silent for a long time until Mata said, "Darling, you're so quiet. What are you thinking about?"
  
  "Tala".
  
  He saw the shiny dark eyes shake off their sleepy glare, widen, and sparkle. "I think Hans is doing well."
  
  "She must have gathered some information by now. Either way, I need to make progress. This idyll was precious, sweet, but I need help."
  
  "Wait. Time will bring you what you..."
  
  He leaned over her chaise lounge and covered her beautiful lips with his own. When he pulled away, he said, "Patience and shuffle the cards, huh? It's all fine to a certain extent. But I can't let the enemy do all the talking. When we get back to town, I'll have to leave you for a few days. You can catch up on your appointments."
  
  Plump lips opened and closed. "While you catch up with Tala?"
  
  "I will see her."
  
  "How nice."
  
  "Maybe she can help me. Two heads are better than one and all that."
  
  On the way back to Jakarta, Mata was silent. As they approached her house, in the rapidly falling dusk, she said, "Let me try."
  
  He took her hand. "Please. Loponousias and the others?"
  
  "Yes. Maybe I can learn something."
  
  In the cool, now familiar tropical living room, he mixed whiskey and soda, and when she returned from talking to the servants, he said, "Try it now."
  
  "Right now?"
  
  "Here's the phone. Darling,
  
  I trust you. Don't tell me you can't. With your friends and acquaintances..."
  
  As if hypnotized, she sat up and picked up the device.
  
  He made another drink before she finished a series of calls, including sluggish, rapid-fire conversations in Indonesian and Dutch, neither of which he understood. After replacing the receiver and picking up her refilled glass, she lowered her head for a moment and spoke quietly. "In four or five days. To Loponusias. They're all going there, and that can only mean they all have to pay."
  
  "All of them? Who are they?"
  
  "The Loponousias family. It's big. Rich."
  
  "Are there any politicians or generals in it?"
  
  "No. They're all in business. Big business. The generals get money from them."
  
  "Where?"
  
  "Of course, in the main possession of the Loponusii. Sumatra."
  
  "Do you think Judas should appear?"
  
  "I don't know." She looked up to see him frowning. "Yes, yes, what else could it be?"
  
  "Is Judas holding one of the children?"
  
  "Yes." She swallowed some of her drink.
  
  "What is his name?"
  
  "Amir. He went to school. He disappeared when he was in Bombay. They made a big mistake. He was traveling under a different name, and they made him stop for some business, and then... he disappeared until..."
  
  "Until then?"
  
  She spoke so quietly that he almost didn't hear. "Until they asked for money for it."
  
  Nick didn't say she should have known some of this all along. He said, "Were they asked for something else?"
  
  "Yes." The quick question caught her. She realized what she had confessed and looked at him with the eyes of a frightened fawn.
  
  "What do you mean what?"
  
  "I think... they are helping the Chinese."
  
  "Not to the local Chinese..."
  
  "A little."
  
  "But others too. Maybe on ships? They have docks?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  Of course, he thought, how logical! The Java Sea is large but shallow, and now it's a trap for submarines when the search equipment is accurate. But northern Sumatra? Perfect for surface or submersible vessels coming from the South China Sea.
  
  He hugged her. "Thank you, dear. When you know more, tell me. It's not in vain. I'll have to pay for the information." He told a half-lie. "You might as well start collecting, and it really is a patriotic act."
  
  She burst into tears. "Ah, women," he thought. Was she crying because he'd drawn her in against her will, or because he'd brought her money? It was too late to back out. "Three hundred U.S. dollars every two weeks," he'd said. "They'll let me pay that much for the information." He wondered how practical she'd be if she knew he could authorize thirty times that amount in a pinch-more after talking to Hawk.
  
  The sobbing subsided. He kissed her again, sighed, and stood up. "I need to take a little walk."
  
  She looked sad, tears glistening on her high, plump cheeks; more beautiful than she'd ever been in despair. He quickly added, "Just business. I'll be back around ten. We'll grab a late lunch."
  
  Abu drove him to Nordenboss. Hans, Tala, and Gun Bik sat on cushions around a Japanese stove. Hans, looking cheerful in a white apron and a tilted chef's hat, looked like Santa Claus in white. "Hi, Al. I can't stop cooking. Sit down and get ready for some real food."
  
  The long, low table to Hans's left was laden with plates; their contents looked and smelled delicious. The brown-haired girl brought him a large, deep dish. "Not much for me," Nick said. "I'm not very hungry."
  
  "Wait until you try it," Hans replied, spooning brown rice over the dish. "I combine the best of Indonesian and Eastern cuisine."
  
  Dishes began to circulate around the table-crabs and fish in fragrant sauces, curries, vegetables, spicy fruits. Nick took a small sample of each, but the mound of rice quickly disappeared under the delicacies.
  
  Tala said, "I've been waiting a long time to talk to you, Al."
  
  "About Loponusii?"
  
  She looked surprised. "Yes."
  
  "When is this?"
  
  "In four days."
  
  Hans paused with a large silver spoon in the air, then grinned as he dipped it into the red-spiced shrimp. "I think Al already has a lead."
  
  "I had an idea," Nick said.
  
  Gan Bik looked serious and determined. "What can you do? The Loponousias won't meet you. I won't even go there without an invitation. Adam was polite because you brought Tala back, but Siau Loponousias-well, you would say in English-is tough."
  
  "He's just not going to accept our help, is he?" Nick asked.
  
  "No. Like everyone else, he decided to go with them. Pay and wait."
  
  "And it helps.
  
  He's a Red Chinaman when he needs to be, huh? Maybe he really does have sympathies for Beijing."
  
  "Oh no." Gan Bik was adamant. "He's incredibly rich. He has nothing to gain from this. He stands to lose everything."
  
  "Rich people have cooperated with China before."
  
  "Not Shiau," Tala said softly. "I know him well."
  
  Nick looked at Gun Bik. "Do you want to come with us? It might be tough."
  
  "If things had gotten that rough, if we'd killed all the bandits, I'd be happy. But I can't." Gan Bik frowned. "I did what my father sent me here to do-on business-and he told me to come back in the morning."
  
  "Can't you apologize?"
  
  "You met my father."
  
  "Yes. I understand what you mean."
  
  Tala said, "I'll go with you."
  
  Nick shook his head. "Not a girls' party this time."
  
  "You'll need me. With me, you can get into the property. Without me, you'll be stopped ten miles from here."
  
  Nick looked at Hans, surprised and questioning. Hans waited for the maid to leave. "Tala's right. You'll have to fight your way through a private army in unknown territory. And over rough terrain."
  
  "Private army?"
  
  Hans nodded. "Not in a pretty way. Regular players won't like it. But more effective than regulars."
  
  "That's a good setup. We fight our way through our friends to get to our enemies."
  
  "Have you changed your mind about taking Tala?"
  
  Nick nodded, and Tala's beautiful features brightened. "Yes, we'll need all the help we can get."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Three hundred miles to the north-northwest, a strange ship cut smoothly through the long, purple waves of the Java Sea. It had two tall masts, with a large mizzenmast jutting forward of the helm, and both were rigged with topsails. Even veteran sailors would have had to take a second look before saying, "It looks like a schooner, but it's a ketch called Portagee, see?"
  
  You must forgive the old sailor for being half wrong. Oporto could pass for a ketch, the Portagee, a handy trader, easily maneuvered in tight quarters; in an hour, she could be transformed into a prau, a batak from Surabaja; and thirty minutes later, you'd blink if you raised your binoculars again and saw the high bow, overhanging stem, and strange square sails. Hail her, and you'll be told she's the junk Wind, from Keelung, Taiwan.
  
  You might be told something of this, depending on how she was camouflaged, or you might be blown out of the water by the thunder of unexpected firepower from her 40mm cannon and two 20mm cannons. Mounted amidships, they had a 140-degree field of fire on either side; on her bow and stern, new Russian-made recoilless rifles with convenient homemade mounts filled the gaps.
  
  She handled any of her sails well-or could have made eleven knots on her unsuspecting Swedish diesels. She was a stunningly beautiful Q-ship, built in Port Arthur with Chinese funds for a man named Judas. Her construction was supervised by Heinrich Müller and naval architect Berthold Geitsch, but it was Judas who received the funding from Beijing.
  
  A fine ship on a peaceful sea - with the devil's disciple as its master.
  
  A man named Judas lounged under a yellowish-brown awning at the stern, enjoying the light cotton breeze with Heinrich Müller, Bert Geich, and a strange, bitter-faced young man from Mindanao named Nif. If you had seen this group and learned anything about their individual history, you would have fled, broken free, or grabbed a weapon and attacked them, depending on the circumstances and your own past.
  
  Lounging in a chaise lounge, Judas looked healthy and tanned; he wore a leather and nickel hook in place of his missing hand, his limbs were covered in scars, and one side of his face was left disfigured by a terrible wound.
  
  When he fed banana slices to his pet chimpanzee, chained to his chair, he looked like a good-natured veteran of half-forgotten wars, a scarred bulldog still fit for the pit in a pinch. Those who knew more about him might have corrected this impression. Judas was blessed with a brilliant mind and the psyche of a rabid affectionate. His monumental ego was so pure selfishness that for Judas, there was only one person in the world-himself. His tenderness for the chimpanzee would last only as long as he felt satisfied. When the animal ceased to please him, he would throw it overboard or cut it in half-and explain his actions with twisted logic. His attitude toward people was the same. Even Müller, Geich, and Knife didn't understand the true depth of his evil. They survived because they served.
  
  Müller and Geich were men of knowledge and no intelligence. They had no imagination, except
  
  in their technical specialties-which were vast-and therefore paid no attention to others. They could not imagine anything other than their own.
  
  Knife was a child in a man's body. He killed on command with the vacant mind of a child settling into a comfortable toy to get candy. He sat on the deck a few yards ahead of the others, hurling balanced throwing knives at a foot-square piece of soft wood hanging from a safety pin twenty feet away. He hurled a Spanish knife from above. The blades cut into the wood with force and precision, and Knife's white teeth flashed with delighted childish giggles each time.
  
  Such a pirate ship with a demon commander and his demonic companions could have been manned by savages, but Judas was too shrewd for that.
  
  As a recruiter and exploiter of human beings, he had few equals in the world. His fourteen sailors, a mix of Europeans and Asians, almost all young, were recruited from the top echelons of itinerant mercenaries around the world. A psychiatrist would have labeled them criminally insane, so they could be imprisoned for scientific study. A Mafia capo would have treasured them and blessed the day he found them. Judas organized them into a naval gang, and they operated like Caribbean pirates. Of course, Judas would honor his agreement with them as long as it served his purposes. The day that didn't happen, he would kill them all as efficiently as possible.
  
  Judas tossed the last piece of banana to the monkey, limped to the rail, and pressed the red button. Horns began to blare throughout the ship-not the usual ship's war gongs, but the alarming vibrato of rattlesnakes. The ship came to life.
  
  Geich leaped up the ladder to the stern, while Müller disappeared through the hatch into the engine room. The sailors swept away awnings, deck chairs, tables, and glasses. The wooden rail forms leaned outward and toppled over on rattling hinges, and the false bow house with its plastic windows was transformed into a neat square.
  
  The 20mm cannons clanked metallically as they were cocked with powerful blows of the handles. The 40mm cannons clanked behind its fabric screens, which could be released in seconds on command.
  
  The pirates lay crouched behind the scoops above him, their recoilless rifles showing exactly four inches. The diesel engines roared as they started and idled.
  
  Judah looked at his watch and waved to Geich. "Very good, Bert. I got one minute forty-seven seconds."
  
  "Jah." Geich figured it out in fifty-two minutes, but he didn't argue with Judas over trifles.
  
  "Pass the word. Three beers for everyone at lunch." He reached for the red button and made the rattlesnakes buzz four times.
  
  Judas climbed down the hatch, moving along the ladder with more agility than he could on the deck, using one hand like a monkey. The diesels stopped purring. He met Müller at the engine room stairs. "Very nice on deck, Hein. Here?"
  
  "Good. Raeder would approve."
  
  Judas suppressed a grin. Müller was removing the shiny coat and dress hat of a 19th-century British line officer. He removed them and carefully hung them in the locker inside his cabin door. Judas said, "They inspired you, huh?"
  
  "Yes. If we had had Nelson or von Moltke or von Buddenbrook, the world would be ours today."
  
  Judas patted him on the shoulder. "There's still hope. Maintain this form. Come on..." They walked forward and down one deck. The sailor with the pistol rose from his chair in the forepeak companionway. Judas pointed to the door. The sailor unlocked it with a key from the ring hanging on the keychain. Judas and Müller peered in; Judas flicked the switch near the door.
  
  A girl's figure lay on the cot; her head, covered with a colorful scarf, was turned toward the wall. Judas said, "Is everything all right, Tala?"
  
  The answer was short: "Yes."
  
  "Would you like to join us on deck?"
  
  "No."
  
  Judas chuckled, turned off the light, and gestured to the sailor to lock the door. "She does exercises once a day, but that's all. She never wanted our company."
  
  "Müller said quietly. "Maybe we should pull her out by her hair."
  
  "Goodbye," Judas purred. "And here are the boys. I know you'd better see them." He stopped in front of a cabin that had no doors, only a blue steel grille. It had eight bunks, stacked against the bulkhead like the ones in old submarines, and five passengers. Four were Indonesians, one Chinese.
  
  They looked sullenly at Judas and Müller. The slender young man with wary, defiant eyes, who had been playing chess, stood up and took two steps to reach the bars.
  
  "When are we going to get out of this hotbox?"
  
  "The ventilation system is working," Judas replied dispassionately, his words delivered with the slow clarity of someone who enjoys demonstrating logic to the less wise. "You're not much warmer than on deck."
  
  "It's damn hot."
  
  "You feel this way because of boredom. Frustration. Be patient, Amir. In a few days, we'll visit your family. Then we'll return to the island again, where you can enjoy your freedom. That will happen if you're a good boy. Otherwise..." He shook his head sadly, the expression of a kind but stern uncle. "I'll have to hand you over to Henry."
  
  "Please don't do this," said a young man named Amir. The other prisoners suddenly became attentive, like schoolchildren waiting for a teacher's instructions. "You know we cooperated."
  
  They hadn't fooled Judas, but Müller basked in what he considered deference to authority. Judas asked gently, "You're only willing to cooperate because we have weapons. But of course, we won't harm you unless it's necessary. You're valuable little hostages. And perhaps soon your families will pay enough for you all to go home."
  
  "I hope so," Amir accepted politely. "But remember-not Müller. He'll put on his sailor suit and spank one of us, then go into his cabin and..."
  
  "Pig!" Müller roared. He cursed and tried to snatch the keys from the guard. His oaths were drowned out by the prisoners' laughter. Amir fell onto the bunk and rolled joyfully. Judas grabbed Müller's arm. "Come on-they're teasing you."
  
  They reached the deck, and Müller muttered, "Brown monkeys. I'd like to skin all their backs."
  
  "Someday... someday," Judah soothed. "You'll probably have them all scrapped. After we've squeezed everything we can out of the game. And I'll have a few nice farewell parties with Tala." He licked his lips. They'd been at sea for five days, and these tropics seemed to boost a man's libido. He could almost understand how Müller felt.
  
  "We can start right now," Müller suggested. "We won't miss Tala and one boy..."
  
  "No, no, old friend. Patience. Rumors can somehow get out. Families pay and do what we say for Beijing only because they trust us." He began to laugh, a mocking laugh. Müller chuckled, laughed, and then began slapping his thigh in time with the ironic cackle escaping his thin lips.
  
  "They trust us. Oh yes, they trust us!" When they reached the waist where the awning was secured again, they had to wipe their eyes.
  
  Judas stretched out on the deck chair with a sigh. "Tomorrow we'll stop in Belém. Then on to Loponousias's place. The trip is profitable."
  
  "Two hundred and forty thousand US dollars," Mueller clicked his tongue, as if he had a delicious taste in his mouth. "We're meeting with a corvette and a submarine on the sixteenth. How much should we give them this time?"
  
  "Let's be generous. One full payment. Eighty thousand. If they hear rumors, they'll match the amount."
  
  "Two for us and one for them." Müller chuckled. "Excellent odds."
  
  "Bye. When the game is over, we'll take it all."
  
  "What about the new CIA agent, Bard?"
  
  "He's still interested in us. We must be his target. He's left the Makhmurs for Nordenboss and Mate Nasut. I'm sure we'll meet him in person in the village of Loponousias."
  
  "How nice."
  
  "Yes. And if we can, we need to make it look random. It's logical, you know."
  
  "Of course, old friend. By chance."
  
  They looked at each other with tenderness and smiled like experienced cannibals savoring memories in their mouths.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  Hans Nordenboss was an excellent cook. Nick ate too much, hoping his appetite would return by the time he joined Mata. When he was alone with Hans for a few minutes in his office, he said, "Suppose we go to the Loponousii the day after tomorrow-that would give us time to get in, make plans, and organize our actions if we don't get cooperation?"
  
  "We have to drive for ten hours. The airstrip is fifty miles from the estate. The roads are fair. And don't plan on any cooperation. Siauw is not easy."
  
  "What about your connections there?"
  
  "One man is dead. Another is missing. Maybe they spent the money I paid them too openly, I don't know."
  
  "Let's not tell Gan Bik more than necessary."
  
  "Of course not, although I think the boy is up to par."
  
  "Is Colonel Sudirmat smart enough to pump him up?"
  
  "You mean the kid will sell us out? No, I'd bet against it."
  
  "Will we get help if we need it? Judas or the blackmailers may have their own army."
  
  Nordenboss shook his head grimly. "A regular army can be bought for pennies. Shiauv is hostile; we can't use his people."
  
  "Police? Police?"
  
  "Forget about it. Bribery, deception. And tongues that wag for money paid by someone."
  
  "Long odds, Hans."
  
  The stocky agent smiled like a brilliant religious figure bestowing a blessing. He held an ornate shell in his soft, deceptively strong fingers. "But the work is so interesting. Look-it's complex-Nature conducting trillions of experiments and laughing at our computers. We little people. Primitive intruders. Aliens on our own little patch of dirt."
  
  Nick had had similar conversations with Nordenboss before. He'd agreed with patient phrases. "The work is interesting. And the burial is free if any bodies are found. Humans are a cancer on the planet. We both have responsibilities ahead. What about weapons?"
  
  "Duty? A valuable word for us, because we're conditioned." Hans sighed, putting down the shell and holding up another. "Obligation-responsibility. I know your classification, Nicholas. Have you ever read the story of Nero's executioner, Horus? He finally..."
  
  "Can we pack a grease gun in the suitcase?"
  
  "Not recommended. You could hide a couple of pistols or a few grenades under your clothes. Put a few large rupees on top, and if our luggage is searched, you'll point to the rupees when the suitcase is opened, and the guy will likely not look any further."
  
  "So why not spray the same thing?"
  
  "Too big and too valuable. It's a matter of degree. A bribe is worth more than grabbing a man with a gun, but a man with a machine gun can be worth a lot - or you kill him, rob him, and sell the gun as well."
  
  "Charming." Nick sighed. "We'll work with what we can.
  
  Nordenboss gave him a Dutch cigar. "Remember the latest tactic: you get your weapons from the enemy. He's the cheapest and closest source of supply."
  
  "I read the book."
  
  "Sometimes in these Asian countries, and especially here, you feel like you're lost in a crowd of people. There are no landmarks. You push through them in one direction or another, but it's like being lost in a forest. Suddenly you see the same faces and realize you're wandering aimlessly. You wish you had a compass. You think you're just another face in the crowd, but then you see an expression and a face of terrible hostility. Hatred! You're wandering, and another look catches your eye. Murderous hostility!" Nordenboss carefully replaced the shell, closed the suitcase, and headed for the living room door. "This is a new sensation for you. You realize how wrong you were..."
  
  "I'm starting to notice," Nick said. He followed Hans back to the others and said goodnight.
  
  Before leaving the house, he slipped into his room and opened the package that had been packed in his luggage. It contained six bars of wonderfully scented green soap and three cans of aerosol shaving cream.
  
  The green pellets were actually plastic explosives. Nick carried the igniter caps as standard pen parts in his writing case. The explosions were created by twisting his special pipe cleaners.
  
  But what he liked most were the "shaving cream" cans. They were another invention of Stewart, the genius behind the AXE weapons. They shot a pink stream about thirty feet before dissolving into a spray that would gag and incapacitate an opponent in five seconds and knock them out cold in ten. If you could hold the spray to their eyes, they would instantly be blinded. Tests showed that all effects were temporary. Stewart said, "The police have a similar device called the Club. I call it the AXE."
  
  Nick packed a few items of clothing into a shipping crate for them. It's not much against private armies, but when you're going to face a large crowd, you take every weapon you can get your hands on.
  
  When he told Mata he would be out of town for a few days, she knew very well where he was headed. "Don't go," she said. "You won't come back."
  
  "Of course I'll be back," he whispered. They hugged in the living room, in the soft semi-darkness of the patio.
  
  She unbuttoned his sweatshirt, and her tongue found a place near his heart. He began tickling her left ear. Since his first encounter with "Love Helper," they had gone through two bottles, refining their abilities to achieve greater and more intense pleasure for each other.
  
  There she relaxed, her trembling fingers moving in familiar and ever more beautiful rhythms. He said, "You'll keep me-but only for an hour and a half..."
  
  "All I have, my dear," she murmured into his chest.
  
  He decided it was the ultimate achievement - the pulsating rhythm, so expertly synchronized, the curves and spirals, the sparklers at his temples, the elevator falling and falling.
  
  And he knew it was a tender affection of equal strength for her, for as she lay soft and full and breathing heavily, she held nothing back, and her dark eyes shone wide and hazy as she breathed out words he could barely catch: "Oh, my man - come back - oh, my man..."
  
  As they showered together, she said more calmly, "You think nothing can happen to you because you have money and power behind you."
  
  "Not at all. But who would want to harm me?"
  
  She made a sound of disgust. "The CIA's big secret. Everyone's watching you stumble."
  
  "I didn't think it was that obvious." He hid a grin. "I guess I'm an amateur in a job where they should have a professional."
  
  "Not so much you, my dear - but what I saw and heard..."
  
  Nick rubbed his face with a giant towel. Let the big company take out loans while they collected the lion's share of the bricks. Or did this prove David Hawk's astute efficiency with his sometimes irritating insistence on security details? Nick often thought Hawk was posing as an agent of one of the 27 other US secret services! Nick had once received a medal from the Turkish government engraved with the name he used in this case-Mr. Horace M. Northcote of the US FBI.
  
  Mata snuggled up to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Stay here. I'll be so lonely."
  
  She smelled delicious, cleansed, scented, and powdered. He hugged her. "I'm leaving at eight in the morning. You can finish these paintings for me at Josef Dalam's. Send them to New York. In the meantime, my dear..."
  
  He picked her up and carried her lightly back to the courtyard, where he entertained her so delightfully that she had no time to worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Nick was pleased with the efficiency with which Nordenboss had organized their trip. He had discovered the chaos and fantastical delays that were part of Indonesian affairs, and he had expected them. They didn't. They flew to the Sumatra airstrip in an old De Havilland, boarded a British Ford, and drove north through the coastal foothills.
  
  Abu and Tala spoke different languages. Nick studied the villages they passed through and understood why the State Department newspaper had said: fortunately, people can survive without money. Crops grew everywhere, and fruit trees grew around the houses.
  
  "Some of these little houses look cozy," Nick remarked.
  
  "You wouldn't think so if you lived in one," Nordenboss told him. "It's a different way of life. Catching insects, which you encounter with foot-long lizards. They're called geckos because they croak gecko-gecko-gecko. There are tarantulas bigger than your fist. They look like crabs. Big black beetles can eat toothpaste straight from the tube and chew book bindings for dessert."
  
  Nick sighed, disappointed. The terraced rice fields, like giant staircases, and the neat villages looked so inviting. The natives seemed clean, except for a few with black teeth who spat red betel juice.
  
  The day had grown hot. Driving under the tall trees, they felt like they were passing through cool tunnels shaded by greenery; the open road, however, felt like hell. They stopped at a checkpoint, where a dozen soldiers lounged on poles under thatched roofs. Abu spoke rapidly in a dialect Nick didn't understand. Nordenboss got out of the car and entered a hut with a short lieutenant, then returned immediately, and they continued on. "A few rupees," he said. "This was the last regular army post. Next we'll see Siau's men."
  
  "Why a checkpoint?"
  
  "To stop bandits. Rebels. Suspicious travelers. It's really nonsense. Anyone who can pay can get through."
  
  They approached a town composed of larger, more sturdy buildings. Another checkpoint at the nearest entrance to the town was marked by a colored pole lowered across the road. "The southernmost village is Šiauva," Nordenboss said. "We're about fifteen miles from his house."
  
  Abu rode into the crowd. Three men in dull green uniforms emerged from a small building. The one wearing sergeant's stripes recognized Nordenboss. "Hello," he said in Dutch with a broad smile. "You'll be staying here."
  
  "Sure." Hans climbed out of the car. "Come on, Nick, Tala. Stretch your legs. Hey, Chris. We need to meet Siau for something important."
  
  The sergeant's teeth gleamed white, unstained by betel. "You will stop here. Orders. You must return."
  
  Nick followed his stocky companion into the building. It was cool and dark. The barrier rods rotated slowly, pulled by ropes that ran into the walls. Nordenboss handed the sergeant a small envelope. The man glanced inside, then slowly, regretfully, placed it on the table. "I can't," he said sadly. "Mr. Loponousias was so determined. Especially about you and any of your friends, Mr. Nordenboss."
  
  Nick heard Nordenboss mutter, "I can do a little."
  
  "No, it's so sad."
  
  Hans turned to Nick and said quickly in English, "He means it."
  
  "Can we go back and get the helicopter out?"
  
  "If you think you can get through dozens of linebackers, I won't bet on the yardage gain."
  
  Nick frowned. Lost in the crowd without a compass. Tala said, "Let me talk to Siau. Maybe I can help." Nordenboss nodded. "That's as good a try as any. Okay, Mister Bard?"
  
  "Try."
  
  The sergeant protested that he hadn't dared call Siau until Hans motioned for him to take the envelope. A minute later, he handed Tala the phone. Nordenboss interpreted it as her chatting with the invisible ruler Loponousias.
  
  "... She says 'yes,' it really is Tala Muchmur. Doesn't he recognize her voice? She says 'no,' she can't tell him this over the phone. She has to see him. It's just - whatever it is. She wants to see him - with friends - just for a few minutes..."
  
  Tala continued speaking, smiled, and then handed the instrument to the sergeant. He received a few instructions and responded with great respect.
  
  Chris, the sergeant, gave the order to one of his men, who climbed into the car with them. Hans said, "Well done, Tala. I didn't know you had such a convincing secret."
  
  She gave him her beautiful smile. "We are old friends."
  
  She didn't say anything else. Nick knew perfectly well what the secret was.
  
  They drove along the edge of a long, oval valley, the other side of which was the sea. A cluster of buildings appeared below, and on the shore were docks, warehouses, and the bustle of trucks and ships. "The country of the Loponuses," said Hans. "Their lands extend right into the mountains. They have many other names. Their agricultural sales are enormous, and they have a finger in oil and many new factories."
  
  "And they'd like to keep them. Maybe that will give us leverage."
  
  "Don't count on it. They've seen invaders and politicians come and go."
  
  Syauv Loponousias met them with his assistants and servants on a covered veranda the size of a basketball court. He was a plump man with a slight smile that, as one might guess, meant nothing. His plump, dark face was strangely firm, his chins high, his cheeks like six-ounce boxing gloves. He stumbled onto the polished floor and briefly embraced Tala, then studied her from every angle. "It's you. I couldn't believe it. We heard differently." He looked at Nick and Hans and nodded when Tala introduced Nick. "Welcome. I'm sorry you can't stay. Let's have a nice drink."
  
  Nick sat in a large bamboo chair and sipped lemonade. Lawns and magnificent landscaping stretched for 500 yards. Parked in the lot were two Chevrolet trucks, a gleaming Cadillac, a couple of brand-new Volkswagens, several British cars of various makes, and a Soviet-made jeep. A dozen men stood guard or patrolled. They were dressed similarly enough to be soldiers, and all were armed with rifles or belt holsters. Some had both.
  
  "...Give my best wishes to your father," he heard Siau say. "I plan to see him next month. I'm flying straight to Phong."
  
  "But we would like to see your beautiful lands," Tala purred. "Mr. Bard is an importer. He has placed large orders in Jakarta."
  
  "Mr. Bard and Mr. Nordenboss are also agents of the United States." Siau chuckled. "I know something too, Tala."
  
  She looked helplessly at Hans and Nick. Nick moved his chair a few inches closer. "Mr. Loponousias. We know the people holding your son will be arriving here soon on their ship. Let us help you. Get him back. Now."
  
  Nothing could be read from the brown cones with their piercing eyes and smile, but it took him a long time to answer. It was a good sign. He thought.
  
  Finally, Syauw shook his head slightly. "You'll learn a lot too, Mister Bard. I won't say whether you're right or wrong. But we can't take advantage of your generous assistance."
  
  "You throw meat to a tiger and hope it gives up its kill and goes away. You know tigers better than I do. Do you think that will really happen?"
  
  "In the meantime, we are studying the animal."
  
  "You're listening to his lies. You were promised that after several payments and under certain conditions, your son would be returned. What guarantees do you have?"
  
  "If the tiger is not crazy, it is in his interest to keep his word."
  
  "Believe me, this tiger is crazy. Crazy as a man."
  
  Siau blinked. "Do you know amok?"
  
  "Not as well as you. Perhaps you can tell me about it. How a man goes mad to the point of bloodthirsty madness. He knows only murder. You cannot reason with him, much less trust him."
  
  Siau was worried. He had plenty of experience with Malayan madness, amok. A savage frenzy of killing, stabbing, and slashing-so brutal that it helped the US Army decide to adopt the Colt .45, based on the theory that a larger bullet had greater stopping power. Nick knew that men in the throes of a frenzied death throe still required multiple bullets from a large automatic to stop them. No matter the size of your gun, you still had to place the bullets in the right place.
  
  "That's different," Siau finally said. "These are businessmen. They don't lose their temper."
  
  "These people are worse. Now they're out of control. In the face of five-inch shells and nuclear bombs. How can you go crazy?"
  
  "I... don't quite understand..."
  
  "May I speak freely?" Nick gestured to the other men gathered around the patriarch.
  
  "Go on...go on. They are all my relatives and friends. In any case, most of them don't understand English."
  
  "You've been asked to help Beijing. They're saying very little. Perhaps politically. You might even be asked to help Indonesian Chinese escape, if their policies are correct. You think this gives you leverage and protection from the man we'll call Judas. It won't. He's stealing from China just like you. When the reckoning comes, you'll face not only Judas, but the wrath of the Big Red Daddy."
  
  Nick thought he saw Siau's throat muscles move as he swallowed. He imagined the man's thoughts. If there was one thing he knew, it was bribery and double-triple crosses. He said, "They had too much at stake..." But his tone weakened, and the words trailed off.
  
  "You think Big Daddy controls these people. He doesn't. Judas pulled them off his pirate ship, and he has his own men as crew. He's an independent bandit, robbing both sides. The moment trouble arises, your son and his other captives cross the border in chains."
  
  Siau no longer slouched in his chair. "How do you know all this?"
  
  "You said yourself that we are US agents. Perhaps we are, perhaps we are not. But if we are, we have certain connections. You need help, and we see you better than anyone. You don't dare call in your own armed forces. They would send a ship-maybe-and you would be lost in thought, half bribing, half sympathizing with the Communists. You are on your own. Or were. Now-you can use us."
  
  The usage was the right word. It made a man like Siau think he could still walk the tightrope. "You know this Judas, huh?" Siau asked.
  
  "Yes. Everything I told you about him is fact." "With a few bits and pieces I guessed," Nick thought. "You were surprised to see Tala. Ask her who brought her home. How she arrived."
  
  Siau turned to Tala. She said, "Mr. Bard brought me home. On a U.S. Navy boat. You can call Adam and you'll see."
  
  Nick admired her quick wit-she wouldn't have discovered the submarine if he hadn't. "But from where?" Siau asked.
  
  "You can't expect us to tell you everything while you're collaborating with the enemy," Nick replied calmly. "The facts are, she's here. We got her back."
  
  "But my son, Amir, is he okay?" Xiao wondered if they had sunk Judah's boat.
  
  "Not as far as we know. In any case, you'll know for sure in a few hours. And if not, don't you want us there? Why don't we all follow Judas?"
  
  Siau stood and walked along the wide porch. As he approached, servants in white jackets froze at their posts by the door. It was rare to see the big man move like this-worried, deep in thought, like any other man. Suddenly, he turned and gave a few orders to an elderly man with a red badge on his immaculate coat.
  
  Tala whispered, "He's booking rooms and dinner. We're staying."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  When they left at ten o'clock, Nick tried several tricks to get Tala into his room. She was in another wing of the large building. The way was blocked by several men in white jackets who seemed never to leave their workstations at the intersection of the corridors. He entered Nordenboss's room. "How can we get Tala here?"
  
  Nordenboss took off his shirt and trousers and lay on the large bed, a mass of muscles and sweat. "What a man," he said wearily.
  
  "I can't do without it for one night."
  
  "Damn it, I want her to cover us when we slip out."
  
  "Oh. Are we escaping?"
  
  "Let's go to the pier. Keep an eye on Judas and Amir."
  
  "Never mind. I got the word. They should be at the pier in the morning. We might as well get some sleep."
  
  "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"
  
  "I just found out. From the son of my missing man."
  
  "Does your son know who did this?"
  
  "No. My theory is it's the army. Judas's money got rid of it."
  
  "We have a lot of scores to settle with this madman."
  
  "There are many other people."
  
  "We'll do it for them too, if we can. Okay. Let's get up at dawn and go for a walk. If we decide to go to the beach, will anyone stop us?"
  
  "I don't think so. I think Xiao will let us watch the whole episode. We're another angle on his games-and damn, he sure uses complicated rules."
  
  Nick turned at the door. "Hans, will Colonel Sudirmat's influence really reach this far?"
  
  "Interesting question. I've thought about that myself. No. Not his own influence. These local despots are jealous and keep to themselves. But with money? Yes. As an intermediary with some for himself? That could be how it happened."
  
  "I see. Good night, Hans."
  
  "Good night. And you did a great job convincing Siau, Mr. Bard."
  
  An hour before dawn, the "Portagee ketch Oporto" raised a light marking the cape south of the Loponousias docks, turned, and slowly moved out to sea under a single stabilizing sail. Bert Geich gave clear orders. The sailors opened hidden davits, which swung the large, seemingly fast-moving boat forward.
  
  In Judas's cabin, Müller and Knife shared a teapot and glasses of schnapps with their leader. Knife was agitated. He felt his half-hidden knives. The others hid their amusement from him, demonstrating tolerance for the retarded child. Unfortunately, he was part of the family, so to speak. And Knife came in handy for particularly unpleasant tasks.
  
  Judah said, "The procedure is the same. You lie two hundred yards from the shore, and they bring the money. Siau and two men, no more, in their boat. You show him the boy. Let them talk for a minute. They toss the money around. You leave. Now there might be trouble. This new agent, Al Bard, might try something stupid. If something doesn't work, leave."
  
  "They can catch us," Müller, ever the practical tactician, noted. "We have a machine gun and a bazooka. They can outfit one of their boats with heavy firepower and fly out of the dock. For that matter, they can put an artillery piece in any of their buildings and-crap!"
  
  "But they won't," Judas purred. "Have you forgotten your history so quickly, my dear friend? For ten years we imposed our will, and the victims loved us for it. They even delivered the rebels to us themselves. People will withstand any oppression if it is logically carried out. But suppose they come out and say to you: 'Look! We have an 88mm gun aimed at you from this warehouse. Surrender! You lower your flag, old friend, meek as a lamb. And within 24 hours I will free you from their hands again. You know you can trust me-and you can guess how I would do it.'"
  
  "Yes." Müller nodded toward Judas's radio cabinet. Every other day, Judas would establish brief, coded contact with a vessel in China's rapidly expanding navy, sometimes a submarine, usually a corvette or other surface vessel. It was comforting to think of the prodigious firepower that backed him up. Hidden reserves; or, as the old General Staff used to say, more than meets the eye.
  
  Müller knew there was danger in this, too. He and Judas were taking the dragon's share of the ransom from China, and sooner or later they would be discovered, and the claws would strike. He hoped that when that happened, they would be long gone, and they would have ample funds for themselves and the coffers of "ODESSA," the international foundation that former Nazis relied on. Müller was proud of his loyalty.
  
  Judas poured them a second schnapps with a smile. He guessed what Müller was thinking. His own loyalty wasn't quite as passionate. Müller didn't know that the Chinese had warned him that in case of trouble, he could count on assistance only at their discretion. And often, daily contacts were broadcast. He received no response, but he told Müller that they had. And he discovered one thing. When he established radio contact, he could determine whether it was a submarine or a surface vessel with tall antennas and a strong, broad signal. It was a scrap of information that could somehow prove valuable.
  
  The golden arc of the sun peeked over the horizon as Judah said goodbye to Müller, Naif and Amir.
  
  Loponusis's heir was handcuffed, and the strong Japanese was at the helm.
  
  Judas returned to his cabin and poured himself a third schnapps before finally putting the bottle back. Rule two was the rule, but he was in high spirits. Mein Gott, what money was rolling in! He finished his drink, went out on deck, stretched, and took a deep breath. He was a cripple, wasn't he?
  
  "Noble scars!" he exclaimed in English.
  
  He went below and opened the cabin, where three young Chinese women, no older than fifteen, greeted him with sharp smiles to hide their fear and hatred. He looked at them impassively. He had bought them from peasant families on Penghu as entertainment for himself and his crew, but now he knew each of them so well that they had become boring. They were controlled by grand promises that were never meant to be kept. He closed the door and locked it.
  
  He paused thoughtfully in front of the hut where Tala was imprisoned. Why the hell not? He deserved it and intended to get it back sooner or later. He reached for the key, took it from the guard, entered, and closed the door.
  
  The slender figure on the narrow bunk aroused him even more. A virgin? These families must have been strict, even though naughty girls were prancing around these immoral tropical islands, and you could never be sure.
  
  "Hello, Tala." He placed his hand on her thin leg and slowly moved it up.
  
  "Hello." The answer was unintelligible. She faced the bulkhead.
  
  His hand gripped her thigh, caressing and exploring the crevices. What a firm, solid body she had! Little bundles of muscle, like rigging. Not an ounce of fat on her. He slipped his hand under her blue pajama top, and his own flesh quivered deliciously as his fingers caressed the warm, smooth skin.
  
  She rolled onto her stomach to avoid him as he tried to reach her breasts. His breathing quickened, and saliva flowed onto his tongue. How did he imagine them-round and hard, like little rubber balls? Or, say, like balls, like ripe fruit on the vine?
  
  "Be nice to me, Tala," he said as she avoided his probing hand with another twist. "You can have whatever you want. And you'll go home soon. Sooner, if you're polite."
  
  She was sinewy as an eel. He reached out, and she writhed. Trying to hold her was like grabbing a skinny, frightened puppy. He threw himself on the edge of the bunk, and she used the leverage against the bulkhead to push him away. He fell to the floor. He stood up, cursed, and ripped off her pajama top. He only caught a glimpse of them struggling in the dim light-her breasts were almost gone! Oh well, he liked them like that.
  
  He pushed her against the wall and she hit the bulkhead again, pushing with her arms and legs, and he slid off the edge.
  
  "Enough," he growled, standing up. He grabbed a handful of pajama pants and tore them. The cotton wool tore off, turning into rags in his hands. He grabbed the flailing leg with both hands and pulled half of it off the bunk, fighting off the other leg, which hit him in the head.
  
  "Boy!" he cried. His surprise momentarily weakened his grip, and a heavy foot caught him in the chest and sent him flying across the narrow cabin. He regained his balance and waited. The boy on the bunk braced himself like a writhing snake-watching-waiting.
  
  "So," Judas growled, "you are Akim Machmur."
  
  "Someday I'll kill you," the young man growled.
  
  "How did you switch places with your sister?"
  
  "I will cut you into many pieces."
  
  "It was payback! That fool Müller. But how... how?"
  
  Judas looked closely at the boy. Even with his face contorted with murderous rage, it was clear that Akim was the spitting image of Tala. Under the right circumstances, it wouldn't be difficult to deceive someone...
  
  "Tell me," Judas roared. "It was when you were sailing the boat to Fong Island for the money, wasn't it? Did Müller dock?"
  
  A gigantic bribe? He'd kill Müller personally. No. Müller was treacherous, but he wasn't stupid. He'd heard rumors that Tala was home, but he'd assumed it was a ruse by Machmur to cover up the fact that she was a prisoner.
  
  Judas cursed and feinted with his good arm, which had become so powerful it had the strength of two normal limbs. Akim ducked, and the real blow hit him, sending him crashing into the corner of the bunk. Judas grabbed him and hit him again with only one hand. It made him feel powerful, holding his other hand with its hook, its elastic claw, and the small, built-in pistol barrel. He could handle any man with just one hand! The satisfying thought cooled his anger a little. Akim lay in a crumpled heap. Judas left and slammed the door.
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  The sea was smooth and bright as Müller lounged in the boat, watching the Loponousias docks grow larger. Several ships were moored on the long piers, including Adam Makhmour's handsome yacht and a large diesel workboat. Müller chuckled. You could hide a large weapon in any of the buildings and detonate it from the water or force it to land. But they wouldn't dare. He relished the feeling of power.
  
  He saw a group of people at the edge of the largest pier. Someone was descending the gangway toward the floating dock where a small cabin cruiser was moored. They would probably show up there. He would follow orders. He had disobeyed them once, but everything had worked out fine. On Fong Island, they ordered him to enter using a megaphone. Mindful of the artillery, he obeyed, ready to threaten them with violence, but they explained that their motorboat wouldn't start.
  
  In fact, he basked in the feeling of power when Adam Makhmour handed him the money. When one of Makhmour's sons tearfully hugged his sister, he generously allowed them to chat for a few minutes, assuring Adam that his daughter would return as soon as the third payment was made and certain political matters were resolved.
  
  "I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman," he promised Makhmur. A swarthy fool. Makhmur gave him three bottles of fine brandy, and they sealed the pledge with a quick drink.
  
  But he won't do it again. The Japanese A.B. pulled out a bottle and a wad of yen for his "friendly" silence. But Nif wasn't with him. You could never trust him with his Judas worship. Müller glanced with disgust at where Naif sat, cleaning his nails with a shining blade, glancing occasionally at Amir to see if the boy was watching. The young man ignored him. "Even in handcuffs," Müller thought, "this guy certainly swam like a fish."
  
  "Knife," he ordered, handing over the key, "fasten these handcuffs across."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  From the boat's porthole, Nick and Nordenboss watched as the boat passed along the shore, then slowed down and began to circle slowly.
  
  "The boy's there," said Hans. "And that's Müller and Knife. I've never seen a Japanese sailor before, but he was probably the one who came with them to Makhmur."
  
  Nick was wearing only a pair of swimming trunks. His clothes, the repurposed Luger he called Wilhelmina, and the Hugo blade he usually carried strapped to his forearm were hidden in a nearby seat locker. Along with them, in his shorts, was his other standard weapon-a deadly gas pellet called Pierre.
  
  "Now you are real light cavalry," said Hans. "Are you sure you want to go out unarmed?"
  
  "Siau will have a fit as is. If we cause any damage, he will never accept the deal we want to make."
  
  "I'll cover you. I can score from this distance."
  
  "No need. Unless I die."
  
  Hans winced. You didn't have many friends in this business-it was painful even to think about losing them.
  
  Hans peered out the forward porthole. "The cruiser is leaving. Give him two minutes, and they'll be busy with each other."
  
  "Right. Remember the arguments in favor of Sioux if we carry it out."
  
  Nick climbed the ladder, crouched low, crossed the small deck, and slid silently into the water between the workboat and the dock. He swam along the bow. The launch and the cabin cruiser were approaching each other. The launch slowed, the cruiser slowed. He heard the clutches disengage. He filled and deflated his lungs several times.
  
  They were about two hundred yards away. The dug channel looked about ten feet deep, but the water was clear and transparent. You could see fish. He hoped they wouldn't notice him approaching, because there was no way he could be mistaken for a shark.
  
  The men in the two boats looked at each other and talked. The cruiser held Siau, a small sailor at the helm on the small bridge, and Siau's stern-looking assistant, Abdul.
  
  Nick lowered his head, swam until he was just above the bottom, and measured his powerful strokes, watching the small patches of shells and seaweed that kept a straight course, facing each other ahead. As part of his job, Nick stayed in excellent physical condition, adhering to a regimen worthy of an Olympic athlete. Even with frequent odd hours, alcohol, and unexpected meals, if you put your mind to it, you can stick to a sensible program. You avoided the third drink, chose mostly protein when you ate, and slept extra hours when you could. Nick wasn't lying-it was his life insurance.
  
  He concentrated most of his training, of course, on martial skills, yoga.
  
  as well as many sports, including swimming, golf and acrobatics.
  
  Now he swam calmly until he realized he was close to the boats. He rolled onto his side, saw the two oval shapes of the boats against the bright sky, and allowed himself to approach the bow of the boat, quite certain its passengers were peering over the stern. Hidden by the wave on the boat's circular side, he found himself invisible to everyone except those who might be far from the pier. He heard voices above him.
  
  "Are you sure you're okay?" It was Siau.
  
  "Yes." Maybe Amir?
  
  That would be Müller. "We mustn't throw this beautiful bundle into the water. Walk alongside slowly-use a little force-no, don't pull on the rope-I don't want to rush things."
  
  The cruiser's engine rumbled. The boat's propeller wasn't turning, the engine was idling. Nick dived to the surface, looked up, took aim, and with a powerful swing of his large arms, approached the lowest point of the boat's side, hooking one powerful hand onto the wooden coaming.
  
  That was more than enough. He grabbed with his other hand and flipped his leg over in an instant, like an acrobat performing a dive. He landed on the deck, sweeping hair and water from his eyes. A wary and alert Neptune emerged from the depths to meet his enemies head-on.
  
  Müller, Knife, and the Japanese sailor stood at the stern. Knife moved first, and Nick thought he was very slow-or perhaps he was comparing his perfect vision and reflexes to the shortcomings of surprise and morning schnapps. Nick jumped before the knife could even escape its sheath. His hand flew up under Knife's chin, and when his feet caught the side of the boat, Knife dove back into the water as if he'd been yanked by a rope.
  
  Müller was quick with a gun, though he was an old man compared to the others. He'd always secretly enjoyed Westerns and carried a 7.65mm. The Mauser in his belt holster was partially cut off. But he had a seat belt, and the machine gun was loaded. Müller made the quickest attempt, but Nick snatched the gun from his hand while it was still pointed at the deck. He shoved Müller into a pile.
  
  The most interesting of the three was the Japanese sailor. He delivered a left-handed blow to Nick's throat that would have put him out for ten minutes if it had hit his Adam's apple. Holding Müller's pistol in his right hand, he leaned forward with his left forearm, placing his fist to his forehead. The sailor's blow was aimed at the air, and Nick jabbed him in the throat with his elbow.
  
  Through the tears blurring his vision, the sailor's expression was one of surprise, fading to fear. He wasn't a black belt expert, but he knew professionalism when he saw it. But-maybe it was just an accident! What a reward if he dropped the big white man. He fell onto the railing, his hands caught on it, and his legs flashed in front of Nick-one in the crotch, the other in the stomach, like a double kick.
  
  Nick stepped aside. He could have blocked the turn, but he didn't want the bruises those strong, muscular legs could cause. He caught the lower ankle with the shovel, secured it, lifted it, twisted it, and threw the sailor in an awkward heap against the rail. Nick took a step back, still holding the Mauser in one hand, his finger threaded through the trigger guard.
  
  The sailor straightened up and fell backward, hanging by one arm. Müller struggled to his feet. Nick kicked him in the left ankle, and he collapsed again. He told the sailor, "Stop it, or I'll finish you off."
  
  The man nodded. Nick bent down, removed his belt knife, and threw it overboard.
  
  "Who has the key to the boy's handcuffs?"
  
  The sailor gasped, looked at Müller, and said nothing. Müller sat up again, looking stunned. "Give me the key to the handcuffs," Nick said.
  
  Müller hesitated, then pulled it out of his pocket. "That won't help you, fool. We..."
  
  "Sit down and shut up, or I'll hit you again."
  
  Nick unlocked Amir from the fence and gave him the key so he could free his other wrist. "Thank you..."
  
  "Listen to your father," Nick said, stopping him.
  
  Siau shouted orders, threats, and probably curses in three or four languages. The cruiser drifted about fifteen feet from the cutter. Nick reached over the side, pulled Knife aboard, and stripped him of his weapon, as if plucking a chicken. Knife grabbed his Mauser, and Nick hit him over the head with his other hand. It was a moderate blow, but it knocked Knife to the feet of the Japanese sailor.
  
  "Hey," Nick Siau called. "Hey..." Siau muttered, trailing off. "Don't you want your son back? Here he is."
  
  "You will die for this!" Siau shouted in English. "Nobody asked for this.
  
  This is your damn interference! "He shouted commands in Indonesian to the two men with him in the dock.
  
  "Nick said to Amir. "Do you want to go back to Judas?"
  
  "I'll die first. Get away from me. He tells Abdul Nono to shoot you. They have rifles and they are good shots."
  
  The thin young man deliberately moved between Nick and the coastal buildings. He called out to his father. "I'm not coming back. Don't shoot."
  
  Siau looked as if he might explode, like a hydrogen balloon held close to a flame. But he remained silent.
  
  "Who are you?" Amir asked.
  
  "They say I'm an American agent. In any case, I want to help you. We can take the ship and free the others. Your father and the other families disagree. What do you say?"
  
  "I say fight." Amir's face flushed, then dimmed as he added, "But they'll be hard to convince."
  
  Knife and the sailor crawled straight ahead. "Attach the handcuffs to each other," Nick said. Let the boy feel the victory. Amir shackled the men as if he enjoyed it.
  
  "Let them go," Siau shouted.
  
  "We have to fight," Amir replied. "I'm not going back. You don't understand these people. They'll kill us anyway. You can't buy them." He switched to Indonesian and began arguing with his father. Nick decided it was supposed to be an argument-with all the gestures and explosive sounds.
  
  After a while, Amir turned to Nick. "I think he's a little convinced. He's going to talk to his guru."
  
  "Him what?"
  
  "His advisor. His... I don't know that word in English. You could say 'religious advisor,' but that's more like..."
  
  "His psychiatrist?" Nick said the word partly as a joke, with disgust.
  
  "Yes, in a sense! A man who is in charge of his own life."
  
  "Oh, brother." Nick checked the Mauser and tucked it into his belt. "Okay, drive these guys ahead, and I'll take this tub to the shore."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Hans talked with Nick while he showered and dressed. There was no need to rush-Siauw had arranged a meeting in three hours. Müller, Knife, and the sailor had been taken away by Shiau's men, and Nick thought it wise not to protest.
  
  "We've walked into a hornet's nest," Hans said. "I thought Amir could convince his father. The return of his beloved offspring. He truly loves the boy, but he still thinks he can do business with Judah. I think he's called some other families, and they're agreeing."
  
  Nick was attached to Hugo. Would Knife like to add that stiletto to his collection? It was made of the finest steel. "Looks like things are going up and down, Hans. Even the big players have been bowing their necks for so long that they'd rather indulge than face confrontation. They'll have to change quickly, or twentieth-century men like Judas will chew them up and spit them out. What's this guru like?"
  
  "His name is Buduk. Some of these gurus are great people. Scientists. Theologians. Real psychologists and so on. Then there are the Buduks."
  
  "Is he a thief?"
  
  "He is a politician."
  
  "You answered my question."
  
  "He made it here. A rich man's philosopher with extra intuition he draws from the spiritual world. You know jazz. I never trusted him, but I know he's a phony because little Abu kept a secret from me. Our holy man is a secret swinger when he slips away to Jakarta."
  
  "Can I see him?"
  
  "I think so. I'll ask."
  
  "Fine."
  
  Hans returned ten minutes later. "Of course. I'll take you to him. Siau's still angry. He practically spat at me."
  
  They followed an endless, winding path beneath dense trees to the small, neat house occupied by Buduk. Most native houses were huddled together, but the sage clearly needed privacy. He met them sitting cross-legged on cushions in a clean, barren room. Hans introduced Nick, and Buduk nodded impassively. "I've heard a lot about Mister Bard and this problem."
  
  "Siau says he needs your advice," Nick said bluntly. "I'm guessing he's reluctant. He thinks he can negotiate."
  
  "Violence is never a good solution."
  
  "Peace would be best," Nick agreed calmly. "But would you call a man a fool if he was still sitting in front of a tiger?"
  
  "Sit still? You mean be patient. And then the gods can order the tiger to leave."
  
  "What if we hear a loud, hungry rumble from the tiger's belly?"
  
  Buduk frowned. Nick guessed his clients rarely argued with him. The old man was slow. Buduk said, "I'll meditate and make my suggestions."
  
  "If you suggest that we show courage, that we must fight because we will win, I will be very grateful."
  
  "I hope that my advice will please you, as well as Siau and the powers of earth and sky."
  
  "Fight the advisor," Nick said softly, "and three thousand dollars will be waiting for you. In Jakarta or anywhere, anywhere. In gold or any other way." He heard Hans sigh. It wasn't the amount that mattered-for such an operation, it was a pittance. Hans thought he was being too straightforward.
  
  Buduk didn't bat an eyelid. "Your generosity is amazing. With that kind of money, I could do a lot of good."
  
  "Is this agreed upon?"
  
  "Only the gods will tell. I will answer at the meeting very soon."
  
  On the way back along the path, Hans said, "Nice try. You surprised me. But I think it's better to do it openly."
  
  "He didn't go."
  
  "I think you're right. He wants to hang us."
  
  "Either he's working directly for Judas, or he's got such a racket going here that he doesn't want to rock the boat. He's like a family-his backbone is a piece of wet pasta."
  
  "Have you ever wondered why we are not guarded?"
  
  "I can guess."
  
  "That's right. I heard Xiaou giving orders."
  
  "Can you invite Tala to join us?"
  
  "I think so. I'll see you in the room in a few minutes."
  
  It took more than a few minutes, but Nordenboss returned with Tala. She walked straight up to Nick, took his hand, and looked him in the eyes. "I saw. I hid in the barn. The way you saved Amir was wonderful."
  
  "Have you spoken to him?"
  
  "No. His father kept him with him. They argued."
  
  "Amir wants to resist?"
  
  "Well, he did. But if you heard Xiao..."
  
  "A lot of pressure?"
  
  "Obedience is our habit."
  
  Nick pulled her toward the sofa. "Tell me about Buduk. I'm sure he's against us. He'll advise Siau to send Amir back with Müller and the others."
  
  Tala lowered her dark eyes. "I hope it won't be worse."
  
  "How could this happen?"
  
  "You embarrassed Siau. Buduk might allow him to punish you. This meeting-it's going to be a big deal. Did you know about it? Since everyone knows what you did, and it went against Siau and Buduk's wishes, there's... well, the question of who you are."
  
  "Oh my God! Now this face."
  
  "More like the gods of Buduk. Their faces and his."
  
  Hans chuckled. "Glad we're not on the island to the north. They'll eat you there, Al. Fried with onions and sauces."
  
  "Very funny."
  
  Hans sighed. "Come to think of it, it's not so funny."
  
  Nick asked Tala, "Siau was willing to withhold final judgment on the resistance for several days until I captured Müller and the others, then he became very upset, even though his son returned. Why? He turns to Buduk. Why? Softening, from what I can understand. Why? Buduk refused the bribe, even though I heard he takes it. Why?"
  
  "People," Tala said sadly.
  
  The one-word answer puzzled Nick. People? "Of course - people. But what are the angles? This deal is turning into the usual web of reasons..."
  
  "Let me try to explain, Mr. Bard," Hans interjected gently. "Even with the useful idiocy of the masses, rulers must be careful. They learn to use power, but they cater to emotions and, above all, to what we might laughingly call public opinion. Are you with me?"
  
  "Your irony is showing," Nick replied. "Go on."
  
  "If six determined men rise up against Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin or Franco - bam!"
  
  "Poof?"
  
  "If they have real determination, to put a bullet or a knife into a despot, regardless of their own death."
  
  "Okay. I'll buy it."
  
  "But these wily types not only prevent half a dozen from making decisions-they control hundreds of thousands-millions! You can't do that with a gun on your hip. But it's done! So quietly that the poor fools burn as an example instead of being next to the dictator at a party and stabbing him in the gut."
  
  "Of course. Although it will take several months or years to work your way up to the big shot."
  
  "What if you're really determined? But leaders must keep them so confused that they never develop such a goal. How is this achieved? By controlling the masses. Never let them think. So, to your questions, Tala, let's stay to smooth things over. Let's see if there's a way to use us against Judas-and ride with the winner. You went into battle in front of a few dozen of his men, and rumors of it are already halfway to his little ego. By now, you've brought back his son. People are wondering why he didn't? They can understand how he and the rich families played along. The rich call it wise tactics. The poor might call it cowardice.
  
  They have simple principles. Is Amir relenting? I can imagine his father telling him about his duty to the dynasty. Buduk? He'd take anything that wasn't red-hot unless he had oven mitts or gloves. He'd ask you for more than three thousand, and I imagine he'd get it, but he knows-instinctively or practically, like Siau-they have people to impress."
  
  Nick rubbed his head. "Maybe you'll understand, Tala. Is he right?"
  
  Her soft lips pressed against his cheek, as if she pitied his stupidity. "Yes. When you see thousands of people gathered in the temple, you'll understand."
  
  "What temple?"
  
  "Where a meeting will take place with Buduk and others, and he will make his proposals."
  
  Hans added cheerfully, "It's a very old structure. Magnificent. A hundred years ago, they had human barbecues there. And trials by combat. People aren't that stupid about some things. They'd gather their armies and have two champions fight it out. Like in the Mediterranean. David and Goliath. It was the most popular entertainment. Like the Roman games. Real combat with real blood..."
  
  "Problems with problems and all that?"
  
  "Yes. The bigwigs had it all figured out, challenging only their professional killers. After a while, the citizens learned to keep their mouths shut. The great champion Saadi killed ninety-two people in single combat last century."
  
  Tala beamed. "He was invincible."
  
  "How did he die?"
  
  "An elephant stepped on him. He was only forty."
  
  "I'd say the elephant is invincible," Nick said grimly. "Why didn't they disarm us, Hans?"
  
  "You'll see it in the temple."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Amir and three armed men arrived at Nick's room "to show them the way."
  
  Loponusis's heir apologized. "Thank you for what you've done for me. I hope everything works out."
  
  Nick said bluntly, "It looks like you've lost some of the fight."
  
  Amir blushed and turned to Tala. "You shouldn't be alone with these strangers."
  
  "I will be alone with whoever I want."
  
  "You need an injection, boy," Nick said. "Half guts and half brains."
  
  It took Amir a moment to understand. His hand reached for the large kris at his belt. Nick said, "Forget it. Your father wants to see us." He walked out the door, leaving Amir red and furious.
  
  They walked for nearly a mile along winding paths, past the vast grounds of Buduk, onto a meadow-like plain hidden by giant trees that highlighted the sunlit building in the center. It was a gigantic, stunning hybrid of architecture and sculpture, a blend of centuries-old intertwined religions. The dominant structure was a two-story Buddha-figure with a golden cap.
  
  "Is this real gold?" Nick asked.
  
  "Yes," Tala replied. "There are many treasures inside. The saints guard them day and night."
  
  "I didn't mean to steal them," Nick said.
  
  In front of the statue was a wide, permanent viewing platform, now occupied by a multitude of men, and on the plain before them was a solid mass of people. Nick tried to guess-eight thousand and nine? And even more were pouring from the edge of the field, like ribbons of ants from the forest. Armed men stood on either side of the viewing platform, some of them appearing to be grouped together, as if they were special clubs, orchestras, or dance troupes. "They painted all this in three hours?" he asked Tala.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Wow. Tala, no matter what happens, stay by my side to translate and speak for me. And don't be afraid to speak up."
  
  She squeezed his hand. "I'll help if I can."
  
  A voice boomed over the intercom. "Mr. Nordenboss-Mr. Bard, please join us on the sacred steps."
  
  Simple wooden seats had been reserved for them. Müller, Knife, and the Japanese sailor sat a few yards away. There were many guards, and they looked tough.
  
  Syauw and Buduk took turns at the microphone. Tala explained, her tone growing increasingly dejected: "Syauw says you betrayed his hospitality and ruined his plans. Amir was a kind of business hostage in a project that benefited everyone."
  
  "He would have made a great victim," Nick growled.
  
  "Buduk says Müller and the others should be released with an apology." She gasped as Buduk continued to thunder. "And..."
  
  "What?"
  
  "You and Nordenboss must be sent with them. As payment for our rudeness."
  
  Siau replaced Buduk at the microphone. Nick stood up, took Tala's hand, and rushed toward Siau. It was forced-because by the time he'd covered twenty feet, two guards were already hanging.
  
  in his hands. Nick walked into his small Indonesian language shop and yelled, "Bung Loponusias-I want to talk about your son, Amir. About the handcuffs. About his bravery."
  
  Siau waved angrily at the guards. They yanked. Nick twisted his hands around their thumbs and easily broke their grip. They grabbed again. He did it again. The roar from the crowd was astounding. It washed over them like the first wind of a hurricane.
  
  "I'm talking about courage," Nick shouted. "Amir has courage!"
  
  The crowd cheered. More! Excitement! Anything! Let the American speak. Or kill him. But let's not get back to work. Knocking on rubber trees doesn't sound like hard work, but it is.
  
  Nick grabbed the microphone and shouted: "Amir is brave! I can tell you everything!"
  
  It was something like this! The crowd screamed and roared, just like any crowd does when you try to prick their emotions. Syau waved the guards aside. Nick raised both hands above his head, as if he knew he could speak. The cacophony died down after a minute.
  
  Syau said in English, "You said it. Now please sit down." He wanted Nick to be dragged away, but the American had the crowd's attention. It could instantly turn to sympathy. Syau had spent his whole life dealing with crowds. Wait...
  
  "Please come here," Nick called and waved to Amir.
  
  The young man joined Nick and Tala, looking embarrassed. First, this Al-Bard had insulted him, now he was praising him in front of the crowd. The thunder of approval was pleasant.
  
  Nick said to Tala, "Now translate this loud and clear..."
  
  "The man Müller insulted Amir. Let Amir regain his honor..."
  
  Tala shouted the words into the microphone.
  
  Nick continued, and the girl repeated to him: "Müller is old... but with him is his champion... a man with knives... Amir demands a test..."
  
  Amir whispered, "I cannot demand a challenge. Only champions fight for..."
  
  Nick said, "And since Amir cannot fight... I offer myself as his protector! Let Amir regain his honor... let us all regain our honor."
  
  The crowd cared little for honor, but more for spectacle and excitement. Their howls were louder than before.
  
  Xiao knew when he was being whipped, but he looked smug as he said to Nick, "You made it necessary. Good. Take off your clothes."
  
  Tala tugged at Nick's arm. He turned, surprised to find her crying. "No... no," she cried. "The Challenger fights unarmed. He will kill you."
  
  Nick swallowed. "That's why the ruler's champion always won." His admiration for Saadi plummeted. Those ninety-two were victims, not rivals.
  
  Amir said, "I don't understand you, Mr. Bard, but I don't think I want to see you killed. Maybe I can give you a chance to escape with this."
  
  Nick saw Müller, Knife, and the Japanese sailor laughing. Knife swung his largest knife meaningfully and began a leaping dance. The crowd's shouts shook the stands. Nick recalled the image of a Roman slave he'd seen fighting a fully armed soldier with a club. He pitied the loser. The poor slave had no choice-he'd received his wages and vowed to do his duty.
  
  He pulled off his shirt, and the screams reached a crescendo that was deafening. "No, Amir. We'll try our luck."
  
  "You will probably die."
  
  "There is always a chance to win."
  
  "Look." Amir pointed to a forty-foot square being quickly cleared in front of the temple. "That's the battle square. It hasn't been used for twenty years. It will be cleared and purged. You have no chance of using such a trick as throwing dirt in his eyes. If you jump out of the square to grab a weapon, the guards have the right to kill you."
  
  Nick sighed and took off his shoes. "Now tell it to me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  Syau made another attempt to enforce Buduk's decision without a contest, but his cautious orders were drowned out by the roar. The crowd roared as Nick removed Wilhelmina and Hugo and handed them to Hans. They roared again as Knife quickly stripped and jumped into the arena, carrying his large knife. He looked wiry, muscular, and alert.
  
  "Do you think you can handle him?" Hans asked.
  
  "I did this until I heard about the rule that only the experienced could use weapons. What kind of fraud was this that the old rulers were running..."
  
  "If he gets to you, I'll put a bullet in him or somehow hand him your Luger, but I don't think we'll survive long. Xiao has several hundred soldiers right on this field."
  
  "If he gets to me, you won't have time to make him do much good for me."
  
  Nick took a deep breath. Tala held his hand tightly, nervously.
  
  Nick knew more about the local customs than he was letting on-his reading and research were meticulous. The customs were a mixture of vestiges of animism, Buddhism, and Islam. But this was the moment of truth, and he couldn't think of a way to do anything but strike Knife, and that wouldn't be easy. The system was designed for home defense.
  
  The crowd grew impatient. They grumbled, then roared again as Nick carefully descended the wide steps, his muscles trembling from his tan. He smiled and raised his hand like a favorite entering the ring.
  
  Syau, Buduk, Amir, and half a dozen armed men who appeared to be officers of Syau's forces stepped onto a low platform overlooking the cleared, oblong area where Knife stood. Nick stood cautiously outside for a moment. He didn't want to step over the low wooden rim-like a polo field barrier-and possibly give Knife a chance to strike. A burly man in green trousers and shirt, a turban, and a gilded mace emerged from the temple, bowed to Syau, and entered the ring. "The judge," Nick thought, and followed him.
  
  The burly man waved at Knife one way, at Nick the other, then waved his arms and stepped back-far back. His meaning was unmistakable. First round.
  
  Nick balanced on the balls of his feet, his arms open and spread, fingers together, thumbs out. This was it. No more thoughts except what was in front of him. Concentration. Law. Reaction.
  
  Knife was fifteen feet away. The tough, lithe Mindanaoan looked the part-perhaps not quite like him, but his knife was a great asset. To Nick's astonishment, Knife grinned-a toothy, white-toothed grimace of pure evil and cruelty-then twisted the hilt of her Bowie knife in her hand and, a moment later, faced Nick with another, smaller dagger in her left hand!
  
  Nick didn't glance at the burly referee. He didn't take his eyes off his opponent. They weren't going to call any fouls here. Nifa crouched down and quickly walked forward... and thus began one of the strangest, most exciting, and astonishing contests ever to take place in the ancient arena.
  
  For a long moment, Nick concentrated solely on dodging these deadly blades and the fast-moving man who wielded them. Knife lunged at him-Nick dodged back, to the left, past the shorter blade. Knife grinned his demonic grimace and charged again. Nick feinted left and dodged right.
  
  Knife grinned wickedly and turned smoothly, pursuing his prey. Let the big man play a little-it would add to the fun. He widened his blades and advanced more slowly. Nick dodged the smaller blade by an inch. He knew that next time Knife would allow those inches with an extra thrust.
  
  Nick covered twice the ground his opponent had used, taking full advantage of the forty feet but ensuring he had at least fifteen or so to maneuver. Knife charged. Nick stepped back, moved to the right, and this time, with a lightning-fast strike at the end of his lunge, like a swordsman without a blade, he knocked Knife's arm aside and leaped into the clearing.
  
  At first, the crowd loved it, greeting every attack and defensive move with a flurry of cheers, applause, and hollers. Then, as Nick continued to retreat and dodge, they became bloodthirsty with their own excitement, and their applause was for Knife. Nick couldn't understand them, but the tone was clear: cut his guts out!
  
  Nick used another counterpunch to distract Knife's right hand, and when he reached the other end of the ring, he turned, smiled at Knife, and waved to the crowd. They liked it. The roar sounded like applause again, but it didn't last long.
  
  The sun was hot. Nick was sweating, but he was pleased to find he wasn't breathing hard. Knife was dripping with sweat and began to huff. The schnapps he'd drunk was taking its toll. He paused and flipped the small knife into a throwing grip. The crowd roared with delight. They didn't stop when Knife dropped the blade back into a fighting grip, stood up, and made a stabbing motion, as if to say, "You think I'm crazy? I'll stab you."
  
  He lunged. Nick fell, parried, and dodged the large blade, which sliced his bicep and drew blood. The woman cried out in joy.
  
  Knife followed him slowly, like a boxer backing his opponent into a corner. He matched Nick's feints. Left, right, left. Nick flashed forward, briefly grabbed his right wrist, dodging the larger blade by a fraction of an inch, spun Knife around, and leaped past him before he could swing the smaller knife. He knew it missed his kidneys by less than a pen's breadth. Knife nearly fell, caught himself, and angrily lunged after his victim. Nick leaped aside and stabbed under the smaller blade.
  
  It caught Knife above the knee, but did no damage as Nick flipped into a side somersault and bounced away.
  
  Now the Mindanaoan was busy. The grip of this "jack of all trades" was far greater than he could have imagined. He cautiously pursued Nick, and with his next lunge, he dodged, cutting a deep furrow into Nick's thigh. Nick didn't feel a thing-that would come later.
  
  He thought Knife was slowing down a bit. He was certainly breathing much more heavily. The time had come. Knife entered smoothly, with rather broad blades, intending to corner his enemy. Nick allowed him to brace himself, retreating toward the corner in small leaps. Knife knew the moment of elation when he thought Nick wouldn't be able to escape him this time-and then Nick leaped straight at him, parrying both of Knife's hands with swift punches that transformed into hard-fingered judo spears.
  
  Knife opened his arms and returned with thrusts designed to land his prey on both blades. Nick slipped under his right arm and slid his left hand over it, this time not moving away, but coming up behind Knife, pushing his left hand up and behind Knife's neck, following it with his right hand on the other side to apply an old-fashioned half nelson!
  
  The fighters collapsed to the ground, Knife landing face-to-face on the hard ground, Nick on his back. Knife's arms were raised, but he held his blades tightly. Nick had trained in personal combat his entire life, and he'd been through this throw and hold many times. After four or five seconds, Knife would discover he had to strike his opponent, twisting his arms downward.
  
  Nick applied the choke with all his might. If you're lucky, you can incapacitate or finish your man this way. His grip slipped, his clasped hands sliding up Knife's oily, bull-like neck. Grease! Nick felt it and sniffed it. That's what Buduk did when he gave Knife his brief blessing!
  
  Knife thrashed beneath him, twisting, his knife-wielding hand dragging back along the ground. Nick freed his hands and slammed his fist into Knife's neck as he leaped back, barely avoiding the gleaming steel that flashed at him like a snake's fang.
  
  Nick jumped up and ducked, looking closely at his opponent. The blow to the neck had done some damage. Knife had lost most of his breath. He swayed slightly, puffing.
  
  Nick took a deep breath, braced his muscles, and fine-tuned his reflexes. He recalled MacPherson's "orthodox" defense against a trained knife-wielder: "a lightning bolt to the testicles or a run." MacPherson's manual didn't even mention what to do with two knives!
  
  Knife stepped forward, now stalking Nick cautiously, his blades held wider and lower. Nick backed up, stepped left, dodged right, and then leaped forward, using a hand parry to deflect the shorter blade as it shot up toward his groin. Knife tried to block his strike, but before his hand could stop, Nick took one step forward, spun alongside the other, and crossed his outstretched arm with a V of his own under Knife's elbow and his palm on the top of Knife's wrist. The arm snapped with a crunch.
  
  Even as Knife screamed, Nick's keen eyes saw the large blade turn toward him, approaching Knife. He saw it all as clearly as if in slow motion. The steel was low, the point sharp, and it penetrated just below his navel. There was no way to block it; his hands merely completed the snap of Knife's elbow. There was only...
  
  It all took a split second. A man without lightning-fast reflexes, a man who didn't take his training seriously and made an honest effort to stay in shape, would have died right there, with his own intestines and abdomen sliced open.
  
  Nick twisted to the left, slicing off Knife's arm as you would in a traditional fall-and-block. He crossed his right leg forward in a leap, twist, turn, fall-Knife's blade caught the tip of his femur, brutally tearing flesh and creating a long, shallow gash in Nick's buttock as he dove to the ground, carrying Knife with him.
  
  Nick felt no pain. You don't feel it immediately; nature gives you time to fight. He kicked Knife in the back and pinned the Mindanao man's good arm with a leg lock. They lay on the ground, Knife on the bottom, Nick on his back, his arms pinned in a snake-in-the-nose lock. Knife still held his blade in his good hand, but it was temporarily useless. Nick had one free hand, but he was in no condition to strangle his man, gouge his eyes, or grab his testicles. It was a standoff-as soon as Nick loosened his grip, he could expect a blow.
  
  It was time for Pierre. With his free hand, Nick felt his bleeding rump, feigned pain, and groaned. A gasp of recognition, groans of sympathy, and a few mocking cries came from the crowd. Nick quickly took a
  
  A small ball emerged from a hidden slit in his shorts, and he felt the tiny lever with his thumb. He winced and writhed like a TV wrestler, contorting his features to express the terrible pain.
  
  Knife was a great help in this matter. Trying to free himself, he yanked them along the ground like some grotesque, writhing eight-limbed crab. Nick pinned Knife down as best he could, raised his hand to the knife-wielder's nose, and released Pierre's deadly contents, pretending to feel for the man's throat.
  
  In the open air, Pierre's rapidly expanding vapor quickly dissipated. It was primarily an indoor weapon. But its fumes were deadly, and for Knife, breathing heavily-his face inches from the small oval source of doom hidden in Nick's palm-there was no escape.
  
  Nick had never held one of Pierre's victims in his arms when the gas took effect, and he never wanted to again. There was a moment of frozen inaction, and you thought death had come. Then nature protested the murder of an organism it had spent billions of years developing, the muscles tensed, and the final struggle for survival began. Knife-or Knife's body-tried to break free with more force than the man had ever used when he was in control. He nearly threw Nick. A terrible, retching scream erupted from his throat, and the crowd howled with him. They thought it was a battle cry.
  
  Many moments later, as Nick slowly and carefully stood up, Knife's legs jerked convulsively, though his eyes were wide and staring. Nick's body was covered in blood and dirt. Nick raised both hands earnestly to the sky, bent down, and touched the ground. With a careful and respectful movement, he rolled Knife over and closed his eyes. He took a clot of blood from his buttock and touched his fallen opponent's forehead, heart, and stomach. He scraped the dirt, smeared more blood, and shoved the dirt into Knife's sagging mouth, pushing the spent pellet down his throat with his finger.
  
  The crowd loved it. Their primitive emotions expressed themselves in a roar of approval that made the tall trees tremble. Honor the enemy!
  
  Nick stood up, arms spread wide again as he looked up at the sky and chanted, "Dominus vobiscum." He looked down and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then gave the thumbs-up sign. He muttered, "Rotten with the rest of the trash, you crazy throwback."
  
  The crowd surged into the arena and lifted him onto their shoulders, heedless of the blood. Some reached out and touched their foreheads with him, like novices smeared with blood after a fox hunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The Syau clinic was modern. An experienced local doctor carefully stitched up Nick's buttocks and applied antiseptic and bandages to the other two cuts.
  
  He found Syau and Hans on the veranda with a dozen others, including Tala and Amir. Hans said curtly, "A real duel."
  
  Nick looked at Siau. "You've seen that they can be defeated. Will you fight?"
  
  "You leave me no choice. Müller told me what Judas will do to us."
  
  "Where is Müller and the Jap?"
  
  "In our guardhouse. They're not going anywhere."
  
  "Can we use your boats to catch up with the ship? What weapons do you have?"
  
  Amir said, "The junk is disguised as a merchant ship. They have a lot of big guns. I'll try, but I don't think we can take it or sink it."
  
  "Do you have planes? Bombs?"
  
  "We have two," Xiao said grimly. "An eight-seater flying boat and a biplane for field work. But I only have hand grenades and some dynamite. You'd only scratch them."
  
  Nick nodded thoughtfully. "I will destroy Judas and his ship."
  
  "And the prisoners? The sons of my friends..."
  
  "I'll free them first, of course," Nick thought-hopefully. "And I'll do it far from here, which I think will make you happy."
  
  Syau nodded. This big American probably had a US Navy warship. Seeing him lash out at a man with two knives made it seem like anything could happen. Nick considered asking Hawk for help from the Navy, but dismissed the idea. By the time the State and Defense Department said no, Judas would have disappeared.
  
  "Hans," Nick said, "let's get ready to leave in an hour. I'm sure Syau will lend us his flying boat."
  
  They took off into the bright midday sun. Nick, Hans, Tala, Amir, and a local pilot who seemed to know his stuff. Soon after, the speed had torn the hull from the clinging sea, Nick said to the pilot, "Please turn out to sea. Pick up the Portagee merchant, who can't be far offshore. I just want to take a look."
  
  They found the Porta twenty minutes later, sailing on a northwesterly tack. Nick drew Amir to the window.
  
  "Here it is," he said. "Now tell me all about it. The cabins. The armament. Where you were imprisoned. The number of men..."
  
  Tala spoke quietly from the next seat. "And maybe I can help."
  
  Nick's gray eyes rested on hers for a moment. They were hard and cold. "I thought you could do it. And then I want you both to draw me plans of her cabins. As detailed as possible."
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  At the sound of the plane's engines, Judas disappeared under the canopy, watching from the hatch. A flying boat flew overhead, circling. He frowned. It was Loponosius's ship. His finger reached for the battle station button. He removed it. Patience. They might have a message. The boat might break through.
  
  The slow vessel circled the sailboat. Amir and Tala chatted quickly, vying with each other to explain the details of the junk, which Nick had absorbed and stored like a bucket collecting drips from two faucets. Occasionally, he'd ask them a question to spur them on.
  
  He didn't see any anti-aircraft equipment, though the young men had described it. If the protective nets and panels had fallen, he would have forced the pilot to escape as quickly and evasively as possible. They passed the ship on both sides, crossed directly overhead, and circled tightly.
  
  "There's Judas," Amir exclaimed. "See? Back... Now he's hidden by the canopy again. Watch the hatch on the port side."
  
  "We saw what I wanted," Nick said. He leaned forward and spoke into the pilot's ear. "Make another slow pass. Tilt your stern directly over her." The pilot nodded.
  
  Nick rolled down the old-fashioned window. From his suitcase, he took five Knife blades-a large double-bladed Bowie knife and three throwing knives. When they were four hundred yards from the bow, he tossed them overboard and shouted to the pilot, "Let's go to Jakarta. Now!"
  
  From his place at the stern, Hans shouted, "Not bad, and no bombs. It looked like all those knives had landed on her somewhere."
  
  Nick sat back down. His wound ached, and the bandage tightened as he moved. "They'll gather them and get the idea."
  
  As they approached Jakarta, Nick said, "We'll stay here overnight and leave for Fong Island tomorrow. Meet me at the airport at 8 a.m. sharp. Hans, will you take the pilot home with you so we don't lose him?"
  
  "Certainly."
  
  Nick knew Tala was pouting, wondering where he would end up. With Mata Nasut. And she was right, but not quite for the reasons she had in mind. Hans's pleasant face was impassive. Nick was in charge of this project. He would never tell him how he had suffered during the battle with Knife. He was sweating and breathing as heavily as the fighters, ready at any moment to draw his pistol and shoot Knife, knowing he would never be fast enough to block the blade and wondering how far they would get through the enraged crowd. He sighed.
  
  At Mata's, Nick took a hot sponge bath-the large wound wasn't hardened enough for a shower-and napped on the terrace. She arrived after eight, greeting him with kisses that turned to tears as she examined his bandages. He sighed. It was nice. She was more beautiful than he remembered.
  
  "You could have been killed," she sobbed. "I told you... I told you..."
  
  "You told me," he said, hugging her tightly. "I think they were waiting for me."
  
  There was a long silence. "What happened?" she asked.
  
  He told her what had happened. The battle had been minimized, with only their reconnaissance flight over the ship being the only thing she would learn about very soon. When he finished, she shuddered and pressed herself very close, her perfume a kiss all its own. "Thank God it wasn't worse. Now you can hand Müller and the sailor over to the police, and it's all over."
  
  "Not quite. I'll send them to the Makhmurs. Now it's Judah's turn to pay the ransom. His hostages for them, if he wants them back."
  
  "Oh no! You'll be in more danger..."
  
  "That's the name of the game, dear."
  
  "Don't be silly." Her lips were soft and inventive. Her hands were surprising. "Stay here. Rest. Maybe he'll go away now."
  
  "Maybe ..."
  
  He responded to her caresses. There was something about action, even near-disaster, even battles that left wounds, that stimulated him. A return to the primitive, as if you had captured prey and women? He felt a little ashamed and uncivilized-but Mata's butterfly touch changed his thoughts.
  
  She touched the bandage on his buttock. "Does it hurt?"
  
  "Unlikely."
  
  "We can be careful..."
  
  "Yes..."
  
  She wrapped him in a warm, soft blanket.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  They landed on Fong Island and found Adam Muchmur and Gun Bik waiting on the ramp. Nick said goodbye to Pilot Siau. "After the ship is repaired, you'll head home to pick up Müller and the Japanese sailor. You won't be able to make that return trip today, will you?"
  
  "I could, if we wanted to risk a night landing here. But I wouldn't." The pilot was a young man with a bright face, who spoke English like someone who valued it as the language of international air traffic control and was unwilling to make mistakes. "If I could come back in the morning, I think it would be better. But..." He shrugged and said he'd come back if necessary. He was following orders. He reminded Nick of Gun Byck-he'd agreed because he wasn't yet sure how well he could defy the system.
  
  "Do it the safe way," Nick said. "Take off as early in the morning as possible."
  
  His teeth glittered like tiny piano keys. Nick handed him a wad of rupees. "This is for a good trip here. If you pick up these people and bring them back to me, you'll be expected four times as much."
  
  "It will be done if possible, Mr. Bard."
  
  "Maybe things have changed there. I think they're paying Buduk."
  
  Flyer frowned. "I'll do my best, but if Siau says no..."
  
  "If you get them, remember they're tough guys. Even in handcuffs, they can still get you into trouble. Gun Bik and the guard will go with you. It's the smart thing to do."
  
  He watched as the man decided it would be a good idea to tell Siau that the Makhmurs were so confident the prisoners would be sent that they had provided an important escort - Gan Bik. "Okay."
  
  Nick pulled Gun Bick aside. "Take a good man, take off in Loponusias's plane and bring Mueller and the Japanese sailor here. If any problems arise, come back quickly yourself."
  
  "Trouble?"
  
  "Buduk on Judas's salary."
  
  Nick watched as Gun Bik's illusions crumbled, shattering before his eyes like a thin vase being struck by a metal rod. "Not Buduk."
  
  "Yes, Buduk. You heard the story about the capture of Nif and Müller. And about the fight."
  
  "Of course. My father has been on the phone all day. The families are confused, but some have agreed to take action. Resistance."
  
  "And Adam?"
  
  "He will resist, I think."
  
  "And your father?"
  
  "He says fight. He urges Adam to abandon the idea that you can use bribes to solve all problems." Gan Bik spoke with pride.
  
  Nick said softly, "Your father is a smart man. Does he trust Buduk?"
  
  "No, because when we were young, Buduk talked to us a lot. But if he was on Judas's payroll, that explains a lot. I mean, he apologized for some of his actions, but..."
  
  "How to create hell with women when he came to Jakarta?"
  
  "How did you know that?"
  
  "You know how news spreads in Indonesia."
  
  Adam and Ong Tiang drove Nick and Hans to the house. He stretched out on a chaise lounge in the vast living room, his weight lifted from his sore buttock as he heard the roar of the flying boat taking off. Nick looked at Ong. "Your son is a good man. I hope he brings the prisoners home without any problems."
  
  "If it can be done, he will do it." Ong hid his pride.
  
  Tala entered the room as Nick turned his gaze to Adam. Both she and her father began to speak when he asked, "Where is your brave son, Akim?"
  
  Adam immediately regained his poker face. Tala looked at her hands. "Yes, Akim," Nick said. "Tala's twin brother, who looks so much like her that the trick was easy. She fooled us in Hawaii for a while. Even one of Akim's teachers thought she was her brother when he looked at her and studied the photos."
  
  Adam said to his daughter, "Tell him. In any case, the need for deception is almost over. By the time Judah finds out, we will have fought him or we will be dead."
  
  Tala raised her beautiful eyes to Nick, pleading for understanding. "It was Akim's idea. I was terrified when I was captured. You can see things in Judas's eyes. When Müller brought me in on the boat to be seen and for Papa to make the payment, our men pretended their boats wouldn't be there. Müller docked."
  
  She hesitated. Nick said, "That sounds like a bold operation. And Müller is an even bigger fool than I thought. Old age. Go on."
  
  "Everyone was friendly. Dad gave him a few bottles and they drank. Akim rolled up his skirt and - padded bra - and he talked to me and hugged me, and when we parted - he pushed me into the crowd. They thought I was the one who was doubled over in tears. I wanted the families to save all the prisoners, but they wanted to wait and pay. So I went to Hawaii and talked to them about you..."
  
  "And you learned to be a first-class submariner," Nick said. "You kept the exchange secret because you hoped to deceive Judas, and if Jakarta knew about it, you knew he'd find out within hours?"
  
  "Yes," Adam said.
  
  "You could have told me the truth," Nick sighed. "It would have sped things up a little."
  
  "We didn't know you at first," Adam countered.
  
  "I think everything's sped up a lot now." Nick saw the mischievous twinkle return to her eyes.
  
  Ong Tiang coughed. "What's our next step, Mr. Bard?"
  
  "Wait."
  
  "Wait? How long? For what?"
  
  "I don't know how long it will be, or how long it will actually be, until our opponent makes a move. It's like a game of chess where you're in a better position, but your checkmate will depend on what move he chooses. He can't win, but he can inflict damage or delay the outcome. You shouldn't mind waiting. That used to be your policy."
  
  Adam and Ong exchanged glances. This American orangutan could have made an excellent trader. Nick hid a smirk. He wanted to be sure Judas had no way to avoid checkmate.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Nick found the wait easy. He slept for long hours, cleaned his wounds, and took to swimming as the cuts healed. He strolled through the colorful, exotic countryside and learned to love gado-gado-a delicious mixture of vegetables with peanut sauce.
  
  Gan Bik returned with Müller and the sailor, and the prisoners were locked in Makhmour's secure prison. After a brief visit to note that the bars were sturdy and that two guards were always on duty, Nick ignored them. He borrowed Adam's new twenty-eight-foot motorboat and took Tala on a picnic and a tour of the island. She seemed to think that revealing the trick she and her brother had played had strengthened her bond with "Al-Bard." She had effectively raped him while they were bobbing in a quiet lagoon, but he told himself he was too badly wounded to resist-it might open one of his cuts. When she asked him why he was laughing, he said, "Wouldn't it be funny if my blood smeared all over your legs, and Adam saw it, jumped to conclusions, and shot me?"
  
  She didn't think it was funny at all.
  
  He knew Gan Bik was suspicious of the depth of the relationship between Tala and the large American, but it was obvious the Chinese man was deluding himself, considering Nick merely an "older brother." Gan Bik told Nick about his problems, most of which were related to attempts to modernize economic, labor, and social practices on Fong Island. Nick pleaded his lack of experience. "Find experts. I'm not an expert."
  
  But he did offer advice in one area. Gan Bik, as captain of Adam Makhmour's private army, was trying to boost his men's morale and instill in them reasons for loyalty to Fong Island. He told Nick, "Our troops were always for sale. On the battlefield, you could, hell, show them a wad of bills and buy them right there."
  
  "Does this prove that they are stupid or very smart?" Nick wondered.
  
  "You're joking," exclaimed Gan Bik. "Troops must be loyal. To the Motherland. To the Commander."
  
  "But these are private troops. Militia. I've seen the regular army. They guard the houses of big shots and rob merchants."
  
  "Yes. It's sad. We don't have the efficiency of the German troops, the Gung Ho of the Americans, or the dedication of the Japanese..."
  
  "Praise the Lord..."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Nothing special." Nick sighed. "Look, I think with the militia, you have to give them two things to fight for. The first is self-interest. So promise them bonuses for combat performance and superior marksmanship. Then, develop team spirit. The best soldiers."
  
  "Yes," Gan Bik said thoughtfully, "you have some good suggestions. Men will be more enthusiastic about things they can see and experience firsthand, like fighting for their land. Then you won't have any problems with morale."
  
  The next morning, Nick noticed the soldiers marching with a particular enthusiasm, waving their arms in the very wide Australian style. Gun Bick had promised them something. Later that day, Hans brought him a long telegram as he lounged on the veranda with a jug of fruit punch by his side, enjoying a book he'd found in Adam's bookcase.
  
  Hans said, "The cable office called him to let me know what was going on. Bill Rohde is sweating. What did you send him? What tops?"
  
  Hans printed a telegram from Bill Rohde, an AXE agent who worked as manager of the Bard Gallery. The message read: MOBBING FOR TOP-TIME STOP ACCESS EVERYONE WAS A HIPPIE-STOP-SHIP TWELVE GROSS.
  
  Nick threw back his head and roared. Hans said, "Let me find out."
  
  "I sent Bill a lot of yo-yo tops with religious carvings.
  
  and the beautiful scenes on them. I had to give Joseph Dalam some work. Bill must have put an ad in the Times and sold the whole damn thing. Twelve gross! If he sells them for the price I offered, we'll make about four thousand dollars! And if this nonsense keeps selling..."
  
  "If you get home soon enough, you can show them off on TV," Hans said. "In a man's bikini. All the girls..."
  
  "Try some." Nick shook the ice in the pitcher. "Please ask this girl to bring an extra phone. I want to call Josef Dalam."
  
  Hans spoke a little Indonesian. "You're getting lazier and lazier, just like the rest of us."
  
  "It's a good way of life."
  
  "So you admit it?"
  
  "Of course." The attractive, well-built maid handed him the phone with a wide smile and slowly raised her hand as Nick ran his thumbs over her tiny ones. He watched her turn away as if he could see through her sarong. "It's a wonderful country."
  
  But without good phone service, it took him half an hour to get to Dalam and tell him to send the yo-yo.
  
  That evening, Adam Makhmur hosted the promised feast and dance. The guests were treated to a colorful spectacle, with groups performing, playing, and singing. Hans whispered to Nick, "This country is a 24-hour vaudeville. When it stops here, it's still going on in government buildings."
  
  "But they're happy. They're having fun. Look at Tala dancing with all those girls. Rockettes with curves..."
  
  "Of course. But as long as they reproduce the way they do, the level of genetic intelligence will fall. Eventually, you'll end up with slums in India, like the worst ones you've seen along the river in Jakarta."
  
  "Hans, you are a dark bearer of truth."
  
  "And we, the Dutch, cured diseases left and right, discovered vitamins and improved sanitation."
  
  Nick thrust a freshly opened bottle of beer into his friend's hand.
  
  The next morning, they played tennis. Although Nick won, he found Hans a good opponent. As they walked back to the house, Nick said, "I've learned what you said last night about overbreeding. Is there a solution?"
  
  "I don't think so. They're doomed, Nick. They'll breed like fruit flies on an apple until they're standing on each other's shoulders."
  
  "I hope you're wrong. I hope something is discovered before it's too late."
  
  "For example, what? The answers are within reach of man, but generals, politicians, and witch doctors block them. You know, they always look back. We'll see the day when..."
  
  Nick never knew what they would see. Gan Bik ran out from behind a thick, thorny hedge. He exhaled, "Colonel Sudirmat is in the house and wants Müller and the sailor."
  
  "That's interesting," Nick said. "Relax. Breathe."
  
  "But let's go. Adam might let him take them."
  
  Nick said, "Hans, please come inside. Take Adam or Ong aside and ask them to just detain Sudirmat for two hours. Make him take a bath - have lunch - whatever."
  
  "Right." Hans quickly left.
  
  Gan Bik shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatient and excited.
  
  "Gan Bik, how many men did Sudirmat bring with him?"
  
  "Three."
  
  "Where are the rest of his forces?"
  
  "How did you know he had power nearby?"
  
  "Guesses".
  
  "That's a good guess. They're at Gimbo, about fifteen miles down the second valley. Sixteen trucks, about a hundred men, two heavy machine guns and an old one-pounder."
  
  "Excellent. Are your scouts monitoring them?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "What about attacks from other sides? Sudirmat is not a drug addict."
  
  "He has two companies ready at Binto Barracks. They could hit us from any of several directions, but we'll know when they leave Binto and probably know which way they're going."
  
  "What do you have for heavy firepower?"
  
  "A forty-millimeter cannon and three Swedish machine guns. Full of ammunition and explosives for making mines."
  
  "Did your boys learn to make mines?"
  
  Gan Bik slammed his fist into his palm. "They like it. Pow!"
  
  "Have them mine the road out of Gimbo at a checkpoint that's difficult to pass. Keep the rest of your men in reserve until we know which way Binto's squad might enter."
  
  "Are you sure they will attack?"
  
  "Sooner or later they'll have to if they want their little stuffed shirt back."
  
  Gan Bik chuckled and ran away. Nick found Hans with Adam, Ong Tiang, and Colonel Sudirmat on the wide veranda. Hans said pointedly, "Nick, you remember the colonel. Better wash up, old man, we're going to lunch."
  
  There was a sense of anticipation at the large table used by distinguished guests and Adam's own groups. It was broken when Sudirmat said, "Mr. Bard, I've come to ask Adam about the two men you brought here from Sumatra."
  
  "And you?"
  
  Sudirmat looked puzzled, as if a stone had been thrown at him instead of a ball. "Me - what?"
  
  "Are you serious? And what did Mr. Makhmur say?"
  
  "He said he needed to talk to you over breakfast - and here we are."
  
  "These people are international criminals. I really need to hand them over to Jakarta."
  
  "Oh no, I'm the authority here. You shouldn't have moved them from Sumatra, much less into my area. You're in serious trouble, Mr. Bard. It's decided. You..."
  
  "Colonel, you have said enough. I am not releasing prisoners."
  
  "Mr. Bard, you still carry that pistol." Sudirmat shook his head sadly. He was changing the subject, looking for a way to make the man defend himself. He wanted to dominate the situation-he'd heard all about how this Al Bard had fought and killed a man with two knives. And this was another one of Judas's men!
  
  "Yes, I am." Nick smiled broadly at him. "It gives you a sense of security and confidence when dealing with unreliable, treacherous, selfish, greedy, treacherous, and dishonest colonels." He drawled, leaving plenty of time in case their English didn't match the precise meaning.
  
  Sudirmat flushed and sat up straighter. He wasn't a complete coward, though most of his personal scores had been settled with a shot in the back or a "Texas court" by a mercenary with a shotgun from an ambush. "Your words are insulting."
  
  "Not as much as they are true. You have been working for Judas and deceiving your fellow countrymen since Judas began his operation."
  
  Gun Bik entered the room, noticed Nick, and approached him with an open note in his hand. "This just arrived."
  
  Nick nodded to Sudirmat as politely as if they'd just interrupted a discussion of cricket scores. He read: "All Gimbo departure 12:50 hrs." Preparing to leave Binto.
  
  Nick smiled at the boy. "Excellent. Go ahead." He let Gun Bik reach the doorway, then called out, "Oh, Gun..." Nick stood up and hurried after the boy, who stopped and turned. Nick muttered, "Grab the three soldiers he has here."
  
  "The men are watching them now. They're just waiting for my order."
  
  "You don't need to tell me about blocking Binto's forces. Once you know their route, block them."
  
  Gan Bik showed the first signs of concern. "They can bring in a lot more troops. Artillery. How long should we hold them off?"
  
  "Just a few hours-maybe until tomorrow morning." Nick laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "You trust me, don't you?"
  
  "Of course." Gun Bik rushed off, and Nick shook his head. First too suspiciously, now too trusting. He returned to the table.
  
  Colonel Sudirmat told Adam and Ong: "My troops will be here soon. Then we'll see who names the names..."
  
  Nick said, "Your troops moved out as ordered. And they were stopped. Now, about the pistols - pass this one on your belt. Keep your fingers on the handle."
  
  Sudirmat's favorite pastime, besides rape, was watching American movies. Westerns were shown every night while he was at his command post. Old ones with Tom Mix and Hoot Gibson, new ones with John Wayne and contemporary stars who needed help mounting their horses. But the Indonesians didn't know this. Many of them thought all Americans were cowboys. Sudirmat practiced his skills conscientiously-but these Americans were born with guns! He carefully extended a Czechoslovakian machine gun across the table, holding it lightly between his fingers.
  
  Adam said worriedly, "Mr. Bard, are you sure..."
  
  "Mr. Makhmur, you'll be there in a few minutes too. Let's close this piece of crap and I'll show you."
  
  Ong Tiang said, "Turd? I don't know that. In French... please, in German... does it mean...?"
  
  Nick said, "Horse apples." Sudirmat frowned as Nick pointed the way to the gatehouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Gun Bik and Tala stopped Nick as he was leaving the prison. Gun Bik was carrying a combat radio. He looked worried. "Eight more trucks are arriving to support the trucks from Binto."
  
  "Do you have a strong obstacle?"
  
  "Yes. Or if we blow up the Tapachi Bridge..."
  
  "Blow. Does your amphibious pilot know where it is?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "How much dynamite can you save me here - now?"
  
  "A lot. Forty to fifty packs."
  
  "Bring it to me on the plane, and then return to your people. Stay on this road.
  
  When Gan Bik nodded, Tala asked, "What can I do?"
  
  Nick looked closely at the two teenagers. "Stay with Gan. Pack a first aid kit, and if you have any brave girls like you, take them with you. There could be casualties."
  
  The amphibian pilot knew the Tapachi Bridge. He pointed it out with the same enthusiasm he'd watched Nick glue soft sticks of explosive together, tie them with wire for extra security, and insert a cap-two inches of metal, like a miniature ballpoint pen-deep into each cluster. A yard-long fuse extended from it. He attached a safety catch to the packet to keep it from coming off. "Boom!" the pilot said happily. "Boom. There."
  
  The narrow Tapachi Bridge was a smoking ruin. Gun Bik contacted his demolition team, and they knew their stuff. "Nick yelled into the flyer's ear. "Make a nice, easy passage right across the road. Let's spread them out and blow up a truck or two if we can."
  
  They dropped splash bombs in two passes. If Sudirmat's men knew anti-aircraft drills, they had forgotten or never thought about it. When last seen, they were running in all directions from the convoy of trucks, three of which were burning.
  
  "Home," Nick said to the pilot.
  
  They couldn't do it. Ten minutes later, the engine died, and they landed in a quiet lagoon. The pilot chuckled. "I know. It's clogged. Lousy gas. I'll fix it."
  
  Nick was sweating along with him. Using a tool kit that looked like a Woolworth's home repair kit, they cleaned the carburetor.
  
  Nick was sweating and nervous, having lost three hours. Finally, when clean gasoline was pumped into the carburetor, the engine fired up on the first rev, and they were off again. "Look at the shore, near Fong," Nick called out. "There should be a sailboat there."
  
  It was. The Porto was lying near the Machmur docks. Nick said, "Go via Zoo Island. You might know it as Adata-near Fong."
  
  The engine stalled again on the Zoo's solid green carpet. Nick winced. What a path, pierced by trees in a crevice in the jungle. The young pilot extended the bar down the stream valley Nick had climbed with Tala and lowered the old amphibian beyond the surf, like a leaf falling onto a pond. Nick took a deep breath. He received a broad smile from the pilot. "We're cleaning the carburetor again."
  
  "Do it. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
  
  "OK."
  
  Nick ran along the beach. The wind and water had already shifted his bearings, but this had to be the place. He was the right distance from the creek's mouth. He studied the cape and continued on. All the banyan trees at the edge of the jungle looked the same. Where were the ropes?
  
  A menacing blow in the jungle made him crouch and call Wilhelmina. Bursting from the undergrowth, her two-inch limbs sweeping away like toothpicks, Mabel appeared! The monkey hopped across the sand, laid her head on Nick's shoulder, hugged him, and happily signed. He lowered his gun. "Hey, baby. They'll never believe this back home."
  
  She made happy cooing sounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick continued on, digging in the sand from the seaward side of the banyan trees. Nothing. The monkey followed at his shoulder, like a champion dog or a faithful wife. She looked at him, then ran along the beach; he stopped and looked back, as if to say, "Go on."
  
  "No," Nick said. "That's all impossible. But if this is your piece of beach..."
  
  It was. Mabel stopped at the seventh tree and pulled two ropes out from under the sand washed up by the tide. Nick patted her on the shoulder.
  
  Twenty minutes later, he pumped out the small boat's floating tanks and warmed up the engine. His last glimpse of the small bay was of Mabel standing on the shore, raising her large hand questioningly. He thought she looked grief-stricken, but he told himself it was his imagination.
  
  He soon surfaced and heard the amphibious craft moving, telling the bug-eyed pilot he'd meet him at Makhmurov. "I won't get there until dark. If you want to fly past the checkpoints to see if the army is planning any stunts, go ahead. Can you radio Gun Bik?"
  
  "No. I'm throwing him a note."
  
  That day, the young pilot left no notes. Guiding the slow amphibian toward the ramp, descending toward the sea like a fat beetle, he passed very close to the Porta. She was preparing for action and had changed her identity to a junk. Judas heard the intercom wail on the Tapachi bridge. Judas's rapid-fire anti-aircraft guns cut the plane to ribbons, and it fell into the water like a tired beetle. The pilot was unharmed. He shrugged and swam ashore.
  
  It was dark when Nick slipped into the submarine.
  
  to the Machmur fuel dock and began refilling her tanks. The four guys at the docks spoke little English, but kept repeating, "Go home. Look, Adam. Hurry."
  
  He found Hans, Adam, Ong, and Tala on the porch. The position was guarded by a dozen men-it looked like a command post. Hans said, "Welcome back. You'll have to pay."
  
  "What's happened?"
  
  "Judas slipped ashore and raided the guardhouse. He freed Müller, the Japanese, and Sudirmat. A frantic fight ensued for the guards' weapons-only two guards remained, and Gan Bik took all the troops with him. Sudirmat was then shot by one of his own men, and the rest escaped with Judas."
  
  "The perils of despotism. I wonder how long this soldier waited for his chance. Does Gan Bik hold the roads?"
  
  "Like a stone. We're worried about Judas. He might shoot us or raid us again. He sent a message to Adam. He wants $150,000. In one week."
  
  "Or does he kill Akim?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  Tala started crying. Nick said, "Don't worry, Tala. Don't worry, Adam, I'll get the captives back." He thought that if he'd been overconfident, it was for good reason.
  
  He pulled Hans aside and wrote a message on his notepad. "Are the phones still working?"
  
  "Of course, Sudirmat's adjutant calls every ten minutes with threats."
  
  "Try calling your cable service."
  
  The telegram, which Hans carefully repeated into the phone, read: ADVICE THAT CHINESE BANK JUDAS COLLECTED SIX MILLION IN GOLD AND IS NOW LINKED TO THE NAHDATUL ULAM PARTY. It was sent to David Hawk.
  
  Nick turned to Adam: "Send a man to Judas. Tell him that you will pay him $150,000 tomorrow at ten in the morning if you can bring Akim back immediately."
  
  "I don't have much hard currency here. I won't take Akim if the other prisoners are going to die. Not a single Makhmur will ever be able to show his face again..."
  
  "We don't pay them anything and we release all the prisoners. It's a trick."
  
  "Oh." He gave orders quickly.
  
  At dawn, Nick was in a small submarine, bobbing in shallow water at periscope depth, half a mile down the beach from the sleek Chinese junk, the Butterfly Wind, flying the flag of Chiang Kai-shek, a red cloak with a white sun on a blue background. Nick raised the sub's antenna. He scanned the frequencies endlessly. He heard the chatter of army radios at the checkpoints, he heard the firm tones of Gun Bik, and he knew all was probably well. Then he received a strong signal-close by-and the Butterfly Wind radio answered.
  
  Nick set the transmitter to the same frequency and kept repeating, "Hello, Butterfly Wind. Hello, Judas. We have communist prisoners for you and money. Hello, butterfly wind..."
  
  He continued talking as he swam the small submersible toward the junk, unsure if the sea would drown out his signal, but theoretically the periscope-equipped antenna could transmit at that depth.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Judas cursed, stamped his foot on the floor of his cabin, and switched to his powerful transmitter. He had no intercom crystals, and he couldn't raise the invisible vessel, which was keeping watch on the high-power CW bands. "Müller," he growled, "what the hell is this devil trying to do? Listen."
  
  Müller said: "It's close. If the corvette thinks we're in trouble, try DF..."
  
  "Bah. I don't need a direction finder. It's that crazy Bard from the shore. Can you tune the transmitter to enough power to jam him?
  
  "It will take a little time."
  
  Nick watched as the Butterfly Wind zoomed in through the viewing window. He scanned the sea with his scope and spotted a vessel on the horizon. He lowered the small submarine to a depth of six feet, occasionally peering with his metal eye as he approached the junk from the shore. Its lookouts would be trained on the ship approaching from the sea. He reached the starboard side, remaining undetected. When he opened the hatch, he heard shouting into a megaphone, other people shouting, and the rumble of a heavy cannon. Fifty yards from the junk, a stream of water gushed.
  
  "That'll keep you busy," Nick muttered, tossing the nylon-coated grappling iron to catch the metal rim of the twine. "Wait, they'll adjust the range." He quickly climbed the rope and peered over the edge of the deck.
  
  Boom! The shell whizzed past the mainmast, its hideous rumble so loud you'd think you could feel the gust from its passage. Everyone on board gathered at the seashore, shouting and blaring into megaphones. Müller directed two men signaling semaphore and international flags in Morse code. Nick grinned-nothing you tell them now will make them happy! He climbed aboard and disappeared through the forward hatch. He descended the companionway, then another ladder.
  
  uh... judging by the description and drawings of Gan Bik and Tala, he felt as if he had been here before.
  
  The guard grabbed the pistol, and Wilhelmina fired the Luger. Right through the throat, right down the center. Nick opened the cell. "Come on, guys."
  
  "There's one more," said a young man with a tough appearance. "Give me the keys."
  
  The young men let Akim go. Nick handed the guard's gun to the guy who demanded the keys and watched him check the security. He'd be fine.
  
  On deck, Müller froze as he saw Nick and seven young Indonesians leap from the hatch and overboard. The old Nazi ran to the stern for his Tommy gun, spraying the sea with bullets. He might as well have shot a school of porpoises hiding underwater.
  
  A three-inch shell struck the junk amidships, exploded inside, and sent Müller to his knees. He limped painfully to the stern to confer with Judas.
  
  Nick surfaced in the submarine, opened the hatch, jumped into the tiny cabin, and without a moment's hesitation, launched the tiny craft. The boys clung to it like water bugs to a turtle's back. Nick shouted, "Watch for gunfire! Go overboard if you see guns!"
  
  "Ja."
  
  The enemy was busy. Müller shouted to Judas: "The prisoners have escaped! How can we stop these fools from shooting? They've gone mad!"
  
  Judas was as cool as a merchant captain overseeing a training exercise. He knew the day of reckoning with the dragon would come-but so soon! At such a bad time! He said, "Now put on Nelson's suit, Müller. You'll understand how he felt."
  
  He trained his binoculars on the corvette, his lips twisting darkly as he saw the colors of the People's Republic of China. He lowered his glasses and chuckled-a strange, guttural sound, like a demon's curse. "Jah, Müller, you could say abandon ship. Our deal with China is off."
  
  Two shots from the corvette pierced the junk's bow and blew its 40mm cannon into obscurity. Nick made a mental note to head for shore at full power-except for long-range shots, which these gunners never missed.
  
  Hans met him at the pier. "It seems Hawk received the telegram and disseminated the information correctly."
  
  Adam Makhmur ran up and hugged his son.
  
  The junk burned, slowly settling. The corvette on the horizon grew smaller. "What's your bet, Hans?" Nick asked. "Is this the end of Judas or not?"
  
  "No doubt about it. From what we know about him, he could run away right now in a scuba suit."
  
  "Let's take the boat and see what we can find."
  
  They found part of the crew clinging to the wreckage, four bodies, two seriously injured. Judah and Müller were nowhere to be seen. When they abandoned the search as darkness fell, Hans commented, "I hope they're in the shark's belly."
  
  The next morning at the conference, Adam Makhmur was again collected and calculating. "The families are grateful. It was masterfully done, Mr. Bard. Planes will be arriving here soon to pick up the boys."
  
  "What about the army and the explanation for Sudirmat's death?" Nick asked.
  
  Adam smiled. "Thanks to our combined influence and testimony, the army will be reprimanded. Colonel Sudirmat's greed is to blame for everything."
  
  The Van King clan's private amphibious vehicle delivered Nick and Hans to Jakarta. At dusk, Nick-showered and dressed in fresh clothes-waited for Mata in the cool, dark living room where he'd enjoyed so many fragrant hours. She arrived and walked straight up to him. "You're really safe! I've heard the most fantastic stories. They're all over the city."
  
  "Some may be true, my dear. The most important thing is that Sudirmat is dead. The hostages have been freed. Judas's pirate ship has been destroyed."
  
  She kissed him passionately: "...everywhere."
  
  "Almost."
  
  "Almost? Come on, I'll change, and you can tell me about it..."
  
  He explained very little as he watched in rapt admiration as she discarded her city clothes and wrapped herself in a flowered sarong.
  
  As they stepped out onto the patio and settled down with gin and tonics, she asked, "What are you going to do now?"
  
  "I have to go. And I want you to come with me."
  
  Her beautiful face lit up as she looked at him with surprise and delight. "What? Oh yeah... You really..."
  
  "Really, Mata. You must come with me. Within forty-eight hours. I'll leave you in Singapore or wherever. And you must never return to Indonesia." He looked her in the eyes, serious and grave. "You must never return to Indonesia. If you do, then I must come back and-make some changes."
  
  She paled. There was something deep and unreadable in his gray eyes, hard as polished steel. She understood, but tried again. "But what if I decide I don't want to? I mean-with you, that's one thing-but being abandoned in Singapore..."
  
  "
  
  "It's too dangerous to leave you, Mata. If I do, I won't finish my job-and I'm always thorough. You're in it for the money, not the ideology, so I can make you an offer. Stay?" He sighed. "You had many other contacts besides Sudirmat. Your channels and the network through which you communicated with Judas are still intact. I assume you used military radio-or you may have your own people. But... you see... my position."
  
  She felt cold. This wasn't the man she'd held in her arms, almost the first man in her life she'd ever connected with with thoughts of love. A man so strong, courageous, gentle, with a sharp mind-but how steely those beautiful eyes were now! "I didn't think you..."
  
  He touched her tips and closed them with his finger. "You've fallen into several traps. You'll remember them. Corruption breeds carelessness. Seriously, Mata, I suggest you accept my first offer."
  
  "And your second...?" Her throat suddenly went dry. She remembered the pistol and knife he carried, set them aside and out of sight, quietly joking as she commented on them. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced again at the implacable mask that looked so strange on her beloved, handsome face. Her hand rose to her mouth, and she paled. "You would! Yes... you killed Knife. And Judas and the others. You... don't look like Hans Nordenboss."
  
  "I'm different," he agreed with calm seriousness. "If you ever set foot in Indonesia again, I'll kill you."
  
  He hated words, but the deal had to be clearly depicted. No-a fatal misunderstanding. She cried for hours, wilted like a flower in a drought, seeming to squeeze all her life force out of herself with her tears. He regretted the scene-but he knew the power of beautiful women to restore. Another country-other men-and perhaps other deals.
  
  She pushed him away - then crept up to him and said in a thin voice: "I know I have no choice. I'm going."
  
  He relaxed-just a little. "I'll help you. Nordenboss can be trusted to sell what you leave behind, and I guarantee you'll get the money. You won't be left penniless in the new country."
  
  She stifled her last sobs, her fingers caressing his chest. "Could you spare a day or two to help me get settled in Singapore?"
  
  "I think so."
  
  Her body felt boneless. It was surrender. Nick breathed a slow, soft sigh of relief. He never got used to this. It was better this way. Hawk would have approved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Death Hood
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Death Hood
  
  Dedicated to the people of the secret services of the United States of America
  
  
  Chapter I
  
  
  Ten seconds after turning off Highway 28, he wondered if he'd made a mistake. Should he have brought the girl to this isolated location? Was it necessary to leave his gun out of reach in a hidden locker under the rear deck of the car?
  
  All the way from Washington, D.C., on U.S. 66, the taillights darted around. That was to be expected on a busy highway, but on U.S. 28, they didn't respond, which was less logical. He'd thought they belonged to the same car. Now they did.
  
  "Funny," he said, trying to feel if the girl in his arms tensed at the remark. He felt no change. Her beautiful, soft body remained delightfully pliant.
  
  "Which one?" she muttered.
  
  "You'll have to sit for a while, dear." He carefully pulled her upright, placed his hands evenly on the steering wheel at three and nine o'clock, and floored the throttle. A minute later, he turned onto a familiar side street.
  
  He tinkered with the new engine's tuning himself and felt a sense of personal satisfaction when the 428 cubic inches of torque delivered acceleration without faltering under revs. The Thunderbird darted through the S-curves of a two-lane Maryland country road like a hummingbird careening through the trees.
  
  "Fascinating!" Ruth Moto moved aside to give him room for his hands.
  
  "Smart girl," he thought. Smart, beautiful. I think...
  
  He knew the road well. It probably wasn't true. He could outrun them, slip away to safety, and have a promising evening. That wouldn't work. He sighed, let the Bird slow to a moderate speed, and checked his trail up the hill. The lights were there. They hadn't dared expose them at such speed on the winding roads. They would crash. He couldn't let that happen-they could be as valuable to him as he was to them.
  
  He slowed to a crawl. The headlights came closer, flickered on as if another car had been slowed down, and then went out. Ahh... He smiled in the darkness. After the first cold contact, there was always excitement and hope for success.
  
  Ruth leaned against him, the scent of her hair and the delicate, delicious perfume filling his nostrils again. "That was fun," she said. "I like surprises."
  
  Her hand rested on the hard, firm muscles of his thigh. He couldn't tell if she was applying a little pressure or if the feeling was caused by the rocking of the car. He wrapped his arm around her and hugged her gently. "I wanted to try these turns. Last week the wheels were balanced, and I didn't have a chance to bend her around town. Now she turns great."
  
  "I think everything you do is aimed at perfection, Jerry. Am I right? Don't be modest. That's enough for me when I'm in Japan."
  
  "I suppose so. Yes... perhaps."
  
  "Of course. And you're ambitious. You want to be with the leaders."
  
  "You're guessing. Everyone wants perfection and leadership. Just like a tall, dark man will appear in every woman's life if she holds out long enough."
  
  "I've waited a long time." A hand pressed against his thigh. It wasn't the movement of a machine.
  
  "You're making a hasty decision. We've only been together twice. Three times, if you count meeting at Jimmy Hartford's party."
  
  "I believe so," she whispered. Her hand lightly stroked his leg. He was surprised and delighted by the sensual warmth this simple caress evoked within him. More shivers ran down his spine than most girls had when they caressed his bare flesh. "It's so true," he thought, "physical conditioning is suited to animals or the fast," but to truly raise the temperature, emotional rapport is necessary.
  
  Partly, he supposed, he'd fallen for Ruth Moto when he'd watched her at a yacht club dance and, a week later, at Robert Quitlock's birthday dinner. Like a boy gazing in a store window at a shiny bicycle or a tempting array of candies, he'd collected impressions that fueled his hopes and aspirations. Now that he knew her better, he was convinced his taste was superior.
  
  Amid the expensive gowns and tuxedos at parties where wealthy men brought the most beautiful women they could find, Ruth was portrayed as an incomparable gem. She inherited her height and long bones from her Norwegian mother, and her dark complexion and exotic features from her Japanese father, creating a Eurasian blend that produces the most beautiful women in the world. By any standard, her body was absolutely flawless, and as she moved across the room on her father's arm, every pair of men's eyes slid after her or followed her, depending on whether another woman was watching them or not. She inspired admiration, desire, and, in a simpler sense, instant lust.
  
  Her father, Akito Tsogu Nu Moto, accompanied her. He was short and massive, with smooth, ageless skin and the calm, serene expression of a patriarch carved from granite.
  
  Were the Motos what they seemed? They were investigated by the most effective US intelligence agency, AXE. The report was clean, but the probe will go deeper, returning to Matthew Perry.
  
  David Hawk, a senior AXE officer and one of Nick Carter's superiors, said, "They could be a dead end, Nick. Old Akito made millions in Japanese-American electronics and building products ventures. He's sharp, but straightforward. Ruth was on good terms with Vassar. She's a popular hostess and moves in good Washington circles. Follow other leads... if you have any."
  
  Nick suppressed a grin. Hawk would have supported you with his life and career, but he was skilled in the art of inspiration. He replied, "Yes. How about Akito as another victim?"
  
  Hawk's thin lips revealed one of his rare smiles, forming wise and tired lines around his mouth and eyes. They met for their final conversation just after dawn in a secluded cul-de-sac at Fort Belvoir. The morning was cloudless; the day would be hot. Bright rays of sunlight pierced the air over the Potomac and illuminated Hawk's strong features. He watched the boats depart the mountain. Vernon Yacht Club and Gunston Cove. "She must be as beautiful as they say."
  
  Nick didn't flinch. "Who, Ruth? One of a kind."
  
  "Personality plus sex appeal, huh? I have to take a look at her. She looks great in photos. You can look at them in the office."
  
  "Nick thought, Hawk. If that name hadn't fit, I'd have suggested Old Fox. He said, 'I prefer the real thing; it smells so good if-? Pornographic.'"
  
  "No, nothing like that. She checks out like a typical girl from a decent family. Maybe an affair or two, but if they're so carefully hidden. Possibly a virgin. In our business, there's always a 'maybe.' But don't buy them first, check them out, Nick. Be careful. Don't relax for a moment."
  
  Time and again, Hawk, with words of warning and very far-sighted actions, literally saved the life of Nicholas Huntington Carter, N3 of AX-US.
  
  "I won't, sir," Nick replied. "But I have a feeling I'm not going anywhere. Six weeks of Washington parties is fun, but I'm getting tired of the good life."
  
  "I can imagine how you feel, but stick with it. This case feels helpless with three important people dead. But we'll take a break, and it'll open wide."
  
  "No more help from autopsy conferences?"
  
  "The best pathologists in the world agree they died of natural causes-obviously. They think they're such small Naturals? Yes. Logical? No. A senator, a cabinet official, and a key banker in our monetary complex. I don't know the method, the link, or the cause. I have a feeling..."
  
  Hawk's "feelings"-based on his encyclopedic knowledge and sound intuition-had never, as far as Nick could remember, been wrong. He discussed the case details and possibilities with Hawk for an hour, and then they parted ways. Hawk for the team-Nick for his role.
  
  Six weeks ago, Nick Carter literally stepped into the shoes of "Gerald Parsons Deming," the Washington representative of a West Coast oil company. Another tall, dark, and handsome young executive, invited to all the best official and social events.
  
  He'd reached this point. He should; it had been created for him by the masters of AX's Documentation and Editing Department. Nick's hair had turned black instead of brown, and the tiny blue axe inside his right elbow was hidden with leather paint. His deep tan wasn't enough to distinguish him from his true brunette; his skin had darkened. He'd entered a life the double had pre-established, complete with documents and identification, perfect even down to the finest details. Jerry Deming, everyman, with an impressive country house in Maryland and an apartment in the city.
  
  The flickering headlights in the mirror brought him back to the moment. He became Jerry Deming, living the fantasy, forcing himself to forget the Luger, the stiletto, and the tiny gas bomb so perfectly hidden in the compartment welded under the back of the Bird. Jerry Deming. On his own. Decoy. Target. A man sent to keep the enemy moving. A man who sometimes got the box.
  
  Ruth said softly, "Why are you in such a mood today, Jerry?"
  
  "I had a premonition. I thought there was a car following us."
  
  "Oh, dear. You didn't tell me you were married."
  
  "Seven times and loved them all." He chuckled. It was the kind of joke Jerry Deming would have liked to make. "No-o-o, honey. I was too busy to get seriously involved." It was true. He added a fib: "I don't see those lights anymore. Guess I was wrong. You should see this. There are a lot of robberies on these back roads."
  
  "Be careful, dear. Perhaps we shouldn't have left here. Is your place terribly isolated? I'm not afraid, but my father is strict. He's terribly afraid of publicity. He's always warning me to be careful. His old country prudence, I suppose.
  
  She pressed herself against his arm. "If this is an act," Nick thought, "then it's great." Ever since he'd met her, she'd acted exactly like the modern but conservative daughter of a foreign businessman who'd discovered how to make millions in the United States.
  
  A man who thought through his every move and word in advance. When you found the golden cornucopia, you avoided any notoriety that could interfere with your work. In the world of military contractors, bankers, and management, publicity is welcomed like a slap on a red, untreated sunburn.
  
  His right hand found a luscious breast, without her protesting. This was about as far as he'd gotten with Ruth Moto; progress was slower than he'd liked, but that suited his methods. He realized that training women was akin to training horses. The keys to success were patience, small successes at a time, gentleness, and experience.
  
  "My house is isolated, dear, but there are automatic gates on the driveway and the police patrol the area regularly. Nothing to worry about."
  
  She pressed herself against him. "That's good. How long have you had it?"
  
  "Several years. Ever since I started spending a lot of time in Washington." He wondered if her questions were random or well-planned.
  
  "And you were in Seattle before you came here? It's a beautiful country. Those trees in the mountains. The climate is equable."
  
  "Yeah." In the dark, she couldn't see his little grin. "I'm really a child of nature. I'd like to retire to the Rockies and just hunt and fish and... and stuff."
  
  "All alone?"
  
  "No. You can't hunt and fish all winter. And there are rainy days."
  
  She giggled. "Those are wonderful plans. But do you agree? I mean-maybe you put it off like everyone else, and they'll find you at your desk at fifty-nine. Heart attack. No hunting. No fishing. No winter, no rainy days."
  
  "Not me. I plan ahead."
  
  "Me too," he thought as he braked, a small red reflector coming into view, marking the almost hidden road. He turned, walked forty yards, and stopped in front of a sturdy wooden gate made of cypress planks painted a rich red-brown. He switched off the engine and headlights.
  
  The silence was astonishing when the rumble of the engine and the rustle of tires ceased. He gently tilted her chin toward his, and the kiss began smoothly; their lips moved together in a warm, stimulating, and wet mingling. He stroked her lithe body with his free hand, carefully moving a little further than ever before. He was pleased to feel her cooperation, her lips slowly closing around his tongue, her breasts seeming to return to his gentle massage without a shudder of retreat. Her breathing quickened. He matched his own rhythm to the fragrant scent-and listened.
  
  Under the insistent pressure of his tongue, her lips finally parted completely, swelled like a flexible hymen as he formed a spear of flesh, exploring the sharp depths of her mouth. He teased and tickled, feeling her shudder in reaction. He caught her tongue between his lips and sucked gently... and he listened.
  
  She wore a simple dress of fine white sharkskin, buttons down the front. His nimble fingers undid three buttons, and he stroked the smooth skin between her breasts with the backs of his nails. Lightly, thoughtfully-with the force of a butterfly stamping on a rose petal. She froze briefly, and he struggled to maintain the rhythm of his caresses, accelerating only when her breath rushed into him with a warm, breathless rush, and she made soft, humming sounds. He sent his fingers on a gentle, exploratory cruise over the swell of her right breast. The hum turned to a sigh as she pressed herself against his hand.
  
  And he listened. The car moved slowly and silently down the narrow road past the driveway, its headlights swimming in the night. They were too respectable. He heard them stop when he turned off the car. Now they were checking. He hoped they had good imaginations and saw Ruth. Eat your hearts out, boys!
  
  He undid the clasp of her half-bra where it met her magnificent cleavage and savored the smooth, warm flesh lying in his palm. Delicious. Inspiring-he was glad he wasn't wearing tailored tracksuit shorts; the weapons in his tight pockets would have been comforting, but the stricture was irritating. Ruth said, "Oh, my dear," and bit her lip lightly.
  
  He thought, "I hope it's just a teenager looking for a parking spot." Or perhaps it was Nick Carter's sudden death machine. The removal of a dangerous figure in the game currently being played, or a legacy of vengeance earned in the past. Once you earned the Killmaster classification, you understood the risks.
  
  Nick ran his tongue down her silky cheek to her ear. He began a rhythm with his hand, which was now cupping the magnificent, warm breast inside her bra. He compared her sigh to his own. If you die today, you won't have to die tomorrow.
  
  He raised the index finger of his right hand and gently inserted it into the other ear, creating a triple tickle as he varied the pressure over time with his own little symphony. She trembled with pleasure, and he discovered with some alarm that he enjoyed shaping her pleasure, and he hoped she had no connection with the car on the road.
  
  which stopped a few hundred yards away from us. He could hear it easily in the silence of the night. At the moment, she heard nothing.
  
  His hearing was acute-indeed, when he wasn't physically perfect, the AXE didn't give him such assignments, and he didn't take them. The odds were already deadly enough. He heard the soft creak of a car door hinge, the sound of a stone hitting something in the darkness.
  
  He said, "Honey, how about a drink and a swim?"
  
  "I love it," she replied, a small, raspy breath before she said it.
  
  He pressed the transmitter button to operate the gate, and the barrier slid aside, closing automatically behind them as they followed the short winding path. This was merely a deterrent to trespassers, not an obstacle. The property's fencing was a simple, open post-and-rail fence.
  
  Gerald Parsons Deming had built a charming seven-room country house with a huge bluestone courtyard overlooking the pool. When Nick pressed a button on a post at the edge of the parking lot, the interior and exterior floodlights came on. Ruth gurgled happily.
  
  "This is wonderful! Oh, beautiful flowers. Do you do the landscaping yourself?"
  
  "Quite often," he lied. "Too busy to do everything I'd like. The local gardener comes twice a week."
  
  She paused on the stone path next to a column of climbing roses, a vertical band of color in red and pink, white and cream. "They're so pretty. It's part Japanese-or part Japanese-I think. Even one flower can get me excited."
  
  He kissed her neck before they went on and said, "Just how can one beautiful girl excite me? You are as beautiful as all these flowers together - and you are alive."
  
  She laughed approvingly. "You're cute, Jerry, but I wonder how many girls you've taken on this walk?"
  
  "Is it true?"
  
  "I hope so."
  
  He opened the door, and they entered a large living room with a giant fireplace and a glass wall overlooking the pool. "Well, Ruth-the truth. The truth for Ruth." He led her to the small bar and clicked the record player with one hand, holding her fingers with the other. "You, my dear, are the first girl I've ever brought here alone."
  
  He saw her eyes widen, and then he knew from the warmth and softness of her expression that she thought he was telling the truth-which he was-and she liked it.
  
  Any girl would believe you if she believed you, and the creation, the setup, and the growing intimacy were right tonight. His double could have brought fifty girls here-knowing he probably had Deming-but Nick was telling the truth, and Ruth's intuition confirmed it.
  
  He quickly prepared a martini while Ruth sat and watched him through the narrow oak grate, her chin resting in her hands, her black eyes thoughtfully alert. Her flawless skin still glowed with the emotion he had evoked, and Nick's breath caught at the stunningly beautiful portrait she captured as he placed the glass in front of her and poured it.
  
  "She's bought it, but she won't believe it," he thought. Eastern caution, or the doubts women harbor even when emotions lead them astray . He said softly, "For you, Ruthie. The most beautiful painting I've ever seen. The artist would like to paint you right now."
  
  "Thank you. You make me feel very happy and warm, Jerry."
  
  Her eyes glowed at him over the top of her cocktail glass. He listened. Nothing. Now they were walking through the forest, or perhaps they had already reached the smooth green carpet of the lawn. They circled carefully, soon discovering that the picture windows were perfect for observing who was inside the house.
  
  I'm bait. We didn't mention it, but I'm just cheese in AXE's trap. It was the only way out. Hawk wouldn't have set him up like this if there was no other way. Three important men dead. Natural causes on the death certificates. No leads. No clues. No pattern.
  
  "You can't give the bait any special protection," Nick mused grimly, "because you have no idea what might spook the prey or what strange level it might appear on." If you install complex security measures, one of them might be part of the scheme you were trying to uncover. Hawk had chosen the only logical path-his most trusted agent would become the bait.
  
  Nick followed the Washington trail of the dead as best he could. He discreetly received invitations to countless parties, receptions, business and social gatherings through Hawk. He visited convention hotels, embassies, private homes, estates, and clubs from Georgetown to universities and the Union League. He grew tired of hors d'oeuvres and filet mignon, and he grew tired of getting in and out of his tuxedo. The laundry didn't return his wrinkled shirts quickly enough, so he had to call Rogers Peete to have a dozen delivered via special courier.
  
  He met dozens of important men and beautiful women, and he received dozens of invitations, which he respectfully declined, except for those that concerned people the dead knew or places they had visited.
  
  He was perpetually popular, and most women found his quiet attentiveness captivating. When they discovered he was an "oil executive" and single, some persistently wrote him notes and called him.
  
  He certainly didn't find anything. Ruth and her father seemed perfectly respectable, and he wondered if he was honestly testing her because his built-in troubleshooting antenna had given off a small spark-or because she was the most desirable beauty of the hundreds he'd encountered in the past few weeks.
  
  He smiled into those gorgeous dark eyes and caught her hand where it lay next to his on the polished oak. There was only one question: who was there, and how had they found his trail in the Thunderbird? And why? Had he really hit the nail on the head? He grinned at the pun when Ruth said softly, "You're a strange man, Gerald Deming. You're more than you seem."
  
  "Is this some kind of Eastern wisdom or Zen or something like that?"
  
  "I think it was a German philosopher who first said it as a maxim - 'Be more than you seem.' But I watched your face and your eyes. You were far from me."
  
  "Just dreaming."
  
  "Have you always been in the oil business?"
  
  "More or less." He spun his story. "I was born in Kansas and moved to the oil fields. Spent some time in the Middle East, made some good friends, and got lucky." He sighed and grimaced.
  
  "Go on. You thought of something and stopped..."
  
  "Now I'm almost that far along. It's a good job, and I should be happy. But if I had a college degree, I wouldn't be so limited."
  
  She squeezed his hand. "You'll find a way around this. You-you have a bright personality."
  
  "I was there." He chuckled and added, "Actually, I did more than I said. In fact, I didn't use the Deming name a couple of times. It was a quick deal in the Middle East, and if we could have taken down the London cartel within a few months, I'd be a rich man today."
  
  He shook his head, as if in deep regret, walked over to the hi-fi console, and switched from the player to the radio. He fiddled with the frequencies in the shower of static, and on longwave, he picked up that beep-beep-beep. So that's how they'd followed him! Now the question was, had the pager been hidden in his car without Ruth's knowledge, or was his beautiful guest carrying it in a purse, clipped to her clothing, or-he had to be careful-in a plastic case? He switched back to the recording, the powerful, sensual images of Pyotr Tchaikovsky's Fourth, and wandered back to the bar. "How about that swim?"
  
  "I love this. Give me a minute to finish."
  
  "Do you want another one?"
  
  "After we sail."
  
  "Fine."
  
  "And - where is the bathroom, please?"
  
  "Right here..."
  
  He led her into the master bedroom and showed her the large bath with a Roman tub set in pink ceramic tile. She kissed him lightly, entered, and closed the door.
  
  He quickly returned to the bar where she'd left her purse. They usually took them to John's. A trap? He was careful not to disturb its position or location as he checked its contents. Lipstick, bills in a money clip, a small gold lighter that he opened and examined, a credit card... nothing that could be a buzzer. He placed the items precisely and took his drink.
  
  When would they arrive? When was he in the pool with her? He didn't like the feeling of helplessness the situation gave him, the uncomfortable feeling of insecurity, the unpleasant fact that he couldn't strike first.
  
  He wondered gloomily if he'd been in this business too long. If a gun meant security, he should leave. Did he feel vulnerable because Hugo, with its thin blade, wasn't strapped to his forearm? You couldn't embrace a girl with Hugo until she felt it.
  
  Lugging around the Wilhelmina, a modified Luger with which he could usually hit a fly at sixty feet, was also impossible in his role as Deming the Target. If they touched it or found it, it was a sellout. He had to agree with Eglinton, the AXE gunsmith, that the Wilhelmina had its shortcomings as a favored weapon. Eglinton redesigned them to his liking, mounting three-inch barrels on perfect bolts and fitting them with thin, clear plastic stocks. He reduced the size and weight, and you could see the rounds marching down the ramp like a stick of tiny bottle-nosed bombs-but it was still a lot of gun.
  
  "Call it psychological," he countered with Eglinton. "My Wilhelminas have gotten me through some tough ones. I know exactly what I can do at any angle and in any position. I must have burned through 10,000 rounds of nine million in my time. I like the gun."
  
  "Take another look at that S. & W., Chief," Eglinton urged.
  
  "Could you talk Babe Ruth off his favorite bat? Tell Metz to change his gloves? I go hunting with an old man in Maine who's been taking his deer every year for forty-three years with a 1903 Springfield. I'll take you with me this summer and let you talk him into using one of the new machine guns."
  
  Eglinton gave in. Nick chuckled at the memory. He glanced at the brass lamp,
  
  which hung above the giant sofa in the gazebo across the room. He wasn't completely helpless. The AXE masters had done all they could. Pull this lamp, and the ceiling wall would drop, revealing a Swedish Carl Gustav SMG Parabellum submachine gun with a stock you could grab.
  
  Inside the car were Wilhelmina and Hugo, along with a tiny gas bomb codenamed "Pierre." Under the counter, the fourth bottle of gin to the left of the cabinet held a tasteless version of Michael Finn, which could be discarded in about fifteen seconds. And in the garage, the second-to-last hook-the one with the tattered, least attractive raincoat-opened the hook plate with a full left turn. Wilhelmina's twin sister lay on the shelf between the hairpins.
  
  He listened. Frowning. Nick Carter with nerves? There was nothing to be heard in Tchaikovsky's masterpiece, spilling out its guiding theme.
  
  It was anticipation. And doubt. If you rushed for a weapon too soon, you ruined the entire expensive setup. If you waited too long, you could die. How did they kill those three? If so? Hawk was never wrong...
  
  "Hi," Ruth stepped out from behind the arch. "Still feeling like swimming?"
  
  He met her halfway across the room, hugged her, kissed her hard, and led her back to the bedroom. "More than ever. Just thinking about you makes my temperature rise. I need a dip."
  
  She laughed and stood by the king-size bed, looking unsure as he removed his tuxedo and knotted his burgundy tie. As the matching cummerbund fell onto the bed, she asked timidly, "Do you have a suit for me?"
  
  "Of course," he smiled, pulling gray pearl studs from his shirt. "But who needs them? Are we really that old-fashioned? I hear in Japan, boys and girls hardly bother about their bathing suits."
  
  She looked at him questioningly, and his breath caught as the light danced in her eyes like sparks trapped in obsidian.
  
  "We wouldn't want that to happen," she said hoarsely and quietly. She unbuttoned the neat sharkskin dress, and he turned away, hearing the promising z-z-z-z of the hidden zipper, and when he looked back, she was carefully laying the dress on the bed.
  
  With effort, he kept his eyes on her until he was completely naked, then casually turned around and helped himself - and he was sure his heart gave a slight thump as it began to raise his blood pressure.
  
  He thought he'd seen them all. From tall Scandinavians to burly Australians, on Kamathipura and Ho Pang Road and in a politician's palace in Hamburg where you paid a hundred dollars just to get in. But you, Ruthie, he thought, are something else again!
  
  She attracted attention at exclusive parties where the world's best were selected, and back then she'd been in her clothes. Now, standing naked against a crisp white wall and a rich blue carpet, she looked like something specially painted for a harem wall-to inspire the host.
  
  Her body was firm and flawless, her breasts twin, their nipples high-set, like red-balloon signals-beware of explosives. Her skin was flawless from her eyebrows to her pink, enameled toes, her pubic hair a tantalizing breastplate of soft black. It was locked in place. For now, she had it, and she knew it. She raised a long nail to her lips and tapped her chin questioningly. Her eyebrows, plucked high and arched to add just the right amount of roundness to the slight slant of her eyes, dipped and rose. "Do you approve, Jerry?"
  
  "You..." He swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "You are one vast, beautiful woman. I want-I want to photograph you. Just as you are at this moment."
  
  "That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me. You have an artist in you." She took two cigarettes from his pack on the bed and pressed one to her lips, one after the other, to make him turn on the light. After handing him one, she said, "I'm not sure I would have done this if it weren't for what you said..."
  
  "What I said?"
  
  "That I'm the only girl you brought here. Somehow, I know it's true."
  
  "How do you know?"
  
  Her eyes grew dreamy through the blue smoke. "I'm not sure. It would be a typical lie for a man, but I knew you were telling the truth."
  
  Nick placed his hand on her shoulder. It was round, satiny, and firm, like an athlete's under tanned skin. "It was the truth, my dear."
  
  She said, "You have an amazing body too, Jerry. I didn't know. How much do you weigh?"
  
  "Two-ten. Plus or minus."
  
  She felt his hand, around which her thin arm barely curved, so hard was the surface over the bone. "You exercise a lot. It's good for everyone. I was afraid you'd become like so many men today. They grow bellies at those desks. Even the young people at the Pentagon. It's a disgrace."
  
  He thought: now is not really the time or place,
  
  and he took her in his arms, their bodies merging into one column of responsive flesh. She wrapped both arms around his neck and pressed herself into his warm embrace, her legs lifting off the floor, and she spread them a few times, like a ballerina, but with a sharper, more energetic and excited movement, like a muscular reflex.
  
  Nick was in excellent physical condition. His exercise program for body and mind was strictly adhered to. This included controlling his libido, but he couldn't catch himself in time. His stretched, passionate flesh swelled between them. She kissed him deeply, pressing her whole body against his.
  
  He felt as if a child's sparkler had been lit up his spine from his tailbone to the top of his head. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing like a mile runner nearing the two-minute mark. The gusts from her lungs were like lustful jets aimed at his throat. Without disturbing her position, he took three short steps to the edge of the bed.
  
  He wished he'd listened more, but it wouldn't have helped. He felt-or perhaps caught a reflection or shadow-the man enter the room.
  
  "Put it down and turn around. Slowly."
  
  It was a low voice. The words came out loud and clear, with a slight guttural quality. They sounded as if they came from a man accustomed to being obeyed literally.
  
  Nick obeyed. He turned a quarter turn and laid Ruth down. He made another slow quarter turn to come face to face with a blond giant, about his age and as big as he was.
  
  In his large hand, held low and steady and fairly close to his body, the man held what Nick easily identified as a Walther P-38. Even without his impeccable handling of the weapon, you'd know this guy knew his stuff.
  
  That's it, Nick thought regretfully. All that judo and savatism won't help you in this situation. He knows them too, because he knows his stuff.
  
  If he came to kill you, you are dead.
  
  
  Chapter II.
  
  
  Nick remained frozen in place. If the big blond man's blue eyes had tightened or flashed, Nick would have tried to fall off the ramp-the reliable McDonald's Singapore company that had saved the lives of many men and killed many more. It all depended on your position. The P-38 didn't flinch. It could have been bolted into the test rig.
  
  A short, thin man entered the room behind the big guy. He had brown skin and features that looked as if they had been smeared in the darkness by the thumb of an amateur sculptor. His face was hard, and there was a bitterness in his mouth that must have taken centuries to develop. Nick considered it-Malay, Filipino, Indonesian? Take your pick. There are over 4,000 islands. The smaller man held the Walther with beautiful firmness and pointed to the floor. Another professional. "There's no one else here," he said.
  
  The player suddenly stopped. This meant a third person.
  
  The large blond man looked at Nick expectantly, dispassionately. Then, without losing his attention, they moved toward Ruth, a flicker of amusement appearing at the corner of one lip. Nick exhaled-when they showed emotion or talked, they usually didn't shoot-right away.
  
  "You have good taste," the man said. "I haven't seen such a delicious dish in years."
  
  Nick was tempted to say, "Go ahead, eat it if you like it," but he took a bite. Instead, he nodded slowly.
  
  He turned his eyes to the side without moving his head and saw Ruth standing petrified, the back of one hand pressed to her mouth, the other knuckles clenched in front of her navel. Her black eyes were fixed on the pistol.
  
  Nick said, "You're scaring her. My wallet is in my pants. You'll find about two hundred. There's no point in hurting anyone."
  
  "Exactly. You don't even think about quick steps, and maybe no one will. But I believe in self-preservation. Jump. Dash. Reach. I just have to shoot. A man is a fool to take a chance. I mean, I'd consider myself a fool if I didn't kill you quickly."
  
  "I see your point. I don't even plan to scratch my neck, but it itches."
  
  "Go ahead. Really slow. Don't you want to do it now? Okay." The man ran his eyes up and down Nick's body. "We look a lot alike. You're all big. Where did you get all those scars?"
  
  "Korea. I was very young and stupid."
  
  "Grenade?"
  
  "Shrapnel," Nick said, hoping the guy wasn't paying too much attention to the infantry casualties. Shrapnel rarely stitched you up on both sides. The collection of scars was a memento of his years with the AXE. He hoped he wasn't about to add to them; R-38 bullets are vicious. A man took three once and still exists-the odds are four hundred to one he'll survive two.
  
  "Brave man," said another, in the tone of a comment rather than a compliment.
  
  "I hid in the biggest hole I could find. If I could have found a bigger one, I would have ended up in it."
  
  "This woman is beautiful, but don't you prefer white women?"
  
  "I love them all," Nick replied. The guy was either cool or crazy. Cracking like that with the brown man behind him with a gun.
  
  ;
  
  A terrible face appeared in the doorway behind the other two. Ruth gasped. Nick said, "Calm down, baby."
  
  The face was a rubber mask, worn by a third man of average height. He'd obviously chosen the most horrific one in the warehouse: a red, open mouth with protruding teeth, a fake bloody wound on one side. Mr. Hyde on a bad day. He handed the little man a roll of white fishing line and a large folding knife.
  
  The big man said, "You, girl. Lie down on the bed and put your hands behind your back."
  
  Ruth turned to Nick, her eyes wide with horror. Nick said, "Do as he says. They're cleaning up the place, and they don't want to be chased after."
  
  Ruth lay down, her hands on her magnificent buttocks. The little man ignored them as he circled the room and deftly bound her wrists. Nick remarked that he must have once been a sailor.
  
  "Now it's your turn, Mr. Deming," said the man with the gun.
  
  Nick joined Ruth and felt the reverse coils slip from his hands and tighten. He stretched his muscles to relax a little, but the man wasn't fooled.
  
  The big man said, "We're going to be busy here for a while. Behave yourself, and when we leave, you can go free. Don't try now. Sammy, you watch them." He paused for a moment at the door. "Deming-prove you really have the skills. Knee her over and finish what you started." He grinned and walked out.
  
  Nick listened to the men in the other room, guessing their movements. He heard desk drawers being opened and "Deming's papers" being shuffled. They searched the cabinets, pulled out suitcases and his briefcase, and rummaged through the bookcases. This operation was completely insane. He couldn't put the two pieces of the puzzle together-yet.
  
  He doubted they'd find anything. The submachine gun above the lamp could only be exposed by truly tearing the place apart, while the pistol in the garage was almost safely hidden. If they'd drunk enough gin to get the fourth bottle, they wouldn't need the knockout drops. A secret compartment in the Bird? Let them look. The AXE men knew their stuff.
  
  Why? The question swirled around in his head until it literally hurt. Why? Why? He needed more evidence. More conversation. If they searched this place and left, it would be another wasted evening-and he could already hear Hawk chuckle at the story. He'd purse his thin lips judiciously and say something like, "Well, my boy, it's still good you weren't hurt. You should be more careful with yourself. These are dangerous times. Best stay out of the rougher areas until I can get you a partner on the job..."
  
  And he chuckled silently the whole time. Nick groaned with sour disgust. Ruth whispered, "What?"
  
  "It's okay. Everything will be fine." And then an idea occurred to him, and he thought about the possibilities behind it. Angles. Branching out. His head stopped hurting.
  
  He took a deep breath, shifted on the bed, put his knee under Ruth's and sat up.
  
  "What are you doing?" Her black eyes flashed next to his. He kissed her and continued to press until she rolled over onto her back on the large bed. He followed her, his knee between her legs again.
  
  "You heard what this man said. He has a gun."
  
  "Oh my God, Jerry. Not now."
  
  "He wants to show his ingenuity. We'll follow orders indifferently. I'll be back in uniform in a couple of minutes."
  
  "No!"
  
  "Get a shot sooner?"
  
  "No, but..."
  
  "Do we have a choice?"
  
  Steady and patient training had given Nick complete mastery over his body, including his sexual organs. Ruth felt the pressure on her thigh, rebelled, and squirmed furiously as he pressed himself against her marvelous body. "NO!"
  
  Sammy woke up. "Hey, what are you doing?"
  
  Nick turned his head. "Exactly what the boss told us. Right?"
  
  "NO!" Ruth screamed. The pressure was now intense in her stomach. Nick rocked lower. "NO!"
  
  Sammy ran to the door, shouted, "Hans," and returned to the bed, confused. Nick was relieved to see the Walther still pointed at the floor. However, it was a different story. One bullet through you, and a beautiful woman at the right moment.
  
  Ruth writhed under Nick's weight, but her own hands, bound and cuffed beneath her, thwarted her attempts to wriggle free. With both of Nick's knees between hers, she was practically pinned. Nick pressed his hips forward. Damn. Try again.
  
  A big guy burst into the room. "Are you screaming, Sammy?"
  
  The short man pointed to the bed.
  
  Ruth screamed, "NO!"
  
  Hans barked, "What the hell is going on? Stop that noise."
  
  Nick chuckled, thrusting his loins forward again. "Give me time, old friend. I'll do it."
  
  A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him onto his back on the bed. "Shut your mouth and keep it shut," Hans growled at Ruth. He looked at Nick. "I don't want any noise."
  
  "Then why did you tell me to finish the job?"
  
  The blond put his hands on his hips. The P-38 disappeared from sight. "By God, man, you're something. You know
  
  I was joking."
  
  "How did I know? You have a gun. I'm doing as I'm told."
  
  "Deming, I'd like to fight you someday. Will you wrestle? Box? Fencing?"
  
  "A little. Make an appointment."
  
  The big man's face took on a thoughtful expression. He shook his head slightly from side to side, as if trying to clear his head. "I don't know about you. You're either crazy or the coolest guy I've ever seen. If you're not crazy, you'd be a good person to have around. How much do you make a year?"
  
  "Sixteen thousand and all I can do."
  
  "Chicken feed. Too bad you're square."
  
  "I made mistakes a few times, but now I've got it right and I'm not cutting corners anymore."
  
  "Where did you go wrong?"
  
  "Sorry, old friend. Take your loot and be on your way."
  
  "It seems I was wrong about you." The man shook his head again. "Sorry about cleaning up one of the clubs, but business is slow."
  
  "I bet."
  
  Hans turned to Sammy. "Go help Chick get ready. Nothing special." He turned away, then almost as an afterthought, grabbed Nick by the pants, took the bills out of his wallet, and dropped them into the bureau. He said, "You two sit still and quiet. After we leave, you'll be free. The phone lines are down. I'll leave the distributor cap from your car by the entrance to the building. No hard feelings."
  
  Cold blue eyes settled on Nick. "None," Nick replied. "And we'll get to that wrestling match someday."
  
  "Maybe," said Hans and went out.
  
  Nick rolled out of bed, found the rough edge of the metal frame supporting the box spring, and after about a minute, he sawed through the stiff cord, cutting through a patch of skin and what looked like a muscle strain. As he rose from the floor, Ruth's black eyes met his. They were wide and staring, but she didn't look frightened. Her face was impassive. "Don't move," he whispered and crept to the door.
  
  The living room was empty. He had a strong desire to acquire an effective Swedish submachine gun, but if this team had been his target, it would have been a gift. Even the oil workers nearby didn't have Tommy guns at the ready. He silently walked through the kitchen, out the back door, and around the house to the garage. In the spotlights, he saw the car they had arrived in. Two men sat next to it. He walked around the garage, entered from behind, and twirled the latch without removing his coat. The wooden strip swung, and Wilhelmina slid into his hand, and he felt a sudden relief from her weight.
  
  A rock bruised his bare foot as he rounded the blue spruce and approached the car from the dark side. Hans emerged from the patio, and when they turned to look at him, Nick saw that the two men near the car were Sammy and Chick. Neither of them had weapons now. Hans said, "Let's go."
  
  Then Nick said, "Surprise, boys. Don't move. The gun I'm holding is as big as yours."
  
  They turned to him silently. "Calm down, boys. You too, Deming. We can work this out. Is that really a gun you have there?"
  
  "Luger. Don't move. I'll step forward a little so you can see it and feel better. And live longer."
  
  He stepped into the light, and Hans snorted. "Next time, Sammy, we'll use wire. And you must have done a rotten job with those knots. When we have time, I'll give you a new education."
  
  "Oh, they were tough," Sammy snapped.
  
  "Not tight enough. What do you think they were tied together with, sacks of grain? Maybe we should use handcuffs..."
  
  The pointless conversation suddenly made sense. Nick shouted, "Shut up!" and started to retreat, but it was too late.
  
  The man behind him growled, "Hold it, buko, or you're full of holes. Drop it. It's a boy. Come here, Hans."
  
  Nick gritted his teeth. Smart, that Hans! Fourth man on watch and never exposed. Excellent leadership. When he woke up, he was glad he'd gritted his teeth, otherwise he might have lost a few. Hans came up, shook his head, said, "You're something else," and landed a swift left hook to his chin that shook the world for many minutes.
  
  * * *
  
  At that very moment, as Nick Carter lay strapped to the bumper of the Thunderbird, the world coming and going, the golden pinwheels flickering, his head throbbing, Herbert Wheeldale Tyson told himself what a grand world it was.
  
  For an Indiana lawyer who never made more than six thousand a year in Logansport, Fort Wayne, and Indianapolis, he did it under the radar. A one-term congressman before citizens decided his opponent was less slick, stupid, and self-serving, he parlayed a few quick Washington connections into a major deal. You need a lobbyist who gets things done-you need Herbert for specific projects. He had good connections at the Pentagon, and over nine years, he learned a lot about the oil business, munitions, and construction contracts.
  
  Herbert was ugly, but he was important. You didn't have to love him, you used him. And he delivered.
  
  This evening, Herbert was enjoying his favorite pastime in his small, expensive house on the outskirts of Georgetown. He was in a large bed in a large bedroom with a large pitcher of ice,
  
  bottles and glasses by the bed where the big girl awaited his pleasure.
  
  Right now, he was enjoying watching a sex film on the far wall. A pilot friend had brought them for him from West Germany, where they make them.
  
  He hoped the girl would get the same boost from them as he did, though it didn't matter. She was Korean, Mongolian, or one of those women who worked in one of the trading offices. Dumb, maybe, but he liked them like that-big bodies and pretty faces. He wanted those sluts from Indianapolis to see him now.
  
  He felt safe. Bauman's clothes were a bit of a nuisance, but they couldn't be as tough as they whispered. In any case, the house had a full alarm system, and there was a shotgun in the closet and a pistol on the nightstand.
  
  "Look, baby," he chuckled and leaned forward.
  
  He felt her move on the bed, and something blocked his view of the screen, and he raised his hands to push it away. Why, it flew over his head! Hello.
  
  Herbert Wheeldale Tyson was paralyzed before his hands reached his chin and died seconds later.
  
  
  Chapter III.
  
  
  When the world stopped shaking and came into focus, Nick found himself on the ground behind the car. His wrists were tied to the car, and Chick must have shown Hans he knew his ropes by securing Nick for a long time. His wrists were covered in rope, plus a few strands of it were tied to the square knot that held his hands together.
  
  He heard the four men talking in low voices and only noticed Hans's remark: "...we'll find out. One way or another."
  
  They got into their car, and as it passed under the spotlight closest to the roadway, Nick recognized it as a green 1968 Ford four-door sedan. It had been tied down at an awkward angle to clearly see the tag or accurately identify the model, but it wasn't compact.
  
  He applied his immense strength to the rope, then sighed. It was cotton line, but not the household kind, marine grade and durable. He salivated copiously, applied it to his tongue on the area of his wrists, and began gnawing steadily with his strong white teeth. The material was heavy. He was monotonously chewing the hard, wet mass when Ruth came out and found him.
  
  She pulled on her clothes, right down to her neat white high-heeled shoes, walked across the pavement, and looked down at him. He felt her stride was too steady, her gaze too calm for the situation. It was depressing to realize that she could have been on the other team, despite what had happened, and the men had abandoned her to stage some kind of coup d'état.
  
  He smiled his widest smile. "Hey, I knew you'd get free."
  
  "No, thank you, sex maniac."
  
  "Darling! What can I say? I risked my life to drive them away and save your honor."
  
  "You could have at least untied me."
  
  "How did you get free?"
  
  "So are you. Rolled out of bed and ripped the skin off my arms, cutting the rope on the bed frame." Nick felt a wave of relief. She continued, frowning, "Jerry Deming, I think I'll leave you here."
  
  Nick thought quickly. What would Deming say in a situation like this? He exploded. He made noise. Now you let me go right now, or when I get out, I'll paddle your pretty ass until you don't sit down for a month, and after that, I'll forget I ever knew you. You're crazy..."
  
  He paused when she laughed, leaning over to show him the razor blade she held in her hand. She carefully cut his bonds. "There, my hero. You were brave. Did you really attack them with your bare hands? They could have killed you instead of tying you up."
  
  He rubbed his wrists and felt his jaw. That big guy Hans had lost it! "I hide the gun in the garage because if the house gets robbed, I think there's a chance they won't find it there. I took it, and I had three of them when I was disarmed by a fourth one hiding in the bushes. Hans shut me up. These guys must be real professionals. Imagine driving away from a picket line?
  
  "Be grateful they didn't make things worse. I suppose your travels in the oil business have inured you to violence. I suppose you acted without fear. But this way you could get hurt."
  
  He thought, "They train them with composure at Vassar too, otherwise there's more to you than meets the eye." They walked toward the house, the attractive girl holding the hand of a naked, powerfully built man. As Nick undressed, he made her think of an athlete at practice, perhaps a professional football player.
  
  He noticed that she kept her eyes on his body, as befits a sweet young lady. Was this an act? He shouted, getting into simple white boxers: ;
  
  "I'll call the police. They won't catch anyone here, but it will cover my insurance, and they might keep a close eye on the place."
  
  "I called them, Jerry. I can't imagine where they are."
  
  "Depends on where they were. They have three cars in a hundred square miles. More martinis?..."
  
  * * *
  
  The officers were sympathetic. Ruth had made a slight mistake with her call, and they'd wasted their time. They commented on the high number of burglaries and robberies committed by the city's hoodlums. They wrote it down and borrowed his spare keys so their BCI officers could double-check the place in the morning. Nick thought it was a waste of time-and it was.
  
  After they left, he and Ruth swam, drank again, danced, and cuddled briefly, but the attraction had already subsided. He thought that, despite the stiffness in her upper lip, she seemed thoughtful-or nervous. As they swayed in a tight embrace on the patio, to the rhythm of Armstrong's trumpet on a light blue number, he kissed her a few times, but the mood was gone. Her lips no longer melted; they were languid. Her heartbeat and breathing didn't quicken as they once did.
  
  She noticed the difference herself. She looked away from his, but rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Jerry. I guess I'm just being shy. I keep thinking about what could have happened. We could have been... dead." She shuddered.
  
  "We're not like that," he replied, squeezing her.
  
  "Would you really do that?" she asked.
  
  "Did what?"
  
  "On the bed. The fact that the man called me Hans gave me the hint."
  
  "He was a smart guy, and it backfired."
  
  "How?"
  
  "Remember when Sammy yelled at him? He came in, then sent Sammy away for a few minutes to help the other guy. Then he left the room himself, and that was my chance. Otherwise, we'll still be tied to this bed, maybe they're long gone. Or they'll stick matches under my toes to make me tell them where I'm hiding the money."
  
  "And you? Are you hiding money?"
  
  "Of course not. But doesn't it look like they had false advice, like me?"
  
  "Yes, I see."
  
  "If she sees it," Nick thought, "everything's all right." At least, she was puzzled. If she'd been on the other team, she'd have to admit that Jerry Deming acted and thought like a typical citizen. He bought her a fine steak at Perrault's Supper Club and drove her home to the Moto residence in Georgetown. Not far from the beautiful cottage where Herbert W. Tyson lay dead, waiting for a maid to find him in the morning and a hasty doctor to decide that an injured heart had failed its bearer.
  
  He had collected one small plus. Ruth had invited him to accompany him to a dinner party at the Sherman Owen Cushings on Friday of the week-their annual "All Friends" event. The Cushings were wealthy, private, and had begun accumulating real estate and money even before du Pont began producing gunpowder, and they held most of it. Many senators had tried to secure Cushing's nomination-but they had never gotten it. He told Ruth he was absolutely certain he could do it. He would confirm with a call on Wednesday. Where would Akito be? Cairo-that was why Nick could take his seat. He learned that Ruth had met Alice Cushing at Vassar.
  
  The next day was a hot, sunny Thursday. Nick slept until nine, then had breakfast at the restaurant in the Jerry Deming apartment building-freshly squeezed orange juice, three scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and two cups of tea. Whenever he could, he planned his lifestyle like an athlete staying in good shape.
  
  His large body alone couldn't keep him in tip-top shape, especially when he indulged in a certain amount of rich food and alcohol. He didn't neglect his mind, especially when it came to current affairs. His newspaper was The New York Times, and through an AXE subscription, he read periodicals from Scientific American to The Atlantic and Harper's. Not a month went by without four or five significant books in his account.
  
  His physical prowess required a consistent, if unscheduled, training program. Twice a week, unless he was "on site"-AX means "on the job" in the local parlance-he practiced acrobatics and judo, punched punching bags, and methodically swam underwater for long minutes. He also spent a regular schedule talking into his tape recorders, honing his excellent French and Spanish, improving his German, and three other languages, which, as he put it, allowed him to "take a broad, get a bed, and get directions to the airport."
  
  David Hawk, who was never impressed by anything, once told Nick that he thought his greatest asset was his acting skills: "...the stage lost something when you came into our business."
  
  Nick's father was a character actor. One of those rare chameleons who could slip into any role and become it. The kind of talent smart producers seek out. "See if you can get Carter," they said often enough to land Nick's father every role he chose.
  
  Nick grew up virtually all over the United States. His education, divided between tutors, studios, and public schools, seemed to benefit from diversity.
  
  At the age of eight, he honed his Spanish and filmed behind the scenes with a company performing "Está el Doctor en Casa?" By his tenth year-since Tea and Sympathy were well-experienced and their leader was a mathematical genius-he could do most of the algebra in his head, recite the odds of all hands in poker and blackjack, and produce perfect imitations of Oxonian, Yorkshire, and Cockney.
  
  Shortly after his twelfth birthday, he wrote a one-act play which, slightly revised a few years later, is now in print. And he discovered that the savate, taught to him by his French tumbler, Jean Benoît-Gironière, was as effective in an alley as on a mat.
  
  It was after a late-night show, and he was walking home alone. Two would-be robbers approached him in the lonely yellow light of the abandoned alleyway leading from the entrance to the street. He stamped his foot, kicked a shin, dove onto his hands, and delivered a mule-like lash to the groin, followed by a Cartwheel for a spectacular spin and a blow to the chin. Then he returned to the theater and brought his father out to look at the crumpled, groaning figures.
  
  The elder Carter noted that his son was speaking calmly and breathing perfectly normally. He said, "Nick, you did what you had to do. What are we going to do with them?"
  
  "I don't care".
  
  "Do you want to see them arrested?"
  
  "I don't think so," Nick replied. They returned to the theater, and when they returned home an hour later, the men were gone.
  
  A year later, Carter Sr. discovered Nick in bed with Lily Greene, a beautiful young actress who later made it big in Hollywood. He simply chuckled and left, but after a later discussion, Nick discovered he was taking the college entrance exams under a different name and enrolling at Dartmouth. His father died in a car accident less than two years later.
  
  Some of these memories-the best ones-flashed through Nick's mind as he walked the four blocks to the health club and changed into his swim trunks. In the sunny rooftop gym, he worked out at an easy pace. Rested. Fell. Sunbathed. Worked on the rings and trampoline. An hour later, he worked up a sweat on the punching bags, then swam nonstop for fifteen minutes in the large pool. He practiced yoga breathing and checked his underwater time, wincing when he noticed he was forty-eight seconds short of the official world record. Well-it wouldn't work out.
  
  Just after midnight, Nick headed toward his posh apartment building, sneaking past the breakfast table to schedule a meeting with David Hawk. He found his senior officer inside. They greeted each other with a handshake and quiet, friendly nods-a combination of controlled warmth, rooted in a long-standing relationship and mutual respect.
  
  Hawk was wearing one of his gray suits. When his shoulders slumped and he walked casually, instead of with his usual gait, he could have been a major or minor Washington businessman, a government official, or a visiting taxpayer from the West Fork. Ordinary, unremarkable, so unremarkable.
  
  Nick remained silent. Hawk said, "We can talk. I think the boilers are starting to burn."
  
  "Yes, sir. How about a cup of tea?"
  
  "Great. Have you had lunch?"
  
  "No. I'm skipping that today. A counterbalance to all the canapés and seven-course meals I get on this assignment."
  
  "Put the water down, my boy. We'll be very British. Maybe that will help. We're against what they specialize in. Threads within threads and no start for a knot. How did it go last night?"
  
  Nick told him. Hawk nodded occasionally and carefully played with his unwrapped cigar.
  
  "This is a dangerous place. No weapons, they're all taken and tied up. Let's not take any more chances. I'm sure we're dealing with cold-blooded killers, and it might be your turn." Plans and Operations "I don't agree with you one hundred percent, but I think they'll be after we meet tomorrow."
  
  "New facts?"
  
  "Nothing new. That's the beauty of it. Herbert Wildale Tyson was found dead in his home this morning. Supposedly of natural causes. I'm beginning to like that phrase. Every time I hear it, my suspicions double. And now there's good reason for it. Or a better reason. Do you recognize Tyson?"
  
  "Nicknamed 'Wheel and Business.' Rope puller and oiler. One of fifteen hundred like him. I can probably name a hundred."
  
  "Right. You know him because he climbed to the top of a stinking barrel. Now let me try to connect the dots. Tyson is the fourth person to die of natural causes, and they all knew each other. All major holders of oil and ammunition reserves in the Middle East."
  
  Hawk paused, and Nick frowned. "You expect me to say that this is nothing unusual in Washington."
  
  "That's right. Another article. Last week, two important and very respectable people received death threats. Senator Aaron Hawkburn and Fritsching from the Treasury Department."
  
  "And are they somehow connected to the other four?"
  
  "Not at all. Neither of them would be caught having lunch with Tyson, for example. But they both have huge key positions that could influence... the Middle East and some military contracts."
  
  "Were they only threatened? Were they not given any orders?"
  
  "I believe it will happen later. I think the four deaths will be used as horrific examples. But Hawkburn and Fritsching aren't the kind of people to be intimidated, although you never know. They called the FBI and cross-tipped us. I told them AXE might have something."
  
  Nick said cautiously, "It doesn't look like we have much - yet."
  
  "This is where you come in. How about some of that tea?"
  
  Nick stood, poured, and brought the cups, two tea bags each. They'd been through this ritual before. Hawk said, "Your lack of faith in me is understandable, though after all these years, I thought I deserved more..." He sipped his tea and looked at Nick with the shimmering gleam that always heralded a satisfying revelation-like the laying on of a powerful hand for a partner who feared he'd outbid him.
  
  "Show me another puzzle piece you're hiding," Nick said. "The one that fits."
  
  "Pieces, Nicholas. Pieces. Which I'm sure you're going to put together. You're warm. You and I both know that last night was no ordinary robbery. Your customers were watching and listening. Why? They wanted to know more about Jerry Deming. Is it because Jerry Deming-Nick Carter-is on to something and we don't realize it yet?"
  
  "...Or is Akito keeping a damn close eye on his daughter?"
  
  "...Or was the daughter involved in this and played the victim?"
  
  Nick frowned. "I won't discount it. But she could have killed me while I was tied up. She had a razor. She could just as easily have pulled out a steak knife and cut me up like a roast."
  
  "They might want Jerry Deming. You're an experienced oilman. Low-paid and probably greedy. They might approach you. That would be a lead."
  
  "I searched her bag," Nick said thoughtfully. "How did they follow us? They couldn't have let those four ride around all day."
  
  "Oh," Hawk feigned regret. "Your Bird has a pager on it. One of those old 24-hour ones. We left it there in case they decided to pick it up."
  
  "I knew it," Nick said, turning the table gently.
  
  "Did you do it?"
  
  "I checked the frequencies using my house radio. I didn't find the pager itself, but I knew it had to be there."
  
  "You could tell me. Now on to something more exotic. The mysterious East. Have you noticed the abundance of pretty girls with slanted eyes in society?"
  
  "Why not? Since 1938, we've been reaping a new crop of Asian millionaires every year. Most of them eventually arrive here with their families and their spoils."
  
  "But they remain under the radar. There are others. Over the past two years, we've compiled guest lists from more than six hundred and fifty events and put them into a computer. Among Eastern women, six charming women top the list for parties of international stature. "Or lobbying importance. Here..." He handed Nick a note.
  
  Jeanyee Ahling
  
  Susie Cuong
  
  Ann We Ling
  
  Pong-Pong Lily
  
  Route Moto
  
  Sonia Rañez
  
  Nick said, "I've seen three of them plus Ruth. Probably just not introduced to the others. The number of Oriental girls caught my attention, but it didn't seem important until you showed me this sample. Of course, I've met about two hundred people in the last six weeks, of every nationality in the world..."
  
  "But not counting other beautiful flowers from the East."
  
  "Is it true."
  
  Hawk tapped the paper. "Others may be in the group or elsewhere, but not detected in the computer template. Now, the nugget..."
  
  "One or more of these loved ones were at at least one gathering where they could have encountered the dead. The computer tells us that Tyson's garage worker tells us he thinks he saw Tyson driving away in his car about two weeks ago with an Eastern woman. He's not sure, but it's an interesting piece of our puzzle. We're checking Tyson's habits. If he ate at any major restaurants or hotels or was seen with her more than a few times, it would be good to find out."
  
  "Then we will know that we are on a possible path."
  
  "Although we won't know where we're going. Don't forget to mention the Confederation oil company in Latakia. They tried to do business through Tyson and another dead man, Armbruster, who told his law firm to turn them down. They have two tankers and are chartering three more, with a lot of Chinese crews. They're banned from carrying American cargo because they've been making trips to Havana and Haiphong. We can't put pressure on them because there's a lot of... French money involved, and they have close ties to Baal in Syria. The Confederation is the usual five corporations, stacked one on top of the other, elegantly intertwined in Switzerland, Lebanon, and London. But Harry Demarkin told us the center is something called the Baumann Ring. It's a power structure."
  
  Nick repeated this "Bauman Ring".
  
  "You're on."
  
  "Bauman. Borman. Martin Borman?"
  
  "Maybe."
  
  Nick's pulse quickened, a pace that was hard to surprise. Borman. The enigmatic vulture. Elusive as smoke. One of the most wanted men on earth or beyond. Sometimes it seemed as if he operated from another dimension.
  
  His death has been reported dozens of times since his boss died in Berlin on April 29, 1945.
  
  "Is Harry still exploring?"
  
  Hawk's face clouded over. "Harry died yesterday. His car fell off a cliff above Beirut."
  
  "A real accident?" Nick felt a sharp pang of regret. AXEman Harry Demarkin was his friend, and you hadn't achieved much in this business. Harry was fearless, but cautious.
  
  "Maybe".
  
  It seemed as if in a moment of silence he echoed - perhaps.
  
  Hawke's brooding eyes were darker than Nick had ever seen them. "We're about to open a big bag of trouble, Nick. Don't underestimate them. Remember Harry."
  
  "The worst part is that we're not sure what the bag looks like, where it is, or what's in it."
  
  "Good description. It's a nasty situation all around. I feel like I'm putting you at a piano with a seat full of dynamite that explodes when you press a certain key. I can't tell you which key is the deadly one because I don't know either!"
  
  "There's a chance it's less serious than it looks," Nick said, not believing it but encouraging the old man. "I might find out the deaths are a stunning coincidence, the girls are a new paid act, and the Confederacy is just a bunch of promoters and 10%ers."
  
  "True. You rely on the AXE's maxim-only the foolish are certain, the wise always doubt. But, for God's sake, be very careful, the facts we have point in many directions, and this is the worst-case scenario." Hawk sighed and pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "I can help you a little more. Here are the dossiers on six girls. We're still digging through their biographies, of course. But..."
  
  Between his thumb and forefinger, he held a small, brightly colored metal pellet, about twice the size of a kidney bean. "New pager from Stuart's department. You press this green dot, and it activates for six hours. Range is about three miles in rural areas. Depends on conditions in the city, whether you're protected by buildings, etc."
  
  Nick looked it over: "They keep getting better and better. A different type of case?"
  
  "It can be used that way. But the real idea is to swallow it. The search reveals nothing. Of course, if they have a monitor, they know it's in you..."
  
  "And they have up to six hours to cut you open and silence you," Nick added dryly. He slipped the device into his pocket. "Thank you."
  
  Hawk leaned over the back of his chair and pulled out two bottles of expensive Scotch whiskey, each in a dark brown glass. He handed one to Nick. "Look at this."
  
  Nick examined the seal, read the label, and examined the cap and base. "If this were a cork," he mused, "there could be anything hidden in it, but this looks absolutely kosher. Could there really be Scotch tape in there?"
  
  "If you ever pour yourself a drink of this, enjoy. One of the best concoctions." Hawk tilted the bottle he held up and down, watching the liquid form tiny bubbles from its own air.
  
  "See anything?" Hawk asked.
  
  "Let me try it." Nick carefully turned his bottle over and over again, and he got it. If your eyes were very sharp and you looked at the bottom of the bottle, you would notice that the oil bubbles don't appear there when the bottle is turned upside down. "The bottom doesn't look right somehow."
  
  "That's right. There's a glass partition. The top half is whiskey. The bottom half is one of Stewart's super explosives, which looks like whiskey. You activate it by breaking the bottle and exposing it to air for two minutes. Then any flame will ignite it. As it's under compression and airless right now, it's relatively safe," Stewart says.
  
  Nick put the bottle down carefully. "They might come in handy."
  
  "Yes," Hawk agreed, standing and carefully brushing the ash from his jacket. "When you're in a tight spot, you can always offer to buy the last drink."
  
  * * *
  
  At precisely 4:12 PM on Friday afternoon, Nick's phone rang. A girl said, "This is Ms. Rice from the phone company. You called..." She quoted a number ending in seven, eight.
  
  "Sorry, no," Nick replied. She sweetly apologized for the call and hung up.
  
  Nick turned his phone over, removed two screws from the base, and connected three wires from the small brown box to three terminals, including the 24V power input. Then he dialed a number. When Hawk answered, he said, "Scrambler code seventy-eight."
  
  "Correct and clear. Report?"
  
  "Nothing. I've been to three other boring parties. You know what kind of girls they were. Very friendly. They had escorts, and I couldn't get them off."
  
  "Very well. Continue this evening with Cushing. We have big problems. There are big leaks at the top of the company."
  
  "I will."
  
  "Please call number six between ten and nine in the morning."
  
  "That'll do. Goodbye."
  
  "Goodbye and good luck."
  
  Nick hung up the phone, removed the wires, and replaced the base. The small brown portable scramblers were one of Stewart's most ingenious devices. The scrambler's design was endless. He designed the little brown boxes, each containing transistor circuits and a ten-pin switch, packaged in a box smaller than a regular-sized pack of cigarettes.
  
  Unless both were set to "78," the sound modulation was gibberish. Just in case, every two months the boxes were replaced with new ones containing new scrambler circuits and ten new selections. Nick donned a tuxedo and set off on the "Bird" to pick up Ruth.
  
  The Cushing Gathering-an annual get-together for all the friends, complete with cocktails, dinner, entertainment, and dancing-was held at their two-hundred-acre Virginia estate. The setting was magnificent.
  
  As they drove down the long driveway, colored lights sparkled in the twilight, music blared from the conservatory to the left, and they had to wait a short while the distinguished guests disembarked from their cars and were driven away by attendants. Shiny limousines were popular-Cadillacs stood out.
  
  Nick said, "I suppose you've been here before?"
  
  "Many times. Alice and I used to play tennis all the time. Now I sometimes come here on weekends."
  
  "How many tennis courts?"
  
  "Three, counting one indoors."
  
  "The good life. Name the money."
  
  "My father says that since most people are so stupid, there is no excuse for a man with a brain not to become rich."
  
  "The Cushings have been rich for seven generations. All the brains?"
  
  "Daddy says people are stupid for working so many hours. Selling themselves for so much time, he calls it. They love their slavery because freedom is terrible. You have to work for yourself. Take advantage of opportunities."
  
  "I'm never in the right place at the right time," Nick sighed. "I get sent to the field ten years after oil production begins."
  
  He smiled at her as they climbed the three wide steps, her beautiful black eyes studying him. As they walked across the tunnel-like lawn, illuminated by multicolored lights, she asked, "Do you want me to talk to my father?"
  
  "I'm wide open. Especially when I see a crowd like this. Just don't make me lose the job I have."
  
  "Jerry, you're being conservative. This is not the way to get rich."
  
  "That's how they stay rich," he muttered, but she greeted a tall blonde in a line of well-dressed people at the entrance to a giant tent. He was introduced to Alice Cushing and fourteen others in the reception area, six of them named Cushing. He memorized every name and face.
  
  After crossing the line, they walked to the long bar-a sixty-foot table covered in a blanket of snow. They exchanged greetings with a few people who knew Ruth or "that nice young oilman, Jerry Deming." Nick received two cognacs on the rocks from the bartender, who looked surprised by the order, but he had it. They walked a few feet away from the bar and stopped to sip their drinks.
  
  The large tent could accommodate a two-ring circus, with room left over for two bocce games, and it was only able to handle the overflow from the stone conservatory it adjoined. Through the tall windows, Nick saw another long bar inside the building, with people dancing on the polished floors.
  
  He noted that the appetizers on the long tables opposite the tent's bar were prepared on-site. The roast meat, poultry, and caviar, while the white-coated waiters deftly prepared your requested appetizer, would have fed a Chinese village for a week. Among the guests, he saw four American generals he knew and six from other countries he didn't.
  
  They stopped to talk to Congressman Andrews and his niece-he introduced her everywhere as his niece, but she had that haughty, boring-girl air that casts her in the shadows-and while Nick was being polite, Ruth exchanged glances behind his back and returned with a Chinese woman in another group. Their glances were quick, and since they were completely impassive, they were hidden.
  
  We tend to categorize Chinese people as small, gentle, and even accommodating. The girl exchanging quick recognition signals with Ruth was large and commanding, and the bold gaze of her intelligent black eyes was shocking, emanating from beneath eyebrows deliberately plucked to emphasize their slanted angles. "Oriental?" they seemed to challenge. "You're damn right. Go for it if you dare."
  
  That was the impression Nick made a moment later, when Ruth introduced him to Jeanie Aling. He'd seen her at other parties, carefully checked her name off his mental list, but it was the first limelight he felt under the influence of her gaze-the almost molten heat of those glittering eyes above round cheeks, the softness of which was challenged by the clean, sharp planes of her face and the bold curve of her red lips.
  
  He said, "I am especially pleased to meet you, Miss Aling."
  
  The glossy black eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Nick thought, "She's stunning-a beauty like the kind you see on TV or in the movies." "Yes, because I saw you at the Pan-American party two weeks ago. I was hoping to meet you then."
  
  "Are you interested in the East? Or China itself? Or girls?"
  
  "All three of these things."
  
  "Are you a diplomat, Mr. Deming?"
  
  "No. Just a small-time oilman."
  
  "How are Mr. Murchison and Mr. Hunt?"
  
  "No. The difference is about three billion dollars. I work as a civil servant."
  
  She chuckled. Her tone was soft and deep, and her English was excellent,
  
  with just the slightest hint of "too perfect," as if she'd memorized it carefully, or spoken several languages and been taught to round all the vowels. "You're very honest. Most men you meet give themselves a little raise. You could just say, 'I'm on official business.'"
  
  "You would find out, and my honesty rating would drop."
  
  "Are you an honest man?"
  
  "I want to be known as an honest person."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Because I promised my mother. And when I lie to you, you will believe me."
  
  She laughed. He felt a pleasant tingle in his spine. They didn't do that many times. Ruth was chatting with Ginny's escort, a tall, slender Latino. She turned and said, "Jerry, have you met Patrick Valdez?"
  
  "No."
  
  Ruth moved out and gathered the quartet together, away from the group Nick described as politicians, ammunition, and four nationalities. Congressman Creeks, already high as usual, was telling a story-his audience feigned interest because he was old devil Creeks, with seniority, committees, and control over appropriations totaling some thirty billion dollars.
  
  "Pat, this is Jerry Deming," Ruth said. "Pat from OAS. Jerry from oil. That means you'll know you're not competitors."
  
  Valdez showed his beautiful white teeth and shook his hand. "Maybe we're into pretty girls," he said. "You two know that."
  
  "What a nice way to pay a compliment," said Ruth. "Jeanie, Jerry, will you excuse us for a second? Bob Quitlock wanted to meet Pat. We'll join you at the conservatory in ten minutes. Next to the orchestra."
  
  "Of course," Nick replied, watching the couple make their way through the growing crowd. "Ruth has a stunning figure," he mused, "until you look at Ginny." He turned to her. "And you? Princess on vacation?"
  
  "I doubt it, but thank you. I work for Ling-Taiwan Export Company."
  
  "I thought you could be a model. Honestly, Ginny, I've never seen a Chinese girl in a movie as beautiful as you. Or as tall."
  
  "Thank you. We're not all little flowers. My family came from northern China. They're big there. It's a lot like Sweden. Mountains and sea. Lots of good food."
  
  "How are they doing under Mao?"
  
  He thought he saw her eyes flicker, but her emotions were unreadable. "We went out with Chang. I didn't hear much."
  
  He led her into the conservatory, brought her a drink, and asked a few more tender questions. He received soft, uninformative answers. In her pale green dress, a perfect contrast to her sleek black hair and sparkling eyes, she stood out. He watched the other men watch.
  
  She knew plenty of people who smiled and nodded or paused to say a few words. She fended off some men who wanted to stay with her with a change of pace that created a wall of ice until they moved on. She never offended-
  
  Ed, she just walked into the deep freeze locker and came out as soon as they left.
  
  He found her dancing skillfully, and they stayed on the floor because it was fun-and because Nick genuinely enjoyed the feel of her in his arms and the scent of her perfume and body. When Ruth and Valdez returned, they exchanged dances, drank quite a bit, and gathered in a group in the corner of the large room, consisting of people Nick had met and some he hadn't.
  
  During one pause, Ruth said, standing next to Jeanie, "Could you excuse us for a few minutes? Dinner must be announced now, and we want to freshen up."
  
  Nick stayed with Pat. They got fresh drinks and, as usual, greeted each other with toasts. He learned nothing new from the South American.
  
  Alone in the ladies' sitting room, Ruth said to Ginny, "What do you think of him after taking a good look at him?"
  
  "I think you got it this time. Isn't that the dream? Much more interesting than Pat."
  
  "The leader says if Deming joins, forget about Pat."
  
  "I know." Ruth sighed. "I'll take it off your hands, as agreed. He's a good dancer, anyway. But you'll find Deming is really something else. So much charm to spend on the oil business. And he's all business. He nearly turned the tables. Leader. You'd laugh. Of course, Leader turned them back-and he's not mad about it. I think he admires Deming for it. He recommended him to Command."
  
  The girls were in one of the countless women's lounges-fully equipped dressing rooms and bathrooms. Ginny glanced at the expensive furniture. "Are we supposed to talk here?"
  
  "Safe," Ruth replied, airbrushing her exquisite lips on one of the giant mirrors. "You know, the military and political only spy on exits. These are all entrances. You can spy on individuals and deceive each other, but if you're caught spying on a group, you're screwed."
  
  Ginny sighed. "You know a lot more about politics than I do. But I know people. There's something about this Deming that worries me. He's too-too strong. Have you ever noticed how generals are made of brass, especially their heads? Steel men turned steel, and oil men turned oily? Well, Deming is hard and fast, and you and the Leader discovered he has courage.
  
  It doesn't fit the image of an oilman."
  
  "I'll say you're familiar with men. I never thought of it that way. But I suppose those are the reasons Command is interested in Deming. He's more than just a businessman. He's interested in money, like all of them. What's up with this evening? Offer him something you think might work. I suggested my father might have something for him, but he didn't take the bait."
  
  "Also cautious..."
  
  "Of course. That's a plus. He likes girls, if you're afraid you'll get another one like Carl Comstock."
  
  "No. I told you I knew Deming was a real man. It's just... well, maybe he's just such a valuable guy, I'm not used to it. I felt like he wore a mask sometimes, just like we do."
  
  "I didn't get that impression, Ginny. But be careful. If he's a thief, we don't need him." Ruth sighed. "But what kind of body..."
  
  "Aren't you jealous?"
  
  "Of course not. If I had a choice, I would choose him. If I got an order, I'd take Pat and make the most of her."
  
  What Ruth and Jeanie didn't discuss-never discussed-was their conditioned taste for Caucasian, not Eastern, men. Like most girls raised in a particular society, they accepted its norms. Their ideal was Gregory Peck or Lee Marvin. Their leader knew this-he had been carefully briefed by the First Commander, who often discussed it with his psychologist, Lindhauer.
  
  The girls closed their purses. Ruth was about to leave, but Ginny held back. "What should I do," she asked thoughtfully, "if Deming isn't who he seems? I still have this strange feeling..."
  
  "That he could be on another team?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "I see..." Ruth paused, her face going blank for a moment, then stern. "I wouldn't want to be you if you're wrong, Ginny. But if you're convinced, I suppose there's only one thing left to do."
  
  "Rule seven?"
  
  "Yes. Cover him."
  
  "I never made this decision on my own."
  
  "The rule is clear. Put it on. Leave no trace."
  
  Chapter IV.
  
  
  Since the real Nick Carter was the kind of man who attracted people, both men and women, when the girls returned to the conservatory, they saw him from the balcony in the center of a large group. He was chatting with an Air Force star about artillery tactics in Korea. Two entrepreneurs he met at the newly opened Ford's Theatre were trying to attract his attention with talk of oil. A delightful redhead, with whom he had exchanged warm remarks at a small, intimate party, was chatting with Pat Valdez while she looked for an opportunity to open Nick's eyes. Several other couples said, "Hey, that's Jerry Deming!" and squeezed past.
  
  "Look at this," Ruth said. "He's too good to be true."
  
  "It's oil," Ginny replied.
  
  "It's charming."
  
  "And salesmanship. I bet he sells those things by the tanker."
  
  "I think he knows."
  
  Ruth stated that Nick and Jeanie reached Pat when the soft sounds of chimes came over the loudspeaker and quieted the crowd.
  
  "Looks like the SS UNITED STATES," the redhead chirped loudly. She'd almost reached Nick, but now he was lost to her. He caught her out of the corner of his eye, jotted it down for reference, but didn't let on.
  
  A male voice, soft and oval, sounding professional, came over the loudspeakers: "Good evening, everyone. The Cushings welcome you to the All-Friends Dinner and have asked me to say a few words. This is the eighty-fifth anniversary of the dinner, which was started by Napoleon Cushing for a most unusual purpose. He wanted to acquaint the philanthropic and idealistic Washington community with the need for more missionaries in the Far East, especially in China. He wanted to obtain diverse support for this noble endeavor."
  
  Nick took a sip of his drink and thought, "Oh my God, put the Buddha in a basket." Build me a house where buffalo roam from cans of kerosene and gasoline.
  
  The unctuous voice continued: "For several years, due to circumstances, this project has been somewhat curtailed, but the Cushing family sincerely hopes that the good work will soon be resumed.
  
  "Because of the current size of the annual dinner, tables were placed in the Madison Dining Room, the Hamilton Room in the left wing, and the Great Hall at the rear of the house."
  
  Ruth squeezed Nick's hand and said with a slight giggle, "Gymnasium."
  
  The speaker concluded: "Most of you have been advised where to find your place cards. If you are unsure, the butler at the entrance to each room has a guest list and can advise you. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. The Cushings say again - thank you all for coming."
  
  Ruth asked Nick, "Have you been here before?"
  
  "No. I'm moving up."
  
  "Come on, look at the things in Monroe's room. It's as interesting as a museum." She gestured for Ginny and Pat to follow them and walked away from the group.
  
  It seemed to Nick that they had walked a mile. They climbed wide staircases, through large halls that resembled hotel corridors, except that the furniture was varied and expensive,
  
  and every few yards a servant stood at the reception desk to offer advice if needed. Nick said, "They have their own army."
  
  "Almost. Alice said they hired sixty people before they downsized a few years ago. Some of them were probably hired for the occasion."
  
  "They impress me."
  
  "You should have seen this a few years ago. They were all dressed like French court servants. Alice had something to do with modernization."
  
  The Monroe Room offered an impressive selection of art, many of them priceless, and was guarded by two private detectives and a stern man who resembled an old family servant. Nick said, "It warms the heart, doesn't it?"
  
  "How?" Ginny asked curiously.
  
  "All these wonderful things were presented to the missionaries, I believe, by your grateful compatriots."
  
  Jeanie and Ruth exchanged glances. Pat looked like he wanted to laugh, but thought better of it. They went out another door and into Madison's dining room.
  
  The dinner was magnificent: fruit, fish, and meat. Nick identified choy ngou tong, Cantonese lobster, saut daw chow gi yok, and bok choy ngou before giving up when a simmering hunk of Chateaubriand was placed in front of him. "Where can we put this?" he muttered to Ruth.
  
  "Try it, it's delicious," she replied. "Frederick Cushing IV personally chooses the menu."
  
  "Who is he?"
  
  "Fifth from the right at the head table. He's seventy-eight years old. He's on a soft diet."
  
  "I'll be with him after this."
  
  There were four wine glasses on each place setting, and they couldn't remain empty. Nick sipped half an inch from each and responded to a few toasts, but the vast majority of the diners were flushed and drunk by the time the cheerful don go-a sponge cake with pineapple and whipped cream-arrived.
  
  Then everything proceeded smoothly and quickly, to Nick's complete satisfaction. The guests returned to the winter garden and the tent, where the bars now sold coffee and liqueurs, in addition to vast quantities of alcohol in almost every form imaginable. Jeanie told him she hadn't come to dinner with Pat... Ruth suddenly developed a headache: "All that rich food"... and he found himself dancing with Jeanie while Ruth disappeared. Pat paired with a redhead.
  
  Just before midnight, Jerry Deming received a call with a note: "My dear, I'm sick." Nothing serious, just too much food. I went home with the Reynolds. You might offer Jeanie a ride into town. Please call me tomorrow. Ruth.
  
  He handed the letter to Ginny gravely. Her black eyes sparkled, and her magnificent body was in his arms. "I'm sorry about Ruth," Ginny murmured, "but I'm glad of my luck."
  
  The music was smooth, and the floor was less crowded as the wine-fueled guests dispersed. As they circled slowly in the corner, Nick asked, "How are you feeling?"
  
  "Wonderful. I have a digestion of iron." She sighed. "It's a luxury, isn't it?"
  
  "Great. All he needs is the ghost of Vasily Zakharov jumping out of the pool at midnight."
  
  "Was he cheerful?"
  
  "In most cases."
  
  Nick inhaled her perfume again. Her glossy hair and gleaming skin invaded his nostrils, and he savored her like an aphrodisiac. She pressed herself against him with a soft insistence that suggested affection, passion, or a mixture of both. He felt a warmth at the back of his neck and down his spine. You can raise a temperature with Ginny and about Ginny. He hoped it wasn't a black widow, trained to flutter her magnificent butterfly wings as a lure. Even if she were, it would be interesting, perhaps delightful, and he looked forward to meeting the talented person who taught her such skills.
  
  An hour later, he was at the Bird, speeding toward Washington, with Ginny, fragrant and warm, pressed against his arm. He thought perhaps switching from Ruth to Ginny had been a bit far-fetched. Not that he minded. For his AXE assignment or personal pleasure, he'd take one or the other. Ginny seemed very responsive-or maybe it was the drink. He squeezed her. Then he thought-but first...
  
  "Darling," he said, "I hope Ruth is all right. She reminds me of Susie Quong. Do you know her?"
  
  The pause was too long. She had to decide whether to lie, he thought, and then she concluded that the truth was the most logical and safest. "Yes. But how? I don't think they're very similar."
  
  "They have that same Eastern charm. I mean, you know what they're saying, but often you can't guess what they're thinking, but you know, it would be damn interesting if you could."
  
  She considered this. "I see what you mean, Jerry. Yes, they are nice girls." She slurred and gently rolled her head onto his shoulder.
  
  "And Ann We Ling," he continued. "There's a girl who always makes me think of lotus flowers and fragrant tea in a Chinese garden."
  
  Ginny just sighed.
  
  "Do you know Ann?" Nick insisted.
  
  Another pause. "Yes. Naturally, girls of the same background who often bump into each other usually get together and exchange notes. I think I know a hundred
  
  "Red cute Chinese girls in Washington." They rode for several miles in silence. He wondered if he had gone too far, relying on the alcohol in her. He was startled when she asked, "Why are you so interested in Chinese girls?"
  
  "I spent some time in the East. Chinese culture intrigues me. I like the atmosphere, the food, the traditions, the girls..." He took her large breast and gently stroked it with his sensitive fingers. She pressed herself against him.
  
  "That's nice," she murmured. "You know the Chinese are good business people. Almost everywhere we land, we do well in trade."
  
  "I noticed. I've dealt with Chinese companies. Reliable. Good reputation."
  
  "Do you make a lot of money, Jerry?"
  
  "Enough to get by. If you want to see how I live, let's stop at my place for a drink before I take you home."
  
  "Okay," she drawled lazily. "But by money, I mean making money for yourself, not just a salary. So that it comes in nice, thousands of grand, and maybe you don't have to pay too much tax on it. That's the way to make money."
  
  "That is indeed true," he agreed.
  
  "My cousin is in the oil business," she continued. "He was talking about finding another partner. No investment. The new person would be guaranteed a decent salary if they had real oil experience. But if they succeeded, he would split the profits."
  
  "I would like to meet your cousin."
  
  "I'll tell you about it when I see him."
  
  "I'll give you my business card so he can call me."
  
  "Please do it. I would like to help you." A thin, strong hand squeezed his knee.
  
  Two hours and four drinks later, a beautiful hand gripped the same knee with a much firmer touch-and touched much more of his body. Nick was pleased with the ease with which she agreed to stay at his apartment before he drove her home, to what she described as "the place the family bought in Chevy Chase."
  
  A drink? She was stupid, but he was unlikely to get another word out of her about her cousin or the family business. "I help out in the office," she added, as if she had an automatic silencer.
  
  Play? She didn't protest at all when he suggested they take off their shoes for comfort-then her dress and his striped pants... "so we can relax and not wrinkle them all."
  
  Stretched out on the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the Anacostia River, with the lights dimmed, soft music playing, ice, soda, and whiskey stacked next to the couch so he wouldn't have to wander too far, Nick thought contentedly: What a way to make a living.
  
  Partially undressed, Ginny looked more gorgeous than ever. She wore a silk slip and a strapless bra, and her skin was the delicious shade of a golden-yellow peach at the moment of firm ripeness, before softening to a reddish softness. He thought her hair was the color of fresh oil gushing into storage tanks on a dark night-black gold.
  
  He kissed her deeply, but not as continuously as she would have liked. He caressed and stroked her and let her dream. He was patient until she suddenly said out of the silence, "I feel you, Jerry. You want to make love to me, don't you?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "You're easy to talk to, Jerry Deming. Have you ever been married?"
  
  "No."
  
  "But you knew a lot of girls."
  
  "Yes."
  
  "All over the world?"
  
  "Yes." He gave short answers softly, quickly enough to show that they were true - and they were true, but without a hint of brevity or irritation under questioning.
  
  "Do you feel like you like me?"
  
  "Like every girl I've ever met. You're simply beautiful. Exotic. More beautiful than any photograph of a Chinese princess because you're warm and alive."
  
  "You can bet I am," she breathed, turning to face him. "And you're going to learn something," she added before their lips met.
  
  He didn't have time to worry about it much, because Ginny was making love, and her activities demanded his full attention. She was a captivating magnet, drawing your passion inward and outward, and once you felt its pull and allowed yourself to move a fraction of an inch, you were swept up in an irresistible attraction, and nothing could stop you from diving into its very core. And once you moved in, you didn't want to stop.
  
  She didn't force him, nor did the attention a prostitute gave him, given with professional intensity at arm's length. Ginny made love as if she had a license to do so, with skill, warmth, and such personal pleasure that you were simply astounded. A man would be a fool not to relax, and no one ever called Nick a fool.
  
  He collaborated, contributed, and was grateful for his good fortune. He'd had more than his share of sensual encounters in his life, and he knew he'd earned them not by chance, but through his physical attraction to women.
  
  With Ginny-as with others who needed love and required only the right offer of exchange to open their hearts, minds, and bodies wide-the deal was made. Nick delivered the goods with tenderness and subtlety.
  
  As he lay there with his damp black hair covering his face, tasting its texture with his tongue and wondering again what that perfume was, Nick thought, great.
  
  He had been rejoicing for the last two hours - and he was sure that he had given as much as he had received.
  
  The hair slowly receded from the contact with her skin, replaced by glittering black eyes and a mischievous grin-the elf's full height outlined in the dim light of the single lamp, which he then dimmed by throwing his robe over her. "Happy?"
  
  "Overwhelmed. Super excited," he replied very softly.
  
  "I feel the same way. You know it."
  
  "I feel it."
  
  She rolled her head onto his shoulder, the giant elf softening and flowing along its entire length. "Why can't people be happy with this? They get up and argue. Or they leave without a kind word. Or men leave to drink or fight stupid wars."
  
  "That means," Nick said with surprise, "most people don't have it. They're too uptight, self-centered, or inexperienced. How often do two people like us get together? Both givers. Both patient... You know-everyone thinks they're natural-born players, conversationalists, and lovers. Most people never discover that they actually don't know a damn thing about any of those things. As for digging, learning, and developing skills-they never bother."
  
  "Do you think I'm skilled?"
  
  Nick thought about the six or seven different skills she'd demonstrated so far. "You're very skilled."
  
  "Watch."
  
  The golden elf fell to the floor with the agility of an acrobat. The artistry of her movements took his breath away, and the undulating, perfect curves of her breasts, hips, and rump made him lick his lips and swallow. She stood with her legs wide, smiled at him, then leaned back, and suddenly her head was between her legs, her red lips still curled. "Have you ever seen this before?"
  
  "Only on stage!" he raised himself up on his elbow.
  
  "Or is it?" She rose slowly, bent over and placed her hands on the wall-to-wall carpet, then smoothly, an inch at a time, lifted her neat toes until their pink nails pointed toward the ceiling, then lowered them toward it until they just fell into the bed and reached the floor in a stiletto arc.
  
  He looked at half the girl. An interesting half, but strangely unsettling. In the dim light, she was cut off at the waist. Her soft voice was unnoticeable. "You're an athlete, Jerry. You're a powerful man. Can you do this?"
  
  "God, no," he replied with genuine awe. The half-body transformed back into a tall, golden girl. The dream emerged, laughing. "You must have trained all your life. You-you were in show business?"
  
  "When I was little, we trained every day. Often two or three times a day. I kept it up. I think it's good for you. I've never been sick in my life."
  
  "This should be a big hit at parties."
  
  "I never perform again. Only like this. For someone who's especially good. It has another use..." She sank down on top of him, kissed him, pulled back to look at him thoughtfully. "You're ready again," she said with surprise. "Mighty man."
  
  "Watching you do this would bring every statue in the city to life."
  
  She laughed, rolled away from him, and then wriggled lower until she saw the top of his black hair. Then she rolled over on the bed, her long, lithe legs twisting 180 degrees, a slight arc, until she was bent more than double again, curled back on herself.
  
  "Now, dear." Her voice was muffled against her own stomach.
  
  "Currently?"
  
  "You'll see. It will be different."
  
  As he submitted, Nick felt an unusual excitement and zeal. He prided himself on his perfect self-control-obediently performing his daily yoga and Zen exercises-but now he didn't need to persuade himself.
  
  He swam toward a warm cave where a beautiful girl awaited him, but he couldn't touch her. He was alone and yet with her. He walked the entire way, floating on his crossed arms, resting his head on them.
  
  He felt the silky tickle of her hair drift across his thighs, and he thought he might momentarily escape the depths, but a large fish with a wet, tender mouth captured the twin spheres of his manhood, and for another moment he fought the loss of control. But the rapture was too great, and he closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him in the sweet darkness of the friendly depths. This was unusual. This was rare. He hovered in red and deep purple, transformed into a living rocket of unknown size, tingling and pulsing on its launchpad beneath a secret sea, until he pretended to want it but knew he was helpless, as if with a wave of delicious power they were shot into space or out of it-it didn't matter now-and the boosters joyfully exploded in a chain of ecstatic mates.
  
  When he looked at his watch, it was 3:07. They'd been asleep for twenty minutes. He stirred, and Ginny woke up, as always-snapping and alert. "What time?" she asked with a satisfied sigh. When he told her, she said, "I better go home. My family is tolerant, but..."
  
  On the way to Chevy Chase, Nick convinced himself that he would see Ginny again soon.
  
  Thoroughness often paid off. Enough time to double-check Anne, Susie, and the others. To his surprise, she refused to make any appointments.
  
  "I need to leave town on business," she said. "Call me in a week and I'll be glad to see you - if you still want to."
  
  "I'll call you," he said seriously. He knew several beautiful girls... some of them were beautiful, smart, passionate, and some had all the rest. But Ginny Ahling was something else!
  
  The question then arose: where was she going on business? Why? With whom? Could it be connected to the unexplained deaths or the Bauman ring?
  
  He said, "I hope your business trip will be to a place away from this hot period. No wonder the British are paying a tropical bonus for Washington debt. I wish you and I could slip away to the Catskills, Asheville, or Maine."
  
  "That would be nice," she replied dreamily. "Maybe someday. We're very busy right now. We'll mostly be flying. Or in air-conditioned conference rooms." She was sleepy. The pale gray of dawn softened the darkness as she directed him to stop at an older house with ten or twelve rooms. He parked behind a screen of bushes. He decided not to try to push her further-Jerry Deming was making good progress in all departments, and there would be no point in ruining it by pushing too hard.
  
  He kissed her for several minutes. She whispered, "That was a lot of fun, Jerry. Think about it, maybe you'd like me to introduce you to my cousin. I know the way he handles oil brings in real money."
  
  "I've decided. I want to meet him."
  
  "Okay. Call me in a week."
  
  And she left.
  
  He enjoyed returning to the apartment. One might have thought it was a crisp, still-cool day, with little traffic. As he slowed down, the milkman waved at him, and he waved back heartily.
  
  He thought of Ruth and Jeanie. They were the latest in a long line of promoters. You were either in a hurry or starving. They might want Jerry Deming because he seemed stubborn and experienced in a business where money flowed, if you were lucky at all. Or this might be his first valuable contact with something both complex and deadly.
  
  He set his alarm for 11:50 a.m. When he woke up, he turned on a quick Farberware and called Ruth Moto.
  
  "Hi, Jerry..." She didn't look sick.
  
  "Hi. Sorry, you weren't feeling well last night. Are you feeling better now?"
  
  "Yes. I woke up feeling great. I hope I didn't upset you by leaving, but I might have gotten sick if I had stayed. Definitely bad company."
  
  "As long as you're feeling well again, everything's fine. Jeanie and I had a good time." "Oh, man," he thought, "this can be made public." "How about dinner tonight to make up for the lost night?"
  
  "Love it."
  
  "By the way," Ginny tells me, "she has a cousin in the oil business, and I could fit in there somehow. I don't want you to feel like I'm putting you in a difficult position, but do you know if she and I have strong business ties?"
  
  "You mean, can you trust Genie's opinion?"
  
  "Yes, this is it."
  
  There was silence. Then she replied, "I think so. It can bring you closer to... your field."
  
  "Okay, thanks. What are you doing next Wednesday night?" Nick's urge to ask a question arose when he remembered Jeanie's plans. What if several of the mystery girls were going away "on business"? "I'm going to an Iranian concert at the Hilton-would you like to come?"
  
  There was genuine regret in her voice. "Oh, Jerry, I'd love to, but I'll be tied up all week."
  
  "All week! Are you leaving?"
  
  "Well... yeah, I'll be out of town for most of the week."
  
  "This is going to be a boring week for me," he said. "See you around six, Ruth. Should I pick you up at your place?"
  
  "Please."
  
  After hanging up, he sat down on the carpet in the lotus position and began practicing yoga exercises for breathing and muscle control. He had progressed-after about six years of practice-to the point where he could watch his pulse on his wrist, resting on his bent knee, and see it speed up or slow down at will. After fifteen minutes, he consciously returned to the problem of strange deaths, the Bauman Ring, Ginny, and Ruth. He liked both girls. They were strange in their own way, but unique and different always intrigued him. He recounted the events in Maryland, Hawk's comments, and Ruth's strange illness at the Cushing dinner. You could piece them together, or admit that all the connecting threads could be coincidence. He couldn't remember feeling so helpless in a case... with a choice of answers, but nothing to compare them to.
  
  He dressed in maroon pants and a white polo shirt, walked down, and drove to Gallaudet College in Bird. He walked down New York Avenue, turned right onto Mt. Olivet, and saw a man waiting for him at the intersection with Bladensburg Road.
  
  This man had a double invisibility: complete ordinariness plus a shabby, stooped despondency that made you subconsciously quickly pass him by, so that poverty or
  
  The misfortunes of his world didn't intrude on your own. Nick stopped, the man quickly climbed in, and drove toward Lincoln Park and the John Philip Sousa Bridge.
  
  Nick said, "When I saw you, I wanted to buy you a hearty meal and stuff a five-dollar bill into your tattered pocket."
  
  "You can do that," Hawk replied. "I haven't had lunch. Get some hamburgers and milk from that place near the Navy Yard. We can eat them in the car."
  
  Though Hawk didn't acknowledge the compliment, Nick knew he appreciated it. The older man could do wonders with a tattered jacket. Even a pipe, a cigar, or an old hat could completely transform his appearance. It wasn't the subject... Hawk had the ability to appear old, haggard, and dejected, or arrogant, tough, and pompous, or dozens of other characters. He was an expert in true disguise. Hawk could disappear because he became an ordinary man.
  
  Nick described his evening with Jeanie: "...then I took her home. She won't be there next week. I think Ruth Moto will be there too. Is there somewhere they can all get together?"
  
  Hawk took a slow sip of milk. "Took her home at dawn, huh?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Oh, to be young again and working in the fields. You entertain beautiful girls. Alone with them... would you say four or five hours? I'm a slave in a boring office."
  
  "We were talking about Chinese jade," Nick said softly. "It's her hobby."
  
  "I know that among Ginny's hobbies there are more active ones."
  
  "So you don't spend all your time in the office. What kind of disguise did you use? Something like Clifton Webb in those old TV movies, I'm guessing?"
  
  "You're close. It's nice to see you young people have such polished techniques." He dropped the empty container and grinned. Then he continued, "We have an idea for where the girls can go. There's a week-long party at the Lords' estate in Pennsylvania-it's called a business conference. The most popular international businessmen. Primarily steel, airplanes, and, of course, ammunition."
  
  "No oil workers?"
  
  In any case, your role as Jerry Deming isn't going anywhere. You've met too many people lately. But you're the one who has to go.
  
  "What about Lou Carl?"
  
  "He's in Iran. He's deeply involved. I wouldn't want to take him out."
  
  "I thought of him because he knows the steel business. And if there are girls there, any identity I choose will have to be a complete cover."
  
  "I doubt that girls will be circulating among the guests."
  
  Nick nodded gravely, watching the DC-8 pass the smaller plane through the dense Washington strip. From this distance, they looked dangerously close. "I'll go in. It could be false information, anyway."
  
  Hawk chuckled. "If this is an attempt to get my opinion, it will work. We know about this meeting because we've been monitoring the central telephone switchboard for six days now, without a break of more than thirty minutes. Something large and superbly organized. If they are responsible for the recent deaths, which were supposedly natural, they are ruthless and skilled."
  
  "You derive all this from telephone conversations?"
  
  "Don't try to trick me, my boy-the experts tried to do that." Nick suppressed a grin as Hawk continued, "Every piece doesn't fit, but I sense a pattern. Go in there and see how they fit together."
  
  "If they're as smart and tough as you think, maybe you'll have to get me together."
  
  "I doubt it, Nicholas. You know what I think of your abilities. That's why you're going there. If you're going for a cruise on your boat Sunday morning, I'll meet you at Bryan Point. If the river is crowded, head southwest until we're alone."
  
  "When will the technicians be ready for me?"
  
  "Tuesday at the garage in McLean. But I'll give you a full briefing and most of the documents and maps on Sunday."
  
  Nick enjoyed dinner with Ruth Moto that evening, but he learned nothing valuable and, on Hawk's advice, didn't press the issue. They enjoyed a few passionate moments parked on the beach, and at two o'clock he drove her home.
  
  On Sunday he met with Hawk, and they spent three hours going over the details with the precision of two architects about to sign a contract.
  
  On Tuesday, Jerry Deming told his answering machine, the doorman, and a few other important people that he was going to Texas on business, and then took off in the Bird. Half an hour later, he drove through the doors of a mid-size truck terminal, far from the road, and for a moment, he and his car disappeared from the face of the earth.
  
  On Wednesday morning, a two-year-old Buick left a truck garage and drove down Highway 7 in Leesburg. When it stopped, a man slipped out and walked five blocks to a taxi company.
  
  No one noticed him as he walked slowly down the busy street, for he wasn't the kind of man you'd look at twice, even though he limped and carried a simple brown cane. He could have been a local merchant or someone's father, coming in for some papers and a can of orange juice. His hair and moustache were gray, his skin was red and ruddy, he had poor posture and carried too much weight, despite his large frame. He wore a dark blue suit and a blue-gray soft hat.
  
  He hired a taxi and was driven back along the No7 highway to the airport,
  
  where he got off at the charter jet office. The man behind the counter liked him because he was so polite and obviously respectable.
  
  His papers were in order. Alastair Beadle Williams. She checked them carefully. "Your secretary has reserved Aero Commander, Mr. Williams, and sent a cash deposit." She herself became very polite. "Since you haven't flown with us before, we'd like to check you out... in person. If you don't mind..."
  
  "I don't blame you. It was a wise move."
  
  "Okay. I'll go with you myself. If you don't mind a woman..."
  
  "You look like a woman who is a good pilot. I can tell intelligence. I assume you have your LC and your instrument rating."
  
  "Why, yes. How did you know?"
  
  "I could always judge character." And, Nick thought, no girl struggling to put on trousers would let men get ahead of her-and you're old enough to fly for hours.
  
  He made two approaches, both flawless. She said, "You're very good, Mr. Williams. I'm pleased. Are you going to North Carolina?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Here are the maps. Come into the office and we'll file a flight plan."
  
  After he completed the plan, he said, "Depending on the circumstances, I may change this plan for tomorrow. I will personally call the control room about any deviation. Please don't worry about it."
  
  She beamed. "It's so nice to see someone with methodical common sense. So many people just want to impress you. I've been sweating for some of them for days."
  
  He gave her a ten dollar bill "For my time."
  
  As he left, she said "No, please" and "Thank you" in one breath.
  
  At midday, Nick landed at Manassas Municipal Airport and called to cancel his flight plan. AXE knew the strike patterns down to the minute and could operate the controllers, but following a routine was less likely to attract attention. Leaving Manassas, he flew northwest, infiltrating the Allegheny Mountain passes in his powerful little plane, where Union and Confederate cavalry had chased and attempted to checkmate each other a century earlier.
  
  It was a great day for flying, with bright sunshine and minimal wind. He sang "Dixie" and "Marching Through Georgia" as he crossed into Pennsylvania and landed to refuel. When he took off again, he switched to a couple of choruses from "The British Grenadier," delivering the lyrics with an old-fashioned English accent. Alastair Beadle Williams represented Vickers, Ltd., and Nick had precise diction.
  
  He used the Altoona Lighthouse, then another Omni course, and an hour later landed in a small but busy field. He called to rent a car, and by 6:42 p.m., he was crawling along a narrow road on the northwestern slope of the Appalachian Mountains. It was a single-lane road, but aside from its width, it was a good road: two centuries of use and countless hours of hardy labor had gone into shaping it and building the stone walls that still bounded it. It had once been a busy road west, because it followed a longer route, but with easier descents through the cuts; it was no longer marked on maps as a through road through the mountains.
  
  On Nick's 1892 Geological Survey map, it was marked as a through road; on the 1967 map, the central section was simply a dotted line marking a trail. He and Hawk carefully studied every detail on the maps-he felt he knew the route even before he set out on it. Four miles ahead lay closest to the rear of the lords' gigantic estate, twenty-five hundred acres in three mountain valleys.
  
  Even AXE couldn't get the latest details on the Lord estate, although old survey maps were undoubtedly reliable for most of the roads and buildings. Hawke said, "We know there's an airport there, but that's about it. Sure, we could have photographed it and inspected it, but there was no reason to. Old Antoine Lord put the place together around 1924. He and Calghenny made their fortunes back when iron and steel were king, and you kept what you made. No nonsense about feeding people you couldn't exploit. Lord was obviously the most sophisticated of them all. After making another forty million during the First World War, he sold most of his industrial shares and bought a lot of real estate."
  
  The story intrigued Nick. "The old boy is dead, of course?"
  
  "He died in 1934. He even made headlines then, telling John Raskob that he was a greedy fool and that Roosevelt was saving the country from socialism, and they should support him instead of confusing him. The reporters loved it. His son, Ulysses, inherited the estate, and seventy or eighty million was shared with his sister, Martha."
  
  Nick asked, "And they...?"
  
  "Martha was last reported in California. We're checking. Ulysses founded several charitable and educational foundations. The real ones were around 1936 to 1942. It used to be a smart move as a tax evasion and to provide steady jobs for his heirs. He was a captain in the Keystone Division in World War II.
  
  He received the Silver Star and the Bronze Star with an oak leaf cluster. He was wounded twice. Incidentally, he started out as a private. He never traded his connections."
  
  "Sounds like a real guy," Nick remarked. "Where is he now?"
  
  "We don't know. His bankers, real estate agents, and stockbrokers write to him at his post office box in Palm Springs."
  
  As Nick drove slowly along the ancient road, he recalled this conversation. The Lords hardly resembled the employees of the Bauman Ring or the Shikoms.
  
  He stopped at a large space that might have been a wagon stop and studied the map. Half a mile further on were two tiny black squares, marking what were now likely the abandoned foundations of former buildings. Beyond them, a tiny mark indicated a cemetery, and then, before the old road turned southwest to cross a hollow between two mountains, a path must have led through a small cut to the lords' estate.
  
  Nick turned the car around, crushed a few bushes, locked it, and left it in line. He walked along the road in the dying sunlight, enjoying the lush greenery, the tall hemlocks, and the contrast of the white birches. A surprised chipmunk ran a few yards ahead of him, waving its small tail like an antenna, before leaping onto a stone wall, frozen for a moment in a tiny tuft of brown-black fur, then blinked its glittering eyes and vanished. Nick momentarily regretted not going out for an evening stroll, so that peace would reign in the world, and that was what mattered. But it wasn't, he reminded himself, falling silent and lighting a cigarette.
  
  The extra weight of his special gear reminded him of how peaceful the world was. Since the situation was unknown, he and Hawk had agreed that he would arrive well prepared. The white nylon lining, which gave it a somewhat plump appearance, contained a dozen pockets containing explosives, tools, wire, a small radio transmitter-even a gas mask.
  
  Hawk said, "Anyway, you'll carry Wilhelmina, Hugo, and Pierre. If you're caught, there'll be enough of them to incriminate you. So you might as well carry extra equipment. It might be just what you need to survive. , or whatever, give us a signal from the choke point. I'll have Barney Manoun and Bill Rohde planted near the estate entrance in the dry cleaner's truck."
  
  It made sense, but it was hard on a long walk. Nick wiggled his elbows under his jacket to dissipate the sweat, which was becoming uncomfortable, and kept walking. He came to a clearing where the map showed old foundations and paused. Foundations? He saw a picture-perfect rustic Gothic farmhouse from the turn of the century, complete with a wide porch on three sides, rocking chairs and a swinging hammock, a vegetable garden for trucks, and an outbuilding next to a flower-lined driveway behind the house. They were painted a rich yellow with white trim on the windows, gutters, and railings.
  
  Behind the house, there was a small, neatly painted red barn. Two chestnut-colored horses peered out from behind a corral of posts and rails, and under a shed made of two wagons, he saw a cart and some farm equipment.
  
  Nick walked slowly, his attention focused with interest on the charming but dated scene. They belonged to a Currier and Ives calendar-"Home Place" or "Little Farm."
  
  He reached the stone path that led to the porch, and his stomach clenched as a strong voice behind him, somewhere at the edge of the road, said, "Stop, mister. There's an automatic shotgun pointed at you."
  
  
  Chapter V
  
  
  Nick stood very, very still. The sun, now just below the mountains to the west, burned his face. A jay screeched loudly in the silence of the forest. The man with the gun had everything-surprise, cover, and his position against the sun.
  
  Nick stopped, swinging his brown cane. He held it there, six inches above the ground, not letting it drop. A voice said, "You can turn around."
  
  A man emerged from behind a black walnut tree surrounded by brush. It looked like a lookout post, designed to be unnoticed. The shotgun looked like an expensive Browning, probably a Sweet 16 without a compensator. The man was of average height, about fifty, dressed in a gray cotton shirt and trousers, but he wore a soft tweed hat that would hardly sell on the spot. He looked intelligent. His quick gray eyes wandered leisurely over Nick.
  
  Nick looked back. The man stood calmly, holding the gun with his hand near the trigger, the muzzle pointed down and to the right. A newbie might have thought this was a man they could grab quickly and unexpectedly. Nick decided otherwise.
  
  "I had a little problem here," the man said. "Could you tell me where you're going?"
  
  "The old road and trail," Nick replied in his perfect old accent. "I'll be happy to show you the identification number and a map if you like."
  
  "If you please."
  
  Wilhelmina felt comfortable against his left ribcage. She could spit in a split second. Nick's sentence stated that they would both finish and die. He carefully removed a card from the side pocket of his blue jacket and his wallet from the inside breast pocket. He withdrew two cards from the wallet-a "Vicker Security Department" pass with his photo on it and a universal air travel card.
  
  "Could you hold them right in your right hand?"
  
  Nick didn't object. He congratulated himself on his judgment when the man leaned forward and picked them up with his left hand, holding the rifle with the other. He took two steps back and glanced at the maps, noting the area indicated in the corner. Then he walked over and handed them back. "Excuse the interruption. I have some truly dangerous neighbors. This isn't exactly like England."
  
  "Oh, I'm sure," Nick replied, putting the papers away. "I'm familiar with your mountain people, with their clannishness and their dislike of government revelations-am I pronouncing that correctly?"
  
  "Yes. You'd better come in for a cup of tea. Stay the night if you like. I'm John Villon. I live here." He pointed to the storybook house.
  
  "This is a lovely place," Nick said. "I'd love to join you for coffee and take a closer look at this beautiful farm. But I want to get over the mountain and come back. Could I come see you tomorrow around four o'clock?"
  
  "Of course. But you're starting a little late."
  
  "I know. I left my car at the exit because the road has become so narrow. That's causing me a half-hour delay." He was careful when he said "schedule." "I often walk at night. I carry a small lamp with me. There will be a moon tonight, and I can see really well at night. Tomorrow I'll take the trail during the day. It can't be a bad trail. It's been a road for almost two centuries."
  
  "The walking is fairly easy, except for a few rocky gullies and a crevice where a wooden bridge once stood. You'll have to climb up and down and ford a stream. Why did you decide to take this trail?"
  
  "Last century, a distant relative of mine went through this step-by-step. He wrote a book about it. In fact, he went all the way to your west coast. I'm planning to retrace his steps. It'll take me a few years off, but then I'm going to write a book about the changes. It'll make a fascinating story. In fact, this area is more primitive than when he went through it."
  
  "Yes, that's true. Well, good luck. Come by tomorrow afternoon."
  
  "Thank you, I will. I'm looking forward to that tea."
  
  John Villon stood on the grass in the middle of the road and watched Alastair Williams walk away. A large, plump, limping figure in street clothes, walking with purpose and an apparently indomitable calm. The moment the traveler disappeared from view, Villon entered the house and walked with purpose and speed.
  
  Though Nick strode briskly, his thoughts vexed him. John Villon? A romantic name, a strange man in a mysterious place. He couldn't spend twenty-four hours a day in these bushes. How had he known Nick was coming?
  
  If a photocell or television scanner monitored the road, it meant a big event, and a big event meant a connection to the lords' estate. What did it mean...?
  
  This meant the reception committee, since Villon had to communicate with the others through a mountain defile crossed by a side trail. It made sense. If the operation was as large-scale as Hawk suspected, or if it was Bauman's gang, they wouldn't have left the back entrance unguarded. He hoped to be the first to spot any observers, which is why he got out of the car.
  
  He glanced back, saw nothing, dropped his limp, and moved at a near-trot, quickly covering the ground. I'm a mouse. They don't even need cheese, because I'm loyal. If this is a trap, it'll be a good one. The people who set it buy the best.
  
  He glanced at the map as he moved, checking the tiny figures he'd drawn on it while measuring distances with a scale. Two hundred and forty yards, a left turn, a right turn, and a creek. He jumped. OK. onto the creek, and his estimated location was correct. Now 615 yards up straight to what had been about 300 feet away. Then a sharp left turn and along what appeared on the map to be a level path along the bluff. Yes. And then...
  
  The old road turned right again, but a side trail through a cutting had to go straight before turning left. His keen eyes spotted the path and the opening in the forest wall, and he turned through a grove of hemlocks, lit here and there by white birch.
  
  He reached the summit just as the sun sank behind him, and he walked along the rocky path in the gathering twilight. It was harder to gauge distances now, checking his steps, but he stopped when he estimated he was three hundred yards from the bottom of a small valley. That was roughly where the trigger for the first trap would be.
  
  They are unlikely to value many problems highly enough to try very hard
  
  "Guards become careless if they have to make long hikes every day because they consider patrolling useless. The map showed that the next depression in the mountain's surface was 460 yards to the north. Patiently, Nick picked his way through the trees and bushes until the ground sloped down to a tiny mountain stream. As he took the cool water in his hand to drink, he noticed that the night was pitch black. "A good time," he decided.
  
  Almost every stream has some passage used by the occasional hunter, sometimes only one or two a year, but in most cases for over a thousand years. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of the best routes. An hour passed before Nick saw the first glimmer of light from below. Two hours earlier, he'd spotted an ancient wooden outbuilding in the faint moonlight through the trees. When he stopped at the edge of the valley clearing, his watch read 10:56.
  
  Now-patience. He recalled the old saying about the Chief Standing Horse, with whom he occasionally traveled with the pack into the Rocky Mountains. It was part of many pieces of advice to warriors-to those who are moving toward their final life.
  
  A quarter mile down the valley, exactly where the black T-shaped mark on the map indicated it, stood a gigantic lord's mansion-or former lord's mansion. Three stories high, it twinkled with lights like a medieval castle when the lord of the estate hosted a reception. The twin headlights of cars kept moving along its far side, pulling in and out of the parking lot.
  
  Up the valley, to the right, were other lights that on the map indicated perhaps former servants' quarters, stables, shops, or greenhouses - it was impossible to tell for sure.
  
  Then he would see what he had truly witnessed. For a moment, surrounded by light, a man and a dog crossed the edge of the valley beside him. Something on the man's shoulder might have been a weapon. They walked along a gravel path that ran parallel to the tree line and continued past the parking lot toward the buildings beyond. The dog was a Doberman or a German Shepherd. The two patrolling figures almost disappeared from view, leaving the illuminated areas, then Nick's sensitive ears caught another sound. A click, a clank, and the faint crunch of footsteps on gravel interrupted their rhythm, stopped, then continued.
  
  Nick followed the man, his own footsteps making no sound on the thick, smooth grass, and within minutes, he saw and felt what he'd suspected: the back of the estate was separated from the main house by a high wire fence, topped by three strands of taut barbed wire, ominously outlined in the moonlight. He followed the fence across the valley, saw a gate through which a gravel path crossed the fence, and found another gate 200 yards further on, blocking off a black-topped road. He followed the lush vegetation at the edge of the road, slipped into the parking lot, and hid in the shadow of a limousine.
  
  People in the valley liked big cars-the lot, or what he could see under the two spotlights, seemed to be filled only with cars over $5,000. When a gleaming Lincoln pulled in, Nick followed the two men who emerged toward the house, keeping a respectful distance behind. As he walked, he straightened his tie, neatly folded his hat, brushed himself, and smoothly pulled his jacket over his large frame. The man trudging down Leesburg Street had transformed into a respectable, dignified figure, one who wore his clothes casually, yet still knew they were of the highest quality.
  
  The path from the parking lot to the house was gentle, lit by streams of water at long intervals, and foot-level lights were often placed in the well-kept bushes surrounding it. Nick walked casually, a distinguished guest awaiting a meeting. He lit a long Churchill cigar, one of three that were neatly tucked into one of the many inside pockets of his special jacket. It's surprising how few people look suspiciously at a man strolling down the street, enjoying a cigar or pipe. Run past a policeman with your underwear under your arm, and you might get shot; pass him with the crown jewels in your mailbox, puffing a blue cloud of fragrant Havana, and the officer will nod respectfully.
  
  Reaching the back of the house, Nick leaped over the bushes into the darkness and headed toward the rear, where lights were visible on the wooden palings beneath metal shields that were supposed to conceal trash cans. He burst through the nearest door, saw the hallway and laundry room, and followed a corridor toward the center of the house. He saw a huge kitchen, but the activity ended far away. The hallway ended at a door that opened into another corridor, much more ornate and furnished than the utility room. Just beyond the service door were four cabinets. Nick quickly opened one, seeing brooms and cleaning equipment. He entered the main part of the house.
  
  - and walked straight into a thin man in a black suit, who looked at him questioningly. The questioning expression turned to suspicion, but before he could speak, Nick raised his hand.
  
  It was Alastair Williams, but very quickly, who asked: "My dear fellow, is there a dressing table on this floor? All this wonderful ale, you know, but I'm very uncomfortable..."
  
  Nick danced from foot to foot, looking pleadingly at the man.
  
  "What? You mean..."
  
  "The toilet, old man! For God's sake, where is the toilet?"
  
  The man suddenly understood, and the humor of the situation and his own sadism diverted his suspicions. "Water locker, huh? Want a drink?"
  
  "God, no," Nick exploded. "Thank you..." He turned away, continuing to dance, letting his face flush until he realized his ruddy features should glow.
  
  "Here, Mac," the man said. "Follow me."
  
  He led Nick around the corner, along the edge of the vast oak-paneled room with hanging tapestries, into a shallow alcove with a door at the end. "There." He pointed, grinned-then, realizing that important guests might need him, he quickly left.
  
  Nick washed his face, carefully groomed himself, checked his makeup, and leisurely walked back into the large room, enjoying a long black cigar. Sounds came from the large archway at the far end. He approached it and saw a captivating sight.
  
  The room was a huge, oblong shape, with tall French windows at one end and another arch at the other. On the polished floor by the windows, seven couples were dancing to the smooth music coming from a stereo system. Near the center of the far wall was a small oval bar, around which a dozen men were gathered, and in conversation centers formed by colorful U-shaped groupings of sofas, other men were chatting, some relaxed, some with their heads together. From the distant arch came the click of billiard balls.
  
  Aside from the dancing women, all of whom looked refined-whether they were the wives of the rich or the more sophisticated and expensive prostitutes-there were only four women in the room. Almost all the men looked wealthy. There were a few tuxedos, but the impression went much deeper.
  
  Nick descended the five wide steps into the room with majestic dignity, casually studying the occupants. Forget the tuxedos and imagine these people dressed in English robes, gathered at the royal court of feudal England, or gathered after a bourbon dinner at Versailles. Plump bodies, soft hands, too-quick smiles, calculating eyes, and a constant buzz of conversation. Subtle questions, veiled proposals, complex plans, threads of intrigue emerged one after another, intertwining as best the circumstances permitted.
  
  He saw several congressmen, two civilian generals, Robert Quitlock, Harry Cushing, and a dozen other men his photographic mind had cataloged from recent events in Washington. He walked to the bar, ordered a large whiskey and soda-"No ice, please"-and turned to meet the questioning gaze of Akito Tsogu Nu Moto.
  
  
  Chapter VI.
  
  
  Nick looked past Akito, smiled, nodded to an imaginary friend behind him, and turned away. The elder Moto, as always, was expressionless-it was impossible to guess what thoughts were swirling behind those serene yet implacable features.
  
  "Excuse me, please," Akito's voice was at his elbow. "We've met, I think. I have such a hard time remembering Western features, just as you confuse us Asians, I'm sure. I'm Akito Moto..."
  
  Akito smiled politely, but when Nick looked at him again, there was no trace of humor in those chiseled brown planes.
  
  "I don't remember, old man." Nick smiled faintly and held out his hand. "Alastair Williams from Vickers."
  
  "Vickers?" Akito looked surprised. Nick thought quickly, cataloging the men he'd seen there. He continued, "Oil and Drilling Division."
  
  "Target! I met with some of your people in Saudi Arabia. Yes, yes, I think Kirk, Miglierina and Robbins. You know...?"
  
  Nick doubted he could come up with all the names so quickly. He was playing. "Really? Some time ago, I suppose, before the... er, changes?"
  
  "Yes. Before the change." He sighed. "You had a great situation there." Akito looked down for a moment, as if paying homage to the lost opportunity. Then he smiled only with his lips. "But you recovered. It's not as bad as it could have been."
  
  "No. Half a loaf and all that."
  
  "I represent the Confederacy. Can you discuss...?"
  
  "Not personally. Quentin Smithfield is handling everything you need to see in London. He couldn't come."
  
  "Ah! He's accessible?"
  
  "Quite."
  
  "I didn't know. It's so difficult to organize around Aramco."
  
  "Quite." Nick pulled out one of Alastair Beadle Williams's beautifully engraved cards from a case, bearing the address and London telephone number of Vickers, but on the desk of Agent AX. He had written on the back with pen: "Met Mr. Moto, Pennsylvania, July 14th. A.B. Williams."
  
  "That should do the trick, old man."
  
  "Thank you."
  
  Akito Khan gave Nick one of his own cards. "We're in a strong market. I suppose you know? I'm planning to come to London next month. I'll see Mr. Smithfield."
  
  Nick nodded and turned away. Akito watched him carefully put the map away. Then he made a tent with his hands and thought. It was puzzling. Maybe Ruth would remember. He went to look for his "daughter."
  
  Nick felt a bead of sweat on his neck and carefully wiped it away with a handkerchief. It was easy now-his control was better than that. His disguise was excellent, but there was suspicion about the Japanese patriarch. Nick moved slowly, limping with his cane. Sometimes they could tell more by your gait than by your appearance, and he felt bright brown eyes on his back.
  
  He stood on the dance floor, a rosy-cheeked, gray-haired British businessman admiring the girls. He saw Ann We Ling, flashing her white teeth at the young executive. She was dazzling in a sequined, slit-up skirt.
  
  He remembered Ruth's remark; Papa was supposed to be in Cairo. Oh, right? He walked around the room, catching snippets of conversation. This meeting was definitely about oil. Hawk was a little confused by what Barney and Bill had gleaned from the wiretaps. Perhaps the other side was using steel as a code word for oil. Stopping near one group, he heard: "... $850,000 a year for us and about the same for the government. But for an investment of $200,000, you can't complain..."
  
  The British accent said, "...we really deserve more, but..."
  
  Nick left from there.
  
  He remembered Gini's comment: "We'll be flying mostly in air-conditioned conference rooms..."
  
  Where was she? The whole place was air-conditioned. He slipped into the buffet, passed more people in the music room, peered into the magnificent library, found the front door, and walked out. No sign of the other girls, Hans Geist, or the German who could have been Bauman.
  
  He walked down the path and headed toward the parking lot. A stern young man standing in the corner of the house looked at him thoughtfully. Nick nodded. "Charming evening, isn't it, old man?"
  
  "Yeah, right."
  
  A true Brit would never use the word "old man" so often, or to strangers, but it was great for making a quick impression. Nick blew out a cloud of smoke and moved on. He passed several couples of men and nodded politely. In the parking lot, he wandered through the line of cars, saw no one in them-and then suddenly he was gone.
  
  He walked along the black-topped road in the darkness until he reached the barrier gate. It was locked with a standard, high-quality lock. Three minutes later, he opened it with one of his primary master keys and locked it behind him. It would take him at least a minute to do it again-he hoped he wouldn't leave in a hurry.
  
  The road should wind gently for half a mile, ending where the buildings were shown on the old map, and where he had seen the lights from above. He walked, wary, stepping silently. Twice he pulled off the road as cars passed during the night: one from the main house, another returning. He turned and saw the lights of the buildings-a smaller version of the main mansion.
  
  The dog barked, and he froze. The sound was ahead of him. He chose a high point and watched until a figure passed between him and the lights, from right to left. One of the guards was following the gravel path to the other side of the valley. At this distance, the barking was not for him-perhaps not for the guard dog.
  
  He waited a long time, until he heard the creaking and clanking of the gates and was certain the guard was leaving him. He slowly circled the large building, ignoring the ten-stall garage, which was in darkness, and another barn without a light.
  
  This wouldn't be easy. A man sat at each of the three doors; only the south side remained unnoticed. He crept through the lush landscaping on that side and reached the first window, a tall, wide opening that was clearly custom-built. Cautiously, he peered into a luxuriously furnished, empty bedroom, beautifully decorated in an exotic, modern style. He checked the window. It was double-glazed and locked. Damn the air conditioner!
  
  He crouched and surveyed his trail. Near the house, he was covered by neat plantings, but his closest cover from the building was the fifty-foot lawn he'd approached over. If they kept up a dog patrol, he might be in trouble; otherwise, he'd move cautiously, staying as far away from window lights as possible.
  
  You never knew-his entry into the valley and investigation of the lavish conference in the grand mansion could have been part of a larger trap. Perhaps "John Villon" had alerted him. He'd given himself the benefit of the doubt. Illegal groups had the same personnel problems as corporations and bureaucracies. The leaders-Akito, Baumann, Geist, Villon, or whoever-could run a tight ship, issuing clear orders and excellent plans. But the troops always
  
  showed the same weaknesses - laziness, carelessness and lack of imagination for the unexpected.
  
  "I'm unexpected," he assured himself. He peered through the next window. It was partially covered by curtains, but through the openings between the rooms, he could see a large room with five-seater sofas arranged around a stone fireplace large enough to roast a steer, with room left over for several skewers of poultry.
  
  Sitting on the couches, looking as relaxed as an evening at the Hunter Mountain Resort, he saw men and women; from their photographs, he noted Ginny, Ruth, Susie, Pong-Pong Lily, and Sonya Ranez; Akito, Hans Geist, Sammy, and a thin Chinese man who, judging by his movements, could be the masked man from the raid on the Demings in Maryland.
  
  Ruth and her father must have been in the car that overtook him on the road. He wondered if they'd come here specifically because Akito had met "Alastair Williams."
  
  One of the girls was pouring drinks. Nick noticed how quickly Pong-Pong Lily picked up a table lighter and held it out to Hans Geist for him to light. She had this look on her face as she watched the big blond man-Nick wrote down the observation for reference. Geist slowly paced back and forth, talking, while the others listened attentively, occasionally laughing at his words.
  
  Nick watched thoughtfully. What, how, why? Company executives and some girls? Not quite. Whores and pimps? No-the atmosphere was right, but the relationships weren't right; and this wasn't a typical social gathering.
  
  He pulled out a tiny stethoscope with a short tube and tried it on the double-glazed window; he frowned when he heard nothing. He had to get to the room, or to a point where he could hear. And if he could record some of this conversation on the small machine no bigger than a deck of cards that sometimes irritated his right femur-he'd have to talk to Stuart about that-he might have some answers. Hawk's eyebrows would surely rise when he played it back.
  
  If he entered as Alastair Beadle Williams, his reception would last ten seconds, and he would live for about thirty-there were brains in that pile. Nick frowned and crept through the plantings.
  
  The next window looked into the same room, and the one after that, too. The next was a locker room and hallway, with what looked like restrooms leading out of it. The final windows looked into a trophy room and a library, all dark-paneled and covered with a rich brown carpet, where two stern-looking executives sat talking. "I'd like to hear that deal, too," Nick muttered.
  
  He peered around the corner of the building.
  
  The guard looked unusual. He was a sporty fellow in a dark suit, clearly taking his duties seriously. He placed his camp chair in the bushes, but didn't stay in it. He paced back and forth, looking at the three floodlights illuminating the portico, looking out into the night. His back was never to Nick for more than a few moments.
  
  Nick watched him through the bushes. He mentally checked the dozens of offensive and defensive items in the magician's cloak, provided by the inventive Stuart and AXE technicians. Ah, well-they couldn't have thought of everything. This was his job, and the chances were slim.
  
  A more cautious man than Nick would have weighed the situation and perhaps kept quiet. The idea hadn't even occurred to Agent Axe, whom Hawk considered "our best." Nick did remember what Harry Demarkin had once said: "I always push because we don't get paid to lose."
  
  Harry had been pushing too much. Maybe it was Nick's turn now.
  
  He tried something else. He shut his mind off for a moment, then imagined the darkness at the road gate. As if his thoughts were a silent film, he imagined a figure approaching the barrier, took out a tool, and picked the lock. He even imagined the sounds, the clanking, as the man pulled on the chain.
  
  With the image in mind, he looked at the guard's head. The man started to turn toward Nick, but seemed to have listened. He took a few steps and looked worried. Nick concentrated, knowing he was helpless if someone came up behind him. Sweat trickled down his neck. The man turned. He looked toward the gate. He went out for a stroll, looking out into the night.
  
  Nick took ten silent steps and leaped. A strike, a thrust with his fingers forming the rounded tip of a spear, and then a hand around his neck for support as he dragged the man back toward the corner of the house and into the bushes. It was twenty seconds later.
  
  Like a cowboy holding a steer after corralling it at a rodeo, Nick ripped two short lengths of fishing line from his coat and looped tacks and square knots around the man's wrists and ankles. The thin nylon served as a stronger restraint than handcuffs. The completed gag slipped into Nick's hand-he needed no more thought or pocket search than a cowboy hunting for his pig ropes-and was secured in the man's open mouth. Nick dragged him into the thickest brush.
  
  He won't wake up for an hour or two.
  
  As Nick straightened up, car lights flashed on the gate, stopped, and then blazed. He fell next to his victim. A black limousine pulled up to the portico, and two well-dressed men, both around fifty, emerged. The driver fussed around the car, seemingly surprised by the absence of a doorman/security guard, and stood in the light for a moment after his passengers entered the building.
  
  "If he's the guard's friend, everything will be fine," Nick reassured himself. Hopefully he was watching. The driver lit a short cigar, looked around, shrugged, got into the car, and drove back to the main building. He had no intention of scolding his friend, who had likely abandoned his post for a good, entertaining reason. Nick sighed with relief. Personnel problems have their advantages.
  
  He quickly walked to the door and peered through the small glass. The men were gone. He opened the door, slipped inside, and dove into what looked like a dressing room with sinks.
  
  The room was empty. He peered into the hall again. It was a time, if ever, when the newcomers were the center of attention.
  
  He took a step forward and a voice behind him said questioningly, "Hello...?"
  
  He turned around. One of the men from the trophy room looked at him suspiciously. Nick smiled. "I was looking for you!" he said with an enthusiasm he didn't feel. "Can we talk there?" He walked to the trophy room door.
  
  "I don't know you. What...?"
  
  The man followed him automatically, his face hardening.
  
  "Look at this." Nick conspiratorially pulled out a black notebook and hid it in his hand. "Get out of sight. We don't want Geist to see this."
  
  The man followed him, frowning. The other man was still in the room. Nick grinned broadly and called out, "Hey. Look at this."
  
  The seated man stepped forward to join them, a look of utter suspicion on his face. Nick pushed the door open. The second man reached under his coat. Nick moved quickly. He wrapped his strong arms around their necks and slammed their heads together. They descended, one silent, the other groaning.
  
  When he'd gagged and bound them, after throwing a .38 S&W Terrier and a .32 Spanish Galesi behind a chair, he was glad he'd shown restraint. They were older men-probably customers, not guards or Geist's boys. He took their wallets containing papers and cards and stuffed them in his pants pocket. No time to examine them now.
  
  He checked the hall. It was still empty. He slipped silently through, saw a group by the fireplace, engaged in lively conversation, and crawled behind the sofa. He was too far away-but he was inside.
  
  He thought: the real Alistair would have said: "For a penny, for a pound." GOOD! All the way!
  
  Halfway across the room was another communication point-a group of furniture near the windows. He crawled toward it and found cover between the tables on the back of the sofa. They held lamps, magazines, ashtrays, and cigarette packs. He rearranged some of the items to create a barrier through which he could peer.
  
  Ruth Moto served the newcomers drinks. They remained standing, as if they had a purpose. When Ginnie stood up and walked past the men-banker types with a constant, meaningless smile-the purpose was clear. She said, "I'm so glad I pleased you, Mr. Carrington. And I'm so glad you're back."
  
  "I like your brand," the man said sincerely, but his cheerful attitude seemed false. He was still a righteous daddy with his provincial mentality, too confused to ever feel at ease with a pretty girl-especially a high-class whore. Ginny took his hand, and they walked through the archway at the far end of the room.
  
  The other man said, "I... I'd like... to meet... to go with Miss... ah, Miss Lily." Nick chuckled. He was so tense he couldn't speak. A first-class family home in Paris, Copenhagen, or Hamburg would have politely shown them the door.
  
  Pong Pong Lily stood and walked toward him, a dream of liquid beauty in a pink cocktail dress. "You flatter me, Mr. O'Brien."
  
  "You look... the most beautiful to me." Nick saw Ruth's eyebrows rise at the rude remark, and Suzy Cuong's face harden a little.
  
  Pong-Pong gracefully placed his hand on his shoulder. "Shouldn't we..."
  
  "We'll definitely do it." O'Brien took a long sip from his glass and walked with her, carrying the drink. Nick was hoping for an early date with his confessor.
  
  When the two couples had left, Hans Geist said, "Don't be offended, Susie. He's just a fellow countryman who's had a lot to drink. I'm sure you made him happy last night. I'm sure you're one of the most beautiful girls he's ever seen."
  
  "Thank you, Hans," Susie replied. "He's not that strong. He's a real rabbit, and oh, so tense. I felt uneasy around him all the time."
  
  "He just walked straight?"
  
  "Oh, yes. He even asked me to turn off the lights when we were half naked." Everyone laughed.
  
  Akito said tenderly, "Such a beautiful girl as you can't expect every man to appreciate her, Susie. But remember, every man who truly knew
  
  Anyone who possesses beauty will admire you. Each of you, girls, is an outstanding beauty. We men know this, and you suspect it. But beauty is not rare. To find girls like you, with beauty and intelligence-ah, that's a rare combination."
  
  "Besides," Hans added, "you're politically informed. On the cutting edge of society. How many girls are like that in the world? Not very many. Anne, your glass is empty. Another one?"
  
  "Not now," the beauty cooed.
  
  Nick frowned. What was that? Talk about treating a duchess like a whore and a whore like a duchess! It was a whore's paradise. Men played pimps but acted like attendees at a high school graduation tea. And yet, he thought thoughtfully, it was an excellent tactic. Effective with women. Madame Bergeron had built one of the most famous houses in Paris and amassed a fortune from it.
  
  A small Chinese man in a white robe entered from the far archway, carrying a tray with what looked like canapés. Nick barely managed to dodge.
  
  The waiter handed over the tray, placed it on the coffee table, and left. Nick wondered how many were still in the house. He thoughtfully assessed his armament. He had Wilhelmina and an extra magazine, two deadly gas bombs-"Pierre"-in the pockets of his jockey shorts, which were as much a magician's equipment as his coat, and various explosive charges.
  
  He heard Hans Geist say, "...and we'll meet Commander One on the ship in a week, starting Thursday. Let's make a good impression. I know he's proud of us and pleased with how things are going."
  
  "Are your negotiations with this group going well?" Ruth Moto asked.
  
  "Excellent. I never thought it could be any other way. They're traders, and we want to buy. Things usually go smoothly in a situation like this."
  
  Akito asked, "Who is Alastair Williams? A British guy from Vickers' oil division. I'm sure I've met him somewhere before, but I can't place him."
  
  After a moment of silence, Geist replied, "I don't know. The name doesn't ring a bell. And Vickers doesn't have a subsidiary they call an oil division. What exactly does he do? Where did you meet him?"
  
  "Here. He's with guests."
  
  Nick looked up briefly to see Geist pick up the phone and dial a number. "Fred? Look at your guest list. Did you add Alastair Williams? No... When did he arrive? You never hosted him? Akito-what does he look like?"
  
  "Big. Chubby. Red face. Gray hair. Very English."
  
  "Was he with others?"
  
  "No."
  
  Hans repeated the description into his phone. "Tell Vlad and Ali. Find a man who fits this description, or something's wrong. Check out all the guests with an English accent. I'll be there in a few minutes." He changed the phone. "This is either a simple matter or something very serious. You and I better get going..."
  
  Nick lost the rest when his keen hearing picked up a sound outside. One or more cars had arrived. If the room filled up, he'd be caught between the groups. He crawled toward the entrance to the hall, keeping the furniture between himself and the people by the fireplace. Reaching the turn, he stood and walked to the door, which opened, admitting five men.
  
  They were chatting merrily-one was high, the other was giggling. Nick smiled broadly and waved toward the large room. "Come in..."
  
  He turned and walked quickly up the wide stairs.
  
  On the second floor was a long corridor. He came to windows overlooking the road. Two large vehicles were parked under the spotlights. The last group seemed to be driving on its own.
  
  He walked to the rear, past a luxurious living room and three luxurious bedrooms with open doors. He approached a closed door and listened with his small stethoscope, but heard nothing. He entered the room and closed the door behind him. It was a bedroom, with a few stray articles indicating it was occupied. He quickly searched-a desk, a bureau, two expensive suitcases. Nothing. Not a scrap of paper. This was the room of a large man, by the size of the suits in the closet. Possibly Geist.
  
  The next room was more interesting - and almost disastrous.
  
  He heard heavy, labored breathing and a groan. As he stuffed the stethoscope back into his pocket, the next door in the hallway opened, and one of the first men to arrive emerged, along with Pong-Pong Lily.
  
  Nick straightened up and smiled. "Hello. Having a nice time?"
  
  The man stared. Pong-Pong exclaimed, "Who are you?"
  
  "Yes," a harsh, loud male voice repeated behind him. "Who are you?"
  
  Nick turned to see the thin Chinese man-the one he suspected was behind the mask in Maryland-approaching from the stairs, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. A slender hand disappeared under his jacket, where a clamshell holster might have been.
  
  "I'm Team Two," Nick said. He tried to open the door he'd been listening to. He was exposed. "Good night."
  
  He jumped through the door and slammed it behind him, found the latch and locked it.
  
  There was a sigh and a growl from the large bed where the other one who had arrived earlier was and Ginny
  
  They were naked.
  
  Fists thundered at the door. "Ginny screamed. The naked man hit the floor and lunged at Nick with the sheer determination of a man who had played football for years.
  
  
  Chapter VII.
  
  
  Nick dodged with the graceful ease of a matador. Carrington crashed into the wall, adding to the noise of the slamming door. Nick used a kick and a slash, both delivered with the precision of a surgeon, to gasp for breath as he fell to the floor.
  
  "Who are you?" Ginny almost screamed.
  
  "Everyone's interested in little me," Nick said. "I'm team three, four, and five."
  
  He looked at the door. Like everything else in the room, it was top-notch. They'd need a battering ram or some sturdy furniture to break through.
  
  "What are you doing?"
  
  "I am Bauman's son."
  
  "Help!" she screamed. Then she thought for a moment. "Who are you?"
  
  "Bauman's son. He has three of them. It's a secret."
  
  She slid to the floor and stood up. Nick's gaze slid over her long, beautiful body, and the memory of what it was capable of momentarily ignited him. Someone kicked the door. He was proud of himself-I still retained that old carelessness. "Get dressed," he barked. "Hurry. I have to get you out of here."
  
  "You have to get me out of here? Are you crazy..."
  
  "Hans and Sammy are planning to kill all of you girls after this meeting. Do you want to die?"
  
  "You're angry. Help!"
  
  "Everyone except Ruth. Akito fixed that. And Pong-Pong. Hans fixed that."
  
  She snatched her thin bra from the chair and wrapped it around herself. What he'd said had deceived the woman inside her. If she thought about it for a few minutes, she'd realize he was lying. Something heavier than a foot slammed against the door. He pulled Wilhelmina out with one practiced flick of his wrist and shot a shot through the exquisite paneling at twelve o'clock. The noise stopped.
  
  Jeanie slipped on her high heels and stared at the Luger. Her expression was a mixture of fear and surprise as she looked at the gun. "That's what we saw at Bauman's..."
  
  "Of course," Nick snapped. "Come to the window."
  
  But his emotions soared. The first leader. This gang, the girls, and, of course, Baumann! With a flick of his finger, he turned on his tiny recorder.
  
  As he opened the window and removed the aluminum screen from its spring clips, he said, "Baumann sent me to get you out. We'll rescue the rest later if we can. We have a small army at the entrance to this place."
  
  "It's a mess," Ginny wailed. "I don't understand..."
  
  "Baumann will explain," Nick said loudly and turned off the recorder. Sometimes the tapes survive, but you don't.
  
  He looked out into the night. It was the east side. There was a guard at the door, but he was obviously caught up in the commotion. They hadn't practiced the internal raid tactics upstairs. They'd think about the window in a minute.
  
  In the rays of light from the windows below, the smooth lawn was empty. He turned and extended both hands to Ginny. "The handle." It was a long way to the ground.
  
  "Which?"
  
  "Hang in there. How you do the bar work. Remember?"
  
  "Of course I remember, but..." She paused, looking at the plump, elderly, yet oddly athletic man who leaned forward in front of the window and held out his arms to her, twisted to hold her fast. He even pulled up his sleeves and cuffs. That tiny detail convinced her. She grabbed his hands and gasped-they were leather over steel, as powerful as any professional's. "Are you serious..."
  
  She forgot about the question as she was pulled headfirst through the window. She imagined herself falling to the ground, only to break her neck, and tried to twist herself to fall. She adjusted slightly, but it wasn't necessary. Strong arms guided her into a tight forward somersault, then twisted her sideways as she spun back toward the building's wall. Instead of hitting the white-painted hull of the ship, she lightly hit it with her thigh, held by the strange, powerful man who now hung above her, clutching the windowsill with his knees.
  
  "It's a short fall," he said, his face a strange blob of upside-down features in the darkness above. "Bend your knees. Done-oh-daisy."
  
  She landed half-and-half-of-hydrangea, scratching her leg but bounced effortlessly on her strong legs. Her high-heeled shoes swung far into the night, lost in the outward spin.
  
  She looked around with the helpless, panicked look of a rabbit that had burst from a bush into the open ground where dogs were barking, and ran.
  
  As soon as he let go, Nick scrambled up the side of the building, grabbed a ledge, and hung there for a moment until she was underneath him, then turned sideways to miss the hydrangea and landed as easily as a skydiver with a thirty-four-foot parachute. He somersaulted to keep from falling, landing on his right side after Ginny.
  
  How could this girl get away! He caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the meadow beyond the reach of the lights. He ran after her and ran straight ahead.
  
  He sprinted into the darkness, figuring that in a panic, she might not turn around and move sideways for at least a few dozen yards. Nick could cover any distance up to half a mile in a time that would have been acceptable for an average college track meet. He didn't know that Ginny Achling, besides her family's acrobatics, had once been the fastest girl in Blagoveshchensk. They ran distance races, and she helped every team from Harbin to the Amur River.
  
  Nick stopped. He heard the clatter of feet far ahead. He broke into a run. She was heading straight for the high wire fence. If she hit it at full speed, she would fall, or worse. He mentally calculated the distance to the edge of the valley, estimated his time and the steps he had taken, and guessed how far ahead she was. Then he counted twenty-eight steps, stopped, and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted, "Ginny! Stop, danger. Stop."
  
  He listened. The running of feet stopped. He ran forward, heard or felt movement ahead to the right, and adjusted his course to match. A moment later, he heard her move.
  
  "Don't run," he said softly. "You were heading straight for the fence. It might be electrified. Either way, you'll hurt yourself."
  
  He found her that night and hugged her. She wasn't crying, just shaking. She felt and smelled as delicious as she had in Washington-perhaps even more so, given the heat of her arousal and the damp sweat on his cheek.
  
  "It's easier now," he soothed. "Breathe."
  
  The house was filled with noise. Men ran around, pointed at the window, and searched the bushes. A light came on in the garage, and several men emerged, half-dressed and carrying long objects that Nick assumed weren't shovels. A car sped down the road, disgorging four men, and another light flashed on them near the main house. Dogs barked. In the pool of light, he saw a security guard with a dog join the men under the window.
  
  He examined the fence. It didn't look electrified, just tall and topped with barbed wire-the best industrial fencing. The three gates in the valley were too far away, led nowhere, and would soon be watched. He glanced back. The men were organizing themselves-and not badly. A car pulled up to the gate. Four patrols dispersed. The one with the dog headed straight for them, following their trail.
  
  Nick quickly dug up the base of a steel fence post and planted three explosive plaques, like black plugs of chewing tobacco. He added two more energy bombs, shaped like thick ballpoint pens, and an eyeglass case filled with Stewart's special mixture of nitroglycerin and diatomaceous earth. This was his supply of explosives, but it lacked the ability to contain the force that would have taken everything it took to sever the wire. He set a miniature thirty-second fuse and dragged Ginny away, counting as he went.
  
  "Twenty-two," he said. He pulled Ginny to the ground with him. "Lie flat. Put your face in the ground."
  
  He angled them toward the charges, minimizing the surface area. Wire could fly off like grenade fragments. He didn't use his two lighter-style grenades because their charges weren't worth risking in a shower of razor-sharp metal. The patrol dog was only a hundred yards away. What was wrong with...
  
  WAMO-O-O-O!
  
  Old reliable Stuart. "Go ahead." He dragged Jeanie toward the blast site, examining the jagged hole in the darkness. You could drive a Volkswagen through it. If her logic kicked in now and she refused to budge, he'd get it.
  
  "Are you okay?" he asked sympathetically, squeezing her shoulder.
  
  "I... I think so."
  
  "Come on." They ran toward what he estimated to be a path through the mountain. After going a hundred yards, he said, "Stop."
  
  He looked back. Flashlights were probing a hole in the wire. A dog barked. More dogs answered-they were leading them from somewhere. There must be several breeds. A car sped across the lawn, its lights fading as the broken wire glowed in their light. The men tumbled out.
  
  Nick pulled out a grenade and threw it with all his might toward the streetlights. I couldn't reach it-but it could be a depressant. He counted fifteen. Said, "Down again." The explosion was like fireworks compared to the other ones. The submachine gun roared; two short bursts of six or seven each, and when it stopped, the man roared, "Hold that!"
  
  Nick pulled out Gini and headed for the edge of the valley. A couple of bullets flew in their general direction, ricocheting off the ground, flying through the night with an evil whistle-r-r-r-r that intrigues the first time you hear it-and terrifies every time you hear it for a while. Nick had heard it many times.
  
  He looked back. The grenade had slowed them. They were approaching the jagged wire chasm like a training group at an infantry school. Now there were twenty or more men chasing them. Two powerful flashlights pierced the darkness, but didn't reach them.
  
  If the clouds had revealed the moon, he and Ginny would have each gotten a bullet.
  
  He ran, holding the girl's hand. She said: "Where are we..."
  
  "Don't talk," he interrupted her. "We live or die together, so rely on me."
  
  His knees hit a bush, and he stopped. Which direction were the tracks heading? Logically, it should be to the right, parallel to the course he had taken from the main house. He turned in that direction.
  
  A bright light flared from a gap in the wire and crept across the clearing, reaching the woods to their left, where it probed the bushes with a pale touch. Someone had brought a more powerful light, probably a six-volt sportsman's flashlight. He dragged Jeanie into the bushes and pinned her to the ground. Secure! He bowed his head as the light touched their shelter and moved on, scanning the trees. Many soldiers had died because their faces had been illuminated.
  
  Ginny whispered, "Let's get out of here."
  
  "I don't want to get shot now." He couldn't tell her there was no way out. Behind them was the forest and the cliff, and he didn't know where the trail was. If they moved, the noise would be deadly. If they walked across the meadow, the light would find them.
  
  He experimentally probed the bushes, trying to find a place where a trail might be. The low branches of the hemlock and the secondary growth made a crackling sound. The light reflected, missed them again, and moved on in the other direction.
  
  At the wire, they began to move forward one by one, in carefully spaced bursts. The one commanding them had now eliminated everyone except those advancing. They knew their business. Nick pulled Wilhelmina out, pinning her with his inner hand to the only spare clip, clipped inside his belt where his appendix used to be. It was small consolation. Those short bursts indicated a good man with a gun-and there were probably more.
  
  Three men passed through the gap and spread out. Another ran toward him, a clear target in the lights of the vehicles. Waiting was pointless. He might as well keep moving while the wire was on his command, holding back their concerted onslaught. With expert precision, he calculated the fall, the speed of the man, and took down the fleeing figure with a single shot. He pumped a second bullet into one of the vehicle's headlights, and it suddenly became one-eyed. He calmly aimed into the bright light of the flashlight when the submachine gun opened again, another joined it, and two or three pistols began to flicker with flames. He hit the dirt.
  
  An ominous rumble echoed everywhere. Bullets streaked across the grass, clattering on dry branches. They drenched the landscape, and he didn't dare move. Let that light catch the phosphorescence of his skin, the occasional glint on his wristwatch, and he and Giny would be corpses, riddled and torn by lead, copper, and steel. She tried to lift her head. He gently nudged her. "Don't look. Stay where you are."
  
  The shooting ceased. The last to stop was the submachine gun, methodically firing short bursts along the tree line. Nick resisted the temptation to peek. He was a good infantryman.
  
  The man Nick had shot groaned as the pain tore through his throat. A powerful voice screamed, "Hold your fire. John Number Two is dragging Angelo back behind the car. Then don't touch him. Barry, take three of your men, take the car, circle the street, and drive it into those trees. Ram the car, and get out and head toward us. Keep that light there, at the edge. Vince, do you have any ammo left?"
  
  "Thirty-five to forty." Nick wondered - am I a good shot?
  
  "Look at the light."
  
  "Right."
  
  "Look and listen. We've got them pinned down."
  
  So, General. Nick pulled his dark jacket over his face, stuck his hand inside, and risked a glance. Most of them must have been watching each other for a moment. In the Cyclops' eye of a car headlight, another man was dragging a wounded man, breathing heavily. A flashlight moved through the forest far to the left. Three men ran toward the house.
  
  An order was given, but Nick didn't hear it. The men began to crawl behind the car, like a patrol behind a tank. Nick worried about the three men who had passed through the wire. If there had been a leader in that group, he would have moved forward slowly, like a deadly reptile.
  
  Ginny gurgled. Nick patted her head. "Quiet," he whispered. "Be very quiet." He held his breath and listened, trying to see or feel anything moving in the near-darkness.
  
  Another murmur of voices and a flickering headlight. The car's single headlight went out. Nick frowned. Now the mastermind would advance his artillerymen without lights. Meanwhile, where were those three he'd last seen lying facedown somewhere in the sea of darkness ahead?
  
  The car started and roared down the road, stopped at the gate, then turned and sped across the meadow. Here come the flankers! If only I had the chance
  
  I would radio for artillery, mortar fire, and the support platoon. Better yet, send me a tank or an armored car if you have one to spare.
  
  
  Chapter VIII.
  
  
  The engine of the single-headlighted car roared. The doors slammed shut. Nick's daydreams were interrupted. A frontal attack, too! Damn effective. He shoved the remaining grenade into his left hand and pinned Wilhelmina to his right. The car on the flank turned on its headlights, moving along the stream, bouncing and crossing the nearby gravel path.
  
  The car's headlight flashed behind the wire, and it sped toward the chasm. The flashlight flickered on again, scanning the trees. Its radiance pierced the line of bushes. There was a cracking sound-the submachine gun rattled. The air shook again. Nick thought, "He's probably shooting at one of his men, one of the three who came through here."
  
  "Hey... me." It ended with a gasp.
  
  Maybe he did too. Nick squinted. His night vision was as excellent as carotene and 20/15 vision, but he couldn't find the other two.
  
  Then the car hit the fence. For a moment, Nick saw a dark figure forty feet ahead as the car's headlights swung in his direction. He fired twice and was sure he'd scored. But now the ball was on!
  
  He fired into the headlight and forced lead into the car, stitching a pattern right across the bottom of the windshield, his last shots fired into the flashlight before it was turned off.
  
  The car's engine roared, and another crash was heard. Nick assumed it might have caught the driver, and the car drove back into the fence.
  
  "There he is!" a strong voice shouted. "To the right. Up and at them."
  
  "Come on." Nick pulled Ginny out. "Make them run."
  
  He led her forward toward the grass and along it, away from the attackers but toward the other car, which was a few yards from the tree line, about a hundred yards away.
  
  And then the moon broke through the clouds. Nick crouched and turned to the crack, inserted a spare magazine into Wilhelmina, and peered into the darkness, which suddenly seemed less concealing. He had a few seconds. He and Ginny were harder to see against the forest backdrop than the attackers against the artificial horizon. The man with the flashlight had foolishly turned it on. Nick noted that he held the bullet in his left hand, as he had placed it where his belt buckle should have been. The man cringed, and shafts of light flooded the ground, adding to Nick's visibility of a dozen figures approaching him. The leader was about two hundred yards away. Nick fired at him. He thought, and Stuart wonders why I'm sticking with Wilhelmina! Pass the ammo, Stuart, and we'll get out of this. But Stuart didn't hear him.
  
  Moonshot! He missed one, caught it on the second. A few more shots and it would all be over. The guns winked at him, and he heard the whirring-r-r-r-r again. He nudged Ginny. "Run."
  
  He pulled out a small oval ball, pulled a lever on the side, and hurled it into the line of battle. Stewart's smoke bomb, quickly spreading, providing dense camouflage but dissipating within a few short minutes. The device grinned, and for a moment they were hidden.
  
  He ran after Ginny. The car stopped at the edge of the forest. Three men jumped out, pistols raised, vague threats visible in the darkness. The car's headlights were left on. Pistols on their backs and in their faces; Nick winced. And two more bullets in mine!
  
  He glanced back. A dim silhouette emerged from the gray-white fog. To save his bullet, Nick tossed in his second and final smoke grenade, and its outline disappeared. He turned toward the car. The three men were dispersing, either unwilling to kill Ginny or saving all their fire for him. How important can you possibly become? Nick approached them, crouching. "Two of you are coming with me, and that's the end of it. I'll move closer to work the target in the moonlight."
  
  THUD! From the woods, halfway between Gini, Nick, and the three approaching men, came the roar of a heavy weapon-the hoarse roar of a good-caliber rifle. One of the dark figures fell. THUD! THUD! The other two figures fell to the ground. Nick couldn't tell if one or both were wounded-the first was screaming in pain.
  
  "Come here," Nick said, grabbing Ginny's arm from behind. The man with the rifle might be for or against, but he was the only hope in sight, making him an automatic ally. He dragged Ginny into the bushes and dropped onto the firing point.
  
  CRACK-BAM B-WOOOM! The same muzzle blast, close, pointed the way! Nick held the Luger low. CRACK-BAM B-WOOOM! Ginny gasped and screamed. The muzzle blast was so close it hit them like a hurricane, but no wind could shake your eardrums like that. It fired past them, toward the smoke screen.
  
  "Hello," Nick called. "Do you need help?"
  
  "Well, I'll be damned," a voice replied. "Yes. Come and save me." It was John Villon.
  
  In a moment they were next to him. Nick said -
  
  "Thanks a lot, old man. Just a quick favor. Do you have any nine-million-round Luger ammo on you?"
  
  "No. You?"
  
  "There is one bullet left.
  
  "Here. Colt 45. You know this?"
  
  "I love it." He picked up the heavy pistol. "Shall we go?"
  
  "Follow me."
  
  Villon passed through the trees, twisting and turning. Moments later, they reached the path, the trees above showing an open slit against the sky, the moon a broken gold coin on its rim.
  
  Nick said, "There's no time to ask you why. Will you lead us back over the mountain?"
  
  "Of course. But the dogs will find us."
  
  "I know. Suppose you go with a girl. I'll catch you or wait for me no more than ten minutes on the old road."
  
  "My jeep is there. But we better stick together. You'll only get..."
  
  "Come on," Nick said. "You bought me time. It's my turn to work."
  
  He ran down the path to the meadow without waiting for a response. They circled the car through the trees, and he was on the opposite side from where his passengers had fallen. Judging by the quality of the people he'd seen that evening, if any of them were still alive after that gunshot, they were crawling through the trees looking for him. He ran to the car and peered inside. It was empty, the headlights were on, the engine purring.
  
  Automatic transmission. He backed halfway, used low gear to start moving forward at full throttle, and immediately moved the lever up to move forward.
  
  The man cursed, and a gunshot went off fifty feet away. A bullet struck the metal of the car. Another shot pierced the glass a foot from his head. He cowered, made a double twisting turn, crossed the gravel path, and raced down and up the creek.
  
  He followed the fence, reached the road, and turned toward the main house. He drove a quarter mile, turned off the lights, and slammed on the brakes. He jumped out and pulled a small tube from his jacket, an inch long and barely the thickness of a pencil. He carried four of them, ordinary incendiary fuses. He grabbed the small cylinders at both ends with his fingers, twisted them, and dropped them into the gas tank. The twist broke the seal, and acid flowed down the thin metal wall. The wall held for about a minute, and then the device burst into flames-hot and piercing, like phosphorus.
  
  Not as much as he would have liked. He regretted not having found a rock to steady the accelerator, but the lights of a car were racing past him at the gate. He was doing about forty when he shifted the gear selector into neutral, tilted the heavy car toward the parking lot, and jumped out.
  
  The fall shook him, even with all the throwing he could muster. He ran into the meadow, heading for the trail out of the valley, then fell to the ground as headlights swept past in pursuit.
  
  The car he'd abandoned rolled between rows of parked cars for a considerable distance, scraping the front ends of various vehicles as it careened from side to side. The sounds were intriguing. He turned on his recorder as he ran toward the forest.
  
  He listened to the hiss of the gas tank exploding. You never knew about a flammable cap in a sealed tank. He hadn't removed the cap, of course, and theoretically there should have been enough oxygen, especially if the initial explosion had ruptured the tank. But if the tank was packed to capacity or was built specifically from durable or bulletproof metal, all you had was a small fire.
  
  Using the house lights as a guide, he found the exit to the trail. He listened carefully and moved cautiously, but the three men riding with the flanking vehicle were nowhere to be seen. He climbed the mountain quietly and quickly, but not recklessly, fearing an ambush.
  
  The tank exploded with a satisfying roar, a blast shrouded in mush. He looked back and saw flames rising into the sky.
  
  "Play with it a bit," he muttered. He caught Ginny and John Villon just before they reached the old road on the other side of the cutting.
  
  * * *
  
  They drove to the restored farmhouse in Villon's four-wheel-drive SUV. He parked the car in the back, and they entered the kitchen. It was as exquisitely restored as the outside, all wide counters, rich wood, and gleaming brass-just the sight of it made you smell apple pie, imagine buckets of fresh milk, and picture curvy, rosy-cheeked girls in long skirts but no underwear.
  
  Villon slid his M1 rifle between two brass hooks above the door, poured water into the kettle, and said, as he set it on the stove, "I believe you need the bathroom, miss. Right there. First door on the left. You'll find towels. In the closet, cosmetics."
  
  "Thank you," Ginny said, Nick thought a little weakly, and disappeared.
  
  Villon filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. The renovation hadn't been without modern conveniences-the stove was gas, and in the large open pantry, Nick saw a large refrigerator and freezer. He said, "They'll be here. The dogs."
  
  "Yes," Villon replied. "We'll know when they arrive. At least twenty minutes in advance."
  
  "Sam
  
  How did you know I was walking down the road?
  
  "Yes."
  
  Gray eyes stared straight at you as Villon spoke, but the man had great reserve. His expression seemed to say, "I won't lie to you, but I'll tell you quickly if it's none of your business." Nick was suddenly very glad he'd decided not to try jumping with the Browning shotgun the first time he'd driven out onto the old road. Remembering Villon's work with the rifle, he was especially pleased with that decision. The least he could get was a leg blown off. Nick asked, "TV scanner?"
  
  "Nothing that complicated. Around 1895, a railroad worker invented a device called an "iron microphone." Have you ever heard of it?"
  
  "No."
  
  "The first one was like a carbon telephone receiver mounted along the tracks. When a train passed by, you heard the sound and knew where it was."
  
  "Early mistake."
  
  "That's right. Mine are certainly improved." Villon pointed to a walnut box on the wall, which Nick assumed was a hi-fi speaker system. "My iron microphones are much more sensitive. They transmit wirelessly and only activate when the volume level rises, but the rest is thanks to that unknown telegraph operator on the Connecticut River Railroad."
  
  "How do you know if someone is walking on a road or a mountain path?"
  
  Villon opened the front of the small cabinet and discovered six indicator lights and switches. "When you hear sounds, you look. The lights tell you. If more than one is lit, you momentarily turn off the others or increase the receiver's sensitivity with a rheostat."
  
  "Excellent." Nick pulled a .45-caliber pistol from his belt and carefully placed it on the wide table. "Thank you very much. Mind if I tell you? What? Why?"
  
  "If you do the same. British intelligence? You have the wrong accent unless you've lived in this country for a long time."
  
  "Most people don't notice. No, not the British. Do you have any Luger ammo?"
  
  "Yeah. I'll get you some in a minute. Let's just say I'm an antisocial guy who doesn't want people getting hurt and is crazy enough to get involved."
  
  "I'd rather say you're Ulysses Lord." Nick dropped his English accent. "You had a hell of a record in the 28th Division, Captain. You started out with the old 103rd Cavalry. You were wounded twice. You can still drive an M-1. You kept this piece of property when the estates were sold, perhaps for a hunting camp. Later, you rebuilt this old farm."
  
  Villon placed the tea bags in cups and poured hot water over them. "Which ones are yours?"
  
  "I can't tell you, but you were close. I'll give you a phone number in Washington you can call. They'll partially support me if you carefully identify yourself at the Army Archives. Or you can visit them there and you'll be sure."
  
  "I'm a good judge of character. I think you're fine. But write down this number. Here..."
  
  Nick wrote down a number that would take the caller through a verification process that-if legitimate-would eventually connect them with Hawk's assistant. "If you take us to my car, we'll get out of your way. How long do we have before they block the end of the road?"
  
  "It's a twenty-five-mile circle on narrow roads. We have time."
  
  "Will you be okay?"
  
  "They know me - and they know enough to leave me alone. They don't know that I helped you."
  
  "They'll figure it out."
  
  "To hell with them."
  
  Ginny entered the kitchen, her face restored and composed. Nick resumed his accent. "Have you two introduced yourself? We've been so busy..."
  
  "We were chatting while we were climbing over the hill," Villon said dryly. He handed them cups with switches. The cries of lazy thumps came from the walnut speaker. Villon fiddled with the tea. "Deer. You'll get to tell all the animals in a little while."
  
  Nick noticed that Ginny had not only regained her composure, but also had a hard expression on her face that he didn't like. She'd had time to think-he wondered how close her conclusions were to the truth. Nick asked, "How are your legs? Most girls aren't used to traveling in stockings alone. Are they soft?"
  
  "I'm not a delicate person." She tried to sound casual, but her black eyes blazed with indignation. "You've gotten me into a terrible mess."
  
  "You might say so. Most of us blame others for our difficulties. But it seems to me that you got into trouble - completely without my help."
  
  "You said Bauman's son? I think..."
  
  A wall speaker hummed to the rousing music of a dog's bark. Another joined in. They seemed to enter the room. Villon raised one hand and turned down the volume with the other. Feet pounded. They heard one man grunt and choke, another breathe heavily like a long-distance runner. The sounds grew louder, then faded-like a marching band in a movie. "There they are," Villon declared. "Four or five people and three or four dogs, I'd say."
  
  Nick nodded in agreement: "They weren"t Dobermans."
  
  "They also have Rhodesian Ridgebacks and German Shepherds. Ridgebacks can track like bloodhounds and attack like tigers. A magnificent breed."
  
  "I'm sure," Nick said sternly. "I can't wait."
  
  "What is this?" Jenny exclaimed.
  
  "A listening device," Nick explained. "Mr. Villon set up microphones on the approaches. Like TV scanners without the video. They just listen. A wonderful device, really."
  
  Villon drained his cup and carefully placed it in the sink. "I don't think you're really going to wait for them." He left the room for a moment and returned with a box of nine-millimeter Parabellum rounds. Nick refilled Wilhelmina's magazine and pocketed another twenty or so.
  
  He inserted a clip, lifted the slide with his thumb and forefinger, and watched the round fly into the chamber. He slid the pistol back into the harness. It fit under his arm as comfortably as an old boot. "You're right. Let's go."
  
  Villon drove them in a jeep to the point where Nick had parked his rental car. Nick stopped as he got out of the jeep. "Are you going back to the house?"
  
  "Yes. Don't tell me to wash the cups and put them away. I'll do it."
  
  "Watch yourself. You can't fool this group. They can take your M-1 and pick up the bullets."
  
  "They won't."
  
  "I think you should go away for a while. They'll be hot."
  
  "I'm in these mountains because I won't do what other people think I should."
  
  "What have you heard from Martha lately?"
  
  It was a random test. Nick was surprised by the direct hit. Villon swallowed, frowned, and said, "Good luck." He crashed the jeep into the bushes, turned, and drove away.
  
  Nick quickly drove the rental car down the old road. Reaching the highway, he turned left, away from the Lord's domain. He memorized the map of the area and used the circular route toward the airport. At the top of the hill, he stopped, extended the small antenna cable of the transceiver, and called two AXEmen in a dry cleaning truck. He ignored the FCC regulations. "Plunger calling office B. Plunger calling office B. Come in."
  
  Barney Manoun's voice rang out almost immediately, loud and clear. "Office B. Come on."
  
  "I'm leaving. Do you see any action?"
  
  "A lot. Five cars in the last hour."
  
  "Operation complete. Leave unless you have other orders. Tell the bird. You'll use the phone before I do."
  
  "No other orders here. Do you need us?"
  
  "No. Go home."
  
  "Okay, done."
  
  "Ready and go."
  
  Nick climbed back into the car. Barney Manoun and Bill Rohde would return the truck to the AXE office in Pittsburgh and fly to Washington. They were good people. They probably didn't just park the truck at the entrance to the estate; they hid it and set up a lookout point in the woods. Which, Bill told him later, is exactly what they did.
  
  He headed to the airport. Ginny said, "Okay, Jerry, you can drop the English accent. Where do you think you're taking me and what the hell is this?"
  
  
  Chapter IX.
  
  
  A wry smile momentarily tugged at Nick's lips. "Damn, Ginny. I thought my old school accent with a tie was pretty good."
  
  "I guess so. But you're one of the few people who knows about my acrobatic training. I talked too much in your apartment, but it helped one day. As we were walking out that window, you said, 'Hold on.' The same as when you were working with the barbell. I didn't have time to think about it until I was cleaning at Villon's. Then I watched you walk. I know those shoulders, Jerry. I never would have guessed it from looking at you. You were invented by experts. Who are you, Jerry Deming? Or who is Jerry Deming?"
  
  "A guy who thinks a lot of you, Ginny." He had to silence her until he got her on the plane. She was a cool kitten. You couldn't tell from her voice that she'd been nearly killed several times that night. "Hans has gotten too big for his collar. As I told you in the room, he's pulling a big double cross. All the girls were to be eliminated except Ruth and Pong-Pong."
  
  "I can't believe it," she said, her composure shattered. She swallowed her words and fell silent.
  
  "I hope you can," he thought, "and I wonder if you have a weapon I don't know about?" He saw her naked. She had lost her shoes and purse, and yet... You could strip him almost to the skin and not find Pierre's deadly gas bomb in the special pocket of his shorts.
  
  She suddenly said, "Tell me what the Leader looks like. Who do you know? Where are we going? I... I just can't believe you, Jerry."
  
  He parked the car by the hangar, just a few steps from where the Aero Commander was tied up. There was a hint of dawn in the east. He hugged her and patted her hand. "Jenny, you're the greatest. I need a woman like you, and after last night, I think you realize you need a man like me. A man inside who weighs more than Hans. Stay with me, and you'll be fine. We'll go back and talk to Command One, and then you can make a decision. Okay?"
  
  "I don't know..."
  
  He slowly turned her chin and kissed her. Her lips were cold and hard, then softer, then warmer and more welcoming. He knew she wanted to believe him. But this strange Asian girl had seen too much in her life to be fooled easily or for long. He said, "I meant it when I suggested we take a little vacation together there."
  
  I know a little place near Mount Tremper, above New York City. The leaves will be turning color soon. If you like it, we can come back for at least a weekend in the fall. Trust me, until we talk to the Leader."
  
  She just shook her head. He felt a tear on her cheek. So, the beautiful Chinese woman, for all her accomplishments, wasn't made of steel. He said, "Wait here. I won't be there for a minute. Okay?"
  
  She nodded, and he walked quickly across the hangar, stared at the car for a moment, and then ran to the phone booth near the airport office. If she decided to run, he would see her walking down the road or out onto the field.
  
  He called the number and said, "This is Plunger. Call the Avis office at nine o'clock and tell them the car is at the airport. The keys are stuck under the back seat."
  
  The man replied, "I understand."
  
  Nick ran back to the corner of the hangar, then casually approached the car. Ginny sat quietly and looked out into the new dawn.
  
  He watched the plane's engine warm up. No one emerged from the small office. Although a few lights were on, the airport seemed deserted. He let the plane fly, helped it through the slight turbulence over the morning mountains, and leveled off at seven thousand feet, heading 120 degrees.
  
  He glanced at Ginny. She was staring straight ahead, her beautiful face a mixture of concentration and suspicion. He said, "Have a good breakfast when we land. I bet you're hungry."
  
  "I was hungry before. What does the Leader look like?"
  
  "He's not my type. Have you ever flown a plane? Put your hands on the controls. I'll give you a lesson. It might come in handy."
  
  "Who else do you know? Stop wasting your time, Jerry."
  
  "We could have spent a lot of time in the stalls. I'm guessing that, besides the ice in the carburetors, they killed more pilots than anything else. Watch and I'll show you..."
  
  "You better tell me who you are, Jerry," she stopped him sharply. "This has gone far enough."
  
  He sighed. She was warming up for real resistance. "Don't you like me enough to trust me at all, Ginny?"
  
  "I like you as much as any man I've ever met. But that's not what we're talking about. Tell me about Bauman."
  
  "Have you ever heard him called Judas?"
  
  She thought. He looked back. She frowned. "No. So?"
  
  "He's coming."
  
  "And you called yourself his son. You lie as quickly as you speak."
  
  "You've been lying to me ever since we met, darling. But I understand because you played your part and didn't know me. Now I'm being honest with you."
  
  She lost a bit of her cool. "Stop trying to turn the tables and say something reasonable."
  
  "I love you."
  
  "If that's what you mean, leave it for later. I can't believe what you're saying."
  
  Her voice was harsh. The gloves were coming off. Nick said, "Remember Lebanon?"
  
  "What?"
  
  "Remember Harry Demarkin?"
  
  "No."
  
  "And they took a picture of you with Tyson the Wheel. I bet you didn't know that." This shocked her. "Yeah," he continued-live performance. "Hans is so stupid. He wanted to get you to the other side. With a picture. Imagine if you'd talked."
  
  He'd never used the scaled-down version of the autopilot designed for general aviation and small planes, but it had been tested on him. He set the course-locked the ship. It seemed effective. He lit a cigarette and sat down. Jenny refused one. She said, "Everything you said is a lie."
  
  "You yourself said that I am too strong to be an oil trader."
  
  "You know too much."
  
  She was strikingly beautiful, with low-arched dark eyebrows, a tense mouth, and a focused gaze. She was pushing too hard. She wanted to handle this herself, in case he wasn't a gang member and she'd be in double trouble once they landed. She had to have a gun. What kind? Where?
  
  Finally she said, "You're some kind of cop. Maybe you really did take a picture of me with Tyson. That's where your remark started."
  
  "Don't be ridiculous."
  
  "Interpol, Jerry?"
  
  "The US has twenty-eight intelligence agencies. Get through them. And half of them are looking for me."
  
  "You may be British then, but you're not one of us. Silence." Okay... "Now her voice was low and hard, as sharp and incisive as Hugo's after he'd sharpened the shining blade on the fine stone. You mentioned Harry Demarkin. That makes you AX more than likely."
  
  "Of course. Both the CIA and the FBI." Both sets of gloves slipped off. A moment later, you threw them in each other's faces and went to get your Derringers or Pepperboxes.
  
  Nick felt a twinge of regret. She was so magnificent-and he hadn't yet begun to explore her talents. That spine was made of flexible steel cable, covered in dense foam. You could... She suddenly moved her hand, and he became wary. She brushed a bead of sweat from the neat hollow under her lips.
  
  "No," she said bitterly. "You're not a pleasure-seeker or a clerk wasting time until he makes a connection."
  
  Nick's eyebrows rose. He had to tell Hawk about this. "You did a great job on Demarkin. Dad approved."
  
  "Stop this crap."
  
  "Now you're mad at me."
  
  "You are a fascist bastard."
  
  "You were awfully quick to jump on that idea. I saved you.
  
  We were... very close in Washington, I thought. You're the kind of girl I could..."
  
  "Bullshit," she interrupted. "I was soft for a few hours. Like everything else in my life, it went bad. You're a lawyer. But I'd like to know who and what."
  
  "Okay. Tell me how it went with Tyson. Did you have any problems?"
  
  She sat sullenly, her arms crossed over her chest, a simmering rage in her eyes. He tried a few more comments. She refused to respond. He checked the course, admired the new autopilot, sighed, and collapsed into his seat. He stubbed out his cigarette.
  
  After a few minutes, he muttered, "What a night. I'm melting." He relaxed. He sighed. The day was cloudless. He looked down at the forested mountains, rolling beneath them like waves of green, unevenly rising grain. He glanced at his watch, checked course and speed, estimated wind and drift. He mentally calculated the plane's position. He closed his eyes and pretended to doze.
  
  The next time he risked a glance through his narrowed eyes, her arms were open. Her right hand was out of sight, and it bothered him, but he didn't dare move or stop what she was doing. He felt the tension and threat of her intent. Sometimes it seemed to him that his training made him sense danger, like a horse or a dog.
  
  He lost sight of her other hand.
  
  He sighed softly and muttered, "Don't try anything, Ginny, unless you're an experienced pilot yourself. This thing's on a new autopilot, which I bet you haven't been tested on yet." He sank lower in his seat. "In any case, flying through these mountains is difficult..."
  
  He took a deep breath, his head thrown back from her. He heard tiny movements. What was that? Perhaps her bra was 1000-1b, strong nylon, and easy to garrote. Even if he had a self-locking clamp, could he handle that explosive? Not on a plane. A blade? Where? The feeling of danger and evil became so strong that he had to force himself not to move, not to look, not to act in self-defense. He watched, his eyes narrowed.
  
  Something shifted across the top of his small field of vision and dropped. Instinctively, he stopped breathing mid-inhale as a film of something descended over his head, and he heard a tiny "Foot." He held his breath-he thought it was gas. Or some kind of steam. That's how they did it! With the hood of death! This must be an instant kill with fantastic expansion, allowing a girl to overcome men like Harry Demarkin and Tyson. He exhaled a few cubic centimeters to keep the substance from entering his nasal tissues. He sucked in his pelvis to maintain the pressure in his lungs.
  
  He counted. One, two, three... she threw it around her neck... held it tightly with a strange tenderness. 120, 121, 122, 123...
  
  He allowed all his muscles and tissues to relax except his lungs and pelvis. Like a yogi, he commanded his body to be completely relaxed and lifeless. He allowed his eyes to open slightly. 160, 161, 162...
  
  She lifted one of his hands. The hand lay limp and lifeless, like wet paper pulp. She dropped it-again with a strange tenderness. She spoke. "Goodbye, baby. You were someone else. Please forgive me. You're a rat bastard like everyone else, but I think the nicest rat bastard I ever met. I wish things were different, I'm a born loser. Someday the world will be different. If I ever get to those Catskills, I'll remember you. Maybe I'll still remember you... for a long time." She sobbed softly.
  
  Now he had little time. His senses were rapidly dulling, his blood flow slowing. She opened the window. The thin plastic hood was removed from his head. She rolled it between her palms and watched it shrink and disappear, like a magician's scarf. Then she lifted it between her thumb and forefinger. At the bottom of it dangled a colorless capsule no larger than a clay marble.
  
  She rocked the small ball back and forth. It was attached to the postage stamp-sized packet in her hand by a tiny tube, like an umbilical cord. "Disgusting," she said bitterly.
  
  "Of course," Nick agreed. He sharply blew out the remaining air, leaning over her to breathe only the fresh stream from her window. When he sat down, she screamed. "You!..."
  
  "Yes, I did. So that's how Harry and Tyson died."
  
  She crawled towards the small hut like a newly caught chipmunk in a trap box, evading capture, looking for a way out.
  
  "Relax," Nick said. He didn't try to grab her. "Tell me everything about Geist, Akito, and Bauman. Maybe I can help you."
  
  She opened the door, despite the gale. Nick disengaged the autopilot and slowed the engine. She swung out of the cockpit first. She looked straight at him with an expression of horror, hatred, and strange weariness.
  
  "Come back," he said, with authority, loud and clear. "Don't be stupid. I won't hurt you. I'm not dead. I was holding my breath."
  
  She was thrown halfway out of the plane. He could have grabbed her wrist, and with his strength and the ship's tilt to the left, he could have probably knocked her down, whether she wanted it or not. Should he have done that?
  
  She would have been as valuable to AX as if she were alive, because of the plan he was making. If she survived, she would have spent miserable years in a secret Texas facility, unknown to many, seen by few, and unmentioned. Years? She had a choice. His jaw tightened. He glanced at the bank indicator and kept the ship level. "Come back, Ginny."
  
  "Goodbye Jerry."
  
  Her two words seemed softer and sadder; without warmth and hatred-or was that his illusion? She left.
  
  He reassessed his position and descended a few hundred feet. Near a narrow country road, he saw a sign on a barn that read "OX HOLLOW." He found it on the oil company map and marked it on his own.
  
  * * *
  
  When he landed, the owner of the charter outfit was on duty. He wanted to talk about flight plans and business difficulties. Nick said, "Nice ship. Wonderful trip. Thank you very much. Goodbye."
  
  Either Gianni's body hadn't been found, or the airport check hadn't yet reached it. He called a taxi from a roadside phone booth. Then he called Hawk's current floating number-a scheme randomly changed for use when scramblers weren't available. He reached it in less than a minute. Hawk said, "Yes, Plunger."
  
  "Suspect number twelve committed suicide approximately fifteen miles, 290 degrees from Bull Hollow, which is approximately eighty-five miles from the last point of action."
  
  "Okay, find it."
  
  "There's no contact with the company or me. Better to communicate and that's cool. We were in my vehicle. She left."
  
  "It's clear".
  
  "We should meet. I have some interesting points to share."
  
  "Can you make it Fox time? Point five?"
  
  "See you there."
  
  Nick hung up and stood for a moment, his hand on his chin. AXE would provide the Ox Hollow authorities with a plausible explanation for Jeanyee's death. He wondered if anyone would claim her body. He had to check. She was on the other team, but who had a chance to choose?
  
  Fox Time and Point Five were simply codes for time and place, in this case a private meeting room at the Army and Navy Club.
  
  Nick rode the cab within three blocks of the bus terminal near Route 7. He got out and walked the remaining distance after the cab was out of sight. The day was sunny and hot, the traffic was loud. Mr. Williams had disappeared.
  
  Three hours later, "Jerry Deming" pulled the Thunderbird into traffic and mentally marked himself as "real" in today's society. He stopped at a stationery store and bought a plain black marking pencil, a pad of notepaper, and a stack of white envelopes.
  
  In his apartment, he went through all the mail, opened a bottle of Saratoga water, and wrote five notes. Each one was the same-and then there were five.
  
  From the information Hawk had given him, he derived the probable addresses of Ruth, Susie, Anna, Pong-Pong, and Sonya. "Presumably, since Anna and Sonya's files had a designation, this address could only be used for mail." He turned to the envelopes, opening them and sealing them with a rubber band.
  
  He carefully examined the cards and papers he'd picked up from two men in the hallway of a Pennsylvania home-he'd thought of it as a "private sports outbuilding." They seemed legitimate members of a cartel that controlled a significant portion of Middle Eastern oil.
  
  Then he set his alarm and went to bed until 6:00 PM. He had a drink at the Washington Hilton, dined on steak, salad, and pecan pie at DuBarry's, and at 7:00 PM, he walked into the Army and Navy Club. Hawk was waiting for him in a comfortably furnished private room-a room that was used for only a month before they moved elsewhere.
  
  His boss stood by the small, unlit fireplace; he and Nick exchanged a firm handshake and a lingering glance. Nick knew the tireless AXE executive must have been working his usual long day-he usually arrived at the office before eight. But he seemed as calm and refreshed as a man who'd had a good afternoon's sleep. That lean, sinewy frame held enormous reserves.
  
  Hawk's brilliant, leathery face focused on Nick as he made his assessment. That he restrained their usual banter was a sign of his perception. "I'm glad you came out all right, Nicholas. Barney and Bill said they heard faint sounds that were... er, target practice. Miss Achling is at the county coroner's office.
  
  "She chose death. But you could say I allowed her to choose."
  
  "So technically it wasn't Killmaster's murder. I'll report that. Have you written your report?"
  
  "No. I'm dead tired. I'll do it tonight. That's how it was. I was driving along the road we marked on the map..."
  
  He told Hawk exactly what had happened, using rare phrases. When he finished, he handed Hawk the cards and papers he had taken from the oil workers' wallets.
  
  Hawk looked at them bitterly. "It seems the name of the game is always money. Information that Judas-Borman is somewhere in the foul web is priceless. Could he and Commander One be the same person?"
  
  "Perhaps. I wonder what they'll do now? They'll be puzzled and worried about Mr. Williams. Will they go looking for him?"
  
  "Perhaps. But I think they can blame the British and carry on. They're doing something too serious to dismantle their apparatus. They'll wonder if Williams was a thief or Ginia's lover. They'll think about stopping whatever they're planning, and then not."
  
  Nick nodded. Hawk, as always, was logical. He accepted the small brandy Hawk poured from the decanter. Then the elder said, "I have bad news. John Villon had a freak accident. His rifle discharged in his jeep, and he crashed. The bullet, of course, went right through him. He's dead."
  
  "Those devils!" Nick imagined the tidy farmhouse. A retreat from a society that had become a trap. "He thought he could handle them. But those listening devices were a godsend. They must have grabbed him, searched the place thoroughly, and decided to destroy him."
  
  "That's the best answer. His sister Martha is connected to the most right-wing outfit in California. She's the queen of the White Camellia Squires. Have you heard of that?"
  
  "No, but I understand."
  
  "We're keeping an eye on her. Do you have any suggestions for our next step? Would you like to continue Deming's role?"
  
  "I'd object if you told me not to." That was Hawk's way. He had their next steps planned, but he always asked for advice.
  
  Nick pulled out a stack of letters addressed to the girls and described them. "With your permission, sir, I'll mail them. There must be a weak link between them. I think it will make a strong impression. Let them wonder - who's next?"
  
  Hawk pulled out two cigars. Nick accepted one. They lit them. The aroma was strong. Hawk studied it thoughtfully. "That's a good needle, Nick. I'd like to think about that. You better write four more."
  
  "More girls?"
  
  "No, extra copies of these addresses for Pong-Pong and Anna. We're not entirely sure where they get their mail from." He checked the pad and quickly wrote, tore out the page, and handed it to Nick. "No harm will come if the girl gets more than one. It'll lessen the threat if no one gets anything."
  
  "You are right."
  
  "Now here's something else. I detect a certain sadness in your usual cheerful demeanor. Look." He placed a five-by-seven photo essay in front of Nick. "Taken at the South Gate Motel."
  
  The photo was of Tyson and Ginny Achling. It was a poorly lit, sideways shot, but their faces were visible. Nick handed it back. "So she killed Tyson. I was almost certain."
  
  "Feel better?"
  
  "Yes. And I'm happy to avenge Tyson. He would be pleased."
  
  "I'm glad you researched so thoroughly, Nicholas."
  
  "This hood trick works quickly. The gas must have amazing expansion and lethal properties. Then it seems to dissipate or disintegrate quickly."
  
  "Work hard on this. It will certainly make things easier for the lab once you return the sample."
  
  "Where can I find one?"
  
  "You have me there, and I know you know it." Hawk frowned. Nick remained silent. "We have to keep anyone who has anything to do with Akito, girls, or men in Pennsylvania, under surveillance. You know how hopeless that would be with our employees. But I have a small lead. Many of our friends frequent that place, the Chu Dai restaurant. On the beach outside of Baltimore. You know?"
  
  "No."
  
  "The food is excellent. They've been open four years and are very profitable. It's one of a dozen large banquet halls that cater to weddings, business parties, and the like. The owners are two Chinese, and they're doing a good job. Especially since Congressman Reed owns part of the business."
  
  "Chinese again. How often do I smell the potential of Chicom."
  
  "Absolutely right. But why? And where is Judas-Bormann?"
  
  "We know him." Nick slowly listed: "Selfish, greedy, cruel, ruthless, cunning - and, in my opinion, insane."
  
  "But every now and then we look in the mirror, and there he is," Hawk added thoughtfully. "What a combination that could be. Posh people are using him because they need the Caucasian fronts, connections, God knows what else."
  
  "Do we have a man in Chu Dai?"
  
  "We had him there. We let him out because he couldn't find anything. Again, that understaffing. It was Kolya. He introduced himself as a slightly shady parking attendant. He didn't find anything, but he said it didn't smell as good in here."
  
  "It was the kitchen." Hawk didn't smile his usual easy smile. He was genuinely worried about this. "Kole's a good man. There must be something to this."
  
  Hock said, "The house staff was almost entirely Chinese. But we were telephone operators and helped sand and wax the floors. Our boys didn't find anything either."
  
  "Should I check this?"
  
  "Whenever you like, Mr. Deming. It's expensive, but we want you to live well."
  
  * * *
  
  For four days and four nights, Nick was Jerry Deming, a pleasant young man at the right parties. He wrote additional letters and mailed them all. Barney Manoun glanced at the former lords' estate, posing as a callous security guard. It was guarded and deserted.
  
  He went to a party at the Annapolis Nursery, thrown by one of the seven thousand Arab princes who like to swing in the city where the money comes from.
  
  Watching the fat smiles and fixed eyes, he decided that if he really were Jerry Deming, he would walk away from the deal and get as far away from Washington as possible. After eight weeks, things were boring.
  
  Everyone played their part. You weren't really Jerry or John... you were oil, the state, or the White House. You never talked about real or interesting things; you chatted about them in the back of your mind. His frown turned warm and kind as he spotted Susie Cuong.
  
  About time! This was his first glimpse of one of the girls since Genie's death. They, Akito, and the others were either out of sight or busy with other matters that Nick Carter, as N3, could learn a lot about. Susie was part of the cluster around the prince.
  
  The guy was a bore. His hobbies were blue movies and staying away from the vast, rich peninsula between Africa and India as much as possible. His translator explained twice that the snacks for this small celebration had been flown in especially from Paris. Nick tried them. They were excellent.
  
  Nick approached Susie. He caught her eye by deliberate chance and reintroduced himself. They danced. After some small talk, he isolated a chic Chinese woman, grabbed a couple of drinks, and asked the key question. "Susie, I had dates with Ruth Moto and Jeanie Aling. I haven't seen them in ages. They're overseas, you know?"
  
  Of course, I remember, you're the Jerry Ruth who would try to help her connect with her father. "It was too fast." She thinks about you a lot. "Her face clouded over. "But you didn't. Heard about Jenny?"
  
  "No."
  
  "She's dead. She died in an accident in the village."
  
  "No! Not Jenny."
  
  "Yes. Last week."
  
  "Such a young, sweet girl..."
  
  "It was a car or a plane or something like that."
  
  After an appropriate pause, Nick raised his glass and said softly, "To Jenny."
  
  They drank. This established an intimate bond. He spent the rest of the evening tying the first side of the boat onto the cable. The connecting cable was secured so quickly and easily that he knew the wires on her end had helped him. Why not? With Ginia gone, if the other side had still been interested in "Jerry Deming's" services, they would have instructed the other girls to intensify their contact.
  
  When the doors opened into another large private room containing a buffet, Nick escorted Susie to the reception room. Although the prince had hired several rooms for conferences, banquets, and parties, his name must have been on the list of slackers. The rooms were crowded, and the booze and sumptuous buffet were being devoured with relish by many of the Washingtonians, whom Nick recognized as the outlaws. "Good luck to them," he thought, watching the neatly dressed couple fill plates with beef and turkey and serve the delicacies.
  
  Shortly after midnight, he discovered that Susie was planning to take a taxi home: "... I live near Columbia Heights."
  
  She said that her cousin brought her and she had to leave.
  
  Nick wondered if five other girls were attending events today. Each had been driven by a cousin-so she could contact Jerry Deming. "Let me take you home," he said. "I'm going to hang out for a bit anyway. It would be nice to pass by the park."
  
  "That's kind of you..."
  
  And that was nice. She was perfectly willing to stay at his apartment late into the night. She was happy to kick off her shoes and curl up on the couch overlooking the river "for a little while."
  
  Susie was as sweet and cuddly as one of those cute Chinese dolls you can find in the best shops in San Francisco. All charm and smooth skin, shiny black hair, and attentiveness. Her conversation was fluid.
  
  And that gave Nick an edge. Smooth; flowing! He remembered Ginny's gaze and the way the girls had talked while he eavesdropped in the Pennsylvania mountains. The girls all fit a mold-they acted as if they'd been trained and honed for a specific purpose, the way the best madams trained their courtesans.
  
  It was more subtle than simply providing a group of excellent playmates for the sort of thing that had happened in the former lord's house. Hans Geist could handle that, but it went deeper than that. Ruth, Ginny, Susie, and the rest were... experts? Yes, but the best teachers could be specialists. He considered this as Susie exhaled under his chin. Loyal. That was precisely what he had decided to push.
  
  "Susie, I'd like to contact Cousin Jeanie. I think I can find him somehow. She said he might have a very interesting offer for the oilman."
  
  "I think I can contact him. Do you want him to call you?"
  
  "Please do it. Or do you think it might be too soon after what happened to her?"
  
  "Maybe better. You would be... someone she would want to help. Almost like one of her last wishes."
  
  It was an interesting angle. He said, "But are you sure you know the right one? She could have lots of cousins. I've heard about your Chinese families. I think he lives in Baltimore."
  
  "Yes, that's the one..." She stopped. He hoped Susie was like that.
  
  A good actress, she'll catch her line too quickly, and the truth will slip away. "At least, that's what I think. I can contact him through a friend who knows the family well."
  
  "I would be very grateful," he murmured, kissing the top of her head.
  
  He kissed her much more because Susie had learned her lessons well. Tasked with captivating, she gave it her all. She didn't have Ginny's skills, but her smaller, firmer body offered rapturous vibrations, especially her own. Nick fed her compliments like syrup, and she swallowed them. Beneath the agent was a woman.
  
  They slept until seven, when he made coffee, brought it to her bed, and woke her with due tenderness. She tried to insist on calling a taxi, but he refused, arguing that if she insisted, he would be angry with her.
  
  He drove her home and wrote down the address on 13th Street. It wasn't the address listed in AXE records. He called the call center. At six-thirty, as he was getting dressed for what he feared would be a dull evening-Jerry Deming was no longer amusing-Hawk called him. Nick turned on the scrambler and said, "Yes, sir."
  
  "I wrote down Susie's new address. There are only three girls left. I mean, it's after-school."
  
  "We played Chinese checkers."
  
  "Can you believe it? So interesting that you kept it up all night?" Nick refused the bait. Hawk knew he'd call the address immediately, as he'd assumed he'd left Susie's that morning. "I have news," Hawk continued. "They called the contact number you gave Villon. God knows why they bothered to check it at such a late date, unless we're dealing with Prussian meticulousness or bureaucratic error. We said nothing, and the caller hung up, but not before our counter-communication. The call was from an area code of three-by-one."
  
  "Baltimore".
  
  "Very likely. Add that to something else. Ruth and her father left for Baltimore last night. Our man lost them in the city, but they were heading south of the city. Notice the connection?"
  
  "Chu Dai Restaurant".
  
  "Yes. Why don't you go there and have dinner? We think this place is innocent, and that's another reason why N3 might know otherwise. Strange things have happened in the past."
  
  "Okay. I'll leave immediately, sir."
  
  There was more suspicion or intuition in Baltimore than Hawk would admit. The way he put it-we think this place is innocent-was a warning sign if you knew the logical workings of that complex mind.
  
  Nick hung up his tuxedo, put on shorts with Pierre in a special pocket and two incendiary caps forming a "V" where his legs met his pelvis, and donned a dark suit. Hugo had a stiletto on his left forearm, and Wilhelmina was tucked under his arm in a specially fitted, angled sling. He had four ballpoint pens, only one of which would write. The other three were Stuart grenades. He had two lighters; the heavier one with the identification pen on the side was the one he prized. Without them, he'd still be in the Pennsylvania mountains, probably buried.
  
  At 8:55, he handed over "Bird" to the attendant in the parking lot of the Chu Dai restaurant, which was far more impressive than its name suggested. It was a cluster of interconnected buildings on the beach, with gigantic parking lots and garish neon lights. A large, obsequious Chinese maitre d' greeted him in the lobby, which could have been used for a Broadway theater. "Good evening. Do you have a reservation?"
  
  Nick handed him a five-dollar bill, folded in his palm. "Right here."
  
  "Yes, indeed. For one?"
  
  "Unless you see someone who would like to do it both ways."
  
  The Chinese man chuckled. "Not here. The oasis in the city center is for that. But first, have lunch with us. Just wait three or four minutes. Wait here, please." He gestured majestically to a room decorated in the carnival style of a North African harem with an oriental twist. Amid the red plush, satin curtains, bold gold tassels, and luxurious sofas, a color television glowed and bleated.
  
  Nick winced. "I'll get some fresh air and have a smoke."
  
  "Sorry, there's no room to walk. We had to use it all for parking. Smoking is allowed here."
  
  "I can rent a couple of your private meeting rooms for a business conference and a full-day banquet. Can anyone show me around?"
  
  "Our conference office closes at five. How many people are in the meeting?"
  
  "Six hundred." Nick picked up the respectable figure in the air.
  
  "Wait right here." The Chinese factotum extended a velvet rope, which caught the people behind Nick like fish in a dam. He hurried away. One of the potential clients caught by the rope, a handsome man with a beautiful woman in a red dress, grinned at Nick.
  
  "Hey, how did you get in so easily? Do you need a reservation?"
  
  "Yes. Or give him an engraved image of Lincoln. He's a collector."
  
  "Thanks, buddy."
  
  The Chinese came back with another, thinner Chinese man, and Nick got the impression that this larger man was made of fat - you couldn't find any hard flesh underneath that plumpness.
  
  The big guy said, "This is our Mr. Shin, Mr...."
  
  "Deming. Jerry Deming. Here's my business card."
  
  Shin pulled Nick aside while the maitre d' continued to guide the fish. The man and the woman in red walked right inside.
  
  Mr. Shin showed Nick three beautiful conference rooms that were empty, and four even more impressive ones with their decorations and parties.
  
  "Nick asked. He asked to see the kitchens (there were seven of them), the lounges, the cafe, the meeting facilities, the cinema, the photocopier, and the weaving machines. Mr. Shin was friendly and attentive, a good salesman.
  
  "Do you have a wine cellar, or should we send one from Washington...?" Nick dropped the question. He'd seen this damned place from start to finish-the only place left was the basement.
  
  "Right down this path."
  
  Shin led him down the wide staircase near the kitchen and produced a large key. The basement was large, well-lit, and built of solid concrete block. The wine cellar was cool, clean, and stocked, as if champagne had gone out of fashion. Nick sighed. "Wonderful. We'll just specify what we want in the contract."
  
  They climbed the stairs again. "Are you satisfied?" Shin asked.
  
  "Great. Mr. Gold will call you in a day or two."
  
  "Who?"
  
  "Mr. Paul Gold."
  
  "Oh, yes." He led Nick back into the lobby and handed him to Mr. Big. "Please make sure Mr. Deming has everything he wants-compliments of the house."
  
  "Thanks, Mr. Shin," Nick said. "How about this! If you try to get a free lunch with an offer to rent a hall, you'll get screwed every time. Play it cool, and they'll buy a brick." He saw the color brochures on the hall rack and picked one up. It was a magnificent piece by Bill Bard. The photographs were stunning. He had barely opened it when the man he dubbed Mr. Big said, "Come on, please."
  
  The dinner was sumptuous. He settled on a simple meal of butterfly shrimp and Kov steak with tea and a bottle of rose, though the menu featured many continental and Chinese dishes.
  
  Just comfortably stuffed, over his last cup of tea, he read the full-color brochure, noting every word, for Nick Carter was a well-read and thorough man. He went back and read one paragraph again. Ample parking for 1,000 cars-valet parking-a private dock for guests arriving by boat.
  
  He read it again. He didn't notice the doc. He asked for the check. The waiter said, "Free, sir."
  
  Nick gave him a tip and left. He thanked Mr. Big, praised the home cooking, and stepped into the balmy night.
  
  When the attendant came to pick up his ticket, he said, "I was told I could come with my boat. Where's the dock?"
  
  "Nobody uses it anymore. They stopped it."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Like I said. Not for that, I think. Thunderbird. Right?"
  
  "Right."
  
  Nick drove slowly along the highway. Chu Dai was built almost over the water, and he couldn't see the marina beyond it. He turned around and headed south again. About three hundred yards below the restaurant was a small marina, one of which extended far out into the bay. A single light burned on the shore; all the boats he saw were dark. He parked and headed back.
  
  The sign read: MAY LUNA MARINA.
  
  A wire gate blocked the dock from the shore. Nick quickly glanced around, jumped over, and stepped out onto the deck, trying not to make his footsteps sound like a muffled drum.
  
  Halfway to the pier, he stopped, out of reach of the dim light. The boats were of varying sizes-the kind you'd find where marina maintenance is minimal but the dock is reasonably priced. There were only three over thirty feet long, and one at the end of the dock that looked larger in the darkness... maybe fifty feet. Most were hidden under tarps. Only one showed a light, which Nick quietly approached-the thirty-six-foot Evinrude, neat but of indeterminate age. The yellow glow of its ports and hatch barely reached the dock.
  
  A voice came from the night: "How can I help you?"
  
  Nick looked down. A light came on on the deck, revealing a thin man of about fifty sitting in a deck chair. He wore old brown khaki pants that blended into the background until the light highlighted him. Nick waved his hand dismissively. "I'm looking for a docking spot. I heard the price is reasonable."
  
  "Come on in. They have some seats. What kind of boat do you have?"
  
  Nick descended the wooden ladder to the floating planks and climbed aboard. The man pointed to a soft seat. "Welcome aboard. No need to bring too many people."
  
  "I have a 28-meter Ranger."
  
  "Do your job? There's no service here. Electricity and water are all."
  
  "That's all I want."
  
  "Then this might be the place. I get a free spot for being the night watchman. They have a man during the day. You can see him from nine to five."
  
  "Italian boy? I thought someone said..."
  
  "No. The Chinese restaurant down the street owns it. They never bother us. Would you like a beer?"
  
  Nick didn't do it, but he wanted to talk. "Love, it's my turn when I tie."
  
  An older man entered the cabin and returned with a can of vodka. Nick thanked him and opened the can. They raised their beers in greeting and drank.
  
  The old man turned off the light: "It"s nice here in the dark. Listen."
  
  The city suddenly seemed far away. The noise of traffic was drowned out by the splash of water and the whistle of a large vessel. Colored lights flashed in the bay. The man sighed. "My name is Boyd. Retired Navy. Do you work in town?"
  
  "Yes. Oil business. Jerry Deming." They touched hands. "Do the owners use the dock at all?"
  
  "There was once. There was this idea that people could come in their boats to eat. Damn few ever did. It's much easier to hop in a car." Boyd snorted. "They own that cruiser, after all, I assume you know your way around a rope. Don't pay to see too much here."
  
  "I'm blind and dumb," Nick said. "What's their racket?"
  
  "A small puntang and maybe a snorkel or two. I don't know. Almost every night some of them come out or come in the cruiser."
  
  "Maybe spies or something?"
  
  "No. I talked to a friend of mine in Naval Intelligence. He said they were fine."
  
  "So much for my competitors," Nick thought. However, as Hawk explained, Chu Dai's clothes looked clean. "Do they know you're a former Navy sailor?"
  
  "No. I told them I was working on a fishing boat in Boston. They ate it up. They offered me the night watch when I haggled over the price."
  
  Nick gave Boyd a cigar. Boyd produced two more beers. They sat for a long time in comfortable silence. The cruiser and Boyd's comments were interesting. When the second can was finished, Nick stood up and shook their hand. "Thanks very much. I'll go down and see them this afternoon."
  
  "I hope you know. I can tell you about a good shipmate. Are you a naval officer?"
  
  "No. I served in the army. But I was on the water a little."
  
  "The best place."
  
  Nick drove the Bird down the road and parked it between two warehouses a quarter mile from the May Moon Marina. He returned on foot and discovered the cement company's dock, from which, hidden in the darkness, he had a perfect view of Boyd's boat and a large cruiser. About an hour later, a car pulled up at the dock, and three people got out. Nick's excellent eyesight identified them even in the dim light-Susie, Pong-Pong, and the skinny Chinese man he'd seen on the stairs in Pennsylvania and who might have been the man behind the mask in Maryland.
  
  They walked down the dock, exchanged a few words with Boyd, whom he couldn't hear, and boarded the fifty-foot passenger yacht. Nick thought quickly. This was a good lead he could get. What should he do with it? Get help and learn about the cruiser's habits? If everyone thought Chu Dai's crew was so legit, they probably would have covered it up. A great idea would be to plant a beeper on the vessel and track it with a copter. He took off his shoes, slid into the water, and swam a short distance around the cruiser. Its lights were now on, but the engines wouldn't start. He felt for a slot where he could insert a pager. Nothing. It was healthy and clean.
  
  He swam to the nearest small boat in the marina and cut a three-quarter-length Manila mooring rope. He would have preferred nylon, but the Manila was durable and didn't look particularly old. Wrapping the rope around his waist, he climbed the dock ladder and silently boarded the cruiser, right in front of his cabin windows. He circled the bay and peered inside. He saw an empty head, an empty master cabin, and then approached the porthole in the living room. The three who had boarded were sitting quietly, looking like people waiting for someone or something. A thin Chinese man went to the galley and returned with a tray with a teapot and cups. Nick winced. Opponents who were drinking were always easier to deal with.
  
  Sounds from the dock alerted him. Another car had pulled up, and four people were approaching the cruiser. He crawled forward. There was nowhere to hide at the bow. The vessel looked fast, with neat lines. The bow had only a low hatch. Nick secured his line to the anchor cleat with a tight knot and climbed down the port side into the water. They would never have noticed the line if they hadn't used the anchor or tied off the port side.
  
  The water was warm. He debated swimming in the dark. He hadn't set his beeper. He couldn't swim fast in his wet clothes and weapons. He kept them on because naked, he looked like an arsenal, and he didn't want to leave all his valuable gear-especially Wilhelmina-on the dark dock.
  
  The engines roared. He thoughtfully checked the line, rose two feet, and dropped two bows onto the coils-the sailor's bosun's chair. He'd done many strange and dangerous things, but this might have been too much. Should he buy a helicopter?
  
  Feet stomped on the deck. They were unfurling their sails. They weren't particularly confident in warming up the engines. His decision had been made for him-they were on their way.
  
  The cruiser's engines were running fast, and the water was lashing against his back. He became even more tied overboard,
  
  as the speedboat roared through the bay, each time she hit a swell, the water lashed his legs like a rough masseur's blows.
  
  Out at sea, the cruiser's throttle was wide open. It rammed into the night. Nick felt like a fly straddling the nose of a torpedo. What the hell was I doing here? Jumping? The boat's sides and propellers would turn him into hamburger.
  
  Every time the boat bounced, he was hit on the bow. He learned to make V-shaped springs with his arms and legs to soften the blows, but it was a constant battle to keep his teeth from being knocked out.
  
  He cursed. His situation was deadly dangerous and absurd. I'm taking a risk here! AXE's N3. The roar of the engine down the Chesapeake Bay!
  
  
  Chapter X
  
  
  The cruiser could actually cruise. Nick wondered what powerful motors it had. Whoever was on the bridge could steer the wheel, even if they hadn't managed to warm up the engines properly. The boat rumbled off the Patapsco River without veering off course. If someone had been at the helm, swinging the bow from side to side, Nick wasn't sure he could have kept out some of the waves that crashed into him.
  
  Somewhere near Pinehurst, they passed a large freighter, and as the cruiser crossed the ship's wake, Nick realized the ant would feel like he was trapped in an automatic washing machine. He was soaked and lifted high, beaten and beaten. Water crashed down on him with such force that some of it entered his nose, even his powerful lungs. He choked and gagged, and when he tried to control the water with his breath, he bounced off the cliff, and the wind tore out of him again.
  
  He decided he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and there was no way out. The blows on his back as he hit the hard salt water felt as if they would emasculate him. What a gem-castrated in the line of duty! He tried to climb higher, but the bouncing, vibrating rope threw him off every time he rose a few inches. They passed the wake of the large ship, and he could breathe again. He wanted them to get where they were going. He thought, // they're going out to sea, and there's some kind of weather, I've already been.
  
  He tried to assess their position. It felt like he'd been yo-yoed in the surf for hours. They should be at the Magothy River by now. He turned his head, trying to spot Love Point, or Sandy Point, or the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. All he saw was churning water.
  
  His arms ached. His chest would be black and blue. This was hell on the water. He realized that in another hour he would have to concentrate to stay conscious-and then the roar of the engines faded to a comfortable hum. Relaxing, he hung on the two coils like a drowned otter lifted from a trap.
  
  What now? He brushed his hair out of his eyes and turned his neck. A two-masted schooner appeared, idling across the bay, illuminating the running lights, mastheads, and cabin lanterns, painting a picture in the night that could be painted. This was no plywood toy, he decided; this was a child made for money and the deep sea.
  
  They were heading to pass the schooner, port on red, red on red. He clung to the starboard edge of the cliff, disappearing from view. It wasn't easy. The rope tied to the left clamp struggled with him. The cruiser began a slow, sharp turn to the left. In a few moments, Nick would appear before the eyes of the large ship, like a roach riding a pirogue on a revolving stand by the window.
  
  He pulled Hugo out, pulled the line as high as he could, and waited, watching. Just as the schooner's stern appeared, he cut the line with the sharp blade of his stiletto.
  
  He hit the water and took one hard hit from the moving boat as he swam down and out, striking powerful blows with his powerful arms and scissors like never before. He called upon his magnificent body with tensed strength. Down and out, away from the meat grinder propellers moving toward you-sucking you in-reaching for you.
  
  He cursed his stupidity for wearing clothes, even if they protected him from some of the waves' pounding. He struggled against the weight of his arms and Stewart's devices, the thunder of the engines and the roar, the liquid rumble of the propellers pounding his eardrums as if to break them. The water suddenly felt like glue-holding him, fighting him. He felt an upward pull and a drag as the boat's propellers reached for great gulps of water and involuntarily took him along with the liquid, like an ant sucked into a garbage disposal's crushers. He fought, striking the water with short, jerky strokes, using all his skill-to brace his arms for forward lunges, wasting no energy on tail paddling. His arms ached from the power and speed of his strokes.
  
  The pressure shifted. The roar echoed past him, unseen in the dark depths. Instead, the underwater current suddenly pushed him aside, pushing the propellers back behind him!
  
  He straightened and swam upward. Even his powerful, well-trained lungs were exhausted from the strain. He surfaced cautiously. He sighed gratefully. The schooner was camouflaged by the cruiser, and he was sure everyone on both ships should be looking at each other, not at the blob of darkness on the surface, slowly moving toward the schooner's bow, keeping well out of the light.
  
  The larger ship cut its engines to stop. He assumed it was part of the rumble he'd heard. Now the cruiser turned, touching down gently. He heard conversations in Chinese. People were clambering from the smaller ship onto the larger one. Apparently they intended to drift for a while. Good! They could leave him defenseless, perfectly capable of swimming home, but feeling utterly foolish.
  
  Nick swam in a wide loop until he was at the bow of the large schooner, then dove underwater and swam toward her, listening to the rumble of her big engines. He'd be in trouble if she suddenly moved forward, but he was counting on greetings, conversation, maybe even a meeting with both ships for a chat or... what? He needed to know what.
  
  The schooner had no tarpaulin. She was using auxiliary equipment. His quick glances revealed only four or five men, enough to handle her in a pinch, but she could have had a small army on board.
  
  He peered over her port side. The cruiser was under guard. In the dim light of the schooner's deck, a man resembling a sailor lounged on a low metal railing, looking at the smaller vessel.
  
  Nick silently rounded the starboard bow, searching for the stray anchor line. Nothing. He retreated a few yards and looked at the rigging and bowsprit chains. They were high above him. He could no longer reach them, whereas a cockroach swimming in a bathtub could reach the shower head. He swam around the starboard side, past its widest corner, and found nothing but a smooth, well-maintained hull. He continued aft-and, he decided, had his biggest break of the evening. A yard above his head, carefully lashed to the schooner with slings, was an aluminum ladder. The type is used for many purposes-docking, boarding small boats, swimming, fishing. Apparently, the ship was docked or anchored in a bay, and they didn't think it necessary to protect it for sailing. This indicated that encounters between a cruiser and a schooner might be a frequent occurrence.
  
  He dove, jumped up like a porpoise in an aqua show jumping for a fish, grabbed the ladder and climbed up, hugging the side of the ship so that at least some of the water would run off his wet clothes.
  
  It seemed everyone had gone down except the sailor on the other side. Nick climbed aboard. He splashed like a wet sail, spilling water from both feet. Regretfully, he took off his jacket and pants, shoved his wallet and a few other belongings into the pockets of his special shorts, and tossed the clothes into the sea, zipping them into a dark ball.
  
  Standing like a modern-day Tarzan, in shirt, shorts, and socks, with a shoulder holster and a thin knife strapped to his forearm, he felt more exposed-but somehow free. He crept aft across the deck toward the cockpit. Near the port, which was bolted open but with a screen and drapes blocking his view, he heard voices. English, Chinese, and German! He could only catch a few words of the multilingual conversation. He cut the screen and very carefully pulled back the curtain with the point of Hugo's needle.
  
  In the large main cabin, or saloon, at a table covered with glasses, bottles, and cups sat Akito, Hans Geist, a hunched figure with gray hair and a bandaged face, and a thin Chinese man. Nick was learning Mandarin. This was his first really good look at it. There had been a glimpse in Maryland, when Geist called him Chick, and in Pennsylvania. This man had wary eyes, and he sat confidently, like a man who thought he could handle what had happened.
  
  Nick listened to the strange chatter until Geist said, "... girls are cowardly babies. There can be no connection between the Englishman Williams and the stupid notes. I say we continue with our plan."
  
  "I saw Williams," Akito said thoughtfully. "He reminded me of someone else. But who?"
  
  The man with the bandaged face spoke with a guttural accent. "What do you say, Sung? You're the buyer. The biggest winner or loser, because you need the oil."
  
  The thin Chinese man smiled briefly. "Don't believe we're desperate for oil. The world markets are oversupplied. In three months, we'll be paying less than seventy dollars a barrel in the Persian Gulf. Which, by the way, gives the imperialists a fifty-dollar profit. Just one of them pumps three million barrels a day. You can predict a surplus."
  
  "We know the world picture," the bandaged man said softly. "The question is, do you want oil now?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Then the cooperation of only one person will be required. We will take him."
  
  "I hope so," Chik Sun replied. "Your plan to achieve cooperation through fear, force, and adultery hasn't worked so far."
  
  "I've been here a lot longer than you, my friend. I've seen what makes men move... or not move."
  
  "I admit, your experience is vast." Nick got the impression that Sung had serious doubts; as a good defender, he would play his part in the play, but he had connections in the office, so watch out. "When are you going to apply pressure?"
  
  "Tomorrow," Geist said.
  
  "Very well. We must find out quickly whether this is effective or not. Shall we meet the day after tomorrow in Shenandoah?"
  
  "Good idea. More tea?" Geist poured, looking like a weightlifter caught at a girls' night out. He was drinking whiskey himself.
  
  "Nick thought. "Today you can learn more about Windows than about all the bugs and problems in the world. No one reveals anything over the phone anymore."
  
  The conversation had become boring. He let the curtains close and crawled past two portholes that opened into the same room. He approached the other, main cabin, open and closed by a screen and a chintz curtain. Girls' voices drifted through it. He cut the screen and slit a tiny hole in the curtain. Oh, he thought, how naughty.
  
  Fully dressed and prim, sat Ruth Moto, Suzy Kuong, and Ann We Ling. On the bed, completely naked, sat Pong-Pong Lily, Sonia Rañez, and a man named Sammy.
  
  Nick noted that Sammy looked fit, without a belly. The girls were luscious. He glanced around the deck for a moment, taking a few seconds to make scientific observations. Wow, Sonya! You can just click the camera from any angle, and you'll have a Playboy fold-out bed.
  
  What she was doing couldn't be captured in Playboy. You couldn't use it anywhere except in the steely core of pornography. Sonya focused her attention on Sammy, who lay with his knees raised and a contented expression on his face while Pong-Pong watched. Every time Pong-Pong said something to Sonya in a low tone Nick couldn't catch, Sammy reacted within seconds. He smiled, jumped, twitched, moaned, or gurgled with pleasure.
  
  "Training sessions," Nick decided. His mouth went a little dry. He swallowed. Ugh! Who came up with that? He told himself he shouldn't be so surprised. A true expert always needed to study somewhere. And Pong-Pong was an excellent teacher-she made Sonya into an expert.
  
  "Ooh!" Sammy arched his back and let out a sigh of pleasure.
  
  Pong-Pong smiled at him like a teacher proud of his student. Sonya didn't look up and couldn't speak. She was a capable student.
  
  Nick was alerted by the chatter of the Chinese on deck, heading aft. He regretfully looked away from the curtain. You can always learn. Two sailors were on his side of the ship, probing the water with a long hook. Nick retreated to the spacious cabin. Damn! They picked up a limp black bundle. His discarded clothes! After all, the weight of the water hadn't sunk them. One sailor took the bundle and disappeared through the hatch.
  
  He thought quickly. They could be searching. A sailor on deck probed the water with a hook, hoping for another find. Nick crossed and climbed the ridges of the mainmast. The schooner was covered with a gaff rope. Finding himself above the main cargo ship, he gained considerable cover. He curled around the topmast like a lizard around a tree trunk and watched.
  
  He took action. Hans Geist and Chik Sun came on deck, accompanied by five sailors. They went in and out of hatches. They examined the cabin, checked the sick bay lock, gathered at the bow, and fought their way aft like bushwhackers battling for game. They turned on their lights and searched the water around the schooner, then around the cruiser, and then the smaller vessel. Once or twice one of them glanced up, but like many searchers, they couldn't believe their quarry would rise.
  
  Their comments rang out loud and clear in the still night. "Those clothes were just junk... Command 1 says 'no'... what about those special pockets?... He swam away or had a boat... anyway, he's not here now."
  
  Soon, Ruth, Susie, Sonya, Anne, Akito, Sammy, and Chick Soon boarded the cruiser and departed. Soon, the schooner's engines revved up, it turned, and headed down the bay. One man stood watch at the wheel, another at the bow. Nick looked closely at the sailor. When his head was above the binnacle, Nick descended the rat trail like a scurrying monkey. When the man looked up, Nick said, "Hello," and knocked him out before his surprise was revealed.
  
  He was tempted to throw him overboard to save time and reduce the likelihood of a hit, but even his Killmaster rating wouldn't have justified that. He cut two pieces of Hugo's line, secured the captive, and gagged him with his own shirt.
  
  The helmsman must have seen or sensed something wrong. Nick met him at the ship's waist, and within three minutes he was tied up, as was his assistant. Nick thought of Pong-Pong. Everything goes so well when you're fully trained.
  
  Things went wrong in the engine room. He descended the iron ladder, pressed Wilhelmina against the astonished Chinese man standing at the control panel, and then another man burst out of the tiny storage room behind him and grabbed him by the neck.
  
  Nick flipped him over like a rodeo bronc riding a light rider, but the man held tightly to his pistol hand. Nick took a blow that hit his skull, not his neck, and the other mechanic stumbled onto the deck plates, clutching a large iron tool.
  
  " Wilhelmina roared. The bullet bounced fatally off the steel plates. The man swung the tool, and Nick's lightning-fast reflexes caught the man clinging to him. It hit him in the shoulder, and he screamed and let go.
  
  Nick parried the next blow and hit Wilhelmina on the squire's ear. A moment later, the other one lay on the floor, groaning.
  
  "Hello!" A cry from Hans Geist's voice came down the stairs.
  
  Nick tossed Wilhelmina and fired a warning into the dark opening. He jumped to the far end of the compartment, out of reach, and surveyed the situation. There were seven or eight people there. He retreated to the panel and shut off the engines. The silence was a momentary surprise.
  
  He looked at the ladder. "I can't go up, and they can't go down, but they can get me out with gas or even burning rags. They'll think of something." He hurried through the pantry cabin, found the watertight door, and locked it. The schooner was built for a small crew and with internal passages for foul weather. If he moved quickly, before they organized themselves...
  
  He crept forward and saw the room where he'd seen the girls and Sammy. It was empty. As soon as he entered the main salon, Geist disappeared through the main hatch, pushing the bandaged figure of a man in front of him. Judas? Borman?
  
  Nick started to follow, then jumped back as a pistol barrel appeared and spat bullets down the beautiful wooden staircase. They tore through the fine woodwork and varnish. Nick ran back to the watertight door. No one followed. He entered the engine room and called out, "Hello, up there."
  
  Tommy's pistol cracked, and the engine room became a shooting gallery, with steel-jacketed bullets ricocheting like shot in a metal vase. Lying on the forward side of the barrier, protected by a high roof at deck level, he heard several bullets hit the nearby wall. One of them rained down on him with a familiar, deadly whirlwind.
  
  Someone shouted. The pistol forward and the submachine gun by the engine room hatch stopped firing. Silence. Water lashed against the hull. Feet slammed against the decks. The ship creaked and echoed with the dozens of sounds every ship makes when moving in a light sea. He heard more shouts, the dull thuds of wood and the sound of rolling. He assumed they had slid a boat overboard, either a launch with a drive that had been slung over the stern, or a dory on the superstructure. He found a hacksaw and severed engine wires.
  
  He explored his prison below deck. The schooner appeared to have been built in a Dutch or Baltic shipyard. She was well built. The metal was in metric dimensions. The engines were German diesels. At sea, he thought, she would combine the reliability of a Gloucester fishing boat with added speed and comfort. Some of these vessels were designed with a loading hatch near the stores and engine rooms. He explored amidships behind the watertight bulkhead. He found two small cabins that could accommodate two sailors, and just aft of them, he discovered a side cargo hatch, beautifully fitted and secured with six large metal dogs.
  
  He returned and locked the engine room hatch. That was all. He crept down the ladder into the main salon. Two shots were fired from a pistol pointed in his direction. He quickly returned to the side hatch, unfastened the lock, and slowly swung the metal door open.
  
  If they'd placed the small dory on this side, or if one of the men up there was an engineer with a good head on his shoulders and they'd already put a lock on the side hatch, it would mean he was still trapped. He peered out. There was nothing to see but the dark purple water and the lights glowing above. All the activity was coming from the boat at the stern. He could see the tip of its rudder. They'd lowered it.
  
  Nick reached out, grabbed the gunwale, then the railing, and slid down to the deck like water-filled moccasins sliding on a log. He crept to the stern, where Hans Geist helped Pong-Pong Lily climb over the side and down the ladder. He said to someone Nick couldn't see, "Go back fifty feet and circle around."
  
  Nick felt a grudging admiration for the big German. He was shielding his girlfriend in case Nick opened the seacocks or the schooner exploded. He wondered who they thought he was. He climbed onto the wheelhouse and stretched out between the dory and two U-rafts.
  
  Geist walked back across the deck, passing ten feet behind Nick. He said something to whoever was watching the engine room hatch and then disappeared toward the main hatch.
  
  The guy had enough courage. He went down to the ship to scare off the intruder. Surprise!
  
  Nick walked silently, barefoot, to the stern. The two Chinese sailors he'd tied up were now untied and peered at the exit like cats into a mouse hole. Rather than risk more blows to the Vulhelmina's barrel, Nick pulled the stiletto from its opening. The two fell like lead soldiers touched by a child's hand.
  
  Nick rushed forward, approaching the man guarding the bow. Nick fell silent as the man fell silently to the deck under the blow of a stiletto. This luck didn't last long. Nick warned himself and carefully walked to the stern, examining every passage and corner of the wheelhouse. It was empty. The remaining three men made their way through the ship's interior with Geist.
  
  Nick realized he hadn't heard the engine start. He peered over the mast. The launch had drifted thirty feet from the larger ship. A short sailor was cursing and tinkering with the engine, watched by Pong-Pong. Nick crouched with a stiletto in one hand and a Luger in the other. Who had that Tommy gun now?
  
  "Hello!" a voice shouted behind him. Feet thundered comradely.
  
  Blam! The pistol roared, and he was sure he heard the thwack of a bullet as his head hit the water. He dropped the stiletto, returned Wilhelmina to her holster, and swam toward the boat. He heard and felt the explosions and liquid splashes as the bullets pierced the sea above him. He felt surprisingly safe and protected as he swam deep and then rose up, searching for the bottom of the small boat.
  
  He missed it, judging it was fifty feet away, and surfaced as easily as a frog peering out of a pond. Against the backdrop of the schooner's lights, three men stood at the stern, searching for water. He recognized Geist by his gigantic size. The sailor on the cutter stood, looking toward the larger ship. Then he turned, peering into the night, and his gaze fell on Nick. He reached for his waist. Nick realized he couldn't reach the boat before this man could shoot him four times. Wilhelmina approached, leveled herself-and the sailor flew back at the sound of the shot. Tommy's pistol rattled wildly. Nick dove and placed the boat between himself and the men on the schooner.
  
  He swam up to the boat and looked sudden death straight in the face. Pong Pong jammed a small machine gun almost into his teeth, grabbing the gunwale to pull himself up. She muttered and tugged wildly at the pistol with both hands. He grabbed for the weapon, missed, and fell. He stared straight into her beautiful, angry face.
  
  "I've got it," he thought, "she'll find the safety in a flash, or should know enough to cock it if the chamber is empty.
  
  The Tommy gun roared. Pong-Pong froze, then collapsed on Nick, dealing him a glancing blow as she hit the water. Hans Geist roared, "Stop it!" A stream of German curses followed.
  
  The night suddenly became very quiet.
  
  Nick slid into the water, holding the boat between himself and the schooner. Hans called out excitedly, almost plaintively, "Pong-pong?"
  
  Silence. "Pong-pong!"
  
  Nick swam to the boat's bow, reached out, and grabbed the rope. He secured the line around his waist and slowly began towing the boat, slamming his full force into its dead weight. He slowly turned toward the schooner and followed it like a swamped snail.
  
  "He's towing a boat," Hans shouted. "There..."
  
  Nick dived to the surface to the sound of the pistol's firing, then cautiously rose again, hidden by the gun's launch. The gun roared again, gnawing at the stern of the small boat, splashing water on both sides of Nick.
  
  He towed the boat into the night. He climbed inside and turned on his pager-hopefully-and after five minutes of quick work, the engine started.
  
  The boat was slow, designed for hard work and rough seas, not speed. Nick plugged the five holes he could reach, occasionally popping out when the water rose. As he rounded the point toward the Patapsco River, a clear, bright dawn broke. Hawk, piloting a Bell helicopter, reached him as he headed for the marina at Riviera Beach. They exchanged waves. Forty minutes later, he handed the boat over to a surprised attendant and joined Hawk, who had landed in an abandoned parking lot. Hawk said, "This is a beautiful morning for a boat ride."
  
  "Okay, I'll ask," Nick said. "How did you find me?"
  
  "Did you use Stuart's last sound signal? The signal was excellent."
  
  "Yes. This thing is effective. I suppose, especially on water. But you don't fly every morning."
  
  Hawk pulled out two strong cigars and handed one to Nick. "Every once in a while you meet a very smart citizen. You met one. Named Boyd. Former Navy warrant officer. He called the Navy. The Navy called the FBI. They called me. I called Boyd, and he described Jerry Deming, an oilman who wanted dock space. I figured I should look you up if you wanted to see me."
  
  "And Boyd mentioned a mysterious cruiser that sails from Chu Dai Wharf, huh?"
  
  "Well, yes," Hawk admitted cheerfully. "I couldn't imagine you missing out on a chance to sail on her."
  
  "It was quite a journey. They'll be clearing away the debris for a long time. We got out..."
  
  He described in detail the events that Hawk had orchestrated at Mountain Road Airport, and on a clear morning they took off for the AXE hangars above Annapolis. When Nick finished speaking, Hawk asked, "Any ideas, Nicholas?"
  
  "I'll try one. China needs more oil. Higher quality, and now. They can usually buy whatever they want, but it's not like the Saudis or anyone else is willing to load them up as fast as they can send tankers. Maybe it's a subtle Chinese clue. Let's say he's built an organization in Washington, using people like Judah and Geist, who are experts in ruthless pressure. They have girls as information agents and to reward the men who go along with it. Once the news of the death hood gets out, a man has little choice. Fun and games or a quick death, and they don't cheat."
  
  "You've hit the nail on the head, Nick. Adam Reed from Saudico was told to load Chinese tankers in the Gulf or something."
  
  "We have enough weight to stop this."
  
  "Yes, although some of the Arabs are acting rebelliously. Anyway, we call the turns there. But it doesn't help Adam Reed when he's told to sell out or die."
  
  "Is he impressed?"
  
  "He's impressed. They explained it thoroughly. He knows about Tyson, and while he's no coward, you can't blame him for making a fuss about clothes that almost kill as an example."
  
  "Do we have enough to get closer?"
  
  "Where is Judas? And Chik Sung and Geist? They will tell him that even if the people we know disappear, others will catch him."
  
  "Orders?" Nick asked softly.
  
  Hawk spoke for exactly five minutes.
  
  An AXE driver dropped Jerry Deming, dressed in borrowed mechanic's overalls, off at his apartment at eleven. He was writing notes to three girls-there were four of them. And then more-then there were three. He sent the first set by special delivery, the second by regular mail. Bill Rohde and Barney Manoun were to pick up any two of the girls, except Ruth, in the afternoon and evening, depending on availability.
  
  Nick returned and slept for eight hours. The phone woke him at dusk. He put on his scrambler. Hawk said, "We have Susie and Anne. I hope they had a chance to bother each other."
  
  "Is Sonya the last one?"
  
  "We didn't have a chance on her, but she was watching. Okay, pick her up tomorrow. But no sign of Geist, Sung, or Judas. Schooner back at dock. Supposedly owned by a Taiwanese. British citizen. Leaving for Europe. Next week."
  
  "Continue as ordered?"
  
  "Yes. Good luck."
  
  Nick wrote another note-and another. He sent it to Ruth Moto.
  
  Shortly before noon the next day, he called her, reaching out to her after she'd been transferred to Akito's office. She seemed tense as she declined his cheerful invitation to lunch. "I'm... terribly busy, Jerry. Please call me again."
  
  "It's not all fun," he said, "though the thing I'd most like to do in Washington is have lunch with you. I've decided to quit my job. There must be a way to make money faster and easier. Is your father still interested?"
  
  There was a pause. She said, "Please wait." When she returned to the phone, she still looked worried, almost frightened. "He wants to see you. In a day or two."
  
  "Well, I have a couple of other points of view, Ruth. Don't forget, I know where to get oil. And how to buy it. Without restrictions, I had a feeling he might be interested."
  
  A long pause. Finally, she returned. "In that case, could you meet us for cocktails around five?"
  
  "I'm looking for a job, dear. Let's meet anytime, anywhere."
  
  "In Remarco. You know?"
  
  "Of course. I'll be there."
  
  When Nick, cheerful in a gray sharkskin coat of Italian cut and a guardsman's tie, met Ruth at Remarco's, she was alone. Vinci, the stern partner acting as greeter, led him to one of the many small alcoves of this secretive, popular rendezvous. She looked worried.
  
  Nick grinned, walked over to her, and hugged her. She was tough. "Hey, Ruthie. I missed you. Ready for more adventures tonight?"
  
  He felt her shudder. "Hi... Jerry. Nice to see you." She took a sip of water. "No, I'm tired."
  
  "Oh..." He held up a finger. "I know the cure." He spoke to the waiter. "Two martinis. Regular. The way Mr. Martini invented them."
  
  Ruth pulled out a cigarette. Nick pulled one from the pack and turned on the light. "Dad couldn't. We... we had something important to do."
  
  "Problems?"
  
  "Yes. Unexpected."
  
  He looked at her. She was a magnificent dish! King-sized sweets imported from Norway, and materials handmade in Japan. He grinned. She looked at him. "What kind?"
  
  "I just thought you were beautiful." He spoke slowly and softly. "I've been watching girls lately - to see if there was one with your wonderful body and exotic coloring. No. None. You know you can be anyone,
  
  I believe. Model. Film or TV actress. You truly look like the best woman in the world. The best of East and West."
  
  She blushed slightly. He thought, "There's nothing like a string of warm compliments to distract a woman from her troubles."
  
  "Thank you. You're quite the man, Jerry. Dad's really interested. He wants you to come see him tomorrow."
  
  "Oh." Nick looked very disappointed.
  
  "Don't look so sad. I think he really has an idea for you."
  
  "I bet she is," Nick mused. He wondered if he really was her father. And had he figured out anything about Jerry Deming?
  
  The martinis arrived. Nick continued the tender conversation, full of sincere flattery and great possibilities for Ruth. He ordered two more glasses. Then two more. She protested, but drank. Her stiffness receded. She chuckled at his jokes. Time passed, and they selected a couple of excellent Remarco club steaks. They had brandy and coffee. They danced. As Nick spread his beautiful body on the floor, he thought, "I don't know how she feels now, but my mood has improved." He pulled her close. She relaxed. Her eyes followed theirs. They made a striking pair.
  
  Nick glanced at his watch. 9:52. Now, he thought, there are several ways to handle this. If I do it my way, most of the Hawks will figure it out and make one of their snarky comments. Ruth's long, warm side was pressed against his, her slender fingers tracing exciting patterns on his palm under the table. My way, he decided. Hawk likes to tease me anyway.
  
  They entered Jerry Deming's apartment at 10:46. They drank whiskey and gazed at the lights of the river while Billy Fair's music provided the background. He told her how easily he could fall in love with a girl so beautiful, so exotic, so intriguing. The playfulness turned to passion, and he noted that it was already midnight when he hung up her dress and his suit "to keep them neat."
  
  Her ability to make love electrified him. Call it a stress reliever, credit the martini, remember she'd been carefully trained to charm men-it was still the greatest. He told her so at 2 a.m.
  
  Her lips were wet against his ear, her breath a rich, hot combination of sweet passion, alcohol, and the fleshy, aphrodisiac scent of woman. She replied, "Thank you, darling. You make me very happy. And-you haven't enjoyed all of this yet. I know so many more," she grinned, "delightfully strange things."
  
  "That's what's upsetting me," he replied. "I actually found you and I won't see you for weeks. Maybe months."
  
  "What?" She lifted her face, her skin glowing with a damp, hot, rosy sheen in the dim lamplight. "Where are you going? You're seeing Dad tomorrow."
  
  "No. I didn't want to tell you. I'm leaving for New York at ten. I'll catch a plane to London and then probably to Riyadh."
  
  "Oil business?"
  
  "Yes. That's what I wanted to talk to Akito about, but I guess we won't talk about it now. When they were pressuring me that time, Saudico and the Japanese concession-you know that deal-didn't get it all. Saudi Arabia is three times the size of Texas, with reserves of maybe 170 billion barrels. Floating on oil. The big wheels are blocking Faisal, but there are five thousand princes. I have connections. I know where to extract several million barrels a month. The profit on it is said to be three million dollars. A third is mine. I can't miss this deal..."
  
  Glittering black eyes widened against his own. "You didn't tell me all this."
  
  "You didn't ask."
  
  "Maybe... maybe Dad could make you a better deal than the one you're going for. He wants oil."
  
  "He can buy whatever he wants from the Japanese concession. Unless he sells out to the Reds?"
  
  She nodded slowly. "Do you mind?"
  
  He laughed. "Why? Everyone does it."
  
  "Can I call dad?"
  
  "Go ahead. I'd rather keep this in the family, dear." He kissed her. Three minutes passed. To hell with the death hood and his work-it would be so much more fun just-he carefully hung up. "Make the call. We don't have much time."
  
  He got dressed, his keen hearing catching her side of the conversation. She told Dad all about Jerry Deming's wonderful connections and those millions. Nick put two bottles of good whiskey in a leather bag.
  
  An hour later, she led him down a side street near Rockville. Lights glowed in a medium-sized industrial and commercial building. The sign above the entrance read: MARVIN IMPORT-EXPORT. As Nick walked down the hall, he saw another small, unobtrusive sign: Walter W. Wing, vice president of Confederation Oil. He carried a leather satchel.
  
  Akito was waiting for them in his private office. He looked like an overworked businessman, his mask now partially removed. Nick thought he knew why. After greeting him and summing up Ruth's explanation, Akito said, "I know time is short, but perhaps I can make your trip to the Middle East unnecessary. We have tankers. We'll pay you seventy-four dollars a barrel for everything we can load for at least a year."
  
  "Cash?"
  
  "Of course. Any currency.
  
  Any split or arrangement you desire. You see what I'm offering, Mr. Deming. You have complete control over your profits. And thus, your destiny."
  
  Nick picked up the bag of whiskey and placed two bottles on the table. Akito grinned broadly. "We'll seal the deal with a drink, huh?"
  
  Nick leaned back and unbuttoned his coat. "Unless you still want to try Adam Reed again."
  
  Akito's hard, dry face froze. He looked like a Buddha below zero.
  
  Ruth gasped, stared at Nick in horror, and turned to Akito. "I swear, I didn't know..."
  
  Akito remained silent, slapping her hand. "So it was you. In Pennsylvania. On the boat. Notes for girls."
  
  "It was me. Don't move that hand down your legs again. Remain completely still. I could execute you in an instant. And your daughter could get hurt. By the way, is she your daughter?"
  
  "No. Girls... participants."
  
  "Recruited for a long-term plan. I can vouch for their training."
  
  "Don't pity them. Where they came from, they may never have had a proper meal. We gave them..."
  
  Wilhelmina appeared, flicking Nick's wrist. Akito fell silent. His frozen expression didn't change. Nick said, "As you say, I assume you pressed the button under your foot. I hope it's for Sung, Geist, and the others. I want them too."
  
  "You want them. You said to execute them. Who are you?"
  
  "As you may have guessed, No3 from AX. One of the three killers."
  
  "Barbarian".
  
  "Like a sword strike on the neck of a helpless captive?"
  
  Akito's features softened for the first time. The door opened. Chik Sung stepped into the room, looking at Akito before he saw Luger. He fell forward with the swift grace of a judo expert as Akito's hands disappeared from view under the table.
  
  Nick placed the first bullet where the Luger was aimed-just below the triangle of white handkerchief in Akito's breast pocket. His second shot caught Sung in midair, four feet from the muzzle. The Chinese man had the blue revolver raised in his hand when Wilhelmina's shot hit him squarely in the heart. As he fell, his head hit Nick's leg. He rolled onto his back. Nick took the revolver and pushed Akito away from the table.
  
  The elderly man's body fell sideways off the chair. Nick noted that there was no longer any threat here, but you survived, not taking anything for granted. Ruth screamed, a piercing crash of glass that cut through her eardrums like a cold knife in the small room. She ran out the door, still screaming.
  
  He grabbed two bottles of whiskey laced with explosives from the table and followed her. She ran down the hallway to the back of the building and into a storage area, where Nick was located twelve feet away.
  
  "Stop," he roared. She ran down the hallway between stacked boxes. He holstered Wilhelmina and grabbed her as she burst into the open. A shirtless man jumped from the back of the articulated lorry. The man shouted, "What...?" as the three collided.
  
  It was Hans Geist, and his mind and body reacted quickly. He pushed Ruth aside and punched Nick in the chest. The AXE man couldn't avoid the crushing greeting-his momentum carried him straight into it. Scotch bottles shattered on the concrete in a shower of glass and liquid.
  
  "No smoking," Nick said, waving Geist's gun up at him, then fell to the floor as the big man opened his arms and closed them around himself. Nick knew what it was like to surprise a grizzly bear. He was crushed, crushed, and smashed against the cement. He couldn't reach Wilhelmina or Hugo. Geist was right there. Nick turned to block a knee to his balls. He slammed his skull into the man's face as he felt teeth nip at his neck. This guy played fair.
  
  They rolled the glass and whiskey into a thicker, brownish substance that covered the floor. Nick pushed himself up with his elbows, squared his chest and shoulders, and finally clasped his hands together and fired-pushing, curiously, moving every tendon and muscle, unleashing the full force of his immense strength.
  
  Geist was a powerful man, but when the muscles of his torso and shoulders clashed against the strength of his arms, there was no competition. His arms shot up, and Nick's clasped hands flew up. Before he could close them again, Nick's lightning-fast reflexes solved the problem. He sliced Geist's Adam's apple with the side of his iron fist-a clean blow that barely grazed the man's chin. Geist collapsed.
  
  Nick quickly searched the rest of the small warehouse, found it empty, and cautiously approached the office area. Ruth had disappeared-he hoped she wouldn't pull the gun from under Akito's desk and try it. His keen hearing picked up movement beyond the hallway door. Sammy entered the large room, accompanied by a medium-sized machine gun, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Nick wondered if he was a nicotine addict or watching old gangster movies on TV. Sammy walked down the hall with boxes, bending over a groaning Geist amid broken glass and the stench of whiskey.
  
  Staying as far away as he could in the hallway, Nick called softly:
  
  "Sammy. Drop the gun or you're dead."
  
  Sammy didn't. Sammy fired wildly from his automatic pistol and dropped his cigarette into the brown mass on the floor, and Sammy died. Nick retreated twenty feet along the cardboard boxes, carried away by the force of the explosion, clutching his mouth to protect his eardrums. The warehouse erupted into a mass of brownish smoke.
  
  Nick staggered momentarily as he walked down the office hallway. Ugh! That Stuart! His head was ringing. He wasn't too stunned to check every room on his way to Akito's office. He entered cautiously, Wilhelmina focusing on Ruth, who was sitting at her desk, both her hands visible and empty. She was crying.
  
  Even with shock and horror smearing her bold features, with tears streaming down her cheeks, shaking and choking as if she might vomit at any moment - Nick thought, "She's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
  
  He said, "Relax, Ruth. He wasn't your father anyway. And it's not the end of the world."
  
  She gasped. Her head nodded furiously. She couldn't breathe. "I don't care. We... you..."
  
  Her head fell onto the hard wood, then tilted to the side, her beautiful body transformed into a soft rag doll.
  
  Nick leaned forward, sniffed, and cursed. Cyanide, most likely. He holstered Wilhelmina and rested his hand on her smooth, sleek hair. And then there was nothing there.
  
  We're such fools. All of us. He picked up the phone and dialed Hawk's number.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Amsterdam
  
  
  
  
  NICK CARTER
  
  Amsterdam
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky in memory of his deceased son Anton
  
  Original title: Amsterdam
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  Nick enjoyed following Helmi de Boer. Her appearance was stimulating. She truly was an attention-grabber, one of the "beauties." All eyes were on her as she walked through John F. Kennedy International Airport and continued to follow her as she headed toward the KLM DC-9. There was nothing but admiration for her cheerfulness, her white linen suit, and her shiny leather briefcase.
  
  As Nick followed her, he heard the man, who had nearly snapped his neck to see her short skirt, mutter, "Who is it?"
  
  "A Swedish movie star?" the flight attendant suggested. She checked Nick's ticket. "Mr. Norman Kent. First class. Thank you." Helmi sat down exactly where Nick was waiting. So he sat next to her and fussed with the flight attendant a bit, so it wouldn't seem too casual. When he reached his seat, he gave Helmi a boyish grin. It was quite normal for a tall, tanned young man to be overjoyed at such good fortune. He said softly, "Good afternoon."
  
  A smile on her soft pink lips was the answer. Her long, slender fingers intertwined nervously. From the moment he'd watched her (when she'd left Manson's house), she'd been tense, anxious, but not wary. "Nerves," Nick thought.
  
  He shoved his Mark Cross suitcase under the seat and sat down - very light and very neat for such a tall man - without bumping into the girl.
  
  She showed him three-quarters of her luscious, shiny, bamboo-colored hair, pretending to be interested in the view out the window. He had a special instinct for such moods-she wasn't hostile, just overflowing with anxiety.
  
  The seats were taken. The doors slammed shut with a soft aluminum thud. The loudspeakers began blaring in three languages. Nick deftly fastened his seatbelt without disturbing her. She fumbled with hers for a moment. The jet engines whined ominously. The large plane shuddered as it limped toward the runway, groaning angrily as the crew ran through the safety checklist.
  
  Helmi's knuckles were white on the armrests. She slowly turned her head: clear, frightened blue eyes appeared next to Nick's wide, steel-gray ones. He saw creamy skin, flushed lips, distrust and fear.
  
  He chuckled, knowing how innocent he could appear. "Indeed," he said. "I mean you no harm. Of course, I could wait until drinks are served-that's the usual time to address you. But I can see by your hands that you're not very comfortable." Her slender fingers relaxed and clasped guiltily as she clasped her hands tightly.
  
  "Is this your first flight?"
  
  'No, no. I'm fine, but thank you.' She added a gentle, sweet smile.
  
  Still in the soft, reassuring tone of a confessor, Nick continued, "I wish I knew you well enough to hold your hands..." His blue eyes widened, a warning twinkle. "...to reassure you. But also for my own pleasure. Mom told me not to do that until you were introduced. Mom was very particular about etiquette. In Boston, we're usually very particular about that..."
  
  The blue glare faded. She was listening. Now there was a hint of interest. Nick sighed and shook his head sadly. "Then Dad fell overboard during the Cohasset Sailing Club race. Close to the finish line. Right in front of the club."
  
  Perfect brows drew together above worried eyes-they looked a little less worried now. But that's possible, too. I have records; I saw those boat races. Was he injured? she asked.
  
  'Oh, no. But Dad's a stubborn man. He was still holding his bottle when he surfaced and tried to throw it back on board.'
  
  She laughed, her hands relaxing with that smile.
  
  Dejected, Nick laughed along with her. "And he missed."
  
  She took a deep breath and let it out again. Nick smelled sweet milk mixed with gin and her intriguing perfume. He shrugged. "That's why I can't hold your hand until we're introduced. My name is Norman Kent."
  
  Her smile dominated the Sunday New York Times. "My name is Helmi de Boer. You don't need to hold my hand anymore. I'm feeling better. Thanks anyway, Mr. Kent. Are you a psychologist?"
  
  "Just a businessman." The jet engines roared. Nick imagined the four throttles now slowly moving forward, recalled the complex procedure before and during takeoff, thought about the statistics-and felt himself clutching the seatbacks. Helmi's knuckles turned white again.
  
  "There's a story about two men on a similar airliner," he said. "One is completely relaxed and dozing off a little. He's an ordinary passenger. Nothing bothers him. The other is sweating, clutching his seat, trying to breathe, but can't. Do you know who that is?"
  
  The plane shook. The ground rushed past the window next to Helmi. Nick's stomach was pressed against his spine. She looked at him. "I don't know."
  
  "This man is a pilot."
  
  She thought for a moment, then burst into happy laughter. In a moment of exquisite intimacy, her blond head brushed his shoulder. The plane banked, bumped, and lifted off with a slow climb that seemed to pause for a moment, then resumed.
  
  The warning lights went out. The passengers unbuckled their seatbelts. "Mr. Kent," Helmi said, "did you know that an airliner is a machine that, theoretically, cannot fly?"
  
  "No," Nick lied. He admired her answer. He wondered how much she realized she was in trouble. "Let's have a sip of our cocktail."
  
  Nick found delightful company at Helmi. She drank cocktails like Mr. Kent, and after three of them, her nervousness vanished. They ate delicious Dutch food, talked, read, and dreamed. When they turned off the reading lights and were about to take a nap, like the children of a lavish welfare society, she leaned her head against his and whispered, "Now I want to hold your hand."
  
  It was a time of mutual warmth, a period of recuperation, two hours of pretending that the world was not as it was.
  
  "What did she know?" Nick wondered. And was what she knew the reason for her initial nervousness? Working for Manson's, a prestigious jewelry house constantly flying between offices in New York and Amsterdam, AXE was fairly certain that many of these couriers were part of an unusually effective spy ring. Some had been thoroughly examined, but nothing had been found on them. How would Helmi's nerves have reacted if she had known that Nick Carter, AXE's N3, aka Norman Kent, diamond buyer for Bard Galleries, hadn't met her by chance?
  
  Her warm hand tingled. Was she dangerous? It took AXE agent Herb Whitlock several years to finally pinpoint Manson's location as the spy apparatus's main hub. Shortly thereafter, it was fished out of an Amsterdam canal. It was reported as an accident. Herb continually claimed that Manson's had developed such a reliable and simple system that the firm had become, in essence, an intelligence broker: a go-between for a professional spy. Herb purchased photocopies-for $2,000-of a US Navy ballistic weapons system, which showed the schematics of the new geoballistic computer.
  
  Nick sniffed Helmi's delicious scent. In response to her muttered question, he said, "I'm just a diamond lover. I suppose there will be doubt."
  
  "When a man says that, he is building one of the best business defenses in the world. Do you know the rule of the four Cs?
  
  "Color, clarity, fractures, and carats. I need connections, as well as advice on canyons, rare stones, and reliable wholesalers. We have several wealthy clients because we adhere to very high ethical standards. You can put our trade under the closest microscope, and it will prove reliable and impeccable when we say so."
  
  "Well, I work for Manson. I know a thing or two about commerce." She chattered about the jewelry business. His wonderful memory remembered everything she said. Norman Kent's grandfather was the first Nick Carter, a detective who introduced many new methods to what he called law enforcement. A transmitter in an olive-green Martini glass would have pleased him, but not surprised him. He developed a telex in a pocket watch. You activated it by pressing a sensor in the heel of your shoe to the ground.
  
  Nicholas Huntington Carter III became Number Three in the AXE-the United States' "unknown service," so secret that the CIA panicked when its name was mentioned in a newspaper again. He was one of four Killmasters with the authority to kill, and AXE supported him unconditionally. He could be fired, but not prosecuted. For some, this would be a rather onerous burden, but Nick maintained the physical fitness of a professional athlete. He enjoyed it.
  
  He'd given much thought to the Manson spy network. It had worked beautifully. The guidance diagram for the PEAPOD missile, armed with six nuclear warheads, "sold" to a well-known amateur spy in Huntsville, Alabama, reached Moscow nine days later. An AXE agent bought a copy, and it was perfect down to the last detail, eight pages long. This happened despite 16 American agencies having been warned to observe, monitor, and prevent. As a security test, it was a failure. Three "Manson" couriers, who had traveled back and forth during those nine days "coincidentally," were supposed to undergo thorough checks, but nothing was found.
  
  "Now about Helmi," he thought sleepily. Involved or innocent? And if she is involved, how does that happen?
  
  "...the entire diamond market is artificial," Helmi said. "So if they were to experience a huge find, it would be impossible to control. Then all prices would plummet."
  
  Nick sighed. "That's exactly what's scaring me right now. Not only can you lose face in trading, but you can also go broke in the blink of an eye. If you've invested heavily in diamonds, then pfft. Then what you paid a million for will only be worth half."
  
  "Or a third. The market can fall so far at one time. Then it falls lower and lower, as silver once did."
  
  "I understand that I will have to buy carefully."
  
  "Do you have any ideas?"
  
  "Yes, for several houses."
  
  "And for the Mansons too?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  'I thought so. We're not actually wholesalers, although, like all the larger houses, we do trade in large quantities at once. You should meet our director, Philip van der Laan. He knows more than anyone outside the cartels.'
  
  - Is he in Amsterdam?
  
  'Yes. Today, yes. He practically commutes back and forth between Amsterdam and New York.'
  
  "Just introduce me to him someday, Helmi. Maybe we can still do business. Besides, I could use you as a guide to show me around the city a little. How about joining me this afternoon? And then I'll buy you lunch.
  
  "With pleasure. Have you thought about sex too?
  
  Nick blinked. This startling remark momentarily threw him off balance. He wasn't used to this. His reflexes must be on edge. "Not until you say so. But it's still worth a try."
  
  "If all goes well. With common sense and experience."
  
  "And, of course, talent. It's like a good steak or a good bottle of wine. You have to start somewhere. After that, you have to make sure you don't ruin it again. And if you don't know everything, ask or read a book."
  
  "I think a lot of people would be a lot happier if they were completely open with each other. I mean, you can count on a good day or a good meal, but it seems you still can't count on good sex these days. Although things are different in Amsterdam these days. Could it be because of our puritanical upbringing, or is it still part of the Victorian legacy? I don't know."
  
  "Well, we've become a little more free with each other over the past few years. I'm a bit of a life-lover myself, and since sex is part of life, I enjoy it too. The same way you enjoy skiing, Dutch beer, or a Picasso etching." As he listened, he kindly kept his eyes on her, wondering if she was joking with him. Her sparkling blue eyes shone with innocence. Her pretty face looked as innocent as an angel on a Christmas card.
  
  She nodded. "I thought you thought so. You're a man. A lot of these Americans are quiet tightwads. They eat, throw back a glass, get excited, and caress. Oh, and they wonder why American women are so turned off by sex. By sex, I don't just mean jumping in bed. I mean a good relationship. You're good friends and you can talk to each other. When you finally feel the need to do it a certain way, you can at least talk about it. When the time finally comes, then at least you'll have something to do with each other."
  
  'Where shall we meet?'
  
  'Oh.' She took a business card from Manson's house from her purse and wrote something on the back. 'At three o'clock. I won't be home after lunch. As soon as we land, I'm going to visit Philip van der Laan. Do you have anyone who can meet you?'
  
  'No.'
  
  - Then come with me. You can start making additional contacts with him. He'll definitely help you. He's an interesting man. Look, there's the new Schiphol airport. Big, isn't it?
  
  Nick obediently looked out the window and agreed that it was big and impressive.
  
  In the distance, he saw four large runways, a control tower, and buildings about ten stories high. Another human pasture for winged steeds.
  
  "It's four meters below sea level," Helmi said. "Thirty-two regular services use it. You should see their information system and the Tapis roulant, the roller tracks. Look over there, the meadows. The farmers here are very worried about it. Well, not just the farmers. They call that track there 'the bulldozer.' It's because of the terrible noise all those people have to endure." In her enthusiastic storytelling, she leaned over him. Her breasts were firm. Her hair smelled. "Ah, forgive me. Perhaps you already know all this. Have you ever been to the new Schiphol?"
  
  "No, only the old Schiphol. Many years ago. It was the first time I deviated from my usual route via London and Paris."
  
  "The old Schiphol is three kilometers away. Today it is a cargo airport.
  
  "You are the perfect guide, Helmi. I also noticed that you have a great love for Holland."
  
  She laughed softly. "Mr. van der Laan says I'm still such a stubborn Dutchman. My parents come from Hilversum, which is thirty kilometers from Amsterdam."
  
  "So, you've found the right job. One that allows you to visit your old homeland from time to time."
  
  'Yes. It wasn't that difficult because I already knew the language.'
  
  "Are you happy with this?"
  
  'Yes.' She lifted her head until her beautiful lips reached his ear. 'You were kind to me. I wasn't feeling well. I think I was overtired. I feel much better now. If you fly a lot, you suffer from jet lag. Sometimes we have two full ten-hour workdays crammed together. I'd like you to meet Phil. He can help you avoid a lot of the pitfalls.'
  
  It was sweet. She probably really believed it. Nick patted her hand. "I'm lucky to be sitting here with you. You're terribly beautiful, Helmi. You're human. Or am I saying that wrong? You're also intelligent. That means you genuinely care about people. It's the opposite of, say, a scientist who's only chosen nuclear bombs for his career."
  
  "That's the sweetest and most complicated compliment I've ever received, Norman. I think we should go now."
  
  They went through the formalities and found their luggage. Helmi led him to a stocky young man who was pulling a Mercedes into the driveway of a building under construction. "Our secret parking lot," Helmi said. "Hello, Kobus."
  
  "Hello," said the young man. He walked up to them and took their heavy luggage.
  
  Then it happened. A heartbreaking, sharp sound that Nick knew all too well. He pushed Helmi into the backseat of the car. "What was that?" she asked.
  
  If you've never heard the crack of a rattlesnake, the hissing explosion of an artillery shell, or the sickening whistle of a bullet whizzing past, you'll be startled at first. But if you know what such a sound means, you're immediately alert and alert. A bullet just passed their heads. Nick didn't hear the shot. The weapon was well-muffled, possibly a semi-automatic. Perhaps the sniper was reloading?
  
  "It was a bullet," he told Helmi and Kobus. They probably already knew or guessed. "Get out of here. Stop and wait until I come back. In any case, don't stay here."
  
  He turned and ran toward the gray stone wall of the building under construction. He jumped over the obstacle and climbed the stairs two or three at a time. In front of the long building, groups of workers were installing windows. They didn't even glance at him as he ducked through the doorway into the building. The room was huge, dusty, and smelled of lime and hardening concrete. Far to the right, two men were working with plastering trowels against the wall. "Not them," Nick decided. Their hands were white with damp dust.
  
  He ran up the stairs in long, light leaps. Nearby were four motionless escalators. Killers love tall, empty buildings. Maybe the killer hadn't seen him yet. If he had, he'd be running now. So, they were looking for the running man. Something fell with a crash on the floor above. When Nick reached the end of the stairs-actually two flights, since the first floor's ceiling was very high-a cascade of gray cement planks fell through a crack in the floor. Two men stood nearby, gesturing with dirty hands and shouting in Italian. Further on, in the distance, a bulky, almost ape-like figure descended and disappeared from view.
  
  Nick ran to the window in front of the building. He looked at the spot where the Mercedes was parked. He wanted to look for a shell casing, but it didn't outweigh any interference from the construction workers or the police. The Italian masons started shouting at him. He quickly ran down the stairs and saw the Mercedes in the driveway, where Kobus pretended to be waiting for someone.
  
  He climbed inside and said to the pale Helmi, "I think I saw him. A heavy, bent fellow." She pressed her palm to her lips. "A shot at us-me-you, really? I don't know..."
  
  She almost panicked. "You never know," he said. "Maybe it was a bullet that came out of an air rifle. Who wants to shoot you now?"
  
  She didn't answer. After a moment, the hand dropped again. Nick patted her hand. "Perhaps it would be better if you told Kobus to forget about this incident. Do you know him well enough?"
  
  "Yes." She said something to the driver in Dutch. He shrugged, then pointed at the low-flying helicopter. It was the new Russian giant, transporting a bus on a cargo platform that resembled a giant crab's claws.
  
  "You can take a bus into the city," Helmi said. "There are two services. One is from central Netherlands. The other is operated by KLM itself. It costs about three guilders, although it's hard to say for sure these days."
  
  Is this Dutch frugality? They're stubborn. But I didn't think they could be dangerous."
  
  "Maybe it was an air gun shot after all."
  
  He didn't get the impression she believed it herself. At her specific request, he glanced at the Vondelpark as they passed. They drove toward the Dam, through the Vijelstraat and the Rokin, the city center. "There's something about Amsterdam that sets it apart from other cities I know," he thought.
  
  - Shall we tell your boss about this event at Schiphol?
  
  'Oh no. Let's not do that. I'll see Philip at the Krasnopolskaya Hotel. You should definitely try their pancakes. The company's founder launched them in 1865, and they've been on the menu ever since. He himself started with a small cafe, and now it's a gigantic complex. Still, it's very nice.
  
  He saw that she had regained control. She might need it. He was sure his cover hadn't been blown-especially now, so soon. She would wonder if that bullet had been meant for her.
  
  Ko promised to take Nick's luggage to his hotel, Die Port van Cleve, nearby, somewhere on Nieuwe Zijds Voorburgwal, near the post office. He also brought Helmi's toiletries to the hotel. Nick noticed that she kept the leather briefcase with her; she even used it to go to the airplane restroom. Its contents might be interesting, but perhaps they were just sketches or samples. There was no point in checking anything-not yet.
  
  Helmi showed him around the picturesque Krasnopolsky Hotel. Philip van der Laan had made things very easy for himself. He was having breakfast with another man in a beautiful private room, full of wood paneling. Helmi placed her suitcase next to van der Laan, greeting him. Then she introduced Nick. "Mr. Kent is very interested in jewelry."
  
  The man stood up for a formal greeting, a handshake, bows, and an invitation to join them for breakfast. The other man with Van der Laan was Constant Draayer. He pronounced "Van Manson's" as if I were honored to be there.
  
  Van der Laan was of medium height, slim and robust. He had sharp, restless brown eyes. Although he appeared calm, there was something restless about him, an excess of energy that could be explained either by his business or his own snobbery. He wore a gray velvet Italian-style suit that wasn't particularly modern; a black vest with small, flat buttons that looked like gold; a red and black tie; and a ring with a blue and white diamond weighing about three carats-everything looked absolutely flawless.
  
  Turner was a slightly lesser version of his boss, a man who first had to muster the courage to take each step, but at the same time smart enough not to contradict his boss. His vest had ordinary gray buttons, and his diamond weighed about one carat. But his eyes had learned to move and register. They had nothing in common with his smile. Nick said he'd be happy to talk to them, and they sat down.
  
  "Do you work for a wholesaler, Mr. Kent?" van der Laan asked. "Manson's sometimes does business with them."
  
  'No. I work at Bard Galleries.'
  
  "Mr. Kent says he knows almost nothing about diamonds," Helmi said.
  
  Van der Laan smiled, his teeth neatly set beneath his chestnut mustache. "That's what all smart shoppers say. Mr. Kent may have a magnifying glass and know how to use it. Are you staying at this hotel?"
  
  'No.' 'In Die Port van Cleve,' Nick replied.
  
  "Nice hotel," Van der Laan said. He pointed to the waiter ahead and said only, "Breakfast." Then he turned to Helmi, and Nick noticed more warmth than a director should show to a subordinate.
  
  "Ah, Helmi," Nick thought, "you got that job at what seems like a reputable company." But it's still not life insurance. "Have a nice trip," Van der Laan asked her.
  
  "Thank you Mr. Kent, I mean Norman. Can we use American names here?
  
  "Of course," Van der Laan exclaimed decisively, without asking Draayer any more questions. "A troubled flight?"
  
  'No. I was a bit worried about the weather. We were sitting next to each other, and Norman gave me a little encouragement.'
  
  Van der Laan's brown eyes congratulated Nick on his good taste. There was no jealousy in it, only something contemplative. Nick believed Van der Laan would become a director in any industry. He possessed the unadulterated sincerity of a born diplomat. He believed his own nonsense.
  
  "Excuse me," said van der Laan. "I have to go away for a moment."
  
  He returned five minutes later. He was gone long enough to go to the bathroom-or do anything else.
  
  Breakfast consisted of a variety of breads, a mound of golden butter, three kinds of cheese, slices of roast beef, boiled eggs, coffee, and beer. Van der Laan gave Nick a brief overview of the diamond trade in Amsterdam, naming people he might want to talk to and mentioning its most interesting aspects. "...and if you come to my office tomorrow, Norman, I'll show you what we've got."
  
  Nick said he would definitely be there, then thanked him for breakfast, shook his hand, and disappeared. After he left, Philip van der Laan lit a short, aromatic cigar. He tapped the leather briefcase Helmi had brought and looked at her. "You didn't open this on the plane?"
  
  'Of course not.' Her tone was not entirely calm.
  
  "You left him alone with this?"
  
  "Phil, I know my job."
  
  "Didn't you find it strange that he sat next to you?"
  
  Her brilliant blue eyes widened even further. 'Why? There were probably more diamond dealers on that plane. I might have run into a competitor instead of the intended buyer. Maybe you could sell him something.'
  
  Van der Laan patted her hand. "Don't worry. Check it regularly. Call the New York banks if necessary."
  
  The other nodded. Van der Laan's calm face concealed doubt. He'd thought Helmi had turned into a dangerous, frightened woman who knew too much. Now, at this moment, he wasn't so sure. At first, he'd thought "Norman Kent" was a policeman-now he doubted his hasty thinking. He wondered if it had been right to call Paul. It was too late to stop him now. But at least Paul and his friends would know the truth about this Kent.
  
  Helmi frowned, "You really think that maybe..."
  
  "I don't think so, child. But, as you say, we could sell him something good. Just to test his credit."
  
  Nick crossed the dam. The spring breeze was wonderful. He tried to get his bearings. He looked at the picturesque Kalverstraat, where a dense stream of people moved along the car-free sidewalk between buildings that looked as clean as the people themselves. "Are these people really that clean?" Nick thought. He shuddered. Now was not the time to worry about that.
  
  He decided to walk to Keizersgracht-a kind of tribute to the drowned, rather than the drunken, Herbert Whitlock. Herbert Whitlock was a high-ranking US government official, owned a travel agency, and probably had too much gin that day. Probably. But Herbert Whitlock was an AXE agent and didn't really like alcohol. Nick had worked with him twice, and they both laughed when Nick remarked, "Imagine a man who makes you drink-for work." Herb had been in Europe for almost a year, tracking down leaks that AXE had discovered when military electronics and aerospace data began leaking. Herbert had reached the letter M in the archive at the time of his death. And his middle name was Manson.
  
  David Hawk, at his command post in AXE, put it very simply. "Take your time, Nicholas. If you need help, ask for help. We can't afford any more jokes like this." For a moment, his thin lips pressed together over his jutting jaw. "And if you can, if you get anywhere near results, enlist my help."
  
  Nick reached Keizersgracht and walked back along the Herengracht. The air was smooth and silky. "Here I am," he thought. Shoot me again. Shoot, and if you miss, at least I'll take the initiative. Isn't that sporty enough? He stopped to admire a flower cart and eat some herring on the corner of the Herengracht-Paleistraat. A tall, carefree man who loved the sun. Nothing happened. He frowned and walked back to his hotel.
  
  In a large, comfortable room, without the gratuitous layers of varnish and the quick, fragile, plastic effects of ultra-modern hotels, Nick unpacked his things. His Wilhelmina Luger was cleared through customs under his arm. It wasn't being checked. Besides, he would have the paperwork for it if necessary. Hugo, a razor-sharp stiletto, found his way into the mailbox as a letter opener. He stripped to his underwear and decided there wasn't much he could do until he met Helmi at three o'clock. He worked out for fifteen minutes and then slept for an hour.
  
  There was a soft knock on the door. 'Hello?' Nick exclaimed. 'Room service.'
  
  He opened the door. A fat waiter smiled in his white coat, holding a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of Four Roses, partially hidden behind a white napkin. "Welcome to Amsterdam, sir. With compliments from management."
  
  Nick took a step back. The man carried flowers and bourbon to a table by the window. Nick's eyebrows shot up. No vase? No tray? "Hey..." The man dropped the bottle with a dull thud. It didn't break. Nick followed him with his eyes. The door swung open, nearly knocking him off his feet. A man leaped through the doorway-a tall, massive man, like a boatswain. He held a black pistol tightly in his hand. It was a large gun. He followed Nick, who pretended to stumble, without flinching. Then Nick straightened up. The smaller man followed the muscular one and closed the door. A sharp English voice came from the waiter's direction: "Wait, Mr. Kent." Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw the napkin fall. The hand that held it held a pistol, and this, too, looked as if it were held by a professional. Unmoving, at the right height, ready to fire. Nick stopped.
  
  He himself had one trump card. In the pocket of his underwear he held one of the deadly gas bombs - "Pierre." He slowly lowered his hand.
  
  The man who looked like a waiter said, "Leave it. Don't make a move." The man seemed quite determined. Nick froze and said, "I only have a few guilders in my..."
  
  'Shut up.'
  
  The last man through the door was now behind Nick, and at the moment he couldn't do anything about it. Not in the crossfire of two pistols that seemed to be in very capable hands. Something was wrapped around his wrist, and his hand jerked back. Then his other hand was pulled back-a sailor was wrapping it with cord. The cord was taut and felt like nylon. The man who tied the knots was either a sailor or had been one for many years. One of the hundreds of times Nicholas Huntington Carter III, No. 3 of the AXE, had been bound and seemed almost helpless.
  
  "Sit here," said the big man.
  
  Nick sat down. The waiter and the fat man seemed to be in charge. They carefully examined his belongings. They were certainly not robbers. After checking every pocket and seam of his two suits, they carefully hung everything up. After ten minutes of painstaking detective work, the fat man sat down opposite Nick. He had a small neck, no more than a few thick folds of flesh between his collar and his head, but they in no way resembled fat. He carried no weapon. "Mr. Norman Kent of New York," he said. "How long have you known Helmi de Boer?"
  
  'Recently. We met on the plane today.'
  
  "When will you see her again?"
  
  'I don't know.'
  
  "That's why she gave you this?" Thick fingers picked up the business card Helmi had given him, with her local address.
  
  "We'll see each other a few times. She's a good guide."
  
  "Are you here to do business with Manson?"
  
  "I'm here to do business with anyone who sells diamonds to my company at a reasonable price. Who are you? Police, thieves, spies?
  
  "A little bit of everything. Let's just say it's mafia. In the end, it doesn't matter."
  
  'What do you want from me?'
  
  The bony man pointed to where Wilhelmina lay on the bed. "That's a pretty strange item for a businessman."
  
  "For someone who can transport diamonds worth tens of thousands of dollars? I love this gun."
  
  "Against the law."
  
  "I'll be careful."
  
  "What do you know about Yenisei cuisine?"
  
  "Oh, I have them."
  
  If he'd said he'd come from another planet, they wouldn't have jumped any higher. The muscular man straightened up. The "waiter" shouted, "Yes?" and the sailor who'd tied the knots lowered his mouth two inches.
  
  The big one said, "You have them? Already? Really?"
  
  "At the Grand Hotel Krasnopolsky. You can't reach them." The bony man pulled a pack from his pocket and handed the others a small cigarette. He seemed about to offer one to Nick, but changed his mind. They stood up. "What are you going to do with this?"
  
  "Of course, take it with you to the United States."
  
  - But... but you can't. Customs - ah! You have a plan. It's all already done.
  
  "Everything is already set up," Nick answered seriously.
  
  The large man looked indignant. "They're all idiots," Nick thought. "Or maybe I really am. But idiots or not, they know their stuff." He tugged at the cord behind his back, but it didn't budge.
  
  The fat man blew a dark blue cloud of smoke from his pursed lips toward the ceiling. "You said we can"t get them? What about you? Where"s the receipt? The proof?"
  
  "I don't have one. Mr. Stahl arranged it for me." Stahl had managed the Krasnopolsky Hotel many years ago. Nick hoped he was still there.
  
  The madman pretending to be a waiter suddenly said, "I think he's lying. Let's shut his mouth and set his toes on fire and then see what he says."
  
  "No," said the fat man. "He was already at Krasnopolskoye. With Helmi. I saw him. This will be a nice feather in our asses. And now..." he walked up to Nick, "Mr. Kent, you're going to get dressed now, and we'll all deliver these Cullinans carefully. The four of us. You're a big boy, and maybe you want to be a hero in your community. But if you don't, you'll be dead in this little country. We don't want that kind of mess. Perhaps you're convinced of that now. If not, think about what I just told you."
  
  He returned to the wall of the room and pointed at the waiter and the other man. They didn't give Nick the satisfaction of drawing his gun again. The sailor untied the knot on Nick's back and removed the cutting cords from his wrist. The blood stung. Bony said, "Get dressed. The Luger isn't loaded. Move carefully."
  
  Nick moved cautiously. He reached for the shirt hanging over the back of his chair, then slammed his palm into the waiter's Adam's apple. It was a surprise attack, like a member of the Chinese table tennis team attempting a backhand at a ball about five feet from the table. Nick stepped forward, jumped, and struck-and the man barely managed to move before Nick touched his neck.
  
  As the man fell, Nick spun around and grabbed the fat man's hand as he reached into his pocket. The fat man's eyes widened as he felt the crushing force of the grip. As a strong man, he knew what muscles meant when he had to manage them himself. He raised his hand to the right, but Nick was somewhere else before things got going properly.
  
  Nick raised his hand and angled it just below his ribcage, just below his heart. He didn't have time to find his best shot. Moreover, this neckless body was impervious to blows. The man chuckled, but Nick's fist felt as if he'd just tried to hit a cow with a stick.
  
  The sailor rushed toward him, brandishing what looked like a police baton. Nick spun Fatso around and shoved him forward. The two men slammed into each other while Nick fumbled with the back of his jacket... The two men separated again and quickly turned toward him. Nick kicked the sailor in the kneecap as he got closer, then deftly pivoted to face his larger adversary. Fatso stepped over the screaming man, stood firmly, and leaned toward Nick, arms outstretched. Nick feigned an attack, placing his left hand on the fat man's right, retreated, turned, and kicked him in the stomach, holding his left wrist with his right hand.
  
  Sliding sideways, the man's several hundred pounds of weight crushed a chair and a coffee table, smashed a television to the floor as if it were a toy car, and finally came to a crashing halt on the remains of a typewriter, the body of which smashed against the wall with a sad, tearing sound. Driven by Nick and spun by his grip, the fat man suffered the most from the attack on the furniture. It took him a second longer to stand than Nick.
  
  Nick leaped forward and grabbed his opponent by the throat. It only took Nick a few seconds-when they fell... With his other hand, Nick grabbed his wrist. It was a hold that cut off the man's breathing and blood flow for ten seconds. But he didn't have ten seconds. Coughing and choking, the waiter-like creature came to life just long enough to grab the gun. Nick broke free, quickly headbutted his opponent, and snatched the gun from his hand.
  
  The first shot missed, the second pierced the ceiling, and Nick threw the gun through the second undamaged window. They could have gotten some fresh air if this had kept up. Doesn't anyone in this hotel fucking hear what's going on?
  
  The waiter punched him in the stomach. If he hadn't expected it, he might never have felt the pain of the blow again. He placed his hand under his attacker's chin and struck him... The fat man rushed forward like a bull at a red rag. Nick dove to the side, hoping to find a little better protection, but tripped over the sad remains of a television with its accessories. The fat man would have taken him by the horns, if he had any. As they both pressed themselves against the bed, the door to the room opened and a woman ran in, screaming. Nick and the fat man became entangled in the bedspread, blankets, and pillows. His attacker was slow. Nick saw the sailor crawl toward the door. Where was the waiter? Nick tugged furiously at the bedspread, which still hung around him. BAM! The lights went out.
  
  For a few seconds he was stunned by the blow and blinded. His excellent physical condition kept him almost conscious as he shook his head and rose to his feet. That's where the waiter appeared! He picked up the sailor's baton and hit me with it. If I can catch him...
  
  He had to come to his senses, sit on the floor, and take a few deep breaths. Somewhere, a woman began screaming for help. He heard footsteps running. He blinked until he could see again, and rose to his feet. The room was empty.
  
  By the time he'd spent some time under the cold water, the room was no longer empty. There was a screaming maid, two bellhops, the manager, his assistant, and a security guard. While he was drying himself, putting on a robe, and hiding Wilhelmina, pretending to retrieve his shirt from the mess on the bed, the police arrived.
  
  They spent an hour with him. The manager gave him another room and insisted on a doctor. Everyone was polite, friendly, and angry that Amsterdam's good name had been tarnished. Nick chuckled and thanked everyone. He gave the detective precise descriptions and congratulated him. He refused to look at the police photo album, claiming it had all gone too quickly. The detective surveyed the chaos, then closed his notebook and said in slow English, "But not too quickly, Mr. Kent. They've left now, but we can find them at the hospital."
  
  Nick carried his things to his new room, ordered a wake-up call at 2 a.m., and went to bed. When the operator woke him, he felt fine-he didn't even have a headache. They brought him coffee while he was showering.
  
  The address Helmi gave him was a squeaky-clean little house on Stadionweg, not far from the Olympic stadium. She met him in a very neat hall, so shiny with varnish, paint, and wax that everything looked perfect... "Let's take advantage of the daylight," she said. "We can have a drink here when we get back, if you like."
  
  "I already know that this is how it will be."
  
  They boarded a blue Vauxhall, which she steered with skill. In a tight light green sweater and pleated skirt, with a salmon-colored scarf in her hair, she looked even more beautiful than she had on the plane. Very British, slender, and sexier than in her short linen skirt.
  
  He watched her profile as she drove. No wonder Manson used her as a model. She proudly showed him the city. - There's the Oosterpark, there's the Tropenmuseum - and here, you see, is Artis. This zoo may have the finest collection of animals in the world. Let's drive towards the station. See how skillfully these canals cut through the city? The ancient city planners saw far ahead. It's different from today; today they no longer take the future into account. Further on - look, there's Rembrandt's house - further on, you know what I mean. This whole street, Jodenbreestraat, is being torn down for the metro, you know?
  
  Nick listened, intrigued. He remembered what this neighborhood had been like: colorful and captivating, with the atmosphere of the people who lived here, understanding that life had a past and a future. He looked sadly at the remnants of that understanding and trust of the former residents. Entire neighborhoods had disappeared... and Nieuwmarkt, through which they were now passing, was reduced to the ruins of its former joy. He shrugged. Oh well, he thought, past and future. A subway like this is really nothing more than a submarine in a city like this...
  
  She rode with him through the harbors, crossed the canals leading to the IJ, where you could watch the passing water traffic all day long, just like in the East. Rivers. And she showed him the vast polders... As they rode along the North Sea Canal, she said, "There's a saying: God created heaven and earth, and the Dutch created Holland."
  
  "You're really proud of your country, Helmi. You'd be a good guide for all those American tourists who come here."
  
  "It's so unusual, Norman. For generations, people have been battling the sea here. Is it any wonder they're so stubborn...? But they're so alive, so pure, so energetic."
  
  "And as dull and superstitious as any other people," Nick grumbled. "Because, by any measure, Helmi, monarchies are long outdated."
  
  She remained chatty until they reached their destination: an old Dutch diner, looking much as it had for years. But no one was disheartened by the authentic Frisian herbal bitters served under the ancient beams, where cheerful people occupied cheerful chairs decorated with flowers. Then came a stroll to a buffet table-the size of a bowling alley-with hot and cold fish dishes, meats, cheeses, sauces, salads, meat pies, and a host of other delicious dishes.
  
  After a second visit to this table, with excellent lager and a vast array of dishes on display, Nick gave up. "I'm going to have to work hard to get through this much food," he said.
  
  "This is a truly excellent and inexpensive restaurant. Wait until you try our duck, partridge, lobster, and Zealand oysters."
  
  "Later, dear."
  
  Full and satisfied, they drove back to Amsterdam along the old two-lane road. Nick offered to drive her back and found the car easy to handle.
  
  The car was driving behind them. A man leaned out the window, motioned for them to stop, and pushed them to the side of the road. Nick wanted to quickly turn around, but immediately dismissed the idea. Firstly, he didn't know the car well enough, and besides, you can always learn something, as long as you're careful not to get shot.
  
  The man who had pushed them aside came out and approached them. He looked like a cop from the FBI series. He even pulled out a regular Mauser and said, "There's a girl coming with us. Please don't worry."
  
  Nick looked at him with a smile. 'Good.' He turned to Helmi. 'You know him?'
  
  Her voice was shrill. "No, Norman. No..."
  
  The man had simply gotten too close to the door. Nick swung it open and heard the scrape of metal against the gun as his feet reached the sidewalk. The odds were stacked in his favor. When they say "It's okay" and "You're welcome," they're not killers. The gun might be on safety. And besides, if your reflexes are fine, if you're in good shape, and if you've spent hours, days, months, years training for situations like this...
  
  The gun didn't fire. The man spun on Nick's hip and slammed into the road with enough force to seriously concuss him. The Mauser fell from his hands. Nick kicked it under the Vauxhall and ran to the other car, dragging Wilhelmina with him. Either this driver was smart or he was a coward-at the very least, he was a bad partner. He sped away, leaving Nick staggering in a huge cloud of exhaust fumes.
  
  Nick holstered the Luger and leaned over the man lying motionless on the road. His breathing seemed labored. Nick quickly emptied his pockets and gathered everything he could find. He searched his belt for his holster, spare ammunition, and badge. Then he jumped back behind the wheel and sped after the small taillights in the distance.
  
  The Vauxhall was fast, but not fast enough.
  
  "Oh my God," Helmi repeated over and over. "Oh my God. And this is in the Netherlands. Things like this never happen here. Let's go to the police. Who are they? And why? How did you do it so quickly, Norman? Otherwise, he would have shot us?"
  
  It took a glass and a half of whiskey in his room before she could calm down a bit.
  
  Meanwhile, he looked through the collection of things he'd taken from the man with the Mauser. Nothing special. The usual junk from ordinary bags-cigarettes, a pen, a penknife, a notebook, matches. The notebook was empty; there wasn't a single entry in it. He shook his head. "Not a law enforcement officer. I wouldn't have thought so either. They usually act differently, although there are some guys who watch too much TV."
  
  He refilled the glasses and sat down next to Helmi on the wide bed. Even if there had been eavesdropping devices in their room, the soft music from the hi-fi would have been enough to make their words incomprehensible to any listener.
  
  "Why did they want to take you, Helmi?"
  
  "I - I don't know."
  
  "You know, this wasn't just a robbery. The man said, 'The girl is coming with us.' So if they were up to something, it was you. These guys weren't just going to stop every car on the road. They had to be looking for you."
  
  Helmi's beauty grew with fear or anger. Nick looked at the misty clouds obscuring her brilliant blue eyes. "I... I can't imagine who..."
  
  "Do you have any business secrets or anything?"
  
  She swallowed and shook her head. Nick considered the next question: Did you find out something you weren't supposed to know? But then he dropped the question again. It was too blunt. She no longer trusted Norman Kent because of his reaction to the two men, and her next words proved it. "Norman," she said slowly. "You were so terribly fast. And I saw your gun. Who are you?"
  
  He hugged her. She seemed to enjoy it. "Nothing but a typical American businessman, Helmi. Old-fashioned. As long as I have these diamonds, no one will take them away from me, as long as I can do something about it."
  
  She winced. Nick stretched out his legs. He loved himself, the image he had created for himself. He felt very heroic. He patted her knee gently. "Relax, Helmi. It was nasty out there. But whoever hit their head on the road won't bother you or anyone else for the next few weeks. We can notify the police, or we can shut up. Do you think you should tell Philip van der Laan? That was the key question." She was silent for a long time. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "I don't know. He should be warned if they want to do something against Manson. But what's going on?"
  
  'Strange.'
  
  'That's what I meant. Phil's a brain. Smart. He's not your old-fashioned European businessman in black, with a white collar and a frozen mind. But what's he going to say when he finds out a subordinate was almost kidnapped? Manson wouldn't like that at all. You should see what kind of personnel checks they use in New York. Detectives, surveillance advisers, and all that. I mean, on a personal level, Phil may be a wizard, but in his business, he's something else. And I love my job.'
  
  "Do you think he'll fire you?"
  
  "No, no, not exactly."
  
  "But if your future is at stake, then could it be useful to him?
  
  'Yes. I'm doing well there. Reliable and efficient. Then that will be the first test.
  
  "Please don't be angry," Nick said, choosing his words carefully, "but I think you were more than just a friend to Phil. You're a beautiful woman, Helmi. Is there a chance he's jealous? Maybe hidden jealousy of someone like me?
  
  She thought about it. 'No. I-I'm convinced that's not true. God, Phil and I-we had a few days-were together. Yeah, what happens on a long weekend. He's really nice and interesting. So...'
  
  Does he know about you - with others?
  
  "He knows I'm free, if that's what you mean." There was a chill in her words.
  
  Nick said, "Phil doesn't seem like a dangerous jealous person at all. He's too polished and cosmopolitan. A man in his position would never involve himself or his firm in shady business. Or illegal business. So we can rule him out."
  
  She was silent for too long. His words made her think.
  
  "Yes," she said finally. But it didn't seem like a real answer.
  
  "What about the rest of the company? I meant what I said about you. You're a terribly attractive woman. I wouldn't find it so strange if a man or a boy worshipped you. Someone you wouldn't expect it from at all. Maybe someone you've only met a few times. Not Manson. Women usually sense these things unconsciously. Think about it carefully. Were there people watching you when you were somewhere, some extra attention?
  
  "No, maybe. I don't know. But for now we're... a happy family. I've never rejected anyone. No, that's not what I meant. If someone showed more interest or affection than usual, I was very nice to them. I like to please. You know?"
  
  'Very good. Somehow, I also see that you won't have an unknown admirer who could become dangerous. And you certainly don't have any enemies. A girl who has them risks a lot. One of those defenseless people who like "hot in the mouth, cold in the ass." The kind who enjoys it when men go to hell with them...'
  
  Helmi's eyes darkened as they met his. "Norman, you understand."
  
  It was a long kiss. The release of tension and the sharing of difficulties helped. Nick knew, but damn, she used those perfect lips like warm waves on a beach. Sighing, she pressed herself against him with a submission and willingness that held no trace of deception. She smelled of flowers after an early spring rain, and she felt like the woman Muhammad had promised his troops in the midst of concentrated enemy fire. His breathing quickened as she slammed her delectable breasts against Nick, completely desperate.
  
  It seemed like years had passed since she'd said, "I mean, friendship." You're good friends and you can talk to each other. You finally feel the need to do it in a certain way, at least you can talk about it. When the time finally comes, then at least you have something to do with each other.
  
  They didn't need to say anything to each other today. As he unbuttoned his shirt, she helped him, quickly removing her light green sweater and fitted bra. His throat tightened again as he saw what had revealed itself to his eyes in the dim light. A fountain. A spring. He tried to drink gently, tasting it, as if entire flowerbeds had pressed against his face, weaving colorful patterns there even when his eyes were closed. Allah-glory to you. It was the softest, most fragrant cloud he had ever fallen through.
  
  When they finally connected after some mutual exploration, she murmured, "Oh, this is so different. So delicious. But just like I thought it would be."
  
  He delved deeper into her and replied softly, "Just as I imagined, Helmi. Now I know why you are so beautiful. You are not just an exterior, a shell. You are a cornucopia."
  
  "You make me feel..."
  
  He didn't know what, but they both felt it.
  
  Later he said, murmuring into the little ear: "Clean. Deliciously clean. It's you, Helmi.
  
  She sighed and turned to face him. "Really making love..." She let the words roll off her tongue. "I know what it is. It's not about finding the right lover-it's about being the right lover."
  
  "You should write this down," he whispered, closing his lips around her ear.
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  It was a beautiful morning for breakfast in bed with a beautiful girl. The blazing sun cast hot sparks through the window. The room service cart, ordered with Helmi's help, was a buffet full of delicacies, from currant dumplings to beer, ham, and herring.
  
  After a second cup of excellent aromatic coffee, poured by a completely naked and not at all shy Helmi, Nick said: "You're late for work. What happens if your boss finds out you weren't home last night?"
  
  Soft hands came to rest on his face, stroking the stubble on his beard. She looked him straight in the eyes and grinned mischievously. "Don't worry about me. On this side of the ocean, I don't have to watch the clock. I don't even have a phone in my apartment. Deliberately. I like my freedom."
  
  Nick kissed her and pushed her away. If they stood next to each other like that, they would never get up again. Helmi, and then him. "I hate to bring this up again, but have you thought about those two idiots who tried to attack you last night? And who could they be working for? They were stalking you-let's not kid ourselves. Items from this guy's pockets don't sound like a threat to us.
  
  He watched the sweet smile fade from her lips. He loved her. When she sank to her knees on the large bed, he liked her even more. The luscious fullness of her curves and curves, seen in that hunched pose, was every artist's dream. It was outrageous to see the rosy glow disappear from that gorgeous face and be replaced by a grim, worry-filled mask. If only she would tell him everything she knew-but if he pressed too hard, she would burst like an oyster. For a moment, she bit her lower lip with her beautiful white teeth. An expression of worry appeared on her face-more than a beautiful girl should have. "I've never seen them before," she said slowly. "I thought about them, too. But we're not sure they knew me. Maybe they just wanted a girl?"
  
  "Even if you wanted to, you wouldn't believe a word you said. These guys were professionals. Not the kind of professionals you encountered in America's heyday, but they were vicious enough. They wanted you. They weren't your average freaks-or maybe they were-or womanizers who'd seen too much in the mirror and now wanted to get a blonde. They very deliberately chose this place to make their attack."
  
  "And you prevented it," she said.
  
  "They usually couldn't take a punch from a guy from Boston who used to fight Irish and Italian street kids from the North End for fun. I learned to defend myself very well. They weren't so lucky."
  
  Now she was well taken care of; it lay on her like a gray, transparent plastic cloak. It took away her shine. He also thought he saw fear in her eyes. "I'm glad I'll be back in New York in a week," she murmured.
  
  "That's no defense at all. And before that, they might cut you to shreds. And then, if that's what they want, they might send someone to New York after you. Think about it, honey. Who wants to hurt you?
  
  "I - I don't know."
  
  "You don't have enemies in the whole world?"
  
  'No.' That's not what she meant.
  
  Nick sighed and said, "You better tell me everything, Helmi. I think you need a friend, and I might be one of the best. When I got back to my hotel yesterday, I was attacked by three men in my hotel room. Their main question was, how long have I known you?"
  
  She suddenly turned pale and fell back onto her hips. She held her breath for a moment, then released it nervously. "You didn't tell me about this... who..."
  
  I could use an old-fashioned expression. "You didn't ask me about this." It will be in the papers today. Foreign businessman victim of robbery. I didn't tell the police they asked about you. I'll describe them to you and see if you know any of them.
  
  He gave a clear description of the waiter, the sailor, and the neckless gorilla. While he spoke, he glanced at her, seemingly casually, but he studied every change in her expression and movement. He didn't want to bet his life on it, but he thought she recognized at least one of these guys. Would she be honest with him?
  
  "... I don't think a sailor goes to sea anymore, and a waiter to a restaurant. They probably found better jobs. The bony man is their boss. They are not ordinary cheap thieves, I think. They were well dressed and acted quite professionally.
  
  "Ohhhh..." Her mouth looked worried and her eyes were dark. "I-I don't know anyone who looks like that."
  
  Nick sighed. "Hklmi, you're in danger. We are in danger. Those guys meant it, and maybe they'll come back. Whoever shot at us at Schiphol Airport might try again, but he'll have better aim.
  
  "Do you really think that he-that he wanted to kill us?"
  
  "It was more than just a threat. Personally, I don't think there are any of these mortal enemies in the city... if they have any idea who it is.
  
  "... so you and Kobus are left in danger. Kobus doesn't seem so obvious to me, though you can never know either, so you're left with this. Either the shooter was impaired by something, or he just can't shoot very well, though I'm inclined to bet on the former. But think about it, maybe he'll come back someday.
  
  She was shaking. 'Oh no.'
  
  You could see all the workings of her brain behind her big blue eyes.
  
  Relays and electromagnets operated, choosing and rejecting again, structuring and choosing - the most complex computer in the world.
  
  He programmed the overload and asked, "What are Yenisei diamonds?"
  
  The fuses blew. - 'What? I don't know.'
  
  "I think these are diamonds. Think carefully."
  
  "I-I may have heard of them. But-no-I-I haven't received any of them..."
  
  'Can you check if there are any famous gemstones or large diamonds under this name?
  
  'Oh, yes. We have a library of sorts in the office.
  
  She responded to him automatically. If he came up with key questions now, she could give him the right answers. But if it was too much for that complex device in her head, there was every chance it would fail. The only answer you'd get was something like "Yes," "No," and "I don't know."
  
  She rested on her arms, placed on either side of her chest, on the bed. He admired the shine of her golden hair; she shook her head. "I have to say, Phil," she said. "Maybe it's all from Manson."
  
  "Have you changed your mind?"
  
  "It wouldn't be fair to the company to say nothing. It could be partly a rip-off or something."
  
  The eternal woman, Nick thought. A smokescreen and excuses. "Will you do something for me too, Helmi? Call Manson and ask if they've checked my credit."
  
  Her head shot up. "How did you find out about the inspection...?"
  
  "The first thing is that this is a reasonable thing... Let them tell you?"
  
  'Yes.' She rose from the bed. Nick stood up and enjoyed the view. She spoke rapidly in Dutch. '... Algemene Bank Nederland...' he heard.
  
  She hung up and turned to him. They say it's all normal.
  
  You have one hundred thousand dollars in your account. There is also a loan available if you need more."
  
  "So I'm a welcome client?"
  
  'Yes.' She bent down to pick up her panties and began to dress. Her movements were slow, as if she were perfectly fine. 'Phil will be happy to sell you. I know that for a fact.' She wondered why Phil had sent Paul Meyer with two assistants to get to Nick. And that bullet at Schiphol Airport? She winced. Did anyone in Manson know what she had learned about Kelly's plans being delivered? She refused to believe Phil had nothing to do with them, but who had? She shouldn't have told him that she would have recognized Paul from Norman's descriptions. That could be done later. The police would also want to know. At that moment, she gave Nick a long goodbye kiss before she adorned herself with lipstick, she was under control again.
  
  "I'll be there in half an hour," she said. "That way we'll tell Van der Laan everything honestly. Except about where you slept last night, of course.
  
  He looked at her with a smile, but she didn"t notice it.
  
  "Yes, I think we should..."
  
  "Good, Helmi. The man always knows best what to do.
  
  He asked himself if she thought it was necessary.
  
  Paul Eduard Meyer was ill at ease talking to Philip van der Laan and listening to his comments. He stretched his feet in his expensive shoes. It helped keep his nerves in check... He ran a hand over his neck, which was almost gone, and wiped away the sweat. Phil shouldn't talk to him like that. He could help it... No, no - he shouldn't think like an idiot. Phil is brains and money. He winced as van der Laan spat the words at him like clods of mud. "... my army. Three degenerates. Or two degenerates and an idiot - you - you're their boss. What an asshole. You shot her?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "From a rifle with a silencer?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "You once told me you could shoot a nail into a wall a hundred yards away. How far were you from them? Besides, her head is a little bigger than a nail, isn't it?
  
  "Two Hundred Yards"
  
  "You're lying about being thwarted." Van der Laan paced slowly back and forth in his luxurious office. He had no intention of telling Paul that he was glad he'd missed the target, or that he'd changed his first impression of Norman Kent. When he'd ordered Paul Meyer to attack Kent at breakfast, when he'd arrived at his hotel, he'd been convinced he was from counterintelligence. Just as he'd been certain Helmi had discovered in Kelly's studio that complex and voluminous data could be consolidated on a microchip. He was proud of his spy device because it was his own invention. His clients included Russia, South Africa, Spain, and three other Middle Eastern countries. So simple, yet so profitable. He'd also dealt with De Groot over the stolen Yenisei diamonds. Philipp squared his shoulders. He thought he could sell his invention to the highest bidder. Let those be just plans. De Groot was an experienced spy, but when it came to that kind of profit...
  
  After that, he could sell his device to the Americans and the British. Their couriers could then safely transport their data anywhere. The CIA would be the happiest agency in the world, and the British MI could use the new system. As long as they worked effectively.
  
  The former German agent was right. De Groot was right. He needed to be flexible! Helmi was still serviceable, just a little nervous. Kent was a tough American playboy with plenty of money to spend on diamonds. So! A small, instantaneous change of strategy. He would use Paul's mistakes as tactical weapons. The bastard was starting to get too cocky. He looked at Paul, who was wringing his hands to calm himself.
  
  "You need sniper practice," Van der Laan said.
  
  Paul couldn't see his eyes. "I was aiming for the head. It would have been stupid to just hurt her.
  
  "In fact, I could have hired a few criminals from the Hamburg docks. What a mess this hotel is too! He was making fun of you.
  
  "He's not just anyone. He must be from Interpol."
  
  "You have no evidence. New York confirms Kent is a buyer for a reputable company. A rather strong young man. A businessman and a fighter. You don't understand those Americans, Paul. He's even smarter than you-you, who call yourself a professional. You're a bunch of idiots, all three of you. Ha!
  
  "He has a gun."
  
  "A man like Kent can have it, you know that... Tell me again what he told you about the Yenisei diamonds?
  
  "He said it was he who bought them."
  
  'Impossible. I would have told you if he had bought them.
  
  "You told me we didn't get to see... So I thought...
  
  "Maybe he outsmarted me."
  
  "Well, no, but..."
  
  "Silence!" Philippe loved to command. They made him feel like a German officer, and, in a word, the one who silenced his entire audience-soldiers, civilians, and horses. Paul looked at his knuckles.
  
  "Think again," said van der Laan. "He didn't say anything about diamonds?" He looked at Paul intently, wondering if he knew more than he was letting on. He'd never told Paul about his special communication device. He'd occasionally used the awkward fellow as an errand boy for his contacts in Holland, but that was all. Paul's bushy eyebrows met like gray snails over the bridge of his nose.
  
  'No. Only that he left them at the Krasnapolsky Hotel.
  
  "In storage? Under lock and key?"
  
  "Well, he didn't say where they were. They were supposedly at Strahl's.
  
  "And he knows nothing about it," I asked him. "Unobtrusively, of course-it's a state of affairs that your dull brain will never be able to comprehend." Van der Laan sighed with the grave seriousness of a general who has just made an important decision, convinced that he has done everything correctly. "Okay, Paul. Take Beppo and Mark to the DS farm and stay there for a while. I don't want to see your mug in town for a while. Curl up and don't let anyone see you.
  
  'Yes sir.' Paul quickly disappeared.
  
  Van der Laan walked slowly up and down the path, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar. Usually this gave him a feeling of comfort and accomplishment, but now it didn't work. He walked a short distance to relax and take in the surroundings. His back was straight, his weight evenly distributed on both feet. But he couldn't feel comfortable... The game was starting to get dangerous now. Helmi had probably learned too much, but he didn't dare ask her about it. It would be a good idea, from a practical standpoint, to eliminate her only if it went smoothly.
  
  Still, it seemed he might find himself in the eye of a hurricane. If she spoke in New York, and Norman Kent with her, they would have to make their move now. All the evidence they needed was in the newspapers in that leather briefcase she carried. Oh, God. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a pristine handkerchief, then grabbed a new one from the drawer.
  
  Helmi was announced over the intercom. Van der Laan said, "Just a moment." He walked over to the mirror and examined his handsome face. He needed to spend a little more time with Helmi. Until now, he'd considered their relationship superficial because he didn't believe in stable relationships between a boss and his subordinates. He needed to rekindle the flames. This could be a lot of fun, because she was quite good in bed.
  
  He walked up to the door of his office to greet her. "Helmi, my dear. Ah, it's good that you're alone for a while." He kissed her on both cheeks. She looked embarrassed for a moment, then she smiled.
  
  "It's nice to be in Amsterdam, Phil. You know I always feel at home here.
  
  And you brought a client with you. You have a knack for business, my dear. Mr. Kent's credentials are excellent. One day, we'll certainly be doing business with him. Sit down, Helmi.
  
  He held a chair for her and lit her cigarette. Jesus, she was beautiful. He entered his private room and checked his mustache and white teeth with a series of grimaces in the mirror.
  
  When he returned, Helmi said, "I talked to Mr. Kent. I think he could be a good client for us.
  
  "Why do you think it happened that he ended up in that place next to you on that plane?"
  
  'I thought about that too.' Helmi shared her thoughts on the matter: 'If he wanted to get in touch with Manson, that was the hardest part. But if he just wanted to sit next to me, I was flattered.
  
  "He is a strong man. Physically, I mean.
  
  "Yes, I noticed that. Yesterday afternoon, while we were exploring the city, he told me that three men tried to rob him in his room. Someone shot at him, or at me, at Schiphol Airport. And last night, two men tried to kidnap me.
  
  Van der Laan's eyebrows rose as she mentioned this latest kidnapping attempt. He'd been preparing to fake it-but now he didn't need to fake it at all. "Hedmi, who? Why?"
  
  "These people at the hotel asked him about me. And about something called the Yenisei diamonds. Do you know what that is?
  
  She watched him carefully. Phil was a remarkable actor, perhaps the best in Holland, and she always trusted him completely. His smooth manner, his affable generosity, always completely deceived her. Her eyes only slightly opened when she unexpectedly walked into Kelly's studio in New York. She discovered their connection to "Manson" and noticed the unusual objects attached to her briefcase. Perhaps Phil didn't know about it, but considering what he said or did, she was bound to believe he was part of the conspiracy. She hated him for it. Her nerves were on edge until she finally handed him the briefcase.
  
  Van der Laan smiled warmly-a friendly disguise on his face. "Yenisei diamonds, which are said to be for sale now. But you, like me, know all these stories in our industry. But more importantly-how did you know someone shot at you at the airport?"
  
  "Norman said he heard a bullet."
  
  "What do you call him Norman? It's cute. He's..."
  
  "We agreed to call each other by our first names, back then at Krasnapolsky, remember? He's very charming.
  
  She didn't know that she would hurt Van der Laan's soul so much, but she couldn't say it any other way.
  
  She suddenly realized how self-centered this man was. He hated compliments from other people unless he himself gave them as a kind of business flattery.
  
  "You were standing next to him. Did you hear anything?
  
  "I'm not sure. I thought it was a plane.
  
  "And those people in his hotel and on the highway? Do you have any idea who they could be? Thieves? Robbers? Amsterdam isn't what it used to be. We don't know them..."
  
  "No. Those three at the hotel asked about me. They knew my name.
  
  "And that one is on the road?"
  
  'No. He just said the girl should go with them.
  
  "Helmi, I think we're all dealing with a problem. When you fly to America next Tuesday, I'd like to give you a very valuable shipment. One of the most valuable we've ever sent. Suspicious things have been happening since I started working on this problem. It could be part of a conspiracy, although I can't see how it's all working out.
  
  He hoped she believed him. Either way, he needed to confuse her and Kent.
  
  Helmi was stunned. There had been several robberies and holdups in the last few years-more than before. The loyalty she felt to "Manson" increased her credulity. "Oh, but how-they had nothing to do with us when we got off the plane, except..." She swallowed the rest.
  
  She was going to tell him about these recordings.
  
  "Who can tell us how a criminal's mind works? Maybe they wanted to offer you a very high bribe. Maybe they wanted to stun or hypnotize you so that you would be more compliant later. Only your friend knows about all the bad things that happen.
  
  "What should we do?
  
  "You and Kent should report the shot and those people on the street to the police?"
  
  He hadn't gone so far that she noticed he'd forgotten to mention the incident at the hotel. Did he know Norman had reported it? Her disbelief deepened. She could breathe normally. 'No. That doesn't seem to make much sense.'
  
  "Maybe you should do it. But it's too late for that now. Norman will be here immediately, as long as he keeps our agreement.
  
  "Norman" kept his promise. The three of them sat in Van der Laan's office and discussed the events. Nick had learned nothing new-and Van der Laan remained the number one suspect on the list. Van der Laan said he would provide Helmi with security for the rest of her stay in Amsterdam, but Nick had another proposition. "You shouldn't use this," he said, "if Helmi wants to show me around the city. Then I'll consider myself responsible for her."
  
  "From what I understand," said Van der Laan, trying to hide his jealousy, "you're an excellent bodyguard."
  
  Nick shrugged and laughed briefly. "Ah, you know, those simple Americans. If there's danger, they're there.
  
  Helmi arranged to meet Nick at six. After leaving Van der Laan, Nick saw more sparkling diamonds than he ever could-or dreamed of. They visited the exchange, other diamond houses...
  
  Van der Laan told him as much as he knew and as best he could about the value of interesting collections. Nick noticed a slight difference in price. When they returned from a hearty brunch at Tsoi Wah, an Indonesian restaurant on Ceintuurbaan-a rice table with about twenty different dishes-Nick said, "Thank you for your efforts, Philip. I've learned a lot from you. Let's do business now."
  
  Van der Laan blinked. "Have you made your choice?"
  
  "Yes, I've decided to find out which firm my company can trust. Let's combine the amounts, say, $30,000, equal to the value of those diamonds you just showed me. We'll soon know whether you're deceiving us or not. If not, you have a very good client in us. If not, you're losing that good client, although we can remain friends.
  
  Van der Laan laughed. "How do I find the golden mean between my greed and good business?"
  
  'Exactly. That's always the case with good companies. You just can't do it any other way.
  
  "Okay, Norman. Tomorrow morning I'll pick out the stones for you. You can check them out, and I'll tell you everything I know about them so you can tell me what you think about them. It's too late today.
  
  "Of course, Philip. And please bring me a bunch of little white envelopes for me to write on. Then I'll write down your comments about each group of stones there.
  
  'Of course. We'll work it out, Norman. What are you planning to do next? Will you be visiting some more European cities? Or will you be returning home?
  
  "I'll be back soon."
  
  "Are you in a hurry?"
  
  "Not really ...
  
  "Then I'd like to offer you two things. First: come to my country house this weekend. We'll have a lot of fun. Tennis, horses, golf. And a hot air balloon solo flight. Ever tried it?
  
  'No.'
  
  "You'll enjoy this." He put his arm around Nick's shoulders... You, like everyone else, love new things and new, beautiful women. Blondes too, don't you, Norman?
  
  "Blondes too."
  
  "Then here's my second offer. Actually, it's more like a request. I'm sending Helmi back to America with a parcel of diamonds, a really large shipment. I suspect someone is planning to steal it. Your recent experience may be part of that. Now I'd like to suggest that you travel with Helmi to guard her, unless, of course, it fits your schedule or your firm decides otherwise.
  
  "I'll do it," Nick replied. "Intrigue fascinates me. In fact, I was supposed to be a secret agent. You know, Phil, I've always been a big fan of James Bond, and I still love the books about him. Have you ever read them?"
  
  'Of course. They're quite popular. But of course, these things happen more often in America.
  
  "Maybe in numbers, but I read somewhere that the most complex crimes occur in England, France and Holland."
  
  "Really?" Van der Laan seemed fascinated. "But think about the Boston killer, your cops on every subway, how they catch armored car robbers in New England, this kind of thing happens almost every month."
  
  "However, we cannot compete with England, as their criminals rob an entire train there.
  
  'I see what you mean. Our criminals are more inventive.
  
  'Of course. It's set in America, but the old world has its criminals. Anyway, I'm glad I'm traveling back with Helmi. As you said, I love diamonds - and blondes.
  
  After leaving Nikv, Van der Laan smoked thoughtfully, leaning back in a large leather chair, his eyes trained on the Lautrec sketch on the wall opposite him. This Norman Kent was an interesting character. Less superficial than he seemed. Not a policeman, for that matter, because no one in the police would think or talk about crime, or even mention his interest in the Secret Service. Van der Laan couldn't imagine any Secret Service agent sending one with a hundred thousand dollars plus a letter of credit for other purchases. Kent was going to be a good client, and perhaps there was something to be made of him in other ways, too. He felt good that Paul and his men had failed to carry out his assignments. He thought of Helmi. She had probably spent the night with Kent. That worried him. He always looked at her as something more than a beautiful doll now and then to get rid of her... The thought of her luscious body in the arms of another man stirred up the memory of her.
  
  He went up to the fourth floor, where he found her in a room next to the design department. When he asked her if she could have dinner with him, she told him she had an appointment with Norman Kent. He hid his disappointment. Returning to his office, he found Nicholas and De Groot waiting for him.
  
  Together they entered Van der Laan's office. De Groot was a short, dark man with an uncanny ability to blend in with others. He was as inconspicuous as the average FBI agent, the average tax official, or the average spy.
  
  After greeting him, Van der Laan said, "Have you set a price for THESE diamonds?"
  
  "Have you decided yet how much you want to pay for this?"
  
  It took thirty minutes of tense conversation to discover that they still couldn't come to an agreement.
  
  Nick walked slowly back to the hotel. There were still many things he wanted to do. Follow Herb Whitlock's contacts to his favorite bars, track down the Enisei diamonds, and, if Helmy hadn't come up with any information, discover what Manson was doing with Kelly's microtapes. But any mistake could instantly expose his identity and role. So far, it had worked perfectly. It was frustrating-waiting for them to come to you, or finally diving into the action.
  
  At the hotel reception, he was given a large, pink, sealed envelope with the inscription - To Mr. Norman Kent, deliver personally, important.
  
  He entered the exotic vestibule and opened the letter. The printed message read: "I have Yenisei diamonds at a reasonable price. Will it be possible to contact you soon? Pieter-Jan van Rijn.
  
  Smiling, Nick entered the elevator, holding a pink envelope like a flag. They were waiting for him in the hallway, two well-dressed men.
  
  The old world still hadn't come up with anything to recognize it, Nick thought about this as he fiddled with the lock.
  
  They came for him. There was no doubt about it. When they were still five feet away, he threw the key and pulled Wilhelmina out in a split second...
  
  "Stay where you are," he snapped. He dropped the pink envelope on the floor at their feet. "You
  
  "Where did you go after you left this? Okay, then you found me."
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  The two men froze, like two figures in a movie that had suddenly stopped. Their eyes widened at the deadly salute of Wilhelmina's long gun. Their hands were visible to Nick. One of them was wearing black gloves. "Don't move until I tell you," Nick said. "Do you understand my English well enough?"
  
  After a pause to catch his breath, the man in gloves replied, "Yes, yes. We understand you."
  
  "Shut up," Nick said, then walked back into the room, still glaring at the two men. "Come on."
  
  They followed him in. He closed the door. The man in gloves said, "You don't understand. We have a message for you."
  
  I understand perfectly. You used a message in an envelope to find me. We used this trick centuries ago in the United States. But you didn't come for me right away. How did you know I was coming, and that it was me?
  
  They looked at each other. The man in gloves said, "Walkie. We were waiting in the other hallway. A friend in the hall notified you that you received an envelope."
  
  "Very effective. Sit down and raise your hands to your face."
  
  "We don't want to sit around. Mr. Van Rijn sent us for you. He has something you need.
  
  - So you were going to take me anyway. Whether I wanted it or not. Right?
  
  "Well, Mr. Van Rijn was very... determined."
  
  "Then why didn't he ask me to come to him, or come here himself to meet me?"
  
  "We don't know that."
  
  "How far is he from here?
  
  "Fifteen minutes drive."
  
  "In his office or at home?"
  
  "In my car."
  
  Nick nodded silently. He wanted contact and action. Wish for it, and you'll get it. "Both of you, put your hands against the wall." They started to protest, but Wilhelmina's gun swayed them, and Nick's expression changed from friendly to impassive. They placed their hands against the wall.
  
  One had a Colt .32 automatic. The other was unarmed. He looked them over carefully, down to their shins. He stepped back, removed the magazine from the Colt, and ejected the bullets. Then he reinserted the magazine.
  
  "It's an interesting weapon," he said. "Not so popular these days. Can you buy ammo for it here?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  'Where did you buy this?'
  
  "In Brattleboro, Vermont. I was there with some friends. I like it... Nice.
  
  Nick holstered Wilhelmina. Then he took the Colt in his hand and held it out to the man. "Take it."
  
  They turned and looked at him in surprise. After a moment, the glove reached for the weapon. Nick handed it to him. "Let's go," Nick said. "I agree to visit this Van Rijn. But I don't have much time. Please don't make any hasty movements. I'm very nervous, but I move quite quickly. Something could go wrong, which we will all regret later."
  
  They had a large, rather old, but well-maintained Mercedes. A third man was traveling with them. Nick guessed it was the guy with the transmitter. They headed toward the highway and stopped on a street where a gray Jaguar was parked near a residential building. There was one person inside.
  
  "Is this him?" Nick asked.
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "By the way, your clocks are very slow here in Holland. Please stay in the car for 15 minutes. I'll talk to him. Don't try to get out." I won't tell him about the incident at the hotel. You'll tell him your story.
  
  None of them moved as he exited the car and walked quickly toward the Jaguar. He followed the Mercedes driver until he was under the Jaguar's cover.
  
  The man in the car looked like a naval officer on leave. He wore a jacket with brass buttons and a blue naval cap. "Mr. van Rijn," Nick said, "may I shake your hand?"
  
  'Please.'
  
  Nick shook his hand firmly. "I apologize for that, Mr. Kent. But this is a very delicate matter.
  
  "I've had time to think it over," Nick said with a grin. Van Rijn looked embarrassed. "Well, of course you know what I want to talk to you about. You're here to buy the Yenisei diamonds. I've got them. You know their value, don't you? Would you like to make an offer?"
  
  "I know, of course," Nick said affably. "But, you know, we don't know the exact price of this. What amount do you have in mind, roughly?"
  
  "Six million."
  
  'Can I see them?'
  
  'Certainly.'
  
  The two men looked at each other for a moment, friendly and expectant. Nick wondered if he'd pull them out of his pocket, the glove compartment, or under the rug. Finally, Nick asked, "Do you have them with you?"
  
  "These 'diamonds'? Thank God, no. Half the police in Europe are looking for them." He laughed. "And no one knows what it is." He lowered his voice confidentially. "Besides, there are some very efficient criminal organizations hunting for it."
  
  'Really? Gut, I thought it was a secret.
  
  'Oh no. The news is already spreading throughout Eastern Europe. So you can imagine the number of leaks. The Russians are furious. I think they're perfectly capable of dropping a bomb on Amsterdam-a small one, of course-if only they were sure it was there. You know, this is about to become the theft of the century?'
  
  "You must know, Mr. van Rijn..."
  
  Call me Peter.
  
  "Okay, Peter, call me Norman. I'm no diamond expert, but-and forgive this silly question-how many carats is that?"
  
  The elderly man's handsome face showed surprise. "Norman knows nothing about the diamond trade. That's why you were with Phil van der Laan when you made all those afternoon visits?"
  
  'Certainly.'
  
  'I understand. You have to be a little careful with this Phil.
  
  'Thank you.'
  
  "The diamonds haven't been cut yet. The buyer may want to form their own opinion about them. But I assure you that everything you've heard about them is true. They are just as beautiful and, of course, flawless as the originals.
  
  'Are they real?'
  
  'Yes. But only God knows why identical stones were found in different places, so far apart. It's a fascinating puzzle for the mind. Or maybe not a puzzle for the mind at all, if they can't be connected.'
  
  'This is true.'
  
  Van Rijn shook his head and thought for a moment. "Amazing, nature, geology.
  
  "It's a big secret."
  
  If you only knew what a secret this is for me, Nick thought. From all of this, I really understand that we might as well keep half of this conversation a secret. "I bought some rocks from Phil as an experiment."
  
  'Oh. Do you still need them?
  
  "Our company is expanding rapidly.
  
  'I understand. Okay. How do you know how much to pay?
  
  "I let him set the prices himself. We'll know within two weeks whether we'll be doing big business with Manson's or never dealing with them again.
  
  Very sensible, Norman. But my reputation is perhaps even more reliable than his.
  
  Van der Laan. You can very well check that for yourself. Then why don't you let me set a price for these diamonds?
  
  "There's still some difference between a small trial order and a six million dollar order."
  
  "You yourself say that you are not an expert on diamonds. Even when you test them, how well will you know their value?
  
  "Then I just know a little more now than I did before." Nick pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and hoped he hadn't been too clumsy. "Can I go look at them now?" Van Rijn let out a suppressed chuckle. "You Americans are all like that. Maybe you're not an expert on diamonds at all, maybe you're joking." He reached into the pocket of his blue jacket. Nick tensed. Van Rijn gave him a Spriet cigarette from the small pack and took one for himself.
  
  "Okay, Norman. You'll be able to see them.
  
  How about Friday evening? At my house? It's located near Volkel, just next to Den Bosch. I'll send a car to pick you up. Or perhaps you'd like to stay the weekend? I always have a few charming guests.
  
  "Okay. I'll come on Friday, but I can't stay over the weekend. Thanks anyway. Don't worry about the car, because I rented one. It's more convenient for me and this way I won't bother you when I have to leave.
  
  "As you wish..." He handed Nick a business card. "This is my address, and on the back there's a small map of the area. It's to make it a little easier to get there. Should I ask my men to take you back to town?"
  
  "No, that's not necessary. I'll take the bus at the end of the street. That looks like fun too. Besides, those people of yours... they seem a little uncomfortable with my company."
  
  Nick shook his hand and climbed out. He smiled and waved at Van Rijn, who nodded amiably and turned away from the sidewalk. Smiling, Nick also waved to the men in the Mercedes behind him. But they ignored him completely, like the old-fashioned British gentry of a farmer who had recently decided to close his fields to hunting.
  
  As Nick entered the hotel, he inhaled the smell of steak from the large restaurant. He glanced at his watch. He was supposed to pick up Helmi in forty minutes. He was also hungry. This immense hunger was understandable. In this country, without a full stomach, you're unlikely to resist all the wonderful smells that ensnare you all day long. But he pulled himself together and walked past the restaurant. In the elevator, a voice behind him stopped him. "Mr. Kent-" He turned quickly and recognized the policeman to whom he had filed his report after the attack by the three men.
  
  'Yes?'
  
  Nick had felt a liking for this police detective the first time he met him. He didn't think he was going to change his mind right away. The man's friendly, open, "Dutch" face was impossible to read. A steely intransigence shone through, but perhaps it was all just for show.
  
  "Mr. Kent, do you have a moment for me over a beer?"
  
  'Okay. But no more than one, I have a meeting.' They entered the old, rich-smelling bar and the detective ordered a beer.
  
  "When a cop pays for a drink, he wants something in return," Nick said with a grin that was meant to soften the words. "What do you want to know?"
  
  In response to his grin, the detective smiled too.
  
  "I imagine, Mr. Kent, that you tell me exactly as much as you want to say."
  
  Nick missed his grin. 'Really?'
  
  Don't be angry. In a city like this, we have our fair share of problems. For centuries, this country has been a kind of crossroads for the world. We're always of interest to everyone, unless small events here are part of a bigger picture. Maybe it's all a bit rougher in America, but it's much simpler there, too. You still have an ocean separating most of the world. Here, we're always worried about every little thing.
  
  Nick tried the beer. Excellent. "Maybe you're right."
  
  "Take this attack on you, for example. Of course, it would be much easier for them to simply break into your room. Or wait for you to walk down a remote street. What if they want something from you, something you're carrying with you?
  
  I'm glad your police are so careful about the difference between robbery and burglary.
  
  "Not everyone knows there is a real difference, Mr. Kent.
  
  "Just lawyers and police officers. Are you a lawyer? I'm not a lawyer.
  
  "Ah." There was a slight interest in this. "Of course not. You're the diamond buyer." He pulled out a small photograph and showed it to Nick. "I wonder if this is by any chance one of the people who attacked you."
  
  This is an archive photo of the "fat guy" with indirect lighting that made him look like a tense wrestler.
  
  "Well," said Nick, "it could very well be him. But I'm not sure. It all happened so quickly.
  
  The detective put the photograph down. "Would you tell me now-informally, as journalists say-if he was one of them?"
  
  Nick ordered two more beers and checked his watch. He was supposed to pick up Helmi, but it was too important to go upstairs.
  
  "You spend quite a lot of time on this regular routine job at the hotel," he said. "You must be a very busy man."
  
  "We're just as busy as everyone else. But like I said, sometimes the little details fit into the big picture. We have to keep trying, and sometimes a piece of the puzzle falls into place. If you answered my question now, maybe I could tell you something that might interest you.
  
  "Unofficially?"
  
  "Unofficially."
  
  Nick looked at the man intently. He followed his intuition. "Yes, it was one of them."
  
  "I thought so. He works for Philip van der Laan. Three of them are hiding in his country house. Pretty beaten up.
  
  "Do you have a man there?"
  
  "I can't answer that question, even informally."
  
  'I understand.'
  
  "Do you want to make accusations against them?"
  
  'Not yet. What are Yenisei diamonds?
  
  Ah. Many people in this field could tell you what this is. Although it's not documented, you can believe it or not. A few months ago, three brilliant diamonds were found in gold mines along the Yenisei River-that is, somewhere in Siberia. It was the most amazing find ever made. They are believed to weigh almost one and a half pounds each and are valued at 3,100 carats. Do you realize their value?
  
  "It's simply a miracle. It depends only on the quality.
  
  "They are believed to be the largest in the world and were called the 'Yenisei Cullinans,' after the Cullinan diamond. It was found in 1905 in the Transvaal and cut here in 1908. Two of the first four large stones are possibly still the largest, most flawless diamond in the world. They say the Russians hired a Dutch diamond expert to determine its value. Their security was too lax. He, along with the diamonds, disappeared. People still think they are in Amsterdam.
  
  Nick blew a short, almost inaudible whistle.
  
  "This is truly the theft of the century. Do you have any idea where this person might be?
  
  "It's a big difficulty. During World War II, a number of Dutchmen-I'm very embarrassed to say this-did some very lucrative work for the Germans. They usually did it for money, although there were some who did it for idealistic purposes. Of course, records of this were destroyed or falsified. It's almost impossible to trace, especially those who went to Russia or who may have been captured by the Russians. We have more than twenty suspects, but we only have photographs or descriptions of half of them.
  
  Is Van der Laan one of them?
  
  'Oh no. He's too young for that. Mr. van der Laan is a big businessman. His business has become quite complicated in recent years.
  
  "At least complex enough to take a picture of these diamonds? Or somehow bring them to Amsterdam?
  
  The detective carefully avoided this ambush. "Since the owner of the stones is quite secretive, there are quite a few companies gambling on this price."
  
  "What about international complications? What would this find mean, what does it mean for the price of the diamond?
  
  "Of course, we work with the Russians. But once the stones are split, identification is unlikely. They may have been split too quickly and too carelessly, but they will always be of interest for jewelry. These stones themselves pose no great threat to the diamond world, and, as far as we know, the Yenisei mines are not a new field. If they weren't, the diamond market would be in chaos. Certainly, for a short period of time.
  
  "I understand that I must be very careful."
  
  Mr. Kent, don't lie, but I don't believe you're a diamond buyer. Would you mind telling me who you really are? If I could come to an agreement with you, maybe we could help each other.
  
  "I hope I can help you as much as I can," Nick said. "I'd like your cooperation, too. But my name is Norman Kent, and I'm a diamond buyer for the Bard Galleries in New York. You can call Bill Rhodes, the owner and director of the Bard. I'll pay for the call.
  
  The detective sighed. Nick lamented his inability to work with this man.
  
  But tactically, it would have made little sense to abandon his cover. Perhaps the detective knew more about Whitlock's death than the police reports indicated. Nick also wanted to ask him if Pieter-Jan van Rijn, Paul Meyer, and his assistants had sniper training. But he couldn't. He finished his beer. "I have to work now. I'm already late."
  
  "Could you please postpone this meeting?"
  
  "I wouldn't want that."
  
  "Please wait, you need to meet someone."
  
  For the first time since Nick had known him, the detective showed his teeth.
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  The man who came to them was Jaap Ballegøyer. "A representative of our government," the detective said with a certain respect in his voice. Nick knew he wasn't playing around. His demeanor and tone were those of reverent servility, especially reserved for high-ranking officials.
  
  There was a well-dressed man-wearing a hat, gloves, and a cane, the latter apparently due to his limp. His face was almost impassive, and this was forgivable, as Nick realized it was the result of plastic surgery. One eye was made of glass. At some point in the past, the man had been horribly burned or injured. His mouth and lips didn't work very well, though his English sounded correct, as he tried to form his words with slow precision.
  
  Mr. Kent. I'd like you to stay with me for a moment. It'll only take half an hour, and it's extremely important.
  
  "Can't this wait until tomorrow? I made a date.
  
  'Please. You will benefit from this meeting...
  
  "With whom?"
  
  'You'll notice. A very important person.
  
  "Please, Mr. Kent," added the detective.
  
  Nick shrugged. "If you just wait until I call her."
  
  Ballegoyer nodded, his face still. Maybe the man couldn't even smile, Nick thought. "Of course," the man said.
  
  Nick called Helmi and told her that he would be late.
  
  "... I'm sorry, my dear, but there seem to be a lot of people here who want to meet Norman Kent."
  
  "Norman," the concern in her voice was real. "Please be careful."
  
  "Don't be afraid. There's nothing to fear in this God-fearing Amsterdam, my dear.
  
  The detective left them alone with the Bentley's chauffeur. Ballegoyer remained silent as they sped down Linnaeusstraat and, ten minutes later, pulled up in front of a gigantic warehouse. Nick saw the Shell logo as the door lifted, then slid down behind the car a moment later.
  
  The interior of the well-lit building was so large that the Bentley could make a wide turn and then stop next to an even larger, shinier limousine in the parking lot somewhere in the middle. Nick spotted piles of cardboard, a forklift neatly parked behind it, and across the street a smaller car with a man standing next to it. He held a rifle or a submachine gun. From this distance, Nick couldn't tell for sure. He tried to conceal it as inconspicuously as possible behind his body. Between the stacked boxes on the forklift, Nick spotted a second man. The others stood by the door, looking very alert.
  
  With a quick movement of his left hand, he adjusted Wilhelmina in her holster. He was starting to feel unsure. Ballegoyer said, "If you take a seat in the back of the other car, you'll meet the man I was talking about."
  
  Nick remained motionless for a moment. He saw the empty flag holders on the limo's shiny black fenders. He asked quietly, "Tell me, what is the man doing in this car? Does he have the right to place those flags in those holders?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  Mr. Ballegoyer, once I get out of this car, I'll be a very vulnerable target for a while. Would you be so kind as to step out in front of me?
  
  'Certainly.'
  
  He stayed close behind Ballegoy as he opened the limo door and said,
  
  "Mr Norman Kent.
  
  Nick darted into the limo and Ballegoyer closed the door behind him. There was a woman in the back of the car. But it was only the scent of her perfume that convinced Nick he was dealing with a woman. She was so wrapped in furs and veils that you couldn't see her. When she began to speak, he felt a little better. It was a woman's voice. She spoke English with a strong Dutch accent.
  
  "Mr. Kent, thank you for coming. I know this is all quite unusual, but these are unusual times.
  
  'Really.'
  
  "Please don't be alarmed. This is a practical business matter - this meeting, I really must say this.
  
  "I was in shock until I met you," Nick lied. "But now I feel a little better."
  
  'Thank you. We understand that you came to Amsterdam to buy something. We want to help you.'
  
  "Everyone seems to want to help me here. You have a very hospitable city.
  
  "That's how we think about it too. But you can't trust everyone.
  
  'I know that. I made the purchase. It's still an experiment.
  
  "Was this a big deal?"
  
  'Oh no. Well, a few thousand dollars' worth of diamonds. From a certain Mr. Philip van der Laan.
  
  'Is it true that Mr. Van der Laan also offers you particularly large stones?
  
  "Do you mean Yenisei diamonds?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "Since it's stolen, I don't think I can say I spoke about it."
  
  A sharp, irritated cry came from behind the thick black veil. This was not the woman to anger. There was something more sinister than that sound...
  
  He chose his words carefully. "Then would you consider my position? I won't tell anyone that we discussed those diamonds, it would be impolite, to say the least. Let me say this: I have been approached by several people who hint that if I am interested in these diamonds, they could be sold to me.
  
  He heard something like a growl. "Beware of such offers. They are deceiving you. It"s as the English say: cheating."
  
  "Maybe I don't even want to buy them."
  
  "Mr. Kent, we have a small community here. The purpose of your visit is perfectly clear to me. I am trying to help you.
  
  "Or maybe sell the diamonds?"
  
  'Of course. We saw that you could be deceived. I decided to warn you. In a few days, Mr. Ballegoyer will arrange a meeting with you to show them to you.
  
  "Can I see them now?" Nick asked with a friendly tone, coupled with an innocent smile.
  
  "I think you know that's not possible. Mr. Ballegoyer will call you. At the same time, there's no point in throwing money away aimlessly.
  
  'Thank you.'
  
  Apparently the negotiations were over. "Well, thanks for the warning," Nick said. "I more or less see new opportunities for the diamond business."
  
  We know that. It's often more effective to send a smart man who isn't an expert than an expert who isn't so smart. Goodbye, Mr. Kent.
  
  Nick exited the limo and returned to his seat next to Ballegooyer. The woman's car glided silently toward the metal door, which lifted, and the car disappeared into the spring gloom. The license plate was blacked out. The door remained open, but Ballegooyer's driver didn't start the car. "I'm late," Nick said.
  
  "So straight, Mr. Kent. A cigarette?"
  
  'Thanks.' Nick lit a cigarette. They gave the limo time to pull away, perhaps to stop and uncover the license plates. He wondered if they would put the flags in the holders. 'Important lady.'
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "What will we call her if you call me?"
  
  "Take any name or code you want."
  
  "Madame J?"
  
  'Fine.'
  
  Nick wondered where Ballegoyer had gotten all those wounds. He was a man who could have been anything from a fighter pilot to an infantry soldier. "A decent man" was too simple a description of him. It wasn't so hard to conclude that this man would do his duty under any circumstances. Like the British officers Patton so admired when they said, "If it's duty, we'll attack anyone with a single whip."
  
  Fifteen minutes later, the Bentley pulled up in front of the Die Port van Cleve Hotel. Ballegoyer said, "I'll call you. Thank you for agreeing to meet, Mr. Kent."
  
  Nick saw a man approaching the foyer and turned, wary. Hundreds of people can pass you by without you even noticing, but when your senses are razor-sharp, and your eyes are always alert or barely relaxed, a person seems familiar the moment you see them. Some of us, Hawk once said, have built-in radar, like bats.
  
  The man was ordinary. He was quite old, well-dressed but not tastefully, with a gray mustache and a stiff gait, probably from arthritis or simply a joint problem. He was uninteresting-because he wanted to be. He wore metal glasses with slightly tinted lenses.
  
  The glass prevented Nick from immediately recognizing the man. Then the man said, "Good evening, Mr. Kent. Shouldn't we go for a walk? It would be beautiful to stroll along the canals.
  
  Nick chuckled. It was David Hawk. "My pleasure," he said. He meant it. It was a relief to discuss the events of the last two days, and although he sometimes feigned dissatisfaction, he always took Hawk's advice into account.
  
  The old man was merciless when his duties called for it, but if you could discern it in his appearance, you saw a face filled with pity-a face strangely sympathetic. He had a fantastic memory, and it was one of those people, Nick wanted to admit, that Hawk's was better than his. He was also excellent at analyzing facts until his sharp mind found the point where they fit together. He was cautious, with a judge's innate habit of looking at a situation from three sides at once, and from the inside as well, but unlike many detail-oriented experts, he could make decisions in a split second and stick to them for a long time if they proved valid.
  
  They walked through Nieuwendijk, chatting about the city, until they came to a spot where the spring wind would have ruined any chance of listening in with a long-range microphone. There, Hawk said, "I hope I won't ruin your plans for today; I won't keep you too long. I have to leave for London today."
  
  "I have an appointment with Helmi, but she knows I'll be late."
  
  "Ah, dear Helmi. So you're making progress. Are you happy that our rules are no different from Hoover's?
  
  "It might have taken a little longer if they'd been followed." Nick recounted the events surrounding his encounters with Van der Laan, Van Rijn, and the veiled woman in the limo. He noted every detail except the juicy moments with Helmi. They had nothing to do with this.
  
  "I was going to tell you about the Yenisei diamonds," Hawkeye said when Nick finished his story. "The NSA has had this intel for a week, but we just got it. Goliath moves slowly." His tone was bitter. "They're fussing over you because there are rumors you've come here to buy these diamonds. The Veiled Woman-if she is who we think she is-is one of the richest women in the world. For some obvious reason, she's decided these diamonds should be sold through her. Van der Laan and Van Rijn, for different reasons, are thinking about it too. Probably because the thief promised them. They're letting you be the buyer."
  
  "It's become a useful cover," Nick commented. "Until they figure out a deal and it all comes out." The key question is: who do they really have? Is this connected to the leaks about our spies and Whitlock's death?
  
  'Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Let's just say Manson became a spy conduit because of the constant flow of couriers between the various diamond centers. The Yenisei diamonds were brought to Amsterdam because they could be sold there and because Manson's spy network was organized from there. Because the thief knows it.' Hawk gestured toward the cluster of illuminated flowers, as if they were suggesting this. He held his cane like a sword, Nick thought.
  
  "Maybe they were just invented to help us with this counterintelligence problem. According to our information, Herb Whitlock knew van der Laan, but he never met van Rijn, and he knew nothing about the Yenisei diamonds.
  
  "There was hardly any possibility that Whitlock had heard of them. If he had, he would not have made any connection. If he had lived a little longer, he might have done so.
  
  Hawk jabbed his cane into the pavement with a short, stabbing motion. "We'll find out. Maybe some of the information we have is being kept from local detectives. This Dutch defector called himself a German in the Soviet Union, under the name Hans Geyser. Small, thin, about fifty-five years old. Light brown hair, and he had a blond beard in Siberia.
  
  "Perhaps the Russians did not pass this description on to the Dutch?"
  
  'Perhaps. Maybe his diamond theft isn't related to where this Geyser has been since 1945, or the detective is keeping it from you, which would make sense.'
  
  "I'll keep an eye on this Geyser."
  
  "He could be thin, short, dark, and beardless. For someone like him, these could be predictable changes. That's all we know about this Geyser. A diamond expert. Nothing is certain at all.
  
  Nick thought, "None of the people I"ve encountered so far are like him. Not even those who attacked me.
  
  "A poorly organized attack. I believe the only real attempt was to shoot Helmi at the airport. Probably by Van der Laan's men. The attempt on Helmi's life occurred because she discovered she was a spy courier and because they thought you might be a CIA or FBI agent.
  
  "Perhaps they have now changed their minds about eliminating it?"
  
  'Yes. Misjudgment. The bane of all Danish mafiosi. We know what data was left on Helmi in New York. It's about "Manson's" property. It was shown here. The assassination attempt failed. Then she delivered the briefcase in good condition. She's acting normally. You turned out to be a diamond buyer whom they checked and confirmed had plenty of dollars to spend. Well, they might conclude that you don't fit the role of a typical diamond buyer. Of course not, because you're looking for Yenisei diamonds. Perhaps there are suspicions, but there's no reason to fear you. Another misjudgment.
  
  Nick recalled Helmi's nervousness. "I'm overtired," seemed like a very weak excuse. Helmi was probably trying to piece together information without knowing the essence.
  
  "She was very nervous on the plane," Nick said. "She held her suitcase as if it were chained to her wrist. Both she and Van der Laan seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she handed the suitcase to him. Maybe they had other reasons, too.
  
  'Interesting. We don't know for sure, but we have to assume that Van der Laan doesn't know that she's found out what's going on at Manson's firm. I'll leave that aspect of the question to you.
  
  They strolled, and the streetlights came on. It was a typical spring evening in Amsterdam. Not cold, not hot, humid, but pleasant. Hawk carefully recounted various events, probing Nicky's opinion with subtle questions. Finally, the old man headed toward Hendrikkade Street, and Nick realized the official business was over. "Let's have a beer, Nicholas," Hawk said. "To your success."
  
  They entered the bar. The architecture was ancient, the decor beautiful. It looked like the place where Henry Hudson drank his last glass before setting sail on De Halve Maen to explore the Indian island of Manhattan. Nick told the story before downing a glass of foamy beer.
  
  "Yes," Hawk admitted sadly. "They were called explorers. But never forget that most of them were out to get their own money. Two words will answer most of the questions about those people, and about people like Van der Laan, Van Rijn, and that woman behind the veil. If you can't solve the problem yourself, let them try."
  
  Nick drank his beer and waited. Sometimes Hawk can drive you crazy. He inhaled the aroma from the large glass. 'Hmm. It's beer. Still water with alcohol and a few extra flavors.'
  
  "What are these two words?" Nick asked.
  
  Hawk slowly drank his glass, then set it down in front of him with a sigh. Then he picked up his cane.
  
  'Who will win?' he muttered.
  
  Nick apologized again as he relaxed in her Vauxhall. Helmi was a good driver. There were few women he could sit next to in a car, unfazed, unfazed by the ride. But Helmi drove confidently. "Business, dear. It's like an illness. How about a Five Flies to make up for my lateness?"
  
  "Five Flies?" she laughed suffocatingly. "You've read too much about Europe on $5 a day. That's for tourists."
  
  "Then find another place. Surprise me."
  
  'Fine.'
  
  She was glad he'd asked. They ate at Zwarte Schaep, by candlelight, on the third floor of a picturesque seventeenth-century building. The railings were made of twisted rope; copper pots adorned the burnt walls. At any moment, you expected to see Rembrandt strolling by with a long pipe, his hand caressing his girlfriend's plump backside. The drink was perfect, the food fantastic, the atmosphere a perfect reminder that time shouldn't be wasted.
  
  Over coffee and cognac, Nick said, "Thank you very much for bringing me here. Against this backdrop, you reminded me that birth and death are important events, and everything that happens in between is a game.
  
  "Yes, this place seems timeless." She placed her hands on his. "It's nice to be with you, Norman. I feel safe, even after everything that happened.
  
  I was at the top of my life. My family was nice and warm in its own way, but I never felt very close to them. Maybe that's why I felt such warm feelings for Holland and "Manson" and Phil...
  
  She suddenly fell silent, and Nick thought she was about to cry. "It's nice to nudge this woman in a certain direction, but be careful when you arrive at crossroads and forks. She's navigating a gamble." He frowned. You had to admit, some of that gamble was good. He stroked her shiny nails. "Have you checked the records on these diamonds?"
  
  "Yes." She told him about the Transvaal Cullinan. Phil said there were diamonds they called Yenisei Cullinans. They would probably be put up for sale.
  
  'That's right. You can find out more about that. The story goes that they were stolen in the Soviet Union and disappeared in Amsterdam.
  
  "Is it true that you are actually looking for them?"
  
  Nick sighed. This was her way of explaining all the mysteries surrounding "Norman Kent."
  
  "No dear, I don't think I'm interested in trading stolen goods. But I want to see when they're offered.
  
  Those sweet blue eyes were squeezed shut with a hint of fear and uncertainty.
  
  "You're confusing me, Norman. One minute I think you're a businessman, smart as can be, then I wonder if you could be an insurance inspector, or maybe someone from Interpol. If so, dear, tell me the truth.
  
  "Frankly and truly, my dear, no." She was a weak investigator.
  
  She should have just asked him if he worked for some secret service.
  
  "Will they really learn anything new about the people who attacked you in your room?"
  
  'No.'
  
  She thought of Paul Meyer. He was a man who frightened her. Why would Phil have anything in common with someone like him? A tingle of fear ran down her spine and settled somewhere between her shoulder blades. The bullet at Schiphol-Meyer's work? An assassination attempt on her? Perhaps on Phil's orders? Oh no. Not Phil. Not "Manson." But what about Kelly's microtapes? If she hadn't discovered them, she might have simply asked Phil, but now her little world, to which she had become so attached, was shaking to its foundations. And she didn't know where to go.
  
  "I never thought about how many criminals there are in Amsterdam, Norman. But I'll be happy when I get back to New York, even if I'm afraid to walk down the street near my apartment at night. We've had three attacks in less than two blocks.
  
  He sensed her discomfort and felt sorry for her. The status quo is harder for women to create than for men. She cherished him like a treasure, she clung to him. She anchored herself to him, like a sea creature tentatively testing a coral reef when it feels the wind blow. When she asked, "Is this true?" she meant, "You won't betray me too?" Nick knew that if their relationship changed. Surely he could use enough leverage at some point to force her to go the way he wanted. He wanted the power, or some of her anchors, to be transferred from van der Laan and "Manson" to him. She would doubt them, and then ask him-
  
  "Honey, can I really trust Phil to do something that will ruin me if he's cheating on me?" and then wait for his answer.
  
  Nick drove back. They drove along Stadhouderskade and she sat next to him. "I'm feeling jealous today," Nick said.
  
  'Why?'
  
  "I was thinking about you with Phil. I know he admires you, and I saw him looking at you a certain way. That's a nice big sofa he has in his office.
  
  I'm starting to see things. Even if you don't want me to - the big boss and the like.
  
  "Oh, Norman." She rubbed the inside of her knee, and he was amazed at the warmth she could produce in him. "That's not true. We never had sex there-not in the office. Like I told you, it was only a few times when we were out. You're not so old-fashioned as to be crazy about that?"
  
  'No. But you are beautiful enough to seduce even a bronze statue.
  
  Darling, if this is what you want, we must not deceive each other.
  
  He put his arm around her. "It's not such a bad idea. I have such a warm feeling for you, Helmi. From the moment we met. And then, last night, it was so amazing. It's unreal, such strong emotions. It's like you've become a part of me.
  
  "That's how I feel, Norman," she whispered. "I usually don't care if I'm dating a guy or not. When you called me to tell me you'd be late, I felt this emptiness inside. I tried to read something, but I couldn't. I had to move. I had to do something. You know what I did? I washed a ton of dishes.
  
  You would have been very surprised if you had seen me then. Dressed for lunch, with a large apron on and rubber gloves. So as not to think. Fearing that you might not come at all.
  
  "I think I understand you." He stifled a yawn. "Time to go to bed..."
  
  When she was in the bathroom and turning on the water, he made a quick phone call. A woman's voice with a very slight accent answered. "Hello, Mata," he said. "I can't talk too long. There are some other details of the Salameh paintings that I'd like to discuss with you. I was supposed to give you greetings from Hans Noorderbos. Will you be home at half past nine tomorrow morning?"
  
  He heard a muffled groan. There was silence. Then yes.'
  
  "Can you help me a little during the day? I need a guide. It would be beneficial.
  
  "Yes." He admired her quick response and her terseness. The water in the bathroom was turned off. He said, "Okay, John. Goodbye."
  
  Helmi emerged from the bathroom with her clothes over her arm. She hung them neatly on a chair. "Would you like something to drink before you go to bed?"
  
  'Great idea.'
  
  Nick held his breath. It was like that every time he saw that beautiful body. In the soft light, she glowed like a model. Her skin wasn't as dark as his, and he wasn't wearing any clothes. She handed him a glass and smiled, a smile that was new, shy, and warm.
  
  He kissed her.
  
  She slowly walked to the bed and placed the glass on the nightstand. Nick looked at her approvingly. She sat down on the white sheets and pulled her knees up to her chin. "Norman, we have to be careful. I know you're smart and know a lot about diamonds, but there's always a chance you might get the wrong one. A smart way to place a small order is to test it out before committing to anything bigger."
  
  Nick lay down on the bed next to her. "You're right, honey. I've already thought about it myself, I'd like to do it that way. She's started helping me, he thought. She warned him against Van der Laan and "Manson" without saying it in too many words. She kissed his earlobe, like a bride inviting a newlywed to enjoy her lovemaking skills. He took a deep breath and looked out the windows at the night. It wouldn't be such a bad idea to make these curtains, he thought.
  
  He stroked her golden blonde locks. She smiled and said, "Isn't it nice?"
  
  'Amazing.'
  
  "I mean, to be here quietly all night and not rush anywhere. We'll have all this time to ourselves.
  
  "And you know how to use it."
  
  Her smile was seductive. "No more than you. I mean, if you weren't here, it would be different. But time isn't that important. It's a human invention. Time only matters if you know how to fill it." He stroked her gently. She was a real philosopher, he thought. He let his lips slide over her body. "I'll give you something nice to remember this time, darling," he growled.
  
  Stroking her neck with her fingers, she said: "And I will help you."
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  The black plaque on the apartment door read: Paul Eduard Meyer. If Helmy, Van der Laan, or anyone who knew Meyer's income and tastes had visited, they would have been surprised. Van der Laan would even have launched an investigation.
  
  An apartment on the third floor of one of the old buildings overlooking Naarderweg. A solid, historic building, meticulously maintained in typical Dutch style. Many years ago, a building materials dealer with three children managed to rent the small apartment next door.
  
  He knocked down walls and merged two suites. Even with good relations, all the permits would have taken at least seven months; in the Netherlands, all such transactions go through various channels that resemble mud pools in which you drown. But by the time he was finished, this apartment had no fewer than eight rooms and a long balcony. Three years ago, he had sold his last lumber yard, along with his other properties, and moved to South Africa. The man who came to rent it, paying cash, was Paul Eduard Meyer. He had been a quiet tenant and gradually became a businessman, receiving many visitors. The visits weren't meant for women, in this case, although now one was coming down the stairs. But all the visitors were respectable people, like Meyer. Especially now, when he was a prosperous man.
  
  Meyer's prosperity was linked to the people who came to visit him, particularly Nicholas G. de Groot, who left five years ago, ordering him to look after a beautiful, large apartment, and then disappeared immediately afterward. Paul had recently learned that de Groot was a diamond expert for the Russians. That was all de Groot wanted to tell him about it. But it was enough. When de Groot suddenly appeared in that enormous apartment, he knew, "You stole them"-that was all he had to say.
  
  "I got them. And you'll get your share. Keep Van der Laan in the dark and don't say anything.
  
  De Groot contacted van der Laan and other interested parties via poste restante. The Yenisei diamonds were hidden somewhere in an inconspicuous package in De Groot's luggage. Paul tried to get to them three times, but he wasn't too disappointed when he couldn't find them. It's always better to let someone else try to open a package of explosives than to secure your share.
  
  That fine morning, De Groot drank coffee and devoured a hearty breakfast. He enjoyed the view from the balcony as he glanced through the mail Harry Hazebroek had delivered. Long ago, when his name was Hans Geyser, De Groot had been a short, blond man. Now, as Hawk had guessed, he was a short, dark-haired man. Hans Geyser was a methodical man. He camouflaged himself well, right down to his skin tone and dark nail polish. Unlike many small men, De Groot was unhurried and unassuming. He plodded through life slowly, an uninteresting and unremarkable man who likely feared being recognized. He chose an inconspicuous role and mastered it perfectly.
  
  Harry Hazebroek was about the same age as De Groot. Around fifty, and of roughly the same height and build. He, too, was a reverent admirer of the Führer, who had once promised Germany so much. Perhaps because he needed a father figure, or because he was seeking an outlet for his dreams. De Groot now also knew he had been mistaken at the time. He had spared so much in the resources he had used, and then there had been a complete lack of success in the long run. Hazebroek was like that himself, and he was absolutely loyal to De Groot.
  
  When De Groot told him about the Yenisei diamonds, Hazebroek smiled and said, "I knew you'd make it someday. Will it be a big score?
  
  "Yes, it will be a huge amount of money. Yes, it will be enough for each of us."
  
  Hazebroek was the only one in the world for whom De Groot could have any feelings other than himself.
  
  He carefully looked through the letters. "Harry, the fish are biting. Van Rijn wants a meeting on Friday. Van der Laan on Saturday.
  
  "In your house?"
  
  'Yes, in the provinces.
  
  'This is dangerous.'
  
  'Yes. But it is necessary.
  
  "How will we get there?"
  
  "We'll have to be there. But we'll have to be careful and armed. Paul will provide us with information about Van der Laan. Philip sometimes uses him in my place. Then he passes the information on to me." They both grinned. "But Van Rijn might be a different story. What do you think of him?"
  
  "I was surprised when he offered to buy them from me."
  
  "Very well, Harry... But still..."
  
  De Groot poured himself another cup of coffee. His expression was thoughtful. "Three competitors are wrong-they'll get in each other's way," Hazebroek said.
  
  'Of course. They are the greatest diamond connoisseurs in the world. But why haven't they shown more interest? "Too dangerous," they said. You need a reputable buyer to sell to. Like your own diamond dealer. But still, they trade large quantities of stolen diamonds all over the world. They need the rough.
  
  "We must be careful."
  
  "Of course, Harry. Do you have any fake diamonds?
  
  "They are kept in a secret location. The car is also locked.
  
  "Are there weapons there too?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "Come to me at one o'clock. Then we'll go there. Two old men will visit the crocodiles.
  
  "We need dark glasses for camouflage," Hazebroek said seriously.
  
  De Groot laughed. Harry was dumb compared to him. It was a long time ago, when he'd left for Germany... But he could trust Harry, a reliable soldier from whom you shouldn't expect too much. Harry never asked about the special work De Groot did with Van der Laan, but there was no point in telling him about courier services to Moscow or anyone else. De Groot was engaged in trade-that's what Van der Laan called the transport of information-in their relationship. It was a profitable business, sometimes less so, but ultimately, it was a good income. It was too risky now if you continued it for too long.
  
  Would it have been easy for Van der Laan to find another courier? If he had gone straight for it, the Russians might have found a competitor for him. But what was important to him was De Groot.
  
  He had to get rid of those Yenisei diamonds while the crocodiles fought among themselves for them. De Groot's hard, thin, colorless lips tightened. Let these beasts sort it out among themselves.
  
  After Helmi left, joyful and happy, as if spending time with Nick had relieved her worries, Nick was ready for the trip out of town. He made meticulous preparations, checking his specialized equipment.
  
  He quickly assembled a pistol from the typewriter parts that weren't working. He reassembled the typewriter and then hid it in his suitcase. A genius for special resources, Stuart was proud of this invention. Nick was a little worried about the extra weight of luggage when traveling. After he assembled the pistol he needed, Nick examined the three chocolate bars and the comb, which were made of molded plastic. They contained caps, some medicine bottles, and prescriptions... His luggage also contained an exceptionally large number of ballpoint pens, divided into groups of six different colors... Some were picric acid for detonators, with a ten-minute ignition time. Others were explosives, and the blue ones were fragmentation grenades. When he was ready to leave-leaving only a few belongings in his room-he called van Rijn and van der Laan to confirm appointments with them. Then he called Helmi and sensed her disappointment when he said, "Darling, I won't be able to see you today. Are you going to see Van der Laan for the weekend?
  
  "I was waiting for you to say this. But I always welcome..."
  
  "I'll probably be very busy for a while. But let's meet on Saturday.
  
  "Okay." She spoke slowly and nervously. He knew she was wondering where he would be and what he would do, guessing and worrying. For a moment, he felt sorry for her...
  
  She entered the game voluntarily, and she knew its rough rules.
  
  In his rented Peugeot, he found the address in a guidebook using a detailed map of Amsterdam and the surrounding area. He bought a bouquet of flowers from a flower cart, marveled again at the Dutch landscape, and headed home.
  
  Mata opened the door just as he rang the bell. "My dear," she said, and they almost crushed the flowers between her luscious body and his. Kisses and caresses. It took a long time, but finally she put the flowers in a vase and wiped her eyes. "Well, at last we meet again," Nick said. "You mustn't cry."
  
  "It was so long ago. I was so lonely. You remind me of Jakarta.
  
  "With joy I hope?"
  
  'Of course. I know you did what you had to do then.
  
  "I'm here for exactly the same task. My name is Norman Kent. The man who was here before me was Herbert Whitlock. Never heard of him?
  
  'Yes.' Mata walked slowly toward her small home bar. 'He drank too much here, but now I feel like I need it too. Coffee with Vieux?'
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "A certain Dutch cognac.
  
  "Well, I would love to."
  
  She brought the drink and sat down next to him on the wide, flowered couch. "Well, Norman Kent. I never associated you with Herbert Whitlock, although I'm beginning to understand why he took so many jobs and did so much business. I might have guessed.
  
  'Maybe not. We come in all shapes and sizes. Look...'
  
  He interrupted her with a short, deep laugh. He winced... Look. He took a map from his pocket and showed her the area around Volkel. "You know these areas?"
  
  'Yes. Wait a second. I have a topographic map.
  
  She went into another room, and Nick explored the apartment. Four spacious rooms. Very expensive. But Mata stood up well, or, to make a bad joke, lay down on her back. In Indonesia, Mata had been a secret agent until she was expelled from the country. This was the agreement; otherwise, they could have been much stricter.
  
  Mata returned and unfolded the map in front of him. 'This is the Volkel area.
  
  "I have an address. It belongs to Pieter-Jan van Rijn's country house. Can you find it?
  
  They looked at the intricate lines and shading.
  
  "This must be his estate. There are many fields and forests. In this country they are quite rare and very expensive.
  
  "I want you to be able to stay with me during the day. Is that possible?
  
  She turned to face him. She wore a simple dress that vaguely resembled an oriental wrapping. It was worn over a full body and showed off the curves of her breasts. Mata was small and dark, the complete opposite of Helmi. Her laugh was quick. She had a sense of humor. In some ways, she was smarter than Helmi. She had experienced much more, and been through much more difficult times than those she now found herself in. She bore no grudges about her life. It was good as it was - but funny. Her dark eyes looked at him mockingly, and her red lips twisted into a merry grimace. She placed both hands on her hips. "I knew you would come back, dear. What kept you so long?"
  
  After two more encounters and a few warm hugs from the good old days, they left. It took her no more than four minutes to prepare for the journey. He wondered if she still disappeared so quickly through the back wall when the wrong person showed up at her front door.
  
  As they were leaving, Nick said, "I think it's about a hundred and fifty miles. Do you know the way?
  
  'Yes. We're turning onto Den Bosch. After that, I can ask for directions at the police station or the post office. You're still on the side of justice, aren't you?' She curled her warm lips into a teasing fold. 'I love you, Nick. It's good to see you again. But oh well, we'll find a café to ask for directions.'
  
  Nick looked around. This girl had a habit of irritating him ever since he'd met her. He hid his pleasure and said, "Van Rijn is a respected citizen. We must look like polite guests. Try again later at the post office. I have an appointment with him this evening. But I want to thoroughly explore this place. What do you know about it?"
  
  'Not much. I once worked in the advertising department of his company and met him at parties two or three times.'
  
  "Don't you know him?"
  
  'What do you mean?'
  
  "Well, I met him and saw him. Do you know him personally?
  
  'No. I told you that. At least I didn't touch him, if that's what you mean.
  
  Nick grinned.
  
  "But," Mata continued, "with all the big trading companies, it quickly becomes clear that Amsterdam is really nothing more than a village. A big village, but a village nonetheless. All these people..."
  
  - How is Van Rijn?
  
  "No, no," I thought for a moment. "No. Not him. But Amsterdam is so small. He's a great man in business. Good relationships. I mean, if he had anything to do with the criminal underworld, like those people in... like the ones we knew in Jakarta, I think I would have known about it."
  
  In other words, he is not engaged in espionage.
  
  No. I don't think he's any more righteous than any other speculator, but - how do you say this? - his hands are clean."
  
  'Okay. What about van der Laan and "Manson"?
  
  'Ah. I don't know them. I've heard about it. He's really into some shady stuff.'
  
  They rode for a while without saying anything. "And you, Mata," Nick asked, "how are your dark deeds going?"
  
  She didn't answer. He glanced at her. Her sharp Eurasian profile stood out against the green pastures.
  
  "You're more beautiful than ever, Mata," he said. "How are things financially and in bed?"
  
  Darling... Is that why you left me in Singapore? Because I'm beautiful?
  
  "That's the price I had to pay for it. You know my work. Can I take you back to Amsterdam?
  
  She sighed. "No, darling, I'm glad to see you again. Only I can't laugh as much as we do now for several hours. I'm working. They know me all over Europe. They know me very well. I'm fine."
  
  "Great because of this apartment."
  
  "She's costing me a fortune. But I need something decent. Love? Nothing special. Good friends, good people. I can't stand this anymore." She leaned against him and added softly, "Ever since I've known you..."
  
  Nick hugged her, feeling a little uncomfortable.
  
  Shortly after a delicious lunch at a small tavern on the side of the road outside Den Bosch, Mata pointed ahead. "There's that side road from the map. If there are no other smaller roads, we should take this one to reach Van Rijn's estate. He must come from an old family to own so many hectares of land in the Netherlands."
  
  "A tall barbed wire fence emerged from the manicured woods and formed a right angle to run parallel to the road. 'Maybe that's his property line,' Nick said.
  
  'Yes. Possibly.'
  
  The road was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, but it had been widened in places. The trees looked well-kept. There were no branches or debris visible on the ground, and even the grass appeared well-kept. Beyond the gate, a dirt road emerged from the forest, curved slightly, and ran parallel to the road before disappearing back into the trees. Nick parked in one of the widened spaces. "It looked like a pasture. Van Rijn said he had horses," Nick said.
  
  "There's no turnstile here. We went through one, but it had a big lock on it. Shall we look further?"
  
  'In a minute. Can I have the card, please?
  
  He studied the topographic map. 'That's right. It's marked here as a dirt road. It's heading toward the road on the other side of the woods.'
  
  He drove slowly.
  
  "Why don't you just go through the main entrance now? I remember you couldn't do that very well in Jakarta either."
  
  "Yes, Mata, my dear. Habits die hard. Look, there..." He saw faint tire tracks in the grass. He followed them and a few seconds later parked the car, partially hidden from the road. In the United States, it would have been called Lovers Lane, only there were no fences here. "I'm going to take a look. I always like to know something about a place before I come."
  
  She raised her face to him. "Actually, she's even more beautiful than Helmi in her own way," he thought. He kissed her long and gave her the keys. "Keep them with you."
  
  "What if you don't come back?"
  
  "Then you go home and tell Hans Norderbos the whole story. But I'll be back."
  
  Climbing onto the roof of the car, he thought, "I've always done this up until now. But someday, it won't happen. Mata is so practical." With a jolt that shook the car on its springs, he leaped over the fence. On the other side, he fell again, flipped over, and landed on his feet again. There, he turned to Mata, grinned, bowed briefly, and disappeared into the trees.
  
  A soft strip of golden sunlight fell between the trees and lingered on her cheeks. She basked in it and smoked a cigarette, reflecting and remembering. She hadn't accompanied Norman Kent to Jakarta. He was known by a different name then. But he was still the same powerful, charming, unwavering man who pursued the mysterious Judas. She wasn't there when he searched for the Q-ship, the headquarters of Judas and Heinrich Müller. When he finally found that Chinese junk, he had another Indonesian girl with him. Mata sighed.
  
  That girl in Indonesia was beautiful. They were almost as charming as she was, maybe even more so, but that was all they had in common. There was a huge difference between them. Mata knew what a man wanted between dusk and dawn; the girl had just come to see it. It's no wonder that the girl respected him. Norman Kent was the perfect man, capable of breathing life into any girl.
  
  Mata studied the forest where Norman had disappeared. She tried to recall what she knew about this Pieter-Jan van Rijn. She had described him. A great relationship. Loyalty. She recalled. Could she have given him false information? Perhaps she hadn't been informed enough; van Rijn didn't really know her. She hadn't noticed anything like this before.
  
  She got out of the car, threw away her cigarette, and kicked off her yellow leather boots. Her leap from the roof of the Peugeot over the fence may not have been as far as Nick's, but it was more graceful. She descended smoothly. She put her boots back on and walked toward the trees.
  
  Nick walked along the path for several hundred yards. He walked through the short, thick grass next to it to avoid leaving tracks. He came to a long bend where the path crossed the forest. Nick decided not to follow the open path and walked parallel to it through the forest.
  
  The trail crossed the stream over a rustic wooden bridge that looked as if it was oiled weekly with linseed oil. The wood glowed. The banks of the stream looked as well-kept as the trees in the forest itself, and the deep stream seemed to guarantee good fishing. He reached a hill where all the trees had been cut down, offering a good view of the surrounding area.
  
  The panorama was stunning. It truly looked like a postcard with the caption: "Dutch Landscape." The forest stretched for about a kilometer, and even the treetops around it seemed trimmed. Behind them lay neat patches of cultivated land. Nick studied them through small binoculars. The fields were a curious collection of corn, flowers, and vegetables. In one, a man was working on a yellow tractor; in another, two women were bending over to tend to the soil. Beyond these fields was a beautiful large house with several outbuildings and long rows of greenhouses that shimmered in the sun.
  
  Suddenly, Nick lowered his binoculars and sniffed the air. Someone was smoking a cigar. He quickly descended the hill and hid among the trees. On the other side of the hill, he spotted a Daf 44 Comfort parked among the bushes. Tire tracks indicated that it had zigzagged through the forest.
  
  He studied the ground. There were no tracks to follow on this carpeted earth. But as he walked through the forest, the scent grew stronger. He saw a man with his back to him, studying the landscape through binoculars. With a slight movement of his shoulder, he loosened Wilhelmina in her holster and coughed. The man quickly turned, and Nick said, "Hello."
  
  Nick smiled contentedly. He thought of Hawk's words: "Look for a dark, bearded man of about fifty-five." Excellent! Nicolaas E. de Groot smiled back and nodded kindly. "Hello. Beautiful view here."
  
  The smile and friendly nod were only obvious. But Nick wasn't fooled. "This man is as hard as steel," he thought. "Amazing. I've never seen this before. It seems you know the way there." He nodded toward the hidden Dafa.
  
  I've been here before, though always on foot. But there's a gate. A regular lock. De Groot shrugged.
  
  "So I guess we're both criminals?"
  
  Let's say: scouts. Do you know whose house this is?
  
  "Pieter Jan van Rijn".
  
  "Exactly." De Groot studied him carefully. "I sell diamonds, Mr. Kent, and I heard around town that you buy them."
  
  "Maybe that's why we're watching the Van Rijn house. Oh, and maybe you'll sell, maybe I'll buy."
  
  "Well noted, Mr. Kent. And since we're meeting now, perhaps we won't need a go-between anymore."
  
  Nick thought quickly. The older man had caught on immediately. He shook his head slowly. "I'm no diamond expert, Mr. De Groot. I'm not sure it would benefit me in the long run to turn Mr. Van Rijn against me."
  
  De Groot slipped the binoculars into the leather case slung over his shoulder. Nick watched his hand movements closely. "I don't understand a word of this. They say you Americans are very smart in business. Do you realize how high Van Rijn's commission is on this deal?"
  
  'A lot of money. But for me, that could be a guarantee.'
  
  "Then, if you're so concerned about this product, perhaps we can meet later. With your expert-if he can be trusted.
  
  "Van Rijn is an expert. I am very pleased with him." The little man walked briskly back and forth, moving as if he were wearing breeches and combat boots instead of a formal gray suit.
  
  He shook his head. "I don't think you understand your advantages in this new situation."
  
  'Good. But could you show me these Yenisei diamonds?
  
  'Perhaps. They are nearby.
  
  'In the car?'
  
  'Certainly.'
  
  Nick tensed. This little man was too confident. In the blink of an eye, he pulled Wilhelmina out. De Groot looked casually at the long blue trunk. The only thing that changed in him was the widening of his confident, sharp eyes. "Surely there's someone else in the forest to watch your car," Nick said. "Call him or her here."
  
  And no pranks, please. You probably know what a bullet from a gun like that is capable of."
  
  De Groot didn't move a muscle except his lips. "I'm well acquainted with the Luger, Mr. Kent. But I hope you're well acquainted with the big English Webley pistol. Right now, one's pointed at your back, and it's in good hands."
  
  "Tell him to come out and join you."
  
  'Oh no. You can kill me if you want. We all have to die someday. So if you want to die with me, you can kill me now.' De Groot raised his voice. 'Come closer, Harry, and try to hit him. If he shoots, kill him immediately. Then take the diamonds and sell them yourself. Auf Wiedersehen.'
  
  "Are you bluffing?" Nick asked quietly.
  
  "Say something, Harry."
  
  Right behind Nick, someone's voice rang out: "I will carry out the order. Exactly. And you are so brave..."
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  - Nick stood motionless. The sun was hot on his neck. Somewhere in the forest, birds were chirping. Finally, De Groot said, "In the Wild West, they called it Mexican poker, didn't they?" "I'm glad you know the game." "Ah, Mr. Kent. Gambling is my hobby. Perhaps along with my love for the old Wild West. The Dutch and the Germans contributed much more to the development of that time than is generally believed. Did you know, for example, that some of the cavalry regiments that fought the Indians received orders directly from Germany? 'No. By the way, I find that very unlikely.' "Nevertheless, it is true. The Fifth Cavalry once had a military band that spoke only German." He smiled, but his smile deepened when Nick said, "That doesn't tell me anything about those direct orders from Germany you were talking about." De Groot looked straight at him for a moment. "This man is dangerous," Nick thought. "This hobby nonsense-this fascination with the Wild West. This nonsense about German orders, German chapels. This man is strange." De Groot relaxed again, and the obedient smile returned to his face. "Okay. Now to business. Are you going to buy these diamonds directly from me?"
  
  "Perhaps, given the different circumstances. But why does it bother you that I don't buy directly from you instead of through Van Rijn? I want them at his price. Or the price Van der Laan or Mrs. J. is asking-Mrs. J.? "They all seem to want to sell me these diamonds. It was some woman in a big car who told me to wait for her offer." De Groot's face frowned. This news upset him a little. Nick wondered what the man would do if he called the detective or Hawk. "That complicates things a little," De Groot said. "Perhaps we should arrange a meeting right away." "So you have the diamonds, but I don't know your price." "I understand that. If you agree to buy them, we can arrange an exchange - money for diamonds - in a mutually acceptable manner." Nick decided that the man spoke academic English. This was someone who learned languages easily, but did not listen to people well. "I just wanted to ask you one more question," Nick said. "Yes?" "I was told that a friend of mine made an advance on these diamonds. Perhaps to you - perhaps to someone else." The small De Groot seemed to tense. "At least for me. If I take the advance, I will deliver them too." He was irritated that his honor as a thief could be tarnished. "Can you also tell me who it was?" "Herbert Whitlock." De Groot looked thoughtful. "Didn't he die recently?" "Indeed." I didn't know him. "I didn't take a single cent from him." Nick nodded, as if that was the answer he'd been expecting. With a smooth motion, he let Wilhelmina return to her holster. "We're not going to get anywhere if we look at each other a little angrily. Shall we go to those diamonds now?" De Groot laughed. His smile was as cold as ice. "Of course. Of course, you'll forgive us for keeping Harry out of your reach to keep an eye on us? After all, that's a priceless question. And it's quite quiet here, and we hardly know each other. Harry, follow us!" " He raised his voice to the other man, then turned and walked toward Daph. Nick followed behind his straight back with his narrow, artificially slumped shoulders. The guy was a model of self-importance, but don't underestimate him too much. It's not much fun walking with an armed man on your back. A man about whom nothing can be said except that he seemed extremely fanatical. Harry? Oh, Harry? Tell me what happens if you accidentally stumble into a tree root. If you have one of those old army Webleys, it doesn't even have a safety catch. Daph looked like a child's toy abandoned on a model railway. There was a momentary rustling of branches, then a voice called out, "Drop the gun!" Nick understood the situation instantly. He ducked to the left, spun around, and said to De Groot, "Tell Harry to obey. The girl is with me. A few feet behind the small man with the large Webley, Mata Nasut scrambled to her feet where she had landed when she fell from the tree. Her small blue automatic pistol was pointed at Harry's back. "And calm everyone down," Mata said. Harry was hesitant. On the one hand, he was the type to play kamikaze pilot, on the other, his mind seemed incapable of making quick decisions. "Yes, calm down," De Groot growled. "Tell her to lower the gun," he said to Nick. "Let's all get rid of our weapons," Nick said soothingly. "I was first. Tell Harry-" "No," De Groot said. "We'll do it my way. Drop it-" Nick leaned forward. The Webley roared over his head. In a flash, he was underneath the Webley and fired a second shot. Then it took off, pulling Harry with it with its speed. Nick snatched the revolver from Harry like a child's rattle. Then he jumped to his feet as Mata growled at De Groot, "Leave it-let it-" De Groot's hand disappeared into his jacket. He froze. Nick held the Webley by the barrel. "Calm down, De Groot. Anyway, let's all calm down a bit." He watched Harry out of the corner of his eye. The little man struggled to his feet, coughing and choking. But he made no attempt to reach for another weapon, if he had one. "Take your hand out of your jacket," Nick said. "We expect this now? Everything stays the same." De Groot's icy eyes met a pair of gray ones, less cold, but motionless as granite. The picture remained unchanged for several seconds, except for some coughing from Harry, then De Groot slowly lowered his hand. "I see we underestimated you, Mr. Kent. A serious strategic error." Nick smirked. De Groot looked confused. "Just imagine what would have happened if we had more men standing among the trees. We could have gone on like this for hours. Do you by any chance have other men?" "No," De Groot said. "I wish that were true." Nick turned to Harry. "I'm sorry about what happened. But I just don't like small guys with a big gun pointed at my back. That's when my reflexes take over." Harry chuckled, but didn't answer. "You have good reflexes for a businessman," De Groot commented dryly. "You're nothing more than that cowboy, aren't you?" "I'm the kind of American who's used to handling a gun. It was an absurd comment, but perhaps it would resonate with someone who claimed to love gambling and the old Wild West so much, and who was so vain. He would undoubtedly think these primitive Americans were simply biding their time until the situation changed. The crazy American's next move was enough to completely baffle De Groot, but he was too quick to counter. Nick approached him, tucking the Webley into his belt and, in one swift motion, drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from its stiff leather holster. De Groot realized that if he moved even a single finger, this speedy American might develop different reflexes. He gritted his teeth and waited. "Now we're friends again," Nick said. "I'll return them to you properly when we part. Thank you, Mata..." She came over and stood next to him, her beautiful face completely under control. "I followed you because you may have misunderstood me-I don't know Van Rijn very well. I don't know what his policy is-is that the right word? Yes, a great word for it. But maybe we don't need him right now, do we, De Groot? Now let's go and look at these diamonds." Harry looked at his boss. De Groot said, "Bring them, Harry," and Harry pulled out his keys and rummaged around in the car before reappearing with a small brown bag. Nick said boyishly, "Damn it, I thought they'd be bigger." "Just under five pounds," De Groot said. "All that capital in such a small bag." He put the bag on the roof of the car and fiddled with the drawstring that held it closed like a wallet. "All those oranges in one little bottle like that," Nick muttered. "Pardon?" An old Yankee saying. The slogan of a lemonade factory in St. Joseph, Missouri, in 1873. "Ah, I didn't know that before. I must remember. All those oranges..." De Groot repeated the phrase carefully, tugging at the string. "People riding," Mata said shrilly. "On horses..." Nick said, "De Groot, give the bag to Harry and ask him to put it away." De Groot tossed the bag to Harry, who quickly tucked it back into the car. Nick kept his eye on him and on the part of the woods Mata was looking at at the same time. Don't underestimate those two old men. You'd be dead before you knew it. Four horses came riding out of the trees toward them. They followed the faint tracks of Duff's wheels. Ahead of them was Van Rijn's man, the one Nick had met at the hotel, the younger of the two, who was unarmed. He rode a chestnut horse with skill and ease-and he was completely naked. Nick had only a short time to marvel at such horsemanship, because behind him rode two girls and another man. The other man was also on horseback, but he didn't seem as experienced as the leader. The two girls were simply pathetic riders, but Nick was less surprised by this than by the fact that they, like the men, were wearing no clothing. "Do you know them?" De Groot asked Nick. "No. Strange young fools." De Groot ran his tongue over his lips, studying the girls. "Is there a nudist camp nearby?" "I suppose there is."
  
  - Do they belong to Van Rijn? 'I don't know. Give us back our weapons.' 'When we say goodbye.' 'I think... I think I know this guy,' said De Groot. 'He works for Van Rijn.' 'Yes. Is this a trap for me?' 'It depends. Maybe, or maybe there is no trap.' The four riders stopped. Nick came to the conclusion that at least these two girls were fantastic. There was something exciting about being naked on a horse. Centaur women with beautiful breasts, so that the eyes involuntarily turned in that direction. Well - involuntarily? thought Nick. The man Nick had already met said: 'Welcome, intruders. I take it you knew you were trespassing on private property?
  
  Nick looked at the girl with red hair. There were milky white streaks on her tanned skin. So not a professional. The other girl, whose raven-black hair reached her shoulders, was completely chestnut-colored. "Mr. Van Rijn is waiting for me," de Groot said. "Through the back door? And so early? 'Ah. That's why he didn't tell you I was coming.' "You and some others. Let's go and meet him now?" "What if I don't agree?" de Groot suggested in the same cold and precise tone he had just used in his conversation with Nick before Mata had turned the situation around. "You have no other choice." "No, maybe you do." De Groot looked at Nick. "Let's get in the car and wait. Come on, Harry." De Groot and his shadow walked to the car, followed by Nick and Mata. Nick thought quickly - the matter was getting more complicated with every second. He absolutely couldn't risk losing his contacts with van der Laan, as that would lead him to the first part of his mission, the spy trail, and ultimately to Whitlock's killers. On the other hand, De Groot and his diamonds could prove vital connections. He did have some doubts about De Groot-Geyser. De Groot stopped next to a small car. A group of riders followed. "Please, Mr. Kent-your weapons." "Let's not shoot," Nick said. "Would you like to get in on this?" He pointed to the beautifully swaying breasts of the two girls, two of whom had the owner, who revealed a mischievous grin.
  
  "Would you like to drive?"
  
  'Of course.' De Groot had no intention of Nick or Mata being behind them, risking the diamonds. Nick wondered how De Groot thought he'd hide it from the piercing eyes of Van Rijn's followers. But that was none of his business. The four of them were crammed into a small car. A rider Nick recognized walked alongside. Nick opened the window. "Go around the hill and follow the path to the house," the man said. "Suppose I'm going to ride in the other direction," Nick suggested. The rider smiled. "I remember your quick pistol skills, Mr. Kent, and I assume you carry one now, too, but look..." He pointed to a clump of distant trees, and Nick saw another man on horseback, dressed in dark trousers and a black turtleneck. He held what appeared to be a submachine gun. Nick swallowed. They were packed into that thing like sardines in a barrel-sardines in a can was the best expression. "I noticed some of you actually wear clothes," he said. "Of course." "But do you... uh... prefer the sun?" Nick looked past the rider on the two-year-old girls. "That's a matter of taste. Mr. Van Rijn has an artists' group, a nudist camp, and a place for regular people. That might be something for you." "Still not bored with the hotel, huh?" "Not at all. We would have taken you there if we wanted, wouldn't we? Now drive along the path and stop at the house." Nick started the engine and pressed the gas pedal approvingly. He liked the sound of the engine. He quickly got his bearings with the instruments and gauges. He had driven almost every vehicle in existence; it was part of his constant training in AXE, but somehow they never made it to Daf. He remembered that this car had a completely different transmission mode. But why not?
  
  It would have worked on those old Harley Davidsons. He zigzagged slowly through the trees. He was starting to get the feel of the machine. It handled well. Reaching the trail, he deliberately turned the other way and was riding at a decent speed when his helpers caught up with him again. "Hey - the other way!" Nick stopped. "Yeah. I thought I could get home that way." "That's true, but it's longer. I'm going back." "Okay," Nick said. He reversed the machine and headed back to where he could turn.
  
  They drove like this for a while, then Nick suddenly said, "Wait." He accelerated, and the car picked up a very respectable speed in a very short time, throwing up gravel and rubble like a dog digging a fox hole. When they reached the first turn, they were going at about sixty miles an hour. Daph glided smoothly and hardly rocked at all. "They make good cars here," Nick thought. "Good carburetors and cookie cutters." The track led through fields. To the right of them was a jump, stone walls, wooden obstacles, and brightly painted ditch fences. "This is beautiful country," Nick said easily, pressing the gas pedal as far as it would go.
  
  Behind him he heard Harry's voice: "They just came out of the forest. The gravel on their faces slowed them down a bit. Now we're coming for them."
  
  "This guy with the machine gun too?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "Do you think he will shoot?"
  
  'No.'
  
  "Let me know if he points it out, but I don't think he will."
  
  Nick slammed on the brakes, and the Duff slid neatly around the left-hand turn. The path led to a row of stables. The rear of the car began to slide, and he swerved, feeling the skid gently end as he rounded the corner.
  
  They walked between two buildings and entered a spacious, tiled courtyard with a large cast-iron fountain in the center.
  
  On the other side of the yard was a paved driveway that led past a dozen garages to a large house. From there, he probably continued on to the public road. The only problem, Nick thought, was that it was impossible to get past the large cattle truck and the semi-truck parked across the street. They blocked the path from the garages to the stone wall opposite, like a neat champagne cork.
  
  Nick spun the car around the circular courtyard three times, feeling like he was spinning a roulette ball, before he saw the first rider approaching them again. He caught a glimpse of him between the buildings. "Get ready, kids," Nick said. "Keep an eye out for them."
  
  He braked hard. The nose of the car pointed toward the narrow gap between two buildings through which the riders were passing. Van Rijn and the man petting his foal emerged from behind the trucks with the woman and now watched what was happening in the yard. They seemed surprised.
  
  Nick stuck his head out the window and grinned at Van Rijn. Van Rijn looked up and hesitantly raised his hand to wave as the riders emerged from the narrow passage between the buildings. Nick counted out loud: "One, two, three, four. Not enough. The last girl will have to wait a little longer."
  
  He steered the car through a narrow passage, and the riders scurried, trying to rein in their horses. Their horseshoes clattered onto the square's tiles and skidded. A girl with long black hair appeared-the worst rider of all. Nick honked the horn and kept his foot on the brake, just in case.
  
  He had no intention of hitting her, and he flew past her to the right. In his mind, he bet she wouldn't swerve, but the horse did. Clumsy rider or not, she looked great bare-backed on that horse.
  
  They rode along the trail at full speed, passed the show jumping course and returned to the forest.
  
  "We have a car, Mr. De Groot," Nick said. "Should we try driving straight through the fence or try that back gate you came in through?"
  
  De Groot responded with the cheerful tone of someone pointing out a strategic error. "They could have damaged your car. I'd look into that first. No, let's try driving away. I'll show you the way."
  
  Nick felt annoyed. Of course, De Groot was right. They flew past the gate, caught a glimpse of the Peugeot, and dove back into the forest along the gentle curves.
  
  "Just go straight ahead," De Groot said. "And turn left behind that bush. Then you'll see for yourself."
  
  Nick slowed down, turned left, and saw a large gate blocking the road. He stopped, and De Groot jumped out and trotted toward the gate. He inserted the key into the lock and tried to turn it-he tried again, twisted it, and, struggling with the lock, lost his composure.
  
  The sound of a car engine echoed behind them. A Mercedes appeared inches from their rear bumper and stopped between the gate and their car. The men rolled out like guilders from a slot machine that was paying out winnings. Nick stepped out of the DAF and shouted to De Groot, "Nice try with that gate. But it's no longer necessary." Then he turned to face the group of newcomers.
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  Philip van der Laan left the office early to enjoy the long weekend. With a sigh of relief, he closed the door behind him and climbed into his yellow Lotus Europa. He had problems. Sometimes a long drive helped. He was happy with his current girlfriend, the daughter of a wealthy family who had taken on the challenge of becoming a movie star. She was currently in Paris, meeting with a film producer who could give her a role in a film he was shooting in Spain.
  
  Problems. The dangerous but profitable smuggling service he'd created to transmit intelligence from the United States to anyone who paid well had reached a dead end, as De Groot refused to continue working. For a moment, he thought Helmi had discovered how his system worked, but it turned out he was wrong. Thank goodness Paul had missed her with his foolish shot. Besides, De Groot could be replaced. Europe was teeming with greedy little men willing to provide courier services, provided they were safe and well-paid.
  
  De Groot's Yenisei diamonds were the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There was a potential profit of over half a million guilders. His contacts told him that dozens of Amsterdam business leaders-those with real capital-were trying to find out the price. This could explain Norman Kent's unusual adventures. They wanted to contact him, but he-Philip-already had the contact. If he could get these diamonds for the Bard Gallery, he could have a client for years to come.
  
  At the right time, he'd be able to buy a larger, street-level operation like Van Rijn's. He winced. He felt a fierce jealousy toward the older man. They both came from shipping families. Van der Laan had sold all his shares to focus on faster profit-making opportunities, while Van Rijn still owned his shares, as well as his diamond business.
  
  He reached a deserted stretch of highway and began driving faster than the speed limit. It gave him a sense of power. Tomorrow, De Groot, Kent, and the Yenisei diamonds would be at his country house. This opportunity would pay off, too; although he had to use Paul, Beppo, and Mark to bend events to his will. He wished he had lived earlier, in the days of Pieter-Jan van Rijn's ancestors, who simply robbed the indigenous population of Indonesia. In those days, you didn't look over your shoulder, wiped your ass with your left hand, and greeted the governor with your right.
  
  Pieter-Jan van Rijn knew about Van der Laan's envy. It was something he kept hidden in his hermetically sealed brain, along with many other things. But contrary to Van der Laan's belief, Van Rijn's great-grandfather hadn't treated the indigenous people of Java and Sumatra so cruelly. His lackeys had just shot eight people, after which each became very willing to cooperate for a small fee.
  
  As Wang Rin approached the trapped Dafu, a hint of a smile was visible on his face. "Good morning, Mr. Kent. You're a little early today.
  
  'I got lost. I looked at your property. It's beautiful here.'
  
  'Thank you. I was able to trace part of your car journey. You escaped from your escort.'
  
  "I didn't see a single police badge."
  
  "No, they belong to our little nudist colony. You'd be surprised how well they work. I think it's because people here have a chance to let go of all their frustrations and inhibitions."
  
  "Maybe. They seem to be letting go." While they chatted, Nick looked at the situation. Van Rijn had four men with them, who, having rolled out of the car, now stood reverently behind their boss. They were wearing jackets and ties, and they all had a purposeful expression on their faces that Nick was now beginning to think of as typically Dutch. Mata, Harry, and De Groot had climbed out of the Daf and were now hesitantly waiting to see what would happen. Nick sighed. His only logical solution was to simply continue to be polite to Van Rijn and hope that he and his men were spiders who had mistaken a wasp for a fly. "Even though I'm early," Nick said, "maybe we can get down to business."
  
  - Have you talked about this with De Groot?
  
  'Yes. We met by chance. We both got lost and came in through your back door. He told me he was also involved in the case we were discussing together.'
  
  Van Rijn looked at De Groot. He had stopped smiling. He now looked more like a dignified, unwavering judge from the days of King George III. The kind who insisted that ten-year-olds behave themselves and be careful when a court sentenced them to death for stealing a piece of bread. His expression showed that he knew when to be kind and when to be decisive.
  
  "Have you shown Mr. Kent around?" De Groot glanced sideways at Nick. Nick glanced up at the treetop and admired the foliage. "No," De Groot replied. "We just learned that we all share common interests."
  
  'Right.' Van Rijn turned to one of his men. "Anton, open the gate and bring Mr. Kent's Peugeot to the house. The rest of you are heading back to Dafe." He pointed at Nick and his girlfriend. "Would you like to come with me? The bigger car is a little more comfortable."
  
  Nick introduced Mata to van Rijn, who nodded approvingly. They agreed they'd met once, but couldn't recall the party. Nick was willing to bet they both remembered it well. You ever thought this phlegmatic man or this beautiful girl with the sweet almond-shaped eyes would forget his face or even a fact? You were wrong. Mata had survived by staying alert. You might also guess that generations of passionate Pieter-Jannen van Rijn had created this estate with their eyes and ears wide open.
  
  "Maybe that's why this is a nudist camp," Nick thought. If you have nothing better to do, at least you can practice keeping your eyes open.
  
  The man they called Anton had no problem with the gate lock. Approaching the Peugeot, Van Rijn told De Groot, "We change these locks regularly."
  
  "A clever tactic," De Groot said, holding the Mercedes door open for Mata. He climbed in after her, while Nick and Van Rijn took their places on the folding chairs. Harry looked over and sat down next to the driver.
  
  "Daf..." said De Groot.
  
  "I know," Van Rijn replied calmly. "One of my men, Adrian, is driving it to the house and keeping a close eye on it. It's a valuable car." The last sentence was emphasized enough to show he knew what was in it. They glided majestically back into the house. The cattle truck and the truck were gone. They pulled into the driveway and circled the giant structure, which looked as if it was painted every year and the windows washed every morning.
  
  There was a large black parking lot behind the car, with about forty cars parked there. The space wasn't even half full. They were all new, and many of them were very expensive. Nick knew several license plates on larger limousines. Van Rijn had a lot of guests and friends. Probably both.
  
  The group got out of the Mercedes, and Van Rijn led them on a leisurely stroll through the gardens surrounding the rear of the house. The gardens, with covered terraces carpeted in soft green grass and dotted with a surprising array of tulips, were furnished with wrought-iron furniture, foam-cushioned lounge chairs, deck chairs, and tables with umbrellas. Van Rijn walked along one of these terraces, where people were playing bridge on either side. They climbed a stone staircase and came out to a large swimming pool. A dozen people were relaxing in the courtyard, and some were splashing in the water. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw a delighted smile on Van Rijn's face at the scene. He was, and remained, an amazing man. You sensed that he could be dangerous, but he wasn't bad. You could imagine him giving the order: give that foolish boy twenty lashes. If you were to be condescending, he would raise his neat gray eyebrows and say, "But we must be practical, mustn't we?
  
  Their host said, "Miss Nasut... Mr. Hasebroek, this first pool is mine. You will find liqueur, ice cream, and bathing suits there. Enjoy the sun and the water while Mr. De Groot, Mr. Kent, and I discuss some matters. If you will excuse us, we will not continue the discussion for long."
  
  He walked toward the house without waiting for an answer. Nick nodded quickly to Mata and followed Van Rijn. Just before entering the house, Nick heard two cars pull into the parking lot. He was sure he recognized the Peugeot and the strange metallic sound of Daf. Van Rijn's man, driving the Mercedes, a wiry man with a determined expression, walked a few yards behind them. When they entered the spacious, beautifully furnished office, he sat down next to them. "Efficient, yet very discreet," Nick thought.
  
  Several model ships were displayed along one wall of the room. They were either on shelves or under glass cases on tables. Van Rijn pointed to one. "Do you recognize it?"
  
  Nick couldn't read the sign with the Dutch writing.
  
  'No.'
  
  "This was the first ship built in what is now New York City. It was built with the help of the Manhattan Indians. The New York Yacht Club offered me a very high price for this model. I am not selling it, but I will leave it to them upon my death."
  
  "That's very generous of you," Nick said.
  
  Van Rijn sat down at a large table of dark, blackish wood that seemed to glow. 'Well then. Mr. De Groot, are you armed?'
  
  De Groot actually blushed. He looked at Nick. Nick pulled a short .38 pistol from his pocket and slid it across the table. Van Rijn tossed it into the drawer without comment.
  
  "I take it you have items for sale in the car or somewhere on my estate?"
  
  "Yes," De Groot said firmly.
  
  "Don't you think now would be a good time to look at them so we can discuss the terms?"
  
  'Yes.' De Groot walked to the door.
  
  Willem will be with you for a while, so you won't get lost." De Groot walked out, accompanied by a wiry young man.
  
  "De Groot is so... evasive," Nick said.
  
  'I know that. Willem is quite reliable. If they don't come back, I'll consider him dead. Now, Mr. Kent, regarding our transaction-once you've made your deposit here, will you be able to pay the rest in cash in Switzerland or in your home country?'
  
  Nick sat quietly in the large leather chair. "Maybe-if you'll take it upon yourself to deliver them to America. I don't know much about smuggling."
  
  - Leave it to me. Then the price... -
  
  And look at the product.
  
  'Of course. We'll do it right now.'
  
  The intercom buzzed. Van Rijn frowned. 'Really?'
  
  A girl's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Jaap Ballegoyer is with two friends. He says it's very important."
  
  Nick tensed. Memories of a hard jaw, a cold glass eye, expressionless artificial skin, and a woman behind a black veil flashed through his mind. For a moment, a hint of uncontrollable emotion flickered across Van Rijn's face. Surprise, determination, and irritation. So his master hadn't been expecting this guest. He thought quickly. With Van Rijn out of control, it was time for the guest to leave. Nick stood up. "I should apologize now."
  
  'Sit down.'
  
  "I'm armed too." Wilhelmina suddenly glared at Van Rijn with hostility, her impassive, cyclopean eyes impassive. He placed his hand on the table. "You may have a whole bunch of buttons under your foot. But I'd advise you not to use them for your own health. Unless, of course, you enjoy violence."
  
  Van Rijn's face calmed again, as if this was something he understood and could handle.
  
  "No violence needed. Just sit back down. Please." It sounded like a stern order.
  
  Nick said from the doorway, "Maintenance suspended indefinitely." Then he left. Ballegoyer, Van Rijn, and the whole army. It was all too loose now. Agent AX might be tough and muscular, but reattaching all those battered parts could be too much work.
  
  He ran back the way they had, passing through the vast living room and through the open French doors leading to the pool. Mata, sitting by the pool with Harry Hasebroek, saw him approaching as he bounded up the stone steps. Without a word, she stood up and ran toward him. Nick gestured for her to come with him, then turned and ran across the grounds toward the parking lot.
  
  Willem and De Groot were standing by Daph. Willem leaned against the car and looked at De Groot's small butt, who was rummaging around behind the front seats. Nick hid Wilhelmina and smiled at Willem, who quickly turned around. "What are you doing here?"
  
  The muscular man was prepared for any attack, except for the ultra-fast right hook that caught him just below the bottom button of his jacket. The blow would have split a three-centimeter-thick board, and Willem doubled over like a slammed book. Even before he was completely on the ground, Nick's fingers were pressing into the muscles of his neck, and his thumbs were pressing into his spinal nerves.
  
  For about five minutes, Willem-as cool as he was on a normal, happy Dutch day-was knocked out cold. Nick pulled a small automatic pistol from the boy's waistband and stood up again to watch De Groot climb out of the car. Turning around, Nick saw a small brown bag in his hand.
  
  Nick extended his hand. De Groot, like a robot, handed him the bag. Nick heard the quick click of Mata's feet on the asphalt. He glanced back for a moment. They weren't being tracked for now. "De Groot, we can talk about our deal later. I'll keep the goods with me. Then at least you won't have them if they catch you."
  
  De Groot straightened up. "And then I'll have to figure out how to get you again?"
  
  "I leave you no choice."
  
  "Where is Harry?"
  
  "The last time I saw him was by the pool. He's fine. I don't think they'll bother him. Now you better get out of here."
  
  Nick beckoned to Mata and ran to the Peugeot, parked four spaces away from Daf. The keys were still there. Nick started the engine as Mata climbed in. Without a breath, she said, "That was my quick visit."
  
  "Too many guests," Nick replied. He backed the car up, made a quick turn in the parking lot, and headed for the highway. As he pulled away from the house, he glanced back briefly. Daph started moving, Harry ran out of the house, followed by Willem, Anton, Adrian, Balleguier, and one of the men who had been in the garage with the veiled woman. None of them were armed. Nick returned to driving, cutting the corners of the double turns between tall, carefully planted trees, and finally emerged onto the straightaway leading to the highway.
  
  Ten or twelve yards from the highway stood two short stone buildings, one of which was connected to the doorman's house. Pressing the gas pedal to the floor, he watched as the large, wide iron gates began to close. Even a tank couldn't get them into the rubble. He estimated the distance between the gates as they slowly swung toward each other.
  
  Four and a half meters? Let's say four. Now three and a half. The fences were closing in faster now. They were majestic metal barriers, so heavy that their bottoms rolled on their wheels. Any car that crashed into them would be completely destroyed.
  
  He continued to drive at full throttle. Trees flashed past on either side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mata cross her arms in front of her face. This child, she would rather have a broken back or neck than a bruised face. He didn't blame her.
  
  He estimated the remaining gap and tried to maintain the direction towards the center.
  
  Clang - click - crang! A metallic screech, and they were out through the narrowing opening. One or both halves of the gate nearly crushed the Peugeot, like a shark's teeth closing in on a flying fish. Their speed and the fact that the gate opened outward allowed them through.
  
  The highway was close now. Nick slammed on the brakes. He didn't dare take any chances. The road surface was rough and dry, perfect for accelerating, but for heaven's sake, try not to slip on it, or you might end up with an oil slick. But he saw nothing.
  
  The highway formed a right angle with Van Rijn's driveway. They crossed just behind a passing bus, and fortunately, nothing happened on the other side. With a tug on the steering wheel, Nick managed to keep the car clear of the ditch on the other side. The gravel was thrown up, and the Peugeot's wheel might have rolled a few inches above the ditch, but then the car regained traction, and Nick accelerated. He swerved, brought the car back onto the road, and they sped down the two-lane road.
  
  Mata looked up again. "Oh my God..." Nick glanced back at Van Rijn's driveway. A man emerged from the gatehouse and he saw him shaking his fist at him. Good. If he couldn't open that gate again, it would at least deter any potential pursuers for a while.
  
  He asked, "Do you know this road?"
  
  'No.' She found the map in the glove compartment.
  
  "What really happened there? Do they serve such bad whiskey?
  
  Nick chuckled. It did him good. He could already see himself and Mata turning into an omelet of stone and iron. "They didn't even offer me a drink."
  
  "Well, at least I managed to take a sip. I wonder what they'll do with those Harry Hasebroek and De Groot. They're all weird little guys.
  
  'Crazy? These poisonous snakes?
  
  "I want to steal these diamonds."
  
  "It's on De Groot's conscience. Harry is his shadow. I can just imagine Van Rijn destroying them. What do they mean to him now? He might not be too keen on Balleguier seeing them. He's the guy who looks like the British diplomat who introduced me to that veiled woman."
  
  "Was she there too?"
  
  'Just arrived. That's why I thought I'd better run. Too many things to pay attention to at once. Too many hands greedily reaching for those Yenisei diamonds. Check the bag to see if De Groot hasn't cheated us and quickly swapped the diamonds. I don't think he had time for that, but it's just a thought.'
  
  Mata opened the bag and said, "I don't know much about rough stones, but they are very large."
  
  - As far as I understand, they are record-breaking in size.
  
  Nick glanced at the diamonds in Mata's lap, like giant lollipops. "Well, I think we have them. Put them away again and look at the map, dear.
  
  Would Van Rijn be able to give up the chase? No, it wasn't the same man. Far behind him, he saw a Volkswagen in his mirror, but it wasn't catching up. "We've lost it," he said. "See if you can find the road on the map. We're still heading south."
  
  "Where do you want to go then?"
  
  "To the northeast."
  
  Mata was silent for a moment. "It's best to go straight ahead. If we turn left, we'll pass through Vanroi, and there's a good chance we'll meet them again if they follow us. We need to go straight to Gemert, and then we can turn east. From there, we have several options."
  
  "Fine.
  
  I don't stop to look at this map."
  
  The intersection brought them to a better road, but there were also more cars, a small procession of small, polished cars. "Locals," Nick thought. "Do these people really have to polish everything until it shines?"
  
  "Watch what's going on behind us," Nick said. "That mirror is too small. Look out for any cars overtaking us with the intention of watching us."
  
  Mata knelt down in the chair and looked around. After a few minutes, she said, "Everyone stay in line. If a car is following us, it should pass them."
  
  "Damn fun," Nick grumbled.
  
  As they approached the city, the fences grew denser. More and more of those beautiful white houses appeared, where shiny, well-groomed cows roamed the beautiful green pastures. "Do they really wash these animals?" Nick wondered.
  
  "Now we have to go left, then left again," Mata said. They reached the intersection. A helicopter buzzed overhead. It was searching for a checkpoint. Would Van Rijn have such good connections? Balleguier knew it, but then they would have to work together.
  
  Slowly, he squeezed through the city traffic, made two left turns, and they were out of the city again. Not a single checkpoint, not a single chase.
  
  "There's not a single car left with us," Mata said. "Do I still need to pay attention?"
  
  'No. Just sit down. We're moving fast enough to spot any potential pursuers. But I don't understand it. He could have chased us in that Mercedes, couldn't he?
  
  "A helicopter?" Mata asked quietly. "It flew over us again."
  
  "Where would he get it so quickly?"
  
  "I have no idea. Maybe it was one of the traffic police officers." She stuck her head out the window. "He disappeared into the distance."
  
  "Let's get off this road. Can you find one that still leads in the right direction?
  
  The map rustled. "Try the second one on the right. About seven kilometers from here. It also goes through the forest, and once we cross the Maas, we can join the highway to Nijmegen."
  
  The exit looked promising. Another two-lane road. After a few miles, Nick slowed down and said, "I don't think we're being followed."
  
  "A plane flew over us."
  
  'I know that. Pay attention to the details, Mata.
  
  She slid toward him in her chair. "That's why I'm still alive," she said softly.
  
  He embraced her soft body. Soft yet strong, her muscles, bones, and brain were built to survive, as she put it. Their relationship was unusual. He admired her for many qualities that rivaled his own-most notably, her attentiveness and quick reflexes.
  
  She often told him on warm nights in Jakarta, "I love you." And he gave her the same answer.
  
  And what did they mean when they said this, how long could it be, one night, half a week, a month, who knows...
  
  "You're still as beautiful as ever, Mata," he said softly.
  
  She kissed his neck, just below his ear. "Okay," he said. "Hey, look there."
  
  He slowed the car and pulled over. On the bank of a stream, half-hidden by beautiful trees, stood a small rectangular campsite. Three more campsites were visible beyond.
  
  The first car was a large Rover, the second a Volkswagen with a tarpaulin camper on the back, and the second a dented Triumph next to the aluminum frame of a bungalow tent. The bungalow tent was old and a faded light green.
  
  "Just what we need," Nick said. He pulled into the campground and stopped to stand next to the Triumph. It was a four- or five-year-old TR5. Up close, it looked worn, not dented. Sun, rain, and flying sand and gravel had left their marks on it. The tires were still good.
  
  A thin, tanned man in faded khaki shorts with a fringe instead of a scar approached Nick from behind a small fire. Nick extended his hand. 'Hello. My name is Norman Kent. American.'
  
  "Buffer," said the guy. "I'm Australian." His handshake was firm and heartfelt.
  
  "That's my wife in the car." Nick looked at the Volkswagen. The couple was sitting under a tarp within earshot. He said a little quieter, "Can't we talk? I have an offer that might interest you."
  
  Buffer replied, "I can offer you a cup of tea, but if you have anything to sell, you've got the wrong address."
  
  Nick pulled out his wallet and pulled out five hundred dollar bills and five twenties. He held them close to his body so no one in the camp could see them. "I'm not selling. I want to rent. Do you have anyone with you?"
  
  "My friend. She sleeps in a tent.
  
  "We just got married. My so-called friends are now looking for me. You know, usually I don't care, but like you say there, some of these guys are nasty bastards."
  
  The Australian looked at the money and sighed. "Norman, not only can you stay with us, you can even come with us to Calais if you want."
  
  "It's not that difficult. I'd like to ask you and your friend to go to the nearest town and find a good hotel or motel there. Of course, not to mention that you left your camping gear here. All you need to leave is a tent, a piece of tarp, and a few sleeping bags and blankets. The money I'll pay you for it is worth much more than all of this." Buffer took the money. "You seem trustworthy, friend. We'll leave all this mess for you, except, of course, for our personal belongings..."
  
  "What about your neighbors?"
  
  I know what to do. I'll tell them you're my cousin from America, using my tent for one night.
  
  'Okay. Agreed. Can you help me hide my car?
  
  Put it on this side of the tent. We'll camouflage it somehow.
  
  Within fifteen minutes, Buffer had found a patched awning that hid the back of the Peugeot from the road and introduced Norman Kent as his "American cousin" to couples at two other campsites. Then he drove off with his beautiful blonde girlfriend in his Triumph.
  
  The tent was comfortable inside, with a folding table, a few chairs, and sleeping bags with inflatable mattresses. In the back was a small tent that served as a storage room. Various bags and boxes were filled with dishes, cutlery, and a small amount of canned food.
  
  Nick searched the trunk of his Peugeot, took a bottle of Jim Beam from his suitcase, set it on the table and said, "Darling, I'm going to have a look around. In the meantime, would you like to make us some drinks?"
  
  "Good." She stroked him, kissed his chin, and tried to bite his ear. But before she could, he was already out of the tent.
  
  "There's the woman," he thought, approaching the stream. She knew exactly what to do, the right time, the right place, and the right way. He crossed the narrow drawbridge and turned toward the campsite. His Peugeot was barely visible. A small, reddish-black boat with an outboard motor slowly approached the bridge. Nick quickly walked back across the bridge and stopped to watch it pass. The skipper stepped ashore and turned a large wheel, which swung the bridge sideways, like a gate. He returned aboard and the boat slid past like a snail with flowers on its back. The man waved to him.
  
  Nick took a step closer. "Shouldn't you close this bridge?"
  
  "No, no, no." The man laughed. He spoke English with an accent as if every word was wrapped in meringue. "It has a clock. Closes again in two minutes. Just wait." He pointed his pipe at Nick and smiled kindly. "Electric, yes. Tulips and cigars aren't all we have. Ho-ho-ho-ho."
  
  "You're too ho-ho-ho-ho," Nick replied. But his laugh was cheerful. "Then why don't you open it this way instead of turning the wheel?"
  
  The skipper looked around the deserted landscape as if amazed. "Shhht." He picked up a large bouquet of flowers from one of the barrels, jumped ashore, and brought it to Nick. "No more tourists come and see you like you. Here's a gift." Nick looked into the shimmering blue eyes for a moment as he received the bouquet of flowers in his hands. Then the man jumped back onto his small boat.
  
  'Thank you very much. My wife will really like them.
  
  "God be with you." The man waved and slowly floated past Nick. He trudged back to camp, the bridge creaking as it returned to its original position. The owner of the Volkswagen stopped him as he stepped onto the narrow path. "Bonjour, Mr. Kent. Would you like a glass of wine?"
  
  "With pleasure. But maybe not tonight. My wife and I are tired. It's been quite a tiring day.
  
  "Come whenever you like. I understand everything." The man bowed slightly. His name was Perrault. This "I understand" was because Buffer told him that it was "an American cousin, Norman Kent" who was with his fiancée. Nick would have preferred to say another name, but if he had to show his passport or other documents, it would cause complications. He entered the tent and handed the flowers to Mata. She beamed. "They are beautiful. Did you get them from that little boat that just passed by?"
  
  'Yes. With them here in this tent we have the most beautiful room I've ever seen.
  
  "Don't take everything so seriously."
  
  He thought about it, as she put it, "flowers on water." He looked at her small, dark head above the colorful bouquet of flowers. She was very attentive, as if this was the moment in her life she'd always been waiting for. As he'd already noticed, in Indonesia, this girl from two worlds possessed exceptional depth. You could learn everything from her if you had the time, and the whole world would keep its long fingers out of your reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She handed him a glass, and they sat down on cozy camping chairs to look out at the calm, peaceful flow of the river, the green stripes of pasture under the purple, twilight sky. Nick felt a little sleepy. The road was quiet, except for the occasional passing cars, and a few noises from other tents and a few birds chirping nearby. Other than that, nothing was audible. He took a sip of his drink. "There was a bottle of sparkling water in the bucket. Is your drink cold enough?"
  
  'Quite tasty.'
  
  "A cigarette?
  
  "Okay, okay." He didn't pay attention whether he smoked or not. He'd slowed down a bit lately. Why? He didn't know. But now, at least, he enjoyed the fact that she lit a filter cigarette for him. She carefully placed the filter in his mouth, carefully held the lighter flame in front of him, and gently handed him the cigarette, as if it were an honor to serve him...
  
  Somehow, he knew she wouldn't try to steal the contents of the brown bag. Perhaps because those things would cause an endless chain of disasters for those who didn't have the right connections to sell them. He felt a surge of disgust at this, where you could only survive by trusting no one at all.
  
  She stood up, and he watched dreamily as she removed her dress to reveal a gold-black bra. She hung the dress on a hook in the middle of the tent roof. Yes, this is a woman to be proud of. A woman you can love. You would have a good life with a woman like that, one who can garner so much love.
  
  After he'd concluded that the most fierce and passionate women were Scottish and the most intellectually developed were Japanese. Admittedly, his comparative data wasn't as extensive as one would have liked for such an objective study, but you have to make do with what you have. One evening in Washington, he said this to Bill Rhodes after a few drinks. The junior AXE agent thought about it for a while and then said, "These Scots have been visiting Japan for centuries. Either as sailors or as traders. So, Nick, you should find the most ideal girl there: one of Japanese-Scottish descent. Maybe you should place an ad there."
  
  Nick chuckled. Rhodes was a practical man. It was a coincidence that Nick, not he, was sent to Amsterdam to take over Herb Whitlock's unfinished work. Bill took over the work in New York and at the Bard Gallery.
  
  Mata rested her small, dark head on his shoulder.
  
  He hugged her. "Aren't you hungry yet?" she asked. "A little. We'll see what we can prepare later."
  
  There are some beans and a few cans of stew. Enough vegetables for a salad, plus oil and vinegar. And biscuits for tea."
  
  "Sounds great." Pretty girl. She had already examined the contents of the pantry.
  
  "I hope they don't find us," she said softly. "That helicopter and the plane worry me a little.
  
  "I know. But if they've set up checkpoints, they'll get tired in the afternoon, and maybe we can slip through. We'll leave tomorrow morning before dawn. But you're right, Mata, as always.
  
  "I think van Rijn is a cunning man.
  
  'I agree. But it seems to me that he has a stronger character than Van der Laan. And by the way, Mata, have you ever met Herbert Whitlock?
  
  'Of course. He invited me to dinner once.' Nick tried to control his hand. It almost tensed up out of an involuntary reflex.
  
  "Where did you first meet him?"
  
  "He ran right at me on Kaufman Street, where there's a photographer. That is, he pretended to accidentally bump into me. Somehow he must have meant it, because he was probably looking for me, I think. He wanted something."
  
  'What?'
  
  'I don't know. It happened about two months ago. We ate at De Boerderij and then went to the Blue Note. It was very nice there. Besides, Herb was a fantastic dancer.
  
  "Did you sleep with him too?"
  
  'No, it wasn't like that. Just kisses goodbye. I think I would do that next time. But he went with my friend, Paula, a few times. And then there was that time. I really enjoyed it. I'm sure he would have asked me out again.'
  
  Did he ask you any questions? Do you have any idea what he's trying to find out?
  
  "I thought he was something like you. An American agent or something. We mostly talked about photography and the modeling world.
  
  And what's going on? Announcements?'
  
  'Yes. A commercial branch of photography. I was honestly planning next time, what if I could help him?'
  
  Nick shook his head thoughtfully. This is bad, Herbert. He needs to work carefully and methodically. Don't drink. Don't confuse the girls with the case, as many agents sometimes do. If he'd been more honest with Mata, he might still be alive.
  
  "Did he drink a lot?"
  
  'Almost nothing. One of the things I loved about him.
  
  "Do you think he was killed?"
  
  "I've been wondering about this. Maybe Paula knows something. Should I talk to her when we get back to Amsterdam?
  
  "Love. You were right about his connections. He was an American agent. I'd really like to know if his death was truly an accident. I mean, the Dutch police are efficient, sure, but..."
  
  She squeezed his hand. "I understand you. Maybe I'll find something. Paula is a very sensitive girl.
  
  "And how beautiful, how are you?"
  
  "You will have to judge that for yourself."
  
  She turned to face him and pressed her lips to his quietly, as if to say, but you won't choose her, I'll take care of it.
  
  Kissing her soft lips, Nick wondered why Whitlock had chosen Mata. Coincidence? Perhaps. Amsterdam's business world was known as a village where everyone knew everyone else. However, it was more likely that she had been identified by the AX computer.
  
  He sighed. Everything was moving too slowly. Mata's kisses and caresses were quite capable of making you forget your troubles for a while. Her hand slid down, and in an instant, he untied his belt. The belt with all its hidden tricks and powders from the AXE laboratory: cyanide poisons, suicide powders, and other poisons with a dozen uses. Plus money and a flexible file. He felt like a stranger in the Garden of Eden. A guest with a dagger.
  
  He stirred. "Mother, let me take off my clothes too."
  
  She stood lazily, a playful smile playing around the corners of her mouth, and reached out to take his jacket. She carefully hung it on the hanger, did the same with his tie and shirt, and watched silently as he hid the stiletto in his open suitcase under the sleeping bags.
  
  "I'm really looking forward to swimming," she said.
  
  He quickly took off his pants. "Still, it's Javanese, right? Do you still want to swim five times a day?
  
  'Yes. Water is good and friendly. It cleanses you...'
  
  He peered out. It had become completely dark. No one was visible from his position. "I can leave my underwear." Underwear, he thought; it's what still betrays me in the Garden of Eden, with the deadly Pierre in his secret bag.
  
  "This fabric can withstand water," she said. "If we go upstream, we could swim naked. I'd like to rinse off and get completely clean.
  
  He found two towels wrapped in a brown bag, Wilhelmina and his wallet in one of them, and said, "Let's go for a swim."
  
  A neat, straight path led to the river. Just before they lost sight of the campground, Nick glanced back. It seemed no one would be watching them. The rovers were cooking on a primus stove. He understood why the campsite was so small. As soon as they emerged from the bushes, trees grew further from the shore at regular intervals. The cultivated land reached almost to the shore. The path resembled paths, as if horses had pulled small barges or boats along them generations ago. Perhaps that was so. They had been walking for a long time. Pasture after pasture. It was surprising for a country you'd thought so crowded with people. People... the plague of this planet. Agricultural machinery and farm workers...
  
  Under one of the tall trees, he found a place sheltered like a gazebo in the darkness. A narrow trench filled with dry leaves, like a nest. Mata stared at it for so long that he looked at her with surprise. He asked, "Do you like anything here?"
  
  "This place. Have you seen how neat the banks of this stream are? No debris, branches, or leaves. But here. There are still real leaves here, completely dried out, like a feather bed. I think amateurs come here. Maybe for years on end.
  
  He placed the towel on a tree stump. 'I think you're right. But maybe people rake leaves here to have a comfortable place to take an afternoon nap.'
  
  She took off her bra and panties. "Okay, but this place knows a lot of love. It's sacred somehow. It has its own atmosphere. You can feel it. No one cuts down trees or throws leaves here. Isn't that enough evidence?"
  
  "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, tossing his underwear to one side. "Go ahead, Carter, to prove it, maybe she's wrong."
  
  Mata turned and entered the current. She dove and surfaced a few meters away. "Dive here too. It's nice."
  
  He wasn't one to dive into an unfamiliar river; you couldn't be so foolish as to ignore the scattered boulders. Nick Carter, who sometimes dove from thirty meters, entered the water as smoothly as the fall of a rod. He swam toward the girl with silent strokes. He felt this place deserved peace and reverence, the respect of all those lovers who had found their first love here. Or that she was my good genius, he thought as he swam toward Mata.
  
  "Don't you feel good?" she whispered.
  
  Yes. The water was soothing, the air cool in the evening. Even his breath, close to the calm surface of the water, seemed to fill his lungs with something new, something new and invigorating. Mata pressed herself against him, partially floating, her head level with his. Her hair was quite long, and its wet curls slid down his neck with a gentle softness that caressed him. Another of Mata's good qualities, he thought: no visits to salons. A little self-care with a towel, a comb, a brush, and a bottle of fragrant oil, and her hair was in shape again.
  
  She looked at him, put her hands on either side of his head and kissed him lightly, closing their bodies together in the harmony of two boats rippling side by side on a gentle swell.
  
  He slowly lifted her and kissed both her breasts, an act expressing both homage and passion. When he lowered her again, she was partially supported by his erection. It was a relationship so spiritually satisfying that you wanted to keep it forever, but also disturbing because it made you want to look at nothing else.
  
  She sighed and clasped her strong arms slightly behind his back. He felt her palms open and close, the carefree movements of a healthy child kneading its mother's breast as it drinks milk.
  
  When he finally..., and his hand slid down, she intercepted it and whispered: "No. No hands. Everything is in Javanese, remember?
  
  He still remembered, with a mixture of fear and anticipation, how the memory had surfaced. It would indeed take a little longer, but that was part of the pleasure. "Yes," he murmured as she made her way up and sank onto him. "Yes. I remember."
  
  Pleasure is worth patience. He counted that a hundredfold, feeling her body, oversaturated with warmth, against his, accentuated by the cool water between them. He thought about how peaceful and rewarding life seemed, and he pitied those who said fucking in water wasn't fun. They were mentally stuck in their frustrations and inhibitions. Poor things. It's so much better. Up there, you're separated, there's no fluid connection. Mata closed her legs behind him, and he felt himself floating upward, slowly, with her. "I know. I know," she whispered, then pressed her lips to his.
  
  She knew.
  
  They made their way back to the camp, shrouded in darkness, across the water. Mata was cooking with the friendly hum of the gas stove. She found some curry and simmered the meat in it, some chili for the beans, and thyme and garlic for the salad dressing. Nick ate every last leaf and wasn't at all ashamed of having devoured ten biscuits with his tea. Incidentally, an Australian can now buy himself a lot of biscuits.
  
  He helped her wash the dishes and clean up the mess. When they crawled into their unpacked sleeping bags, they played with each other for a while. Instead of going straight to bed, they did it all over again.
  
  Well, a little? Pleasure in sex, varied sex, wild sex, delicious sex.
  
  It was after an hour that they finally snuggled together in their soft, fluffy nest. "Thank you, darling," Mata whispered. "We can still make each other happy."
  
  "What are you thanking me for? Thank you. You're delicious."
  
  "Yes," she said sleepily. "I love love. Only love and kindness are real. A guru told me that once. Some people he couldn't help. They were stuck in their parents' lies from an early age. Wrong upbringing.
  
  He kissed her closed eyelids languidly. "Sleep, Miss Guru Freud. You must be right. But I'm so tired..." Her last sound was a long, contented sigh.
  
  Nick usually slept like a cat. He could fall asleep on time, concentrate well, and was always alert at the slightest noise. But this night, and forgivably so, he slept like a log. Before he fell asleep, he tried to convince his mind to wake him as soon as anything unusual happened on the road, but his mind seemed to turn angrily away from him that night. Perhaps because he was enjoying those blissful moments with Mata less.
  
  Half a kilometer from the camp, two large Mercedes stopped. Five men approached the three sleeping tents with light, silent footsteps. First, their flashlights shone on the Rover and the Volkswagen. The rest was easy. A quick glance at the Peugeot was enough.
  
  Nick didn't notice them until a powerful beam of light was directed at his eyes. He woke up and jumped up. He quickly closed his eyes again from the bright light. He placed his hands over his eyes. Caught like a small child. Wilhelmina was lying under her sweater next to the suitcase. Perhaps he could have snatched her up in a quick grab, but he forced himself to remain calm. Be patient and just wait for the cards to be shuffled. Mata had played even smarter. She lay motionless. It was as if she were waking up now and was attentively awaiting further developments.
  
  The light from the flashlight turned away from him and was directed at the ground. He noticed this by the disappearance of the glow against his eyelids. "Thank you," he said. "For God's sake, don't shine it on my face anymore."
  
  'Excuse me.' It was Jaap Balleguier's voice. 'We are several interested parties, Mr. Kent. So please cooperate. We want you to hand over the diamonds.'
  
  'Good. I hid them.' Nick stood up, but his eyes were still closed. 'You blinded me with that damn light.' He staggered forward, pretending to be more helpless than he felt. He opened his eyes in the darkness.
  
  "Where are they, Mr. Kent?"
  
  "I told you I hid them."
  
  'Of course. But I won't let you take them. In a tent, in a car, or anywhere outside. We can persuade you if necessary. Make your choice quickly.
  
  What choice? He could sense other people in the dark. Ballegoyer was well-covered from behind. So it was time to use a ruse.
  
  He imagined his ugly, now hard face staring back at him. Balleguier was a strong man, but you shouldn't fear him the way a weakling like Van der Laan would. He's a frightened man who kills you and then doesn't want you to.
  
  'How did you find us?'
  
  'Helicopter. I called one. It's very simple. Diamonds, please.
  
  "Do you work with Van Rijn?
  
  'Not quite. Now, Mr. Kent, shut up...'
  
  It wasn't a bluff. - "You'll find them in this suitcase next to the sleeping bags. To the left. Under the shirt.
  
  'Thank you.'
  
  One of the men entered the tent and returned. The bag rustled as he handed it to Ballegoyer. He could see a little better. He waited another minute. He could kick the lamp aside, but perhaps others had lamps too. Besides, when the shooting started, Mati was in the middle of the line of fire. Ballegoyer snorted contemptuously. "You can keep those stones as souvenirs, Mr. Kent. They're fakes.
  
  Nick was pleased with the darkness. He knew he was blushing. He'd been tricked like a schoolboy. "De Groot swapped them..."
  
  "Of course. He brought a fake bag. Just like the real ones, if you've seen their pictures in the newspapers.
  
  "Was he able to leave?"
  
  'Yes. He and Hazebroek opened the gates again, while Van Rijn and I instructed the police helicopter to keep an eye on you.
  
  "So you're a Dutch special agent. Who was that..."
  
  'How did you come into contact with De Groot?
  
  "I didn't go in. Van Rijn took care of this meeting. Then he will be the mediator. So how do you deal with him afterwards?
  
  "Can you contact De Groot?
  
  "I don't even know where he lives. But he's heard of me as a diamond buyer. He'll know where to find me if he needs me.
  
  "Did you know him before?"
  
  "No. I ran into him by chance in the woods behind Van Rijn's house. I asked him if he was the man who sold the Yenisei diamonds. He saw an opportunity to do it without a middleman, I think. He showed them to me. I think they were different from those fakes. They must have been originals, because he thought maybe I was a reliable buyer."
  
  "Why did you leave so quickly?"
  
  "When you were announced, I thought it might be an attack. I caught up with De Groot and took the bag with me. I told him to contact me and that the deal would still go through.
  
  I thought they should be with a younger man with a faster car."
  
  Balleguier's retort took on a sardonic tone.
  
  "So you became a victim of sudden events."
  
  'That's for sure.'
  
  - What if De Groot says you stole them?
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  'What did you steal? A bag full of fakes from a real jewel thief?
  
  "Ah, so you knew those diamonds were stolen when they were offered to you." He spoke like a policeman: "Now plead guilty."
  
  "As far as I know, they don't belong to anyone who has them. They were mined in a Soviet mine and taken away from there..."
  
  "Huh? So it's not stealing if it happens to Russians?"
  
  "You say so. The lady in the black veil said they were hers."
  
  Nick could once again see clearly that this Balleguier was a master of tricks and diplomacy. But what did it lead to and why?
  
  Another man handed him a card. "If De Groot contacts you, could you call me?"
  
  "Are you still working for Mrs. J?"
  
  Balleguier hesitated for a moment. Nick had the feeling he was about to lift the veil, but ultimately decided against it.
  
  "Yes," the man said. "But I hope you call."
  
  "From what I heard," Nick said, "she might be the first to get those diamonds."
  
  "Perhaps. But as you can see, things have become much more complicated now." He strode into the darkness, flicking the lamp on and off to see where he was going. The men followed him on either side of the tent. Another dark figure appeared from behind the Peugeot, and a fourth from the direction of the stream. Nick sighed with relief. How many of them would there have been together? He should thank his lucky stars that he hadn't grabbed Wilhelmina right away.
  
  He returned to the tent, to the sleeping bags, and tossed the fake diamonds into the trunk. There, he confirmed Wilhelmina was present and that the magazine hadn't been removed. Then he lay down and touched Mata. She hugged him without saying a word.
  
  He stroked her smooth back. "Did you all hear?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "Van Rijn and Balleguier are working together now. And yet they both offered me diamonds for sale. And who are these people anyway? The Dutch mafia?
  
  "No," she answered thoughtfully in the darkness. Her breath brushed softly across his chin. "They're both upstanding citizens."
  
  There was a moment of silence, then they both laughed. "Decent businessmen," Nick said. "It might be Van Rijn, but Balleguier is the agent of the most important businesswoman in the world. They all make a tidy profit, as much as possible if there's a reasonable chance they won't get caught." He remembered Hawk saying, "Who's going to win?"
  
  He searched his photographic memory for the confidential files he'd recently studied at AXE headquarters. They were on international relations. The Soviet Union and the Netherlands were on good terms. True, with a certain coolness, as the Dutch were collaborating with the Chinese in certain areas of nuclear research, in which the Chinese had achieved astonishing success. The Yenisei diamonds didn't fit neatly into this scheme, but still...
  
  He thought about this sleepily for a while, until his watch read a quarter past six. Then he woke up and thought about De Groot and Hasebroek. What would they do now? They needed money for the diamonds, and they were still in contact with van der Laan. So they were in a difficult situation. He kissed Mata as she woke up. "Time to get to work."
  
  They headed east, toward the approaching dawn. The clouds were thick, but the temperature was mild and pleasant. As they passed a tidy town and crossed the railroad tracks, Nick called out, "The town's called America."
  
  "You'll see a lot more American influence here. Motels, supermarkets. It's ruined the whole landscape here. Especially along the main roads and near the cities."
  
  They had breakfast in the cafeteria of a motel that could have been in Ohio. Studying the map, he spotted a highway north that led to Nijmegen and Arnhem. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Nick quickly checked the car. He found it under the seat, a narrow, four-inch plastic box. With flexible wire clips and a frequency control knob, which he hadn't really touched. He showed it to Mate. "One of those Balleguier guys was fiddling around in the dark. This little transmitter tells them where we are."
  
  Mata looked at the small green box. "It's very small."
  
  "You can make these things the size of a peanut. This one is probably cheaper or has a longer lifespan because of the larger batteries, and also the longer range..."
  
  He drove south on the highway instead of north until they reached a Shell gas station, where several cars were parked at the pumps, waiting in line. Nick joined the line and said, "Take a minute and take him to the pump."
  
  He walked forward until he saw a car with a Belgian license plate. He tripped and dropped his pen under the back of the car, stepped forward and said kindly to the driver in French, "I dropped my pen under your car. Could you wait a minute?"
  
  The stocky man behind the wheel smiled kindly and nodded. Nick found his pen and positioned the transmitter under the Belgian car. Picking up the pen, he thanked the man, and they exchanged a few friendly nods. After filling the Peugeot's tank, they turned north.
  
  "Did you stick that transmitter under that other car?" Mata asked. "Yes. If we throw it away, they'll immediately know something's wrong. But maybe they'll follow that other car for a while. That leaves something else. Now they can track us from any other car on the road."
  
  He kept an eye out for the car driving far behind them, made a U-turn in Zutphen, drove along the country road back and forth to the Twente Canal, and no car followed. He shrugged. "I think we've lost them, but it doesn't matter. Van Rijn knows I'm doing business with Van der Laan. But maybe we've confused them a bit."
  
  They had lunch in Hengelo and reached Geesteren just after two o'clock. They found their way to the Van der Laan estate outside. It was a densely wooded area-probably near the German border-with a forecourt through which they drove for about five hundred yards along a dirt road beneath trimmed trees and between solid fences. It was a pale version of Van Rijn's palatial residence. The price of the two was difficult to compare, but they could only have belonged to wealthy people. One estate had centuries-old trees, a huge house, and plenty of water, because that was what the old aristocracy sought. The other-Van der Laan's-had a lot of land, but fewer buildings, and almost no streams were visible. Nick drove the Peugeot slowly along the winding road and parked it in a gravel lot, among about twenty other cars. He didn't see Daph anywhere, nor did he see the large limousines favored by Van Rijn and Ball-Guyer. But there was still a driveway behind the property, where cars could be parked. Somewhere down from the parking lot was a modern swimming pool, two tennis courts, and three bowling alleys. Both tennis courts were in use, but there were only about six people around the pool. It was still overcast.
  
  Nick locked the Peugeot. "Let's go for a walk, Mata. Let's have a look around before the party starts.
  
  They passed the terrace and sports fields, then circled the house. A gravel path led to garages, stables, and wooden outbuildings. Nick led the way. In a field to the right of the barns, two enormous balloons hovered, guarded by a man pumping something into them. Nick wondered if they were helium or hydrogen. His keen eyes took in every detail. Above the garage were living quarters or staff quarters with six parking spaces. Three small cars were neatly parked next to each other in front, and the driveway on this side of the house crossed a rise between meadows and disappeared into the woods.
  
  Nick led Mata into the garage when Van der Laan's voice came from behind them. "Hello, Mr. Kent."
  
  Nick turned and waved with a smile. 'Hi.'
  
  Van der Laan arrived slightly out of breath. He'd been hastily informed. He was wearing a white sports shirt and brown trousers, still looking like a businessman trying his best to maintain an impeccable appearance. His shoes were shiny.
  
  The news of Nick's arrival clearly upset Van der Laan. He struggled to overcome his surprise and take control of the situation. "Look at this, look at me. I wasn't sure you'd come..."
  
  "You have a wonderful place here," Nick said. He introduced Mata. Van der Laan was welcoming. "What made you think I wouldn't come?" Nick looked at the balloons. One was covered in strange patterns, swirls and lines of fantastical colors, all sorts of sexual symbols in a fluttering burst of glee.
  
  "I... I heard...
  
  - Has De Groot arrived yet?
  
  'Yes. I notice we're becoming frank. It's a strange situation. You both intended to leave me alone, but circumstances have forced you to return to me. It's fate.
  
  "Is De Groot angry with me? I took his package from him."
  
  The twinkle in Van der Laan's eyes suggested that De Groot had told him he had fooled "Norman Kent"-and that De Groot was genuinely angry. Van der Laan spread his hands.
  
  "Ah, not quite. After all, De Groot is a businessman. He just wants to make sure he gets his money and gets rid of these diamonds. Should I go to him?
  
  'Okay. But I can't do any business until tomorrow morning. That is, if he needs cash. I receive a significant amount through a messenger.'
  
  "Messenger?"
  
  "A friend, of course."
  
  Van der Laan thought. He was trying to find a weak spot. Where was this messenger when Kent was with Van Rijn? According to him, Norman Kent had no friends in the Netherlands-at least no trusted people who could go and fetch large sums of money for him. "Could you call him and ask if he could come earlier?"
  
  'No. That's impossible. I'll be very careful with your people...'
  
  "You have to be careful with certain people," Van der Laan said dryly. "I'm not so glad you discussed this matter with Van Rijn first. And now you see what's going to happen. Since they say these diamonds were stolen, everyone is showing off their greedy fingers. And this Balleguier? Do you know who this works for?"
  
  'No, I suppose it's just a potential diamond dealer,' Nick replied innocently.
  
  Led by the owner, they reached the curve of the terrace overlooking the pool. Nick noticed that Van der Laan was ushering them away from the garages and outbuildings as quickly as he could. "So we'll just have to wait and see. And De Groot will have to stay, because of course he won't leave without money."
  
  "Do you think this is crazy?"
  
  'Well, no.'
  
  Nick wondered what plans and ideas were swirling in that neatly combed head. He could almost sense Van der Laan pondering the idea of getting rid of De Groot and Hasebroek. Small men with big ambitions are dangerous. They're the kind who are deeply enamored with the belief that greed can't be bad. Van der Laan pressed a button attached to the balustrade, and a Javanese man in a white jacket approached them. "Let's go get your luggage from the car," the host said. "Fritz will show you to your rooms."
  
  At the Peugeot, Nick said, "I have De Groot's bag with me. Can I give it back to him now?
  
  "Let's wait until dinner. Then we'll have enough time."
  
  Van der Laan left them at the foot of the grand staircase in the main building's foyer, after urging them to enjoy swimming, tennis, horseback riding, and other pleasures. He looked like the overly busy owner of a too-small resort. Fritz led them into two adjoining rooms. Nick whispered to Mata as Fritz stowed his luggage, "Ask him to bring up two whiskeys and a soda."
  
  After Fritz left, Nick went to Mata's room. It was a modest room connected to his room, with a shared bathroom. "How about sharing a bath with me, ma'am?"
  
  She slid into his arms. "I want to share everything with you."
  
  - Fritz is Indonesian, isn't he?
  
  'It's true. I'd like to talk to him for a minute...'
  
  "Come on. I'm leaving now. Try to befriend him."
  
  "I think this will work."
  
  'I think so too.' But calm down. Tell him you've just arrived in this country and you're finding it difficult to live here. Use all your powers, my dear. No man could stand that. He's probably lonely. Since we're in different rooms anyway, it shouldn't bother him in any way. Just drive him crazy.
  
  "Okay, darling, as you say." She raised her face to him and he kissed her sweet nose.
  
  As Nick unpacked, he hummed the theme song to "Finlandia." He needed only one excuse, and that would be it. And yet, one of man's most wonderful inventions was sex, wonderful sex. Sex with Dutch beauties. You've almost done everything with it. He hung up his clothes, got out his toiletries, and placed his typewriter on the table by the window. Even this very nice outfit was nothing compared to a beautiful, intelligent woman. There was a knock. Opening the door, he looked at De Groot. The little man was as stern and formal as always. There was still no smile.
  
  "Hello," Nick said warmly. "We made it. They couldn't catch us. Did you have any trouble getting through that gate? I lost some paint there myself."
  
  De Groot looked at him coldly and calculatingly. "They ran back into the house after Harry and I left. We had no problem getting the doorman to open that gate again."
  
  "We've had some difficulties. Helicopters overhead and all that." Nick handed him a brown bag. De Groot only glanced at it. "They're fine. I haven't even looked at them yet. I haven't had time."
  
  De Groot looked confused. "And yet you came... here?"
  
  "We were supposed to meet here, weren't we? Where else should I go?
  
  "I... I understand."
  
  Nick chuckled encouragingly. "Of course, you're wondering why I didn't go straight to Amsterdam, aren't you? To wait there for your call. But why else would you need an intermediary? You won't, but I do. Maybe I can do business with Van der Laan for the long haul. I don't know this country. Getting diamonds across the border to where I want them is a problem. No, I'm not one to do everything alone like you. I'm a businessman and I can't afford to burn all the ships behind me. So you just need to relax for a while, although I understand that you can make a better deal with Van der Laan. He doesn't have to work hard for his money. You could also hint that you could do business with me directly, but-say it among ourselves-I wouldn't do that if I were you. He said we could talk business after lunch.
  
  De Groot had no choice. He was more confused than convinced. 'Money. Van der Laan said you had a messenger. Hasn't he left for Van Rijn yet?'
  
  'Of course not. We have a schedule. I've put it on hold. I'll call him early in the morning. Then he'll come, or he'll leave if we don't come to an agreement.'
  
  'I understand.' De Groot clearly didn't, but he would wait. 'Then there's one more thing...'
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "Your revolver. Of course, I told Van der Laan what happened when we met. We... he thinks you should leave it with him until you leave. Of course, I know that American idea that they keep that beauty away from my revolver, but in this case it could be a gesture of confidence."
  
  Nick frowned. The way De Groot was now, he'd better proceed with caution. "I don't like doing this. Van Rijn and the others might find us here."
  
  "Van der Laan hires sufficiently qualified specialists.
  
  He watches over all the roads."
  
  "Oh, really." Nick shrugged and smiled. Then he found Wilhelmina, which he'd hidden in one of his jackets on a clothes rack. He ejected the magazine, pulled back the bolt, and let the bullet fly out of the chamber and catch it in midair. "I believe we can see Van der Laan's point of view. The boss is in his own house. Please."
  
  De Groot left with the pistol in his belt. Nick winced. They'd search his luggage as soon as they got the chance. Well, good luck. He unfastened the straps from Hugo's long sheath, and the stiletto became an unusually narrow letter opener in his letter case. He searched for a while for the hidden microphone, but couldn't find it. Which didn't mean anything, because in your own home, you have every chance and opportunity to hide something like that in the wall. Mata entered through the adjoining bathroom. She was laughing.
  
  "We got along well. He's terribly lonely. He's been involved with Van der Laan for three years now and makes a good living, but... -
  
  Nick put his finger to his lips and led her into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower. He said, as the water splashed, "These rooms may be bugged. In the future, we will discuss all important matters here." She nodded, and Nick continued, "Don't worry, you'll be seeing him often, dear. If you get the chance, you should tell him you're afraid of Van der Laan, and especially that big, neckless man who works for him. He looks like some kind of monkey. Ask Fritz if that man is capable of hurting little girls, and see what he says. Try to find out his name, if you can.
  
  'Okay, dear. Sounds simple.
  
  "It can hardly be difficult for you, dear."
  
  He turned off the tap, and they entered Mata's room, where they drank whiskey and soda and listened to soft jazz music emanating from the built-in speaker. Nick studied it carefully. "This could be a great place for a listening microphone," he thought.
  
  Although the clouds didn't completely clear, they swam in the pool for a while, played tennis, which Nick almost let Mata win, and were shown the estate once occupied by Van der Laan. De Groot didn't show up again, but that afternoon he saw Helmi and about ten other guests at the pool. Nick wondered what the difference was between Van der Laan and Van Rijn. It was a generation that always sought thrills-Van Rijn occupied real estate.
  
  Van der Laan was proud of the balloons. The gas had been partially released, and they were moored with heavy Manila ropes. "These are new balloons," he explained proudly. "We're just checking them for leaks. They're very good. We'll be flying in the balloon in the morning. Would you like to try it, Mr. Kent? I mean, Norman."
  
  "Yeah," Nick replied. "What about the power lines here?"
  
  "Oh, you're already thinking ahead. Very clever. This is one of our greatest dangers. One of them is running to the east, but it doesn't bother us much. We only make short flights, then release the gas and a truck picks us up.
  
  Nick himself preferred gliders, but he kept that thought to himself. Two large, multicolored balloons? An interesting status symbol. Or was there something else? What would a psychiatrist say? In any case, he'd have to ask Mata... Van der Laan didn't offer to explore the garages, though they were allowed a brief glimpse of the meadow, where three chestnut horses stood in a small, enclosed space in the shade of the trees. More status symbols? Mata would still be busy. They walked slowly back to the house.
  
  They were expected to appear at the table dressed, though not in evening gowns. Mata had received a hint from Fritz. She told Nick that she and Fritz got along very well. Now the situation was almost ready for her to ask questions.
  
  Nick pulled Helmi aside for a moment while they sipped an aperitif. Mata was the center of attention across the covered patio. "Do you fancy a little fun, my exceptionally beautiful woman?"
  
  'Well, of course; naturally.' It didn't really sound like it had before. There was a sense of discomfort about her, just as there had been with van der Laan. He noticed that she was starting to look a little nervous again. Why? 'I see you're having a wonderful time. She looks well.'
  
  "My old friend and I met by chance."
  
  "Well, she's not that old either. Besides, it's not like she's a body you'd run into by accident."
  
  Nick also glanced at Mata, who was laughing merrily among the excited crowd. She wore a creamy white evening gown, draped precariously over one shoulder, like a sari fastened with a gold pin. With her black hair and brown skin, the effect was stunning. Helmi, in a stylish blue dress, was a classy model, but still-how do you measure a woman's true beauty?
  
  "She's kind of my business partner," he said. "I'll tell you all about it later. What's your room like?"
  
  Helmi looked at him, laughed mockingly, then decided that his serious smile was genuine and seemed pleased. "North wing. Second door on the right."
  
  The rice table was superb. Twenty-eight guests were seated at two tables. De Groot and Hasebroek exchanged brief formal greetings with Mata and Nick. Wine, beer, and cognac were brought in by the case. It was late when a noisy group of people spilled out into the courtyard, dancing and kissing, or gathered around the roulette table in the library. "Les Craps" was run by a polite, portly man who could have been a Las Vegas croupier. He was good. So good that it took Nick forty minutes to realize he was playing a bet with a triumphant, half-drunk young man who had placed a stack of bills on the card and allowed himself to bet 20,000 guilders. The guy was expecting a six, but it turned out to be a five. Nick shook his head. He would never understand people like van der Laan.
  
  He left and found Mata on a deserted part of the porch. As he approached, the white jacket flew away.
  
  "It was Fritz," Mata whispered. "We're very close friends now. And fighters too. The big man's name is Paul Meyer. He's hiding in one of the apartments in the back, with two others Fritz calls Beppo and Mark. They're definitely capable of hurting a girl, and Fritz promised to protect me and maybe make sure I get away from them, but I'll have to grease his pants. Honey, he's very sweet. Don't hurt him. He heard that Paul-or Eddie, as he's sometimes called-tried to hurt Helmi.
  
  Nick nodded thoughtfully. "He tried to kill her. I think Phil called it off, and that was it. Maybe Paul went too far on his own. But he still missed. He also tried to pressure me, but it didn't work."
  
  "Something's going on. I saw Van der Laan going in and out of his office several times. Then De Groot and Hasebroek were back in the house, then outside again. They weren't acting like people who sit quietly in the evenings."
  
  'Thank you. Keep an eye on them, but make sure they don't notice you. Go to sleep if you want, but don't look for me.'
  
  Mata kissed him tenderly. "If it's business and not a blonde."
  
  "Darling, this blonde is a businesswoman. You know as well as I do that I only come home to you, even if it's in a tent." He met Helmi in the company of a gray-haired man who looked very drunk.
  
  "It was Paul Mayer, Beppo, and Mark who tried to shoot you. These are the same people who tried to interrogate me at my hotel. Van der Laan probably thought we were working together at first, but then changed his mind."
  
  She went rigid, like a mannequin in his arms. 'Ow.'
  
  "You already knew that, didn't you. Maybe we'll take a walk in the garden?
  
  'Yes. I mean yes.'
  
  "Yes, you already knew that, and yes, do you want to go for a walk?"
  
  She stumbled on the stairs as he led her off the porch and onto a path dimly lit by small, multicolored lights. "Maybe you're still in danger," he said, but he didn't believe it. "Then why did you come here, where they have a good chance of getting you if they want to?"
  
  She sat down on the bench in the gazebo and sobbed softly. He held her close and tried to calm her down. "How the hell was I supposed to know what to do?" she said, shocked. "My whole world just fell apart. I never thought Phil..."
  
  You just didn't want to think about it. If you had, you would have realized that what you'd discovered could have been his undoing. So if they even suspected you'd discovered something, you'd immediately walked into the lion's den."
  
  "I wasn't sure if they knew. I was only in Kelly's office for a few minutes and put everything back the way it was. But when he walked in, he looked at me so funny that I kept thinking, 'He knows - he doesn't know - he knows.'"
  
  Her eyes were wet.
  
  "From what happened, we can tell that he did know, or at least thought, that you saw something. Now tell me what exactly you saw."
  
  "On his drawing board it was enlarged twenty-five or thirty times. It was an intricate drawing with mathematical formulas and lots of notes. I only remember the words 'Us Mark-Martin 108g. Hawkeye. Egglayer RE.'
  
  "You have a good memory. And this print was an enlargement of some of the samples and detailed cards you carried with you?
  
  'Yes. You couldn't make anything out of the grid of photographs themselves, even if you knew where to look. Only if you zoomed in really high. That's when I realized I was a courier in some kind of spy case.' He handed her his handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. 'I thought Phil had nothing to do with it.'
  
  - Now you know it. Kelly must have called him and told him what he thought he knew about you when you left.
  
  - Norman Kent - who are you anyway?
  
  "It doesn't matter now, dear."
  
  "What does this dot grid mean?"
  
  He chose his words carefully. "If you read every technical journal about the universe and rockets, and every word in the New York Times, you'll be able to figure it out for yourself."
  
  "But that's not the case. Who could do such a thing?
  
  "I'm trying my best, even though I'm already a few weeks behind. Egglayer RE is our new satellite with a polyatomic payload, dubbed Robot Eagle. I think the information you had with you when you arrived in Holland, Moscow, Beijing, or any other high-paying client could help with the telemetry details.
  
  "So it works?"
  
  "Even worse. What is its purpose and how is it brought to its goal? Radio frequencies that direct it and order it to drop a cluster of nuclear bombs. And that's not pleasant at all, because then you have every chance of getting your own bombs on your head. Try turning that into international politics."
  
  She started crying again. 'Oh my God. I didn't know.'
  
  He hugged her. "We can go further than this." He tried to explain it as well as possible, but at the same time to anger her. "This was a highly effective information conduit through which data was smuggled out of the United States. At least for several years. Military information, industrial secrets were stolen, and they appeared all over the world as if they had just been sent through the mail. I believe you stumbled upon this conduit.
  
  She used the handkerchief again. When she looked at him, her beautiful face was angry.
  
  "They could die. I don't believe you got all this from the New York Times. Can I help you with something?
  
  "Perhaps. For now, I think it's best that you just continue doing what you've been doing. You've been living with this tension for several days, so you'll be fine. I'll find a way to get our suspicions to the US government."
  
  They will tell you if you should keep your job at Manson or take a vacation.
  
  Her bright blue eyes met his. He was proud to see that she was in control again. "You're not telling me everything," she said. "But I trust you to tell me more if you can."
  
  He kissed her. It wasn't a long hug, but it was warm. You can count on an American-Dutch girl in distress. He murmured, "When you get back to your room, put a chair under your doorknob. Just in case. Get back to Amsterdam as quickly as you can so as not to anger Phil. I'll contact you then."
  
  He left her on the patio and returned to his room, where he traded his white jacket for a dark coat. He disassembled his typewriter and assembled its parts, first into a trigger mechanism for a non-automatic pistol, then into the five-round pistol itself-large but reliable, accurate, and with a powerful shot from its 12-inch barrel. He also strapped Hugo to his forearm.
  
  The next five hours were grueling, but informative. He slipped out the side door and saw the party drawing to a close. The guests had disappeared inside, and he watched with secret pleasure as the lights in the rooms dimmed.
  
  Nick moved through the blooming garden like a dark shadow. He wandered through the stables, the garage, and the outbuildings. He followed two men to the guardhouse from the driveway and the men who walked back to the official residence. He followed another man for at least a mile along a dirt road until he crossed the fence. This was another entrance and exit back. The man used a small flashlight to find his way around. Philip apparently wanted security at night.
  
  Returning to the house, he saw Paul Meyer, Beppo, and three others in the office garage. Van der Laan had come to visit them after midnight. At three in the morning, a black Cadillac drove up the driveway behind the house and returned shortly thereafter. Nick heard the muffled murmur of the onboard radio. When the Cadillac returned, it stopped at one of the large outbuildings, and Nick saw three dark figures enter. He lay face down among the bushes, partially blinded by the large vehicle's headlights.
  
  The car was parked again, and two men emerged through the rear driveway. Nick crawled around the building, forced open the back door, then retreated and hid again to see if he'd caused an alarm. But the night was silent, and he sensed, but didn't see, a shadowy figure creeping past the building, examining it as he had moments ago, but with a greater sense of direction, as if he knew where to go. The dark figure found the door and waited. Nick rose from the flowerbed where he'd been lying and stood behind the figure, raising his heavy revolver. "Hello, Fritz."
  
  The Indonesian wasn't shocked. He turned slowly. "Yes, Mr. Kent."
  
  "Are you watching De Groot?" Nick asked quietly.
  
  A long silence. Then Fritz said quietly: "Yes, he's not in his room.
  
  "It's nice that you take such good care of your guests." Fritz didn't answer. "With so many people all over the house, it's not that easy to find him. Would you kill him if you had to?"
  
  'Who are you?'
  
  "A man with a much simpler task than yours. You want to catch De Groot and take the diamonds, right?
  
  Nick heard Fritz answer, "Yes."
  
  "They have three prisoners here. Do you think one of them could be your colleague?
  
  'I don't think so. I think I should go and see.
  
  "Trust me when I tell you you care about these diamonds?"
  
  'Maybe. .
  
  "Are you armed?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  'Me too. Let's go now and see?
  
  The building houses a gym. They entered through the showers and saw saunas and a badminton court. Then they approached a dimly lit room.
  
  "That's their security," Nick whispered.
  
  A corpulent man dozed in the hallway. "One of Van der Laan's men," Fritz muttered.
  
  They worked on him quietly and efficiently. Nick found some rope, and he and Fritz quickly tied him up. They covered his mouth with his own handkerchief, and Nick took care of his Beretta.
  
  In the large gymnasium, they found Ballegoyer, van Rijn, and Nick's old friend, a detective, handcuffed to steel rings in the wall. The detective's eyes were red and swollen.
  
  "Fritz," Nick said, "go and see if the fat man at the door has the keys to those handcuffs." He looked at the detective. "How did they get you?"
  
  "Gas. It blinded me for a while.
  
  Fritz returned. "No keys." He examined the steel ring. "We need tools."
  
  "We'd better get this straight first," Nick said. "Mr. van Rijn, do you still want to sell me these diamonds?"
  
  "I wish I had never heard of this. But it's not just about profit for me.
  
  "No, it's always just a side effect, isn't it? Do you intend to detain De Groot?
  
  "I think he killed my brother."
  
  "I feel sorry for you." Nick looked at Balleguier. "Mrs. J, is she still interested in the deal?"
  
  Balleguier was the first to regain his composure. He looked cold. "We want De Groot arrested and the diamonds returned to their rightful owners.
  
  "Oh, yes, it's a diplomatic matter," Nick sighed. "Is this a measure to assuage their irritation that you're helping the Chinese with their ultra-centrifuge problem?"
  
  "We need something because we are on the edge in at least three places."
  
  "You're a very well-informed diamond buyer, Mr. Kent," the detective said. "Mr. Balleguier and I are currently working together. Do you know what this man is doing to you?"
  
  "Fritz? Of course. He's from the opposing team. He's here to monitor Van der Laan's courier operations." He handed the Beretta to Balleguier, telling the detective, "Excuse me, but I think he could use a pistol better until your eyesight improves. Fritz, would you like to find any tools?"
  
  'Certainly.'
  
  "Then release them and come to me at Van der Laan's office. The diamonds, and possibly what I'm looking for, are probably in his safe. Therefore, he and De Groot are unlikely to be far away.
  
  Nick stepped out and ran across the open space. When he reached the flat patio tiles, someone was standing in the darkness beyond the glow from the porch.
  
  'Stop!'
  
  "This is Norman Kent," Nick said.
  
  Paul Meyer answered from the darkness, one hand behind his back. "Strange time to be outside. Where have you been?"
  
  'What kind of question is that? You probably have something to hide, by the way?
  
  "I think we better go see Mr. Van der Laan."
  
  He pulled his hand out from behind his back. There was something in it.
  
  "No!" Nick roared.
  
  But, of course, Mr. Meyer didn't listen. Nick aimed the gun, fired, and quickly dove to the side in a split second. An act only possible through years of training.
  
  He rolled over, got to his feet and ran a few yards away, his eyes closed.
  
  After the shot, the hissing sound might not have been heard, more or less drowned out by Paul Meyer's groans. The fog spread like a white ghost, the gas taking effect.
  
  Nick ran across the outer courtyard and jumped into the inner courtyard.
  
  Someone flicked the main switch, and colored lights and spotlights flashed throughout the house. Nick ran into the main hall and hid behind the sofa as a pistol went off from the doorway on the far side. He caught a glimpse of Beppo, perhaps excited and instinctively firing at the figure that suddenly emerged from the night, pistol in hand.
  
  Nick sank to the floor. Beppo, perplexed, shouted, "Who is this? Show yourself."
  
  Doors slammed, people screamed, footsteps thundered down the hallways. Nick didn't want the house to turn into a shooting gallery. He pulled out an unusually thick blue ballpoint pen. A smoke grenade. No one in the room could accidentally become a victim. Nick pulled out the detonator and threw it at Beppo.
  
  "Get out," Beppo yelled. The orange projectile crashed back toward the wall and landed behind Nick.
  
  This Beppo didn't lose his composure. He had the courage to throw her back. Bwooammm!
  
  Nick barely had time to open his mouth to absorb the air pressure. Fortunately, he hadn't used the fragmentation grenade. He rose to his feet and found himself in thick gray smoke. He crossed the room and emerged from the artificial cloud, his revolver in front of him.
  
  Beppo lay on the ground, amidst broken pottery. Mata stood over him, the bottom of an oriental vase in her hands. Her beautiful black eyes turned to Nick, shining with relief.
  
  "Excellent," said Nick, my compliments. "Quick - work. But now go warm up the Peugeot and wait for me.
  
  She ran out into the street. A brave girl, Mata was useful, but these guys weren't playing games. What she had to do was not only start the car, but also get to it safely.
  
  Nick burst into Van der Laan's office. De Groot and his employer were standing by the open safe... Van der Laan was busy stuffing papers into a large briefcase. De Groot saw Nick first.
  
  A small automatic pistol appeared in his hands. He fired a well-aimed shot through the door where Nick had stood a moment earlier. Nick dodged before the small pistol spat out a series of shots and darted into Vae der Laan's bathroom. It was a good thing De Groot hadn't had enough shooting practice to be able to hit the target instinctively.
  
  Nick peered out the door at knee height. A bullet flew right over his head. He ducked back. How many shots had that damn gun fired? He'd already counted six.
  
  He glanced around quickly, grabbed the towel, rolled it into a ball, then shoved it at the door at head level. Wham! The towel tugged at his arm. If only he had a moment to aim, De Groot wasn't such a bad shot. He held the towel out again. Silence. On the second floor, a door slammed. Someone shouted. Feet pounded the hallways again. He couldn't hear if De Groot inserted a new magazine into the pistol. Nick sighed. Now was the time to take a risk. He jumped into the room and turned toward the desk and the safe, the gun pointed at him. The window overlooking the courtyard slammed shut. The curtains moved briefly.
  
  Nick jumped onto the windowsill and pushed the window open with his shoulder. In the thin, gray morning light, De Groot could be seen running out the porch at the back of the house. Nick ran after him and reached the corner, where he encountered a strange scene.
  
  Van der Laan and De Groot split up. Van der Laan, carrying his briefcase, ran to the right, while De Groot, carrying his usual bag, ran toward the garage. Van Rijn, Ballegoyer, and the detective emerged from the gym. The detective had the Beretta that Nick had given to Ballegoyer. He shouted at De Groot, "Stop!" and fired almost immediately afterward. De Groot staggered but didn't fall. Ballegoyer placed his hand on the detective's and said, "Please."
  
  'Here you go.' He handed the gun to Ballegoyer.
  
  Ballegoyer took quick but careful aim and pulled the trigger. De Groot crouched in the corner of the garage. The game was over for him. The Daf squealed out of the garage. Harry Hazebroek was at the wheel. Ballegoyer raised his pistol again, took careful aim, but ultimately decided not to shoot. "We'll get him," he muttered.
  
  Nick saw all this as he descended the stairs and followed Van der Lan. They didn't see him, nor did they see Philip Van der Lan running past the barn.
  
  Where could Van der Laan have gone? Three of the gym workers were holding him back from the car garage, but perhaps he had a car hidden somewhere else. As he ran, Nick thought he should use one of the grenades. Holding his pistol like a relay baton, Nick ran around the corner of the barn. There he saw Van der Laan sitting in one of the two hot air balloons, while Van der Laan was busy dumping ballast overboard, and the balloon was rapidly gaining altitude. The large pink balloon was already twenty meters in the air. Nick took aim; Van der Laan had his back to him, but Nick lowered his pistol again. He'd killed enough people, but he'd never intended to. The wind quickly moved the balloon out of his gun's reach. The sun hadn't yet risen, and the balloon looked like a mottled, faint pink pearl against the gray dawn sky.
  
  Nick ran to another brightly colored balloon. It was tethered to four anchor points, but he wasn't familiar with the release. He jumped into the small plastic basket and cut the ropes with a stiletto. It slowly floated upward, following van der Lan. But it was rising too slowly. What was holding it back? Ballast?
  
  Sandbags hung over the edge of the basket. Nick cut the straps with a stiletto, the basket rose, and he quickly gained altitude, reaching Van der Lan's level within minutes. The distance between them, however, was at least a hundred yards. Nick cut off his last sandbag.
  
  Suddenly, it became very quiet and calm, except for the gentle hum of the wind in the ropes. The sounds coming from below became quiet. Nick raised his hand and gestured for van der Laan to descend to the ground.
  
  Van der Laan responded by throwing the briefcase overboard - but Nick was convinced it was an empty briefcase.
  
  Nevertheless, Nick's round balloon approached and rose above Van der Laan's. Why? Nick guessed it was because his balloon was a foot larger in diameter, allowing it to be picked up by the wind. Van der Laan chose his new balloon, but it was smaller. Nick threw his shoes, his gun, and his shirt overboard. Van der Laan responded by discarding his clothes and everything else. Nick was now practically floating beneath the other man. They looked at each other with an expression as if there was nothing left to throw overboard but themselves.
  
  Nick suggested, "Come down."
  
  "Go to hell," shouted Van der Laan.
  
  Furious, Nick stared straight ahead. What a situation. It looked like the wind would soon blow me past him, after which he could simply descend to the ground and disappear. Before I had a chance to descend too, he would be long gone. Nick examined his basket, which was attached to eight ropes rising up to meet in the web that held the balloon together. Nick cut four ropes and tied them together. He hoped they were strong enough, as they had passed all the tests, for he was a heavy man. Then he climbed up the four ropes and hung like a spider in the first web of four ropes. He began to cut the corner ropes that still held the basket. The basket fell to the ground, and Nick decided to look down.
  
  His balloon rose. A scream sounded beneath him as he felt his balloon make contact with the one containing Van der Laan. He came so close to Van der Laan that he could have touched him with his fishing rod. Van der Laan looked at him with wild eyes. "Where's your basket?"
  
  'On the ground. You get more pleasure that way.'
  
  Nick continued upward, his balloon shaking the other balloon, and his opponent clutching the basket with both hands. As he slid toward the other balloon, he plunged the stiletto into the balloon's fabric and began to cut. The balloon, releasing gas, shook for a moment, and then began to descend. Not far above his head, Nick found a valve. He carefully operated it, and his balloon began to descend.
  
  Below him, he saw the web of the torn balloon gather itself in a web of ropes, forming a sort of parachute. He remembered that this was a common occurrence. It had saved the lives of hundreds of balloonists. He released more gas. When he finally dropped into an open field, he saw a Peugeot with Mati at the wheel driving down a country road.
  
  He ran toward the car, waving his arms. "Excellent timing and place. Did you see where that balloon landed?
  
  'Yes. Come with me.'
  
  When they were on their way, she said, "You scared the girl. I couldn't see how that balloon fell.
  
  "Did you see him come down?"
  
  'Not exactly. But did you see something?'
  
  'No. The trees hid him from view when he landed.
  
  Van der Laan lay tangled in a heap of cloth and rope.
  
  Van Rijn, Ballegoyer, Fritz, and the detective tried to untangle him, but then they stopped. "He's hurt," the detective said. "He's probably broken his leg, at least. Let's just wait for the ambulance to arrive." He looked at Nick. "Did you get him down?"
  
  "I'm sorry," Nick said honestly. "I should have done it. I could have shot him, too. Did you find the diamonds at De Groot's?"
  
  "Yes." He handed Nick a cardboard folder, tied together with two ribbons they had found in the sad remains of the much-bright balloon. "Is this what you were looking for?"
  
  It contained sheets of paper with detailed information about the engravings, photocopies, and a roll of film. Nick studied the irregular dot pattern on one of the enlargements.
  
  "That's what I wanted. It's starting to look like he would make copies of everything that came through his hands. Do you know what that means?
  
  "I think I know. We've been watching for months. He was supplying information to many spies. We didn't know what he was getting, where he was getting it, or from whom. Now we know."
  
  "Better late than never," Nick replied. "At least now we can figure out what we've lost and then make changes where necessary. It's good to know that the enemy knows."
  
  Fritz joined them. Nick's face was inscrutable. Fritz saw it. He picked up de Groot's brown bag and said, "We all got what we wanted, didn't we?"
  
  "If you want to see it that way," Nick said. "But perhaps Mr. Ballegoyer has other ideas about it..."
  
  "No," Ballegoyer said. "We believe in international cooperation when it comes to a crime like this." Nick wondered what Mrs. J. might have meant.
  
  Fritz looked pitifully at the helpless Van der Laan. "He was too greedy. He should have kept De Groot under more control.
  
  Nick nodded. "That spy channel is closed. Are there any other diamonds where these were found?
  
  "Unfortunately, there will be other channels. They always have been and always will be. As for diamonds, I'm sorry, but that's classified information.
  
  Nick chuckled. "You always had to admire a witty opponent. But not with microfilms anymore. Smuggling in that direction will be more closely scrutinized." Fritz lowered his voice to a whisper. "There's one last piece of information that hasn't been delivered yet. I can pay you a small fortune."
  
  "Are you referring to the Mark-Martin 108G plans?"
  
  'Yes.'
  
  "I'm sorry, Fritz. I'm damn glad you won't get them. That's what makes my job worthwhile - knowing you're not just collecting old news.
  
  Fritz shrugged and smiled. They walked to the cars together.
  
  The following Tuesday, Nick saw Helmi off on a plane to New York. It was a warm farewell with promises for the future. He returned to Mati's apartment for lunch and thought, "Carter, you're fickle, but that's nice."
  
  She asked him if he knew who the men were who had tried to rob them on the road. He assured her they were thieves, knowing Van Rijn would never do such a thing again.
  
  Mata's friend, Paula, was an angelic beauty with a quick, innocent smile and wide eyes. After three drinks, they were all on the same level.
  
  "Yes, we all loved Herbie," said Paula. He became a member of the Red Pheasant Club.
  
  You know what it is - with pleasure, communication, music, dancing and so on. He wasn't used to drinking and drugs, but he still tried it.
  
  He wanted to be one of us, I know what happened. He was condemned by the public when he said, "I'm going to go home and rest." We never saw him again after that. Nick frowned. "How do you know what happened?"
  
  "Ah, that often happens, though it's often used as an excuse by the police," Paula said sadly, shaking her pretty head. "They say he became so delirious with drugs that he thought he could fly and wanted to fly across the channel. But you'll never know the truth.
  
  "So someone could have pushed him into the water?"
  
  "Okay, we didn't see anything. Of course, we don't know anything. It was so late..."
  
  Nick nodded seriously and said, reaching for the phone, "You should talk to a friend of mine. I have a feeling he'll be very happy to meet you when he has time.
  
  Her light eyes sparkled. "If he's anything like you, Norman, I think I'll like him too."
  
  Nick chuckled and then called Hawk.
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  Temple of Fear
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Temple of Fear
  
  
  
  Dedicated to the people of the secret services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  It was the first time Nick Carter got tired of sex.
  
  He didn't think it was possible. Especially on an April afternoon, when the sap flows through trees and people, and the sound of the cuckoo, at least figuratively speaking, drowns out the agony of the Washington Movement.
  
  And yet, this dowdy woman at the lectern made sex tiresome. Nick settled his thin body a little deeper into the uncomfortable study chair, stared at the toes of his handmade English shoes, and tried not to listen. It wasn't easy. Dr. Murial Milholland had a light but penetrating voice. Nick had never, as far as he could remember, made love to a girl named Murial. Spelled with an "a." He glanced furtively at the mimeographed plan on the arm of his chair. Aha. Spelled with an "a." Like a cigar? And the woman speaking was as sexy as a cigar...
  
  "The Russians, of course, have been running sex schools in conjunction with their spy agencies for some time. The Chinese, as far as we know, haven't yet imitated them, perhaps because they consider the Russians, as well as ourselves in the West, decadent. Be that as it may, however, the Russians do use sex, both heterosexual and homosexual, as the most important weapon in their espionage operations. It's simply a weapon, and it's proven very effective. They've invented and implemented new techniques that make Mali Khan look like an amateur teenager.
  
  "The two most important factual sources of information obtained through sex are, in terms of time, information obtained by slips of the tongue during exciting foreplay and in the lulling, apathetic, and very unexpected moments immediately after orgasm. Taking Kinsey's basic figures and combining them with Sykes's data in his important work, 'The Relation of Foreplay to Successful Intercourse Leading to Double Orgasm,' we find that the average foreplay is just under fifteen minutes, the average time to active coitus is about three minutes, and the average time or duration of the after-effects of sexual euphoria is just over five minutes. Now let us balance the books and find that in the average sexual encounter between people, in which at least one of the participants is an agent seeking information from the partner, there is a period of about nineteen minutes and five seconds during which the participant, whom we will call the 'seeker,' is most off guard, and during which advantage and opportunity are all on the side of "seeker."
  
  Nick Carter's eyes had long since closed. He heard the scratching of chalk on the board, the tapping of a pointer, but he didn't look. He didn't dare. He didn't think he could stand the disappointment any longer. He'd always thought sex was fun! Anyway, damn Hawk. The old man must finally be losing his grip, however unlikely it seemed. Nick kept his eyes tightly shut and frowned, drowning out the hum of the "training" and the rustling, coughing, scratching, and clearing of throats of his fellow sufferers attending this so-called seminar on sex as a weapon. There were many of them-CIA, FBI, CIC, T-men, Army, Navy, and Air Force personnel. There was also, and this was a source of profound amazement to AXEman, a high-ranking post office official! Nick knew the man slightly, knew exactly what he did in the ZP, and his bewilderment only increased. Had the enemy devised a ruse to use the mail for sexual purposes? Simple lust? In the latter case, the police officer would have been very disappointed. Nick dozed off, lost deeper and deeper in his own thoughts...
  
  David Hawk, his boss at AXE, had pitched him the idea that morning in a dingy little office in Dupont Circle. Nick, fresh from a week's vacation on his Indiana farm, lounged lazily in the room's only hard chair, dropping ashes onto Hawk's linoleum and listening to the clatter of Delia Stokes's typewriter in the reception area. Nick Carter was feeling pretty good. He'd spent most of the week chopping, sawing, and staking firewood on the farm, drinking a little, and having a brief affair with an old girlfriend from Indiana. Now he was dressed in a lightweight tweed suit, sporting a discreetly daring Sulka tie, and feeling his oats. He was ready for action.
  
  The hawk said, "I'm sending you to sex school, boy."
  
  Nick threw down his cigarette and stared at his boss. "What are you sending me to?"
  
  Hawk rolled a dry, unlit cigar in his thin-lipped mouth and repeated, "I'm sending you to sex school. They call it a seminar on sexual what-you-call-it, something like that, but we'll call it school. Be there at two o'clock this afternoon. I don't know the room number, but it's somewhere in the basement of the old Treasury building. I'm sure you'll find it okay. If not, ask a security guard. Oh, yes, the lecture is by Dr. Murial Milholland. I'm told she's very good.
  
  Nick looked at his fallen cigarette, still smoldering on the linoleum. He was too stunned to reach his foot and crush it out. Finally, weakly, all he could muster was... "Are you kidding me, sir?"
  
  His boss looked at him with a basilisk's gaze and cracked his false teeth around his cigar. "Joking? Not at all, son. I actually feel like I did wrong not sending you sooner. You know as well as I do that the point of this business is keeping up with the other guy. In AXE, it's got to be more than that. We have to keep ahead of the other guy-or we're dead. The Russians have been doing some very interesting things with sex lately."
  
  "I bet," Nick muttered. The old man wasn't joking. Nick knew Hawk's mood, and he meant it. Somewhere in him there was just soup with an evil needle: Hawk could play it off pretty calmly when he wanted to.
  
  Nick tried another tactic. "I still have a week of vacation left."
  
  Hawk looked innocent. "Of course. I know that. So? A couple of hours a day won't interfere with your vacation in any way. Be there. And pay attention. You might learn something."
  
  Nick opened his mouth. Before he could speak, Hawk said, "That's an order, Nick."
  
  Nick closed his mouth, then said, "Yes, sir!"
  
  Hawk leaned back in his creaky swivel chair. He stared at the ceiling and bit his cigar. Nick glared at him. The sly old bastard was up to something! But what? Hawk never told you anything until he was ready.
  
  Hawk scratched his scrawny, cross-hatched neck like an old farmer, then looked at his number one boy. This time, there was a hint of kindness in his gravel tones, and a glimmer in his frosty eyes.
  
  "We're all of us," he said sententiously. "We'll have to keep up with the limes, my boy. If we don't, we'll be left behind, and in our line of work here at AXE, that's usually fatal. You know it. I know it. All our enemies know it. I love you like a father, Nick, and I don't want anything to happen to you. I want you to stay sharp, keep up with the latest techniques, keep the cobwebs from gathering, and-"
  
  Nick stood up. He raised his hand. "Please, sir. You wouldn't want me to throw up on this beautiful linoleum. I'll go now. With your permission?"
  
  Hawk nodded. "With my blessing, son. Just remember to come to that seminar this afternoon. That's still an order."
  
  Nick staggered toward the door. "Yes, sir. Orders, sir. Go to sex school, sir. Back to kindergarten."
  
  "Nick!"
  
  He stopped at the door and looked back. Hawk's smile changed subtly, from kind to enigmatic. "Yeah, old massa?"
  
  "This school, this seminar, is designed for eight hours. Four days. Two hours each day. At the same time. Today is Monday, right?"
  
  "That was when I walked in. Now I'm not quite sure. A lot has happened since I walked through that door."
  
  "It's Monday. I want you here Friday morning at nine sharp, ready to go. We have a very interesting case ahead of us. This could be a tough guy, a real killer."
  
  Nick Carter glared at his boss. "I'm glad to hear it. After attending sex school for the day, that should be nice. Goodbye, sir."
  
  "Goodbye, Nicholas," Hawk said tenderly.
  
  As Nick walked through the reception area, Delia Stokes looked up from her desk. "Goodbye, Nick. Enjoy your time at school."
  
  He waved his hand at her. "I... I'll do it! And I'll put in a voucher for the milk money, too."
  
  As he closed the door behind him, he heard her burst into muffled laughter.
  
  David Hawk, doodling on a disposable pad in a quiet, dark little office, glanced at his old Western Union watch. It was almost eleven. Limeys was due at twelve thirty. Hawk tossed his chewed cigar into the wastebasket and peeled the cellophane off a new one. He thought about the scene he'd just played out with Nick. It had been a lighthearted diversion-he enjoyed teasing his best man from time to time-and it also ensured Carter would be there when needed. Nick, especially when he was on vacation, had a way of disappearing into thin air unless he was given specific orders not to. Now he had orders. He'd be there Friday morning, ready to go. And things were grim indeed...
  
  * * *
  
  "Mr. Carter!"
  
  Someone called him? Nick stirred. Where the hell was he?
  
  "Mr. Carter! Please wake up!"
  
  Nick woke with a start, suppressing the urge to reach for his Luger or stiletto. He saw the dirty floor, his shoes, a pair of slender ankles beneath his midi skirt. Someone was touching him, shaking his shoulder. He'd fallen asleep, damn it!
  
  She stood very close to him, exuding soap, water, and healthy female flesh. She probably wore thick linen and ironed it herself. And yet, those ankles! Even in the basement, nylon was a bargain.
  
  Nick stood up and gave her his best smile, the one that had charmed thousands of willing women around the world.
  
  "I'm so sorry," he said. He meant it. He had been rude and thoughtless and not at all a gentleman. And now, to add insult to injury, he had to stifle a yawn.
  
  He managed to contain it, but he didn't fool Dr. Murial Milholland. She stepped back and looked at him through thick, horn-rimmed glasses.
  
  "Was my lecture really that boring, Mr. Carter?"
  
  He looked around, his genuine embarrassment growing. Nick Carter was not easily embarrassed. He had made a fool of himself, and, incidentally, of her. The poor, harmless spinster, who probably had to earn her keep, and whose only crime was her ability to make a vital subject seem as dull as gutter water.
  
  They were alone. The room was deserted. My God! He snored in class? One way or another, he had to fix it. Prove to her that he wasn't a complete boor.
  
  "I'm so sorry," he told her again. "I'm truly sorry, Dr. Milholland. I don't know what the hell happened. But that wasn't your lecture. I found that most interesting and-"
  
  "As much as you heard?" She looked at him speculatively through her heavy glasses. She tapped a folded sheet of paper-the class list on which she must have marked his name-against her teeth, which were surprisingly white and even. Her mouth was a little wide but well formed, and she wore no lipstick.
  
  Nick tried to grin again. He felt like a horse's ass to end all horse's asses. He nodded. "From what I've heard," he admitted sheepishly. "I can't understand it, Doctor Milholland. I really can't. I did have a late night, and it's spring, and I'm back at school for the first time in a long time, but none of this is real. I'm sorry. That was most rude and crude of me. I can only ask you to be lenient, Doctor." Then he stopped grinning and smiled, he really wanted to smile, and said, "I'm not always such a fool, and I wish you'd let me prove it to you."
  
  Pure inspiration, an impulse that came into his head out of nowhere.
  
  Her white brow furrowed. Her skin was clear and milky white, and her jet-black hair was pulled back into a chignon, combed tightly, and gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck.
  
  "Prove it to me, Mr. Carter? How?"
  
  "Go out for a drink with me. Right now? And then dinner? And then, well, whatever you want to do."
  
  She didn't hesitate until he thought she could. With the slightest hint of a smile, she agreed, once again revealing her beautiful teeth, but added, "I'm not quite sure how having drinks and dinner with you will prove my lectures aren't boring."
  
  Nick laughed. "That's not the point, Doctor. I'm trying to prove I'm not a drug addict."
  
  She laughed for the first time. It was a small effort, but it was a laugh.
  
  Nick Carter took her hand. "Come on, Dr. Milholland? I know a little outdoor place near the mall where the martinis are out of this world."
  
  By the second martini, they'd established a kind of rapport, and both were feeling more comfortable. Nick thought the martinis were the reason. More often than not, they were. The odd thing was, he was genuinely interested in this dowdy Dr. Murial Milholland. One day, she'd taken off her glasses to clean them, and her eyes were wide-set, gray flecks with green and amber flecks. Her nose was ordinary, with a few freckles, but her cheekbones were high enough to smooth out the flatness of her face and give it a triangular appearance. He thought it was a plain face, but definitely interesting. Nick Carter was an expert on beautiful women, and this one, with a little care and some fashion tips, could be...
  
  "No, Nick. No. Not at all what you think."
  
  He looked at her with bewilderment. "What was I thinking, Murial?" After the first martini, the first names appeared.
  
  Gray eyes, floating behind thick lenses, studied him over the rim of a martini glass.
  
  "That I'm not really as tasteless as I seem. As I look. But I am. I assure you I am. In every way. I'm a real Plain Jane, Nick, so just make up your mind."
  
  He shook his head. "I still don't believe it. I bet it's all a disguise. You probably do it to keep men from attacking you."
  
  She fiddled with the olives in her martini. He wondered if she was used to drinking, if the alcohol just wasn't getting to her. She looked sober enough.
  
  "You know," she said, "it's kind of corny, Nick. Like in the movies and plays and TV shows where the clumsy maiden always takes off her glasses and turns into a golden girl. Metamorphosis. Caterpillar into gilded butterfly. No, Nick. I'm so sorry. More than you think. I think I would have liked it. But I don't. I'm just a clumsy Ph.D. majoring in sexology. I work for the Government, and I give boring lectures. Important lectures, maybe, but boring. Right, Nick?"
  
  Then he realized the genie was starting to get to her. He wasn't sure he liked it, because he was genuinely enjoying himself. Nick Carter, the AXE's top assassin, had plenty of beautiful women. Yesterday there was one; probably another tomorrow. This girl, this woman, this Murial was different. A small shudder, a small shock of recognition moved through his mind. Was he starting to age?
  
  "Isn't that right, Nick?"
  
  "Aren't you what, Murial?"
  
  "I give boring lectures."
  
  Nick Carter lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes-Murial didn't smoke-and looked around. The small sidewalk cafe was crowded. The late April day, soft and impressionistic, like a Monet, was fading into a transparent twilight. The cherry trees lining the shopping center glowed with vibrant colors.
  
  Nick pointed his cigarette at the cherry trees. "You got me, darling. Cherry trees and Washington-how could I lie? Hell, yes, your lectures are boring! But they're not. Not at all. And remember-I can't lie under these circumstances."
  
  Murial removed her thick glasses and placed them on the tiny table. She placed her small hand on his large one and smiled. "It may not seem like a big compliment to you," she said, "but it's a damn big compliment to me. A damn big compliment. The hell? Did I say that?"
  
  "You did it."
  
  Murial giggled. "I haven't sworn an oath in years. Or had fun like this afternoon for years. You're a good man, Mr. Nick Carter. A very good man."
  
  "And you're a bit busy," Nick said. "You better lay off the booze if we're going to hit the town tonight. I don't want to have to drag you to and from nightclubs."
  
  Murial wiped her glasses with a napkin. "You know, I really need these damn things. I can't see a yard without them." She put the glasses on. "Can I have another drink, Nick?"
  
  He stood up and put the money on the table. "No. Not now. Let's take you home and change into that evening dress you were showing off."
  
  "I wasn't bragging. I have one. Just one. And I haven't worn it for nine months. I didn't need it. Until tonight."
  
  She lived in an apartment just over the Maryland border. In the taxi, she rested her head on his shoulder and wasn't very talkative. She seemed deep in thought. Nick didn't try to kiss her, and she didn't seem to expect it.
  
  Her apartment was small but tastefully furnished and in an expensive neighborhood. He assumed she had plenty of money.
  
  A moment later, she left him in the living room and disappeared. He'd just lit a cigarette, frowning and brooding-hating himself for it-but there were three more sessions of this damned stupid seminar he'd been ordered to attend, and it could just be tense and awkward. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
  
  He looked up. She was standing in the doorway, naked. And he was right. Hidden beneath her modest clothing all this time was this magnificent white body with a slender waist and soft curves, topped with high breasts.
  
  She smiled at him. He noticed that she had put on lipstick. And not just her mouth; she had put lipstick on her small nipples, too.
  
  "I've decided," she said. "To hell with the evening dress! I won't need it today either. I've never been one for nightclubs."
  
  Nick, without taking his eyes off her, put out his cigarette and took off his jacket.
  
  She approached him nervously, not so much walking as sliding over her removed clothes. She stopped about six feet away from him.
  
  "Do you like me that much, Nick?"
  
  He couldn't understand why his throat was so dry. It wasn't like he was a teenager having his first woman. This was Nick Carter! AXE's finest. A professional agent, a licensed assassin of his country's enemies, a veteran of a thousand boudoir encounters.
  
  She placed her hands on her slender hips and gracefully pirouetted in front of him. The light from the single lamp shimmered across the insides of her thighs. The flesh was translucent marble.
  
  "Do you really like me that much, Nick?"
  
  "I love you so much." He began to take off his clothes.
  
  "Are you sure? Some men don't like naked women. I can wear stockings if you want. Black stockings? Garter belt? Bra?"
  
  He kicked the last shoe across the living room. He had never been more prepared in his life, and he wanted nothing more than to fuse his flesh with that of this insipid little sex teacher, who had finally suddenly turned into a golden girl.
  
  He reached for her. She eagerly entered his embrace, her mouth seeking his, her tongue cutting across his own. Her body was cold and burning, and it trembled all along his length.
  
  After a moment, she pulled back enough to whisper, "I bet you won't fall asleep during this lecture, Mr. Carter!"
  
  He tried to lift her up and carry her to the bedroom.
  
  "No," said Dr. Murial Milholland. "Not in the bedroom. Right here on the floor."
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  At precisely eleven-thirty, Delia Stokes ushered the two Englishmen into Hawk's office. Hawk expected Cecil Aubrey to arrive on time. They were old acquaintances, and he knew the large Briton was never late for anything. Aubrey was a broad-shouldered man of about sixty, and the signs of a slight paunch were only just beginning to show. He would still be a strong man in battle.
  
  Cecil Aubrey was the head of Britain's MI6, the famed counter-intelligence organization for which Hawke had great professional respect.
  
  The fact that he personally came to the dark chambers of the AXE, as if begging for alms, convinced Hawke-if he hadn't already suspected it-that this matter was of the utmost importance. At least for the British, Hawke was prepared to engage in a little clever horse trading.
  
  If Aubrey felt any surprise at the cramped quarters of Hawk's quarters, he hid it well. Hawk knew he didn't live in the splendor of Whitehall or Langley, and he didn't care. His budget was limited, and he preferred to invest every working dollar into real operations and let the facade crumble if necessary. The fact was, AXE was currently in more than just financial trouble. There had been a wave of failures, as sometimes happened, and Hawk had lost three top agents in a month. Dead. A slit throat in Istanbul; a knife in the back in Paris; one found in Hong Kong harbor, so bloated and eaten by fish that the cause of death was difficult to determine. At this point, Hawk only had two Killmasters left. Number Five, a young man he didn't want to risk on a difficult mission, and Nick Carter. The Best Men. On this upcoming mission, he needed to use Nick. That was one of the reasons he sent him to that crazy school, to keep him close.
  
  The comfort was short-lived. Cecil Aubrey introduced his companion as Henry Terence. Terence, it turned out, was an MI5 officer who worked closely with Aubrey and MI6. He was a thin man with a stern Scottish face and a tic in his left eye. He smoked a fragrant pipe, which Hawk actually used to light a cigar in self-defense.
  
  Hawk told Aubrey about his upcoming knighthood. One of the things that surprised Nick Carter about his boss was that the old man read out the list of awards.
  
  Aubrey laughed awkwardly and waved it off. "It's a bummer, you know. More like puts one in the Beatles' camp. But I hardly think I can refuse. Anyway, David, I didn't fly across the Atlantic to talk about some bloody chivalry."
  
  Hawk blew blue smoke at the ceiling. He really didn't like smoking cigars.
  
  "I don't think you did it, Cecil. You want something from me. From AXE. You always do. That means you're in trouble. Tell me about it, and we'll see what can be done."
  
  Delia Stokes brought Terence another chair. He sat in the corner, perched like a crow on a rock, and said nothing.
  
  "This is Richard Philston," said Cecil Aubrey. "We have good reason to believe that he is finally leaving Russia. We want him, David. How we want him! And this may be our only chance."
  
  Even Hawk was shocked. He knew when Aubrey appeared, hat in hand, it was something big-but so big! Richard Filston! His second thought was that the English would be willing to pay quite a lot for help in getting Filston. Yet his face remained serene. Not a wrinkle betrayed his anxiety.
  
  "It must be a lie," he said. "Maybe for some reason, that traitor, Filston, will never leave Russia. That man is no idiot, Cecil. We both know it. We have to do this. He's been deceiving us all for thirty years."
  
  From around the corner, Terence muttered a Scotsman's curse deep in his throat. Hawk could sympathize. Richard Filston had made the Yankees look pretty stupid-for a time, he'd effectively served as the head of British intelligence in Washington, successfully extracting information from the FBI and CIA-but he'd made his own people, the British, look like absolute idiots. He'd even been suspected once, tried, acquitted, and immediately returned to spying for the Russians.
  
  Yes, Hawke understood how much the British wanted Richard Filston.
  
  Aubrey shook his head. "No, David. I don't think it's a lie or a setup. Because we have something else to work on - some kind of deal is being made between the Kremlin and Beijing. Something very, very big! We're sure of that. We've got a very good man in the Kremlin at the moment, better in every way than Penkovsky ever was. He's never been wrong, and now he's telling us that the Kremlin and Beijing are cooking up something big that could, damn it, blow the lid off this. But to do it, they, the Russians, will have to use their agent. Who else but Filston?"
  
  David Hawk peeled the cellophane off his new cigar. He watched Aubrey intently, his own withered face impassive as a scarecrow.
  
  He said: "But your big man in the Kremlin doesn't know what the Chinese and Russians are planning? That's all?"
  
  Aubrey looked a little miserable. "Yeah. That's it. But we know where. Japan."
  
  Hawk smiled. "You have good connections in Japan. I know that. Why can't they handle this?"
  
  Cecil Aubrey rose from his chair and began pacing the narrow room. At that moment, he reminded Hawke absurdly of the character actor who played Watson in Basil Rathbone's "Holmes." Hawke could never remember the man's name. And yet, he never underestimated Cecil Aubrey. Never. The man was good. Perhaps even as good as Hawke himself.
  
  Aubrey stopped and towered over Hawk's desk. "For good reason," he exploded, "that Filston is Filston! He was studying
  
  "He's been in my department for years, man! He knows every code, or did. Doesn't matter. It's not a question of codes or any of that nonsense. But he knows our tricks, our organizing methods, our MO-hell, he knows everything about us. He even knows a lot of our men, at least the old-timers. And I daresay he keeps his files up-to-date-the Kremlin must be making him earn his keep-and so he knows a lot of our new guys, too. No, David. We can't do that. He needs an outsider, another man. Will you help us?"
  
  Hawk studied his old friend for a long time. Finally, he said, "You know about AXE, Cecil. Officially, you're not supposed to know, but you do. And you come to me. To AXE. You want Filston killed?"
  
  Terence broke the silence long enough to growl. "Yes, my friend. That's exactly what we want."
  
  Aubrey ignored his subordinate. He sat back down and lit a cigarette with fingers that, Hawk noticed with some surprise, were shaking slightly. He was puzzled. It took a lot to upset Aubrey. It was then that Hawk clearly heard the clicking of gears inside the wheels for the first time-the sound he'd been listening to.
  
  Aubrey held up the cigarette like a smoldering stick. "For our ears, David. In this room, and for our six ears only, yes, I want to kill Richard Filston."
  
  Something stirred deep in Hawke's mind. Something that clung to the shadows and wouldn't come into the light. A whisper long ago? A rumor? A story in the press? A joke about the men's room? What the hell? He couldn't summon it. So he pushed it back, to keep it in the subconscious. It would emerge when it was ready.
  
  Meanwhile, he put into words what was so obvious. "You want him dead, Cecil. But your government, the Powers, they don't? They want him alive. They want him caught and sent back to England to stand trial and be hanged properly. Isn't that right, Cecil?"
  
  Aubrey met Hawke's gaze squarely. "Yes, David. That's it. The Prime Minister-things have gone this far-agrees that Filston should be captured, if possible, and brought to England to stand trial. That was decided long ago. I was put in charge. Until now, with Filston safe in Russia, there was nothing to control. But now, by God, he's out, or we think he is, and I want him. God, David, how I want it!"
  
  "Dead?"
  
  "Yes. Killed. The Prime Minister, Parliament, even some of my superiors, they're not as professional as we are, David. They think it's easy to catch a slippery man like Filston and bring him back to England. There will be too many complications, too many chances for him to slip up, too many opportunities for him to escape again. He's not alone, you know. The Russians won't just stand by and let us arrest him and bring him back to England. They'll kill him first! He knows too much about them, he'll try to cut a deal, and they know it. No, David. It has to be a straightforward assassination, and you're the only one I can turn to."
  
  Hawk said it more to clear the air, to get it out there, than because he cared. He fired up the AXE. And why shouldn't this elusive thought, this shadow lurking in his mind, come to light? Was it really so scandalous that he had to bury himself?
  
  He said, "If I agree to this, Cecil, it must definitely remain between the three of us. One hint that I am using AXE to do someone else's dirty work, and Congress will demand my head on a platter, and even get it if they can prove it."
  
  "Will you do it, David?"
  
  Hawk stared at his old friend. "I really don't know yet. What will this be for me? For AXE? Our fees for this kind of thing are very high, Cecil. It will be a very high fee for the service-very high. Do you understand that?"
  
  Aubrey looked unhappy again. Unhappy, but determined. "I understand that. I expected it, David. I'm not an amateur, man. I expect to pay."
  
  Hawk pulled a new cigar from the box on the desk. He didn't look at Aubrey yet. He found himself sincerely hoping the debugging crew-they thoroughly inspected AXE headquarters every two days-had done their job well, because if Aubrey met his conditions, Hawk had decided to take over. Do MI6's dirty work for them. It would be an assassination mission, and probably not as difficult as Aubrey imagined. Not for Nick Carter. But Aubrey would have to pay the price.
  
  "Cecil," Hawk said softly, "I think we might be able to make a deal. But I need the name of that man you have in the Kremlin. I promise I won't try to contact him, but I need to know his name. And I want an equal, full share of everything he sends. In other words, Cecil, your man in the Kremlin will also be my man in the Kremlin! Is that okay with you?"
  
  In his corner, Terence made a strangled sound. It seemed as if he had swallowed his pipe.
  
  The small office was quiet. The Western Union clock ticked like a tiger. Hawk waited. He knew what Cecil Aubrey was going through.
  
  A high-ranking agent, a man unknown in the Kremlin's highest circles, was worth more than all the gold and jewels in the world.
  
  All the platinum. All the uranium. To establish such a contact, to keep it fruitful and impenetrable, required years of painstaking work and all the luck. And so it was, at first glance. Impossible. But one day it was done. Penkovsky. Until finally he slipped and was shot. Now Aubrey was saying-and Hawk believed him-that MI6 had another Penkovsky in the Kremlin. As it happened, Hawk knew the United States didn't know. The CIA had been trying for years, but it had never worked. Hawk waited patiently. This was the real deal. He couldn't believe Aubrey would agree.
  
  Aubrey nearly choked, but he got the words out. "Okay, David. It's a deal. You drive a hard bargain, man."
  
  Terence regarded Hawk with something very much like awe and, undoubtedly, respect. Terence was a Scot who knew another Scot, at least by inclination, if not by blood, when he saw one.
  
  "You understand," said Aubrey, "that I must have irrefutable proof that Richard Filston is dead."
  
  Hawk's smile was dry. "I think that could be arranged, Cecil. Although I doubt I could kill him in Times Square, even if we could get him there. How about sending his ears, neatly tucked, to your office in London?"
  
  "Seriously, David."
  
  Hawk nodded. "Take photos?"
  
  "If they are good. I would prefer fingerprints if possible. That way there will be absolute certainty."
  
  Hawk nodded again. This wasn't the first time Nick Carter had brought home souvenirs like this.
  
  Cecil Aubrey pointed to the quiet man in the corner. "Okay, Terence. Now you can take charge. Explain what we have so far and why we think Filston is going there."
  
  To Hawke he said: "Terence is from MI5, as I said, and he's dealing with the superficial aspects of this Beijing-Kremlin problem. I say superficial because we think it's a cover, a cover for something bigger. Terence..."
  
  The Scotsman pulled his pipe from between his large brown teeth. "It's as Mr. Aubrey says, sir. We have little information at the moment, but we're certain the Russians are sending Filston to help the Chinese orchestrate a gigantic campaign of sabotage across Japan. Especially Tokyo. There, they're planning to cause a massive power outage, just like you had in New York not long ago. The Chicoms plan to play the all-powerful force, you see, and either stop or burn everything in Japan. Mostly. Anyway. One story we had was that Beijing is insisting on Filston heading up a 'job or deal.' That's why he has to leave Russia and-"
  
  Cecil Aubrey intervened. "There's another story-Moscow insists that Philston be responsible for sabotage to prevent failure. They don't have much confidence in the Chinese's effectiveness. That's another reason Philston will have to risk his neck and get out."
  
  Hawk looked from one man to the other. "Something tells me you won't buy any of this."
  
  "No," said Aubrey. "We're not doing that. At least, I don't know. The job's not big enough for Filston! Sabotage, yes. Burning Tokyo and all that would have a huge impact and be a windfall for the Chicoms. I agree. But that's not really Filston's line of work. And not only isn't it big enough, not important enough to draw him out of Russia-I know things about Richard Filston that few people know. I knew him. Remember, I worked with him in MI6 when he was at his peak. I was just an assistant then, but I haven't forgotten anything about the damned bastard. He was a killer! An expert."
  
  "Damn it," Hawk said. "Live and learn. I didn't know that. I always thought of Philston as some kind of ordinary spy. Damn efficient, deadly, but in striped pants."
  
  "Not at all," Aubrey said grimly. "He planned a lot of assassinations. And he carried them out well, too. That's why I'm sure if he's finally leaving Russia, it's for something more important than sabotage. Even big sabotage. I have a feeling, David, and you should know what that means. You've been in this business longer than I have."
  
  Cecil Aubrey walked over to his chair and sank into it. "Go on, Terence. Your ball. I'll keep my mouth shut."
  
  Terence refilled his pipe. To Hawk's relief, he didn't light it. Terence said, "The thing is, the Chicoms didn't do all their dirty work, sir. Not much, really. They do the planning, but they get others to do the real dirty, bloody work. Of course, they use terror."
  
  Hawk must have looked puzzled, because Terence paused for a moment, frowned, and continued. "You know about the Eta, sir? Some call them Burakumin. They're the lowest class in Japan, untouchables. Outcasts. There are over two million of them, and very few people, even Japanese, know that the Japanese government keeps them in ghettos and hides them from tourists. The thing is, the government has tried to ignore the problem until now. The official policy is fure-noi-don't touch it. Most Eta are on government assistance. It's a serious problem,
  
  Essentially, the Chinese are making the most of this. A disgruntled minority like this would be foolish not to."
  
  All of this was familiar to Hawk. Ghettos had been in the news a lot lately. And communists of one stripe or another had exploited minorities in the States to some extent.
  
  "It's a perfect setup for the Chicoms," he admitted. "Sabotage, especially, was carried out under the guise of riots. It's a classic ploy-the Communists plan it and let this group, Eta, take the blame. But isn't that the Japanese? Like the rest of the country? I mean, unless there's a color problem like we have, and..."
  
  Finally, Cecil Aubrey couldn't keep his big mouth shut. He interrupted.
  
  "They're Japanese. One hundred percent. It's really a matter of traditional caste prejudice, David, and we don't have time for anthropological digressions. But the fact that the Eto are Japanese, looking and talking like everyone else, helps them. Shikama is incredible. The Eto can go anywhere and do anything. No problem. Many of them 'pass,' as you say here in the States. The point is that a very few Chinese agents, well organized, can control vast quantities of Eto and use them for their own purposes. Sabotage and assassination, mostly. Now, with this big..."
  
  "Hawk intervened. "You're saying the Chicoms control Eta through terror?"
  
  "Yes. Among other things, they use a machine. Some kind of device, an advanced version of the old Death of a Thousand Cuts. It's called the Blood Buddha. Any Eta who disobeys them or betrays them is placed in the machine. And..."
  
  But this time, Hawk didn't pay too much attention to it. It had just occurred to him. Out of the mists of time. Richard Philston was a damned ladies' man. Now Hawk remembered it. It had been well-kept under wraps at the time.
  
  Philston took Cecil Aubrey's young wife from him and then abandoned her. A few weeks later, she committed suicide.
  
  His old friend, Cecil Aubrey, was using Hawk and AXE to settle a private vendetta!
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  It was a few minutes past seven in the morning. Nick Carter had left Murial Milholland's apartment an hour earlier, ignoring the curious glances of the milkman and the newsboy, and driven back to his room at the Mayflower Hotel. He was feeling a little better. He and Murial had switched to brandy, and in between lovemaking-they eventually moved to the bedroom-he'd drunk quite a bit. Nick was never a drunk and had the ability of a Falstaff; he never had a hangover. Still, he felt a little fuzzy that morning.
  
  Thinking back later, he was also guilty of being more than a little unnerved by Dr. Murial Milholland. Plain Jane with a voluptuous body, who was such a demon in bed. He'd left her snoring softly, still attractive in the morning light, and as he left the apartment, he knew he'd be back. Nick couldn't understand it. She just wasn't his type! And yet... and yet...
  
  He was shaving slowly, thoughtfully, half wondering what it would be like to be married to an intelligent, mature woman who was also an expert in sex, not only in the department but on her as well, when the doorbell rang. Nick was wearing only a robe.
  
  He glanced at the large bed as he crossed the bedroom to open the door. He actually thought about the Luger, the Wilhelmina, and the Hugo, the stiletto hidden in the zipper of the mattress. While they were resting. Nick didn't like walking around Washington with a heavy load. And Hawk didn't approve. Sometimes Nick did carry a small Beretta Cougar, a .380, which was plenty powerful at close range. For the last two days, because his shoulder brace was being repaired, he hadn't even worn it.
  
  The door buzzer rang again. Insistently. Nick hesitated, glanced at the bed where the Luger was hidden, and then thought, damn it. Eight o'clock on a normal Tuesday? He could take care of himself, he had a security chain, and he knew how to get to the door. It was probably just Hawk, sending a bunch of informational materials via special messenger. The old man did that occasionally.
  
  Buzz - buzz - buzz
  
  Nick approached the door from the side, close to the wall. Anyone shooting through the door wouldn't notice him.
  
  Buzzing - buzzing - buzzing - buzzing - buzzing
  
  "Fine," he exclaimed with sudden irritation. "Fine. Who is it?"
  
  Silence.
  
  Then: "Kyoto Girl Scouts. Do you buy cookies in advance?"
  
  "WHO?" His hearing was always acute. But he could have sworn...
  
  "Girl Scouts from Japan. Here at the Cherry Blossom Festival. Buy cookies. Are you buying in advance?"
  
  Nick Carter shook his head to clear it. Okay. He'd had so much brandy! But he had to see for himself. The chain was locked. He opened the door slightly, keeping his distance, and peered cautiously into the hallway. "Girl Scouts?"
  
  "Yeah. There are some really good cookies on sale. Are you buying any?"
  
  She bowed.
  
  Three more bowed. Nick almost bowed. Because, damn it, they were Girl Scouts. Japanese Girl Scouts.
  
  There were four of them. So beautiful, as if they had stepped out of a silk picture. Modest. Shapely little Japanese dolls in Girl Scout uniforms, with daring bungee cords on their smooth dark heads, in miniskirts and knee-high socks. Four pairs of glowing, slanted eyes watched him impatiently. Four pairs of perfect teeth flashed before him like an old Eastern aphorism. Buy our cookies. They were as cute as a litter of spotted puppies.
  
  Nick Carter laughed. He couldn't help himself. Wait until he told Hawk about this-or should he tell the old man? Nick Carter, the top man in AXE, Killmaster himself, was very wary and carefully approached the door to confront a group of Girl Scouts selling cookies. Nick made a gallant attempt to stop laughing, to keep a straight face, but it was too much. He laughed again.
  
  The girl who spoke-she stood closest to the door, carrying a stack of boxes of deli food, which she held under her chin-stared at AXman in bewilderment. The other three girls, carrying boxes of cookies, also looked on with polite amazement.
  
  The girl said, "We don't understand, sir. Are we doing something funny? If so, we're alone. We didn't come here to joke - come sell cookies for our passage to Japan. You buy in advance. Help us very much. We love your United States very much, we were here for the Cherry Festival, but now with great regret we must return to our country. Are you buying cookies?"
  
  He was being rude again. Like he had been with Murial Milholland. Nick wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and took off his chain. "I'm so sorry, girls. So sorry. It wasn't you. It was me. It's one of my crazy mornings."
  
  He searched for the Japanese word, tapping his temple with his finger. "Kichigai. It's me. Kichigai!"
  
  The girls looked at each other, then back at him. Neither spoke. Nick pushed the door open. "It's okay, I promise. I'm harmless. Come in. Bring some cookies. I'll buy them all. How much are they?" He gave Hawk a dozen boxes. Let the old man think about it.
  
  "One dollar box."
  
  "It's cheap enough." He stepped back as they entered, bringing with them the fragile scent of cherry blossoms. He guessed they were only about fourteen or fifteen. Cute. They were all well-developed for teenagers, their small breasts and buttocks bouncing beneath their immaculate green uniforms. Their skirts, he thought, watching them pile cookies on the coffee table, seemed a little too petite for Girl Scouts. But maybe in Japan...
  
  They were cute. So was the small Nambu pistol that suddenly appeared in the speaker's hand. She pointed it straight at Nick Carter's flat, hard stomach.
  
  "Put your hands up, please. Stand perfectly still. I don't want to hurt you. Kato - the door!"
  
  One of the girls glided around Nick, keeping her distance. The door closed quietly, the lock clicked, the safety catch slid into its slot.
  
  "Well, he really was deceived," thought Nick. Taken. His professional admiration was genuine. This was masterful work.
  
  "Mato - close all the curtains. Sato - search the rest of the apartment. Especially the bedroom. He might have a lady here."
  
  "Not this morning," Nick said. "But thanks for the compliment anyway."
  
  Nambu winked at him. It was an evil eye. "Sit down," the leader said coldly. "Please sit down and remain silent until you are ordered to speak. And don't try any tricks, Mister Nick Carter. I know everything about you. A lot about you."
  
  Nick walked over to the indicated chair. "Even with my insatiable appetite for Girl Scout cookies-at eight o'clock in the morning?"
  
  "I said quietly! You will be allowed to speak as much as you want - after you hear what I have to say."
  
  Nick sat up. He muttered under his breath, "Banzai!" He crossed his long legs, realized his robe was gaping, and quickly buttoned it. The girl with the gun noticed and smiled faintly. "We don't need false modesty, Mr. Carter. We're not really Girl Scouts."
  
  "If I were allowed to speak, I would say that it began to understand me."
  
  "Quiet!"
  
  He shut up. He nodded thoughtfully toward the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the nearest campsite.
  
  "No!"
  
  He watched silently. This was the most effective little group. The door was checked again, the curtains were drawn, and the room was flooded with light. Kato returned and reported there was no back door. And that, Nick thought with some bitterness, should have provided additional security. Well, he couldn't defeat them all. But if he got out of this alive, his biggest problem would be keeping it a secret. Nick Carter had been taken by a bunch of Girl Scouts in his own apartment!
  
  Now everything was quiet. The girl from Nambu sat across from Nick on the couch, and the other three sat primly nearby. Everyone looked at him seriously. Four schoolgirls. This was a very strange Mikado.
  
  Nick said, "Tea, anyone?"
  
  She didn't say
  
  He kept quiet, and she didn't shoot him. She crossed her legs, revealing the fringe of pink panties beneath her miniskirt. Her legs, all of her legs-now that he actually noticed it-were a little more developed and shapely than those typically found on Girl Scouts. He suspected they were wearing rather skimpy bras, too.
  
  "I'm Tonaka," said the girl with the Nambu pistol.
  
  He nodded seriously. "Pleased."
  
  "And this," she pointed to the others, "..."
  
  "I know. Mato, Sato, and Kato. The Cherry Blossom Sisters. Nice to meet you girls."
  
  All three smiled. Kato giggled.
  
  Tonaka frowned. "I enjoy joking, Mr. Carter. I wish you wouldn't. This is a very serious matter."
  
  Nick knew it. He could tell by the way she held the little pistol. Most professional. But he needed time. Sometimes Badinage had time. He tried to figure out the angles. Who were they? What did they want from him? He hadn't been to Japan for over a year and, as far as he knew, was in the clear. What then? He continued sketching out the blanks.
  
  "I know," he told her. "I know it's serious. Believe me, I know. I just have this kind of courage in the face of certain death, and..."
  
  The girl named Tonaka spat like a wild cat. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked completely unattractive. She pointed her nambu at him like an accusing finger.
  
  "Please, keep quiet again! I didn't come here to make a joke."
  
  Nick sighed. He'd failed again. He wondered what had happened.
  
  Tonaka fumbled in the pocket of her Girl Scout blouse. It had hidden what AXE could see; now he could see: a very well-developed left breast.
  
  She turned a coin-like object toward him: "Do you recognize this, Mr. Carter?"
  
  He did it. Instantly. He had to. He did it in London. He did it with a skilled worker in a gift shop in the East End. He gave it to the man who saved his life in an alley in the same East End. Carter came very close to dying that night in Limehouse.
  
  He lifted the heavy medallion in his hand. It was gold, the size of an antique silver dollar, with a jade inlay. The jade had transformed into letters, forming a scroll beneath a tiny green hatchet. AN AXE.
  
  The letters read: Esto Perpetua. May it last forever. This was his friendship with Kunizo Matou, his old friend and longtime judo-karate teacher. Nick frowned, looking at the medallion. It was a long time ago. Kunizo had long since returned to Japan. Now he would be an old man.
  
  Tonaka stared at him. Nambu did the same.
  
  Nick tossed the medallion and caught it. "Where did you get this?"
  
  "My father gave me this."
  
  "Kunizo Matu is your father?"
  
  "Yes, Mr. Carter. He often spoke of you. I've heard the name of the great Nick Carter since childhood. Now I come to you to ask for help. Or rather, my father sends for help. He has great faith and trust in you. He is confident that you will come to our aid."
  
  Suddenly he needed a cigarette. He desperately needed it. The girl allowed him to light one. The other three, now as solemn as owls, looked at him with unblinking dark eyes.
  
  Nick said, "I owe your father a favor. And we were friends. Of course I'll help. I'll do whatever I can. But how? When? Is your father in the States?"
  
  "He's in Japan. In Tokyo. He's old, sick, and can't travel right now. That's why you have to come with us immediately."
  
  He closed his eyes and squinted against the smoke, trying to grasp the meaning of this in his mind. Ghosts from the past could be disorienting. But duty was duty. He owed his life to Kunizo Matou. He would have to do everything he could. But first...
  
  "Okay, Tonaka. But let's take things one step at a time. The first thing you can do is put away the gun. If you're Kunizo's daughter, you don't need it..."
  
  She kept the gun on him. "I think maybe, yes, Mr. Carter. We'll see. I'll put it off until I have your promise to come to Japan to help my father. And Japan."
  
  "But I already told you! I'll help. It's a solemn promise. Now let's stop playing cops and robbers. Put the gun away and tell me everything that happened to your father. Do it as soon as I can. I..."
  
  The pistol remained on his stomach. Tonaka looked ugly again. And very impatient.
  
  "You still don't understand, Mr. Carter. You're going to Japan now. This very minute-or at least very soon. My father's problems will be immediate. There's no time for channels or officials to confer over various favors or to consult on the steps that need to be taken. You see, I understand something of these matters. So does my father. He's been in my country's secret service for a long time and knows that red tape is the same everywhere. That's why he gave me the medallion and told me to find you. To ask you to come immediately. I intend to do so."
  
  Little Nambu winked at Nick again. He was starting to tire of the flirting. The wicked thing was, she meant it. She meant every damn word! Right now!
  
  Nick had an idea. He and Hawk had a voice
  
  The code they sometimes used. Maybe he could warn the old man. Then they could get these Japanese scouts under control, get them talking and thinking, and start working to help his friend. Nick took a deep breath. He just needed to confess to Hawk that he'd been captured by a gang of crazy Girl Scouts and ask his compatriots in the AXE to get him out of this. Maybe they couldn't do it. It might take the CIA. Or the FBI. Maybe the Army, Navy, and Marines. He just didn't know...
  
  He said, "Okay, Tonaka. Do it your way. Right now. As soon as I can get dressed and pack my suitcase. And make a phone call."
  
  "No phone calls."
  
  For the first time, he considered taking the gun from her. It was getting ridiculous. Killmaster should know how to take a gun from a Girl Scout! That's the problem-she wasn't a Girl Scout. None of them were. Because now everyone else, Kato, Sato, and Mato, were reaching under those cut-off skirts and pulling out Nambu pistols. Everyone was pointing insistently at Carter.
  
  "What's the name of your squad, girls? Angels of Death?"
  
  Tonaka aimed his pistol at him. "My father told me you'll have many tricks up your sleeve, Mr. Carter. He's confident you'll keep your promise and your friendship with him, but he warned me you'll insist on doing it your way. It can't be done. It must be done our way-in complete secrecy."
  
  "But it could be," Nick said. "I have a great organization at my disposal. Many of them, if I need them. I didn't know Kunizo was in your secret service-my congratulations on a well-kept secret-but then he must surely know the value of organization and cooperation. They can do the work of a thousand men-and security is no problem, and-"
  
  The gun stopped him. "You are very eloquent, Mr. Carter... And very wrong. My father naturally understands all these things, and this is exactly what he does not want. Or what he needs. As for the channels - you know as well as I that you are always under surveillance, even if it is regularly, as is your organization. You cannot take a single step without someone noticing and passing it on. No, Mr. Carter. No phone calls. No official assistance. This is a one-man job, a trusted friend who will do what my father asks without asking too many questions. You are the perfect man for what needs to be done - and you owe your life to my father. Can I have the locket back, please?"
  
  He tossed her the medallion. "Good," he admitted. "You seem determined, and you have guns. All of you have guns. It looks like I'm going to Japan with you. Right now. I'm dropping everything, just like that, and leaving. You realize, of course, that if I just vanished, there would be a worldwide alert within hours?"
  
  Tonaka allowed herself a tiny smile. He noticed that she was almost beautiful when she smiled. "We'll worry about that later, Mr. Carter."
  
  "What about passports? Customs?"
  
  "No problem, Mr. Carter. Our passports are in perfect order. I'm sure you have plenty of passports," my father assured. "You will. You probably have a diplomatic passport, which will be enough for this. Any objections?"
  
  "Travel? There are such things as tickets and reservations."
  
  "Everything is taken care of, Mr. Carter. Everything is arranged. We will be in Tokyo in a few hours."
  
  He was beginning to believe it. Really believed it. They probably had a spaceship waiting on the Mall. Oh, brother! Hawk would love this. There was a big mission coming up-Nick knew the signs-and Hawk had kept him ready until the thing was ripe, and now this. There was also the minor matter of the lady, Muriel Milholland. He had a date with her tonight. The least a gentleman could do was call and...
  
  Nick looked at Tonaka pleadingly. "Just one phone call? To the lady? I don't want her to get up."
  
  Little Nambu was adamant. "No."
  
  NICK CARTER RETIRES - DESCENDANT IS STAFFED...
  
  Tonaka stood up. Kato, Mato, and Sato stood up. All the little guns blinked at Nick Carter.
  
  "Now we," said Tonaka, "will go to the bedroom, Mr. Carter."
  
  Nick blinked. "Huh?"
  
  "To the bedroom, please. Immediately!"
  
  Nick stood up and pulled his robe tight around himself. "If you say so."
  
  "Raise your hands, please."
  
  He was getting a little tired of the Wild West. "Look, Tonaka! I'm cooperating. I'm a friend of your father's, and I'll help, even if I don't like the way we're doing things. But let's get rid of all this madness..."
  
  "Hands up! Hold them high in the air! March to the bedroom."
  
  He walked away, hands in the air. Tonaka followed him into the room, keeping a professional distance. Kato, Mato, and Sato entered behind him.
  
  He imagined another headline: "Carter Raped by Girl Scouts..."
  
  Tonaka moved the gun toward the bed. "Please lie down on the bed, Mr. Carter. Take off your robe. Lie face up."
  
  Nick watched. The words he'd spoken to Hawk only yesterday came back to him, and he repeated them. "You've got to be kidding!"
  
  No smile on the pale lemon-brown faces.
  
  slanted eyes all look closely at him and his large body.
  
  "No kidding, Mr. Carter. On the bed. Now!" The gun moved in her small hand. Her trigger finger was white around the knuckle. For the first time in all this fun and games, Nick realized she would shoot him if he didn't do exactly as he was told. Exactly.
  
  He dropped the robe. Kato hissed. Mato smiled darkly. Sato giggled. Tonaka glared at them, and they returned to business. But there was approval in her own dark eyes as they briefly slid up and down his slender two hundred pounds. She nodded. "A magnificent body, Mr. Carter. As my father said, so it shall be. He remembers well how much he taught you and how he prepared you. Perhaps another time, but it doesn't matter now. On the bed. Face up."
  
  Nick Carter was embarrassed and confused. He wasn't a liar, especially not to himself, and he admitted it. There was something unnatural, even a little obscene, about lying completely exposed to the piercing gaze of four Girl Scouts. Four pairs of epicanthus eyes that missed nothing.
  
  The only thing he was grateful for was that this wasn't a sexual situation at all, and he wasn't in danger of a physical reaction. He shuddered inwardly. The slow climb to the top in front of all those eyes. It was unthinkable. Sato would have giggled.
  
  Nick stared at Tonaka. She held the gun against his stomach, now completely exposed, and her mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile. She had resisted successfully.
  
  "My only regret," said Nick Carter, "is that I have only one merit for my country."
  
  Kato's suppressed amusement. Tonaka glared at her. Silence. Tonaka glared at Nick. "You, Mr. Carter, are a fool!"
  
  "Sans doute".
  
  He felt the hard metal of the mattress zipper beneath his left buttock. Inside it lay a Luger, that nasty hot rod, a cut-down 9mm of murder. Also in a stiletto heel. A thirsty Hugo. The tip of a needle of death. Nick sighed and forgot about it. He could probably get to them, so what? What then? Kill four little Girl Scouts from Japan? And why did he keep thinking of them as Girl Scouts? The uniforms were authentic, but that was all. These were four maniacs from some Tokyo yo-yo academy. And he was in the middle. Smile and suffer.
  
  Tonaka was there. Rush orders. "Kato - look in the kitchen. Sato, in the toilet. Mato - ah, that's all. These ties will be just right."
  
  Mato had several of Nick's best and most expensive ties, including a Sulka he'd only worn once. He sat up in protest. "Hey! If you have to use ties, use the old ones. I just..."
  
  Tonaka quickly hit him in the forehead with the pistol. She was fast. She was in and out before he could grab the gun.
  
  "Lie down," she said sharply. "Quiet. No more talking. We must get on with our work. There's been too much nonsense already - our plane leaves in an hour."
  
  Nick raised his head. "I agree about the stupidity. I..."
  
  Another blow to the forehead. He lay there sullenly as they tied him to the bedposts. They were very good at tying the knots. He could break the shackles at any moment, but then again, to what end? It was part of this whole crazy deal-he was finding himself increasingly reluctant to harm them. And since he was already so deep in Goofyville, he had a genuine curiosity about what they were doing.
  
  It was a picture he wanted to take to his grave. Nick Carter, his ties tied, sprawled on the bed, his naked mother exposed to the dark gaze of four little girls from the East. A fragment from a favorite old song flashed through his mind: They'll never believe me.
  
  He could hardly believe what he saw next. Feathers. Four long red feathers emerged from somewhere beneath her miniskirts.
  
  Tonaka and Kato sat on one side of the bed, Mato and Sato on the other. "If they all get close enough," Nick thought, "I can break these bonds, smash their stupid little heads and..."
  
  Tonaka dropped her pen and stepped back, her nambu returning to her flat stomach. Professionalism shone through again. She gave Sato a curt nod. "Shut him up."
  
  "Now look here," Nick Carter said. "I... ghoul... mmm... fummm..." A clean handkerchief and another tie did the trick.
  
  "Start," Tonaka said. "Kato, take his legs. Mato, do his armpits. Sato, his genitals."
  
  Tonaka took a few more steps back and pointed the gun at Nick. She allowed herself a smile. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Carter, that we have to do it like this. I know it's unworthy and ridiculous."
  
  Nick nodded vigorously. "Hmmmmmmfff... gooooooooooooooooooo..."
  
  "Try to hold on, Mr. Carter. It won't take long. We're going to drug you. You see, one of the properties of this drug is that it maintains and enhances the mood of the person it's given to. We want you to be happy, Mr. Carter. We want you to laugh all the way to Japan!"
  
  He knew from the start that there was a method to this madness. The final change in perception
  
  They would have killed him anyway if he'd resisted. This Tonaka guy was crazy enough to do it. And now the point of resistance had been reached. Those feathers! It was an old Chinese torture, and he'd never realized how effective it was. It was the sweetest agony in the world.
  
  Sato very gently ran the pen over his chest. Nick shuddered. Mato worked diligently on his armpits. Ooooooh...
  
  Kato delivered a long, practiced blow to the soles of his feet. Nick's toes began to curl and cramp. He couldn't take it anymore. Regardless, he'd played along with this crazy quartet long enough. At any moment he will simply have to - ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhmm ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ...
  
  Her timing was perfect. He was distracted just long enough for her to get to the real work. The needle. A long, shining needle. Nick saw it, and then didn't. Because it was embedded in the relatively soft tissue of his right buttock.
  
  The needle went deep. Deeper. Tonaka looked at him, pushing the plunger in all the way. She smiled. Nick arched his back, laughing, laughing, laughing.
  
  The drug hit him hard, almost instantly. His bloodstream picked it up and rushed to his brain and motor centers.
  
  Now they stopped tickling him. Tonaka smiled and gently patted his face. She put away the small pistol.
  
  "There," she said. "How are you feeling now? Is everyone happy?"
  
  Nick Carter smiled. "Better than ever." He laughed... "You know something - I need a drink. Like, a lot of drinks. What do you say, girls?
  
  Tonaka clapped her hands. "How modest and sweet she is," Nick thought. How sweet. He wanted to make her happy. He would do whatever she wanted-anything.
  
  "I think this will be great fun," Tonaka said. "Don't you think so, girls?"
  
  Kato, Sato, and Mato thought this would be wonderful. They clapped and giggled, and each and every one of them insisted on kissing Nick. Then they retreated, giggling, smiling, and talking. Tonaka didn't kiss him.
  
  "You better get dressed, Nick. Hurry. You know we have to go to Japan."
  
  Nick sat up as they untied him. He chuckled. "Sure. I forgot. Japan. But are you sure you really want to go, Tonaka? We could have a lot of fun right here in Washington."
  
  Tonaka came right up to him. She leaned over and kissed him, pressing her lips to his for a long moment. She stroked his cheek. "Of course I want to go to Japan, Nick, dear. Hurry up. We'll help you get dressed and pack. Just tell us where everyone is."
  
  He felt like a king, sitting naked on the bed and watching them scurry around. Japan was going to be so much fun. It had been too long, too long since he'd had a real vacation like this. Without any responsibility. Free as air. He might even send Hawk a postcard. Or maybe not. To hell with Hawk.
  
  Tonaka rummaged through the dresser drawer. "Where's your diplomatic passport, Nick, dear?"
  
  "In the closet, my dear, in the lining of Knox's hatbox. Let's hurry! Japan awaits."
  
  And then suddenly he wanted that drink again. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted a drink in his life. He grabbed a pair of white boxer shorts from Sato, who was packing his suitcase, walked into the living room, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the portable bar.
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  Very rarely did Hawk call on Nick to consult on a high-level decision. Killmaster wasn't paid to make high-level decisions. He was paid to carry them out-which he usually did with the cunning of a tiger and the ferocity of a tiger when necessary. Hawk respected Nick's abilities as an agent and, when necessary, as an assassin. Carter was easily the best in the world today; the man in charge in that bitter, dark, bloody, and often mysterious corner where decisions were carried out, where directives finally turned into bullets and knives, poison and rope. And death.
  
  Hawk had had a very bad night. He'd barely slept, which was very unusual for him. At three in the morning, he found himself pacing his somewhat dreary Georgetown living room, wondering if he had the right to involve Nick in this decision. It wasn't really Nick's burden. It was Hawk's. Hawk was the head of AXE. Hawk was paid-underpaid-to make decisions and bear the brunt of mistakes. He had a burden on his hunched, seventy-something shoulders, and he really had no right to shift some of that burden onto someone else.
  
  Why not simply decide whether to play Cecil Aubrey's game or not? Admittedly, it was a bad game, but Hawke played worse. And the payoff was incomprehensible-an insider in the Kremlin. Hawke, professionally speaking, was a greedy man. And ruthless, too. Over time-though now he continued to ponder from a distance-he realized that, whatever the cost, he would find the means.
  
  to gradually distract the Kremlin man more and more from Aubrey. But that was all in the future.
  
  Did he have the right to bring in Nick Carter, who had never killed a person in his life, except for his country and while serving his oath of office? Because Nick Carter was supposed to have committed the actual murder.
  
  It was a complex moral question. A slippery one. It had a million facets, and one could rationalize and come up with almost any answer one wanted.
  
  David Hawk was no stranger to complex moral questions. For forty years, he waged a deadly struggle and crushed hundreds of enemies of himself and his country. In Hawk's view, they were one and the same. His enemies and his country's enemies were one and the same.
  
  At first glance, it seemed simple enough. He and the entire Western world would be safer and sleep better with Richard Filston dead. Filston was an out-and-out traitor who had caused unlimited damage. There really was no arguing about that.
  
  So, at three in the morning, Hawk poured himself a very weak drink and argued about it.
  
  Aubrey had gone against orders. He admitted this to Hawk's office, though he cited compelling reasons for disobeying his orders. His superiors demanded that Philston be arrested and brought to trial, and presumably executed.
  
  Cecil Aubrey, though the wild horses wouldn't drag him away, feared that Philston would somehow untie the hangman's knot. Aubrey thought of his dead young wife as much as of his duty. He didn't care that the traitor would be punished in open court. He only wanted Richard Philston's death in the shortest, quickest, and most ugly way possible. To accomplish this and secure AXE's help in exacting revenge, Aubrey was willing to hand over one of his country's most valuable assets-an unexpected source in the Kremlin.
  
  Hawk sipped his drink and draped his faded robe around his neck, which was growing thinner by the day. He glanced at the antique clock on the mantelpiece. Almost four. He'd promised himself he'd make a decision before he arrived at the office that day. Cecil Aubrey had, too.
  
  "Aubrey was right about one thing," Hawk admitted, walking. "AXE, almost any Yankee service, did a better job of this than the British. Filston would know every move and trap MI6 had ever used or dreamed of using. AXE might have a chance. Of course, if they used Nick Carter. If Nick couldn't do it, it couldn't happen."
  
  Could he have used Nick in a private vendetta against someone else? The problem didn't seem to go away or resolve itself. It was still there when Hawk finally found a pillow again. The drink helped a bit, and he fell into a restless sleep at the first glimpse of birds in the forsythia outside the window.
  
  Cecil Aubrey and the MIS man, Terence, were scheduled to show up at Hawk's office again on Tuesday at eleven-Hawk had been there at eight-fifteen. Delia Stokes wasn't there yet. Hawk hung up his light raincoat-it was starting to drizzle outside-and went straight to the phone, calling Nick at the Mayflower apartment.
  
  Hawk made his decision on the way to the office from Georgetown. He knew he was being a bit indulgent and shifting the burden, but now he could do so with a fairly clear conscience. Tell Nick all the facts in the presence of the British and let Nick make his own decision. It was the best Hawk could do, given his greed and temptation. He would be honest. He swore it to himself. If Nick abandoned the mission, that would be the end. Let Cecil Aubrey find his executioner elsewhere.
  
  Nick didn't answer. Hawk cursed and hung up. He removed his first cigar of the morning and put it in his mouth. He tried again to get to Nick's apartment, letting the call continue. No answer.
  
  Hawk hung up the phone again and stared at her. 'Fucking again,' he thought. Stuck. In the hay with a pretty doll, and he'd report back when he was damn good and ready. Hawk frowned, then almost smiled. You couldn't blame the boy for reaping the rosebuds while he could. God knew it hadn't lasted long. Not long enough. It had been a long time since he'd been able to reap the rosebuds. Ah, golden girls and boys must crumble to dust...
  
  To hell with it! When Nick didn't answer on the third try, Hawk went to look at the logbook on Delia's desk. The night duty officer was supposed to keep him updated. Hawk ran his finger down the list of neatly written entries. Carter, like all senior executives, was on call twenty-four hours a day and was supposed to call and check in every twelve hours. And leave an address or phone number where they could be reached.
  
  Hawk's finger paused at the entry: N3 - 2204 hrs. - 914-528-6177... It was the Maryland prefix. Hawk scribbled the number on a piece of paper and returned to his office. He dialed the number.
  
  After a long series of rings, the woman said, "Hello?" She sounded like a dream and hungover.
  
  Hawk ran straight into him. Let's get Romeo out of the bag.
  
  "Let me speak to Mr. Carter, please."
  
  A long pause. Then coldly: "Who did you want to talk to?"
  
  Hawk bit his cigar furiously. "Carter. Nick Carter! It's very important. Urgent. Is he there?"
  
  More silence. Then he heard her yawn. Her voice was still cold as she said, "I'm so sorry. Mr. Carter left a while ago. I really don't know when. But how the hell did you get this number? I..."
  
  "Sorry, lady." Hawk hung up again. Damn! He sat up, put his feet on the desk, and stared at the bilious red walls. The Western Union clock ticked for Nick Carter. He hadn't missed the call. There were still about forty-odd minutes left. Hawk cursed under his breath, unable to understand his own anxiety.
  
  A few minutes later, Delia Stokes entered. Hawk, disguising his anxiety-for which he couldn't provide a compelling reason-had her call the Mayflower every ten minutes. He switched lines and began making discreet inquiries. Nick Carter, as Hawk well knew, was a swinger, and his circle of acquaintances was long and Catholic. He could be in a Turkish bath with a senator, having breakfast with the wife and/or daughter of some diplomatic representative-or he could be on Goat Hill.
  
  Time passed without result. Hawk kept glancing at the wall clock. He'd promised Aubrey a decision today, damn it, boy! Now he was officially late for his call. Not that Hawk cared about such a trivial matter-but he wanted to settle this affair one way or another, and he couldn't do it without Nick. He was more determined than ever for Nick to have the final say in whether or not to kill Richard Filston.
  
  At ten past eleven, Delia Stokes walked into his office with a puzzled expression. Hawk had just thrown away his half-chewed cigar. He saw her expression and said, "What?"
  
  Delia shrugged. "I don't know what it is, sir. But I don't believe it-and neither will you."
  
  Hawk frowned. "Try me."
  
  Delia cleared her throat. "I finally got through to the bell captain on the Mayflower. I had a hard time finding him, and then he didn't want to talk-he likes Nick and I guess he was trying to protect him-but I finally got something. Nick left the hotel this morning a little after nine. He was drunk. Very drunk. And-this is the part you won't believe-he was with four Girl Scouts."
  
  The cigar dropped. Hawk stared at it. "Who was he with?"
  
  "I told you, he was with four Girl Scouts. Japanese Girl Scouts. He was so drunk that the Scouts, the Japanese Girl Scouts, had to help him across the hall."
  
  Hawk just blinked. Three times. Then he said, "Who do we have on site?"
  
  "There's Tom Ames. And..."
  
  "Ames will do. Send him to the Mayflower right now. Confirm or deny the captain's story. Shut it up, Delia, and begin the usual search for missing operatives. That's all. Oh, when Cecil Aubrey and Terence show up, let them in."
  
  "Yes, sir." She walked out and closed the door. Delia knew when to leave David Hawk alone with his bitter thoughts.
  
  Tom Ames was a good man. Careful, meticulous, leaving nothing out. It was one o'clock when he reported to Hawk. Meanwhile, Hawk had stopped Aubrey again-and kept the wires hot. So far, nothing.
  
  Ames sat in the same hard chair Nick Carter had occupied the previous morning. Ames was a rather sad-looking man, with a face that reminded Hawk of a lonely bloodhound.
  
  "It's true about the Girl Scouts, sir. There were four of them. Girl Scouts from Japan. They were selling cookies in the hotel. Normally it's forbidden, but the assistant manager let them in. Good neighborly relations and all that. And they sold cookies. I..."
  
  Hawk barely contained himself. "Give up the cookies, Ames. Stick with Carter. Did he leave with those Girl Scouts? Was he seen walking through the lobby with them? Was he drunk?"
  
  Ames swallowed. "Well, yes, sir. He was definitely spotted, sir. He fell three times walking through the lobby. He had to be helped by, uh, Girl Scouts. Mr. Carter was singing, dancing, sir, and yelling a little. He also appeared to have a lot of cookies, excuse me, sir, but that's what I understood-he had a lot of cookies and was trying to sell them in the lobby."
  
  Hawk closed his eyes. This profession was getting crazier by the day. "Keep going."
  
  "That's it, sir. That's what happened. Well confirmed. I've received statements from the captain, the assistant manager, two maids, and Mr. and Mrs. Meredith Hunt, who just checked in from Indianapolis. I..."
  
  Hawk raised a slightly trembling hand. "And skip this, too. Where did Carter and his... his entourage go after that? I assume they didn't take off in a hot air balloon or something?"
  
  Ames stuffed the stack of statements back into his inside pocket.
  
  "No, sir. They took a taxi."
  
  Hawk opened his eyes and looked expectantly. "Okay?"
  
  
  "Nothing, sir. The usual routine didn't work. The manager watched the Girl Scouts help Mr. Carter into a taxi, but he didn't notice anything unusual about the driver and didn't think to get the license plate number. I talked to other drivers, of course. No luck. There was only one other taxi there at the time, and the driver was dozing. He noticed, though, because Mr. Carter was making so much noise and, well, it was a little unusual to see Girl Scouts drunk."
  
  Hawk sighed. "A little, yes. So?"
  
  "That was a strange taxi, sir. The man said he'd never seen one in the line before. He couldn't get a good look at the driver."
  
  "How good," said Hawk. "It was probably the Japanese Sandman."
  
  "Sir?"
  
  Hawk waved his hand. "Nothing. Okay, Ames. That's all for now. Get ready for more orders."
  
  Ames left. Hawk sat and stared at the dark blue walls. At first glance, Nick Carter was currently contributing to juvenile delinquency. Four juveniles. Girl Scouts!
  
  Hawk reached for the phone, intending to fire a special AX APB, then pulled his hand back. No. Let it simmer for a bit. * Look what happened.
  
  One thing he was certain of. It was the exact opposite of what it looked like. These Girl Scouts had somehow enabled Nick Carter's actions.
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  The little man with the hammer was merciless. He was a dwarf, wearing a dirty brown robe, and he swung the hammer. The gong was twice the size of the little man, but the little man had big muscles, and he meant business. He struck the resonating brass again and again with the hammer-boinggg-boinggg-boinggg-boinggg...
  
  Funny thing. The gong was changing shape. It was starting to look like Nick Carter's head.
  
  BOINGGGGGG - BOINGGGGGGG
  
  Nick opened his eyes and closed them as quickly as he could. The gong rang again. He opened his eyes, and the gong stopped. He was lying on the floor on a futon, covered with a blanket. A white enamel pot sat next to his head. A premonition from someone's side. Nick raised his head above the pot and felt sick. Very sick. For a long time. After he vomited, he lay down on the floor cushion and tried to focus on the ceiling. It was an ordinary ceiling. Gradually, his spinning stopped and he calmed down. He began to hear music. Frantic, distant, stomping go-go music. It was, he thought as his head cleared, not so much a sound as a vibration.
  
  The door opened, and Tonaka walked in. No Girl Scout uniform. She wore a brown suede jacket over a white silk blouse-apparently no bra underneath-and skinny black pants that hugged her shapely legs. She wore light makeup, lipstick and a touch of blush, and her shiny black hair was piled on top of her head with feigned casualness. Nick admitted she was a real sight for sore eyes.
  
  Tonaka smiled softly at him. "Good evening, Nick. How are you feeling?"
  
  He gently touched his head with his fingers. He didn't fall.
  
  "I could just live like this," he said. "No, thanks."
  
  She laughed. "I'm so sorry, Nick. I really am. But it seemed like the only way to fulfill my father's wishes. The drug we gave you-it not only makes a person extremely obedient. It also makes them extremely thirsty, craving... for alcohol. You were actually quite drunk even before we put you on the plane."
  
  He stared at her. Everything was clear now. He rubbed the back of his neck gently. "I know it's a stupid question-but where am I?"
  
  Her smile disappeared. "In Tokyo, of course."
  
  "Of course. Where else? Where's the terrible threesome - Mato, Kato, and Sato?"
  
  "They have their job to do. They do it. I doubt you'll see them again."
  
  "I think I can handle this," he muttered.
  
  Tonaka sank down onto the futon next to him. She ran her hand over his forehead and stroked his hair. Her hand was cool as the Fuji stream. Her soft mouth touched his, then she pulled away.
  
  "There's no time for us now, but I'll say it. I promise. If you help my father, as I know you will, and if we both survive this, I'll do anything to make it up to you for what I've done. Anything! Is that clear, Nick?"
  
  He felt much better. He resisted the urge to pull her slender body close to him. He nodded. "Understood, Tonaka. I'll hold you to that promise. Now-where's your father?"
  
  She stood up and walked away from him. "He lives in the Sanya area. Did you know that?"
  
  He nodded. One of the worst slums in Tokyo. But he didn't understand. What was old Kunizo Matou doing in a place like that?
  
  Tonaka guessed his thought. She was lighting a cigarette. She casually tossed the match onto the tatami.
  
  "I told you my father was dying. He had cancer. He came back to die with his people, Etoya. Did you know they were the Burakumin?"
  
  He shook his head. "I had no idea. Does it matter?"
  
  He thought she was beautiful. The beauty vanished when she frowned. "He thought it mattered. He had long since abandoned his people and ceased to be a supporter of Et.
  
  "Since he's old and dying, he wants to make amends." She shrugged furiously. "Perhaps it's not too late-it's definitely time for that. But he'll explain it all to you. Then we'll see-now I think you'd better take a bath and get yourself in order. It will help your illness. We don't have much time. A few hours until the morning."
  
  Nick stood up. His shoes were missing, but otherwise he was fully dressed. His Savile Row suit would never be the same again. He actually felt dirty and overgrown with stubble. He knew what his tongue should look like and didn't want to look himself in the eye. There was a distinct taste of alcohol in his mouth.
  
  "A bath might just save my life," he admitted.
  
  She pointed at his wrinkled suit. "You'll still have to change. You'll have to get rid of this. It's all arranged. We have other clothes for you. Papers. A completely new cover. My organization, of course, has sorted it out."
  
  "Father seemed to be very busy. And who are 'we'?"
  
  She threw him a Japanese phrase he didn't understand. Her long, dark eyes narrowed. "It means the warrior women of Eta. That's what we are-wives, daughters, mothers. Our men won't fight, or there are very few of them, so the women must. But he'll tell you all about it. I'll send a girl about your bath."
  
  "Wait a minute, Tonaka." He heard the music again. The music and vibrations were very faint.
  
  "Where are we? Where in Tokyo?"
  
  She tossed the ashes onto the tatami. "On the Ginza. More like underneath it. It's one of our few safe havens. We're in the basement beneath the Electric Palace cabaret. That's the music you hear. It's almost midnight. I really have to go now, Nick. Anything you want..."
  
  "Cigarettes, a bottle of good beer, and knowing where you got your English. I haven't heard 'prease' in a long time."
  
  She couldn't help but smile. It made her beautiful again. "Radcliffe. Class of '63. Dad didn't want his daughter to become this, you see. Only I insisted. But he'll tell you about that, too. I'll send things. And bass. The girl. See you soon, Nick."
  
  She closed the door behind her. Nick, no different from the others, squatted in Eastern fashion and began to consider this. In Washington, of course, there would be hell to pay. Hawk would be preparing a torture chamber. He decided to play his cards as they fell, at least for the time being. He couldn't contact Hawk right away without telling the old man that his wandering boy had wandered into Tokyo. No. Let the boss have a stroke. Hawk was a tough, wiry old bird, and this wouldn't kill him.
  
  Meanwhile, Nick will see Kunizo Mata and find out what's going on. He'll pay the old man his debt and settle this whole hellish mess. Then there'll be enough time to call Hawk and try to explain.
  
  There was a knock at the door.
  
  "Ohari nasai." Fortunately, while he was in Shanghai, he spoke this language.
  
  She was middle-aged, with a smooth, serene face. She wore straw getas and a plaid housedress. She carried a tray with a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. She carried a huge fluffy towel over her arm. She gave Nick a toothy, aluminum smile.
  
  "Konbanwa, Carter-san. Here's something for you. Bassu is ready. Are you coming, hubba-hubba?"
  
  Nick smiled at her. "No hubba-hubba. Drink first. Smoke first. Then maybe I won't die and I can enjoy the bassu. O namae wa?"
  
  Aluminum teeth sparkled. "I'm Susie."
  
  He took a bottle of whiskey from the tray and grimaced. Old white whale! About what to expect from a place called the Electric Palace.
  
  "Susie, huh? Will you bring a glass?"
  
  "No grass."
  
  He unscrewed the bottle cap. The thing smelled bad. But he needed one sip, just one, to pull it out and begin this-whatever this mission might be. He held out the bottle and bowed to Susie. "To your health, beautiful. Gokenko vo shuku shimasu!" "And mine too," he muttered under his breath. He suddenly realized that the fun and games were over. From now on, the game would remain forever, and the winner would keep all the marbles.
  
  Susie giggled, then frowned. "The bass is ready. Hot. Come quickly or be cold." And she pointedly slapped a large towel in the air.
  
  There was no point explaining to Susie that he could wipe his own back. Susie was the boss. She shoved him into the steaming tank and got to work, giving him the bass her way, not his. She left nothing out.
  
  Tonaka was waiting when he returned to the small room. A pile of clothes lay on the rug by the bed. Nick looked at the clothes with disgust. "Who am I supposed to be? A tramp?"
  
  "In a way, yes." She handed him a battered wallet. It contained a thick wad of crisp new yen and a huge number of cards, most of them tattered. Nick quickly skimmed through them.
  
  "Your name is Pete Fremont," Tonaka explained. "I imagine you're something of a slacker. You're a freelance newspaperman and writer, and an alcoholic.
  
  You've been living on the East Coast for years. Every now and then you'll sell a story or an article in the States, and when the check comes in, you'll go on a bender. That's where the real Pete Fremont is right now-on a bender. So you don't have to worry. There won't be the two of you running around Japan. Now you better get dressed."
  
  She handed him a pair of shorts and a blue shirt, cheap and new, still in their plastic bags. "I asked one of the girls to buy them. Pete's things are pretty dirty. He doesn't take very good care of himself."
  
  Nick took off the short robe Susie had given him and put on shorts. Tonaka watched impassively. He remembered she'd seen it all before. No secrets from this child.
  
  "So there really is a Pete Fremont, huh? And you guarantee he won't spread while I'm working? That's fine, but there's another aspect. Everyone in Tokyo should know a character like that."
  
  She lit a cigarette. "Keeping him out of sight won't be hard. He's dead drunk. He'll stay that way for days, as long as he has money. He can't go anywhere anyway-these are his only clothes."
  
  Nick paused, pulling pins out of his new shirt. "You mean you stole the guy's clothes? His only clothes?"
  
  Tonaka shrugged. "Why not? We need them. He doesn't do that. Pete's a nice guy, he knows about us, about the Eta girls, and he helps us out from time to time. But he's a hopeless drinker. He doesn't need any clothes. He's got his bottle and his girl, and that's all he cares about. Hurry, Nick. I want to show you something."
  
  "Yes, mem sahib."
  
  He carefully picked up the suit. It had once been a good suit. It had been made in Hong Kong-Nick knew the tailor-a long time ago. He stepped into it, noticing the distinctive smell of sweat and age. It fit perfectly. "Your friend Pete is a big man."
  
  "Now the rest."
  
  Nick put on shoes with cracked heels and scuff marks. His tie was torn and stained. The coat she handed him had belonged to Abercrombie & Fitch during the Ice Age. It was dirty and missing a belt.
  
  "This guy," Nick muttered, putting on his coat, "is a real drunk. God, how does he stand the smell of himself?"
  
  Tonaka didn't smile. "I know. Poor Pete. But when you've been fired by UP, AP, the Hong Kong Times, and the Singapore Times, and Asahi, Yomiuri, and Osaka, I guess you don't care anymore. Here's the... hat."
  
  Nick looked at it in awe. It was a masterpiece. It had been new when the world was young. Dirty, rumpled, torn, sweat-stained, and shapeless, it still stood out like a tattered scarlet feather in a salt-stained stripe. A final gesture of defiance, a final challenge to fate.
  
  "I'd like to meet this Pete Fremont when this is all over," he told the girl. "He must be a walking example of the law of survival." Nick seemed to have a pretty good grasp of himself.
  
  "Maybe," she agreed shortly. "Stand there and let me take a look at you. Hmmm-from a distance, you could pass for Pete. Not up close, because you don't look like him. It's not really important. His papers are important as your cover, and I doubt you'll meet anyone who knows Pete well. Father says they won't recognize you. Remember, this is his entire plan. I'm just following my instructions."
  
  Nick narrowed his eyes at her. "You don't really like your old man, do you?"
  
  Her face hardened like a kabuki mask. "I respect my father. I don't need to love him. Come now. There's something you need to see. I saved it until last because... because I want you to leave this place in the proper frame of mind. And from here on out, your security."
  
  "I know," Nick said, following her to the door. "You're a great little psychologist."
  
  She led him down the hallway to a flight of narrow stairs. Music still wafted from somewhere above his head. A Beatles imitation. Clyde-san and his Four Silkworms. Nick Carter shook his head in silent disapproval as he followed Tonaka down the stairs. The fashionable music left him unmoved. He was by no means an old gentleman, but he wasn't that young either. No one was that young!
  
  They descended and fell. It grew colder, and he heard the trickle of water. Tonaka was now using a small flashlight.
  
  "How many basements does this place have?"
  
  "Many. This part of Tokyo is very old. We're right underneath what used to be an old silver foundry. Jin. They used these underground spaces to store ingots and coins."
  
  They reached the bottom, then walked down a transverse corridor into a dark cabin. The girl flicked a switch, and a dim yellow light illuminated the ceiling. She pointed to a body on an ordinary table in the center of the room.
  
  "Father wanted you to see this. First. Before you make an irrevocable commitment." She handed him the flashlight. "Here. Look closely. This is what will happen to us if we fail."
  
  Nick took the flashlight. "I thought I was betrayed."
  
  "Not exactly. Father says no. If you want to back out at this point, we'll have to put you on the next plane back to the States."
  
  Carter frowned, then smiled sourly.
  
  Old Kunizo knew what he was about to do. He knew Carter could be many things, but a chicken wasn't one of them.
  
  He shone the flashlight beam on the body and examined it carefully. He was familiar enough with corpses and death to immediately recognize that this man had died in excruciating agony.
  
  The body belonged to a middle-aged Japanese man. His eyes were closed. Nick examined the multitude of small wounds covering the man from neck to ankles. There must be a thousand of them! Small, bloody, gaping mouths in the flesh. None deep enough to kill. None in a vital place. But add them all up, and the man would slowly bleed to death. It would take hours. And there would be horror, shock...
  
  Tonaka stood far away in the shadow of a tiny yellow lightbulb. The whiff of her cigarette reached him, sharp and pungent in the cold, deadly smell of the room.
  
  She said, "See the tattoo?"
  
  He looked at it. It puzzled him. A small blue Buddha figurine-with knives stuck into it. It was on his left arm, inside, above the elbow.
  
  "I see that," Nick said. "What does that mean?"
  
  "The Blood Buddha Society. His name was Sadanaga. He was an Eta, a Burakumin. Like me-and my father. Like millions of us. But the Chinese, the Chikom, forced him to join the Society and work for them. But Sadanaga was a brave man-he rebelled and worked for us, too. He reported the Chikom."
  
  Tonaka tossed away her glowing cigarette. "They found out. You see the results. And that's exactly what you'll face if you help us, Mr. Carter. And that's just part of it."
  
  Nick stepped back and ran the flashlight over the body again. Silent, small wounds gaped across it. He turned off the light and turned back to the girl. "Looks like death by a thousand cuts-but I thought that happened to the Ronin."
  
  "The Chinese brought it back. In an updated, modern form. You'll see. My father has a model of the machine they use to punish anyone who defies them. Come on, it's cold here."
  
  They returned to the small room where Nick had woken up. The music was still playing, strumming and vibrating. He had somehow lost his wristwatch.
  
  It was, Tonaka told him, a quarter past one.
  
  "I don't want to sleep," he said. "I might as well leave right now and go to your father. Call and tell him I'm on my way."
  
  "He doesn't have a phone. That's unreasonable. But I'll send him a message in time. You might be right-it's easier to get around Tokyo at these hours. But wait-if you're going now, I have to give you this. I know it's not what you're used to," my father remembers, "but it's all we have. Guns are hard to come by for us, Eta."
  
  She walked over to a small cabinet in the corner of the room and knelt before it. Her pants hugged the smooth line of her hips and buttocks, confining the taut flesh.
  
  She returned with a heavy pistol that gleamed with an oily black sheen. She handed it to him along with two spare clips. "It's very heavy. I couldn't use it myself. It's been hidden since the occupation. I think it's in good condition. I suppose some YANKEE traded it for cigarettes and beer, or a girl."
  
  It was an old Colt .45, a 1911. Nick hadn't fired it in a while, but he was familiar with it. The gun was notoriously inaccurate beyond fifty yards, but within that range, it could stop a bull. In fact, it was designed to stop the riots in the Philippines.
  
  He emptied a full clip and checked the safeties, then tossed the cartridges onto the bed pillow. They lay thick, blunt, and deadly, the copper shimmering in the light. Nick checked the magazine springs in all the clips. They would fit. Just like the old .45-sure, it wasn't a Wilhelmina, but he didn't have another gun. And he could have finished off the Hugo stiletto pressed against his right hand in its suede spring sheath, but it wasn't there. He had to make do. He tucked the Colt into his belt and buttoned his coat over it. It bulged, but not too much.
  
  Tonaka watched him closely. He felt her approval in her dark eyes. In reality, the girl was more optimistic. She knew a professional when she saw one.
  
  She handed him a small leather keychain. "There's a Datsun parked behind the San-ai department store. Do you know it?"
  
  "I know it." It was a tubular building near Ginza, like a massive rocket on its pad.
  
  "Okay. Here's the license number." She handed him a piece of paper. "The car can be followed. I don't think so, but maybe. You just need to take this chance. Do you know how to get to the Sanya area?"
  
  "I think so. Take the expressway to Shawa Dori, then exit and walk to the baseball stadium. Cut right onto Meiji Dori, and that should take me somewhere near the Namidabashi Bridge. Right?"
  
  She came closer to him. "Absolutely right.
  
  You know Tokyo well."
  
  "Not as good as it should be, but I can make it out. It's like New York - they tear everything down and build it again."
  
  Tonaka was closer now, almost touching him. Her smile was sad. "Not in the Sanya area-it's still a slum. You'll probably have to park near the bridge and go inside. There aren't many streets."
  
  "I know." He'd seen slums all over the world. He'd seen them and smelled them-the manure, the filth, the human waste. Dogs that ate their own excrement. Babies who would never have a chance, and the elderly awaiting death without dignity. Kunizo Matou, who was Eta, the Burakumin, must have felt very strongly about his people to return to a place like Sanya to die.
  
  She was in his arms. She pressed her slender body against his large, hard one. He was surprised to see tears glistening in her long, almond-shaped eyes.
  
  "Then go," she told him. "God be with you. I have done all I could, obeyed my noble father in every detail. Will you convey to him my-my respects?"
  
  Nick held her tenderly. She was trembling, and a faint scent of sandalwood wafted from her hair.
  
  "Only your respect? Not your love?"
  
  She didn't look at him. She shook her head. "No. Just like I say. But don't think about it - this is between my father and me. You and I - we are different." She moved away from him a little. "I have a promise, Nick. I hope you will make me do it."
  
  "I will do it."
  
  He kissed her. Her mouth was fragrant, soft, wet, and yielding, like a rosebud. As he suspected, she wasn't wearing a bra, and he felt her breasts pressed against him. For a moment, their shoulders pressed together, and her trembling intensified, her breathing became rough. Then she pushed him away. "No! You can't. That's it-come on in, I'll show you how to leave this place. Don't bother remembering this-you won't come back here."
  
  As they left the room, it occurred to him. "What about this body?"
  
  "That's our concern. It's not the first thing we get rid of - when the time comes, we'll throw it in the harbor."
  
  Five minutes later, Nick Carter felt a light brush of April rain on his face. It was barely more than a mist, really, and after the cramped confines of the basement, it was cool and comforting. A hint of chill lingered in the air, and he buttoned his old cloak around his neck.
  
  Tonaka led him into an alley. The dark, murky sky overhead reflected the neon lights of Ginza, half a block away. It was late, but the street was still swaying. As he walked, Nick caught two scents he associated with Tokyo: hot noodles and freshly poured concrete. To his right was an abandoned flat area where they were digging a new basement. The smell of concrete was stronger. The cranes in the pit resembled sleeping storks in the rain.
  
  He emerged onto a side street and turned back toward Ginza itself. He emerged a block from the Nichigeki Theater. He paused at a corner and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag, letting his eyes wander and take in the frenetic scene. Around three in the morning, Ginza had cooled a bit, but not yet died down. The traffic had thinned, but it was still packed. People still flowed up and down this fantastical street. Noodle vendors still trumpeted. Bold music poured from thousands of bars. Somewhere, a samisen tinkled softly. A late tram flew past. Above it all, as if the sky were dripping with multicolored streams, a bright tide of neon washed over it. Tokyo. Insolent, brazen, bastard of the West. Spawned by the rape of a worthy girl from the East.
  
  A rickshaw passed by, a coolie running wearily with his head down. A Yankee sailor and a sweet Japanese woman were in a tight embrace. Nick smiled. You never saw anything like this again. Rickshaws. They were as old-fashioned as clogs or kimonos and obis. Young Japan was fashionable-and there were plenty of hippies.
  
  High to the right, just below the clouds, the warning light on Tokyo Tower in Shiba Park blinked. Across the street, the bright neon lights of the Chase Manhattan branch told him in Japanese and English that he had a friend. Nick's smile was a little sour. He doubted S-M would be much help in his current situation. He lit another cigarette and walked on. His peripheral vision was excellent, and he saw two neat little police officers, in blue uniforms and white gloves, approaching from his left. They walked slowly, swinging their batons and talking to each other, rather casually and innocuously, but there was no point in taking any chances.
  
  Nick walked a couple of blocks, keeping his scent. Nothing. He suddenly felt very hungry and stopped at a brightly lit tempura bar, eating a huge platter of fried vegetables and shrimp. He left some yen on the stone crossbar and walked out. No one paid him the slightest attention.
  
  He walked out of Ginza, down a side street, and entered the San-ai parking lot from the rear. Sodium lamps cast a blue-green haze over a dozen cars.
  
  There. The black Datsun was where Tonaka had said it would be. He checked his license, rolled up the paper to find another cigarette, then got in and drove out of the parking lot. No lights, not a shadow of a car following him. For now, he seemed fine.
  
  As he sat down, the heavy .45 sank into his groin. He placed it on the seat next to him.
  
  He drove carefully, observing the 20-mile-per-hour speed limit, until he merged onto the new expressway and headed north. Then he increased the speed to 30 mph, which was still within the nighttime limit. He obeyed all traffic signs and signals. The rain intensified, and he rolled up the driver's window almost all the way. As the small car became stuffy, he smelled sweat and dirt from Pete Fremont's suit. There was little of the frantic Tokyo traffic at this hour, and he saw no police cars. He was grateful. If the cops pulled him over, even for a routine check, it would be a bit difficult looking and smelling like he did. And explaining would be difficult with a .45 caliber pistol. Nick knew the Tokyo police from past experience. They were tough and efficient-they were also known to throw a man in the sand and easily forget about him for a few days.
  
  He passed Ueno Park on his left. Beisubooru Stadium is nearby now. He decided to leave his car in the parking lot at Minowa Station on the Joban Line and walk into the Sanya district across the Namidabashi Bridge, where criminals were executed in the old days.
  
  The small suburban station was dark and deserted in the whining rainy night. There was one car in the parking lot-an old jalopy without tires. Nick locked the Datsun, checked the .45 pistol again, and tucked it into his belt. He pulled down his battered hat, turned up his collar, and trudged into the dark rain. Somewhere, a dog howled wearily-a cry of loneliness and despair in that lonely hour before dawn. Nick moved on. Tonaka gave him a flashlight, and he used it occasionally. Street signs were haphazard, often absent, but he had a general idea of where he was, and his sense of direction was acute.
  
  Crossing the Namidabashi Bridge, he found himself in Sanya proper. A gentle breeze from the Sumida River carried the industrial stench of the surrounding factories. Another heavy, acrid odor hung in the damp air-the smell of old, dried blood and rotting intestines. Slaughterhouses. Sanya had many of them, and he remembered how many of the eta, the burakumin, were employed in killing and skinning animals. One of the few vile jobs available to them as a class.
  
  He walked to the corner. He had to be there by now. There was a row of flophouses here. A paper sign, weatherproofed and lit by an oil lantern, offered a bed for 20 yen. Five cents.
  
  He was the only person in this desolate place. Gray rain hissed softly and splashed on his antique raincoat. Nick figured he must be about a block from his destination. It mattered little, because now he had to admit he was lost. Unless Tonaka, the boss, had made contact, as she had promised.
  
  "Carter-san?"
  
  A sigh, a whisper, an imaginary sound above the crying rain? Nick tensed, placed his hand on the cold butt of the .45, and looked around. Nothing. Not a single person. No one.
  
  "Carter-san?"
  
  The voice grew higher, shriller, wind-blown. Nick spoke into the night. "Yes. I'm Carter-san. Where are you?"
  
  "Here, Carter-san, between the buildings. Go to the one with the lamp."
  
  Nick pulled the Colt from his belt and flipped the safety off. He walked over to where an oil lamp burned behind a paper sign.
  
  "Here, Carter-san. Look down. Below you."
  
  Between the buildings was a narrow space with three steps leading down. At the foot of the steps, a man sat under a straw raincoat.
  
  Nick stopped at the top of the stairs. "Can I use the light?"
  
  "Just for one second, Carter-san. It's dangerous."
  
  "How do you know I'm Carter-san?" Nick whispered.
  
  He couldn't see the shrug of the old shoulders beneath the mat, but he guessed. "It's a chance I'm taking, but she said you'd come. And if you're Carter-san, I'm supposed to direct you to Kunizo Matu. If you're not Carter-san, then you're one of them, and you'll kill me."
  
  "I'm Carter-san. Where is Kunizo Matou?"
  
  He momentarily shone the light onto the stairs. His bright, beady eyes reflected the light. A tuft of gray hair, an ancient face scorched by time and troubles. He crouched under the mat, like Time itself. He didn't have twenty yen for a bed. But he lived, he spoke, he helped his people.
  
  Nick turned off the light. "Where?"
  
  "Go down the stairs past me and straight back down the hallway. As far as you can. Watch out for the dogs. They sleep here, and they're wild and hungry. At the end of this passage, there's another passage to the right-go as far as you can. It's a big house, bigger than you think, and there's a red light behind the door. Go, Carter-san.
  
  Nick pulled a crisp bill out of Pete Fremont's dirty wallet. He put it
  
  it was under the mat as he passed. "Thank you, papa-san. Here's the money. It will be easier for your old bones to lie in bed."
  
  "Arigato, Carter-san."
  
  "Itashimashi!"
  
  Nick carefully walked down the hallway, his fingers brushing against the dilapidated buildings on either side. The smell was terrible, and he stepped into sticky mud. He accidentally kicked a dog, but the creature only whined and crawled away.
  
  He turned and continued on for what he estimated was half a block. Huts lined both sides, piles of tin, paper, and old packing crates-anything that could be salvaged or stolen and used to build a home. Every now and then, he saw a dim light or heard a child's cry. The rain mourned the inhabitants, the rags and bones of life. A skinny cat spat at Nick and ran off into the night.
  
  He saw it then. A dim red light behind a paper door. Only visible if you were looking for it. He smiled wryly and briefly thought of his youth in a Midwestern town, where the girls at the Real Silk factory actually held red bulbs in the windows.
  
  Rain, suddenly caught by the wind, slapped the tattoo against the paper door. Nick knocked lightly. He took a step back, a step to the right, the Colt ready to fire into the night. The strange feeling of fantasy, of unreality, that had haunted him since he'd been drugged, was now gone. He was AXEman now. He was Killmaster. And he was working.
  
  The paper door slid open with a soft sigh, and a huge, dim figure stepped into it.
  
  "Nick?"
  
  It was Kunizo Matou's voice, but it wasn't. Not the voice Nick remembered from all those years. It was an old voice, a sick voice, and it kept saying, "Nick?"
  
  "Yes, Kunizo. Nick Carter. I understand that you wanted to see me."
  
  All things considered, Nick thought, that was probably the understatement of the century.
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  The house was dimly lit by paper lanterns. "It's not that I'm following the old customs," Kunizo Matu said, leading him into the inner room. "Poor lighting is an advantage in this neighborhood. Especially now that I've declared my own little war on the Chinese Communists. Did my daughter tell you about that?"
  
  "A little," Nick said. "Not much. She said you'd clear it all up. I'd like you to. I'm confused about a lot of things."
  
  The room was well-proportioned and furnished in Japanese style. Straw mats, a low table on the tatami mats, rice paper flowers on the wall, and soft cushions around the table. Small cups and a bottle of saki stood on the table.
  
  Matu pointed to the pillow. "You'll have to sit on the floor, my old friend. But first, have you brought my medallion? I value it very much and want it with me when I die." It was a simple statement of fact, devoid of sentimentality.
  
  Nick fished the medallion out of his pocket and handed it to him. If it weren't for Tonaka, he would have forgotten about it. She told him, "The old man will ask for it."
  
  Matu took the gold and jade disk and put it away in a drawer. He sat down across the table from Nick and reached for a bottle of saki. "We won't stand on ceremony, my old friend, but there's time for a little drink to reminisce about all the days gone by. It was good of you to come."
  
  Nick smiled. "I had very little choice, Kunizo. Did she tell you how she and her fellow scouts brought me here?"
  
  "She told me. She's a very obedient daughter, but I didn't really want her to go to such extremes. Perhaps I was a little overzealous in my instructions. I just hoped she could convince you." He poured saki into eggshell cups.
  
  Nick Carter shrugged. "She convinced me. Forget it, Kunizo. I would have come anyway once I realized the gravity of the matter. I just might have a little trouble explaining things to my boss."
  
  "David Hawk?" Matu handed him a cup of saki.
  
  "You know what?"
  
  Matu nodded and drank the saki. He was still built like a sumo wrestler, but now old age had cloaked him in a flabby robe, and his features were too sharp. His eyes were deep-set, with enormous bags under them, and they burned with fever and something else that was consuming him.
  
  He nodded again. "I always knew far more than you suspected, Nick. About you and AX. You knew me as a friend, as your karate and judo teacher. I worked for Japanese Intelligence."
  
  "That's what Tonaka told me."
  
  "Yes. I told her that finally. What she couldn't tell you, because she doesn't know - very few people know - is that I've been a double agent all these years. I've also been working for the British.
  
  Nick sipped his saki. He wasn't particularly surprised, though this was news to him. He kept his eyes on the short Swedish K machine gun Matu had brought-it lay on the table-and said nothing. Matu had traveled thousands of miles with him to talk. When he was ready, he would. Nick waited.
  
  Matu wasn't ready to begin reviewing the cases yet. He stared at the bottle of saki. The rain played a metallic ragtime on the roof. Someone coughed somewhere in the house. Nick
  
  tilted his ear and looked at the big man.
  
  "Servant. A good boy. We can trust him."
  
  Nick refilled his cup of saki and lit a cigarette. Matu refused. "My doctor won't allow it. He's a liar and says I'll live a long time." He patted his enormous belly. "I know better. This cancer is eating me alive. Did my daughter mention that?"
  
  "Something of that." The doctor was a liar. Killmaster knew death when it was written on a man's face.
  
  Kunizo Matu sighed. "I'm giving myself six months. I don't have much time to do what I'd like. It's a shame. But then, I suppose that's how it always goes-someone stalls, puts it off and puts it off, and then one day Death comes and the time is gone. I..."
  
  Gently, ever so gently, Nick nudged him. "There's some things I understand, Kunizo. There's some things I don't. About your people and how you came back to them, the Burakumin, and how things aren't going well with you and your daughter. I know you're trying to fix that before you die. You have my full sympathy, Kunizo, and you know that in our line of work, sympathy is hard to come by. But we've always been honest and straightforward with each other-you have to get to Kunizo's business! What do you want from me?"
  
  Matu sighed heavily. He smelled strange, and Nick thought it was the real smell of cancer. He'd read that some of them actually stank.
  
  "You"re right," said Matu. "Just like in the old days-you were usually right. So listen carefully. I told you I was a double agent, working for both our intelligence service and Britain"s MI5. Well, in MI5, I met a man named Cecil Aubrey. He was just a junior officer then. Now he"s a knight, or soon will be... Sir Cecil Aubrey! Now, even after all these years, I still have a lot of contacts. I"ve kept them in good condition, you might say. For an old man, Nick, for a dying man, I know very well what"s going on in the world. In our world. The espionage underground. A few months ago..."
  
  Kunizo Matou spoke firmly for half an hour. Nick Carter listened attentively, only interrupting occasionally to ask a question. Mostly, he drank sake, smoked cigarettes, and fondled the Swedish K-45 machine gun. It was an elegant machine.
  
  Kunizo Matu said, "You see, old friend, this is a complicated matter. I no longer have official connections, so I've organized the Eta women and am doing the best I can. It's frustrating at times, especially now that we're faced with a double conspiracy. I'm sure Richard Filston didn't come to Tokyo just to organize a sabotage campaign and a blackout. It's more than that. It's much more than that. My humble opinion is that the Russians are planning to somehow trick the Chinese, deceive them, and throw them into soup."
  
  Nick's smile was hard. "Ancient Chinese duck soup recipe-catch the duck first!"
  
  He became doubly wary at the first mention of Richard Filston's name. Capturing Filston, even killing him, would be the coup of the century. It was hard to believe that this man would leave the safety of Russia just to oversee a sabotage operation, no matter how large-scale. Kunizo was right about that. This had to be something else.
  
  He refilled his cup with saki. "Are you sure Filston is in Tokyo? Now?"
  
  The corpulent body shuddered as the old man shrugged his large shoulders. "As positive as one can be in this business. Yes. He's here. I tracked him down, then lost him. He knows all the tricks. I believe even Johnny Chow, the leader of the local Chinese agents, doesn't know where Filston is at the moment. And they must work closely together."
  
  - So, Filston has his own people. His own organization, not counting the Chikoms?
  
  Another shrug. "I suppose so. A small group. It has to be small to avoid attention. Philston will be operating independently. He will have no connection with the Russian embassy here. If he's caught doing this-whatever he's doing-they'll disown him."
  
  Nick thought for a moment. "Is their place still at Azabu Mamiana 1?"
  
  "Same thing. But there's no point in looking at their embassy. My girls have been on duty around the clock for several days now. Nothing."
  
  The front door began to open. Slowly. An inch at a time. The grooves were well lubricated, and the door made no sound.
  
  "So, here you are," Kunizo said to Matu. "I can handle the sabotage plot. I can gather evidence and hand it over to the police at the last minute. They'll listen to me, because even though I'm no longer active, I can still apply some pressure. But I can't do anything about Richard Filston, and he's a real danger. This game is too big for me. That's why I sent for you, why I sent the medallion, why I'm asking now what I thought I'd never ask: that you pay the debt."
  
  He suddenly leaned across the table toward Nick. "I never demanded a debt, mind you! It was you, Nick, who always insisted that you owed me for your life."
  
  "It's true. I don't like debts. I'll pay them if I can. Do you want me to find Richard Filston and kill him?"
  
  
  Matu's eyes lit up. "I don't care what you do to him. Kill him. Hand him over to our police, take him back to the States. Give him to the British. It's all the same to me."
  
  The front door was now open. The pouring rain had soaked the mat in the hallway. The man slowly moved into the inner room. The pistol in his hand gleamed dully.
  
  "MI5 knows Filston is in Tokyo," Matu said. "I've taken care of that. I told Cecil Aubrey about it a minute ago. He knows. He'll know what to do."
  
  Nick wasn't particularly pleased. "That means I can work for all the British agents. The CIA, too, if they officially ask us for help. Things could get complicated. I like to work alone as much as possible."
  
  The man was already halfway down the corridor. Carefully, he removed the safety catch from his pistol.
  
  Nick Carter stood up and stretched. He was suddenly tired to the bone. "Okay, Kunizo. We'll leave it at that. I'll try to find Filston. When I leave here, I'll be alone. To keep him from getting too confused, I'll forget about this Johnny Chow, the Chinese, and the sabotage plot. You handle this angle. I'll focus on Filston. When I get him, if I get him, then I'll decide what to do with him. Okay?"
  
  Matu stood up too. He nodded, his chins quivering. "As you say, Nick. Good. I think it's best to concentrate and narrow down the questions. But now I have something to show you. Did Tonaka let you see the body where you were first taken?"
  
  A man in the hall, standing in the darkness, could see the dim silhouettes of two men in the inner room. They had just risen from the table.
  
  Nick said, "She did it. Gentleman, name is Sadanaga. Should be coming into the harbor anytime."
  
  Matu walked over to a small lacquered cabinet in the corner. He bent over with a groan, his big belly swaying. "Your memory is as good as ever, Nick. But his name doesn't matter. Not even his death. He's not the first, and he won't be the last. But I'm glad you saw his body. This and this will serve to explain just how hard Johnny Chow and his Chinese play."
  
  He placed the small Buddha on the table. It was made of bronze and about a foot tall. Matu touched it, and the front half swung open on tiny hinges. Light glinted off the many tiny blades embedded within the statue.
  
  "They call it the Bloody Buddha," Matu said. "It's an old idea, carried over to the present day. And not exactly Eastern, you see, because it's a version of the Iron Maiden used in Europe in medieval times. They place the victim inside the Buddha and lock him in place. Sure, there really are a thousand knives, but what does that matter? He bleeds very slowly because the blades are cleverly placed, and none of them penetrates too deeply or touches a vital spot. Not a very pleasant death."
  
  The door to the room opened the first inch.
  
  Nick had the photo. "Are the Chicoms forcing the Eta people to join the Blood Buddha Society?"
  
  "Yes." Matu shook his head sadly. "Some of the Eta resist them. Not many. The Eta, the Burakumin, are a minority, and they don't have many ways to fight back. The Chicoms use jobs, political pressure, money-but mostly terror. They're very clever. They force men to join the Society through terrorism, through threats to their wives and children. Then, if the men back down, if they regain their manhood and try to fight back-you'll see what happens." He gestured to the small, deadly Buddha on the table. "So I turned to the women, with some success, because the Chicoms haven't figured out how to deal with women yet. I made this model to show the women what would happen to them if they were caught."
  
  Nick loosened the .45 Colt pistol from his belt, where it was lodged in his stomach. "You're the one worried, Kunizo. But I know what you mean-the Chikoms will cut down Tokyo and burn it to the ground, and blame it on your people, Eta."
  
  The door behind them was now half open.
  
  "The sad truth, Nick, is that many of my people are actually rebelling. They are looting and burning in protest against poverty and discrimination. They are a natural tool for the Chikom. I try to reason with them, but I have little success. My people are very bitter."
  
  Nick pulled on his old coat. "Yes. But that's your problem, Kunizo. Mine is finding Richard Filston. So I'm going to work, and the sooner the better. One thing, I thought, might help me. What do you think Filston is really up to? His real reason for being in Tokyo? That might give me a starting point."
  
  Silence. The door behind them stopped moving.
  
  Matu said, "It's just a guess, Nick. A crazy one. You have to understand that. Laugh if you want, but I think Filston is in Tokyo to..."
  
  In the silence behind them, a pistol coughed angrily. It was an old-fashioned Luger with a silencer and a relatively low muzzle velocity. The brutal 9mm bullet tore off most of Kunizo Mata's face. His head jerked back. His body, laden with fat, remained motionless.
  
  Then he fell forward, smashing the table into pieces, spilling blood on the totami, crushing the Buddha model.
  
  By then, Nick Carter had hit the block and was rolling to the right. He rose, Colt in hand. He saw a vague figure, a blurry shadow, moving away from the door. Nick fired from a crouch.
  
  BLA M-BLAM-BLA M-BLAM
  
  Colt roared in the silence like a canon. The shadow vanished, and Nick heard footsteps pounding the hali. He followed the sound.
  
  The shadow was just walking out the door. BLAM-BLAM. The heavy .45 woke up the echoes. And the surrounding area. Carter knew he had only a few minutes, maybe seconds, to get the hell out of there. He didn't look back at his old friend. It was over now.
  
  He ran out into the rain and the first false hint of dawn. There was enough light to see the killer turn left, back the way he and Nick had come. It was probably the only way in and out. Nick ran after him. He didn't shoot anymore. It was pointless, and he already had a nagging feeling of failure. The bastard was going to escape.
  
  When he reached the turn, no one was in sight. Nick ran down the narrow passage that led back to the shelters, slipping and sliding in the mud under his feet. Now voices were all around him. Babies were crying. Women were asking questions. Men were moving and wondering.
  
  On the stairs, the old beggar was still hiding under the rug from the rain. Nick touched his shoulder. "Papa-san! Did you see..."
  
  The old man fell like a broken doll. The ugly wound on his throat stared at Nick with a silent, reproachful mouth. The rug beneath him was stained red. In one gnarled hand, he still clutched the crisp bill Nick had given him.
  
  "Sorry, Papa-san." Nick leaped up the steps. Despite the rain, it was getting lighter by the minute. He had to get out of there. Quickly! There was no point in hanging around here. The killer had slipped away, vanishing into the labyrinth of the slums, and Kunizo Mata was dead, the cancer had been deceived. Take it from there.
  
  Police cars pulled out onto the street from opposite directions, two of them carefully blocking his escape route. Two spotlights stopped him like a moth in a traffic jam.
  
  "Tomarinasai!"
  
  Nick stopped. It smelled like a setup, and he was in the middle of it. Someone had used the phone, and the timing was perfect. He'd dropped the Colt and thrown it down the stairs. If he could just get their attention, there was a chance they wouldn't see it. Or find a dead beggar. Think fast, Carter! He actually thought fast and got down to business. He raised his hands and walked slowly toward the nearest police car. He could get away with it. He'd drunk just enough saki to smell it.
  
  He passed between the two cars. They were stopped now, their engines purring softly, the turret lights blazing all around them. Nick blinked in the headlights. He frowned, managed to sway slightly. He was Pete Fremont now, and he'd better remember it. If they threw him in the sneezer, he was finished. A hawk in a cage doesn't catch rabbits.
  
  "What the hell is this? What's going on? People are banging all over the house, the cops are pulling me over! What the hell is going on?" Pete Fremont was getting angrier and angrier.
  
  A policeman emerged from each car and stepped into the pool of light. Both were small and neat. Both carried large Nambu pistols, and they were aimed at Nick. Pete.
  
  The lieutenant looked at the big American and bowed slightly. Lieutenant! He wrote it down. Lieutenants didn't usually ride in cruisers.
  
  "O namae wa?
  
  "Pete Fremont. Can I put my hands down now, officer?" Heavy with sarcasm.
  
  Another cop, a powerfully built man with jagged teeth, quickly searched Nick. He nodded to the lieutenant. Nick let his saki breath splash into the cop's face and saw him flinch.
  
  "Okay," said the lieutenant. "Hands down. Kokuseki wa?"
  
  Nick swayed slightly. "America-gin." He said it proudly, triumphantly, as if he were about to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner."
  
  He hiccupped. "American gin, by God, and don't forget it. If you monkeys think you're going to kick me..."
  
  The lieutenant looked bored. Drunken Yankees were nothing new to him. He extended his hand. "Papers, please."
  
  Nick Carter handed over Pete Fremont's wallet and said a little prayer.
  
  The lieutenant was rummaging through his wallet, holding it up to one of the headlights. The other cop now stood back from the light, pointing his gun at Nick. They knew their stuff, those Tokyo cops.
  
  The lieutenant glanced at Nick. "Tokyo no jusho wa?"
  
  Christ! His address in Tokyo? Pete Fremont's address in Tokyo. He had no idea. All he could do was lie and hope. His brain clicked like a computer, and he came up with something that might work.
  
  "I don't live in Tokyo," he said. "I'm in Japan on business. I stopped by last night. I live in Seoul. Korea." He frantically racked his brains for an address in Seoul. There it was! Sally Soo's house.
  
  "Where in Seoul?"
  
  The lieutenant came closer, carefully examining him from head to toe, judging by his clothes and scent. His half-smile was arrogant. "Who are you trying to fool, Saki-head?"
  
  "19 Donjadon, Chongku." Nick smirked and blew saki at the lieutenant. "Look, Buster. You'll see I'm telling the truth." He let a groan creep into his voice. "Look, what's all this about? I didn't do anything. I just came here to see the girl. Then, as I was leaving, the shooting started. And now you guys..."
  
  The lieutenant looked at him with mild bewilderment. Nick's spirits perked up. The cop was going to buy this story. Thank God he was rid of the Colt. But he could still get into trouble if they started snooping around.
  
  "Have you been drinking?" It was a rhetorical question.
  
  Nick swayed and hiccupped again. "Yeah. I had a little to drink. I always drink when I'm with my girlfriend. What about it?"
  
  "Did you hear shooting? Where?"
  
  Nick shrugged. "I don't know exactly where. You can bet I didn't go investigate! All I know is, I was just leaving my girlfriend's house, minding my own business, and suddenly bam-bam!" He stopped and looked suspiciously at the lieutenant. "Hey! How come you people got here so fast? You were expecting trouble, huh?"
  
  The lieutenant frowned. "I'm asking questions, Mr. Fremont. But we did receive a report of unrest here. As you can imagine, this area isn't exactly the best." He looked Nick over again, noting his shabby suit, rumpled hat, and raincoat. His expression confirmed his belief that Mr. Pete Fremont belonged in this area. The phone call had, in fact, been anonymous and meager. In half an hour, there would be trouble in the Sanya area, near the flophouse. Trouble with gunfire. The caller was a law-abiding Japanese citizen and decided the police should know. That was all-and the click of a softly replaced phone.
  
  The lieutenant scratched his chin and looked around. The light was growing. The jumble of shacks and hovels stretched for a mile in every direction. It was a labyrinth, and he knew he'd find nothing in it. He didn't have enough men for a proper search, even if he knew what he was looking for. And the police, when they ventured into the Sanya jungle at all, traveled in teams of fours and fives. He looked at the large, drunken American. Fremont? Pete Fremont? The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. Did it matter? The Yankees were clearly going broke on the beach, and there were plenty of them in Tokyo and every big city in the East. He was living with some whore named Sanya. So what? It wasn't illegal.
  
  Nick waited patiently. It was time to keep his mouth shut. He was watching the lieutenant's thoughts. The officer was about to let him go.
  
  The lieutenant was about to return Nick's wallet when a radio rang in one of the cars. Someone quietly called the lieutenant's name. He turned away, still holding the wallet. "One moment, please." Tokyo cops are always polite. Nick cursed under his breath. It was getting damn light! They were about to spot the dead beggar, and then everything would surely amaze the fans.
  
  The lieutenant returned. Nick felt a little uneasy when he recognized the expression on the man's face. He'd seen it before. The cat knows where there's a cute, fat canary.
  
  The lieutenant opened his wallet again. "You say your name is Pete Fremont?"
  
  Nick looked puzzled. At the same time, he took a small step closer to the lieutenant. Something had gone wrong. Completely wrong. He began to formulate a new plan.
  
  He pointed to the wallet and said indignantly, "Yes, Pete Fremont. For heaven's sake. Look, what is this! The old third degree? That won't work. I know my rights. Or let me go. And if you charge me, I'll call the American ambassador right away and..."
  
  The lieutenant smiled and jumped. "I'm sure the ambassador will be glad to hear from you, sir. I think you'll have to come with us to the station. It seems there's been a most curious mix-up. A man has been found dead in his apartment. A man also named Pete Fremont, and who has been identified as Pete Fremont by his girlfriend."
  
  Nick tried to explode. He moved a few more inches closer to the man.
  
  "So what? I didn't say I was the only Pete Fremont in the world. That was just a mistake."
  
  The little lieutenant didn't bow this time. He inclined his head very politely and said, "I'm sure that's true. But please accompany us to the station until we resolve this matter." He pointed to the other cop, who was still covering Nick with the nambu.
  
  Nick Carter moved quickly and smoothly toward the lieutenant. The cop, though surprised, was well-trained and assumed a defensive judo stance, relaxed, and waited for Nick to lunge at him. Kunizo Matu had taught Nick this a year ago.
  
  Nick stopped. He offered his right hand as
  
  He used bait, and when the cop tried to grab his wrist for an over-the-shoulder throw, Nick pulled his hand back and landed a sharp left hook to the man's solar plexus. He needed to get closer before the other cops started shooting.
  
  The stunned lieutenant fell forward, and Nick caught him and followed him at a heartbeat. He secured a full nelson and lifted the man off the ground. He weighed no more than 120-130 pounds. Spreading his legs wide to prevent the man from kicking him in the groin, Nick backed toward the steps leading to the passage behind the flophouses. It was the only way out now. The small policeman dangled before him, an effective bulletproof shield.
  
  Now three policemen confronted him. The searchlights were weak beams of dead light at dawn.
  
  Nick backed cautiously toward the steps. "Stay back," he warned them. "You lunge at me, and I'll break his neck!"
  
  The lieutenant tried to kick him, and Nick applied a little pressure. The bones in the lieutenant's thin neck snapped with a loud crack. He groaned and stopped kicking.
  
  "He's fine," Nick told them, "I haven't hurt him yet. Let's leave it at that."
  
  Where the hell was that first step?
  
  The three police officers stopped following him. One of them ran to the car and started talking rapidly into a radio microphone. A call for help. Nick didn't object. He hadn't planned on being there.
  
  His foot touched the first step. Good. Now, if he didn't make any mistakes, he had a chance.
  
  He scowled at the cops. They kept their distance.
  
  "I'm taking him with me," Nick said. "Down this hallway behind me. Try to follow me, and he'll get hurt. Stay here like good little cops, and he'll be fine. Your call. Sayonara!"
  
  He descended the steps. Below, he was out of sight of the cops. He felt the old beggar's body at his feet. He suddenly pressed down, forcing the lieutenant's head forward and karate-slashing him across the neck. His thumb was thrust out, and he felt a slight shock as the blade of his calloused hand cut into the skinny neck. He dropped the man.
  
  The Colt lay partially beneath the dead beggar. Nick picked it up-the butt was sticky with the old man's blood-and ran down the hallway. He held the Colt in his right hand, stepping forward. No one in this area was going to interfere with the man carrying the gun.
  
  Now it was a matter of seconds. He wasn't leaving the Sanya jungle, he was entering it, and the police would never find him. The huts were made entirely of paper, wood, or tin, flimsy fire traps, and all he had to do was bulldoze his way through.
  
  He turned right again and ran toward Matu's house. He ran through the front door, still open, and continued through the inner room. Kunizo lay in his own blood. Nick kept walking.
  
  He punched through the paper door. A swarthy face peered out from under the rug, startled. A servant. Too scared to get up and investigate. Nick kept walking.
  
  He placed his hands in front of his face and punched through the wall. Paper and brittle wood were torn away with a slight whine. Nick began to feel like a tank.
  
  He crossed a small, open courtyard littered with junk. There was another wall of wood and paper. He plunged into it, leaving the outline of his large body in a gaping hole. The room was empty. He crashed forward, through another wall, into another room-or was it another house-and a man and woman stared in amazement at a bed on the floor. A child lay between them.
  
  Nick touched his hat with his finger. "Sorry." He ran.
  
  He ran past six houses, chased three dogs aside, and caught a couple in the act of copulating before emerging onto a narrow, winding street that led somewhere. That suited him. Somewhere away from the cops who wandered and cursed behind his back. His trail was obvious enough, but the officers were polite and dignified and had to do everything the Japanese way. They would never catch him.
  
  An hour later, he crossed the Namidabashi Bridge and approached Minowa Station, where he parked his Datsun. The station was crowded with early employees. The parking lot was full of cars, and lines were already forming at the ticket counters.
  
  Nick didn't go straight to the station grounds. A small buffet was already open across the street, and he ate some coca-cora, wishing it were something stronger. It was a rough night.
  
  He could see the top of the Datsun. No one seemed particularly interested. He lingered over his Coke and let his eyes wander over the crowd, sifting and assessing. No cops. He could swear to it.
  
  Not that that meant he hadn't been there yet. The house was free. He admitted the cops would be the least of his worries. Cops were fairly predictable. He could handle the cops.
  
  Someone knew he was in Tokyo. Someone followed him to Kunizo, despite all his precautions. Someone killed Kunizo and framed Nick. It could have been an accident, a fluke. They could have been willing to give the cops anything, to stop the pursuit and the questions.
  
  They could. He didn't think so.
  
  Or had someone followed him to Sano? Was it a setup from the start? Or, if not a setup, how did anyone know he'd be at Kunizo's house? Nick could come up with an answer to that question, and he didn't like it. It made him feel a little sick. He'd grown to love Tonaka.
  
  He headed for the parking lot. He wasn't about to make any decisions while he was puzzling over a suburban Coke bar. He had to go to work. Kunizo was dead, and he had no contacts at the moment. Somewhere in the Tokyo haystack was a needle named Richard Filston, and Nick would have to find him. Fast.
  
  He approached the Datsun and looked down. Passersby hissed sympathetically. Nick ignored them. All four tires were cut to ribbons.
  
  The train pulled in. Nick headed for the ticket counter, reaching for his hip pocket. So he didn't have a car! He could take the train to Ueno Park and then transfer to a train to central Tokyo. Actually, that was better. The man in the car was confined, a good target, and easy to follow.
  
  His hand came out of his pocket empty. He didn't have his wallet. Pete Fremont's wallet. The little policeman had it.
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  A path that looks like a bull moose on roller skates racing through a garden.
  
  Hawk thought it aptly described the trail left by Nick Carter. He was alone in his office; Aubrey and Terence had just left, and after he finished looking through a stack of yellow papers, he spoke to Delia Stokes on the intercom.
  
  "Cancel Nick's red APB, Delia. Turn it yellow. Everyone is on standby to offer any assistance he asks for, but do not interfere. He is not to be identified, followed, or reported. Absolutely no intervention unless he asks for help.
  
  "Understood, sir."
  
  "That's right. Remove it immediately."
  
  Hawk turned off the intercom and leaned back, removing his cigar without looking at it. He was playing on guesswork. Nick Carter had realized something-God might know, but Hawk certainly didn't-and decided to stay out of it. Let Nick handle things his way. If anyone in the world could take care of himself, it was Killmaster.
  
  Hawk picked up one of the papers and examined it again. His thin mouth, which often reminded Nick of a wolf's mouth, twisted into a dry smile. Ames had done his job well. It was all here-to Tokyo International Airport.
  
  Accompanied by four Japanese Girl Scouts, Nick boarded a Northwest Airlines flight in Washington. He was in a cheerful mood and insisted on kissing a flight attendant and shaking the captain's hand. He was never truly unpleasant, or only mildly so, and only when he insisted on dancing in the aisle was the co-captain called to calm him down. Later, he ordered champagne for everyone on the plane. He led the other passengers in song, declaring that he was a flower child and that love was his business.
  
  In fact, the Girl Scouts managed to control it quite well, and the crew, interviewed by Ames from a distance, admitted the flight was spectacular and unusual. Not that they'd want to do it again.
  
  They dumped Nick at Tokyo International Airport without any resistance and watched as the Girl Scouts took him away to customs. Besides, they didn't know.
  
  Ames, still on the phone, determined that Nick and the Girl Scouts had boarded a taxi and disappeared into the frenzied Tokyo traffic. That was all.
  
  And yet that wasn't all. Hawk turned to another thin yellow sheet of paper with his own notes.
  
  Cecil Aubrey, somewhat reluctantly, finally admitted that his advice about Richard Filston came from Kunizo Mata, a retired karate teacher now living in Tokyo. Aubrey didn't know where in Tokyo.
  
  Matu lived in London for many years and worked for MI5.
  
  "We always suspected he was a double," Aubrey said. "We thought he was working for Jap Intelligence, too, but we were never able to prove it. At the moment, we didn't care. Our, uh, interests were aligned, and he did a good job for us."
  
  Hawk pulled out some old files and began searching. His memory was nearly perfect, but he liked to confirm.
  
  Nick Carter knew Kunizo Mata in London and had actually employed him on several jobs. The fruitless reports were all that was left. Nick Carter had a way of keeping his personal affairs just that-personal.
  
  And yet-Hawk sighed and pushed aside the stack of papers. He stared at his Western Union watch. It was a tricky profession, and very rarely did the left hand know what the right was doing.
  
  Ames searched the apartment and found Nick's Luger and a stiletto heel in the mattress. "It was weird," Hawk admitted. "He must feel naked without them."
  
  But Girl Scouts! How the hell did they get involved? Hawk started laughing, something he rarely did. Gradually, he lost control and sank helplessly into a chair, his eyes watering, laughing until his chest muscles began to clench in pain.
  
  Delia Stokes didn't believe it at first. She peered through the door. Sure enough. The old man was sitting there, laughing like crazy.
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  There's a first time for everything. This was Nick's first time begging. He chose his victim well-a well-dressed middle-aged man with an expensive-looking briefcase. He knocked fifty yen off the man, who looked Nick up and down, wrinkled his nose, and reached into his pocket. Handing the note to Carter, he bowed slightly and tilted his black Homburg.
  
  Nick bowed in response. "Arigato, kandai na-sen."
  
  "Yoroshii desu." The man turned away.
  
  Nick got off at Tokyo Station and walked west, toward the palace. Tokyo's incredible traffic had already transformed into a snaking mass of taxis, trucks, clanking trams, and private cars. A motorcyclist in a crash helmet flashed past, a girl clinging to the back seat. Kaminariyoku. Thunderstorm Rock.
  
  What now, Carter? No papers, no money. Wanted for police questioning. It was time to go underground for a while-if he had anywhere to go. He doubted returning to the Electric Palace would do him much good. In any case, it wasn't too soon.
  
  He felt the taxi pull up next to him, and his hand slid under his coat to the Colt at his belt. "Sssttttt - Carter-san! This way!"
  
  It was Kato, one of the three strange sisters. Nick glanced around quickly. It was a perfectly ordinary taxi and didn't seem to have any followers. He got in. Maybe he could borrow a few yen.
  
  Kato huddled in her corner. She gave him a casual smile and read the instructions to the driver. The taxi took off, as Tokyo taxis usually do, with screeching tires and a driver unafraid of anyone daring to interfere.
  
  "Surprise," Nick said. "I didn't expect to see you again, Kato. Are you Kato?"
  
  She nodded. "It's an honor to see you again, Carter-san. But I'm not looking for this. There are a lot of problems. Tonaka is missing."
  
  A nasty worm turned in his belly. He was waiting for this.
  
  "She didn't answer the phone. Sato and I went to her apartment, and there was a fight - everything was torn to pieces. And she left."
  
  Nick nodded towards the driver.
  
  "He's okay. One of us."
  
  "What do you think happened to Tonaka?"
  
  She shrugged indifferently. "Who can say? But I'm afraid-all of us. Tonaka was our leader. Perhaps Johnny Chow has her. If so, he'll torture her and force her to lead them to his father, Kunizo Mata. The Chikoms want to kill him because he's speaking out against them."
  
  He didn't tell her that Matu was dead. But he began to understand why Matu was dead and why he had almost fallen into a trap.
  
  Nick patted her hand. "I'll do my best. But I need money and a place to hide for a few hours until I figure out a plan. Can you arrange that?"
  
  "Yes. We're going there now. To the geisha house in Shimbashi. Mato and Sato will be there too. As long as they don't find you."
  
  He considered this. She saw his confusion and smiled faintly. "We've all been looking for you. Sato, Mato, and I. All in different taxis. We go to all the stations and look. Tonaka didn't tell us much-just that you went to see her father. It's better, you see, each of us doesn't know much about what the others are doing. But when Tonaka's missing, we know we have to find you to help. So we get a taxi and start looking. That's all we know, and it worked. I found you."
  
  Nick studied her as she spoke. This wasn't a Girl Scout from Washington, but a geisha! He should have known.
  
  At this point, there was nothing geisha-like about her except her elaborate hairstyle. He guessed she'd been working that night and early that morning. Geishas kept odd hours, dictated by the whims of their various patrons. Now her face still glowed from the cold cream she'd used to remove her chalky makeup. She wore a brown pullover, a miniskirt, and tiny black Korean boots.
  
  Nick wondered how safe the geisha house would be. But that was all he had. He lit his last cigarette and started asking questions. He wasn't going to tell her more than he had to. This was for the best, as she herself had said.
  
  "About this Pete Fremont, Kato. Tonaka told me you took his clothes? These clothes?"
  
  "It's true. It was a small thing." She was clearly puzzled.
  
  "Where was Fremont when you did this?"
  
  "In bed. Asleep. That's what we thought."
  
  "I thought so? Was he asleep or not?" Something is rather suspicious here.
  
  Kato looked at him seriously. There was a lipstick stain on one shiny front tooth.
  
  "I'm telling you, that's what we thought. We're taking his clothes. Go easy on him, because his girlfriend wasn't there. We find out later that Pete's dead. He died in his sleep."
  
  Christ! Nick slowly counted to five.
  
  "Then what did you do?"
  
  She shrugged again. "What can we do? We need clothes for you. We'll take them. We know Pete died from whiskey, he drinks, drinks all the time, and that no one kills him. We'll leave. Then we'll come back and take the body and hide it so the police don't find out."
  
  He said very softly, "They found out, Kato."
  
  He quickly explained his encounter with the police, without mentioning the fact that Kunizo Matu was also dead.
  
  Kato didn't look very impressed. "Yeah. I'm really sorry. But I know what happened, I think. We're leaving to take some clothes to Tonaka. His girlfriend showed up. She found Pete dead from drinking and called the police. They show up. Then everyone leaves. Knowing the police and the girlfriend were there, we take the body and hide it. Okay?"
  
  Nick leaned back. "Okay, I suppose," he said weakly. It had to be done. It was odd, but at least it explained the matter. And it might help him-the Tokyo cops had lost the body, and they might be a little embarrassed. They might decide to downplay it, keep quiet for a while, at least until they found the body or gave it up. That meant his profile wouldn't be in the papers, on radio, or on TV. Not yet. So his cover as Pete Fremont was still good-for a while. The wallet would be better, but that wasn't forever.
  
  They passed the Shiba Park Hotel and turned right toward Hikawa Shrine. It was a residential area, dotted with villas surrounded by gardens. It was one of the best geisha districts, where ethics were strict and behavior reserved. Gone were the days when girls had to live in an atmosphere of mizu shobai, beyond the pale. Comparisons were always offensive-especially in this case-but Nick always considered geisha to be on par with the highest-class New York call girls. Geisha were far superior in intelligence and talent.
  
  The taxi turned onto the driveway that led back through the gardens, past the pool and miniature bridge. Nick pulled his stinking raincoat tighter around himself. A homeless person like him was going to stand out a bit in the upscale geisha house.
  
  Kato patted his knee. "We'll go somewhere private. Mato and Sato will be here soon, and we can talk. Make plans. We have to, because if you don't help now, if you can't help, it will be very bad for all the Eta girls."
  
  The taxi stopped at the concierge's desk. The house was large and blocky, Western-style, made of stone and brick. Kato paid the driver and dragged Nick inside and upstairs to a quiet living room furnished in Swedish style.
  
  Kato sat down on a chair, pulled down her miniskirt, and looked at Nick, who was currently helping himself to a modest drink from the small bar in the corner.
  
  "Do you want to take a bath, Carter-san?"
  
  Nick lifted the tape and peered through the amber. A beautiful color. "Bass will be number one. Do I have time?" He found a pack of American cigarettes and tore it open. Life was on the rise.
  
  Kato glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. "I think so. Plenty of time. Mato and Sato said that if they don't find you, they'll go to the Electric Palace and see if there's a message there."
  
  "Message from whom?"
  
  Thin shoulders shifted under the sweater. "Who knows? Maybe you. Maybe even Tonaka. If Johnny Chow has it, maybe he'll let us know to scare us."
  
  "Maybe so."
  
  He sipped his whiskey and looked at her. She was nervous. Very nervous. She was wearing a single strand of small pearls, and she kept chewing on them, smearing lipstick on them. She kept fidgeting in her chair, crossing and recrossing her legs, and he saw a flash of short white pants.
  
  "Carter-san?"
  
  "Really?"
  
  She chewed on the nail of her pinky finger. "I like to ask you something. Yo, don't be mad?"
  
  Nick chuckled. "Probably not. I can't promise that, Kato. What is it?"
  
  Hesitation. Then: "Do you like me, Carter-san? Do you think I'm pretty?"
  
  He did. She was. Very pretty. Like a sweet little lemon-colored doll. He told her so.
  
  Kato looked at her watch again. "I'm very brave, Carter-san. But I don't care. I've liked you for a long time - ever since we were trying to sell you cookies. I like you very much. Now we have time, the men don't come until the evening, and Mato and Sato are not here yet. I want to take a bath with you and then make love. Do you want to?"
  
  He was genuinely touched. And he knew he was respected. In the first moment, he didn't want her, and then, in the next moment, he realized he did. Why not? After all, that was all it was about. Love and death.
  
  She misread his hesitation. She approached him and lightly ran her fingers over his face. Her eyes were long and dark brown, full of amber sparkles.
  
  "You understand," she said softly, "that this is not a business. I am not a geisha now. I give. You take. Will you come?"
  
  He understood that her needs were great. She was frightened and momentarily alone. She needed comfort, and she knew it.
  
  He kissed her. "I'll take it," he said. "But first I'll take the bass."
  
  She led him into the bathroom. A moment later, she joined him in the shower, and they soaped and dried each other off in all the beautiful, secluded places. She smelled of lilies, and her breasts were like a young girl's.
  
  She led him into the next bedroom, which had a proper American bed. She made him lie on his back. She kissed him and whispered, "Shut up, Carter-san. I'm doing whatever needs to be done."
  
  "Not quite everything," Nick Carter said.
  
  They were sitting quietly in the front room, smoking and looking at each other with contented love, when the door swung open and Mato and Sato entered. They had run. Sato was crying. Mato was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper. She handed it to Nick.
  
  "This is coming to Electric Palace. For you. With a note. We... read the note. I... I..." She turned away and began to cry, gasping for breath, makeup running down her smooth cheeks.
  
  Nick put the package on the chair and took the note from the opened envelope.
  
  Pete Fremont - we have Tonaka. The proof is in the box. If you don't want her to lose the other one, come to the Electric Palace club right away. Wait outside on the sidewalk. Put on a raincoat.
  
  There was no signature, only a round stencil of a wooden chop, drawn in red ink. Nick showed it to Kato.
  
  "Johnny Chow".
  
  He tore the cord from the bundle with his deft thumbs. The three girls froze, now silent, stunned, awaiting another horror. Sato stopped crying and clamped her fingers over her mouth.
  
  Killmaster suspected things would get very bad. This was even worse.
  
  Inside the box, on a cotton pad, lay a bloody, rounded piece of flesh with an intact nipple and aura. A woman's breast. The knife was very sharp, and he had used it very skillfully.
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  Killmaster had rarely been in a colder, bloodier rage. He gave the girls curt orders in an icy voice, then left the geisha house and approached Shimbashi Dori. His fingers caressed the cold butt of his Colt. Right now, he'd like to empty a clip into Johnny Chow's stomach with all the pleasure in the world. If he'd really been sent Tonaka's breasts-the three girls were sure of it, because that's how Johnny Chow played-then Nick intended to exact an equal amount of flesh from the bastard. His stomach twisted at what he'd just seen. This Johnny Chow must be a sadist to end all sadists-even Chick.
  
  There was no taxi in sight, so he kept walking, cutting through the distance with his angry steps. There was no question of not going. There might still be a chance to save Tonaka. Wounds healed, even the most severe ones, and there were such things as artificial breasts. Not a very attractive solution, but better than death. He thought that for a young and beautiful girl, anything, almost anything, would be better than death.
  
  Still no taxi. He turned left and headed toward Ginza-dori. From where he was now, it was about a mile and a half to the Electric Palace club. Kato had given him the exact address. As he drove, he began to make sense of it. The cool, experienced, cunning, and calculating mind of a top-level professional agent.
  
  Pete Fremont was called, not Nick Carter. This meant that Tonaka, even in the throes of torture, had managed to cover for him. She had to give them something, a name, and so she gave them Pete Fremont. However, she knew Fremont had died of alcoholism. All three girls, Kato, Mato, and Sato, swore to it. Tonaka knew Fremont was dead when she gave him his clothes.
  
  Johnny Chow didn't know Fremont was dead! Obviously. This meant he didn't know Pete Fremont, or knew him only slightly, perhaps by reputation. Whether he knew Fremont personally would soon become clear when they met face to face. Nick touched the Colt pistol on his belt again. He had been looking forward to it.
  
  No taxis yet. He paused to light a cigarette. Traffic was heavy. A police car drove by, ignoring him completely. No surprise. Tokyo was the second-largest city in the world, and if the cops sat on Fremont's body until they found it again, it would take them a while to get their act together.
  
  Where the hell did the taxis go? It was as bad as a rainy night in New York.
  
  Far down Ginza, another mile away, the gleaming structure of the San-ai department store bunker was visible. Nick adjusted his Colt to a more comfortable position and continued walking. He didn't bother checking his recoil because he didn't care anymore. Johnny Chow must have been sure he'd come.
  
  He remembered Tonaka saying that Pete Fremont sometimes helped the Eta girls when he was sober enough. Johnny Chow likely knew this, even if he didn't know Fremont personally. Chow must be looking to make some kind of deal. Pete Fremont, though a slacker and an alcoholic, was still something of a newspaperman and might have connections.
  
  Or maybe Johnny Chow just wants to get Fremont-to give him the same treatment he gave Kunizo Matou. It could be that simple. Fremont was an enemy, he was helping Eta, and Johnny Chow used the girl as bait to get rid of Fremont.
  
  Nick shrugged his massive shoulders and moved on. One thing he knew for sure: Tonaka had his back. His identity as Nick Carter-AXEman-was still safe.
  
  A dead man followed him.
  
  He didn't notice the black Mercedes until it was too late. It flew out of the traffic swirl and stopped next to him. Two neatly dressed Japanese men jumped out and walked alongside Nick, one on either side. The Mercedes crawled behind them.
  
  For a moment, Nick thought they might be detectives. He quickly dismissed the idea. Both men were wearing light coats and had their right hands in their pockets. The taller one, wearing thick glasses, nudged Carter, a pistol in his pocket. He smiled.
  
  "Anata no onamae wa?"
  
  Nice hands. He knew they weren't cops anymore. They were offering him a ride in true Chicago style. He carefully kept his hands away from his waist.
  
  "Fremont. Pete Fremont. What about you?"
  
  The men exchanged glances. The one with glasses nodded and said, "Thank you. We wanted to be sure this was the right person. Please get in the car."
  
  Nick frowned. "What if I don't?"
  
  The other man, short and muscular, wasn't smiling. He poked Nick with a concealed pistol. "That would be a shame. We'll kill you."
  
  The street was crowded. People were pushing and bustling around them. No one paid them the slightest attention. Many professional murders had been committed this way. They would shoot him and drive away in a Mercedes, and no one would see a thing.
  
  A short man pushed him to the side of the road. "In the car. You walk quietly, and no one will harm you.
  
  Nick shrugged. "So I'll come quietly." He got into the car, ready to catch them in an unguarded moment, but the chance never came. The short one followed him, but not too close. The tall one circled around and climbed on the other side. They cornered him, and pistols came into view. Numbu. He saw a lot of Numbu these days.
  
  The Mercedes pulled away from the curb and slid back into traffic. The driver wore a chauffeur's uniform and a dark cap. He drove as if he knew his stuff.
  
  Nick forced himself to relax. His chance would come. "What's the rush? I was on my way to the Electric Palace. Why is Johnny Chow so impatient?"
  
  The tall man was searching Nick. At Chow's name, he hissed and glared at his comrade, who shrugged.
  
  "Shizuki ni!"
  
  Nick, shut up. So they weren't from Johnny Chow. Who the hell were they then?
  
  The man who searched him found a Colt and pulled it from his belt. He showed it to his comrade, who looked at Nick coldly. The man hid the Colt under his coat.
  
  Beneath his calm, Nick Carter was furious and anxious. He didn't know who they were, where they were taking him, or why. This was an unexpected turn of events, impossible to foresee. But when he didn't show up at Electric Palace, Johnny Chow returned to work on Tonaka. Frustration overwhelmed him. At this point, he was as helpless as a baby. He couldn't do anything.
  
  They drove for a long time. They made no attempt to hide their destination, whatever it was. The driver never spoke. The two men watched Nick closely, pistols barely concealed by their coats.
  
  The Mercedes passed Tokyo Tower, briefly turned east toward Sakurada, and then made a sharp right onto Meiji Dori. The rain had stopped, and a weak sun was breaking through the low gray clouds. They were having a good time, even in the congested and noisy traffic. The driver was a genius.
  
  They rounded Arisugawa Park, and a few moments later Nick spotted Shibuya Station on the left. Straight ahead lay the Olympic Village, and slightly to the northeast, the National Stadium.
  
  Beyond Shinjuku Garden, they turned sharply left past Meiji Shrine. Now they were entering the suburbs, and the country opened up. Narrow alleys led in different directions, and Nick occasionally glimpsed large houses set back from the road behind neatly trimmed hedges and small orchards of plum and cherry trees.
  
  They turned off the main road and turned left onto a black-topped lane. A mile later, they turned onto another, narrower street that ended at a tall iron gate flanked by lichen-covered stone columns. A plaque on one of the columns read: Msumpto. This meant nothing to AXEman.
  
  A short man stepped out and pressed a button on one of the pillars. A moment later, the gates swung open. They drove down a winding, gravel road bordered by a park. Nick spotted movement to his left and watched a small herd of tiny white-tailed deer scurrying among the squat, umbrella-shaped trees. They rounded a row of peonies not yet blooming, and a house came into view. It was enormous, and it spoke softly of money. Old money.
  
  The road curved in a crescent before a wide staircase leading to the terrace. Fountains played to the right and left, and off to the side was a large swimming pool, not yet filled for the summer.
  
  Nick looked at the tall man. "Is Mitsubishi-san waiting for me?"
  
  The man poked him with the gun. "Get out. No talking."
  
  Anyway, the man thought it was pretty funny.
  
  
  He looked at Nick and grinned. "Mitsubishi-san? Ha-ha."
  
  The central block of the house was enormous, constructed of dressed stone that still sparkled with mica and veins of quartz. The two lower wings were angled back from the main block, parallel to the terrace balustrade, dotted here and there with enormous amphora-shaped urns.
  
  They led Nick through arched doors into a vast, mosaic-tiled foyer. A short man knocked on the door that opened to the right. From inside, a British voice, high-pitched with the sordidness of the upper classes, said, "Come in."
  
  The tall man thrust his numba into Nick's lower back and poked. Nick went. Now he really wanted it. Filston. Richard Filston! It had to be this way.
  
  They stopped just outside the door. The room was enormous, like a library-cum-study, with half-paneled walls and a dark ceiling. Battalions of books marched along the walls. A single lamp burned in the far corner of a table. In the shadows, in the shadows, sat a man.
  
  The man said, "You two can go. Wait by the door. Would you like a drink, Mr. Fremont?"
  
  The two Japanese fighters left. The large door slid open with a greasy click behind them. An old-fashioned tea cart, laden with bottles, siphons, and a large thermos, sat near the table. Nick approached it. "Play it to the end," he told himself. Remember Pete Fremont. Be Pete Fremont.
  
  As he reached for the bottle of whiskey, he said, "Who are you? And what the hell do you mean, snatched off the street like that! Don't you know I can sue you?"
  
  The man at the desk chuckled hoarsely. "Sue me, Mr. Fremont? Seriously! You Americans have a strange sense of humor. I learned that in Washington years ago. One drink, Mr. Fremont! One. We'll be perfectly frank, and as you can see, I know my mistake. I'm about to offer you a chance to make a lot of money, but to earn it, you'll have to stay completely sober."
  
  Pete Fremont-it was Nick Carter who was dead and Fremont who lived-Pete Fremont dumped ice into a tall glass and, tipping back the bottle of whiskey, poured a large, defiant drink. He drank it down, then walked over to the leather chair near the table and sat down. He unbuttoned his dirty raincoat-he wanted Filston to see his shabby suit-and kept his antique hat on.
  
  "Okay," he growled. "So, you know I'm an alcoholic. So? Who are you and what do you want from me?" He's drunk. "And get that damn light out of my eyes. It's an old trick."
  
  The man tilted the lamp to the side, creating a penumbra between them.
  
  "My name is Richard Filston," the man said. "Perhaps you have heard of me?"
  
  Fremont nodded briefly. "I've heard of you."
  
  "Yes," the man said softly. "I suppose I'm rather, uh... infamous."
  
  Pete nodded again. "That's your word, not mine."
  
  "Exactly. But now to the point, Mr. Fremont. Quite frankly, as I said. We both know who we are, and I see no reason to protect each other or spare each other's feelings. Do you agree?"
  
  Pete frowned. "I agree. So stop this damned fencing and get down to business. How much money? And what do I need to do to earn it?"
  
  Stepping away from the bright light, he saw the man at the table. The suit was a lightweight, salt-colored glove tweed, impeccably cut, now slightly worn. No Moscow tailor would ever replicate it.
  
  "I'm talking about fifty thousand American dollars," the man said. "Half now - if you agree to my terms."
  
  "Keep talking," Pete said. "I like the way you talk."
  
  The shirt was blue striped with a stand-up collar. The tie was tied in a small knot. Royal Marines. The man who played Pete Fremont ran through his files in his mind: Filston. He'd once been in the Royal Marines. This was just after he came from Cambridge.
  
  The man at the desk pulled a cigarette from an ornate cloisonne box. Pete declined and fumbled with a crumpled pack of Pall Malls. The smoke spiraled upward toward the coffered ceiling.
  
  "First things first," the man said, "do you remember a man named Paul Jacobi?"
  
  "Yes." And he did. Nick Carter did. Sometimes hours, days of working on photos and files paid off. Paul Jacobi. Dutch communist. Minor agent. Known to have worked for a time in Malaya and Indonesia. Dropped out of sight. Last reported in Japan.
  
  Pete Fremont waited for the man to take the lead. How Jacobi fit into this.
  
  Filston opened the drawer. There was... the rustle of paper. "Three years ago, Paul Jacobi tried to recruit you. He offered you a job working for us. You refused. Why?"
  
  Pete frowned and drank. "I wasn't ready then."
  
  "But you never reported Jacobi, never told anyone he was a Russian agent. Why?"
  
  "It's none of my damn business. I may not have wanted to play Jacobi, but that didn't mean I had to turn him in. All I wanted, all I want now, is to be left alone to get drunk." He laughed harshly. "It's not as easy as you think."
  
  Silence. He could see Filston's face now.
  
  A soft beauty, blurred by sixty years. A hint of a chin, a blunt nose, wide-set eyes, colorless in the dim light. The mouth was a traitor-loose, slightly wet, a whisper of femininity. The languid mouth of an overly tolerant bisexual. Files clicked in AXEman's brain. Filston was a womanizer. A manizer, too, in many ways.
  
  Filston said, "Have you seen Paul Jacoby lately?"
  
  "No."
  
  A hint of a smile. "That's understandable. He's no longer with us. There was an accident in Moscow. It's a shame."
  
  Pete Fremont was drinking. "Yeah. Too bad. Let's forget about Jacobi. What do you want me to do for fifty grand?"
  
  Richard Philston set his own pace. He stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another. "You wouldn't have worked for us the way you turned Jacobi down. Now you'll be working for me, as you say. May I ask why this change of heart? I represent the same clients as Jacobi, as you should know."
  
  Philston leaned forward, and Pete looked into his eyes. Pale, washed-out gray.
  
  Pete Fremont said, "Look, Philston! I don't give a damn who wins. Not a damn thing! And things have changed since I knew Jacoby. A lot of whiskey has gone down since then. I'm older. I'm a broker. I have about two hundred yen in my account now. Does that answer your question?"
  
  "Hmmm - to some extent, yes. Good." The paper rustled again. "You were a newspaperman in the States?"
  
  It was a chance to show a little courage, and Nick Carter let Pete seize it. He burst into an unpleasant laugh. He let his hands tremble slightly and looked longingly at the bottle of whiskey.
  
  "Jesus Christ, man! You want references? Fine. I can give you names, but I doubt you'll hear anything good."
  
  Filston didn't smile. "Yes. I understand." He checked the newspaper. "You worked for the Chicago Tribune at one point. Also the New York Mirror and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, among others. You also worked for the Associated Press and Hearst International Service. Were you fired from all of those jobs for drinking?"
  
  Pete laughed. He tried to add a touch of madness to the sound. "You missed a few. The Indianapolis News and a few papers around the country." He remembered Tonaka's words and continued, "There's also the Hong Kong Times and the Singapore Times. Here in Japan, there's the Asahi, Osaka, and a few more. You name the Philston newspaper, and I probably got fired from it."
  
  "Hmm. Exactly. But do you still have connections, friends, among the newspapermen?"
  
  Where was that bastard going? There's still no light at the end of the tunnel.
  
  "I wouldn't call them friends," Pete said. "Maybe acquaintances. An alcoholic has no friends. But I know a few guys I can still borrow a dollar from when I'm desperate enough."
  
  "And you can still create a story? A big story? Suppose you were given the story of the century, a truly stunning scoop, as I suppose you guys call it, and it was exclusive to you. Only you! arrange for such a story to immediately receive full worldwide coverage?"
  
  They started to get there.
  
  Pete Fremont pushed back his battered hat and stared at Philston. "I could do that, yes. But it would have to be genuine. Fully corroborated. You're offering me that kind of story?"
  
  "I can," said Philston. "I just can. And if I do, Fremont, it will be completely vindicated. Don't worry about it!" The high, raucous laughter of the establishment was some kind of private joke. Pete waited.
  
  Silence. Filston shifted in his swivel chair and stared at the ceiling. He ran a well-groomed hand through his silver-gray hair. That was the point. The son of a bitch was about to make a decision.
  
  While he waited, AXEman reflected on the vagaries, interruptions, and accidents of his profession. Like time. Those girls who'd snatched Pete Fremont's real body and hidden it in those few moments when the cops and Pete's girlfriend were off-stage. A one-in-a-million chance. And now the fact of Fremont's death hung over his head like a sword. The moment Filston or Johnny Chow learned the truth, the fake Pete Fremont was in charge. Johnny Chow? He began to think differently. Maybe this was Tonaka's way out...
  
  The Solution. Richard Filston opened another drawer. He walked around the desk. He held a thick wad of green bills. He tossed the money into Pete's lap. The gesture was full of disdain, which Filston didn't hide. He stood nearby, swaying slightly on his heels. Under his tweed jacket, he wore a thin brown sweater that didn't hide his slight paunch.
  
  "I've decided to trust you, Fremont. I don't really have a choice, but perhaps it's not such a big risk. In my experience, every man looks out for himself first. We're all selfish. Fifty thousand dollars will get you a long way from Japan. It means a new beginning, my friend, a new life. You've hit rock bottom-we both know it-and I can help."
  
  I don't think you'll pass up this chance to get out of this ditch. I'm a reasonable man, a logical man, and I think you are too. This is absolutely your last chance. I think you understand that. You might say I'm gambling. It's a bet that you'll do the job effectively and stay sober until it's done."
  
  The large man in the chair kept his eyes closed. He let the crisp notes flow through his fingers and noticed the greed. He nodded. "For that kind of money, I can stay sober. You can believe it, Philston. For that kind of money, you can even trust me."
  
  Filston took a few steps. There was something graceful, elegant about his gait. AXEman wondered if this guy was truly strange. There was no evidence in his words. Only hints.
  
  "It's not really a question of trust," Philston said. "I'm sure you understand. First, if you don't complete the task to my complete satisfaction, you won't be paid the remaining fifty thousand dollars. There will be a time lag, of course. If everything works out, you will be paid."
  
  Pete Fremont frowned. "Looks like I'm the one you should trust."
  
  "In a sense, yes. I might as well point out something else - if you betray me or try to deceive you in any way, you will certainly be killed. The KGB respects me very much. You've probably heard about their long reach?"
  
  "I know." Grimly. "If I don't complete the task, they will kill me."
  
  Filston looked at him with his washed-out gray eyes. "Yes. Sooner or later they will kill you."
  
  Pete reached for the bottle of whiskey. "Okay, okay! Can I have another drink?"
  
  "No. You're on my payroll now. Don't drink until the job is done."
  
  He leaned back in his chair. "Right. I forgot. You just bought me."
  
  Filston returned to the table and sat down. "Are you regretting the deal yet?"
  
  "No. I told you, damn it, I don't care who wins. I have no country anymore. No loyalty. You just got me! Now suppose we cut the negotiations short, and you tell me what I should do."
  
  "I told you. I want you to put a story in the world press. An exclusive story. The biggest story you or any newspaperman has ever had."
  
  "World War III?"
  
  Philston didn't smile. He pulled a new cigarette from the cloisonné pack. "Perhaps. I don't think so. I..."
  
  Pete Fremont waited, frowning. The bastard had barely restrained himself from saying it. Still tugging at his foot in the cold water. Hesitant to commit to anything beyond the point of no return.
  
  "There's a lot of detail to be worked out," he said. "A lot of backstory you need to understand. I..."
  
  Fremont stood up and growled with the fury of a man who needed a drink. He slapped the wad of bills into his palm. "I want that money, damn it. I'll earn it. But even for that money, I won't do anything blind. What is this?"
  
  "They're going to assassinate the Emperor of Japan. Your job is to make sure the Chinese are blamed."
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  Killmaster wasn't particularly surprised. Pete Fremont was there, and he had to show it. He had to show surprise, confusion, and disbelief. He paused, lifting a cigarette to his mouth, and let his jaw drop.
  
  "Jesus Christ! You must be out of your mind."
  
  Richard Philston, now that he had finally said it, enjoyed the fright it caused.
  
  "Not at all. Quite the opposite. Our plan, the plan we've been working on for months, is the essence of logic and common sense. The Chinese are our enemies. Sooner or later, if they're not warned, they'll start a war with Russia. The West will love that. They'll sit back and profit from it. Only it won't happen. That's why I'm in Japan, putting myself at great personal risk."
  
  Fragments of Filston's file flashed through AXEman's mind like a montage. A murder specialist!
  
  Pete Fremont contrived an expression of awe mixed with lingering doubt. "I think you're serious, I swear to God. And you're going to kill him!"
  
  "It's none of your business. You won't be present, and no responsibility or blame will be on your head."
  
  Pete laughed sourly. "Come on, Philston! I'm in on this. I'm in on it right now. If they catch me, I won't have my head. They'll cut it off like a cabbage. But even a drunk like me wants to keep my head."
  
  "I assure you," Philston said dryly, "that you won't be involved. Or not necessarily, if you use your head to keep it on your shoulders. After all, I expect you to show some ingenuity for fifty thousand dollars."
  
  Nick Carter allowed Pete Fremont to sit there, sullen and unconvinced, while he let his own mind roam freely. For the first time, he heard the ticking of the tall clock in the corner of the room. The telephone on Filston's desk was twice its normal size. He hated them both. Time and modern communications were working inexorably against him. Let Filston know that the real Fremont was dead, and he, Nick Carter, was just as dead.
  
  Never doubted it. Those two thugs outside the door were killers. Philston undoubtedly had a gun in his desk. A light sweat broke out on his forehead, and he fished out a dirty handkerchief. This could easily get out of hand. He had to spur Philston on, put pressure on his own plan, and get the hell out of here. But not too fast. No point in getting too worked up.
  
  "You understand," Filston said silkily, "that you can't back down now. You know too much. Any hesitation on your part simply means I have to kill you."
  
  "I'm not backing down, damn it. I'm trying to get used to this idea. Jesus! Kill the Emperor. Make the Chinese blame it. It's not exactly a game of squats, you know. And you can run afterward. I can't. I have to stay and sweat it out. I can't tell such a big lie if I run away to Lower Saxony."
  
  "Saxony? I don't think I..."
  
  "It doesn't matter. Give me a chance to figure it out. When will this murder happen?"
  
  "Tomorrow evening. There will be riots and mass sabotage. Major sabotage. The power will be cut off in Tokyo, as in many other major cities. This is a cover, as you understand. The Emperor is currently in residence at the Palace."
  
  Pete nodded slowly. "I'm beginning to understand. You work with the Chinese-up to a point. About sabotage. But they don't know anything about assassination. Right?"
  
  "Unlikely," Philston said. "It wouldn't be a big deal if they did. I explained it-Moscow and Beijing are at war. It's an act of war. Pure logic. We intend to make the Chinese so uncomfortable that they won't be able to bother us for years."
  
  The time was almost up. It was time to apply pressure. Time to get out of there and get to Johnny Chow. Filston's reaction mattered. Maybe it was life or death.
  
  Not yet. Not quite yet.
  
  Pete lit another cigarette. "I'm going to have to set this thing up," he told the man behind the desk. "You understand that? I mean, I can't just run out into the cold and shout that I've got a scoop. They wouldn't listen to me. As you know, my reputation isn't that good. Point is-how am I going to prove this story? Confirm it and document it? I hope you've thought about that."
  
  "My dear fellow! We're not amateurs. The day after tomorrow, as early as possible, you'll go to the Ginza Chase Manhattan branch. You'll have a key to the safe. Inside, you'll find all the documentation you'll need: plans, orders, signatures, payment receipts, everything. They'll corroborate your story. These are the papers you'll show your friends at the wire services and in the newspapers. I assure you, they're absolutely flawless. No one will doubt your story after reading them."
  
  Philston chuckled. "It's even possible that some anti-Mao Chinese might believe it."
  
  Pete shifted in his chair. "That's different-the Chicoms will come for my skin. They'll find out I'm lying. They'll try to kill me."
  
  "Yes," Philston agreed. "I suppose so. I'm afraid I'll have to let you worry about that. But you've survived this long, against all odds, and now you have twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. I think you can handle it."
  
  "When and how will I get the remaining twenty-five thousand if I complete this?"
  
  "They will be transferred to an account in Hong Kong once we are satisfied with your work. I am sure this will be an incentive for you."
  
  The phone on Filston's desk rang. AXEman reached into his coat, momentarily forgetting that Colt was gone. He cursed under his breath. He had nothing. Nothing but his muscles and his brain.
  
  Philston spoke into the instrument. "Yes... yes. I have it. It's here now. I was just about to call you."
  
  Carter listened, looking down at his battered, worn-out shoes. Who should he call? Was it possible that...
  
  Filston's voice grew sharp. He frowned. "Listen, Johnny, I give the orders! And right now you're disobeying them by calling me. Don't do that again. No, I had no idea it was so important, so urgent for you. Anyway, I'm done with him and I'm sending him with me. The usual place. Very well. What? Yes, I gave him all his instructions and, more importantly, I paid him."
  
  A furious swearing sounded on the phone. Filston frowned.
  
  "That's all, Jay! You know your job-he needs to be under constant surveillance until this thing is done. I hold you accountable. Yes, everything is on schedule and according to plan. Hang up. No, I won't be in touch until this thing is over. You do your job, and I'll do mine." Filston hung up with a thud.
  
  Pete Fremont lit a cigarette and waited. Johnny? Johnny Chow? He began to hope. If this worked, he wouldn't have to resort to his own half-baked plan. He watched Filston warily. If Fremont's cover was blown, things were going badly.
  
  If he had to leave, he wanted to take Filston with him.
  
  Richard Philston looked at him. "Fremont?"
  
  AXEman sighed again. "Oh really?"
  
  "Do you know or have you heard of a man named Johnny Chow?"
  
  Pete nodded. "I've heard of him. Never met him. They say he's the boss of the local Chicoms. I don't know how true that is."
  
  Filston walked around the table, not too close to the big man. He scratched his chin with a plump index finger.
  
  "Listen carefully, Fremont. From now on, you're going to be walking a tightrope. That was Chow on the phone just now. He wants you. The reason he wants you is because he and I decided a while ago to use you as a newspaper man to plant a story."
  
  Pete looked at it closely. It began to gel.
  
  He nodded. "Sure. But not a story? This Johnny Chow wants me to throw in another one?"
  
  "Exactly. Chow wants you to create a story that blames Eta for everything that's about to happen. I agreed to that, naturally. You'll have to take Eta from there and play it that way."
  
  "I see. That's why they grabbed me off the street - they had to talk to me first."
  
  "Again, true. No real difficulty-I can disguise it by saying, as I said, that I wanted to give you instructions personally. Chow, naturally, won't know what those instructions are. He shouldn't be suspicious, or any more than usual. We don't really trust each other, and we each have our own separate organizations. By handing you over to him, I'll put his mind at ease a little. I intended to do so anyway. I have few men, and I can't assign them to watch you."
  
  Pete gave a wry smile. "Do you feel like you have to keep an eye on me?"
  
  Filston returned to his desk. "Don't be a fool, Fremont. You're sitting on one of the greatest stories of this century, you have twenty-five thousand dollars of my money, and you haven't done your job yet. Surely you didn't expect me to let you run around for free?"
  
  Filston pressed a button on his desk. "You shouldn't have any problems. All you really have to do is stay sober and keep your mouth shut. And since Chow thinks you've been hired to create a story about Eta, you can proceed with it, as you say, just like usual. The only difference is that Chow won't know what story you'll write until it's too late. Someone will be here in a minute-any last questions?"
  
  "Yes. A very big one. If I'm under constant surveillance, how can I get away from Chow and his boys to publish this story? As soon as he finds out the Emperor has been killed, he'll kill me. That will be the first thing he does."
  
  Filston stroked his chin again. "I know it's a difficulty. You must, of course, be very dependent on yourself, but I will help in any way I can. I'm sending a man with you. One man is all I can do, and all Chow will do is keep in touch. I was forced to insist on keeping in touch.
  
  "Tomorrow, you'll be taken to the site of the disturbance on the Palace grounds. Dmitry will go with you, ostensibly to help guard you. In reality, at the most opportune moment, he'll help you escape. You two will have to work together. Dmitry is a good man, very tough and determined, and he'll manage to free you for a few moments. After that, you'll be on your own."
  
  There was a knock at the door. "Come on," said Filston.
  
  The man who entered was a guy from a professional basketball team. AXEman estimated his height to be a good six feet eight inches. He was as thin as a plank, and his long skull was mirror-bald. He had acromegalic features and small dark eyes, and his suit hung on him like an ill-fitting tent. The sleeves of his jacket were too short, revealing dirty cuffs.
  
  "This is Dimitri," said Filston. "He will keep an eye on you and on you as best he can. Don't let his appearance fool you, Fremont. He's very quick and not at all stupid."
  
  The tall scarecrow stared blankly at Nick and nodded. He and Philston walked to the far corner of the room and conferred briefly. Dmitry continued nodding and repeating, "Yes... Yes..."
  
  Dmitry walked to the door and waited. Filston extended his hand to the man he assumed was Pete Fremont. "Good luck. I won't see you again. Of course not, if everything goes according to plan. But I'll be in touch, and if you deliver the goods as you Yankees say, you'll be paid as promised. Just keep that in mind, Fremont. Another twenty-five thousand in Hong Kong. Goodbye."
  
  It was like shaking hands with a can of worms. "Goodbye," said Pete Fremont. Carter thought, "See you later, you son of a bitch!"
  
  He managed to touch Dmitry as they were heading out the door. Under his left shoulder was a shoulder clamp, a heavy weapon.
  
  Two Japanese fighters were waiting in the foyer. Dmitry growled something at them, and they nodded. Everyone exited and climbed into a black Mercedes. The sun broke through the clouds, and the lawn sparkled with new greenery. The steamy air was filled with the subtle scent of cherry blossoms.
  
  Some kind of comic opera country, Nick Carter thought as he climbed into the back seat with the giant.
  
  A hundred million people in a landmass smaller than California. Damn picturesque. Paper umbrellas and motorcycles. Moon watchers and murderers. Insect listeners and rebels. Geishas and go-go girls. It was all a bomb, hissing on a short fuse, and he was sitting on it.
  
  A tall Japanese man and his driver rode in front. The shorter man sat on the back of the jump seat, looking at Nick. Dmitry watched Nick from his corner. The Mercedes turned left and headed back toward central Tokyo. Nick leaned back against the cushions and tried to figure things out.
  
  He thought of Tonak again, and it was unpleasant. Of course, there might still be a chance he could do something. He'd been handed over to Johnny Chow, even if it was a little late. This was what Chow wanted-Nick now knew why-and it had to be possible to save the girl from further torture. Nick frowned, looking at the floor of the car. He would repay this debt when the time came.
  
  He had one huge breakthrough. He was the beneficiary of the mistrust between the Chicoms and Filston. They were uneasy allies, their connection flawed, and it could be exploited further.
  
  They both thought they were dealing with Pete Fremont, thanks to Tonaka's instincts and brains. No one could truly withstand torture for very long, even when administered by an expert, but Tonaka screamed and gave them false information.
  
  Then a thought occurred to Killmaster, and he cursed his stupidity. He'd been worried that Johnny Chow knew Fremont by sight. He hadn't done it. He couldn't-otherwise, Tonaka would never have given him that name. So his cover with Chow hadn't been blown. He could play it as best he could, as Filston had indicated, all the while keeping an eye out for a way to save the girl.
  
  She would have meant it when she screamed his name. He was her only hope, and she knew it. Now she would hope. Bleeding and sobbing in some hole, waiting for him to come and pull her out.
  
  His guts ached slightly. He was helpless. No weapons. He watched every minute. Tonaka clung to the fragile reed. Killmaster had never felt inferior to this.
  
  The Mercedes rounded the Central Wholesale Market and headed toward the seawall leading to Tsukishimi and the shipyards. The weak sun hid behind a copper haze hanging over the harbor. The air seeping into the car exuded a brazen industrial stench. A dozen cargo ships lay at anchor in the bay. They passed a dry dock where the skeleton of a supertanker loomed. Nick caught the flash of a name: Naess Maru.
  
  The Mercedes passed a place where dump trucks dumped garbage into the water. Tokyo was always building new land.
  
  They turned onto another causeway that led to the water's edge. Here, a little isolated, sat an old, rotting warehouse. "End of the journey," Nick thought. "This is where they have Tonaka. A good headquarters had been cunningly chosen. Right in the middle of all the industrial bustle, which no one pays attention to. They'll have a good reason to come and go."
  
  The car entered through a shabby gate that stood open. The driver continued across the yard, littered with rusty oil barrels. He stopped the Mercedes next to the loading dock.
  
  Dmitry opened the side door and climbed out. The short Japanese man showed Nick his Nambu. "You're getting out too."
  
  Nick got out. The Mercedes turned around and drove out the gate. Dmitry had one hand under his jacket. He nodded toward a small wooden staircase at the far end of the pier. "We're going there. You go first. Don't try to run." His English was poor, with a Slavic misuse of vowels.
  
  Escape was far from his mind for now. Now he had one intention, and one only. Get to the girl and save her from the knife. Somehow. At any rate. By treachery or force.
  
  They walked up the stairs, Dmitry leaned back a little and kept his hand in his jacket.
  
  On the left, a door led into a tiny, shabby office, now abandoned. A man was waiting for them inside. He looked intently at Nick.
  
  "Are you Pete Fremont?"
  
  "Yes. Where is Tonaka?"
  
  The man didn't answer him. He walked around Nick, pulled a Walther pistol from his belt, and shot Dmitry in the head. It was a good, professional headshot.
  
  The giant slowly crumbled, like a skyscraper being torn down. It seemed to be crumbling into pieces. Then he found himself on the cracked office floor, blood flowing from his shattered head into the crack.
  
  The killer pointed the Walther at Nick. "You can stop lying now," he said. "I know who you are. You're Nick Carter. You're from AH. I'm Johnny Chow."
  
  He was tall for a Japanese, too light-skinned, and Nick guessed he had Chinese ancestry. Chow was dressed in hippie style-tight chinos, a psychedelic shirt hanging outside, a string of love beads around his neck.
  
  Johnny Chow wasn't kidding. Or bluffing. He knew. Nick said, "Okay.
  
  "And where is Tonaka now?"
  
  "Walter" moved. "Through the door right behind you. Move very slowly."
  
  They walked down a litter-strewn corridor, lit by open skylights. Agent AX automatically marked them as a possible exit.
  
  Johnny Chow used the brass handle to push open the simple door. The room was surprisingly well-furnished. A girl sat on the sofa, her slender legs crossed. She wore a red slit almost to her thigh, and her dark hair was piled high on top of her head. She was heavily made up, and her white teeth gleamed behind her scarlet as she smiled at Nick.
  
  "Hello, Carter-san. I thought you'd never make it here. I missed you."
  
  Nick Carter looked at her impassively. He didn't smile. Finally, he said, "Hello, Tonaka."
  
  There were times, he told himself, when he was not very smart.
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  Johnny Chow closed the door and leaned against it, with the Walther still covering Nick.
  
  Tonaka looked past Nick at Chow. "Russian?"
  
  "In the office. I killed him. No sweat."
  
  Tonaka frowned. "You left the body there?"
  
  A shrug. "At the moment. I..."
  
  "You're an idiot. Get a few men and take him out immediately. Put him down with the others until dark. Wait - handcuff Carter and give me the gun."
  
  Tonaka spread her legs and stood up. Her panties flared. This time they were red. In Washington, under her Girl Scout uniform, they were pink. Much has changed since Washington's time.
  
  She walked around Nick, keeping her distance, and took the gun from Johnny Chow. "Put your hands behind you, Nick."
  
  Nick obeyed, tensing his wrist muscles, expanding the veins and arteries as best he could. You never know. A tenth of an inch might come in handy.
  
  The cuffs froze in place. Chow nudged him. "Over there, on that chair in the corner."
  
  Nick walked over to the chair and sat down, his hands cuffed behind his back. He kept his head down, his eyes closed. Tonaka was euphoric, dizzy with triumph. He knew the signs. She was going to talk. He was ready to listen. There was nothing else he could do. His mouth tasted like sour vinegar.
  
  Johnny Chow left and closed the door. Tonaka locked it in. She returned to the sofa and sat down, crossing her legs again. She placed the Walther on her lap, looking at him with dark eyes.
  
  She smiled triumphantly at him. "Why don't you admit it, Nick? You're completely surprised. Shocked. You never dreamed it."
  
  He tested the handcuffs. It was just a little game. Not enough to help him now. But they didn't fit his large, bony wrists.
  
  "You're right," he admitted. "You fooled me, Tonaka. Fooled me well. The thought did cross my mind right after your father was killed, but I never thought about it. I thought too much about Kunizo and not enough about you. I'm a fool sometimes."
  
  "Yes. You were very stupid. Or maybe not. How could you have guessed? Everything fell into place for me-everything fit so well. Even my father sent me for you. It was a wonderful stroke of luck for me. For us."
  
  "Your father was a pretty smart guy. I'm surprised he didn't get it."
  
  Her smile faded. "I'm not happy about what happened to my father. But that's as it should be. He was too much trouble. We had the Eta men very well organized-the Blood Buddha Society keeps them in line-but the Eta women were another matter. They were out of control. Even I, pretending to be their leader, couldn't handle it. My father started to sidestep me and work directly with some of the other women. He had to be killed, and I regret that."
  
  Nick studied her with narrowed eyes. "Can I have a cigarette now?"
  
  "No. I'm not going to get that close to you." Her smile returned. "That's another thing I regret, that I'll never be able to keep that promise. I think it would have been a good thing."
  
  He nodded. "That could be it." So far, there was no hint that she or Chow knew anything about Filston's plot to assassinate the Emperor. He held a trump card; at the moment, he had no idea how to play it, or whether he should play it at all.
  
  Tonaka crossed her legs again. Cheongsam lifted himself up, revealing the curve of her buttocks.
  
  "Before Johnny Chow gets back, I better warn you, Nick. Don't make him angry. He's a little crazy, I think. And he's a sadist. Did you get the package?"
  
  He stared at her. "I get it. I thought it was yours." His gaze dropped to her full breasts. "Apparently it's not."
  
  She didn't look at him. He sensed the unease in her. "No. It was... vile. But I couldn't stop it. I can only control Johnny to a point. He has this... this passion for cruelty. Sometimes I have to let him do what he wants. After that, he's docile and easy for a while. That flesh he sent was from the girl Eta, the one we were supposed to kill."
  
  He nodded. "So this place is the scene of the murder?"
  
  "Yes. And torture. I don't like it, but it's necessary."
  
  "It's very convenient. Close to the harbor.
  
  Her smile was tired from the makeup. The Walther hung in her hand. She picked it up again, holding it with both hands. "Yes. But we're at war, and in war you have to do terrible things. But enough of that. We need to talk about you, Nick Carter. I want to get you safely to Beijing. That's why I'm warning you about Johnny."
  
  His tone was sardonic. "Beijing, huh? I've been there a couple of times. Incognito, of course. I don't like the place. Boring. Very boring."
  
  "I doubt you'll be bored this time. They're preparing quite a reception for you. And for me. If you don't guess, Nick, I'm Hy-Vy."
  
  He checked the handcuffs again. If he got the chance, he'd have to break his hand.
  
  Hai-Wai Tio Pu. Chinese intelligence.
  
  "It just occurred to me," he said. "What is your rank and name, Tonaka?" She told him.
  
  She surprised him. "I'm a colonel. My Chinese name is Mei Foi. That's one of the reasons I had to distance myself so much from my father-he still had a lot of contacts, and sooner or later he would find out. So I had to pretend to hate him for abandoning his people, the Eta, when he was young. He was an Eta. Like me. But he left, he forgot his people, and served the imperialist establishment. Until he became old and sick. Then he tried to make amends!"
  
  Nick didn't resist the smirk. "While you stayed with Eta? Loyal to your people-so you could infiltrate them and betray them. Use them. Destroy them."
  
  She didn't respond to the taunt. "You wouldn't understand, of course. My people will never amount to anything until they rise up and take over Japan. I'm leading them in that direction."
  
  Leading them to the brink of massacre. If Filston succeeds in killing the Emperor and pinning the blame on the Chinese, the Burakumin will be the immediate scapegoats. The enraged Japanese may not be able to reach Beijing-they can and will kill every Eta man, woman, and child they can find. Behead them, disembowel them, hang them, shoot them. If that happens, the Sanya region will truly become a charnel house.
  
  For a moment, Agent AXE wrestled with his conscience and judgment. If he told them about Filston's plot, they might believe him enough to draw further attention to the man. Or they might not believe him at all. They might somehow sabotage it. And Filston, if he suspected he was being suspected, would simply cancel his plans and wait for another opportunity. Nick kept his mouth shut and looked down, watching the tiny red high-heeled shoes swing on Tonaka's foot. The light glinted off her bare brown thigh.
  
  There was a knock at the door. Johnny Chow recognized Tonaka. "The Russian will be taken care of. How is our friend? The great Nick Carter! The master assassin! The man who makes all the poor little spies tremble when they hear his name."
  
  Chow walked over to the chair and stopped, glaring at Nick Carter. His dark hair was thick and tangled, falling low on his neck. His bushy eyebrows formed a black slash above his nose. His teeth were large and snow-white, with a gap in the middle. He spat at AXEman and hit him hard across the face.
  
  "How do you feel, cheap killer? How do you like being accepted?"
  
  Nick narrowed his eyes at the new blow. He could taste blood from his cut lip. He saw Tonaka shake her head warningly. She was right. Chow was a maniacal killer consumed by hatred, and now was not the time to provoke him. Nick remained silent.
  
  Chow hit him again, then again and again. "What's the matter, big guy? Nothing to say?"
  
  Tonaka said, "That will be enough, Johnny."
  
  He swung at her, growling. "Who said this would be enough!"
  
  "I'm saying this. And I'm in charge here. Beijing wants him alive and in good shape. A corpse or a cripple won't do them much good."
  
  Nick watched with interest. A family quarrel. Tonaka turned the Walther slightly, so that it covered Johnny Chow as well as Nick. There was a moment of silence.
  
  Chow let out a final roar. "I say, screw you and Beijing too. Do you know how many of our comrades around the world that bastard has killed?"
  
  "He'll pay for this. Eventually. But first, Beijing wants him interrogated-and think they'll be pleased! So come on, Johnny. Calm down. This must be done properly. We have orders, and they must be followed."
  
  "Fine. Fine! But I know what I'd do to that stinking bastard if I had my way. I'd cut off his balls and make him eat them..."
  
  His displeasure subsided. He walked over to the sofa and slouched sullenly, his full, red mouth pouting like a child's.
  
  Nick felt a chill run down his spine. Tonaka was right. Johnny Chow was a sadist and a homicidal maniac. He found it interesting that the Chinese apparatus tolerated him for now. People like Chow could be a liability, and the Chinese weren't fools. But there was another side to this-Chow would be an absolutely reliable and ruthless killer. This fact probably annulled his sins.
  
  Johnny Chow sat up straight on the couch. He grinned, showing his teeth.
  
  "At least we can make that son of a bitch watch us work on the girl. The man just brought her in. It won't hurt him, and it might even convince him of something-like, maybe, that he's finished."
  
  He turned and looked at Tonaka. "And there's no point in trying to stop me! I'm doing most of the work in this lousy operation, and I'm going to enjoy it."
  
  Nick, watching Tonaka closely, saw her give in. She nodded slowly. "Okay. Johnny. If you want. But be very careful-he's as cunning and slippery as an eel."
  
  "Ha!" Chow walked up to Nick and punched him in the face again. "I hope he's really trying to pull a fast one. That's all I need-an excuse to kill him. A good excuse-then I can tell Beijing to fly a kite."
  
  He pulled Nick to his feet and pushed him toward the door. "Come on, Mr. Killmaster. You're in for a treat. I'm going to show you what happens to people who disagree with us."
  
  He snatched the Walther from Tonaka. She meekly gave in and wouldn't look Nick in the eye. He had a bad feeling. A girl? Just delivered? He remembered the orders he'd given the girls at the geisha house. Mato, Sato, and Kato. God! If anything had gone wrong, it was his fault. His fault...
  
  Johnny Chow pushed him down a long corridor, then up a winding, rotting, creaking staircase into a filthy basement where rats scurried away as they approached. Tonaka followed, and Nick felt the resistance in her step. "She really doesn't like trouble," he thought bitterly. But she does it out of devotion to her unholy communist cause. He would never understand them. All he could do was fight them.
  
  They walked down another corridor, narrow and reeking of human feces. Doors lined it, each with a tiny, barred window high up. He felt, rather than heard, movement beyond the door. This was their prison, their place of execution. From somewhere outside, penetrating even these dark depths, the deep bellowing of a tugboat drifted across the harbor. So close to the salty freedom of the sea-and yet so far away.
  
  Suddenly he realized with absolute clarity what he was about to see.
  
  The corridor ended at another door. It was guarded by a crudely dressed Japanese man in rubber shoes. An old Chicago Tommy gun slung over his shoulder. Axeman, preoccupied as he was, still noticed the round eyes and heavy stubble. Ainu. The hairy people of Hokkaido, aborigines, not Japanese at all. The Chicoms cast a wide net in Japan.
  
  The man bowed and stepped aside. Johnny Chow opened the door and pushed Nick into the bright light emanating from a single 350-watt bulb. His eyes rebelled from the dim light, and he blinked for a moment. Gradually, he discerned the face of a woman encased in a shining stainless steel Buddha. The Buddha was headless, and from its severed neck, splayed out and limp, its eyes closed, blood flowing from its nose and mouth, emerged the pale face of a woman.
  
  Kato!
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  Johnny Chow pushed Nick aside, then closed and locked the door. He approached the glowing Buddha. Nick vented his anger the only way he could - he pulled on the handcuffs until he felt the skin tear.
  
  Tonaka whispered. "I'm so sorry, Nick. It can't be helped. I forgot something important, and I had to go back to my apartment. Kato was there. I don't know why. Johnny Chow was with me, and she saw him. We had to get her then-there was nothing else I could do."
  
  He was a savage. "So you had to take her. You have to torture her?"
  
  She bit her lip and nodded at Johnny Chow. "He knows. I told you-that's how he gets his pleasure. I really tried, Nick, I really tried. I wanted to kill her quickly and painlessly."
  
  "You are an angel of mercy."
  
  Chow said, "How do you like that, big Killmaster? She's not looking so good now, is she? Not as good as when you fucked her this morning, I bet."
  
  This, of course, would be part of this man's perversion. Intimate questions were asked under torture. Nick could imagine the smirk and madness...
  
  He knew the risk, though. All the threats in the world couldn't stop him from saying it. Not saying it was out of character. He had to say it.
  
  He said it calmly and coldly, a crust of ice dripping from his voice. "You're a pathetic, vile, twisted son of a bitch, Chow. Killing you is one of the greatest pleasures in my life."
  
  Tonaka hissed softly. "No! Don't..."
  
  If Johnny Chow heard these words, he was too absorbed to pay attention. His pleasure was obvious. He ran his hand through Kato's thick black hair and tilted her head back. Her face was bloodless, as white as if she had been wearing geisha makeup. Her pale tongue lolled from her bloodied mouth. Chow began to hit her, working himself into a rage.
  
  "She's faking it, the little bitch. She's not dead yet."
  
  Nick wished with all his heart for her death. It was all he could do. He watched the slow trickle of blood, now sluggish, in the curved channel built around the base of the Buddha.
  
  ;. The car received an apt name - Bloody Buddha.
  
  It was his fault. He'd sent Kato to Tonaka's apartment to wait. He'd wanted her out of the geisha house, which he considered unsafe, and he'd wanted her out of the way and with a phone nearby in case he needed her. Damn it! He twisted the handcuffs in rage. Pain shot through his wrists and forearms. He'd sent Kato right into a trap. It wasn't his fault, in any realistic sense, but the burden lay on his heart like a stone.
  
  Johnny Chow stopped beating the unconscious girl. He frowned. "Maybe she's already dead," he said doubtfully. "None of those little sluts have any strength."
  
  At that moment, Kato opened her eyes. She was dying. She was dying to the last drop of blood. And yet, she looked across the room and saw Nick. Somehow, perhaps with that clarity they say comes shortly before death, she recognized him. She tried to smile, a pitiful effort. Her whisper, a ghost of a voice, echoed through the room.
  
  "I'm so sorry, Nick. I'm... so... sorry..."
  
  Nick Carter didn't look at Chow. He was sane again now, and he didn't want the man to read what was in his eyes. This man was a monster. Tonaka was right. If he ever had a chance to strike back, he had to act coolly. Very cool. For now, he had to endure it.
  
  Johnny Gow pushed Kato away with a wild movement that broke his neck. The crack was clearly audible in the room. Nick saw Tonaka flinch. Was she losing her composure? There was a possible angle.
  
  Chou stared at the dead girl. His voice was pitiful, like a little boy who'd broken his favorite toy. "She died too soon. Why? She had no right to." He laughed, like a rat squeaking in the night.
  
  "There's also you, big AXEman. I bet you'll last a long time in Buddha."
  
  "No," Tonaka said. "Definitely not, Johnny. Come on, let's get out of here. We have a lot to do."
  
  For a moment, he stared at her defiantly, his eyes as flat and deadly as a cobra's. He brushed his long hair out of his eyes. He made a loop of beads and hung it in front of him. He looked at the Walther in his hand.
  
  "I have a gun," he said. "That makes me the boss. Honcho! I can do whatever I want."
  
  Tonaka laughed. It was a good try, but Nick could hear the tension unwinding like a spring.
  
  "Johnny, Johnny! What is this? You're acting like a fool, and I know you're not. Do you want us all killed? You know what will happen if we disobey orders. Come on, Johnny. Be a good boy and listen to Mama-san."
  
  She coaxed him like a baby. Nick listened. His life was on the line.
  
  Tonaka stepped close to Johnny Chow. She placed her hand on his shoulder and leaned toward his ear. She whispered. AXEman could imagine what she was saying. She was captivating him with her body. He wondered how many times she had done this.
  
  Johnny Chow smiled. He wiped his bloody hands on his chinos. "You will? You really promise?"
  
  "I will, I promise." She ran her hand gently over his chest. "As soon as we get him safely out of the way. Okay?"
  
  He grinned, showing gaps in his white teeth. "Okay. Let's do this. Here, take the gun and cover me."
  
  Tonaka picked up the Walther and stepped aside. Under her thick makeup, her face was impassive, incomprehensible, like a Noh mask. She pointed the gun at Nick.
  
  Nick couldn't resist. "You're paying quite a high price," he said. "Sleeping with such abomination."
  
  Johnny Chow punched him in the face. Nick staggered and fell to one knee. Chow kicked him in the temple, and for a moment, darkness swirled around the AXE agent. He swayed on his knees, off-balance due to the handcuffs cuffed behind his back, and shook his head to clear it. Lights flared in his mind like magnesium flares.
  
  "No more!" Tonaka snapped. "You want me to keep my promise, Johnny?"
  
  "Good! He's not hurt." Chow grabbed Nick by the collar and pulled him to his feet.
  
  They led him back upstairs to a small, empty room next to the office. It had a metal door with a heavy iron bar on the outside. The room was empty except for some dirty bedding near a pipe that ran from floor to ceiling. High on the wall, near the pipe, was a barred window, glassless and too small for a dwarf to slip through.
  
  Johnny Chow pushed Nick toward the bed. "First class hotel, big guy. Go around to the other side and cover him, Tonaka, while I switch the cuffs."
  
  The girl obeyed. "You'll stay here, Carter, until business is concluded tomorrow evening. Then we'll take you out to sea and put you on board a Chinese cargo ship. In three days, you'll be in Beijing. They'll be very happy to see you-they're preparing a reception now."
  
  Chow pulled a key from his pocket and unfastened the handcuffs. Killmaster wanted to try it. But Tonaka was ten feet away, against the opposite wall, and the Walther was lying on his stomach. Grabbing Chow and using him as a shield was useless. She would kill them both. So he refused.
  
  commit suicide and watched as Chow snapped one of the handcuffs onto a vertical pipe.
  
  "That should deter even a master assassin," Chow smirked. "Unless he has a magic kit in his pocket-and I don't think he does." He slapped Nick hard across the face. "Sit down, you bastard, and shut up. Have you got the needle ready, Tonaka?"
  
  Nick slid into a sitting position, his right wrist extended and connected to a tube. Tonaka handed Johnny Chow a shiny hypodermic needle. With one hand, he pushed Nick down and jabbed the needle into his neck, just above his collar. He was trying to hurt, and he did. The needle felt like a dagger as Chow rammed the plunger.
  
  Tonaka said, "Just something to put you to sleep for a while. Be quiet. It won't hurt you."
  
  Johnny Chow pulled out the needle. "I wish I could hurt him. If I had my way..."
  
  "No," the girl said sharply. "That's all we have to do now. He's staying. Come on, Johnny."
  
  Seeing Chow still hesitant, looking down at Nick, she added in a gentle tone, "Please, Johnny. You know what I promised-there won't be time if we don't hurry."
  
  Chou gave Nick a parting kick in the ribs. "Sayonara, big guy. I'll think about you while I fuck her. It's the closest you'll ever get to that again."
  
  The metal door slammed shut. He heard the heavy barbell fall into place. He was alone, with the drug coursing through his veins, threatening to knock him out at any second-for how long, he had no idea.
  
  Nick struggled to his feet. He was already a little woozy and dizzy, but that could have been from the beating. He glanced at the tiny window high above him and pushed it aside. It was empty. Nothing anywhere. Nothing at all. A pipe, handcuffs, a dirty rug.
  
  With his free left hand, he reached into his jacket pocket from the torn pocket of his coat. He was left with matches and cigarettes. And a wad of cash. Johnny Chow searched him quickly, almost casually, and he felt the money, touched it, and then apparently forgot about it. He hadn't mentioned it to Tonaka. Nick remembered-it was clever. Chow must have his own plans for that money.
  
  What's the matter? Twenty-five thousand dollars haven't done him any good now. You can't buy the key to the handcuffs.
  
  Now he could feel the drug taking effect. He was swaying, his head like a balloon struggling to rise. He fought it, trying to breathe deeply, sweat pouring into his eyes.
  
  He remained standing by sheer willpower. He stood as far away from the pipe as he could, his right arm extended. He leaned back, using his two hundred pounds, his thumb folded over the palm of his right hand, squeezing the muscles and bones. Every deal has its tricks, and he knew that sometimes it was possible to break free from the handcuffs. The trick was to leave a small gap between the cuff and the bones, a small amount of slack. Flesh didn't matter. It could be torn off.
  
  He had a small margin, but not enough. It didn't work. He jerked violently. Pain and blood. That was all. The cuff slid down and settled at the base of his thumb. If only he had something to lubricate it with...
  
  Now his head had become a balloon. A balloon with a face painted on it. It floated off his shoulders and into the sky on a long, long rope.
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  He woke up in complete darkness. He had a severe headache, and a single, massive bruise covered his body. His torn right wrist throbbed with sharp pain. The sounds of the harbor drifted in from time to time through the tiny window above his head.
  
  He lay in the darkness for a quarter of an hour, trying to piece together his jumbled thoughts, to connect the pieces of the puzzle into a coherent picture of reality. He checked the cuff and tube again. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped, helpless, motionless. It felt as if he had been unconscious for a long time. His thirst was alive, clinging to his throat.
  
  He knelt down in pain. He took matches from his jacket pocket and, after two unsuccessful attempts, managed to keep one of the paper matches glowing. He had visitors.
  
  There was a tray on the floor next to him. There was something on it. Something covered with a napkin. The match had burned out. He lit another and, still kneeling, reached for the tray. Tonaka might have thought to bring him some water. He grabbed the napkin.
  
  Her eyes were open and staring at him. The tiny light of the match reflected in her dead pupils. Kato's head lay on its side on a plate. Her dark hair fell in disarray down to her severed neck.
  
  Johnny Chow is enjoying himself.
  
  Nick Carter was ill without shame. He vomited on the floor next to the tray, retching and vomiting until he was empty. Empty of everything but hatred. In the fetid darkness, his professionalism was not lost, and he wanted only to find Johnny Chow and kill him as painfully as possible.
  
  After a while, he lit another match. He was covering his head with a napkin when his hand touched his hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  The geisha's elaborate hairstyle was in pieces, scattered and disintegrating, covered in oil. Oil!
  
  The match went out. Nick dug his hand deep into the thick mass of hair and began to straighten it. The head twisted at his touch, nearly falling over and rolling out of his reach. He pulled the tray closer and wedged it with his feet. When his left hand was coated in hair oil, he transferred it to his right wrist, rubbing it up, down, and around the inside of the steel cuff. He did this ten times, then pushed the tray away and straightened up.
  
  He took a dozen deep breaths. The air seeping through the window was shrouded in shipyard smoke. Someone stepped out of the hallway, and he listened. After a while, the sounds formed a pattern. A guard in the hallway. A guard in rubber shoes was walking to his post. A man was pacing the hallway.
  
  He moved as far to his left as he could, pulling steadily against the cuffs that bound him to the pipe. Sweat beaded on him as he poured every ounce of his immense strength into the effort. The cuff slipped off his lubricated hand, slipped some more, and then caught on his large knuckles. Killmaster tensed again. Now agony. Not good. It hadn't worked.
  
  Excellent. He admitted it would mean broken bones. So let's get it over with.
  
  He moved as close to the pipe as he could, pulling the cuff up the pipe until it was level with his shoulders. His wrist, hand, and cuffs were coated in bloody hair oil. He had to be able to do this. All he needed was permission.
  
  Killmaster took one deep breath, held it, and lunged away from the pipe. All the hatred and rage boiling within him poured into his lunge. He'd once been an All-American linebacker, and people still spoke in awe of the way he'd broken opposing lines. The way he'd exploded now.
  
  The pain was brief and terrible. The steel tore cruel grooves into his flesh, and he felt his bones splinter. He swayed against the wall near the door, clinging to support, his right arm a bloody stump hanging at his side. He was free.
  
  Free? The metal door and heavy crossbar remained. Now it would be a trick. Courage and brute force had carried him as far as they could.
  
  Nick leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and listening intently. The guard in the hallway was still sliding up and down, his rubber shoes hissing on the rough boards.
  
  He stood in the darkness, weighing his decision. He had only one chance. If he shut him up, all was lost.
  
  Nick glanced out the window. Darkness. But what day? What night? Had he slept for more than 24 hours? He had a premonition. If so, it was a night reserved for riots and sabotage. That meant Tonaki and Johnny Chow wouldn't be there. They'd be somewhere in central Tokyo, busy with their murderous plans. And Filston? Filston would be smiling his epicene upper-class smile and preparing to assassinate the Emperor of Japan.
  
  AXEman suddenly realized he had to act with utter urgency. If his judgment was correct, it might already be too late. In any case, there was no time to waste-he had to stake everything on a single roll of the dice. This was a gamble now. If Chou and Tonaka were still around, he would be dead. They had brains and weapons, and his tricks wouldn't fool him.
  
  He lit a match, noting he only had three left. That would be enough. He dragged the rug near the door, stood on it, and began tearing it to pieces with his left hand. His right was useless.
  
  When enough cotton had been drawn from the thin lining, he tucked it into a pile near the crack under the door. Not enough. He pulled more cotton from the pillow. Then, to save his matches in case it didn't catch fire right away, he reached into his pocket for money, intending to roll up a bill and use it. There was no money. The match went out.
  
  Nick cursed softly. Johnny Chow took the money as he slipped inside, placing Kato's head on the tray.
  
  There were three matches left. A fresh sweat broke out on him, and he couldn't help but let his fingers tremble as he carefully lit another match and brought it to the pop. The tiny flame flared, wavered, nearly died out, then flared up again and began to grow. Smoke began to curl upward.
  
  Nick got out of his old raincoat and started blowing smoke out, directing it under the door. The cotton was now ablaze. If this didn't work, he might asphyxiate himself. It was easy to do. He held his breath and continued waving the raincoat, sweeping the smoke under the door. That was enough. Nick started screaming at the top of his lungs. "Fire! Fire! Help-help-Fire! Help me-don't let me burn. Fire!"
  
  Now he will know.
  
  He stood to the side of the door, pressed against the wall. The door opened outward.
  
  The cotton wool was now blazing merrily, and the room was filling with acrid smoke. He didn't need to feign a cough. He shouted again, "Fire! Help-tasukete!"
  
  Tasuketel Hello - Hello! "The guard ran down the corridor. Nick let out a cry of horror. "Tasuketel"
  
  The heavy barbell fell with a crash. The door opened a few inches. Smoke escaped. Nick shoved his useless right hand into his jacket pocket to keep it out of the way. Now he growled in his throat and slammed his massive shoulders against the door. He was like a massive spring that had been coiled for too long and finally released.
  
  The door slammed outward, throwing the guard back and off balance. They were the Ainu he'd seen before. A Tommy gun was held in front of him, and as Nick ducked underneath it, the man reflexively fired a burst. Flames scorched AXEman's face. He put everything he had into a short left punch to the man's stomach. He pinned him against the wall, kneed him in the groin, and then slammed his knee into his face. The guard let out a gurgling groan and began to fall. Nick slammed his hand into his Adam's apple and hit him again. Teeth shattered, blood spurted from the man's ruined mouth. He dropped the Tommy gun. Nick grabbed him before he hit the floor.
  
  The guard was still half-conscious, leaning drunkenly against the wall. Nick kicked his leg and he collapsed.
  
  The machine gun was heavy even for Nick, with his one good arm, and it took him a second to balance it. The guard tried to stand. Nick kicked him in the face.
  
  He stood over the man and placed the barrel of his Tommy gun an inch from his head. The guard was still conscious enough to look down the barrel to the magazine, where the heavy .45s waited with deadly patience to tear him apart.
  
  "Where's Johnny Chow? Where's the girl? One second and I'll kill you!"
  
  The guard had no doubt about it. He remained very quiet and muttered words through bloody foam.
  
  "They're going to Toyo - they're going to Toyo! They're going to cause riots, fires, I swear. I say - don't kill!"
  
  Toyo must mean central Tokyo. The city center. He guessed correctly. He had been gone for more than a day.
  
  He placed his foot on the man's chest. "Who else is here? Other men? Here? They didn't leave you to guard me alone?"
  
  "One man. Just one man. And now he's sleeping in the office, I swear." Through all that? Nick hit the guard in the skull with the butt of his Tommy gun. He turned and ran down the hallway to the office where Johnny Chow had shot the Russian, Dmitry.
  
  A stream of flame erupted from the office door, and a bullet whizzed past Nick's left ear with a nasty thud. He's asleep, damn it! The bastard had woken up and cut Nick off from the courtyard. There was no time to explore, to try to find another exit.
  
  Blah-blah...
  
  The bullet flew too close. It pierced the wall next to him. Nick turned, turned off the only dim light in the corridor, and ran back to the stairs leading to the dungeons. He jumped over the unconscious body of a guard and kept running.
  
  Now silence. Silence and darkness. The man in the office booted up and waited.
  
  Nick Carter stopped running. He dropped to his stomach and crawled until he could look up and see, almost blindly, the brighter rectangle of an open skylight above him. A cool breeze blew in, and he saw a star, a single dim star, shining in the center of the square. He tried to remember how high the skylights were. He had noticed them yesterday when they brought him in. He couldn't remember, and he knew it didn't matter. Either way, he had to try.
  
  He hurled Tommy's pistol through the skylight. It bounced and bounced, making a hellish noise. The man in the office heard it and opened fire again, spraying lead down the narrow corridor. Nick hugged the floor. One of the bullets pierced his hair without grazing his scalp. He exhaled softly. Christ! That was close.
  
  The man in the office emptied his magazine. Silence again. Nick stood, braced his legs, and leaped, reaching with his good left arm. His fingers closed on the roof hatch coaming, and he hung there for a moment, swaying, then began to pull himself up. The tendons in his arm cracked and complained. He grinned bitterly in the darkness. All those thousands of one-arm pull-ups were paying off now.
  
  He leaned his elbow on the coaming and dangled his feet. He was on the roof of a warehouse. The shipyards around him were quiet and deserted, but here and there lights glowed in warehouses and on the docks. One particularly bright light shone like a constellation at the top of a crane.
  
  There was no blackout yet. The sky over Tokyo glowed neon. A red warning light flashed atop Tokyo Tower, and floodlights glowed far to the south over the international airport. About two miles to the west lay the Imperial Palace. Where was Richard Filston at that moment?
  
  He found Tommy's pistol and pressed it into the crook of his good arm. Then, running softly, like a man running across freight cars, he crossed the warehouse. Now he could see well enough,
  
  through every skylight as he approached it.
  
  After the last skylight, the building widened, and he realized he was above the office and near the loading dock. He tiptoed, barely making a sound on the tarmac. A single dim light shone from a banner in the yard, where rusty oil drums moved like spherical ghosts. Something near the gate caught the light and reflected it, and he saw it was a jeep. Painted black. His heart leaped, and he felt the beginnings of real hope. There might still be a chance to stop Filston. The jeep meant the way into town. But first, he had to cross the yard. It wouldn't be easy. A single streetlamp provided just enough light for the bastard in the office to see him. He didn't dare try to turn it off. Might as well send his business card.
  
  There was no time to think. He just had to get ahead and take a risk. He ran along the roof extension covering the loading dock, trying to get as far away from the office as possible. He reached the end of the roof and looked down. Directly below him sat a stack of oil barrels. They looked precarious.
  
  Nick slung his Tommy gun over his shoulder and, cursing his useless right arm, carefully climbed over the edge of the roof. His fingers gripped the gutter. It began to sag and then break away. His toes brushed the oil drums. Nick sighed in relief as the gutter tore free in his hand, and his entire weight rested on the drums. The drainpipe swung dangerously, sagged, buckled in the middle, and collapsed with the roar of a factory boiler.
  
  Agent AXE was lucky he wasn't killed outright. Regardless, he'd lost a lot of strength before he managed to break free and run to the jeep. There was nothing else to do now. It was his only chance of getting into town. He ran awkwardly, limping because the half-filled magazine had injured his ankle. He held his Tommy gun at his side, butt to his stomach, the muzzle aimed at the loading dock near the office door. He wondered how many bullets he had left in the clip.
  
  The man in the office was no coward. He ran out of the office, spotted Nick zigzagging across the courtyard, and fired a pistol bullet. The dirt rose around Nick's feet, and the bullet kissed him. He ran without firing back, now truly worried about his magazine. He had to check.
  
  The shooter left the loading dock and ran toward the jeep, trying to cut Nick off. He continued firing at Nick as he ran, but his fire was indiscriminate and distant.
  
  Nick still didn't fire back until they were almost at eye level by the jeep. The shots were point-blank. The man turned and this time took aim, holding the gun with both hands to steady it. Nick dropped to one knee, placed the pistol on Tommy's knee, and emptied the clip.
  
  Most of the bullets hit the man in the stomach, throwing him backwards and over the hood of the Jeep. His pistol clattered to the ground.
  
  Nick dropped his Tommy gun and ran to the jeep. The man was dead, his guts ripped out. Nick pulled him off the jeep and started rummaging through his pockets. He found three spare magazines and a hunting knife with a four-inch blade. His smile was cold. That was more like it. A Tommy gun wasn't the kind of weapon you could carry around Tokyo.
  
  He picked up the dead man's pistol. An old Browning .380-the Chicoms had a strange assortment of weapons. Assembled in China and smuggled into various countries. The real problem would have been the ammunition, but they seemed to have solved that somehow.
  
  He tucked the Browning into his belt, the hunting knife into his jacket pocket, and climbed into the jeep. The keys were in the ignition. He cranked the engine, but the starter jammed, and the old car roared to life with a deafening roar of exhaust. There was no muffler!
  
  The gates were open.
  
  He headed toward the dam. Tokyo shone in the foggy night like a huge, shimmering bauble. No blackout yet. What the hell time was it?
  
  He reached the end of the road and found the answer. The clock in the window read 9:33. Behind the clock was a phone booth. Killmaster hesitated, then slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the jeep, and ran to the booth. He really didn't want to do this-he wanted to finish the job and clean up the mess himself. But he shouldn't. It was too risky. Things had gone too far. He'd have to call the American embassy and ask for help. He racked his brains for a moment, trying to remember the code for the week, got it, and entered the booth.
  
  There was no coin to his name.
  
  Nick stared at the phone in rage and frustration. Damn it! By the time he could explain to the Japanese operator, convince her to take him to the embassy, it would be too late. Maybe it was already too late.
  
  At that moment, the lights in the kiosk went out. All around it, up and down the street, in shops, stores, houses, and taverns, the lights went out.
  
  Nick picked up the phone and froze for a second.
  
  
  Too late. He was on his own again. He ran back to the jeep.
  
  The great city lay in darkness, save for a central spot of light near Tokyo Station. Nick turned on the jeep's headlights and drove as fast as he could toward this solitary specimen of radiance in the darkness. Tokyo Station must have its own power source. Something to do with the trains entering and exiting.
  
  As he drove, leaning on the jeep's sharp, blaring horn-people had already begun to pour out onto the streets-he saw that the blackout wasn't as complete as he'd expected. Central Tokyo was gone, save for the train station, but there were still patches of light around the city's perimeter. These were isolated transformers and substations, and Johnny Chow's men couldn't knock them all out at once. It would take time.
  
  One of the spots on the horizon flickered and went out. They were approaching it!
  
  He found himself in the middle of traffic and was forced to slow down. Many drivers stopped and waited to see what would happen. A stalled electric tram blocked the intersection. Nick swerved around it and continued to slowly steer the jeep through the crowd.
  
  Candles and lamps flickered in the houses like giant fireflies. He passed a group of laughing children on the corner. For them, it was a real ball.
  
  He turned left onto Ginzu Dori. He could turn right onto Sotobori Dori, walk a couple of blocks, and then turn north on a street that would take him directly to the palace grounds. He knew of a poster there that led to a bridge over the moat. The place was, of course, swarming with cops and soldiers, but that was okay. He just needed to find someone with enough authority, get them to listen to him, and escort the Emperor to safety.
  
  He pulled into Sotobori. Straight ahead, beyond where he intended to turn north, sat the vast American embassy. Killmaster was tempted. He needed help! This thing was getting too big for him. But it was a matter of seconds, precious seconds, and he couldn't afford to lose even one. As he pushed the jeep, tires screamed around the corner, and the embassy lights came on again. Emergency generator. Then it occurred to him that the Palace would also have emergency generators that would use them, and Filston must have known about it. Nick shrugged his big shoulders and pressed hard on the gas, trying to push it through the floorboards. Just get there. On time.
  
  Now he could hear the sullen murmur of the crowd. Disgusting. He'd heard crowds before, and they always frightened him a little, like nothing else. Crowds are unpredictable, a mad beast, capable of anything.
  
  He heard gunfire. A jagged spray of shots in the darkness, straight ahead. Fire, raw and ferocious, colored the blackness. He approached the intersection. The palace was now only three blocks away. A burning police car lay on its side. It had exploded, sending flaming fragments flying up and down like miniature rockets. The crowd retreated, screaming and running for cover. Further down the street, three more police cars blocked the road, their moving spotlights playing over the assembled crowd. Behind them, a fire truck moved next to a hydrant, and Nick caught a glimpse of a water cannon.
  
  A thin line of police moved down the street. They wore riot helmets, carried batons, and carried pistols. Behind them, several more officers fired tear gas over the line and into the crowd. Nick heard the tear gas shells shatter and disperse with a characteristic wet thud. The smell of lacriminators hung in the crowd. Men and women choked and coughed as the gas took effect. The retreat began to turn into a rout. Helpless, Nick pulled the jeep to the side of the road and waited. The crowd surged around the jeep like a sea on a cape and circled it.
  
  Nick stood up in the jeep. Looking through the crowd, past the pursuing police and the high wall, he could see lights in the palace and its grounds. They were using generators. This should have made Filston's job more difficult. Or was it? Axeman was haunted by worry. Filston would have known about the generators and not taken them into account. How did he expect to get to the Emperor?
  
  Then he saw Johnny Chow behind him. The man was standing on the roof of a car, shouting at the passing crowd. One of the police car's spotlights caught him and held him in its beam. Chow continued to wave his arms and wheeze, and gradually the crowd began to slow. Now they were listening. They stopped running.
  
  Tonaka, standing by the car's right fender, was illuminated by a spotlight. She was dressed in black, trousers, a sweater, and her hair was pulled back into a headscarf. She stared at the screaming Johnny Chow, her eyes narrowed, feeling strangely composed, oblivious to the crowd pushing and shoving around the car.
  
  It was impossible to hear what Johnny Chow was saying. His mouth opened and the words came out, and he continued pointing around him.
  
  They listened again. A shrill whistle erupted from the police ranks, and the lines of police began to retreat. "Mistake," Nick thought. "I should have held them back." But there were far fewer police, and they were playing it safe.
  
  He saw men in gas masks, at least a hundred of them. They were circling the car where Chow was preaching, and they all had weapons of some kind-batons, swords, pistols, and knives. Nick caught the flash of Stan's pistol. These were the core, the real troublemakers, and with their guns and gas masks, they were supposed to lead the crowd past the police lines and into the Palace grounds.
  
  Johnny Chow was still shouting and pointing at the palace. Tonaka watched from below, her face impassive. The men in gas masks began to form a rough front, moving into ranks.
  
  Killmaster glanced around. The Jeep was caught in the crowd's crush, and he peered through the sea of angry faces to where Johnny Chow was still the center of attention. The police were being discreet, but they were getting a good look at the bastard.
  
  Nick pulled the Browning from his belt. He glanced down. Not one of the thousands paid him the slightest attention. He was the invisible man. Johnny Chow was ecstatic. Finally, he was the center of attention. Killmaster smiled briefly. He would never have such a chance again.
  
  It had to be quick. This crowd was capable of anything. They would tear him to bloody pieces.
  
  He guessed (he was about thirty yards away. Thirty yards from a strange weapon he had never fired.
  
  Johnny Chow remained the center of police attention. He wore his popularity like a halo, unafraid, reveling in it, spitting and shouting his hatred. Lines of armed men in gas masks formed a wedge and advanced toward the police lines.
  
  Nick Carter lifted the Browning and leveled it. He took a quick, deep breath, exhaled half of it, and pulled the trigger three times.
  
  He could barely hear the gunshots over the noise of the crowd. He saw Johnny Chow spin on the roof of the car, clutch his chest, and fall. Nick leaped from the jeep as far into the crowd as he could. He descended into the writhing mass of jostling bodies, punched his good arm through the air, and began to make his way to the edge of the crowd. Only one man tried to stop him. Nick stabbed him an inch with his hunting knife and continued on.
  
  He had slipped into the partial shelter of a hedge at the head of the palace lawn when he caught "a new note from the crowd." He hid in the hedge, disheveled and bloodied, and watched as the crowd attacked the police again. The van contained armed men, led by Tonaka. She waved a small Chinese flag-her cover now gone-and ran, screaming, at the head of the tattered, disordered wave.
  
  Shots rang out from the police. No one fell. They continued firing over everyone's heads. The crowd, once again enthusiastic and mindless, moved forward, following the spearhead of the armed men, the hard core. The roar was terrifying and bloodthirsty, the maniacal giant screaming his lust for murder.
  
  The thin line of policemen parted, and horsemen emerged. Mounted police, at least two hundred of them, rode toward the mob. They used sabers and intended to cut down the crowd. The police's patience was exhausted. Nick knew why-the Chinese flag had done it.
  
  The horses crashed into the crowd. People staggered and went down. Shouts began. Swords rose and fell, catching sparks from the spotlights and flinging them around like bloody specks of dust.
  
  Nick was close enough to see it clearly. Tonaka turned and tried to run to the side to avoid the attack. She tripped over the man, who was already below. The horse reared and dove, as frightened as the men, almost knocking down the rider. Tonaka was halfway there and fleeing again when a steel hoof came down and crushed her skull.
  
  Nick ran to the palace wall, which stood beyond the hedged lawn. Now was not the time for a poster. He looked like a slacker, the ultimate rebel, and they would never let him in.
  
  The wall was ancient and covered in moss, lichen, with numerous toes and footholds. Even with one arm, he had no trouble negotiating it. He jumped down into the compound and ran toward the fire near the ditch. An asphalt access road led to one of the permanent bridges, and a barricade had been erected. Cars were parked behind the barricade, people crowded around it, and the voices of soldiers and police officers were quietly shouting.
  
  A Japanese soldier stuck a carbine in his face.
  
  "Tomodachi," Nick hissed. "Tomodachi is a friend! Take me to Commander-san. Hubba! Hayai!"
  
  The soldier pointed to a group of men near one of the cars. He nudged Nick toward them with his carbine. Killmaster thought, "This is going to be the hardest part - looking like me. He probably didn't talk too well either. He was nervous, tense, beaten, and almost defeated. But he had to make them understand that the real
  
  The troubles were just beginning. Somehow he had to do it...
  
  The soldier said, "Put your hands on your head, please." He spoke to one of the men in the group. Half a dozen curious faces approached Nick. He recognized one of them. Bill Talbot. Embassy attaché, thank God!
  
  Until then, Nick hadn't realized how much his voice had been damaged by the beatings he'd received. It cawed like a raven.
  
  "Bill! Bill Talbot. Come here. It's Carter. Nick Carter!"
  
  The man approached him slowly, his gaze devoid of recognition.
  
  "Who? Who are you, buddy? How do you know my name?"
  
  Nick struggled for control. There was no point in blowing it up now. He took a deep breath. "Just listen to me, Bill. Who's going to buy my lavender?"
  
  The man's eyes narrowed. He came closer and looked at Nick. "Lavender is out this year," he said. "I want clams and mussels. Sweet Jesus, is that really you, Nick?"
  
  "That's right. Now listen and don't interrupt. There's no time..."
  
  He told his story. The soldier retreated a few steps, but kept his rifle aimed at Nick. The group of men near the car watched them silently.
  
  Killmaster finished. "Take this now," he said. "Does it quickly. Filston must be somewhere on the property."
  
  Bill Talbot frowned. "You've been misinformed, Nick. The Emperor isn't here. Hasn't been here for a week. He's secluded. Meditating. Satori. He's at his private temple near Fujiyoshida."
  
  Richard Philston fooled them all.
  
  Nick Carter swayed, but then caught himself. "You did what you had to do."
  
  "Okay," he croaked. "Get me a fast car. Hubba! There might still be a chance. Fujiyoshida is only thirty miles away, and the plane's no good. I'll go ahead. You handle things here. They know you, and they'll listen. Call Fujiyoshida and..."
  
  "I can't. The lines are down. Damn it, almost everything's down, Nick, you look like a corpse-don't you think I'm feeling better..."
  
  "I think you better get me that car," Nick said grimly. "Right this damn minute."
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  The big embassy Lincoln spent the night bored, heading southwest on a road that was suitable for short stretches and mostly poor. When it was finished, it would be a superhighway; now it was a mass of bypasses. He traveled three before finding himself ten miles from Tokyo.
  
  Nevertheless, this was likely the shortest route to the small shrine at Fujiyoshida, where the Emperor was at that moment in deep meditation, contemplating cosmic mysteries and, no doubt, striving to understand the unknowable. The latter was a Japanese trait.
  
  Nick Carter, hunched over the wheel of the Lincoln, keeping the speedometer ticking over without killing himself, thought it highly likely that the Emperor would succeed in penetrating the mysteries of the afterlife. Richard Filston had a head start, plenty of time, and so far he had managed to lure Nick and the Chicoms to the palace.
  
  This frightened Nick. How stupid of him not to check. Not even to think of checking. Filston had casually let it slip that the Emperor was in residence at the palace-therefore! He accepted it without question. With Johnny Chow and Tonaka, no question arose, since they knew nothing of the plot to assassinate the Emperor. Killmaster, without access to newspapers, radio, or television, had been easily deceived. "It happened," he thought now, as he approached another detour sign. "For Filston, this was business as usual. It wouldn't matter at all to the job Pete Fremont had taken on, and Filston was hedging his bets against any change of heart, betrayal, or last-minute disruption to his plans. It was so beautifully simple-sending the audience to one theater and staging your play in another. No applause, no interference, no witnesses.
  
  He slowed the Lincoln as he passed through a village where candles cast a thousand saffron polka dots in the darkness. They were using Tokyo's electricity here, and it was still out. Beyond the village, the detour continued, muddy, soaked by recent rains, better suited for oxcarts than for the work he was doing in his low-slung position. He pressed the gas pedal and rolled through the clinging mud. If he got stuck, it would be the end.
  
  Nick's right hand was still tucked uselessly into his jacket pocket. The Browning and hunting knife were on the seat next to him. His left arm and hand, numb to the bone from yanking on the large steering wheel, sank into a constant, unrelenting pain.
  
  Bill Talbot was shouting something to Nick as he drove away in the Lincoln. Something about helicopters. It might work. It might not. By the time they got things sorted out, what with all the chaos in Tokyo and everyone being knocked out, and by the time they could get to the airfields, it was too late. And they didn't know what to look for. He knew Filston by sight. They didn't make it.
  
  The helicopter flying into the serene temple would scare Filston away. Killmaster didn't want that. Not now. Not after he'd come this far. Saving the Emperor was number one, but getting Richard Filston once and for all was very close. The man had done too much harm to the world.
  
  He came to a fork in the road. He missed the sign, slammed on the brakes, and backed up to catch the sign in his headlights. All he needed was to get lost. The sign on the left said Fijiyoshida, and he had to trust that.
  
  The road was now good for the station, and he accelerated the Lincoln to ninety. He rolled down the window and allowed himself to feel the damp wind blowing. He felt better now, beginning to come to his senses, and a second surge of reserve strength appeared in him. He drove through another village before realizing it was there, and thought he heard a frantic whistle behind him. He grinned. That would be one indignant cop.
  
  He was facing a sharp left-hand turn. Beyond it lay a narrow, single-car arch bridge. Nick saw the turn in time, slammed on the brakes, and the car went into a long, sliding right-hand skid, tires screeching. The tire lashed out, trying to free itself from his numb fingers. He pulled it out of the skid, slammed it into the turn with a painful scream of springs and impacts, and damaged the right rear fender as he slammed into the bridge.
  
  Beyond the bridge, the road turned into hell again. He made a sharp S turn and moved parallel to the Fujisanroku Electric Railway. He passed a large red car, dark and helpless, parked on the tracks, and immediately noticed the dim flash of people waving at him. Many people would be stranded tonight.
  
  The shrine was less than ten miles away. The road had worsened, and he had to slow down. He forced himself to calm down, fighting the irritation and impatience that gnawed at him. He wasn't an Easterner, and every nerve demanded immediate and final action, but the poor road was a fact that had to be faced with patience. To calm his mind, he allowed himself to recall the convoluted path he had traveled. Or rather, the path he had been pushed along.
  
  It was like a vast, tangled labyrinth, traversed by four shadowy figures, each pursuing their own agenda. A black symphony of counterpoint and double cross.
  
  Tonaka-she was ambivalent. She loved her father. And yet, she was a pure communist and, in the end, framed Nick for his death at the same time as his father. That must have been it, only the killer messed it up and killed Kunizo Mata first, giving Nick his chance. The cops could have been a coincidence, but he still didn't think so. Probably Johnny. Chow had orchestrated the murder against Tonaka's better judgment and called the police as a secondary measure. When that didn't work, Tonaka asserted herself and decided to bring Nick back online. She could wait for orders from Beijing. And working with a maniac like Chow was never going to be easy. So the fake kidnapping and the breasts were sent to him along with the note. This meant he was being followed the entire time, and he never once noticed the tail. Nick winced and almost stopped to see the giant hole. It had happened. Not often, but it happened. Sometimes you were lucky, and the mistake didn't kill you.
  
  Richard Filston was as good as Nick had ever heard. His idea was to use Pete Fremont to get the story out to the world press. At the time, they must have been planning to use the real Pete Fremont. Maybe he would have done it. Perhaps Nick, playing Pete, was telling the truth when he said a lot of whiskey had been lost during that time. But if Pete was willing to sell, Kunizo Matu didn't know it-and when he decided to use Pete as a front for Nick, he fell right into their hands.
  
  Nick shook his head. This was the most tangled web he'd ever fought his way through. He was dying without a cigarette, but he had no chance. He made another detour and began skirting a swamp that must have once been a rice paddy. They'd laid down logs and covered them with gravel. From the rice paddies beyond the swamp, a breeze carried the smell of rotting human feces.
  
  Filston had been keeping an eye on the Chinese, probably as a routine precaution, and his men had no problem picking up Nick. Filston thought he was Pete Fremont, and Tonaka didn't tell him anything. She and Johnny Chow must have gotten quite a kick out of snatching Nick Carter right out from under Filston's nose. Killmaster! Someone as hated by the Russians and as important to them as Filston himself was to the West.
  
  Meanwhile, Philston also got his way. He used a man he believed to be Pete Fremont-with the knowledge and permission of the Chicoms-to set them up for real gain. To discredit the Chinese with the burden of assassinating the Emperor of Japan.
  
  Figures in a labyrinth; each with their own plan, each trying to figure out how to deceive the other. Using terror, using money, moving small people like pawns on a large board.
  
  The road was now paved, and he stepped onto it. He'd been to Fujiyoshida once before-a stroll with a girl and saki for pleasure-and now he was grateful for it. The shrine was closed that day, but Nick remembered
  
  reading the map in the guidebook, and now he tried to remember it. When he concentrated, he could remember almost everything, and now he concentrated.
  
  The sanctuary was straight ahead. Maybe half a mile. Nick turned off the headlights and slowed down. He might still have a chance; he couldn't know, but even if he did, he couldn't screw it up now.
  
  The alley led left. They'd come this way before, and he recognized it. The path skirted the grounds to the east. It was an ancient wall, low and crumbling, which wouldn't have posed a problem even for a one-armed man. Or Richard Filston.
  
  The alley was muddy, little more than two ruts. Nick drove the Lincoln a few hundred feet and turned off the engine. He stepped out painfully, stiffly, and cursed under his breath. He slipped his hunting knife into his left jacket pocket and, clumsily using his left hand, inserted a fresh clip into the Browning.
  
  Now it had dissipated, and the crescent moon was trying to float through the clouds. It gave just enough light for him to feel his way down the alley, into the ditch, and up the other side. He walked slowly through the wet grass, now high, to the old wall. There he stopped and listened.
  
  He found himself in the darkness of a giant wisteria. Somewhere in a green cage, a bird squeaked sleepily. Nearby, several tits began to sing their rhythmic song. The strong scent of peonies offset the gentle breeze. Nick placed his good hand on the low wall and leaped over.
  
  Of course, there would be guards. Maybe police, maybe military, but they would be few in number and less than vigilant. The average Japanese couldn't imagine the Emperor being harmed. It simply wouldn't have occurred to them. Not unless Talbot had performed a miracle in Tokyo and somehow survived.
  
  The silence, the quiet darkness, belied this. Nick remained alone.
  
  He remained under the large wisteria for a moment, trying to visualize the map of the area as he had once seen it. He had come from the east, which meant that the small shrine, the cisai, where only the Emperor was permitted to enter, was somewhere to his left. The large temple with the curved torii above the main entrance was directly ahead of him. Yes, that must be correct. The main gate was on the western side of the grounds, and he was entering from the east.
  
  He began following the wall to his left, moving carefully and leaning slightly as he went. The turf was springy and damp, and he made no sound. Neither did Filston.
  
  It struck Nick Carter for the first time that if he were late, entered the small sanctuary, and found the Emperor with a knife in his back or a bullet in his head, AH and Carter would be in the same hellish place. It could be damned dirty, and it would be better if it didn't happen. Hawkeye needed a straitjacket. Nick shrugged and almost smiled. He hadn't thought about the old man for hours.
  
  The moon came out again, and he saw the sparkle of black water to his right. A lake of carp. The fish would live longer than he did. He continued, more slowly now, attentive to sound and light.
  
  He emerged onto a gravel path heading in the right direction. It was too noisy, and after a moment he abandoned it and walked along the side of the road. He fished a hunting knife from his pocket and put it between his teeth. The Browning had rounds in the chamber, and the safety was off. He was more prepared than ever.
  
  The path wound through a grove of giant maples and keaki trees, entwined with thick vines, forming a natural gazebo. Immediately beyond it stood a small pagoda, its tiles reflecting the faint glow of the moon. Nearby stood a white-painted iron bench. Beside the bench lay, unmistakably, the body of a man. Brass buttons gleamed. A small body in a blue uniform.
  
  The policeman's throat had been slit, and the grass beneath him was stained black. The body was still warm. Not long ago. Killmaster tiptoed across the open lawn and around a grove of flowering trees until he saw a faint light in the distance. A small shrine.
  
  The light was very dim, dim, like a will-o'-the-wisp. He assumed it would be above the altar, and that it would be the only source of light. But it was unlikely to be light. And somewhere in the darkness, there could be another body. Nick ran faster.
  
  Two narrow paved paths converged at the entrance to a small shrine. Nick ran softly across the grass to the apex of the triangle formed by the paths. Here, dense bushes separated him from the altar door. Light, a streaky amber light, filtered through the door onto the sidewalk. No sound. No movement. AXEman felt a wave of nausea. He was too late. There was death in this small building. He had a feeling, and he knew it wasn't a lie.
  
  He made his way through the bushes, no longer bothered by the noise. Death had come and gone. The altar door was half open. He entered. They lay halfway between the door and the altar.
  
  
  Some of them moved and groaned as Nick entered.
  
  It was the two Japanese who had snatched him from the street. The short one was dead. The tall one was still alive. He was lying on his stomach, his glasses lying nearby, casting double reflections in the tiny lamp glowing above the altar.
  
  Believe me, Filston won't leave any witnesses. And yet, something went wrong. Nick flipped the tall Japanese man over and knelt beside him. The man had been shot twice, in the stomach and head, and he was simply dying. This meant Filston had used a silencer.
  
  Nick moved closer to the dying man. "Where's Filston?"
  
  The Japanese was a traitor, he had sold out to the Russians-or perhaps a lifelong communist and ultimately loyal to them-but he was dying in excruciating pain and had no idea who was interrogating him. Or why. But his fading brain heard the question and responded.
  
  "Go to... to the great shrine. Error - the Emperor is not here. Shift - he is - go to the great shrine. I..." He died.
  
  Killmaster ran out the door and took a left turn down the paved road. Maybe there's time. Christ Almighty-maybe there's still time!
  
  He didn't know what whim had prompted the Emperor to use the great shrine instead of the small one that night. Or perhaps it was concern. This gave him one last chance. It would also upset Filston, who worked according to a carefully planned schedule.
  
  This didn't upset the cold-blooded bastard enough to let him miss the chance to get rid of his two accomplices. Filston would now be alone. Alone with the Emperor, and everything was exactly as he had planned.
  
  Nick emerged onto a wide flagstone path bordered by peonies. Off to the side of the path was another pool, and beyond that, a long, barren garden with black rocks twisting like grotesques. The moon was brighter now, so bright that Nick saw the priest's body in time to leap over it. He caught a glimpse of his eyes, in his blood-stained brown robe. Filston was like that.
  
  Filston didn't see him. He was busy with his own business, pacing like a cat, about fifty yards from Nick. He wore a cape, the brown habit of a priest, and his shaved head reflected the moonlight. The son of a bitch had thought of everything.
  
  Killmaster moved closer to the wall, under the arcade that surrounded the shrine. There were benches here, and he dodged between them, keeping Filston in sight, keeping an equal distance between them. And I made a decision. Kill Filston or take him. This wasn't a contest. Kill him. Now. Get to him and kill him here and now. One shot will do it. Then get back to the Lincoln and get the hell out of there.
  
  Filston turned to the left and disappeared.
  
  Nick Carter suddenly picked up speed. He could still lose this battle. The thought felt like cold steel. After this man had killed the Emperor, there would be little pleasure in killing Filston.
  
  He came to his senses when he saw where Filston had turned. The man was now only thirty yards away, stealthily walking down a long corridor. He moved slowly and on tiptoe. At the end of the corridor was a single door. It would lead to one of the great shrines, and the Emperor would be there.
  
  A faint light emanated from the door at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against it by Filston. A good shot. Nick raised the Browning and carefully aimed at Filston's back. He didn't want to risk a headshot in the uncertain light, and he could always finish the man off later. He held the pistol at arm's length, took careful aim, and fired. The Browning clicked dully. Bad cartridge. The odds were a million to one, and the old, lifeless ammo was a big zero.
  
  Filston was at the door, and there was no more time. He couldn't reload his pistol in time with one hand. Nick ran.
  
  He was at the door. The room beyond was spacious. A single flame flared above the altar. Before it, a man sat cross-legged, head bowed, lost in his own thoughts, unaware that Death was stalking him.
  
  Filston still hadn't seen or heard Nick Carter. He was tiptoeing across the room, the pistol in his hand elongated and muffled by a silencer screwed onto the muzzle. Nick silently set the Browning down and took a hunting knife from his pocket. He would have given anything for that small stiletto. All he had was the hunting knife. And for about two seconds.
  
  Filston was already halfway across the room. If the man at the altar had heard anything, if he knew what was happening in the room with him, he gave no sign. His head was bowed, and he was breathing deeply.
  
  Filston raised his pistol.
  
  Nick Carter called softly, "Philston!"
  
  Filston turned gracefully. Surprise, anger, and fury mingled on his overly sensitive, feminine upper face. This time there was no mockery. His shaved head sparkled in the torchlight. His cobra eyes widened.
  
  "Fremont!" He fired.
  
  Nick stepped to the side, turned to present a narrow target, and threw the knife. He couldn't, couldn't wait any longer.
  
  The gun clanged across the stone floor. Filston stared at the knife in his heart. He looked at Nick, then back at the knife, and fell. In a dying reflex, his hand reached for the gun. Nick kicked it away.
  
  The small man in front of the altar rose. He stood for a moment, calmly looking from Nick Carter to the corpse on the floor. Filston wasn't bleeding heavily.
  
  Nick bowed. He spoke briefly. The man listened without interruption.
  
  The man wore only a light brown robe, loosely clinging to his slender waist. His hair was thick and dark, streaked with gray at the temples. He was barefoot. He had a neatly trimmed mustache.
  
  When Nick finished speaking, the little man pulled a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from his robe pocket and put them on. He looked at Nick for a moment, then at Richard Filston's body. Then, with a soft hiss, he turned to Nick and bowed deeply.
  
  "Arigato".
  
  Nick bowed very low. His back hurt, but he did it.
  
  "Make itashimashi."
  
  The Emperor said, "You may go as you propose. You are, of course, right. This must be kept secret. I think I can arrange it. You will leave everything to me, please."
  
  Nick bowed again. "Then I'll be going. We have very little time."
  
  "One moment, please," he said, taking a golden sunbeam, studded with precious stones, from around his neck and handing it to Nick on a gold chain.
  
  "Please accept this. I wish for it."
  
  Nick took the medal. The gold and jewels glittered in the dim light. "Thank you."
  
  Then he saw the camera and remembered that this man was a notorious shutter bug. The camera was lying on a small table in the corner of the room, and he must have brought it with him absentmindedly. Nick walked over to the table and picked it up. There was a flash drive in the socket.
  
  Nick bowed again. "May I use this? The recording, you understand. It's important."
  
  The little man bowed deeply. "Of course. But I suggest we hurry. I think I hear a plane now."
  
  It was a helicopter, but Nick didn't say so. He straddled Filston and took a photo of the dead face. One more time, just to be sure, then bowed again.
  
  "I'll have to leave the camera."
  
  "Of course. Itaskimashite. And now - sayonara!"
  
  "Sayonara!"
  
  They bowed to each other.
  
  He reached the Lincoln just as the first helicopter arrived and hovered above the ground. Its landing lights, streaks of blue-white light, smoked in the damp night air.
  
  Killmaster put the Lincoln into gear and began to pull out of the lane.
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  Hawk said at exactly nine o'clock on Friday morning.
  
  Nick Carter was two minutes late. He didn't feel bad about it. All things considered, he figured he deserved a few minutes' rest. He was here. Thanks to International Dateline.
  
  He was wearing one of his newer suits, a light spring flannel, and his right arm was in a cast almost to the elbow. The adhesive streaks formed a tic-tac-toe pattern on his thin face. He still limped noticeably when he entered the reception area. Delia Stokes was sitting at her typewriter.
  
  She looked him up and down and smiled brightly. "I'm so glad, Nick. We were a little worried."
  
  "I was a little worried myself for a while. Are they there?"
  
  "Yes. Since half the past - they've been waiting for you."
  
  "Hmm, do you know if Hawk said anything to them?"
  
  "He didn't do it. He's waiting for you. Only the three of us know at this point."
  
  Nick straightened his tie. "Thanks, dear. Remind me to buy you a drink after. A little celebration."
  
  Delia smiled. "You think you should be spending time with an older woman? After all, I'm not a Girl Scout anymore."
  
  "Stop it, Delia. One more crack like that and you'll blow me up."
  
  An impatient wheeze came over the intercom. "Delia! Let Nick in, please."
  
  Delia shook her head. "He has ears like a cat."
  
  "Built-in sonar." He entered the inner office.
  
  Hawk had a cigar in his mouth. The cellophane was still on it. This meant he was nervous and trying not to show it. He'd been talking to Hawk on the phone for a long time, and the old man had insisted on playing out this little scene. Nick didn't understand it, except that Hawk was trying to create some kind of dramatic effect. But to what end?
  
  Hawk introduced him to Cecil Aubrey and a man named Terence, a grim, lanky Scotsman who simply nodded and puffed on his obscene pipe.
  
  Extra chairs were brought in. When everyone was seated, Hawk said, "Okay, Cecil. Tell him what you want."
  
  Nick listened with growing amazement and bewilderment. Hawk avoided his gaze. What was the old devil up to?
  
  Cecil Aubrey quickly got over it. It turned out he wanted Nick to go to Japan and do what Nick had just been to Japan and done.
  
  At the end, Aubrey said, "Richard Philston is extremely dangerous. I suggest you kill him on the spot rather than try to capture him."
  
  Nick glanced at Hawk. The old man was looking innocently at the ceiling.
  
  Nick pulled a glossy photograph from his inside pocket.
  
  and handed it to the big Englishman. "Is this your man Filston?"
  
  Cecil Aubrey stared at the dead face, at the shaved head. His mouth fell open, and his jaw dropped.
  
  "Damn it! It looks like it - but without the hair it's a bit difficult - I'm not sure."
  
  The Scotsman came over to take a look. One quick glance. He patted his superior on the shoulder, then nodded to Hawk.
  
  "It's Philston. There's no doubt about it. I don't know how you did it, my friend, but congratulations."
  
  He added quietly to Aubrey, "It's Richard Filston, Cecil, and you know it."
  
  Cecil Aubrey placed the photograph on Hawk's desk. "Yes. It's Dick Filston. I've been waiting a long time for this."
  
  Hawk looked at Nick intently. "Everything will be fine for now, Nick. See you after lunch."
  
  Aubrey raised his hand. "But wait-I want to hear some details. It's amazing and..."
  
  "Later," Hawk said. "Later, Cecil, after we discuss our very private business."
  
  Aubrey frowned. He coughed. Then, "Oh, yeah. Of course, David. You have nothing to worry about. I keep my word." At the door, Nick glanced back. He'd never seen Hawk quite like this before. Suddenly, his boss looked like a sly old cat-a cat with cream smeared across his whiskers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  14 seconds of hell
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  
  
  
  
  14 seconds of hell
  
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  The man saw two girls at the bar glance at him as he walked down the hallway, glass in hand, onto a small terrace. The taller one was clearly Curacian: slender and noble-featured; the other was pure Chinese, petite and perfectly proportioned. Their undisguised interest made him grin. He was tall and moved with the ease and controlled strength of an athlete in excellent shape. As he reached the terrace, he looked out at the lights of the Hong Kong Crown Colony and Victoria Harbor. He felt the girls still watching him, and he smiled wryly. Too much was at stake, and time was short.
  
  
  Agent N3, Killmaster, AXE's top agent, felt uneasy in the damp, oppressive atmosphere of that Hong Kong evening. It wasn't just two girls at a bar, though he felt he needed a woman. It was the restlessness of a boxing champion on the eve of the toughest fight of his career.
  
  
  He scanned the harbor with his gray-blue eyes, watching the green-and-white ferries connecting Kowloon and Victoria maneuver deftly among the cargo ships, sampans, water taxis, and junks. Beyond the lights of Kowloon, he saw the red and white flashes of airplanes taking off from Kai Tak Airport. As the Communists expanded their power further south, few Western travelers used the Canton-Kowloon railway line. Now it was Kai Tak Airport, the only other way the crowded city connected with the Western world. In the three days he'd been there, he'd come to understand why this crowded, insanely overcrowded madhouse was often called the Manhattan of the Far East. You could find everything you wanted, and much you didn't. It was a vital industrial city and, at the same time, a vast dump. It buzzed and stank. It was irresistible and dangerous. "That name fits the bill," Nick thought, draining his glass and returning to the hall. The pianist played a languid melody. He ordered another drink and walked over to a comfortable dark green chair. The girls were still there. He sat down and rested his head against the backrest. As on the previous two evenings, the hall was beginning to fill. The room was dimly lit, with benches along the walls. Large coffee tables and comfortable armchairs were scattered here and there for guests who didn't have company.
  
  
  Nick closed his eyes and thought with a faint smile about the package he'd received from Hawk three days ago. The moment it arrived, he'd known something very unusual was about to happen. Hawk had come up with plenty of strange meeting places in the past-when he felt he was being closely watched, or when he wanted to ensure absolute secrecy-but this time he'd outdone himself. Nick almost laughed as he peeled off the cardboard packaging and discovered a pair of construction pants-his size, of course-a blue cotton shirt, a pale yellow helmet, and a gray lunchbox. The note that came with it simply said: Tuesday, 12 noon, 48 Park. Southeast corner.
  
  
  He felt rather incongruous when, clad in slacks, a blue shirt, a yellow helmet, and carrying a lunchbox, he arrived at the intersection of Forty-eighth Street and Park Avenue in Manhattan, where the framework of a new skyscraper had been erected in the southeast corner. It was swarming with construction workers in colorful helmets, resembling a flock of birds perched around a large tree. Then he saw a figure approaching, dressed like him as a laborer. His gait was unmistakable, his shoulders set confidently. The figure, shaking his head, invited Nick to sit next to him on a stack of wooden slats.
  
  
  "Hey, boss," Nick said mockingly. Very clever, I must admit.
  
  
  Hawk opened his lunchbox and pulled out a thick roast beef sandwich, which he chewed with relish. He looked at Nick.
  
  
  "I forgot to bring bread," Nick said. Hawk's gaze remained neutral, but Nick sensed disapproval in his voice.
  
  
  "We're supposed to be typical builders," Hawk said between bites. "I thought that was pretty clear."
  
  
  "Yes, sir," Nick replied. "I guess I didn't think it through enough."
  
  
  Hawk grabbed another piece of bread from the pan and handed it to Nick. "Peanut butter?" Nick said in horror. "There has to be a difference," Hawk replied sarcastically. "By the way, I hope you'll think about that next time."
  
  
  While Nick was eating his sandwich, Hawk began to talk, making no secret of the fact that he wasn't talking about the latest baseball game or the rising prices of new cars.
  
  
  "In Beijing," Hawk said cautiously, "they have a plan and a timetable. We've received reliable information about this. The plan calls for an attack on the United States and the entire free world with their arsenal of atomic bombs. The timetable is two years. Of course, first they'll commit nuclear blackmail. They're asking an insane amount. Beijing's thinking is simple. We're concerned about the consequences of a nuclear war for our people. As for the Chinese leaders, they'll be concerned. It would even solve their overpopulation problem. They think they can do it politically and technically in two years."
  
  
  "Two years," Nick muttered. "That's not that long, but a lot can happen in two years. The government could fall, a new revolution could happen, and in the meantime, new leaders with new ideas could come to power."
  
  
  "And that's exactly what Dr. Hu Tsang is afraid of," Hawk replied.
  
  
  "Who the hell is Doctor Hu Can?"
  
  
  "Their top scientist on atomic bombs and missiles. He's so valuable to the Chinese that he can practically work without supervision. He's China's Wernher von Braun. And that's putting it mildly. He controls everything they've done, primarily in this area. He probably has more power than the Chinese themselves realize. Furthermore, we have good reason to believe he's a maniac obsessed with hatred of the Western world. And he won't want to risk waiting two years."
  
  
  - You mean, if I understand correctly, that this guy, Hu Can, wants to launch the fireworks earlier. Do you know when?
  
  
  'Within two weeks.'
  
  
  Nick choked on the last piece of peanut butter bread.
  
  
  "You heard right," Hawk said, carefully folding the sandwich paper and placing it in the jar. "Two weeks, fourteen days. He won't wait for Beijing's schedule. He's not going to risk a changing international climate or any domestic issue that might disrupt the schedule. And the summit is N3, Beijing knows nothing about its plans. But it has the means. It has all the necessary equipment and raw materials.
  
  
  "I believe this is reliable information," Nick commented.
  
  
  "Absolutely reliable. We have an excellent informant there. Besides, the Russians know it too. Perhaps they got it from the same informant we're using. You know the ethics of this profession. By the way, they're as shocked as we are, and they've agreed to send an agent to work with the man we're sending. They apparently believe that cooperation is necessary in this case, even if it's a necessary evil for them. They even offered to send you. I really didn't want to tell you. You can get cocky."
  
  
  "Well, well," Nick chuckled. "I'm almost touched. So this idiotic helmet and this lunchbox aren't meant to fool our Moscow colleagues."
  
  
  "No," Hawk said seriously. "You know, there aren't many well-kept secrets in our business. The Chinese have detected something amiss, likely due to increased activity among both the Russians and our agents. But they can only suspect that the activity is directed against them. They don't know exactly what it is." "Why don't we simply inform Beijing of Hu Can's plans, or am I being naive?"
  
  
  "I'm naive too," Hawk said coldly. "First of all, they're eating out of his hand. They'll swallow any denial and any excuse immediately. Besides, they might think it's a plot on our part to discredit their top scientists and nuclear experts. Furthermore, we'll reveal how much we know about their long-term plans and how far our secret services have penetrated their system."
  
  
  "Then I'm as naive as a student," Nick said, throwing back his helmet. "But what do you expect from me-excuse me, but my Russian friend and I can do it in two weeks?"
  
  
  "We know the following facts," Hawk continued. "Somewhere in Kwantung Province, Hu Tsang has seven atomic bombs and seven missile launch sites. He also has a large laboratory and is likely hard at work developing new weapons. Your mission is to blow up these seven launch sites and missiles. Tomorrow, you are expected in Washington. Special Effects will provide you with the necessary equipment. In two days, you are to be in Hong Kong, where you will meet with a Russian agent. It seems they have someone very good in this field. Special Effects will also provide you with information on procedures in Hong Kong. Don't expect too much, but we have done everything possible to organize everything as best as possible in this short period of time. The Russians say that in this case, you will receive great support from their agent."
  
  
  "Thanks for the credit, boss," Nick said with a wry smile. "If I can complete this task, I'll need a vacation."
  
  
  "If you can do that," Hawk replied, "next time you'll be eating roast beef on bread."
  
  
  
  
  That's how they met that day, and now here he was, in a hotel in Hong Kong. He waited. He watched the people in the room-many of them he could barely see in the darkness-until suddenly his muscles tensed. The pianist played "In the Still of the Night." Nick waited until the song was over, then quietly approached the pianist, a short, Middle Eastern man, perhaps Korean.
  
  
  "That's very sweet," Nick said softly. "One of my favorite songs. Did you just play it or was that a request?"
  
  
  "It was that lady's request," the pianist replied, playing a few chords in between. Damn it! Nick winced. Perhaps it was one of those coincidences that just happen. And yet, he had to go into this. You never know when plans might suddenly change. He looked in the direction the pianist nodded and saw a girl in the shadow of one of the chairs. She was blonde and wearing a simple black dress with a low neckline. Nick approached her and saw that her firm breasts were barely contained by the dress. She had a small but determined face, and she looked at him with large blue eyes.
  
  
  "Very good number," he said. "Thank you for the question." He waited and, to his surprise, got the correct answer.
  
  
  "A lot can happen at night." She had a faint accent, and Nick could tell from the faint smile on her lips that she knew he was surprised. Nick sat down on the wide armrest.
  
  
  "Hello, N3," she said sweetly. "Welcome to Hong Kong. My name is Alexi Love. It seems we are destined to work together."
  
  
  "Hello," Nick chuckled. "Okay, I'll admit it. I'm surprised. I didn't think they'd send a woman to do this job."
  
  
  "Are you just surprised?" the girl asked with a feminine cunning in her gaze. "Or disappointed?"
  
  
  "I can't judge that yet," Killmaster commented laconically.
  
  
  "I won't disappoint you," Alexi Lyubov said curtly. She stood up and hitched up her dress. Nick looked her over from head to toe. She had broad shoulders and strong hips, full thighs and graceful legs. Her hips were slightly forward, something Nick always found difficult. He concluded that Alexi Lyubov was a good advertising ploy for Russia.
  
  
  She asked, "Where can we talk?"
  
  
  "Upstairs, in my room," Nick suggested. She shook her head. "That's probably a mistake. People usually do that to other people's rooms, hoping to catch something interesting."
  
  
  Nick didn't tell her he'd scanned the room from head to toe with electronic equipment for microprocessors. Incidentally, he hadn't been in his room for several hours. I was there, and by that time they could have installed new microphones again.
  
  
  "And they," Nick joked. "Or do you mean your people do it?" It was an attempt to lure her out of the tent. She looked at him with cold blue eyes.
  
  
  "They are Chinese," she said. "They are also monitoring our agents."
  
  
  "I suppose you're not one of those," Nick remarked. "No, I don't think so," the girl replied. "I have a great cover. I live in the Vai Chan area, studying Albanian art history for almost nine months. Come on, let's go to my place and talk. Anyway, there'll be a good view of the city."
  
  
  "Wai Chan District," Nick thought out loud. "Isn't that a slum?" He knew of this infamous colony, which consisted of shantytowns made from scrap lumber and broken oil drums placed on the roofs of other houses. About seventy thousand people lived there.
  
  
  "Yes," she replied. "That's why we're more successful than you, N3. You agents live here in Western houses or hotels, at least you don't crawl into shacks. They do their job, but they can never penetrate people's daily lives the way we can. We live among them, we share their problems and their lives. Our people aren't just agents, they're missionaries. That's the Soviet Union's tactic."
  
  
  Nick looked at her, narrowed his eyes, placed his finger under her chin, and lifted it. He noticed again that he actually had a very attractive face, with an upturned nose and a cheeky expression.
  
  
  "Look, my dear," he said. "If we're going to have to work together, you better quit this chauvinistic propaganda right now, right? You're sitting in this shack because you think it's a good cover and you don't have to pick on me anymore. You really don't need to try to sell me this ideological nonsense. I know better. You're not really here because you like those Chinese beggars, you're here because you have to. So let's not beat around the bush, okay?"
  
  
  For a moment, she frowned and pouted. Then she began to laugh heartily.
  
  
  "I think I like you, Nick Carter," she said, and he noticed her offer him her hand. "I've heard so much from you that I was prejudiced and perhaps a little scared. But it's all over now. Okay, Nick Carter, no propaganda from now on. It's a deal-I guess that's what you call it, isn't it?"
  
  
  Nick watched the happy, smiling girl walking hand in hand down Hennessy Street and thought they'd look like a loving couple taking an evening stroll through Elyria, Ohio. But they weren't in Ohio, and they weren't newlyweds wandering aimlessly. This was Hong Kong, and he was a well-trained, highly qualified senior agent who could make life-or-death decisions if he had to. And the innocent-looking girl was no different. At least, he hoped so. But sometimes he just had moments when he had to wonder what life would be like for this carefree guy with his girlfriend in Elyria, Ohio. They could make plans for life, while he and Alexi were making plans to face death. But hey, without Alexi and himself, these Ohio grooms couldn't have much of a future. Perhaps, in the distant future, it would be time for someone else to do the dirty work. But not yet. He pulled Alexi's hand towards him, and they walked on.
  
  
  Hong Kong's Wai Chan district overlooks Victoria Harbor like a landfill overlooks a beautiful, clear lake. Densely populated, filled with shops, houses, and street vendors, Wai Chan is Hong Kong at its worst and best. Alexi led Nick upstairs to a slanted building that would make any building in Harlem look like the Waldorf Astoria.
  
  
  When they reached the roof, Nick imagined himself in another world. Before him, thousands of shacks stretched from roof to roof, a literal sea of them. They were swarming and overflowing with people. Alexi approached one, about ten feet wide and four feet long, and opened the door. A pair of planks were nailed together and hung on wire.
  
  
  "Most of my neighbors still think it's luxurious," Alexi said as they walked in. "Usually six people share a room like this."
  
  
  Nick sat down on one of the two folding beds and looked around. A small stove and a dilapidated vanity filled almost the entire room. But despite its primitiveness, or perhaps because of it, the shack exuded a stupidity he hadn't considered possible.
  
  
  "Now," Alexi began, "I'm going to tell you what we know, and then you tell me what you think should be done. Okay?
  
  
  She shifted slightly, and part of her thigh was exposed. If she'd seen Nick looking at her, at least she didn't bother to hide it.
  
  
  "I know the following, N3. Dr. Hu Tsang has full power of attorney for the trade. That's why he was able to build these installations on his own. You could say he's something of a science general. He has his own security force, made up entirely of people who answer only to him. In Kwantung, somewhere north of Shilung, he has this complex with seven missiles and bombs. I heard you plan to storm there once we find the exact location, plant explosives or detonators on each launch pad, and detonate them. Frankly, I'm not optimistic, Nick Carter.
  
  
  "Are you scared?" Nick laughed.
  
  
  "No, at least not in the usual sense of the word. If so, I wouldn't have this job. But I guess even for you, Nick Carter, not everything is possible."
  
  
  'Maybe.' Nick looked at her with a smile, his eyes gripping hers tightly. She was very provocative, almost defiant, her breasts mostly exposed by the low slit of her black dress. He wondered if he could put her to the test, test his courage in another area. 'God, that would be good,' he thought.
  
  
  "You're not thinking about your work, N3," she said suddenly, a slight, sly smile on her lips.
  
  
  "So what are you thinking, what am I thinking?" Nick said with surprise in his voice.
  
  
  "What would it be like to sleep with me?" Alexi Lyubov replied calmly. Nick laughed.
  
  
  He asked, "Do they also teach you how to detect such physical phenomena?"
  
  
  "No, it was a purely feminine reaction," Alexi replied. "It was obvious in your eyes.
  
  
  "I would be disappointed if you denied it."
  
  
  With a momentary, deep-rooted determination, Nick responded with his lips. He kissed her long, languidly, passionately, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She didn't resist, and Nick decided to make the most of it right away. He pulled the hem of her dress aside, forcing her breasts out, and touched her nipples with his fingers. Nick felt them heavy. With one hand, he tore down the zipper of her dress, while with the other, he stroked her hard nipples. Now she let out a cry of sensation, but she wasn't one to be easily overcome. She began to playfully resist, which excited Nick even more. He grabbed her buttocks and pulled hard, causing her to fall sprawled on the bed. Then he pulled her dress lower until he saw her smooth stomach. When he began passionately kissing her between her breasts, she couldn't resist. Nick removed his black dress completely and began to undress with lightning speed. He tossed the clothes into the corner and lay down on them. She began to thrash wildly, her lower abdomen twitching. Nick thrust into her and began to fuck her, slowly and shallowly at first, which aroused her even more. Then he began to move rhythmically, faster and faster, his hands touching her torso. As he entered her deeply, she cried out, "I want it!" and "Yes... Yes." At the same time, she reached orgasm. Alexi opened her eyes and looked at him with a fiery gaze. "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "maybe everything is possible for you after all!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that he was dressed again, Nick looked at the sensual creature he had just made love to. She was now wearing an orange blouse and tight black pants.
  
  
  "I enjoy this exchange of information," he smiled. "But we mustn't forget about work."
  
  
  "We shouldn't have done this," Alexi said, running a hand over her face. "But it's been so long since I... And you have something, Nick Carter, that I couldn't help but say."
  
  
  "Do you regret it?" Nick asked softly.
  
  
  "No," Alexi laughed, tossing her blonde hair back. "It happened, and I'm glad it did. But you're right, we need to exchange other information, too. For starters, I'd like to know a little more about these explosives you want to blow up the launch pads with, where you've hidden them, and how they work."
  
  
  "Okay," Nick said. "But to do that, we need to go back to my room. By the way, first we'll need to check there for hidden listening devices."
  
  
  "It's a deal, Nick," Alexi said with a wide grin. "Come downstairs and give me five minutes to freshen up."
  
  
  When she finished, they went back to the hotel, where they thoroughly inspected the room. No new chips had been installed. Nick went to the bathroom and returned with a can of shaving cream. He carefully pressed down on something underneath and twisted something until part of the can came free. He repeated the process until seven disc-shaped metal cans lay on the table.
  
  
  "That one?" Alexi asked, surprised.
  
  
  "Yes, dear," Nick replied. "They're masterpieces of microtechnology, the very latest in the field. These tiny metal boxes are a fantastic combination of printed electronic circuits around a tiny nuclear power center. Here are seven tiny atomic bombs that, when detonated, destroy everything within a fifty-meter radius. They have two main advantages. They're clean, produce minimal radioactivity, and have maximum explosive power. And what little radioactivity they do produce is completely destroyed by the atmosphere. They can be installed underground; even then, they receive activation signals.
  
  
  Each of the bombs is capable of completely destroying the entire launch pad and rocket."
  
  
  How does ignition work?
  
  
  "A voice signal," Nick replied, attaching the individual parts of the aerosol. "My voice, to be precise," he added. "A combination of two words. By the way, did you know it also contains enough shaving cream to keep me shaved for a week? One thing I don't understand yet," the girl said. "This ignition works with a mechanism that converts vocal sound into electronic signals and sends these signals to the power unit. Where is this mechanism?"
  
  
  Nick smiled. He could have simply told her, but he simply preferred the theater. He took off his pants and tossed them on a chair. He did the same with his underwear. He saw Alexi looking at him with growing arousal. He grabbed her hand and placed it on her thigh, level with his hips.
  
  
  "It's a mechanism, Alexi," he said. "Most of the parts are plastic, but there are some metal ones. Our technicians embedded it in my skin." The girl frowned. "A very good idea, but not good enough," she said. "If you're caught, they'll know immediately with their modern investigative techniques."
  
  
  "No, they won't," Nick explained. "The mechanism is placed in that particular spot for a specific reason. There's also some shrapnel there, a reminder of one of my previous assignments. So they won't be able to separate the wheat from the chaff."
  
  
  A smile broke out on Alexi's beautiful face and she nodded admiringly. "Very impressive," she said. "Insanely thoughtful!"
  
  
  Nick made a mental note to pass the compliment on to Hawk. He always appreciated the encouragement of competition. But now he saw the girl looking down again. Her lips were parted, her chest rising and falling with her breathless breathing. Her hand, still resting on his thigh, trembled. Could the Russians have sent a nymphomaniac to work with him? He could well imagine they were capable of it; in fact, there had been cases known to him... But they always had a goal. And with this assignment, things were different. Perhaps, he thought to himself, she was simply super-sexual and responded spontaneously to sexual stimuli. He could understand that well; he himself often reacted instinctively like an animal. When the girl looked at him, he read almost despair in her gaze.
  
  
  He asked. "Do you want to do it again?" She shrugged. It didn"t mean indifference, but rather helpless surrender. Nick unbuttoned her orange blouse and pulled down her pants. He felt that magnificent body with his hands again. Now she showed no signs of resistance. She reluctantly let him go. She just wanted him to touch her, to take her. This time Nick prolonged the foreplay even longer, making the burning desire in Alexi"s eyes grow stronger and stronger. Finally, he took her wildly and passionately. There was something about this girl that he couldn"t control; she released all his animal instincts. When he entered her deeply, almost earlier than he wanted, she cried out with delight. "Alexi," Nick said softly. "If we survive this adventure, I will beg my government for increased American-Russian cooperation."
  
  
  She lay next to him, exhausted and sated, pressing one of her beautiful breasts against his chest. Then she shuddered and sat up. She smiled at Nick and began to dress. Nick watched her as she did so. She was beautiful enough to just look at, and the same could be said of very few girls.
  
  
  "Spokonoi nochi, Nick," she said, getting dressed. "I'll be there in the morning. We have to find a way to get to China. And we don't have much time."
  
  
  "We'll talk about this tomorrow, dear," Nick said, walking her out. "Goodbye."
  
  
  He watched her until she entered the elevator, then locked the door and fell into bed. There was nothing like a woman to relieve tension. It was late, and the noise of Hong Kong had faded to a low hum. Only the occasional dark hoot of a ferry rang through the night as Nick slept.
  
  
  He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when something woke him. Some warning mechanism had done its job. It wasn't something he could control, but a deeply ingrained alarm system that was always active and had now woken him. He didn't move, but he immediately realized he wasn't alone. The Luger lay on the floor next to his clothes; he just couldn't reach it. Hugo, his stiletto, he'd taken off before making love to Alexi. He'd been so careless. He immediately thought of Hawk's wise advice. He opened his eyes and saw his visitor, a small man. He cautiously walked around the room, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a flashlight. Nick thought he might as well intervene immediately; after all, the man was focused on the suitcase's contents. Nick leaped out of bed with a tremendous burst of force. As the intruder turned, he only had time to withstand Nick's powerful blow. He hit the wall. Nick swung a second time at the face he saw was Oriental, but the man dropped to his knees in defense. Nick missed and cursed his recklessness. He had good reason for it, because his attacker, seeing he was facing an opponent twice his size, slammed the flashlight hard into Nick's big toe. Nick lifted his foot in intense pain, and the little man flew past him toward the open window and the balcony beyond. Nick quickly spun and caught the man, slamming him into the window frame. Despite being relatively light and small, the man fought with the fury of a cornered cat.
  
  
  As Nick's head hit the floor, his opponent dared to raise his hand and grab a lamp sitting on a small table. He smashed it against Nick's temple, and Nick felt blood flow as the little man broke free.
  
  
  The man ran back to the balcony and had already swung his leg over the edge when Nick grabbed him by the throat and dragged him back into the room. He writhed like an eel and managed to break free from Nick's grasp again. But this time Nick grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, pulled him toward him, and slapped him hard across the jaw. The man flew backwards, as if thrown onto Cape Kennedy, hitting the railing with the base of his spine and toppling over the edge. Nick heard his screams of terror until they suddenly stopped.
  
  
  Nick pulled on his pants, cleaned the wound on his temple, and waited. It was clear which room the man had broken into, and indeed, the police and the hotel owner arrived a few minutes later to inquire. Nick described the little man's visit and thanked the police for their prompt arrival. He casually asked if they had identified the intruder.
  
  
  "He didn't bring anything with him that would tell us who he was," one of the police officers said. "Probably a common robber."
  
  
  They left, and Nick lit one of the few long filter cigarettes he'd brought with him. Perhaps this man was just a petty second-rate thief, but what if he wasn't? That could only mean two things. Either he was an agent from Beijing, or a member of Hu Can's special security service. Nick hoped it was the Beijing agent. That would fall under the usual precautions . But if it was one of Hu Can's men, it would mean he was anxious, and his task would be more difficult, if not nearly impossible. He placed Wilhelmina's Luger under the blanket next to him and clipped the stiletto to his forearm.
  
  
  A minute later he fell asleep again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick had just bathed and shaved when Alexi showed up the next morning. She saw the scar on his temple, and he told her what had happened. She listened carefully, and Nick could see the same thoughts running through her head: was it a common burglar or not? Then, as he stood before her, his naked body-he wasn't yet dressed-reflecting the sunlight, he saw the expression in her eyes change. Now she was thinking about something else. Nick felt good that morning, more than good. He had slept well, and his body tingled with urgency. He looked at Alexi, read her mind, grabbed her, and held her close. He felt her hands on his chest. They were soft and trembling slightly.
  
  
  He chuckled. "Do you often do this in the morning?" "It's the best time, did you know that?"
  
  
  "Nick, please..." Alex said. She tried to push him away. "Please... please, Nick, no!"
  
  
  "What is it?" he asked innocently. "Is something bothering you this morning?" He pulled her even closer. He knew the warmth of his naked body would reach her, arouse her. He had only intended to tease her, to show that she was not as in control as she had pretended to be at the beginning of their encounter. When he released her, she did not retreat, but pressed herself tightly against him. Nick, seeing the burning desire in her eyes, embraced her again and pulled her even closer. He began kissing her neck.
  
  
  "No, Nick," Alexi whispered. "There you go." But her words were nothing more than that-empty, meaningless words-as her hands began to touch his naked body, and her body spoke its own language. Like a child, he carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. There they began to make love, the morning sun warming their bodies through the open window. When they finished and lay side by side on the bed, Nick saw a silent accusation in her eyes that almost touched him.
  
  
  "I'm so sorry, Alexi," he said. "I really didn't mean to go that far. I just wanted to tease you a little this morning, but I think things got out of hand. Don't be angry. It was, as you say, very good... very good, wasn't it?"
  
  
  "Yes," she replied, laughing. "It was very good, Nick, and I'm not angry, just disappointed in myself. I'm lying, a highly trained agent who should be able to withstand every possible test. With you, I lose all my willpower. It's very disconcerting."
  
  
  "This is the kind of confusion I love, dear," Nick said with a laugh. They stood up and dressed quickly. "What exactly are your plans for entering China, Nick?" Alexi asked.
  
  
  "AX arranged for us to take a boat trip. The Canton to Kowloon railway will be the fastest, but it's also the first route they'll be keeping a close eye on."
  
  
  "But we've been informed," Alexi replied, "that the coastline on both sides of Hong Kong is heavily guarded by Chinese patrol boats for at least a hundred kilometers. Don't you think they'll spot the boat right away? If they catch us, there's no escape."
  
  
  "It's possible, but we're going like Tankas."
  
  
  "Ah, tankas," Alexi thought out loud. "Hong Kong boatmen."
  
  
  'Exactly. Hundreds of thousands of people live exclusively on junks. As is well known, they are a distinct tribe. For centuries, they were forbidden to settle on land, marry landowners, or participate in civil government. Although some restrictions have been relaxed, they still live as individuals, seeking support from one another. Harbor patrols rarely harass them. A tanka (junk) sailing along the shore attracts little attention.'
  
  
  "That seems good enough to me," the girl replied. "Where shall we go ashore?"
  
  
  Nick walked over to one of his suitcases, grabbed the metal clasp, and quickly tugged it back and forth six times until it loosened. From the tube-shaped opening at the bottom, he pulled out a detailed map of Kwantung Province.
  
  
  "Here," he said, unfolding the map. "We'll take the junk as far as we can, up the Hu Canal, past Gumenchai. Then we can walk overland until we reach the railway. According to my information, Hu Can's complex is somewhere north of Shilung. Once we reach the railway from Kowloon to Canton, we can find a way."
  
  
  'How so?'
  
  
  "If we're right, and Hu Can's headquarters really is somewhere north of Shilong, I swear he won't go to Canton to pick up his food and equipment. I bet he'll stop the train somewhere in this area and pick up the ordered goods.
  
  
  "Maybe N3," Alexi said thoughtfully. "That would be good. We have a contact, a farmer, just below Taijiao. We could take a sampan or a raft there."
  
  
  "Wonderful," Nick said. He replaced the card, turned to Alexi, and gave her a friendly pat on her small, firm bottom. "Let's go see our Tankas family," he said.
  
  
  "See you at the harbor," the girl replied. "I haven't sent my report to my superiors yet. Give me ten minutes."
  
  
  "Okay, honey," Nick agreed. "Most of them can be found at the Yau Ma Tai Typhoon Shelter. We'll meet there." Nick walked to the small balcony and looked out at the noisy traffic below. He saw Alexi's lemon-yellow shirt as she exited the hotel and began crossing the street. But he also saw a parked black Mercedes, the kind commonly used as a taxi in Hong Kong. His brows drew together as he saw two men quickly exit and flag Alexi down. Although they were both dressed in Western clothing, they were Chinese. They asked the girl something. She began searching through her bag, and Nick saw her pull out what looked like a passport. Nick cursed loudly. This was not the time to arrest her and possibly detain her at the police station. Perhaps it was a routine search, but Nick wasn't convinced. He swung over the edge of the balcony and grabbed a drainpipe running along the side of the building. It was the fastest way out.
  
  
  His feet were barely touching the sidewalk when he saw one of the men grab Alexi by the elbow and force her toward the Mercedes. She shook her head angrily, then allowed herself to be led away. He began to run across the street, slowing momentarily to avoid an old woman carrying a heavy load of clay pots.
  
  
  They approached the car, and one of the men opened the door. As he did, Nick saw Alexi's hand fly out. With perfect precision, she connected with the palm of her hand on the man's throat. He fell as if decapitated by an axe. With the same movement, she drove her elbow into the stomach of her other assailant. As he cringed, gurgling, she poked him in the eyes with two outstretched fingers. She cut off his cry of pain with a karate chop to the ear and ran before he hit the cobblestones. At Nick's signal, she stopped in an alley.
  
  
  "Nicky," she said softly, her eyes wide. "You wanted to come and save me. How sweet of you!" She hugged him and kissed him.
  
  
  Nick realized she was making fun of his little secret. "Okay," he laughed, "great job. I'm glad you can take care of yourself. I'd hate for you to spend hours at the police station trying to figure this out."
  
  
  "My idea," she replied. "But honestly, Nick, I'm a little worried. I don't believe they were who they pretended to be. Detectives here do more passport checks on foreigners, but this was too startling. As I was leaving, I saw them get out of the car. They must have grabbed me and no one else."
  
  
  "That means we're being watched," Nick said. "They could be regular Chinese agents, or Hu Can's guys. Either way, we'll have to act fast now. Your cover is blown, too. I was originally planning to leave tomorrow, but I think we'd better set sail tonight."
  
  
  "I still need to deliver this report," Alexi said. "See you in ten minutes."
  
  
  Nick watched her as she quickly ran away. She had proven her worth. His initial reservations about having to work with a woman in this situation quickly vanished.
  
  
  
  
  The Yau Ma Tai Typhoon Shelter is a huge dome with wide gates on both sides. The embankments resemble a mother's outstretched arms, protecting hundreds upon hundreds of aquatic inhabitants. Nick surveyed the jumble of junks, water taxis, sampans, and floating shops. The junk he was looking for had three fish on its stern for identification. It was the Lu Shi family's junk.
  
  
  AX had already made all the arrangements for payment. All Nick had to do was speak the password and give the voyage order. He had just begun inspecting the sterns of the nearby junks when Alexi approached. It was labor-intensive work, as many of the junks were wedged between the sampans, their sterns barely visible from the quay. Alexi spotted the junk first. It had a blue hull and a battered orange bow. Three fish were painted exactly in the center of the stern.
  
  
  As they approached, Nick looked at its occupants. A man was mending a fishing net. A woman sat in the stern with two boys, about fourteen years old. An old, bearded patriarch sat quietly in a chair, smoking a pipe. Nick saw a family altar of red gold opposite the canvas-covered center of the junk. An altar is an integral part of every Tankas Jonk. A stick of incense burned next to it, emitting a sharp, sweet aroma. The woman was cooking fish on a small clay brazier, beneath which a charcoal fire glowed. The man put down the fishing net as they climbed the gangway to the boat.
  
  
  Nick bowed and asked, "Is this the Lu Shi family's boat?"
  
  
  The man at the stern replied, "This is the Lu Shi family's boat," he said.
  
  
  Lu Shi's family was blessed twice that day, Nick said.
  
  
  The man's eyes and face remained blank as he replied softly, "Why did you say that?"
  
  
  "Because they help and get help," Nick replied.
  
  
  "Then they are doubly blessed indeed," the man replied. "Welcome aboard. We've been expecting you."
  
  
  "Is everyone on board now?" Nick asked. "Everyone," Lu Shi replied. "As soon as we deliver you to your destination, we'll be instructed to immediately proceed to the safehouse. Furthermore, if we were detained, it would arouse suspicion unless there were a woman and children on board. Tanks always take their family with them wherever they go."
  
  
  "What will happen to us if we're arrested?" Alexi asked. Lu Shi beckoned them both to a closed section of the junk hull, where he opened a hatch leading to a small hold. There was a pile of reed mats there.
  
  
  "Transporting these mats is part of our lives," Lu Shi said. "You can hide under a pile in case of danger. They're heavy, but loose, so air can pass through them easily." Nick looked around. Two boys sat by the brazier, eating fish. The old grandfather was still sitting in his chair. Only the smoke coming from his pipe indicated that this wasn't a Chinese sculpture.
  
  
  "Will you be able to set sail today?" Nick asked. "It's possible," Lu Shi nodded. "But most junks don't make long trips at night. We're not experienced sailors, but if we follow the coastline, we'll be fine."
  
  
  "We would have preferred to sail during the day," Nick said, "but plans have changed. We'll be back at sunset.
  
  
  Nick led Alexi down the gangplank, and they departed. He glanced back at the junk. Lu Shi had sat down with the boys to eat. The old man still sat, statue-like, at the stern. The smoke from his pipe slowly spiraled upward. In keeping with traditional Chinese reverence for the elderly, they were undoubtedly bringing him food. Nick knew Lu Shi was acting out of self-interest.
  
  
  AXE undoubtedly guaranteed a good future for him and his family. Nevertheless, he admired the man who had the imagination and courage to risk his life for a better future. Perhaps Alexie was thinking the same thing at the time, or perhaps she had other ideas. They returned to the hotel in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  When they entered the hotel room, Alexi screamed.
  
  
  "What is this?" she exclaimed. "What is this?" Nick answered her question. "This, my dear, is the room that needs some redecorating."
  
  
  It was a good thing, because the room was a complete wreck. Every piece of furniture had been turned upside down, the tables had been overturned, and the contents of every suitcase were scattered across the floor. The upholstery on the seats had been cut. In the bedroom, the mattress was on the floor. It, too, had been ripped open. Nick ran to the bathroom. The aerosol shaving cream was still there, but there was thick foam on the sink.
  
  
  "They wanted to know if it was really shaving cream," Nick laughed bitterly. "Thank goodness they got to that point. Now I'm sure of one thing."
  
  
  "I know," Alexi said. "This isn't the work of professional people. It's terribly sloppy! Even Beijing's agents have become better because we trained them. If they suspected you were a spy, they wouldn't have searched so hard in all the obvious places. They should have known better."
  
  
  "That's right," Nick said grimly. "That means Hu Tsang learned something and sent his men there."
  
  
  "How could he know that?" Alexi thought out loud.
  
  
  "Maybe he got our informant. Or he accidentally overheard something from another informant. In any case, he can't know more than that: AH sent a man. But he'll be very vigilant, and that won't make things any easier for us."
  
  
  "I'm glad we're leaving tonight," Alexi said. "We have three hours left," Nick said. "I think it's best to wait here. You can stay here too, if you'd like. Then we can pick up any things you want to take with you on the way to the boat."
  
  
  "No, I better leave now and meet you later. I have a few things I want to destroy before we go. Only, I thought, we might still have time to...
  
  
  She didn't finish the sentence, but her eyes, which she quickly turned away, spoke a language of their own.
  
  
  "Time for what?" asked Nick, who already knew the answer. But Alexi turned away.
  
  
  "No, nothing," she said. "It wasn't such a good idea."
  
  
  He grabbed her and turned her around roughly.
  
  
  "Tell me," he asked. "What wasn't such a good idea? Or should I give the answer?"
  
  
  He pressed his lips roughly and forcefully against hers. Her body pressed against his for a moment, then she pulled away. Her eyes searched his.
  
  
  "Suddenly I thought this might be the last time we..."
  
  
  "...maybe make love?" he finished her sentence. Of course, she was right. From now on, they were unlikely to find the time and place for that. His fingers, pulling up her blouse, finally answered her. He carried her to the mattress on the floor, and it was like the previous day, when her wild resistance gave way to the silent, powerful purpose of her desire. How different she was from how she had been a few hours earlier that morning! Finally, when they were finished, he looked at her with admiration. He began to wonder if he had finally found a girl whose sexual prowess could rival, or even surpass, his own.
  
  
  "You're a curious girl, Alexi Love," Nick said, standing up. Alexi looked at him and again noticed the sly, enigmatic smile. He frowned. He again had the vague feeling that she was laughing at him, that she was hiding something from him. He looked at his watch. "Time to go," he said.
  
  
  He fished a jumpsuit out of the clothes scattered on the floor and put it on. It looked ordinary, but it was completely waterproof and braided with hair-thin wires that could turn it into a sort of electric blanket. He didn't think he'd need it, as it was hot and humid. Alexi, who was also dressed, watched as he placed aerosol shaving cream and a razor in a small leather pouch he attached to the belt of his jumpsuit. He inspected the Wilhelmina, his Luger, strapped Hugo and his stiletto to his arm with leather straps, and placed a small pack of explosives in the leather pouch.
  
  
  "You've suddenly become so different, Nick Carter," he heard the girl say.
  
  
  'What are you talking about?' he asked.
  
  
  "About you," Alexi said. "It's like you've suddenly become a different person. You suddenly radiate something strange. I suddenly noticed it."
  
  
  Nick took a deep breath and smiled at her. He knew what she meant, and that she was right. Naturally. It was always like that. He no longer realized it. It happened to him on every mission. There always came a time when Nick Carter had to give way to Agent N3, who took matters into his own hands. Killmaster, driven to achieve his goal, straightforward, undistracted, specializing in death. Every action, every thought, every movement, no matter how reminiscent they were of his previous behavior, was entirely in service of the ultimate goal: to fulfill his mission. If he felt tenderness, it had to be tenderness that did not conflict with his mission. When he felt pity, pity facilitated his work. All his normal human emotions were discarded unless they align with his plans. It was an internal change that entailed heightened physical and mental vigilance.
  
  
  "Maybe you're right," he said soothingly. "But we can bring up old Nick Carter whenever we want. OK? Now you better go too."
  
  
  "Come on," she said, straightening up and kissing him lightly.
  
  
  "Did you deliver that report this morning?" he asked as she stood in the doorway.
  
  
  "What?" the girl said. She looked at Nick, momentarily confused, but quickly recovered. "Oh, that's... yeah, that's taken care of."
  
  
  Nick watched her go and frowned. Something had gone wrong! Her answer wasn't entirely satisfactory, and he was more cautious than ever. His muscles tensed, and his brain was working at full capacity. Could this girl have led him astray? When they met, she'd given him the correct code, but that didn't rule out other possibilities. Even if she really was the contact she pretended to be, any good enemy agent would be capable of that. Maybe she was a double agent. One thing he was sure of: the answer she'd stumbled over was more than enough to alarm him at this point. Before he went ahead with the operation, he needed to be sure.
  
  
  Nick ran down the stairs just fast enough to see her walking down Hennessy Street. He quickly walked down a small street parallel to Hennessy Street and waited for her where the two streets ended in the Wai Chan district. He waited for her to enter a building, then followed her. When he reached the roof, he just saw her enter a small shack. He carefully crawled to the rickety door and swung it open. The girl turned around with lightning speed, and Nick at first thought she was standing in front of a full-length mirror she'd bought somewhere. But when the reflection began to move, his breath caught in his throat.
  
  
  Nick swore. "Damn it, there are two of you!"
  
  
  The two girls looked at each other and started giggling. One of them walked over and put her hands on his shoulders.
  
  
  "I'm Alexi, Nick," she said. "This is my twin sister, Anya. We're identical twins, but you figured that out yourself, didn't you?"
  
  
  Nick shook his head. That explained a lot. "I don't know what to say," Nick said, his eyes shining. God, they really were indistinguishable.
  
  
  "We should have told you," Alexi said. Anya was now standing next to her, looking at Nick. "That's true," she agreed, "but we thought it would be interesting to see if you could figure it out on your own. No one has ever managed it before. We've worked together on a lot of missions, but no one ever guessed there were two of us. If you want to know how to tell us apart, I have a mole behind my right ear."
  
  
  "Okay, you had your fun," Nick said. "When you're done with that joke, there's work ahead."
  
  
  Nick watched them pack their things. Like him, they'd taken only the bare essentials. Watching them, these two monuments of feminine beauty, he wondered exactly how much they had in common. It occurred to him that he'd actually enjoyed the joke one hundred percent. "And darling," he said to Anya, "I know one more way I'll recognize you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  At dusk, the Yau Ma Tai Typhoon shelter's waterfront looked even more cluttered than usual. In the dim light, the sampans and junks seemed huddled together, and the masts and spars stood out more clearly, like a barren forest rising from the water. As dusk quickly settled over the waterfront, Nick glanced at the twins beside him. He watched them tuck their small Beretta pistols into shoulder holsters, easily concealed under their loose blouses. The way each of them fastened a small leather pouch to their belts, containing a razor-sharp blade and space for other essentials, gave him a sense of comfort. He was convinced they could take care of themselves.
  
  
  "There it is," Alexi said as the blue hull of the Lu Shi family's junk came into view. "Look, the old man's still sitting in his stern seat. I wonder if he'll still be there when we set sail."
  
  
  Suddenly Nick stopped and touched Alexi's hand. She looked at him questioningly.
  
  
  "Wait," he said softly, narrowing his eyes. "Anya asked.
  
  
  "I'm not quite sure," Nick said, "but something's wrong."
  
  
  "How can this be?" Anya insisted. "I don't see anyone else on board. Only Lu Shi, two boys and an old man."
  
  
  "The old man is indeed sitting," Nick replied. "But you can't see the others clearly from here. Something doesn't suit me. Listen, Alexi, you're moving forward. Walk up the pier until you reach the junk's level and pretend to look at us for a bit.
  
  
  "What should we do?" Anya asked.
  
  
  "Come with me," Nick said, quickly climbing one of the hundreds of walkways leading from the dock to the moored boats. At the end of the ramp, he slipped quietly into the water and gestured for Anya to do the same. They swam carefully alongside water taxis, sampans, and junks. The water was dirty, sticky, littered with debris and oil. They swam silently, careful not to be seen, until the blue hull of the Lu Shi junk appeared before them. Nick gestured for Anya to wait and swam to the stern to look at the old man sitting on the seat.
  
  
  The man's eyes stared straight ahead, a dull, unseeing glint of death. Nick saw a thin rope wrapped around his frail chest, holding the corpse upright in the chair.
  
  
  As he swam toward Anya, she didn't have to ask him what he'd learned. His eyes, shining a bright blue, reflected a deadly promise and already gave her the answer.
  
  
  Anya walked around the boat and swam to the railing. Nick nodded at a round, canvas-covered piece of junk. There was a loose cloth at the back. They tiptoed toward it together, carefully testing each board to avoid making a sound. Nick carefully lifted the cloth and saw two men waiting tensely. Their faces were turned toward the bow, where three other men dressed as Lu Shi and two boys were also waiting. Nick saw Anya pull a thin piece of wire from under her blouse, which she now held in a semicircle. He intended to use Hugo, but he found a round iron rod on the deck and decided that would work.
  
  
  He glanced at Anya, nodded briefly, and they burst in simultaneously. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched the girl move with the lightning-fast, confident demeanor of a well-trained fighting machine as he slammed the iron rod into his target with devastating force. He heard the gurgle of Anya's victim. The man fell, dying. But alerted by the sound of the metal grating, the three men on the foredeck turned. Nick responded to their attack with a flying tackle that knocked down the largest of them and scattered the other two. He felt two hands on the back of his head, which just as suddenly released. A cry of pain behind him told him why. "That girl was damn good," he chuckled to himself, rolling to avoid the blow. The tall man, jumping to his feet, lunged awkwardly at Nick and missed. Nick slammed his head into the deck and hit him hard in the throat. He heard something crunch, and his head fell limply to the side. As his hand rose, he heard a heavy slam of a body hitting the wooden planks next to him. This was their last enemy, and he lay like a rag.
  
  
  Nick saw Alexi standing next to Anya. "As soon as I saw what happened, I jumped on board," she said dryly. Nick stood up. The old man's figure still sat motionless on the quarterdeck, a silent witness to the dirty work.
  
  
  "How did you know that, Nick?" Alexi asked. "How did you know something was wrong?"
  
  "The old man," Nick replied. "He was there, but closer astern than he was this afternoon, and, best of all, there was no smoke coming from his pipe. That's the only thing I noticed about him this afternoon, that puff of smoke from his pipe. It was just his usual behavior.
  
  
  "What should we do now?" Anya asked.
  
  
  "We'll put these three in the hold and leave the old man where he is," Nick said. "If these guys don't report back, they'll soon send someone to check. If he sees the old man, the bait, still there, he'll think all three are covered and keep an eye on it for a while. That'll buy us another hour and we can use him."
  
  
  "But we can't carry out our original plan now," Anya said, helping Nick drag the tall man into the hold. "They must have tortured Lu Shi and know exactly where we're headed. If they discover we've left here, they'll certainly be waiting for us in Gumenchai."
  
  
  "We just won't get there, dear. An alternative plan has been devised in case something goes wrong. It will require a longer route to the Canton-Kowloon railway line, but there's nothing we can do about that. We'll sail to the other side, to Taya Wan, and disembark just below Nimshana."
  
  
  Nick knew AX would assume he was pursuing an alternative plan if Lu Shi didn't show up at Hu's channel. They could also tell that things hadn't gone as planned. He felt a grim glee in the knowledge that this, too, would give Hawk a few sleepless nights. Nick also knew Hu Can would become restless, and that wouldn't make their job any easier. His eyes darted toward the jungle of masts.
  
  
  "We need to get another junk, and fast," he said, looking at the large junk in the middle of the bay. "Just like this one," he thought out loud. "Perfect!"
  
  
  "Big?" Alexi asked incredulously when she saw the junk, a large, freshly painted longboat decorated with dragon motifs. "It's twice as big as the others, maybe even bigger!"
  
  
  "We can handle it," Nick said. "Besides, it'll go faster. But the biggest advantage is that it's not a Tanka junk. And if they're looking for us, the first thing they'll do is keep an eye on Tanka junks. This is a Fuzhou junk from Fu-Kien Province, just where we're going. They usually carry barrels of wood and oil. You don't notice a boat like that when you're sailing north along the coast." Nick walked to the edge of the deck and slid into the water. "Come on," he urged the girls. "This isn't a family junk. They have a crew, and no doubt they don't have one on board. At best, they left a guard.
  
  
  Now the girls also descended into the water and swam together to the large boat. When they reached it, Nick led the way in a wide circle. There was only one man on board, a fat, bald Chinese sailor. He sat by the mast next to the small wheelhouse, seemingly asleep. A rope ladder dangled from one side of the junk-another sign that the crew was undoubtedly ashore. Nick swam toward it, but Anya reached him first and pulled herself up. By the time Nick swung one leg over the railing, Anya was already on deck, crawling, half-bent, toward the guard.
  
  
  When she was six feet away, the man came to life with a deafening scream, and Nick saw he was holding a long-handled axe, hidden between his thick body and the mast. Anya dropped to one knee as the weapon arced past her head.
  
  
  She lunged forward like a tigress, grabbing the man's arms before he could strike again. She slammed her head into his stomach, sending him crashing to the bottom of the mast. At the same time, she heard a whistle, followed by a muffled thud, and the man's body relaxed in her grip. Squeezing his arms tightly, she glanced sideways and saw the hilt of a stiletto between the sailor's eyes. Nick stood beside her and drew the blade as she shuddered and retreated.
  
  
  "That was too close," she complained. "A split inch down and you would have sent that thing into my brain."
  
  
  Nick answered impassively. "Well, there are two of you, aren't there?" He saw the fire in her eyes and the quick movement of her shoulders as she began to hit him. Then she thought she saw a hint of irony in those steel-blue eyes, and she walked away pouting. Nick laughed behind his fist. She would never know whether he meant it or not. "Let's hurry," he said. "I want to be over Nimshaan before dark." They quickly raised three sails and were soon out of Victoria Harbor and rounding Tung Lung Island. Alexi found dry clothes for each of them and hung their wet clothes in the wind to dry. Nick explained to the girls how to plot their course by the stars, and they each took turns at the helm for two hours while the rest slept in the cabin.
  
  
  It was four o'clock in the morning, and Nick was at the helm when a patrol boat appeared. Nick heard it first, the roar of powerful engines echoing across the water. Then he saw flashing lights in the darkness, becoming increasingly visible as the ship approached. It was a dark, overcast night, and there was no moon, but he knew the dark hull of the enormous junk would not go unnoticed. He remained hunched over the wheel and held his course. As the patrol boat approached, a powerful searchlight lit up, illuminating the junk. The boat circled the junk once, then the searchlight went out, and the boat continued on its way. Anya and Alexi immediately found themselves on deck.
  
  
  "It was just routine work," Nick told them. "But I have such a bad feeling they're coming back."
  
  
  "Hu Can's people must have already figured out that we're not trapped," Anya said.
  
  
  "Yes, and the crew of this boat must have already contacted the port police. And as soon as Hu Can's men learn of this, they'll radio every patrol boat in the area. It could take hours, but it could also be just a few minutes. We just need to prepare for the worst. We might soon be forced to abandon this floating palace. A seaworthy vessel like this usually has a raft or a lifeboat. See if you can find anything."
  
  
  A minute later, a shout from the forecastle told Nick they'd found something. "Untie him and lower him over the rail," he shouted back. "Find the oars. And bring our clothes up." When they returned, Nick secured the wheel and quickly changed. He looked at Alexi and Anya and was again struck by the perfect symmetry of their figures, the same way they put on pants and a blouse. But then he turned his attention to the sea. He was grateful for the cloud cover that blocked out most of the moonlight. It made navigation difficult, but he could always focus on the faintly visible shoreline. The tide would carry them toward shore. This was advantageous. If they were forced onto the raft, the tide would wash them ashore. Alexi and Anya were talking quietly on deck when Nick suddenly extended his hand. His ears had been waiting for this sound for half an hour, and now he heard it. At his signal, the twins fell silent.
  
  
  "Patrol boat," Anya said.
  
  
  "Full power," Nick added. "They'll be able to see us in five or six minutes. One of you should take the helm, and the other should steer the raft overboard. I'm going below. I saw two fifty-liter drums of oil down there. I don't want to leave without leaving a surprise for our pursuers."
  
  
  He ran to the two oil barrels attached to the starboard side. From his leather pouch, he poured white explosive powder onto one of the barrels.
  
  
  "Five minutes to us," Nick thought out loud. One minute left to approach him and enter. They would be careful and take their time. One more minute. Half a minute to conclude that there was no one on board, and another half a minute to report to the captain of the patrol boat and decide what to do next. Let's see, that's five, six, seven, seven and a half, eight minutes. He pulled a strand of rattan from the floor of the junk, measured it with his eyes for a second, and then broke off a piece. He lit one end with a lighter, tested it, then pointed the makeshift fuse at the explosive powder on the oil drum. "This should do it," he said grimly, "half a minute, I reckon."
  
  
  Alexi and Anya were already on the raft when Nick jumped on. They could see the patrol boat's searchlight searching the water for the shadow of the Fuzhou junk in the darkness. Nick took the oar from Anya and began frantically rowing toward shore. He knew they had no chance of reaching shore before the patrol boat spotted the junk, but he wanted to put as much distance between them and the junk as possible. The outline of the patrol boat was now clearly visible, and Nick watched as it turned and heard the sound of its engines dying as they spotted the junk. The searchlight cast a bright light on the junk's deck. Nick put down his oar.
  
  
  "Get down and don't move!" he hissed. He rested his head on his arm so he could watch the patrol boat's actions without turning. He watched as the patrol boat approached the junk. Voices were clear; first measured orders directed at the junk's crew, then brief instructions to the patrol boat's crew, then, after a moment of silence, shouts of excitement. Then it happened. A meter-high flame and an explosion aboard the junk, followed almost immediately by a series of explosions as ammunition on the deck and, a little later, in the patrol boat's engine room, was thrown into the air. The trio on the raft had to shield their heads from the flying debris of the two vessels. When Nick looked up again, the junk and the patrol boat seemed glued together, the only sound the hiss of the flames hitting the water. He grabbed the oar again and began to row toward shore in the orange glow that illuminated the area. They approached the dark shoreline when, with the hiss of escaping steam, the flames died down and calm returned.
  
  
  Nick felt the raft scrape against the sand and splashed ankle-deep into the water. From the semicircle of hills formed by the dawn light, he concluded they were in the right place: Taya Wan, a small bay just below Nimsha. Not bad, considering the difficulties. They pulled the raft into the thicket fifty yards from shore, and Nick tried to recall the map and instructions he'd been given at AXE headquarters. This had to be Taya Wan. This rolling terrain lay at the foot of the Kai Lung Mountains, which stretched north. That meant heading south, where the Canton-Kowloon railway ran. The terrain would be very similar to Ohio, hilly, without high mountains.
  
  
  Anya and Aleksi had documents proving they were Albanian art history students, and judging by the fake passport Nick had, he was a journalist for a British newspaper with leftist sympathies. But these false documents weren't an absolute guarantee of their safety. They might convince the local police, but their real enemies wouldn't be fooled. They'd better hope they weren't arrested at all. Time was running out. Precious hours and days had already passed, and they'd need another day to reach the railway.
  
  
  "If we can find good cover," Nick told the twins, "we'll move on during the day. Otherwise, we'll have to sleep during the day and travel at night. Let's go and hope for the best."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick walked with the quick, fluid stride he'd developed while learning the techniques of sprinting and jogging. Looking back, he saw that the two girls were quite capable of matching his pace.
  
  
  The sun was rapidly growing hotter and hotter, becoming a heavy burden. Nick felt his pace slow, but he kept going. The landscape grew increasingly hilly and rugged. Looking back, he saw that Alexei and Anya were struggling to climb the hills, though they didn't show it. He decided to take a break: "They still had quite a distance to go, and it made sense to arrive at their destination exhausted." He stopped in a small valley where the grass was tall and thick. Without a word, but with gratitude in their eyes, the twins sank into the soft grass. Nick looked around, surveyed the area around the valley, then lay down next to them.
  
  
  "Now you should relax," he said. "You'll see that the longer you do this, the easier it becomes. Your muscles should get used to it."
  
  
  "Uh-huh," Anya gasped. It didn't seem convincing. Nick closed his eyes and set his built-in alarm for twenty minutes. The grass moved slowly in a light breeze, and the sun illuminated them. Nick didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but he knew less than twenty minutes had passed when he suddenly woke. It wasn't his built-in alarm, but a sixth sense of danger that had awakened him. He sat up immediately and saw a small figure about six feet away, watching them with interest. Nick guessed it was a boy between ten and thirteen years old. When Nick stood up, the boy started running.
  
  
  'Damn it!' Nick cursed and jumped to his feet.
  
  
  "Child!" he called to the two girls. "Hurry, spread out! He can't escape."
  
  
  They started looking for him, but it was too late. The boy had disappeared.
  
  
  "That kid has to be here somewhere, and we have to find him," Nick hissed furiously. "He has to be on the other side of that ridge."
  
  
  Nick sprinted over the ridge and looked around. His eyes scanned the undergrowth and trees for any sign of shifting leaves or other sudden movement, but he saw nothing. Where had this child come from, and where had he disappeared so suddenly? This little devil knew the area, that was for sure, or he would never have escaped so quickly. Alexi reached the left side of the ridge and was almost out of sight when Nick heard her soft whistle. She curled up on the ridge as Nick approached her and pointed to a small farmhouse next to a large Chinese elm. Behind the house was a large pigsty with a herd of small brown pigs.
  
  
  "It has to be like this," Nick growled. "Let's do it."
  
  
  "Wait," Anya said. "He saw us, so what? He was probably as shocked as we were. Why don't we just move on?"
  
  
  "Not at all," Nick replied, narrowing his eyes. "In this country, everyone is a potential snitch. If he tells the local authorities he saw three strangers, the kid will probably get as much money as his father makes on that farm in a year."
  
  
  "Are you all that paranoid in the West?" Anya asked, a little irritated. "Isn't it a bit of an exaggeration to call a child 12 or younger a snitch? And besides, what would an American child do if he saw three Chinese men suspiciously hanging around the Pentagon? Now you've really gone too far!"
  
  
  "Let's put politics aside for now," Nick commented. "This child could jeopardize our mission and our lives, and I can't let that happen. Millions of lives are at stake!"
  
  
  Without waiting for further comment, Nick ran to the farm. He heard Anya and Alexi following him. Without further ado, he burst into the house and found himself in a large room that served as a living room, bedroom, and kitchen all at once. There was only one woman, looking at him blankly, her eyes expressionless.
  
  
  "Watch her," Nick barked at the two girls as he rushed past the woman and searched the rest of the house. The small rooms leading to the main room were empty, but one of them had an outside door, through which Nick glimpsed the barn. A minute later, he returned to the living room, pushing the sullen boy ahead of him.
  
  
  "Who else lives here?" he asked in Cantonese.
  
  
  "Nobody," the child snapped. Nick gave him a thumbs up.
  
  
  "You're a bit of a liar," he said. "I saw men's clothes in the other room. Answer me, or you'll get another blow!"
  
  
  'Let him go.'
  
  
  The woman began to speak. Nick let go of the child.
  
  
  "My husband lives here too," she said.
  
  
  "Where is he?" Nick asked sharply.
  
  
  "Don't tell him," the boy shouted.
  
  
  Nick pulled his hair, and the child cried out in pain. Anya doubted it. "He's gone," the woman answered timidly. "To the village."
  
  
  "When?" Nick asked, letting go of the child again.
  
  
  "A few minutes ago," she said.
  
  
  "The boy told you he saw us, and your husband went to report it, didn't he?" Nick said.
  
  
  "He's a good man," the woman said. "The child goes to a public school. They tell him he has to report everything he sees. My husband didn't want to go, but the boy threatened to tell his teachers."
  
  
  "A model child," Nick commented. He didn't quite believe the woman. The part about the child might be true, but he had no doubt this woman wouldn't mind a small tip either. "How far is the village?" he asked.
  
  
  "Three kilometers down the road."
  
  
  "Watch them," Nick said to Alexi and Anya, please.
  
  
  Two miles, Nick thought as he raced down the road. Enough time to catch up with the man. He had no idea he was being followed, so he took his time. The road was dusty, and Nick felt it filling his lungs. He ran along the shoulder. It was a little slower, but he wanted to keep his lungs clear for what he needed to do. He saw a farmer passing a small rise, about five hundred yards ahead of him. The man turned when he heard footsteps behind him, and Nick saw that he was heavily built and broad-shouldered. And, more importantly, he had a large, razor-sharp scythe.
  
  
  The farmer approached Nick with his scythe raised. Using his limited knowledge of Cantonese, Nick attempted to communicate with the man. He managed to convey that he wanted to talk and meant no harm. But the farmer's impassive, flat face remained unmoved as he continued to walk forward. It soon became clear to Nick that the man was only thinking about the reward he would receive if he turned one of the strangers over to the authorities, dead or alive. Now the farmer ran forward with astonishing speed, letting his scythe whistle through the air. Nick jumped back, but the scythe narrowly missed his shoulder. With cat-like speed, he dodged. The man stubbornly advanced, forcing Nick to retreat. He didn't dare use his Luger. God only knew what would happen if a shot rang out. The scythe whistled through the air again, this time the razor-sharp blade striking Nick in the face, millimeters away. The farmer now mowed incessantly with the terrifying weapon, as if he were mowing grass, and Nick was forced to abandon his retreat. The weapon's length prevented him from lunging. Looking back, Nick realized he would be driven into the undergrowth at the side of the road, where he would become easy prey. He had to find a way to interrupt the relentless swings of the scythe and duck beneath it.
  
  
  Suddenly, he dropped to one knee and grabbed a handful of loose dust from the road. As the man stepped forward, Nick threw dust into his eyes. For a moment, the farmer closed his eyes, and the scythe's movement stopped. That was all Nick needed. He ducked under the sharp blade like a panther, grabbed the man by the knees, and yanked him back. The scythe fell to the ground, and now Nick was on him. The man was strong, with muscles like ropes from years of hard work in the fields, but without the scythe, he was nothing more than the big, strong men Nick had defeated dozens of times in his life. The man fought hard and managed to rise, but then Nick hit him with a right that sent him spinning three times. Nick thought the farmer had already left, and relaxed when he was surprised to see the man shaking his head wildly, straightening up on one shoulder, and grabbing the scythe again. "He was too stubborn," Nick thought. Before the man could stand, Nick kicked the scythe handle with his right foot. The metal blade rose and fell like a snapped mousetrap. Only now there was no mouse, only the farmer's neck and the scythe embedded in it. For a moment, the man made a few muffled gurgling sounds, then it was over. "It was for the best," Nick thought, hiding the lifeless body in the undergrowth. He had to kill him anyway. He turned and walked back to the farm.
  
  
  Alexi and Anya tied the woman's hands behind her back and bound the boy's hands and feet. When he entered, they asked no questions, only the woman glanced at him questioningly as his broad figure filled the doorway.
  
  
  "We can't let them do this again," he said evenly.
  
  
  "Nick!" It was Alexi, but he saw the same thoughts reflected in Anya's eyes. They looked from the boy to Nick, and he knew exactly what they were thinking. At least save the boy's life. He was just a child. A hundred million lives depended on the success of their mission, and this little one had almost ruined their chances. Their maternal instincts surfaced . Damned maternal heart, Nick cursed himself. He knew it was impossible to completely rid any woman of it, but this was the right situation to face. He, too, had no interest in this woman or the child to help. He would rather have kept this farmer alive. It was all the fault of a single idiot who wanted to wipe the Western world off the face of the earth. And there were such idiots in his own country, Nick knew that all too well. The vile fanatics who united poor, hardworking scoundrels with a handful of delusional ideologues in Beijing and the Kremlin. They were the real culprits. These sick careerists and dogmatists, not just here but also in Washington and the Pentagon. This farmer had become Hu Can's victim. His death could have saved the lives of millions more. Nick had to think about it. He hated the dirty side of his job, but he saw no other solution. But this woman and this child... Nick's mind searched for a solution. If he could find them, he would let them live.
  
  
  He called the girls to him and asked them to ask their mother a few questions. Then he grabbed the boy and carried him outside. He held the child up so he could look him straight in the eye and spoke to him in a tone that left no room for doubt.
  
  
  "Your mother answers the same questions as you," he told the boy. "If your answers are different from your mother's, you will both die in two minutes. Do you understand me?"
  
  
  The boy nodded, his gaze no longer sullen. There was only fear in his eyes. During school politics hour, he must have been told the same nonsense about Americans that some American teachers tell about Russians and Chinese. They would have told the child that all Americans were weak and degenerate creatures. The boy would have something to say to the teachers about this cold-blooded giant when he returned to school.
  
  
  "Listen carefully, only the truth can save you," Nick snapped. "Who's going to visit you here?"
  
  
  "A seller from the village," the boy answered.
  
  
  'When will it be?'
  
  
  "In three days to buy pigs."
  
  
  "Is there anyone else who can come earlier? Your friends or something?
  
  
  "No, my friends won't come until Saturday. I swear."
  
  
  "And your parents' friends?"
  
  
  "They will arrive on Sunday."
  
  
  Nick put the boy on the ground and led him into the house. Anya and Alexey were waiting.
  
  
  "The woman says there's only one customer coming," Alexi said. "A market vendor from the village."
  
  
  'When?'
  
  
  'For three days. On Saturday and Sunday, the boy's friends and guests are expected. And the house has a basement.'
  
  
  So the answers matched. Nick thought for a moment, then decided. "Okay," he said. "We just have to take a chance. Tie them tightly and gag them. We'll lock them in the basement. In three days, they won't be able to harm us anymore. Even if they're found in just a week, they'll be hungry at most."
  
  
  Nick watched as the girls carried out his orders. Sometimes he hated his profession.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick was angry and worried. They'd had a lot of failures so far. Not as much as he'd liked, and he wondered how much longer they could go on like this. Was it a bad omen-all these setbacks and near-breakthroughs? He wasn't superstitious, but he'd seen more than one operation where things were going from bad to worse. Not that it could get any worse. How could it get any worse when the situation was already impossible? But one thing worried him most. Not only were they far behind schedule, but what couldn't happen if Hu Can got nervous? By now, he must have realized something was wrong. But imagine if he decided to go ahead with his plan? His missiles were ready to launch. If he wanted, the free world had only minutes to add to its history. Nick walked faster. It was all he could do, except hope he'd arrive on time. In his race against time through the wooded terrain, he almost reached the road before he realized it. At the very last moment, he ducked behind some bushes. Ahead of him, near a low building, was a column of Chinese army trucks. The building was some kind of supply station; soldiers were coming and going, carrying flat, pancake-like objects. "Probably dried bean cakes," Nick thought. Each truck had two soldiers, a driver and a navigator. They were probably following the soldiers, or they had simply been sent somewhere. The first vehicles had already begun to pull away.
  
  
  "That last car," Nick whispered. "By the time it gets going, the other trucks will already be around the bend over that hill. It's a bit tricky, but it might work. Besides, we don't have much time to be too careful."
  
  
  The two girls nodded, their eyes shining. "They were inspired by danger," Nick thought. But not only because of that, he thought immediately afterwards with a wry smile. Nothing will come of it for now. The roar of engines drowned out all sound as the last trucks drove away. The last one was already idling when two soldiers emerged from the building, hands full of dried flatbread. Nick and Alexi struck silently from the undergrowth. The men would never be able to tell what struck them. Anya entered the building to see if anyone else was there.
  
  
  That wasn't the case, and she got out again, laden with dried flatbread. Nick rolled the bodies of the two soldiers into the back of the truck. Anya sat in the back to make sure they weren't overtaken, and Alexi climbed into the driver's cab next to Nick.
  
  
  "How long are we going to stay in the column?" Alexi asked, biting into one of the flatbreads Anya had given them through the hatch.
  
  
  "So far they're going in the right direction for us. If they do this for long enough, we'll be lucky.
  
  
  For most of the day, the column continued to move south. At midday, Nick saw a sign: "Tintongwai." This meant they were only a few miles from the railway. Suddenly, at a fork in the road, the column turned right and headed north.
  
  
  "We have to get out," Nick said. Nick looked ahead and saw that the road climbed steeply, then descended steeply again. In the valley was a narrow lake.
  
  
  "Here!" Nick said. "I'm going to slow down. When I say so, you guys need to jump out. Attention... Okay, now!" As the girls jumped out of the car, Nick turned the wheel to the right, waited until he felt the front wheels go over the embankment, and then jumped out of the truck. As the splash of the truck hitting the water echoed through the hills, the convoy stopped. But Nick and the twins ran, jumped a narrow ditch, and were soon out of sight. They were resting near a low hill.
  
  
  "It would have taken us two days to get here," Nick said. "We've bought ourselves some time, but let's not waste it with inattention. I suspect the railroad is on the other side of the hill. A freight train runs twice a day: in the morning and early in the evening. If our calculations are correct, the train will stop somewhere nearby to resupply Hu Zan's men."
  
  
  They crawled to the edge of the hill, and Nick couldn't help but feel a sense of relief and satisfaction at the double row of gleaming rails. They descended the hill to a rocky outcrop that served as excellent cover and a lookout point.
  
  
  They'd barely taken cover when they heard the roar of engines. Three motorcyclists raced down the hilly road and stopped in a cloud of dust. They wore uniforms resembling the standard Chinese army shirts, but in a different color: blue-gray trousers and off-white shirts. An orange rocket motif was emblazoned on their uniform jackets and motorcycle helmets. "Hu Can's special forces," Nick guessed. His lips tightened as he watched them dismount, pull out metal detectors, and begin scanning the road for explosives.
  
  
  "Ehto mne nie nrahvista," he heard Anya Alexi whisper.
  
  
  "I don't like that either," he agreed. "It means Hu Can is confident I've outsmarted his men. He wouldn't want to take any chances. I imagine they'll be ready very soon and will take measures to prevent sabotage."
  
  
  Nick felt his palms get wet and wiped them on his pants. It wasn't the tension of the moment, but the thought of what lay ahead. As usual, he saw more than a casual observer could already see; he considered the possible dangers that lay ahead. The motorcyclists were a sign that Hu Zan was being very cautious. This meant Nick had lost one of his strengths in the game-the element of surprise. He also considered that further events might force him to turn his back on one of his excellent assistants-no, or perhaps both. If it proved necessary, he knew what his decision must be. They could be lost. He himself could be missed. The survival of an ignorant world depended on this unpleasant fact.
  
  
  By the time the motorcyclists finished their inspection, it was already dark. Two of them began setting torches along the road, while the third spoke into the radio. In the distance, Nick heard the sound of engines starting, and a few minutes later, six trucks with M9T trailers appeared. They turned around and stopped near the railroad tracks. As their engines died, Nick heard another noise break the silence of the night. It was the heavy sound of a locomotive slowly approaching. As Nick approached, in the dim light of the flares, Nick saw that the locomotive was a Chinese version of the large 2-10-2 Sante Fe.
  
  
  The enormous machine stopped, sending up huge clouds of dust that took on strange, misty shapes in the flickering torchlight. Crates, cardboard boxes, and sacks were now being quickly transferred to waiting trucks. Nick noticed flour, rice, beans, and vegetables. The truck closest to the train was filled with beef and pork, followed by bundles of lard. Hu Can's elite soldiers were clearly eating well. Beijing might be struggling most in finding a solution to the massive food shortage, but the elite of the People's Government always had plenty of food. If Nick succeeded in his plans, he could still contribute to the solution by reducing the population a bit. He simply couldn't stay to receive thanks. Hu Can's men worked quickly and efficiently, and the entire operation lasted no more than fifteen minutes. The locomotive pulled up, the trucks began to turn around and drive away, and the signal lights were removed. Motorcyclists began escorting the trucks. Anya poked Nick in the side.
  
  
  "We have knives," she whispered. "We may not be as skilled as you, Nick, but we're pretty smart. Any one of us could kill one of those passing motorcyclists. Then we could use their bikes!"
  
  
  Nick frowned. "Of course they should report when they return," he said. "What do you think will happen if they don't show up? Are you trying to send Hu Tsang a telegram telling him we're hiding in his backyard?"
  
  
  He saw the flush on Anya's cheeks, despite the darkness. He hadn't meant to be so harsh. She had been a valuable assistant, but now he discovered in her, too, that gap in training so obvious in every communist agent. They excelled when it came to action and self-control. They had courage and persistence. But even short-term prudence hadn't served them well. He patted her shoulder encouragingly.
  
  
  "Come on, we all make mistakes sometimes," he said softly. "We'll follow in their footsteps."
  
  
  The tracks from the heavy truck tires were clearly visible on the uneven, dusty road. They also encountered almost no intersections or forks in the road. They moved briskly, taking as few breaks as possible. Nick estimated that they averaged about six miles per hour, a very good speed. By four o'clock in the morning, when they had covered about 40 miles, Nick began to slow down. His legs, no matter how muscular and toned, were beginning to tire, and he saw the tired faces of Alexi and Anya. But he also slowed down because of another, more important fact. That omnipresent, hypersensitive sense that was part of Agent N3 was beginning to send out signals. If Nick's calculations were correct, they should be approaching Hu Can's domain, and now he examined the tracks with the concentration of a bloodhound following a scent. Suddenly, he stopped and dropped to one knee. Alexi and Anya collapsed on the floor next to him.
  
  
  "My legs," Alexi gasped. "I can't take it anymore, I can't walk for much longer, Nick."
  
  
  "That won't be necessary either," he said, pointing down the road. The tracks suddenly stopped. They had clearly been destroyed.
  
  
  "What does that mean?" Alex asked. "They can't just disappear."
  
  
  "No," Nick replied, "but they stopped here and covered their tracks." That could only mean one thing. There had to be a checkpoint around here somewhere! Nick walked to the edge of the road and dropped to the ground, gesturing for the girls to do the same. Decimeter by decimeter, he crawled forward, his eyes scanning the trees on either side of the road for the object he was looking for. Finally, he saw it. Two small trees, directly opposite each other. His gaze slid along the trunk of the nearest one until he spotted a small, round metal device about three feet tall. On the opposite tree was a similar object at the same height. Alexi and Anya now saw the electronic eye, too. As he approached the tree, he saw a thin thread extending into its base. There was no longer any doubt. This was the outer defensive belt of the Hu Can region.
  
  
  The electronic eye was good, better than armed guards, who could be detected and possibly overwhelmed. Anyone who entered the road and was out of schedule set off the alarm. They could pass through the electric eye unhindered and penetrate further into the area, but there were undoubtedly more checkpoints further on and, ultimately, armed guards or perhaps patrols. Besides, the sun would soon rise, and they would have to find shelter for the day.
  
  
  They couldn't continue on their way and retreated into the forest. The forest was heavily overgrown, and Nick was glad for that. This meant they weren't going to move quickly, but on the other hand, it gave them good cover. When they finally reached the top of a steep hill, they saw Hu Can's complex ahead in the dim light of dawn.
  
  
  Situated on a plain surrounded by low hills, at first glance it looked like a giant football field. Only this football field was surrounded by double rows of barbed wire. In the center, sunken into the ground, the launch pads were clearly visible. From where they hid in the undergrowth, they could see the slender, pointed heads of the missiles, seven deadly nuclear arrows that could change the balance of power in the world with a single blow. Nick, lying in the undergrowth, surveyed the area in the rising light. The launch pads were, of course, concrete, but he noticed that the concrete walls were nowhere more than twenty meters long. If he could bury the bombs along the edges, that would be enough. However, the distance between the launch pads was at least a hundred meters, meaning he would need a lot of time and luck to place the explosives. And Nick wasn't counting on that much time and luck. Of the various plans he had considered, he had managed to write off most of them. The longer he studied the area, the more clearly he realized this unpleasant fact.
  
  
  He thought he could burst into the camp in the middle of the night, perhaps in a borrowed uniform, and use the detonators. But he'd better forget about that. Three armed soldiers stood at each launcher, not to mention the guard posts at the barbed wire.
  
  
  On the other side of the site was a wide wooden main entrance, and directly below it was a smaller opening in the barbed wire. A soldier stood guard at the opening, about three feet wide. But he wasn't the problem; the problem was security within the fence. Opposite the launch pad, to the right, was a long wooden building, likely housing security personnel. On the same side were several concrete and stone buildings with antennas, radars, meteorological measuring equipment, and transmitters on the roof. This must be headquarters. One of the first rays of sunlight reflected sharply, and Nick looked across the street at the hills opposite them on the other side of the cordoned-off area. At the top of the hill stood a large house with a large spherical window that ran the entire length of the facade, reflecting the sunlight. The lower part of the house looked like a modern villa, but the second floor and the roof were built in the pagoda style typical of traditional Chinese architecture. "Probably, the whole complex could be seen from this house, and that's why they put it there," Nick thought.
  
  
  Nick mentally processed every detail. Like a sensitive film, his brain recorded each detail piece by piece: the number of entrances, the soldiers' positions, the distance from the barbed wire to the first row of launchers, and a hundred other details. The entire setup of the complex was obvious and logical to Nick. Except for one thing. Flat metal disks in the ground were visible along the entire length of the barbed wire. They formed a ring around the entire complex, spaced about two meters apart. Alexi and Anya also couldn't identify these strange objects.
  
  
  "I've never seen anything like it," Anya said to Nick. "What do you think about it?"
  
  
  "I don't know," Nick replied. "They don't look like they're sticking out, and they're metal."
  
  
  "It could be anything," Alexi noted. "It could be a drainage system. Or maybe there's an underground part we can't see, and those are the tops of the metal poles."
  
  
  "Yes, there are many options, but I've noticed at least one thing," Nick said. "Nobody walks on them. Everyone stays away from them. That's enough for us. We'll have to do the same."
  
  
  "Maybe they're an alarm?" Anya suggested. "Maybe they'll sound an alarm if you step on them."
  
  
  Nick admitted it was possible, but something made him feel it wasn't that simple. In any case, they should avoid things like plagues.
  
  
  They couldn't do anything before dark, and all three needed sleep. Nick was also worried about the picture window of the house across the street. Although he knew they were invisible in the dense undergrowth, he had a strong suspicion that the ridge was being closely watched from the house through binoculars. They carefully crawled back down the slope. They had to find a place where they could sleep peacefully. Halfway up the hill, Nick found a small cave with a small opening, just large enough for one person to pass through. When they entered, the shelter turned out to be quite spacious. It was damp and smelled of animal urine, but it was safe. He was sure Alexi and Anya were too tired to worry about discomfort, and thankfully, it was still cool. Once inside, the girls immediately separated. Nick stretched out on his back, his hands behind his head.
  
  
  To his surprise, he suddenly felt two heads on his chest and two soft, warm bodies against his ribs. Alexi crossed one leg over his, and Anya buried herself in the hollow of his shoulder. Anya fell asleep almost instantly. Nick sensed that Alexi was still awake.
  
  
  "Tell me, Nick?" she murmured sleepily.
  
  
  "What should I tell you?"
  
  
  "What's life like in Greenwich Village?" he asked dreamily. "What's it like to live in America? Are there a lot of girls? A lot of dancing?
  
  
  He was still pondering his answer when he saw she had fallen asleep. He pulled the two girls into his arms. Their chests felt like a warm, soft blanket. He chuckled at the thought of what might have happened if they hadn't been so tired. But tomorrow was going to be difficult. He'd have to make a lot of decisions, and none of them would be very pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick was the first to wake. Hours earlier, when his sensitive ears had picked up the sounds of a patrol in the distance, he, too, had woken. He'd lain still and fallen asleep again when the sounds faded. But now he stretched, and the twins, too, lifted their heads above his chest.
  
  
  "Good morning," said Nick, although it was already well past noon.
  
  
  "Good morning," Alexi replied, shaking her short blonde hair like a wet dog shaking off water after a swim.
  
  
  "I'm going outside to take a look," Nick said. "If you don't hear anything in five minutes, come on over too."
  
  
  Nick climbed out through the narrow opening, struggling to adjust his eyes to the bright daylight. He heard only the sounds of the forest and stood up. They could be on the ridge until late tonight.
  
  
  Only now did Nick notice how beautiful the forest truly was. He looked at the honeysuckle, the beautiful red hibiscus flowers, and the trail of golden forsythia cutting through the lush undergrowth. "What a contrast," Nick thought. "This quiet, idyllic place, and on the other side of the hill, seven deadly weapons, ready to destroy the lives of millions."
  
  
  He heard the sound of running water and found a small stream behind the cave. He decided to wash and shave in the cool water. He always felt much better after shaving. He undressed and bathed in the icy water. Just as he was finishing his shave, he spotted Anya and Alexi, who were cautiously moving through the bushes looking for him. He waved to them, and they rushed toward him with suppressed squeals of relief. They immediately followed suit, as Nick examined their naked bodies as they bathed in the water. He lay stretched out on the grass, enjoying their pure, innocent beauty. He wondered what they would do if he did what he was most comfortable doing right now. He suspected they would take advantage of it.
  
  
  But he also knew he wouldn't do it without considering the important decisions he'd have to make ahead. They didn't talk about this moment or what it might mean for them, and there was no need. They knew he wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice them if necessary. That's why he'd been assigned this mission.
  
  
  Nick stopped looking at the girls and focused his thoughts on what lay ahead. He recalled the landscape he'd so carefully studied just a few hours ago. He felt a growing certainty that all the plans he'd hoped to use in this situation were utterly useless. He'd have to improvise again. Damn it, there wasn't even a decent stone wall around the compound. If there had been, they could at least have approached undetected. He considered sending Anya and Alexi into captivity. Later, he'd consider invading the compound himself, gambled that Hu Zan would be less cautious. But now that he saw the situation on the ground, the sentries at each launch pad, he realized that wouldn't help him much. The problem was far more complex. First, they had to reach the barbed wire fence. Then they had to get over that fence, and then it would take them quite a while to bury the bombs. Now that each launcher was controlled separately, there was only one option left: they had to distract all the soldiers at once.
  
  
  Anya and Alexey dried themselves off, got dressed, and sat down with him. Without a word, they watched the sun disappear behind the hill. It was time to act. Nick began to carefully crawl up the hill, thinking of the house with the large picture window on the other side. At the top, they surveyed the base, which had transformed into a vast panorama of activity. Technicians, mechanics, and soldiers were everywhere. Two missiles were being examined.
  
  
  Nick had hoped to find something that would make their job easier. But there was nothing, nothing at all. This was going to be hard, damn hard even. "Damn it!" he cursed out loud. The girls looked up in surprise. "I wish I knew what those damned round disks were for." No matter how long he stared at them, their smooth, polished surfaces gave nothing away. As Anya had noted, they could indeed be part of an alarm system. But there was still something that bothered him, very much. But they would just have to accept this uncertainty and try to stay away from these things, he decided.
  
  
  "We'll have to distract them," Nick said. "One of you needs to get to the other side of the installations and attract their attention. That's our only chance to get inside and our only chance to plant the bombs. We need to distract them long enough to do our job."
  
  
  "I'll go," they said simultaneously. But Anya was a step ahead. Nick didn't have to repeat what all three already knew. Whoever drew attention to themselves was certain of death. Or at least, certain to be caught, which would only mean a stay of execution. He and Alexi would have a chance to escape if all went well. He looked at Anya. Her face was blank, and she returned his gaze with a cold, indifferent expression. He cursed under his breath and wished there had been another way. But there wasn't.
  
  
  "I have some explosive powder you can use," he told her. "Combined with your Beretta, it should have the desired effect."
  
  
  "I can make more fireworks," she replied with a smile. "I have something that will bother them."
  
  
  She pulled up her blouse and looped a leather belt around her waist. She pulled out a box of small, round pellets. Red and white. Each pellet had a tiny pin sticking out of it. If it weren't for that, Nick would have sworn they were tranquilizers or headache pills. Those were the things.
  
  
  "Each of these pellets is equivalent to two hand grenades," Anya said. "The pin is the ignition. They work on roughly the same principle as a hand grenade, but they're made from compressed transuranic elements. You see, Nick Carter, we've got a few other good microchemistry toys, too."
  
  
  "I'm glad about that, believe me," Nick smiled. "From now on, we'll be acting individually. When this is all over, we'll gather here. I hope all three of us will be there."
  
  
  Anya stood up. "It will take me about an hour to get to the other side," she said. "It will be dark by then."
  
  
  The twins exchanged glances, hugged each other briefly, then Anya turned and left.
  
  
  
  "Good luck, Anya," Nick called softly after her. "Thank you, Nick Carter," she replied without looking back.
  
  
  Nick and Alexi watched her until she was swallowed by the foliage, then settled down in the thicket. Nick pointed to a small wooden gate in the fence. Inside was a wooden warehouse. A lone soldier stood guard at the entrance.
  
  
  "Our first target is him," Nick said. "We'll defeat him, then we'll enter the gate and wait for Anya's fireworks."
  
  
  Darkness fell quickly, and Nick began to carefully descend the hill toward the gate. Fortunately, the hill was completely overgrown, and when they reached the bottom, the guard was only five meters away. Nick already had the stiletto in his palm, and the cold, unfeeling metal calmed him, reminding him that he should now be nothing more than a human extension of the blade.
  
  
  Luckily, the soldier had his rifle in a case so it wouldn't fall to the ground with a clatter. Nick didn't want to alarm the camp prematurely. He held the stiletto loosely in his hand, trying not to strain himself too much. He would have to hit the soldier on the first try. If he missed this opportunity, his entire plan would go up in smoke right there on the spot. The soldier walked to the right of the wooden gate, stopped just in front of the wooden post, turned, walked to the other side, and stopped to make his turn again. Then the stiletto flew into the air. It pierced the soldier's throat and pinned him against the wooden gate.
  
  
  Nick and Alexi were at his side in less than half a second. Nick pulled out his stiletto and forced the man to the floor, while the girl reached for her rifle.
  
  
  "Put on your coat and helmet," Nick said curtly. "It'll help you blend in. Bring your rifle, too. And remember, stay away from those damned round discs."
  
  
  Alexi was ready when Nick hid the body in the bushes. She was already standing on the other side of the fence, in the shadow of the warehouse. Nick pulled out a tube of shaving cream and began to disassemble it. He gave Alexi three thin, round discs and kept four for himself.
  
  
  "You'll plant three explosives close together," he told her. "Your clothes won't make you stand out. Remember, you just need to get them underground. The ground's soft enough to dig a small hole and place this thing in."
  
  
  Out of habit, Nick ducked as the first explosion echoed across the field. It came from the right, on the other side of the field. A second explosion soon followed, then a third, almost in the center of the field. Anya was probably running back and forth, throwing bombs, and she was right, they were powerful enough. Now there was an explosion to the left. She had done everything correctly; it sounded like a mortar shell, and the effects were just as Nick had hoped. Armed soldiers poured out of the barracks, and the missile launcher guards ran to the barbed wire fence and began firing indiscriminately in the direction they suspected the enemy was coming from.
  
  
  "Action!" Nick hissed. He stopped and watched Alexi run, head down, onto the platform toward the farthest facility so she could return to the gate. Now, with Wilhelmina in his right hand, Nick ran toward the first of the four launchers he needed to take care of. He placed the Luger on the floor next to him and buried the first detonator. Now it was the second's turn, quickly followed by the third. Everything went smoothly, almost insanely easy, as Anya continued to bombard the northern part of the complex with her infernal mini-bombs. Nick saw a group of soldiers now flying out of the main gate to hunt down the attackers. As Nick arrived at the fourth launcher, two soldiers at the main gate turned to see an unknown figure kneeling at the concrete edge of the launcher. Before they could even take aim, Wilhelmina had already fired twice, and two soldiers fell to the ground. Several soldiers around them, who of course couldn't have known the shots weren't coming from the forest, fell to the ground. Nick placed the last detonator and ran back to the gate. He tried to spot Alexi in the tangle of uniformed figures running, but it was impossible. Suddenly, a voice came over the loudspeaker, and Nick heard the Chinese ordering them to don gas masks. He tried his best not to laugh out loud. The attack had truly scared them. Or maybe Hu Can was one to play it safe. It was then that Nick realized the meaning of the mysterious metal discs. The smile on his face quickly faded.
  
  
  At first, he heard the quiet hum of electric motors, then saw the disks rise straight into the air on metal tubes. They stopped at a height of about three or four meters, and Nick saw that the disks formed the top of a small circular tank with several nozzles protruding in four different directions from the bottom. From each nozzle, Nick saw a small gray cloud, and with a continuous hiss, the entire complex was covered in a deadly blanket. Nick saw the gas spread beyond the fence, in an ever-widening circle.
  
  
  Nick tried to cover his mouth with a handkerchief as he ran, but it was no use. The gas was moving too fast. His sense of smell told him it was a gas that acted on your lungs, only temporarily intoxicating you, probably phosgene-based. His head began to spin, and it felt like his lungs were about to burst. "Damn wise they didn't use deadly gases," he thought. They always lingered in the air too long, and the victims couldn't be questioned. Now his vision was blurry, and as he tried to move forward, all he saw in front of him were faint, indistinct shadows: white uniforms and strange mouthpieces. He wanted to run toward the shadows, raised his arms, but his body felt leaden, and he felt a searing pain in his chest. The shadows and colors faded, everything washed away, and he collapsed.
  
  
  Alexi saw Nick fall, and she tried to change direction, but the gas continued to permeate the air, getting deeper and deeper. The plastic mouthpiece of her helmet helped a little, and although she began to feel a strain in her lungs, her body was still functioning. She paused, trying to decide whether to save Nick or escape. "If she could get out from behind the fence, maybe she could come back later and try to help Nick escape," she thought. There were too many soldiers around him now, and they lifted his body, which no longer offered any resistance, and carried him away. Alexi paused for a moment, tried not to breathe deeply, then ran toward the wooden gate. Dressed like all the other soldiers, she didn't stand out among the other people running back and forth across the field. She reached the gate, but now the gas was also coming through her helmet, and her breathing was becoming increasingly painful. She fell over the edge of the gate and sank to her knees. The helmet now felt like a straitjacket, preventing her from breathing. She pulled it off her head and threw it off. She managed to rise and try to hold her breath. But she had to cough, which caused her to swallow even more gas. She sprawled out and lay in the gap in the gate.
  
  
  On the other side, beyond the fence, Anya saw the gas leaking. She had used up all her bombs, and when she saw men in gas masks climbing out, she took cover in the woods. The soldiers surrounded her, and she began to feel the effects of the gas. If she could overpower one of the soldiers and remove his gas mask, she would have a chance to escape. Anya waited tensely, listening to the sounds of the soldiers methodically searching the woods. They had spread five meters apart and were approaching her from both sides. Crawling forward, she wondered how Nick and Alexi would have gotten out of the car. Could they have escaped before the gas? The syringes? Then she saw a soldier approaching her, carefully cutting through the undergrowth with his rifle. She drew her knife from the sheath at her waist and gripped the heavy handle tightly. Now he was within her reach. One quick swipe of her knife, and the gas mask would be in her hands. If she'd been wearing a gas mask, she could have returned to the edge of the forest, where the choking gas was thicker and the undergrowth thinner. Then she could have quickly sprinted to the other side of the complex, then climbed the hill to better cover.
  
  
  Anya lunged. Too late, she felt a tree root around her ankle, catching her, and knocking her to the ground. At that moment, she saw a soldier swinging the heavy barrel of his rifle. Thousands of red and white stars exploded in her sleep. They went out like firecrackers, and she lost consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  The first thing Nick felt was a tingling, cold pricking on his skin. Then a burning sensation in his eyes, caused by the scorching light. It was strange, this bright light, because he hadn't yet opened his eyes. He forced them open and wiped the moisture from his eyelids. When he managed to prop himself up on his elbow, the spacious room took on a clearer outline. The light was bright, and figures began to appear. He had to wipe the moisture from his eyes again, and now he felt a tingling sensation on his skin. He was completely naked, lying on a cot. Across from him, he saw two more cots, on which lay the naked bodies of Anya and Alexi. They were conscious and watched as Nick swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.
  
  
  He stretched his neck and shoulder muscles. His chest felt heavy and tense, but he knew the feeling would gradually subside. He had already seen four guards, but he didn't pay them much attention. Nick turned as the door opened, and a technician entered the room with a portable X-ray machine.
  
  
  Behind the technician, a tall, thin Chinese man entered the room with a light, confident stride. A long white lab coat covered his slender frame.
  
  
  He stopped and smiled at Nick. Nick was struck by the delicate, ascetic quality of his face. It was almost the face of a saint, and strangely reminded Nick of the Eastern versions of the ancient gods depicted in ancient Greek icons. The man crossed his arms over his chest-long, sensitive, soft hands-and looked intently at Nick.
  
  
  But when Nick returned the gaze, he saw that his eyes were a complete contradiction to the rest of his face. There was no trace of asceticism, no kindness, no gentleness, only cold, poisonous arrows, the eyes of a cobra. Nick couldn't recall ever seeing such utterly devilish eyes. They were restless; even when the man stared at one specific spot, they would still move. Like snake eyes, they continued to flicker with an unearthly, dark radiance. Nick immediately sensed the danger in this man, the one humanity feared most. He was no mere fool, a cunning politician, or a perverted dreamer, but a devoted man, completely consumed by a single delusion, yet possessing all the intellectual and psychic qualities that lead to greatness. He had a touch of asceticism, intelligence, and sensitivity. But it was intelligence in the service of hatred, sensitivity turned to cruelty and ruthlessness, and a mind entirely devoted to manic delusions. Dr. Hu Zan looked at Nick with a friendly, almost reverent smile.
  
  
  "You can get dressed in a minute, Mr. Carter," he said in perfect English. "You are, of course, Mr. Carter. I saw a photograph of you once, rather blurry, but good enough. Even without that, I should have known it was you."
  
  
  "Why?" Nick asked.
  
  
  "Because you not only eliminated my men, but also displayed several personal qualities. Let's just say I immediately realized we weren't dealing with an ordinary agent. When you overpowered the men aboard the Lu Shi family's junk, you left the old man on the forecastle in the same position to deceive my men. Another example is the disappearance of the patrol boat. I'm honored that AX went to all this effort for my little project."
  
  
  'I hope for more,' Nick replied, 'It will go to your head.'
  
  
  "Of course, I couldn't have known at first that there were three of you, and two of them were magnificent representatives of the Western female species."
  
  
  Hu Tsang turned and looked at the two girls sprawled on the beds. Nick suddenly saw a fire in the man's eyes as he surveyed the girls' naked bodies. It wasn't just the fire of surging sexual desire, but something more, something terrifying, something Nick didn't like at all.
  
  
  "It was an excellent idea of you to bring these two girls along," Hu Zan remarked, turning back to Nick. "According to their papers, they're Albanian art history students in Hong Kong. An obvious choice for your people. But besides, as you'll soon discover, it was a very pleasant stroke of luck for me. But first, Mr. Carter, I'd like you to sit down at the X-ray machine. While you were unconscious, we examined you with a simple technique, and the metal detector showed a positive reaction. Since I know the advanced methods of the AXE people, I'm compelled to investigate further."
  
  
  The technician carefully examined him with a portable X-ray machine and handed Nick his jumpsuit when he was finished. Nick noticed that his clothes had been thoroughly inspected. The Luger and stiletto were, of course, missing. While he was dressing, the technician showed Hu Can the X-ray. "Probably shrapnel," he said. "Here, on the hip, where we already felt it."
  
  
  "You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you had asked me," Nick commented.
  
  
  "That wasn't a problem," Hu Zan replied, smiling again. "Get them ready," he told the technician, pointing his long, narrow arm at Anya and Alexi.
  
  
  Nick tried not to frown as he saw the man tie the girls' wrists and ankles to the ends of the bed with leather straps. He then moved the square device to the center of the room. Hanging from the front of the box were rubber tubes and hoses that Nick couldn't immediately identify. The man took two curved metal plates, similar to electrodes, and attached them to Anya's nipples. He did the same with Alexi, then connected the points to the machine with thin wires. Nick felt his brow furrow as the man grabbed the long rubber object and walked over to Alexi. With almost clinical indifference, he inserted the object into her, and now Nick saw what it was. A rubber phallus! He secured her with something like a regular garter to keep her in place. This device, too, was connected by a cord to a machine in the middle of the room. Anya was treated the same way, and Nick felt a growing rage that made him pierce his stomach.
  
  
  "What the hell does that mean?" he asked. "It's a shame, isn't it?" Hu Can replied, looking at the twins. "They really are very beautiful."
  
  
  "What a pity?" Nick asked irritably. "What are you planning?"
  
  
  "Your friends have refused to give us any information about what you're doing here or what you might have already done. I'll now try to squeeze this information out of them. It could be said that my method is nothing more than a refinement of a very old Chinese torture principle."
  
  
  He smiled again. That damned polite smile. As if he were making polite conversation in a living room. He continued his conversation, carefully watching Nick's reaction. Thousands of years ago, Chinese torture practitioners discovered that pleasure stimuli could easily be transformed into irritants, and that this pain was different from ordinary pain. A perfect example is the ancient Chinese practice of tickling. At first, it evokes laughter and a pleasant feeling. If continued, the pleasure quickly turns to discomfort, then to anger and resistance, and finally to excruciating pain, ultimately driving the victim mad. You see, Mr. Carter, ordinary pain can be defended against. Often, the victim can resist purely physical torture with their own emotional resistance. But I really don't need to tell you this; no doubt you are as well informed as I am.
  
  
  There's no defense against the torture we employ, because the principle is based on playing on those hypersensitive, uncontrollable parts of the human body's psyche. With the right stimulation, the organs sensitive to sexual stimulation are impossible to control by willpower. And, returning to your girlfriends, these devices serve precisely this purpose. Every time I press this little button, they experience an orgasm. A perfectly orchestrated system of vibrations and movements will inevitably trigger an orgasm. The first, I can say with certainty, will be more pleasurable than any orgasm they could ever achieve with any male partner. Then the arousal will turn to discomfort, and then to the excruciating pain I just described. As I increase the rate of stimulation, their pain will reach the peak of diabolical torture, and they will be unable to resist or avoid it.
  
  
  "What if it doesn't work?" Nick asked. "What if they don't start talking?"
  
  
  "It will work, and they will talk," Hu Zan smiled confidently. "But if they wait too long, they will never be able to enjoy sexual contact again. They might even go crazy. A continuous series of orgasms affects women differently when they reach their limit."
  
  
  "It looks like you've been experimenting with this a lot," Nick commented.
  
  
  "You have to experiment if you want to improve," Hu Zan replied. "Frankly, I'm happy to tell you all this. I have so few people I can talk to about this, and judging by your reputation, you're also an expert interrogator." He gestured to the guards. "He's coming with us," he said, approaching the door. "We're going to the basement."
  
  
  Nick was forced to follow Hu Can as he descended a small staircase leading to a spacious, brightly lit basement. Along the white-painted walls were several cells, each approximately three by three meters. These were small compartments with bars on three sides, each containing a small sink and a crib. Each cell housed a girl or woman wearing men's underwear. All but two of the women were Westerners.
  
  
  "Every one of these women tried to interfere with my activities," Hu Zan said. "There are second-rate agents and ordinary homeless people. I locked them up here. Take a close look at them."
  
  
  As they passed the cages, Nick observed the horrific scenes. He estimated the woman in the first cage to be forty-five years old. Her figure appeared well-preserved, with stunningly firm breasts, shapely legs, and a smooth stomach. But her face, hideous and neglected, with hideous gray spots, indicated she was mentally retarded. Hu Zan likely guessed Nick's thoughts.
  
  
  "She's thirty-one years old," he said. "She just exists and vegetates. Up to twenty men can have sex with her in a row. It doesn't affect her. She's completely apathetic."
  
  
  Next was a tall girl with straw-colored hair. When they arrived, she stood up, walked to the bar, and stared at Nick. She was clearly oblivious to her nakedness. "You could say she's a nymphomaniac, but she lives in the mind of a six-year-old girl discovering her body for the first time," Hu Zan said. "She barely speaks, gurgles and screams, paying attention only to her own body. Her mind has been clouded for decades."
  
  
  In the next cell, a small Chinese girl rocked on the edge of her bunk, staring at the ceiling with her arms crossed. She continued rocking as they passed, as if she didn't notice them.
  
  
  "That's enough," Hu Zan said cheerfully. "I think my friend understands now." He smiled at Nick, who feigned polite interest. But inside, an icy rage raged, almost squeezing his stomach. This wasn't just information-extraction torture. He'd been beaten and tortured enough himself to know that.
  
  
  It was sadism, pure sadism. All torturers were sadists by definition, but many people whose job it was to extract data were more concerned with the end result than with the thrill of torture. For professional interrogators, torture was simply a weapon in their arsenal, not a source of perverse pleasure. And Hu Zan, he now knew, was more than just a sadist. He had a personal motive, something that happened in the past, something in his personal life. Hu Zan led Nick back to the room where the two girls were.
  
  
  "Tell me," Nick asked with rehearsed calm. "Why don't you kill those girls and me?"
  
  
  "It's only a matter of time," Hu Zan said. "You're well-trained in resistance techniques. These women may have been trained too, but they're just women, Western women for that matter."
  
  
  Nick remembered that last comment well. Hu Can's attitude undoubtedly reflected the ancient Eastern custom of viewing women as inferior and subservient. But that wasn't the only thing. This man's torture devices were specifically designed for women. He was targeting them, specifically Western women! Nick decided to take a shot at the target, to see if he'd hit the mark. He had to find a way to reach this satanic ascetic, find a key that would fit his filthy mind.
  
  
  "Who was that?" he asked indifferently. Hu Zan waited only a second to answer.
  
  
  "What do you mean, Mr. Carter?" he said.
  
  
  'I said, who was it?' Nick repeated. 'Was it an American? No, I think it was an Englishwoman.'
  
  
  Hu Can's eyes turned into thoughtful slits.
  
  
  "You are not clear enough, Mr. Carter," he replied evenly. "I don't understand what you are talking about."
  
  
  "I think so," Nick said. "What happened? Did she play with you and then leave you? Or did she laugh in your face? Yes, that must have been it. You thought she was looking at you, and then she turned and laughed at you.
  
  
  Hu Zan turned to Nick and looked straight at him. Nick saw his mouth twist for a moment. Too late, he saw the loose piece of wire Hu Zan had picked up and was holding in his hand. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain as the thread lashed across his face. He felt blood trickle down his jaw.
  
  
  "Shut up, pig!" Hu Can shouted, barely containing his anger. But Nick decided to press a little further. He had more to gain than to lose.
  
  
  "So that's what it is," he said. "Your hatred of the free world, a personal vendetta. You're personally offended. Is it still revenge on that kid who let you down and made fun of you, God knows how long ago. Or were there more? Perhaps you were unlucky with 20 of those chickens. Did you really wear deodorant every day?"
  
  
  The wire ran across Nick's face again. Hu Zan gasped, took a step back, and struggled to contain himself. But Nick knew what he wanted to know. This man's motives were entirely personal. His actions weren't the result of any political convictions, it wasn't an anti-Western ideology shaped by philosophical conclusions, but a desire for personal revenge. The man wanted the objects of his hatred to crumble to dust. He wanted them at his feet. This was important to remember. Perhaps Nick could exploit this trait, perhaps he could soon use this knowledge to manipulate this man.
  
  
  Hu Zan now stood behind the machine in the center of the room. His lips pressed together, he pressed a button. Nick watched, nonchalantly, mesmerized, as the device began its work. Alexi and Anya reacted against their will. Their bodies began to move, writhe, their heads shaking with undeniable delight. This damn machine was truly effective. Nick glanced at Hu Zan. He smiled-if it could be called a smile-with retracted lips and gasped, looking at him.
  
  
  When it was all over, Hu Zan waited exactly two minutes, then pressed the button again. Nick heard Alexi gasp and scream, "No, not yet, not yet." But the machine hummed again and did its job with devilish precision.
  
  
  It was clear that the ecstasy Anya and Alexi had been experiencing was no longer true ecstasy, and they began to make pitiful sounds. Their muffled moans and half-screams indicated they had reached climax again, and now Hu Zan immediately reactivated the device. Anya screamed piercingly, and Alexi began to cry, at first subduedly, but then louder and louder.
  
  
  "No, no, not anymore, please, not anymore," Anya cried out as her body writhed on the cot. Alexi's incessant whimpering was interrupted by cries for help. It was now impossible to determine when she had orgasmed. Their bodies writhed and contorted incessantly, their shrill cries and hysterical outbursts echoing throughout the room. Anya, Nick noticed, was almost amused, and her cries took on a mirthful tint that struck him deeply. Alexi continued to clench her abs, trying to avoid the phallus's movements, but it was as futile as trying to escape her fate. Her legs began to twitch. Hu Zan had indeed described it accurately. It was an inescapable pain, a terrible sensation they couldn't escape.
  
  
  Nick looked around. There were four guards, Hu Zan, and a technician. They were so focused on the helpless naked girls that he could probably kill them all without much effort. But how many soldiers would be outside? And then there was the mission, which had to be completed successfully. Nevertheless, it became clear that action was needed soon. He saw a wild, half-hysterical look in Alexi's eyes that frightened him. If he were sure they wouldn't talk, he would have to control himself to the end, and the girls would probably be reduced to shattered, half-crazed wrecks. He thought of the unfortunate women he had seen in the cages. It would be a terrible sacrifice, but he had to make it; the success of the operation was paramount. This was the code by which all three lived.
  
  
  But there was something else he feared. He had a terrible premonition that the girls wouldn't hold out. They'd give everything away. They'd tell everything, and it could mean the end of the Western world. He had to intervene. Anya let out unintelligible screams; only Nick caught a few words. Her screams changed, and he knew what it meant. Thank God, he understood her signs better than Hu Zan.
  
  
  This meant she was about to give in. If he wanted to do something, he had to do it quickly. He had to try. If he didn't, Hu Zan would extract information from the tortured, ruined, empty shells of these beautiful bodies. And there was only one way to reach this man: give him what he wanted, flatter his sick desire for revenge. If Nick could do that, if he could play Hu Zan with some inflated story, perhaps the mission could still be completed and their skins saved. Nick knew that, as a last resort, he could always activate the detonators by uttering this combination of words to send them all flying into the sky. But he wasn't yet ready for his final salvation. Suicide was always possible, but never appealing.
  
  
  Nick braced himself. He had to do well; his acting skills were top-notch. He tensed his muscles, then lunged madly at Hu Can, pushing him away from the console.
  
  
  He shouted, "Stop!" "Stop, can you hear me?" He barely resisted as the guards rushed towards him and pulled him away from Hu Can.
  
  
  "I'll tell you everything you want to know," Nick cried in a choked voice. "But you stop this... I can't take this anymore! Not with her. I love her." He broke free from the guards' hands and fell onto the bed where Alexi lay. She was motionless now. Her eyes were closed, only her breasts were still moving violently up and down. He buried his head between her breasts and gently stroked her hair.
  
  
  "It's over, honey," he murmured. "They'll leave you alone. I'll tell them everything."
  
  
  He turned to Hu Can and looked at him accusingly. He said in a broken voice, "You like this, don't you? You didn't expect this to happen. Well, now you know. I'm human, yes... human, like everyone else." His voice broke, and he covered his head with his hands. "My God, oh Jesus, what am I doing? What's happening to me?"
  
  
  Hu Can smiled a satisfied smile. His tone was ironic as he said, "Yes, a momentous occasion. The great Nick Carter-Killmaster, I believe your name is-went so far for love. How touching... and what a striking resemblance."
  
  
  Nick looked up. "What do you mean, striking resemblance?" he asked angrily. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't love her so madly."
  
  
  "I mean, it's strikingly similar to your social system," Hu Zan replied coldly. "That's why you're all doomed. You've built your entire way of life on what you call love. The Christian heritage has given you what you call morality. You play with words like truth, honesty, forgiveness, honor, passion, good and evil, when there are only two things in this world: strength and weakness. Power, Mr. Carter. Do you understand? No, you don't. If you did, you wouldn't need all this Western nonsense, these empty pretensions, these crazy delusions you've invented. Yes, you have, Mr. Carter. I studied your history diligently at the time, and it became clear to me that your culture invented all these symbols, all these prejudices with passion, honor, and justice, to cover up your weakness! The new culture won't need these excuses. The new culture is realistic. It is based on the reality of existence. The knowledge that there is only a division between the weak and the strong."
  
  
  Nick now sat dumbly on the edge of the bunk. His eyes stared into space, seeing nothing. "I lost," he muttered. "I failed... I failed."
  
  
  A powerful blow to the face caused him to turn his head away. Hu Zan stood before him, looking at him with disdain.
  
  
  "Enough of your whining," he snapped. "Tell me. I'm curious to hear what you have to say." He hit Nick on the other side of the head. Nick looked at the floor and spoke in a flat, withdrawn tone.
  
  
  "We've heard rumors about your missiles. They sent us to find out if it's true. Once we find operational missiles, we need to transmit the location and data to headquarters and send bombers here to destroy the launch site. We have a transmitter hidden somewhere in the hills. I can't tell you exactly where. I could take you there.
  
  
  "Never mind," Hu Can interrupted. "Let there be a transmitter there. Why did you invade the premises? Could you really have seen that this was the very place you were looking for?"
  
  
  Nick thought quickly. He hadn't expected that question. "We had to make sure," he replied. "From the hills, we couldn't tell if they were real missiles or just dummies for training purposes. We had to make sure."
  
  
  Hu Can seemed satisfied. He turned and walked to the other end of the room, placing a long, thin hand under his chin.
  
  
  "I'm not taking any more chances," he said. "They sent you. This may have been their only attempt, but perhaps they'll get the idea to organize more actions. I was planning to attack in twenty-four hours, but I'll move the attack forward. Tomorrow morning we'll finish the preparations, and then you'll witness the end of your world. I even want you to stand next to me and watch my little homing pigeons take off. I want to see the look on your face. It will be a pleasure to watch the free world's top agent watch his world go up in smoke. It's almost symbolic, Mr. Carter, don't you think, that the destruction of your so-called free world is preceded by the revelation that their key agent is nothing more than a weak, ineffective, lovesick plum pudding. But maybe you don't have much sense for symbolism."
  
  
  Hu Zan grabbed Nick by the hair and lifted his head. Nick tried his best not to show the anger in his eyes; it was one of the hardest things he had to do. But he would have to play to the very end. He looked at Hu Zan with a dull, stunned gaze.
  
  
  "Maybe I'll keep you here after the launch," Hu Can chuckled. "You even have propaganda value: an example of the decline of the former Western world. But first, just to make sure you understand the difference between strength and weakness, I'll give you a beginner's lesson."
  
  
  He said something to the guards. Nick didn't understand, but he soon realized what would happen as the men approached him. The first one knocked him to the ground. Then a heavy boot kicked him in the ribs. Hu Zan wanted to show him that strength had nothing to do with weaknesses like honor and grace. But Nick knew that all he really wanted was the pleasure of watching his enemy writhe at his feet and beg for mercy. He had played his part well so far and would continue to do so. With each boot strike, he let out a cry of pain, and finally, he screamed and begged for mercy. "Enough," Hu Zan cried. "Once you've pierced the outer layer, there's nothing left but weakness. Take them to the house and put them in the cells. That's where I'll be."
  
  
  Nick looked at Anya and Alexi's naked bodies. They were still lying there.
  
  Helpless, completely exhausted. They had probably suffered severe shock and were psychologically drained. He was glad they hadn't seen his performance. They could have ruined his part by trying to stop him. Perhaps that would have fooled them too. He had managed to deceive Hu Can and buy himself precious time; just a few hours, until the next morning, but that would be enough. As the guards dragged the naked girls out of the room, Nick saw Hu Can's worried eyes watching them, and Nick thought he could read the thoughts in that caustic gaze. He wasn't finished with them yet, that perverted bastard. He was already inventing new methods to express his hatred of women on these two specimens. Nick suddenly realized with regret that there wasn't much time left. He had to act very quickly, and he wouldn't have time to beat Hu Can, even though his hands were itching. The guards pushed him into the hall and down the stairs, after which they were led out through a side door.
  
  
  The girls were already in a small truck, flanked by guards. They were clearly enjoying their assignment. They laughed and made lewd jokes, constantly running their hands over the unconscious girls' naked bodies. Nick was forced to sit on a wooden bench opposite them, between two guards, and the car drove down a narrow, bumpy road. The drive was short, and when they turned onto a paved road, Nick caught sight of the large picture window of the house they had seen from the hills opposite. Thick, shiny black columns supported an intricately carved pagoda-shaped superstructure. The first floor was made of teak, bamboo, and stone, exuding traditional Chinese architecture. The guards pushed Nick out of the car with the butt of their rifles and into the house, which was simply and modernly furnished. A wide staircase led to the second floor. They descended the stairs to a smaller staircase, which apparently led to the basement. Finally, they reached a small, brightly lit room. He was kicked in the butt and fell to the floor. The door was locked behind him. He lay there and listened. A few seconds later, he heard another door slam. So Alexi and Anya were locked in the same cell not far from him. Nick sat up and heard the guard's footsteps in the hallway. He noticed a tiny piece of glass in the door, probably a convex lens, and knew he was being watched. He crawled into a corner and sat there. Even now, he played the role of a completely defeated man, losing his confidence. He couldn't afford to make any more mistakes, but his eyes scanned every square inch of the room. He gloomily discovered there was no escape. There were no windows or vents. The bright light came from a single, bare lightbulb on the ceiling. He was glad he had maintained a defeated and submissive demeanor, because a few minutes later, Hu Can entered the cell unannounced. He was alone, but Nick felt the guard watching him closely through the small round glass in the door.
  
  
  "You may find our guest quarters, shall we say, a little harsh," Hu Zan began. "But at least you can move. I'm afraid your female accomplices have been subjected to somewhat more rigorous confinement. Each of them has one arm and one leg chained to the floor. Only I have the key to these chains. Because you know that my men are carefully selected and trained, but I also know that women are every man's bane. They cannot be trusted. You, for example, can be dangerous if you have a weapon. Besides, your fists, your strength, your legs-they are weapons of sorts. But women don't need weapons to be dangerous. They are their own weapons. You are locked up, heavily guarded, and helpless. But women are never helpless. As long as they can abuse their femininity, they remain dangerous. And so I shackled them as an extra precaution."
  
  
  He tried to leave again, but stopped at the door and looked at Nick.
  
  
  "Oh, you were right, of course," he said. "About that girl. It was many years ago. She was English. I met her in London. We were both studying. Imagine, I was going to work hard in your civilization. But tomorrow I will destroy this civilization."
  
  
  Now he left Nick alone. There was no escape that night. He would have to wait until morning and conserve his strength. Anya and Alexi would undoubtedly be in deep sleep, and it was doubtful their condition would be of any use to him tomorrow. Their horrific experience would, at the very least, have exhausted and weakened them, and perhaps they would have suffered irreparable psychological damage. The next morning, he would learn what needed to be done; he had to do it alone. There was one consoling thought. Hu Zan had accelerated his plans, and any available manpower would work on activating the missiles or stand guard. This reduced the chances of discovering the detonators, which, given the extra day, was always possible.
  
  
  Nick crossed his legs and assumed a yoga pose, bringing his body and mind into a state of complete relaxation. He felt an internal mechanism gradually charging his body and mind with mental and physical energy. In any case, he had ensured that the girls were no longer in the room. If he were forced to detonate the missiles before he could free them, at least they would survive. He felt an increasing sense of inner peace and security, and gradually a plan formed in his mind. Finally, he shifted position, stretched out on the floor, and fell asleep almost immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge window spanned the entire length of the house. As Nick expected, it offered a view of the entire complex and the surrounding hills. It was a breathtaking and captivating sight, as Nick witnessed it when the guard pushed him inside. He meekly allowed himself to be led, but kept an eye on his surroundings as he walked. He noticed that in the hallway where his cell, Anya's, and Alexi's were located, there was only one guard. Furthermore, the house was unguarded. He saw only four or five guards at the entrances to the first floor, and two standing in front of the wide staircase.
  
  
  The soldier who had brought him upstairs remained in the room, while Hu Zan, who had been looking out onto the street, turned around. Nick noticed that irritating smile had returned to his face. The room, stretching the entire length of the facade, looked more like an observation post than a normal room. In the center of the window was a vast control panel with numerous switches, meters, and several microphones.
  
  
  Nick looked out the window. The missiles stood proudly on their launch pads, and the area was cleared. There were no more soldiers or technicians around the missiles. So there wasn't much time left.
  
  
  "My missiles have a new device I developed myself," Hu Can said. "The nuclear warhead can't be detonated until the missile is in the air. So the nuclear warheads here at the base can't detonate due to a technical error."
  
  
  Now it was Nick's turn to smile. "You'll never guess what this means to me," he said.
  
  
  "Your attitude seemed different to me a few hours ago," Hu Zan said, studying Nick. "Let's see how long it takes when these missiles are on their way to destroy the West's major centers. If that happens, Beijing will see the opportunity I offer them, and the Red Armies will take immediate action. My men have almost completed their final preparations."
  
  
  Hu Zan turned again to look outside, and Nick quickly calculated. He had to act now. The transmitter in his thigh would need one second to send a signal to each detonator, and another second for the detonator to receive the signal and convert it into electronic action. Seven missiles, two seconds each. Fourteen seconds separated the free world from hell. Fourteen seconds stood between a future of hope and a future of suffering and horror. Fourteen seconds would determine the course of history for thousands of years. He had to have Hu Zan with him. He couldn't risk the guard's intervention. Nick moved quietly toward the man, then turned with lightning speed. He channeled all his pent-up anger into a crushing blow to the man's jaw, and it brought him immediate relief. The man collapsed like a rag. Nick laughed loudly, and Hu Zan turned in surprise. He frowned and looked at Nick as if he were a naughty child.
  
  
  He asked, "What do you think you're doing?" "What is this? A last twitch of your idiotic principles, an attempt to save your honor? If I sound the alarm, my bodyguards will be here in seconds. And even if they didn't come, there's nothing you can do to stop the missiles. It's too late."
  
  
  "No, you crazy idiot," Nick said. "You have seven missiles, and I'll give you seven reasons why they'll fail."
  
  
  Hu Zan laughed a joyless laugh, a hollow, inhuman sound. "You're crazy," he said to Nick.
  
  
  "Number one!" Nick shouted, making sure to pronounce the words that would trigger the first detonator. "Number one," he repeated, feeling a slight tingle under the skin of his thigh as the transmitter picked up the signal. "Truth, grace, and love are not empty concepts," he continued. "They are as real as strength and weakness."
  
  
  He had just managed to take a breath when he heard the first detonator explode. The explosion was followed almost immediately by a roar as the rocket seemed to take off on its own, soar into the air, and then explode into pieces. The first launcher was near the barracks, and Nick saw the explosion level the wooden structures. Concrete, pieces of metal, and body parts flew through the air and landed on the ground a few meters away. Hu Can looked out the window, his eyes wide. He ran to one of the microphones on the control panel and flicked the switch.
  
  
  'What happened?' he shouted. 'Central, Central, this is Doctor Hu Can. What's going on? Yes, of course, I'm waiting. Find out. Can you hear me right away?'
  
  
  'Number two!' Nick spoke clearly. 'Tyrants can never enslave free people.'
  
  
  The second detonator went off with a powerful bang, and Hu Can's face turned completely white. He continued shouting at the speaker, demanding an explanation.
  
  
  "Number three," Nick said. "The individual is more important than the state."
  
  
  When the third explosion rocked the house, Nick saw Hu Can pounding his fists on the window. Then he looked at Nick. His eyes were filled with pure, panicked fear. Something had happened that he couldn't comprehend. He began pacing back and forth, shouting orders into various microphones as the chaos below grew increasingly chaotic.
  
  
  "Are you still listening, Hu Can?" Nick said with a devilish grin. Hu Can looked at him, eyes wide and mouth open. "Number four," Nick shouted. "Love is stronger than hate, and good is stronger than evil."
  
  
  The fourth rocket blasted off, and Hu Zan fell to his knees and began pounding on the control panel. He screamed and laughed alternately. Nick, remembering the helpless, wild panic he'd seen in Alexi's eyes a few hours earlier, shouted in a sharp, clear voice, "Number five! There's nothing better than a hot chick."
  
  
  During the fifth explosion, Hu Can fell onto the control panel, bursting into a hysterical, intermittent scream that was incomprehensible. Now the entire complex was transformed into one enormous column of smoke and flame. Nick grabbed Hu Can and pressed his face against the window.
  
  
  "Keep thinking, idiot," he said. "Number six! What unites people is stronger than what divides them!"
  
  
  Hu Tsang tore himself from Nick's grasp as the sixth rocket exploded in a spiral of flame, metal, and concrete. His face hardened into a mask, his shocked mind suddenly finding a sliver of understanding.
  
  
  "It's you," he breathed. "Somehow, you do this. It was all a lie. You never loved this woman. It was a trick to make me stop, to save her!"
  
  
  "Absolutely right," Nick hissed. "And remember, it was a woman who helped neutralize you."
  
  
  Hu Can ducked down at Nick's feet, who, however, quietly stepped aside and watched as the man hit his head on the control panel.
  
  
  "Number seven, Hu Can," Nick shouted. "Number seven means your plans have failed because humanity is far enough away to expose madmen like you in time!"
  
  
  "Rocket seven!" Hu Zan shouted into the microphone. "Launch rocket seven!" A final explosion echoed in response, shaking the window. He turned and lunged at Nick with a piercing scream. Nick thrust his foot out, sending Hu Zan slamming into the door. With the unusual strength of a madman, Hu Zan quickly stood up and ran out before Nick could stop him. Nick ran after him and saw his white coat disappear at the foot of the stairs. Then four guards appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Their automatic weapons opened fire, and Nick dove to the ground. He heard quick footsteps on the stairs. When the first one reached the top step, he grabbed the man by the ankles and threw him down the stairs, taking the other three with him. Nick ducked his automatic rifle and fired a burst. The four soldiers lay lifeless at the foot of the stairs. With his machine gun in hand, Nick leaped over them and ran to the first floor. Two more guards appeared, and Nick immediately fired a short burst at them. Hu Can was nowhere to be seen, and Nick wondered. Could the scientist have escaped the house? But Nick had a nagging thought that the man had gone somewhere else, descending into the basement three steps at a time. As he approached the cell, Alexi's scream confirmed his terrifying suspicions.
  
  
  He rushed into the room where the twins, still naked, were chained to the floor. Hu Can stood over them like an old Shinto priest in a long, baggy coat. In his hands lay a huge, antique Chinese saber. He held the heavy weapon above his head with both hands, about to decapitate the two girls with one swing. Nick managed to remove his finger from the trigger. If he fired, Hu Can would drop the heavy blade, and the result would be just as horrific. Nick dropped the pistol to the ground and ducked. He grabbed Hu Can by the waist, and together they flew through the chamber and landed on the ground two meters away.
  
  
  Normally, the man would have been crushed by Nick Carter's powerful grip, but Hu Can was driven by the inhuman strength of an enraged madman, and he still held the heavy saber tightly. He swung the broad blade downward, attempting to strike Nick at the head, but N3 rolled to the side in time to avoid the full force of the blow. However, the saber's tip caught him in the shoulder, and he immediately felt a throbbing pain that nearly paralyzed his arm. However, he immediately jumped to his feet and attempted to dodge the madman's next attack. The latter, however, rushed toward Alexy and Anya again, sword raised, apparently undaunted by his determination to complete his vengeance on the female species.
  
  
  As the man sent the saber whistling downward, Nick grabbed the hilt and yanked it sideways with all his might. He felt a shooting pain in his bleeding shoulder, but he caught it just in time. Now the heavy blade struck the ground an inch or so from Anya's head. Nick, still holding the saber's hilt, now spun Hu Can around with such force that he crashed into the wall.
  
  
  Now that Nick had the saber, the scientist still seemed unwilling to abandon his thoughts of revenge. He had almost reached the door when Nick blocked his path. Hu Can turned and ran back as Nick lowered the blade. The razor-sharp weapon pierced the madman's back, and he fell to the ground with a stifled groan. Nick quickly knelt beside the dying scientist and pulled the keys to the chains from his coat pocket. He freed the girls, who were trembling in his arms. Fear and pain were still evident in their eyes, but they struggled to maintain their composure.
  
  
  "We heard explosions," Alexi said. "Did that happen, Nick?"
  
  
  "It has happened," he said. "Our orders have been carried out. The West can breathe easy again. Can you go?"
  
  
  "I think so," Anya said in an uncertain, hesitant tone.
  
  
  "Wait for me here," Nick said. "I'll get you some clothes." He went down to the hall and returned a moment later with the clothes of two guards. As the girls began to dress, Nick bandaged his bleeding shoulder with ribbons he cut from a shirt he'd also taken from a guard. He gave each girl a machine gun, and they went upstairs. It was clear Anya and Alexi were having great difficulty walking, but they persevered, and Nick admired their iron composure. But perseverance is one thing, and psychological damage is another. He had to make sure they got into the hands of experienced doctors as soon as possible.
  
  
  The house seemed deserted; an eerie, ominous silence reigned. Outside, they heard the crackling of flames and smelled the acrid smell of burning kerosene. Regardless of how many guards there might have been in Hu Can's house, it was clear they had all escaped. The quickest route to the shore lay through the hills, and to do so, they would have to cut a road.
  
  
  "Let's take a chance," Nick said. "If there are survivors, they'll be so busy saving their own skins that they'll leave us alone."
  
  
  But it was a miscalculation. They reached the site without difficulty and were about to break through the smoldering rubble when Nick suddenly took cover behind the half-broken wall of one of the concrete buildings. Troops dressed in gray-green uniforms were slowly approaching along the road. They approached the site cautiously and inquisitively, and the sound of a large number of army vehicles could be heard in the distance. "Regular Chinese army," Nick growled. "I should have known. Fireworks here should have been clearly visible and audible for at least thirty kilometers. And, of course, they also detected it hundreds of kilometers away using electronic measuring equipment."
  
  
  This was an unexpected and unfortunate development. They could run back into the forest and hide, but if these Beijing troops had done everything correctly, they would be here for weeks, picking up the debris and burying the corpses. And if they found Hu Can, they would know it wasn't some kind of technical glitch, but sabotage. They would comb the entire area inch by inch. Nick glanced at Anya and Alexi. They would be able to escape, at least a short distance, but he saw that they were in no condition to engage in a fight. Then there was the problem of food. If they managed to find good shelter, and the soldiers spent weeks searching for them, they too would face starvation. Of course, the girls wouldn't last long. They still had that strange look in their eyes, a mixture of panic and infantile sexual desire. "All in all," Nick thought, "it turned out rather unpleasant." The mission had been a success, but the missionaries risked being eaten by the natives.
  
  
  While he was still pondering the right decision, Anya suddenly made it. He didn't know what provoked her-perhaps sudden panic or simply nerves, still blinded by her exhausted mind. Whatever the case, she began firing her automatic rifle at the approaching troops.
  
  
  "Damn it!" he exclaimed. He wanted to scold her, but one look at her and immediately realized it was futile. She looked at him hysterically, her eyes wide, uncomprehending. Now, on command, the troops retreated to the edge of the completely destroyed complex. Apparently, they still hadn't figured out where the volley had come from.
  
  
  "Come on," Nick snapped. "And stay under cover. Back into the woods!"
  
  
  As they ran toward the forest, a wild idea formed in Nick's head. With luck, this might work. At the very least, it would give them a chance to escape this area and this place. Tall trees grew at the edge of the forest: oaks, Chinese elms. Nick chose three, all close together.
  
  
  "Wait here," he ordered the twins. "I'll be right back." He turned quickly and raced back to the spot, trying to hold on to the remaining fragments of the walls and twisted metal. He quickly grabbed something from the belts of three dead soldiers of Hu Can's small army and ran back to the edge of the forest. The Chinese officers were now directing their soldiers in a circle around the area, cornering anyone who fired at them.
  
  
  "A good idea," thought Nick, "and something else that will help him carry out his plan." Having reached three trees, he dropped off Alexi and Anya with gas masks. He had already attached the third gas mask to his mouth along the way.
  
  
  "Now listen carefully, both of you," he said in a clear, commanding tone. "Each of us climb as high as we can up one of these three trees. The only part of the platform that's left untouched is the ring where the poison gas tanks are located, buried in the ground. The electrical system that controls them is undoubtedly out of order, but I suspect there's still poison gas in the tanks. If you're high enough in the tree, you can clearly see each metal disk. The three of us are going to fire at all of these things. And remember, don't waste bullets on the soldiers, only on the gas tanks, understand? Alexi, you aim right, Anya left, and I'll take care of the center. Okay, move now!"
  
  
  Nick paused, watching the girls climb. They moved smoothly and quickly, weapons slung over their shoulders, and finally disappeared into the upper branches. He himself had reached the top of his tree when he heard the first volley of their weapons. He, too, began firing rapidly, at the center of each circular disk. There was no air pressure to expel the gas, but what he had hoped for happened. Each reservoir had a high natural pressure, and a cloud of gas began to flow from each impact disk, growing larger and larger. As the shooting began, the Chinese soldiers dropped to the ground and began firing indiscriminately. As Nick had already seen, gas masks were not part of their equipment, and he saw the gas taking effect. He heard officers shouting commands, which, of course, was too late. When Nick saw the soldiers stagger and fall, he cried out, "Anya! Alexi! Down. We have to get out of here."
  
  
  He stood up first and waited for them. He was glad to see that the girls hadn't torn their gas masks off their faces. He knew they weren't completely stable yet.
  
  
  "All you have to do now is follow me," he ordered. "We're crossing the site." He knew the army supply vehicles were on the other side of the site, and he moved quickly between the rubble of launchers, missiles, and buildings. The gas hung in the air like a thick fog, and they ignored the gurgling, shuddering soldiers on the ground. Nick suspected that some soldiers might have stayed with the vans, and he was right. As they approached the nearest vehicle, four soldiers rushed toward them, only to be instantly killed by a volley of fire from Alexi's weapon. Now they were out of the gas cloud, and Nick tore off his gas mask. His face was hot and sweaty as he jumped into the van and dragged the girls inside. He immediately started the van and made a complete circle around the row of vans parked in front of the main gate. They quickly passed the line of cars parked on the side of the road. Now other soldiers jumped out and opened fire on them, and Nick hissed at Anya and Alexi, "Get in the back." They crawled through the small gap between the driver's cabin and the cargo platform and lay down on the bottom. "Don't shoot," Nick ordered. "And lie flat."
  
  
  They approached the last army vehicle, from which six soldiers jumped out, quickly spreading out across the road and preparing to open fire. Nick fell to the floor of the vehicle, his left hand gripping the steering wheel and his right pressing the accelerator pedal. He heard bullets shatter the windshield and pierce the metal hood with a continuous, crackling report. But the vehicle's momentum, rumbling like a locomotive, was unbroken, and Nick caught a glimpse of the soldiers pushing through the human wall. He quickly rose to his feet, just in time to turn the wheels for a rapidly approaching bend in the road.
  
  
  "We did it," he chuckled. "For now, at least."
  
  
  'What do we do now?' Alexi said, poking her head into the driver's cabin.
  
  
  "We'll try to outsmart them," Nick said. "Now they'll order roadblocks and search parties. But they'll think we're heading straight for the coast. To the Hu Canal, where we landed; that would be the most logical move. But instead, we're heading back the way we came, to Taya Wan. Only by the time we get there will they realize they've made a mistake and that we're not heading for the west bank."
  
  
  If Nick had kept that thought to himself, at least there wouldn't have been a thousand other things that could have gone wrong! Nick glanced at the gas gauge. The tank was almost full, enough to get him to his destination. He settled in and concentrated on maneuvering the heavy vehicle as quickly as possible along the winding, hilly road. He glanced back. Alexi and Anya were asleep in the bottom, their machine guns clutched like teddy bears. Nick felt a deep sense of satisfaction, almost relief. The job was done, they were alive, and for a change, everything was going smoothly. Maybe it was time. He might not have felt such relief if he had known of General Ku's existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  The general was immediately alerted, and by the time he arrived, Nick had been on the road for nearly two hours. General Ku, commander of the Third Army of the People's Republic, walked through the rubble. Thoughtful and focused, he absorbed every detail. He said nothing, but his displeasure was reflected in his eyes as he walked through the ranks of sick soldiers. General Ku was a professional soldier at heart. He was proud of his family, which had produced many outstanding soldiers in the past. The constant campaigns of the political wing of the new People's Revolutionary Army had always been a thorn in his side. He had no interest in politics. He believed that a soldier should be a specialist, a master, and not an extension of an ideological movement. Dr. Hu Zan and his men were nominally under his command. But Hu Zan had always worked with complete authority from above. He ran his elite troupe in his own way and staged his own show. And now, when the show had suddenly gone up in smoke, he had been called in to restore order.
  
  
  One of the junior officers informed him of what had happened when the regular troops entered the compound. General Ku listened quietly. Had anyone been in the house on the hill before? He sighed deeply when told that hadn't happened yet. He made a mental note of at least ten junior officers who would definitely not be next in line for promotion. The general himself, with a small retinue, rode up to the large house and discovered Hu Can's body, the saber still lodged in his back.
  
  
  General Ku descended the stairs of the house and sat down on the bottom step. With his trained, professional mind, he began to piece everything together. He liked to maintain a firm grip on everything that happened in the area under his command, in Kwantung Province. It was clear that what had happened was no accident. It was equally obvious that it had to be the work of a highly skilled specialist, a man like himself, but with unusual abilities. In fact, General Ku admired this man. Now other events came to mind, such as the patrol boat that had so inexplicably disappeared without a trace, and the inexplicable incident with one of his convoys a few days earlier.
  
  
  Whoever it was must have been here just a few hours ago, when he himself sent his troops here to find out why the world seemed to be ending north of Shilong! Shooting the gas tanks was an example of fantastic strategy, the kind of improvisational thinking that only a supermind could produce. There were many enemy agents, but only a small fraction of them were capable of such feats. General Ku wouldn't have been a thoroughbred specialist, occupying the highest position in the Chinese army, if he hadn't committed all the names of such high-ranking agents to memory.
  
  
  The Russian agent, Korvetsky, was good, but such intelligence wasn't his strong suit. The British did have good men, but somehow this didn't fit their mold. The British still had a penchant for fair play, and General Koo found them too civilized for that approach. Incidentally, according to Koo, it was an annoying habit that often caused them to miss opportunities. No, here he detected a devilish, dark, powerful efficiency that could only point to one person: American Agent N3. General Koo thought for a moment, then found a name: Nick Carter! General Koo stood up and ordered his driver to take him back to the compound where his soldiers had set up a radio station. It had to be Nick Carter, and he was still on Chinese soil. The general realized that Hu Can must be up to something even the high command didn't suspect. The American had been ordered to destroy Hu Can's base. Now he was on the run. General Ku almost regretted having to stop him. He deeply admired his skill. But he was a master himself. General Ku established radio contact. "Give me headquarters," he said calmly. "I want two battalions available immediately. They are to cordon off the coastline from Gumenchai along the Hu Strait. Yes, two battalions, that's enough. This is simply a precaution in case I'm wrong. The man probably chose a different direction. I don't expect him to do that, it's so obvious."
  
  
  Then General Ku requested to contact the Air Force, his tone now measured and sharp. "Yes, one of my regular army trucks. It should already be near Kung Tu, heading for the east coast. Indeed, this is an absolute priority. No, definitely not the planes; they're too fast and won't find a single vehicle in the hills. Okay, I'm waiting for more information."
  
  
  General Ku returned to his car. It would be good if the American were brought back alive. He wanted to meet this man. But he knew the chances were slim. He hoped that from now on, the high command would be more cautious with its special projects and leave all missiles and their security equipment in the hands of the regular army.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  Anya and Alexi woke up. Their eyes were shining, and Nick was happy to see it. The heavy car rumbled across the road, and so far they'd made good progress. He decided to test the girls a bit, to see how they would react. He still wasn't sure how much damage Hu Can's torture had done to them.
  
  
  "Alexie," he replied. Her face appeared in the hatch between the cargo bed and the driver's cabin. "Remember when you asked me what it was like in America? When we slept in the cave?
  
  
  Alexi frowned. "What?" She was clearly trying to remember.
  
  
  "You asked about Greenwich Village," he insisted. "What it was like living there."
  
  
  "Oh yes," she answered slowly. "Yes, now I remember."
  
  
  "Would you like to live in America?" Nick asked, watching her expression in the rearview mirror. Her face lit up, and she smiled dreamily.
  
  
  "I think so, Nick," she said. "I've thought about it. Yes, actually, I think it would be a good idea.
  
  
  "Then we'll talk about it later," he replied. For now, he was relieved. She had recovered, at least psychologically. She could remember things and see connections. And since they were so similar, Nick suspected Anya would be fine too. At least that vile device hadn't done any serious damage to their brains. But he couldn't forget the poor Polish girl in the basement. She might be able to think normally, but she was emotionally crippled, an irreparable wreck. He knew there was only one way to find out. But now was the wrong time and the wrong place. And under these circumstances, he could only make things worse.
  
  
  His mind was so focused on the twins that he didn't notice the pulsing sound until the helicopter passed almost directly overhead. He looked up and saw the Chinese Air Force star on it. The helicopter dropped quickly, and Nick spotted the machine gun barrel just in time. He turned the wheel and began zigzagging, though there was barely room for it on the narrow road. A volley of machine gun fire rang out. He knew Alexi and Anya were lying on the floor, and he heard no sounds that would indicate either of them had been hit. The vehicle now passed a line of trees, whose upper branches blocked the road like a gate, but as soon as they emerged from beneath them, the helicopter was overhead again. Nick glanced at the cockpit. The gunfire stopped, and a crew member spoke into the radio.
  
  
  Nick drove with a grim expression. He would drive as long as possible. They should be close to shore by now. He wondered how the hell they knew he was planning to escape here. Now he drove like hell, the throttle on the limit, turning on two wheels. He wasn't trying to go faster than the helicopter. There was no chance. But he wanted to get as far as possible before they were forced to abandon the car. And Nick was sure that moment would come soon. The moment came sooner than he thought, when out of the corner of his eye he saw half a dozen dots appear in the sky. They were getting bigger, and they were helicopters too. Bigger! And maybe with missiles!
  
  
  "Get ready to jump!" he called back, and heard Alexi and Anya jump to their feet.
  
  
  Nick stopped the car, and they jumped out. They dove into an embankment, which was fortunately overgrown with trees, and ran. If they had stayed in the shadow of the dense undergrowth and thick trees, they might have stayed out of the helicopters' sight. The army vehicle had proven its worth, but now it was becoming more of an obstacle.
  
  
  They ran like hares chased by hounds. Alexi and Anya couldn't keep up the pace for long. Their breathing was already irregular, and they were clearly out of breath. They fell into a narrow depression in the ground where the grass was five feet high. The girls huddled as tightly as they could and covered their heads with their hands. Nick saw helicopters circling the army truck, and from three of them, he saw white clouds of deploying parachutes. He straightened a little more and looked around. Paratroopers were also jumping from other helicopters.
  
  
  Nick realized they had to be spotted this way. If they moved too quickly, the helicopters would immediately pin them down. Nick peered through the tall grass at the paratroopers slowly descending. He'd always felt that this strange depression with the hills on either side seemed familiar, and suddenly he knew with certainty where they were. This was where the child had found them. A small farm had to be nearby. Nick briefly considered the point of running to the farm, but that would only delay his execution. This was undoubtedly one of the first places the paratroopers had gone to search. He felt a hand on his sleeve. It was Alexi.
  
  
  "We'll stay here and lure them in," she said. "Only you can do that, Nick. It's not far from shore anymore. Don't expect anything more from us. We've done our job."
  
  
  Leave them here! Nick knew she was right. He could do it himself, especially if they had attracted the attention of the paratroopers. And if he hadn't already accomplished his mission, he undoubtedly would have. He would have sacrificed them if it had been necessary. He knew it, and they knew it too. But now the situation was different. The mission was accomplished, and together they had brought it to a successful conclusion. They had helped him, and now he would not abandon them. He leaned toward Alexi and lifted her chin. "No, dear," he said, returning her stubborn gaze. Nick Carter looked grimly at the descending paratroopers. They had formed a ring around the depression and in a few moments would have completely surrounded them. And the shore was still at least five hundred yards away. He grabbed his rifle when he saw the grass move to their right. It was a subtle movement, but undeniable. Now the grass rustled distinctly, and a second later, to his great surprise, he saw the face of a little farm boy.
  
  
  "Don't shoot," the boy said. "Please." Nick lowered the gun as the boy crawled toward them.
  
  
  "I know you want to escape," he said simply. "I'll show you the way. At the edge of the hill is the beginning of an underground tunnel with a stream running through it. It's wide enough for you to crawl through."
  
  
  Nick eyed the boy suspiciously. His small face showed nothing, no excitement, no hatred, nothing at all. He could drive them into the paratroopers' embrace. Nick looked up. Time was ticking, all the paratroopers had already landed. There was no longer any chance of escape.
  
  
  "We'll follow you," Nick said. Even if the child wanted to betray them, it would be better than just sitting here and waiting. They could try to fight their way out, but Nick knew the paratroopers were well-trained soldiers. These weren't amateurs hand-picked by Hu Can, but regular Chinese troops. The boy turned and ran, Nick and the twins following. The boy led them to the brush-covered edge of a hill. He stopped near a stand of pine trees and pointed.
  
  
  "Beyond the pines," he said, "you will find a stream and an opening in the hill."
  
  
  "Go ahead," Nick said to the girls. "I'll be there."
  
  
  He turned to the boy and saw that his eyes still showed nothing. He wanted to read what was behind it.
  
  
  "Why?" he asked simply.
  
  
  The boy's expression did not change as he replied, "You let us live. I have paid my debt now."
  
  
  Nick extended his hand. The boy looked at it for a moment, studied the enormous hand that could erase his life, then turned and ran. The boy refused to shake his hand. Perhaps he would grow up an enemy and hate Nick's people; perhaps not.
  
  
  Now it was Nick's turn to hurry. As he darted into the bushes, he exposed his face to sharp pine needles. There was indeed a stream and a narrow tunnel. He could barely fit his shoulders into it. The tunnel was meant for children and perhaps slender women. But he would persevere if he had to dig further with his bare hands. He heard the girls already crawling into the tunnel. His back began to bleed as he tore himself apart on the sharp, protruding rocks, and after a while he had to stop to wipe the dirt and blood from his eyes. The air became dirty and stuffy, but the cool water was a blessing. He dipped his head in it to refresh himself whenever he felt his strength waning. His ribs ached, and his legs cramped from being constantly exposed to the icy water. He was at the end of his strength when he felt a cool breeze and saw the winding tunnel brighten and widen as he advanced. Sunlight and fresh air hit him in the face as he emerged from the tunnel, and to his great surprise, he saw the shore ahead. Alexi and Anya lay exhausted in the grass at the tunnel entrance, trying to catch their breath.
  
  
  "Oh, Nick," Alexi said, propping herself up on her elbow. "Maybe it's no use anyway. We don't have the strength to swim anymore. If only we could find somewhere to hide here to spend the night. Maybe tomorrow morning we can..."
  
  
  "No way," Nick said softly but firmly. "When they find out we've escaped, they'll search every inch of the coastline. But I hope there are a few more pleasant surprises in store for us. First of all, didn't we have a small boat here in the bushes, or have you forgotten?"
  
  
  "Yeah, I forgot," Alexi replied as they sped down the hill. "But what if that boat was lost? What if someone found it and took it?
  
  
  "Then you'll have to swim, dear, whether you like it or not," Nick said. "But don't worry yet. I'll swim for the three of us if necessary."
  
  
  But the boat was still there, and with a combined effort they pushed it into the water. It was already getting dark, but the paratroopers already realized they had managed to escape encirclement. This meant the helicopters would begin searching again and might soon appear over the shoreline. Nick wasn't sure whether he should hope for darkness soon or for the light to remain, making them easier to find. But not by helicopters.
  
  
  He paddled frantically, trying to get as far away from the shore as possible. The sun was slowly setting in the sky, a bright red ball, when Nick saw the first black dots appear on the horizon above the shore. Although they had already covered quite a distance, Nick feared it wouldn't be enough. If these black bitches would just fly in the right direction for a moment, they couldn't hope to remain unnoticed for long. He watched as two helicopters began to glide low over the shoreline, as low as they dared, so that their rotor blades seemed almost motionless. Then one of them lifted off and began circling above the water. It made a half-turn and flew toward them. They had spotted something on the water.
  
  
  "He'll definitely see us," Nick said grimly. "He'll appear low enough to be sure. When he's above us, we'll give him full power with all the ammunition we have left. Maybe we'll fight him off after all."
  
  
  As Nick predicted, the helicopter began to descend as it approached them, and finally nosedived. As it passed directly over their boat, they opened fire. The range was close enough that they could see a series of deadly holes tearing through the plane's belly. It flew another hundred yards, began to turn, and exploded with a deafening thud.
  
  
  The helicopter crashed into the water in a plume of smoke and flame, the wreckage shaking from the waves that had caused the impact. But now there were other waves. They came from the other direction, tilting the boat dangerously.
  
  
  Nick saw it first: a black colossus rising from the depths like a sinister black snake. But this snake bore the white insignia of the U.S. Navy, and sailors were jumping out of the open hatch and throwing ropes to them. Nick grabbed one of the ropes and pulled them toward the submarine. The commander was on deck when Nick climbed aboard after the twins.
  
  
  "I was afraid you wouldn't let us find you," Nick said. "And I'm damn glad to see you!"
  
  
  "Welcome aboard," said the officer. "Commander Johnson, USS Barracuda." He glanced at the approaching fleet of helicopters. "We better get below deck," he said. "We want to get out of here as quickly as possible and without further incident." Once below deck, Nick heard the sound of the conning tower closing and the increasing roar of the engines as the submarine quickly sank into deep water.
  
  
  "With our measuring equipment, we were able to record the explosions in detail," Commander Johnson explained. "It must have been quite a show."
  
  
  "I would have liked to be more distant," Nick said.
  
  
  "When Lu Shi's family didn't show up, we knew something was wrong, but we could only wait and see. After dealing with the explosions, we sent submarines to two locations where we could expect you: the Hu Canal and here in Taya Wan. We watched the coast day and night. When we saw a boat approaching, we hesitated to act immediately because it wasn't yet absolutely certain it was you. The Chinese can be very cunning. It would have been like sending a decoy to make us show our faces. But when we saw you shoot down the helicopter, we were already sure."
  
  
  Nick relaxed and took a deep breath. He looked at Alexi and Anya. They were tired, and their faces showed extreme tension, but there was also relief in their eyes. He arranged for them to be transported to their cabins and then continued his conversation with the commander.
  
  
  "We're going to Taiwan," the officer said. "And from there, you can fly to the United States. And what about your Russian colleagues? We can guarantee they'll be delivered to their desired destination."
  
  
  "We'll talk about that tomorrow, Commander," Nick replied. "Now I'll enjoy the phenomenon they call a bed, although in this case it's a submarine cabin. Good evening, Commander."
  
  
  "You did well, N3," the commander said. Nick nodded, saluted, and turned around. He was tired, dead tired. He would have been glad if he could have slept without fear aboard an American ship.
  
  
  Somewhere in a field command post, General Ku, commander of the 3rd Army of the People's Republic of China, slowly blew out smoke from a cigar. On the desk before him lay reports from his men, the Air Force Command, and the Special Airborne Unit. General Ku sighed deeply and wondered if the leaders in Beijing would ever find out about this. Perhaps they were so caught up in the workings of their propaganda machine that they couldn't think clearly at all. He smiled in the privacy of his room. Although there was really no reason to smile, he couldn't help it. He always admired masters. It was nice to lose to that N3.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  Formosa Airport was bustling with activity. Alexi and Anya were dressed in new dresses bought in Taiwan, and now they met Nick in the small reception area, refreshed and attractive. They had talked for over an hour, and now Nick asked again. He didn't want any misunderstandings. He asked, "So, we understand each other well?" "I'd like Alexi to come to America with me, and she says she would. Is that clear?"
  
  
  "That's obvious," Anya replied. "And I want to go back to Russia. Alexi always wanted to see America. I never had that desire."
  
  
  "The people in Moscow will never be able to demand her return because, as far as anyone in Washington knows, they sent only one agent, and I am sending one back: you."
  
  
  "Yes," Anya said. "I'm tired. And I've had more than enough of this job, Nick Carter. And I'll explain to them what Alexi thinks."
  
  
  "Please, Anya," Alexie said. "You have to let them know that I'm not a traitor. That I won't spy for them. I just want to go to America and try to live my life. I want to go to Greenwich Village, and I want to see Buffalo and the Indians."
  
  
  An announcement over the loudspeaker suddenly interrupted their conversation.
  
  
  "This is your plane, Anya," Nick said.
  
  
  He shook her hand and tried to read her eyes. They still weren't one hundred percent right. They still weren't the same as when he first saw them; there was something melancholy about them. It was subtle, but he didn't miss it. He knew they would scrutinize her when she arrived in Moscow, and he decided he would do the same with Alexi when they arrived in New York.
  
  
  Anya left, accompanied by two Marines. She stopped at the plane's entrance and turned around. She waved briefly, then disappeared inside. Nick took Alexi's hand, but he immediately felt her tense, and she pulled her hand away. He let go immediately.
  
  
  "Come on, Alexi," he said. "We have a plane waiting for us too."
  
  
  The flight to New York was uneventful. Alexie seemed very agitated and talked a lot, but he sensed it, somehow she wasn't herself. He knew all too well what was wrong, and he felt both gloomy and furious. He'd sent a telegram in advance, and Hawk picked them up at the airport. Upon arrival at Kennedy Airport, Alexie was as excited as a child, though she seemed impressed by New York's tall buildings. At the AXE building, she was taken to a room where a team of specialists awaited her for an examination. Nick escorted Hawk to his room, where a folded piece of paper awaited him on the desk.
  
  
  Nick opened it and pulled out a roast beef sandwich with a smile. Hawk looked at it laconically, lighting his pipe.
  
  
  "Thanks," Nick said, taking a bite. "You just forgot the ketchup."
  
  
  For a split second, he saw Hawk's eyes flash. "I'm so sorry," the older man said calmly. "I'll think about it next time. What will happen to the girl?"
  
  
  "I'll set her up with some people," Nick said. "Some Russians I know in New York. She'll adapt quickly. She's quite smart. And she has a lot of other abilities."
  
  
  "I've been on the phone with the Russians," Hawk said, tapping the receiver against the ashtray and wincing. "Sometimes I can't help but be amazed at them. They were all so kind and helpful at first. And now that it's all over, they're back to their old ways-cold, businesslike, and reserved. I gave them plenty of chances to say whatever they wanted, but they never said more than was absolutely necessary. They never mentioned the girl."
  
  
  "The thaw was temporary, Chief," Nick said. "It will take a lot more to make it permanent."
  
  
  The door opened and one of the doctors came in. He said something to Hawk.
  
  
  "Thank you," Hawk told him. "That's all. And please tell Ms. Lyubov that Mr. Carter will pick her up at the front desk.
  
  
  He turned to Nick. "I've reserved an apartment for you in the Plaza, on one of the top floors overlooking the park. Here are the keys. You've had a little fun, at our expense.
  
  
  Nick nodded, took his keys, and left the room. He didn't tell Hawk or anyone else about the details of Hu Can's toy. He wanted him to be as confident as Hawk that he could relax at the Plaza with Alexi for the next week.
  
  
  He picked up Alexi from the reception desk, and they walked out of the building side by side, but Nick didn't dare take her hand. She seemed happy and excited to him, and he decided it would be best to have lunch with her first. They walked to the Forum. After lunch, they took a taxi that took them through Central Park to the Plaza Hotel.
  
  
  The room Hawk booked was more than spacious, and Alexi was very impressed.
  
  
  "It's yours for a week," Nick said. "Something like a gift, you could say. But don't think right now that you can live out the rest of your life in America like this."
  
  
  Alexi walked up to him, her eyes shining. "I know it too," she said. "Oh, Nick, I'm so happy. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be alive right now. What can I do to thank you?"
  
  
  He was a little taken aback by the directness of her question, but decided to take a chance. "I want to make love to you," he said. "I want you to let me take you."
  
  
  She turned away from him, and Nick saw beneath her blouse how her luscious breasts rose and fell violently. He noticed that she was moving her hands restlessly.
  
  
  "I'm scared, Nick," she said, her eyes wide. "I'm scared."
  
  
  He approached her, wanting to touch her. She shuddered and moved away from him. He knew what to do. It was the only way. He was still an aroused, sensual being, at least that didn't change his attitude toward Hu Zan. He remembered their first night in Hong Kong, when he noticed how the slightest sexual arousal made her more and more aroused. He wouldn't force her now. He would have to be patient and wait for her own desire to take over. When necessary, Nick could be a very gentle partner. When necessary, he could adapt to the demands and difficulties of the moment and fully respond to his partner's needs. In his life, he had taken many women. Some desired him from the first touch, others resisted, and some discovered new games with him that they had never even dreamed of. But tonight, a special problem arose, and he was determined to solve it. Not for his own sake, but especially for Alexi's.
  
  
  Nick crossed the room, turning off all the lights except for a small table lamp, which cast a soft glow. The large window let in moonlight and the inevitable city lights. Nick knew there was enough light for Alexi to see him, but at the same time, the dim lighting created a disturbing yet calming atmosphere.
  
  
  Alexi sat on the sofa and looked out the window. Nick stood in front of her and began to painfully slowly remove his clothes. When he had removed his shirt and his powerful, broad chest glistened in the moonlight, he approached her. He stood before her and saw her cast timid glances at his bare torso. He placed his hand on her neck and turned her head toward him. She was breathing heavily, her breasts pressed tightly against the thin fabric of her blouse. But she didn't flinch, and now her gaze was direct and open.
  
  
  He slowly removed his pants and placed her hand on his chest. Then he pressed her head against his abs. He felt her hand on his chest slowly move toward his back, allowing him to pull him closer. Then he began to slowly and gently undress her, pressing her head against his stomach. She lay down and spread her legs so he could easily remove her skirt. Then he removed her bra and squeezed one of her beautiful breasts firmly and reassuringly. For a moment, Nick felt a convulsion run through her body, but he slipped his hand under the soft breast and ran his fingertips over her nipple. Her eyes were half closed, but Nick saw that she was looking at him with her mouth half open. Then he stood up and removed his briefs so that he stood naked in front of her. He smiled when he saw her extend her hand to him. Her hand trembled, but her passion overcame her resistance. Then suddenly she let herself attack him, hugging him tightly and rubbing her breasts against his body as she fell to her knees.
  
  
  "Oh, Nick, Nick," she cried. "I think it's a yes, yes... but first, let me touch you a little." Nick held her tightly as she explored his body with her hands, mouth, and tongue. It was as if she had found something she had lost long ago, and was now remembering it little by little.
  
  
  Nick leaned over, placed his hands between her thighs, and carried her to the couch. She no longer resisted, and there was no trace of fear in her eyes. As his strength grew, she immersed herself in lovemaking, letting out cries of excitement. Nick continued to treat her tenderly, and he felt a sense of kindness and happiness he had rarely experienced before.
  
  
  When Alexi came up and hugged him with her soft, warm body, he gently stroked her blond hair, feeling relief and satisfaction.
  
  
  "I'm okay, Nick," she said quietly in his ear, laughing and sobbing at the same time. "I'm still perfectly healthy."
  
  
  "You're more than fine, darling," he laughed. "You're wonderful." He thought of Anya. They were both thinking of Anya, and he knew she was as fine as ever. She would find out sooner or later.
  
  
  "Oh, Nicky," Alexi said, snuggling into his chest. "I love you, Nick Carter. I love you."
  
  
  Nick laughed. "So it'll still be a good week at the Plaza."
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the book:
  
  
  
  
  
  Hu Can is China's leading nuclear scientist. He has achieved such a position in China that virtually no one can restrain him. I could go on.
  
  
  It's not so bad, Nick. The worst part is that Hu Zan is no ordinary scientist, but, first and foremost, a man who harbors an unimaginable hatred for everything Western. Not just the US, but Russia as well.
  
  Now we know for sure he'll soon take action on his own, Nick. You go to China, get help from two Russian agents there, and you need to take this guy out. I think this will be your hardest job yet, Nick...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lev Shklovsky
  Defector
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Defector
  
  Chapter One.
  
  The sun always shines in Acapulco. In a small hotel room overlooking a white-sand beach, Nick Carter, AXE's number one assassin, watched the setting sun's red orb burst over the sea. He loved the spectacle and rarely missed it, but he'd been in Acapulco for a month now and felt a lingering sense of unease brewing within him.
  
  Hawk insisted on taking a vacation this time, and Nick was initially in favor. But a month was too long for idleness. He needed a mission.
  
  Killmaster turned away from the window, already darkening in the twilight, and looked at the ugly black phone on the nightstand. He almost wished it would ring.
  
  There was a rustle of sheets behind him. Nick completed his turn to face the bed. Laura Best extended her long, tanned arms to him.
  
  "Again, dear," she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.
  
  Nick stepped into her arms, his powerful chest crushing her perfectly formed, bare breasts. He brushed his lips over hers, tasting the tang of sleep on her breath. Laura moved her lips impatiently. With her toes, she pulled the sheet between them. The movement thrilled them both. Laura Best knew how to make love. Her legs, like her breasts-indeed, like her entire being-were perfectly formed. Her face held a childlike beauty, combining innocence and wisdom, and sometimes, open desire. Nick Carter had never known a more perfect woman. She was everything to all men. She had beauty. She was rich, thanks to the oil fortune her father left her. She had brains. She was one of the most beautiful people in the world, or, as Nick preferred, in the remains of Jetset. Making love was her sport, her hobby, her calling. For the past three weeks, she'd been telling her international friends how madly in love she was with Arthur Porges, a buyer and seller of government surplus goods. Arthur Porges turned out to be Nick Carter's real cover.
  
  Nick Carter also had few equals in the realm of lovemaking. Few things satisfied him as much as making love to a beautiful woman. Making love to Laura Best satisfied him completely. And still...
  
  "Ouch!" Laura cried. "Now, darling! Now!" She arched toward him, running her nails down his muscular back.
  
  And when they had completed their lovemaking together, she went limp and, breathing heavily, fell away from him.
  
  She opened her big brown eyes, looking at him. "God, that was good! That was even better." Her eyes slid down his chest. "You never get tired, do you?"
  
  Nick smiled. "I'm getting tired." He lay down next to her, pulled one of his gold-tipped cigarettes from the nightstand, lit it, and handed it to her.
  
  Laura propped herself up on her elbow to get a better look at his face. She shook her head, looking at her cigarette. "A woman who tires you out must be more of a woman than I am."
  
  "No," Nick said. He said it partly because he believed it and partly because he thought it was what she wanted to hear.
  
  She returned his smile. He was right.
  
  "That was clever of you," she said, running her index finger down his nose. "You always say the right thing at the right time, don't you?"
  
  Nick took a deep drag on his cigarette. "You're a woman who knows men, I'll give you that." And he was a man who knew women.
  
  Laura Best studied him, her large eyes gleaming with a distant light. Her chestnut-colored hair fell over her left shoulder, almost covering her breasts. Her index finger slid lightly across his lips, his throat; she placed her palm on his massive chest. Finally, she said, "You know I love you, don't you?"
  
  Nick didn't want the conversation to go the way it did. When he first met Laura, she advised him not to expect too much. Their relationship would be purely for laughs. They thoroughly enjoyed each other, and when that faded, they parted as good friends. No emotional hangups, no tacky theatrics. She followed him, and he followed her. They made love and had fun. Period. That was the philosophy of beautiful people. And Nick more than agreed. He was taking a break between assignments. Laura was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. Fun was the name of the game.
  
  But lately she had become capricious. At twenty-two, she had already been married and divorced three times. She spoke of her past husbands the way a hunter speaks of his trophies. For Laura to love, Laura had to possess. And for Nick, this was the only flaw in her perfection.
  
  "Isn't that right?" Laura repeated, her eyes searching his.
  
  Nick crushed a cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. "Do you feel like floating in the moonlight?" he asked.
  
  Laura plopped down on the bed next to him. "Damn! Can't you tell when I'm trying to propose?"
  
  "What should I suggest?"
  
  "Marriage, of course. I want you to marry me to get me away from all this."
  
  Nick chuckled. "Let's go swimming in the moonlight."
  
  Laura didn't smile back. "Not until I get an answer."
  
  The phone rang.
  
  Nick moved toward him with relief. Laura grabbed his hand, holding it.
  
  "You won't pick up the phone until I get an answer."
  
  With his free hand, Nick easily loosened
  
  
  
  
  
  her tight grip on his arm. He picked up the phone, hoping to hear Hawk's voice.
  
  "Art, my dear," said a female voice with a slight German accent. "Can I speak to Laura, please?"
  
  Nick recognized the voice as Sonny, another Jet-Set survivor. He handed the phone to Laura. "This is Sonny."
  
  Laura jumped out of bed in a rage, stuck her tongue out at Nick, and put the phone to her ear. "Damn you, Sonny. You picked a hell of a time to call.
  
  Nick stood by the window and looked out, but he couldn't see the white caps faintly visible above the dark sea. He knew this would be the last night he would spend with Laura. Whether Hawk called or not, their relationship was over. Nick was a little angry with himself for letting it go as far as it had.
  
  Laura hung up. "We're taking a boat to Puerta Vallarta in the morning." She said it easily, naturally. She was making plans. "I think I should start packing." She pulled up her panties and lifted her bra. Her face had a concentrated expression, as if she was thinking hard.
  
  Nick went to his cigarettes and lit another one. This time he didn't offer her one.
  
  "Okay?" Laura asked, clasping her bra.
  
  "Good what?"
  
  "When are we getting married?"
  
  Nick almost choked on the cigarette smoke he inhaled.
  
  "Puerta Vallarta would be a good place," she continued. She was still making plans.
  
  The phone rang again.
  
  Nick picked it up. "Yeah?"
  
  He recognized Hawk's voice immediately. "Mr. Porges?
  
  "Yes."
  
  "This is Thompson. I understand you have forty tons of pig iron for sale.
  
  "This is right."
  
  "If the price is right, I might be interested in buying ten tons of this product. Do you know where my office is?"
  
  "Yes," Nick answered with a wide smile. Hawk wanted him at ten o'clock. But ten o'clock today or tomorrow morning? "Will tomorrow morning be enough?" he asked.
  
  "Okay," Hawk hesitated. "I have a few meetings tomorrow."
  
  Nick didn't need to speak anymore. Whatever the chieftain had in store for him, it was urgent. Killmaster glanced at Laura. Her beautiful face was tense. She watched him with concern.
  
  "I'll take the next plane out of here," he said.
  
  "This will be great."
  
  They hung up together.
  
  Nick turned to Laura. If she had been Georgette, or Sui Ching, or any of Nick's other girlfriends, she would have pouted and made a small fuss. But they parted as friends and promised each other that next time it would last longer. But with Laura, it hadn't worked out that way. He'd never known anyone like her. With her, it had to be all or nothing. She was rich and spoiled and used to having her own way.
  
  Laura looked beautiful standing in her bra and panties, her hand on her hips.
  
  "So?" she said, raising her eyebrows. Her face held the expression of a small child looking at what she wanted to take away from her.
  
  Nick wanted to make this as painless and short as possible. "If you're going to Puerta Vallarta, you better start packing. Goodbye, Laura.
  
  Her hands fell to her sides. Her lower lip began to tremble slightly. "Then it's over?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Fully?"
  
  "Exactly," Nick knew she could never be another one of his girls. The break with her had to be final. He stubbed out the cigarette he'd just smoked and waited. If she was going to explode, he was ready.
  
  Laura shrugged, gave him a weak smile, and began unhooking her bra. "Then let's make this last time the best," she said.
  
  They made love, tenderly at first, then furiously, each taking from the other all that could be given. This was their last time together; they both knew it. And Laura cried the whole time, tears streaming down her temples, wetting the pillow beneath her. But she was right. This was the best.
  
  At ten minutes past ten, Nick Carter walked into a small office in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on Dupont Circle. It was snowing in Washington, D.C., and the shoulders of his coat were damp. The office smelled of stale cigar smoke, but the short, black cigarette butt lodged between Hawk's teeth failed to ignite.
  
  Hawk sat at the dimly lit table, his icy eyes studying Nick carefully. He watched as Nick hung up his coat and sat down across from him.
  
  Nick had already filed Laura Best, along with his Arthur Porges cover, into his mind's memory bank. He could recall the memory whenever he wanted, but more likely, he simply lingered there. He was now Nick Carter, N3, Killmaster for AX. Pierre, his tiny gas bomb, hung in its favorite spot between his legs like a third testicle. Hugo's slim stiletto was firmly secured to his arm, ready to slip into his grasp should he need it. And Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger, nestled snugly under his left armpit. His mind was tuned to Hawk, his muscular body eager for action. He was armed and ready to go.
  
  Hawk closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. He pulled the ugly black cigarette butt from his mouth, examined it with disgust, and tossed it into the trash can next to his desk. Almost immediately, he clamped another cigar between his teeth, his leathery face clouded with smoke.
  
  "Nick, I have a difficult task for you," he said suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick didn't even try to hide his smile. They both knew N3 always had the toughest assignments.
  
  Hawk continued, "Does the word 'melanoma' mean anything to you?"
  
  Nick remembered reading that word once. "Something to do with skin pigment, right?"
  
  A satisfied smile appeared on Hawk's genial face. "Close enough," he said. He opened the folder in front of him. "Don't let those ten-dollar words fool you." He began to read. "In 1966, using an electron microscope, Professor John Lu discovered a method for isolating and characterizing skin diseases such as melanoma, cellular blue nevus, albinism, and others. While this discovery was important in itself, the true value of this discovery was that by understanding and isolating these diseases, it became easier to diagnose more serious illnesses." Hawk looked at Nick from the folder. "That was in 1966."
  
  Nick leaned forward, waiting. He knew the chief was up to something. He also knew everything Hawk had said was important. Cigar smoke hung in the small office like a blue fog.
  
  "Until yesterday," Hawk said, "Professor Lu was working as a dermatologist on NASA's Venus program. Working with ultraviolet and other forms of radiation, he was perfecting a compound superior to benzophenones in protecting the skin from harmful rays. If he's successful, he'll have a compound that protects skin from sun damage, blisters, heat, and radiation." Hawk closed the folder. "I don't need to tell you the value of such a compound."
  
  Nick's brain absorbed the information. No, he didn't need to speak. His value to NASA was obvious. In the tiny cabins of spacecraft, astronauts were sometimes exposed to harmful rays. With the new compound, the rays could be neutralized. From a medical perspective, its applications could extend to blisters and burns. The possibilities seemed limitless.
  
  But Hawk said until yesterday. "What happened yesterday?" Killmaster asked.
  
  Hawk stood and walked to the gloomy window. In the light snowfall and darkness, there was nothing to see but the reflection of his own wiry body, clad in a loose, rumpled suit. He took a deep drag on his cigar and blew smoke at the reflection. "Yesterday, Professor John Lu flew to Hong Kong." The chief turned to Nick. "Yesterday, Professor John Lu announced he was defecting to Chi Corns!"
  
  Nick lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. He understood the gravity of such a defection. If the compound had been perfected in China, its most obvious value would have been to protect the skin from nuclear radiation. China already had a hydrogen bomb. Such protection could be a green light for them to use their bombs. "Does anyone know why the professor decided to leave?" Nick asked.
  
  Hawk shrugged. "Nobody-not NASA, not the FBI, not the CIA-nobody can come up with a reason. The day before yesterday, he went to work, and the day went normally. Yesterday, he announced in Hong Kong that he was going to defect. We know where he is, but he doesn't want to see anyone."
  
  "What about his past?" Nick asked. "Anything communist?"
  
  The cigar went out. Hawk chewed on it as he spoke. "Nothing. He's Chinese-American, born in San Francisco's Chinatown. He got his PhD at Berkeley, married a girl he met there, went to work for NASA in 1967. He has a twelve-year-old son. Like most scientists, he has no political interests. He's devoted to two things: his work and his family. His son plays Little League. On vacation, he takes his family deep-sea fishing in the Gulf in their eighteen-foot outboard boat." The chief leaned back in his chair. "No, nothing in his background."
  
  Killmaster stubbed out his cigarette. Thick smoke hung in the tiny office. The radiator created a humid heat, and Nick felt himself sweating slightly. "It must be either work or family," he said.
  
  Hawk nodded. "I understand. However, we have a small problem. The CIA has informed us that they have no intention of allowing him to work on that facility in China. If the Chi Korns get their hands on him, the CIA will send an agent to kill him."
  
  Nick came up with something similar. It wasn't uncommon. AXE even did it sometimes. When all else failed to bring back a defector, and if they were important enough, the final step was to kill them. If the agent didn't return, too bad. Agents were optional.
  
  "The thing is," Hawk said, "NASA wants him back. He's a brilliant scientist and young enough that what he's working on now will only be the beginning." He smiled humorlessly at Nick. "That's your assignment, N3. Use something short of kidnapping, but get him back!"
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  Hawk pulled the cigar butt from his mouth. It joined the other one in the trash can. "Professor Lu had a fellow dermatologist at NASA. They were good work friends, but for security reasons, they never got together. His name is Chris Wilson. This will be your cover. It could open a door for you in Hong Kong."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What about the professor's family?" Nick asked.
  
  "As far as we know, his wife is still in Orlando. We'll give you her address. However, she's already been interviewed and couldn't give us anything useful.
  
  "It wouldn't hurt to try."
  
  Hawk's icy gaze held approval. N3 accepted little in return for words. Nothing was complete until he personally tried it. It was the only reason Nick Carter was AXE's number one agent. "Our departments are at your disposal," Hawk said. "Get whatever you need. Good luck, Nick."
  
  Nick was already standing. "I'll do my best, sir." He knew the chief never expected more or less than he could.
  
  At AXE's special effects and editing department, Nick was given two disguises he thought he'd need. One was Chris Wilson, which simply involved clothing, some padding, and a few tweaks to his mannerisms. The other, which would be used later, was a bit more complex. He kept everything he needed-clothing and makeup-in a secret compartment in his luggage.
  
  In Documents, he memorized a two-hour tape-recorded lecture about Chris Wilson's work at NASA, as well as everything his personal AX knew about the man. He obtained the necessary passport and documents.
  
  By midday, a slightly plump, colorful new Chris Wilson boarded Flight 27, a Boeing 707, to Orlando, Florida.
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  As the plane circled Washington before turning south, Nick noticed the snow had lightened slightly. Patches of blue sky peeked out from behind the clouds, and as the plane climbed, sunlight lit up his window. He settled into his seat, and when the no-smoking light went out, he lit one of his cigarettes.
  
  Several things seemed odd about Professor Lu's defection. First, why didn't he take his family with him? If the Chi Korns were offering him a better life, it seemed logical that he would want his wife and son to share it with him. Unless, of course, his wife was the reason he fled.
  
  Another mystery was how the Chi Korns knew the professor was working on this skin compound. NASA had a strict security system. Everyone who worked for them was thoroughly vetted. Nevertheless , the Chi Korns knew about the compound and convinced Professor Lu to perfect it for them. How? What could they offer him that the Americans couldn't match?
  
  Nick intended to find answers. He also intended to bring the professor back. If the CIA sent an agent to kill this man, it would mean Nick had failed-and Nick had no intention of failing.
  
  Nick had dealt with defectors before. He'd found that they deserted out of greed, either running away from something, or running toward something. In Professor Lu's case, there could have been several reasons. Number one, of course, was money. Perhaps the Chi Korns had promised him a one-time deal for the complex. Of course, NASA wasn't the highest-paying organization. And anyone can always use an extra scratch.
  
  Then there were the family troubles. Nick supposed that every married man had marital problems at one time or another. Maybe his wife was sleeping with an lover. Maybe Chi Corns had someone better for him. Maybe he simply didn't like his marriage, and this seemed like the easiest way out. Two things were important to him: his family and his work. If he felt his family was falling apart, that might be enough to send him away. If not, then so was his work. As a scientist, he probably demanded a certain freedom in his work. Maybe Chi Corns offered unlimited freedom, unlimited opportunities. That would be a motivating factor for any scientist.
  
  The more Killmaster thought about it, the more possibilities opened up. A man's relationship with his son; overdue bills and threats of repossession; a distaste for American political policy. Anything was possible, possible, and probable.
  
  Of course, the Chi Corns could have actually forced the professor to flee by threatening him. "To hell with it all," Nick thought. As always, he was playing by ear, using his talents, weapons, and wits.
  
  Nick Carter stared at the slowly moving landscape far below his window. He hadn't slept for forty-eight hours. Using yoga, Nick focused on completely relaxing his body. His mind remained tuned to his surroundings, but he forced himself to relax. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell completely relaxed. To everyone watching, he looked like a man in deep sleep, but his eyes were open, and his brain was conscious.
  
  But his relaxation was not destined to happen. The flight attendant interrupted him.
  
  "Are you all right, Mr. Wilson?" she asked.
  
  "Yeah, okay," Nick said, his muscles tensing again.
  
  "I thought you fainted. Should I get you something?"
  
  "No, thank you."
  
  She was a beautiful creature with almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and full, luscious lips. The airline's liberal uniform policy allowed her blouse to cling tightly to her large, prominent breasts. She wore a belt because all airlines required one. But Nick doubted that
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wore one like that except when she was working. Of course, she didn't need it.
  
  The flight attendant blushed under his gaze. Nick's ego was strong enough to know that even with thick glasses and a thick middle, he still had an effect on women.
  
  "We'll be in Orlando soon," she said, her cheeks flushing.
  
  As she moved down the aisle before him, her short skirt revealed long, beautifully tapered legs, and Nick blessed short skirts. For a moment, he considered inviting her to dinner. But he knew there wouldn't be time. Once he finished interviewing Mrs. Lu, he had to board a plane to Hong Kong.
  
  At the small Orlando airport, Nick hid his luggage in a locker and gave the taxi driver the professor's home address. He felt a little uneasy as he settled into the backseat of the taxi. The air was stifling and hot, and even though Nick had shed his coat, he was still wearing a heavy suit. And all that padding around his waist didn't help much either.
  
  The house was sandwiched between other houses, just like the one on either side of the block. Because of the heat, sprinklers were on almost all of them. The lawns looked well-kept and lush green. Water from the gutter flowed down both sides of the street, and the usually white concrete sidewalks were darkened by the moisture from the sprinklers. A short sidewalk stretched from the porch to the curb. As soon as Nick paid the cabbie, he felt himself being watched. It started with the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up. A slight, prickly shiver ran through him, then quickly disappeared. Nick turned toward the house just in time to see the curtain slide back into place. Killmaster knew they were waiting for him.
  
  Nick wasn't particularly interested in the interview, especially with housewives. As Hawk pointed out, she'd already been interviewed and had nothing useful to offer.
  
  As Nick approached the door, he stared at her face, revealing his widest boyish grin. He rang the doorbell once. The door opened immediately, and he found himself face to face with Mrs. John Lou.
  
  "Ms. Lou?" Killmaster asked. When he received a curt nod, he said, "My name is Chris Wilson. I worked with your husband. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment."
  
  "What?" Her brow furrowed.
  
  Nick's smile froze on his face. "Yes. John and I were good friends. I can't understand why he did that."
  
  "I already spoke to someone from NASA." She made no move to open the door wider or invite him in.
  
  "Yes," Nick said. "I'm sure you do." He could understand her hostility. Her husband's departure had been hard enough for her, without the CIA, the FBI, NASA, and now him pestering her. Killmaster felt like the ass he was pretending to be. "If I could just talk to you..." He let the words trail off.
  
  Mrs. Lu took a deep breath. "Great. Come in." She opened the door, stepping back a little.
  
  Once inside, Nick paused awkwardly in the hallway. The house was a little cooler. He looked at Mrs. Lou for the first time.
  
  She was short, just under five feet tall. Nick guessed her age to be somewhere between thirty and thirty. Her raven-black hair hung in thick curls on top of her head, trying to create the illusion of height without quite achieving it. The curves of her body blended smoothly into a roundness that wasn't particularly thick, but heavier than usual. She weighed about twenty-five pounds more. Her oriental eyes were her most striking feature, and she knew it. They were carefully created with just the right amount of liner and eyeshadow. Mrs. Lou wore no lipstick or other makeup. Her ears were pierced, but no earrings dangled from them.
  
  "Please come into the living room," she said.
  
  The living room was furnished with modern furniture and, like the foyer, was covered with a thick carpet. An oriental pattern swirled across the carpet, but Nick noticed that the carpet's pattern was the only oriental pattern in the room.
  
  Mrs. Lou pointed Killmaster to a fragile-looking sofa and sat down in the chair opposite him. "I think I've told the others everything I know."
  
  "I'm sure you did," Nick said, breaking his grin for the first time. "But it's for my conscience. John and I worked closely together. I'd hate to think he did this because of something I said or did."
  
  "I don't think so," Mrs. Lou said.
  
  Like most housewives, Mrs. Lou wore pants. Over the top, she wore a men's shirt that was much too big for her. Nick liked women's baggy shirts, especially those that buttoned in the front. He didn't like women's pants. They belonged with dresses or skirts.
  
  Now seriously, with the smirk completely gone, he said, "Can you think of any reason why John would want to leave?"
  
  "No," she said. "But if it makes you feel any better, I doubt it has anything to do with you."
  
  "Then it must be something here at home."
  
  "I really couldn't say." Mrs. Lu became nervous. She sat with her legs tucked under her and continued to twist her wedding ring around her finger.
  
  Nick's glasses felt heavy on his nose. But they reminded him of who he pretended to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a situation like this, it would be all too easy to start asking questions like Nick Carter. He crossed his legs and rubbed his chin. "I can't shake the feeling that somehow I caused all of this. John loved his job. He was devoted to you and the boy. What could his reasons have been, Mrs. Lou?" she asked impatiently. "Whatever his reasons, I'm sure they were personal."
  
  "Of course," Nick knew she was trying to end this conversation. But he wasn't quite ready yet. "Has anything happened here at home in the last few days?"
  
  "What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed and she studied him carefully. She was wary.
  
  "Marital problems," Nick said bluntly.
  
  Her lips pressed together. "Mr. Wilson, I don't think this is any of your business. Whatever reason my husband has for wanting to leave, it can be found at NASA, not here."
  
  She was angry. Nick was fine. Angry people sometimes said things they wouldn't normally say. "Do you know what he worked on at NASA?"
  
  "Of course not. He never talked about his work."
  
  If she knew nothing about his work, why did she blame NASA for his desire to leave? Was it because she thought their marriage was so good that it should be his job? Nick decided to pursue a different line. "If John runs away, will you and the boy join him?"
  
  Mrs. Lu straightened her legs and sat motionless in the chair. Her palms were sweaty. She alternately rubbed her hands and twisted the ring. She had contained her anger, but she was still nervous. "No," she replied calmly. "I'm American. My place is here."
  
  "What will you do then?"
  
  "Divorce him. Try to find another life for me and the boy."
  
  "I see." Hawk was right. Nick hadn't learned anything here. For some reason, Mrs. Lou was wary.
  
  "Well, I won't waste your time anymore." He stood up, grateful for the chance. "Can I use your phone to call a taxi?"
  
  "Of course." Mrs. Lou seemed to relax a little. Nick could almost see the tension drain from her face.
  
  As Killmaster was about to pick up the phone, he heard a door slam somewhere in the back of the house. A few seconds later, a boy burst into the living room.
  
  "Mom, I..." The boy saw Nick and froze. He glanced quickly at his mother.
  
  "Mike," Mrs. Lu said, nervous again. "This is Mr. Wilson. He worked with your father. He's here to ask questions about your father. Do you understand, Mike? He's here to ask questions about your father." She emphasized those last words.
  
  "I understand," Mike said. He looked at Nick, his eyes as wary as his mother's.
  
  Nick smiled kindly at the boy. "Hi, Mike."
  
  "Hello." Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. A baseball glove hung from his belt. The resemblance to his mother was obvious.
  
  "Want a little practice?" Nick asked, pointing to the glove.
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  Nick took a chance. He took two steps and stood between the boy and his mother. "Tell me, Mike," he said. "Do you know why your father left?"
  
  The boy closed his eyes. "My father left because of his work." It sounded well rehearsed.
  
  "Did you get along with your father?"
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  Mrs. Lou stood up. "I think you'd better leave," she said to Nick.
  
  Killmaster nodded. He picked up the phone and called a taxi. When he hung up, he turned to the couple. Something was wrong. They both knew more than they were letting on. Nick assumed it was one of two things. Either they were both planning to join the professor, or they were the reason he was running away. One thing was clear: he wouldn't learn anything from them. They didn't believe him or trust him. All they told him were their pre-rehearsed speeches.
  
  Nick decided to leave them in a state of mild shock. "Ms. Lu, I'm flying to Hong Kong to talk to John. Any messages?"
  
  She blinked, and for a moment her expression changed. But a moment passed, and the wary look returned. "No messages," she said.
  
  A taxi stopped on the street and honked its horn. Nick headed for the door. "No need to show me the way out." He felt them watching him until he closed the door behind him. Outside, in the heat again, he felt rather than saw the curtain slide back from the window. They watched him as the taxi pulled away from the curb.
  
  In the stifling heat, Nick rolled toward the airport again and removed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He wasn't used to wearing them. The gelatinous lining around his waist, shaped like part of his skin, felt like a plastic bag. No air reached his skin, and he found himself sweating profusely. The Florida heat wasn't like the heat in Mexico.
  
  Nick's thoughts were filled with unanswered questions. These two were an odd couple. Not once during their visit had Mrs. Lou mentioned wanting her husband back. And she had no message for him. This meant she would probably join him later. But that also sounded wrong. Their attitude suggested they thought he was already gone, and gone forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, there was something else here, something he couldn't understand.
  
  IN CHAPTER THREE
  
  Killmaster had to change planes twice, once in Miami and then in Los Angeles, before catching a direct flight to Hong Kong. After crossing the Pacific, he tried to relax, get some sleep. But again, it didn't happen; he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up again. A chill ran through him again. He was being watched.
  
  Nick stood and walked slowly down the aisle toward the restrooms, carefully studying the faces on either side of him. The plane was more than half filled with Orientals. Some were asleep, others were looking out their dark windows, and still others were lazily glancing at him as he passed. No one turned to look at him after he passed, and no one had the look of an observer. Once in the restroom, Nick splashed his face with cold water. In the mirror, he looked at the reflection of his handsome face, deeply tanned by the Mexican sun. Was it his imagination? He knew better. Someone on the plane was watching him. Had an observer been with him in Orlando? Miami? Los Angeles? Where had Nick picked him up? He wasn't going to find the answer by looking at his face in the mirror.
  
  Nick returned to his seat, looking at the backs of heads. It seemed no one missed him.
  
  The flight attendant approached him just as he lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes.
  
  "Is everything okay, Mr. Wilson?" she asked.
  
  "It couldn't be better," Nick replied, smiling broadly.
  
  She was English, small-breasted and long-legged. Her fair skin smelled of health. She had bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and everything she felt, thought, and wanted was reflected on her face. And there was no doubt about what was written on her face right now.
  
  "Is there anything I can offer you?" she asked.
  
  It was a leading question, meaning anything, just ask: coffee, tea, or me. Nick thought hard. The crowded plane, over forty-eight hours without sleep, too much was going against him. He needed rest, not romance. Still, he didn't want to close the door completely.
  
  "Maybe later," he said finally.
  
  "Of course." Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she smiled warmly at him and moved on.
  
  Nick leaned back in his chair. Surprisingly, he'd gotten used to the gelatin belt around his waist. His glasses, however, still bothered him, and he took them off to clean the lenses.
  
  He felt a slight twinge of regret for the flight attendant. He didn't even have her name. If "later" happened, how would he find her? He'd find out her name and where she'd be for the next month before he even got off the plane.
  
  The cold hit him again. "Damn it," he thought, "there must be a way to find out who's watching him." He knew that if he really wanted to, there were ways to find out. He doubted the man would try anything on the plane. Maybe they expected him to lead them straight to the professor. Well, when they got to Hong Kong, he had a few surprises in store for everyone. Right now, he needed some rest.
  
  Killmaster wanted to explain his strange feelings about Mrs. Lu and the boy. If they'd told him the truth, Professor Lu was in trouble. That meant he'd actually deserted solely because of his work. And somehow, that just didn't feel right, especially given the professor's past work in dermatology. His discoveries, his actual experiments, didn't indicate a man dissatisfied with his work. And the less-than-warm reception Nick had received from Mrs. Lu had led him to consider marriage as one of the reasons. Surely the professor had told his wife about Chris Wilson. And if Nick had blown his cover during a conversation with her, there was no reason for her hostility toward him. For some reason, Mrs. Lu was lying. He had a feeling that "something was wrong" in the house.
  
  But right now Nick needed rest, and he was going to get it. If Mr. Whatsit wanted to watch him sleep, so be it. When he reported to whoever had ordered him to watch Nick, he was an expert at watching men while they slept.
  
  Killmaster relaxed completely. His mind went blank, save for one compartment that always remained aware of his surroundings. This part of his brain was his life insurance. He never rested, never shut down. It had saved his life many times. He closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep.
  
  Nick Carter woke instantly, a second before the hand touched his shoulder. He allowed the hand to touch him before opening his eyes. Then he placed his large hand on the woman's slender palm. He looked into the bright eyes of the English flight attendant.
  
  "Fasten your seatbelt, Mr. Wilson. We're about to land." She weakly tried to pull her hand away, but Nick pinned it to his shoulder.
  
  "Not Mr. Wilson," he said. "Chris."
  
  She stopped trying to pull her hand away. "Chris," she repeated.
  
  "And you..." He let the sentence hang.
  
  "Sharon. Sharon Russell."
  
  "How long will you stay in Hong Kong, Sharon?"
  
  A trace of disappointment appeared in her eyes again. "Only an hour
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm scared. I need to catch the next flight."
  
  Nick ran his fingers down her hand. "An hour isn't enough time, is it?"
  
  "It depends."
  
  Nick wanted to spend more than an hour with her, much more. "What I have in mind will take at least a week," he said.
  
  "A week!" Now she was curious, it showed in her eyes. There was something else. Delight.
  
  "Where will you be next week, Sharon?"
  
  Her face brightened. "I start my vacation next week."
  
  "And where will it be?"
  
  "Spain. Barcelona, then Madrid."
  
  Nick smiled. "Will you wait for me in Barcelona? We can play together in Madrid."
  
  "That would be wonderful." She thrust a piece of paper into his palm. "This is where I'll be staying in Barcelona."
  
  Nick had to suppress a chuckle. She'd been expecting it. "See you next week then," he said.
  
  "See you next week." She squeezed his hand and moved on to the other passengers.
  
  And when they landed, and when Nick was getting off the plane, she squeezed his hand again, saying softly: "Ole."
  
  From the airport, Killmaster took a taxi straight to the harbor. In the taxi, with his suitcase on the floor between his legs, Nick checked the time zone change and set his watch. It was 10:35 PM, Tuesday.
  
  Outside, the streets of Victoria were unchanged since Killmaster's last visit. His driver mercilessly navigated the Mercedes through traffic, relying heavily on the horn. An icy chill hung in the air. The streets and cars glistened from the recent rainstorm. From the curbs to the buildings, people mingled aimlessly, covering every square inch of the sidewalk. They hunched over, heads bowed low, hands folded over their stomachs, and moved slowly forward. Some sat on the curbs, using chopsticks to sift food from wooden bowls into their mouths. As they ate, their eyes darted suspiciously from side to side, as if ashamed to eat when so many others were not.
  
  Nick leaned back in his seat and smiled. This was Victoria. Across the harbor lay Kowloon, just as crowded and exotic. This was Hong Kong, mysterious, beautiful, and sometimes deadly. Countless black markets flourished. If you had the right contacts and the right amount of money, nothing was priceless. Gold, silver, jade, cigarettes, girls; everything was available, everything was for sale, if the price was right.
  
  Nick was fascinated by the streets of any city; the streets of Hong Kong fascinated him. Watching the crowded sidewalks from his taxi, he noticed sailors moving quickly through the crowds. Sometimes they moved in groups, sometimes in pairs, but never alone. And Nick knew what they were rushing towards: a girl, a bottle, a piece of tail. Sailors were sailors everywhere. Tonight, the streets of Hong Kong would be bustling with activity. The American fleet had arrived. Nick thought the observer was still with him.
  
  As the taxi approached the harbor, Nick saw sampans packed like sardines on the dock. Hundreds of them were lashed together, forming a miniature floating colony. The cold caused ugly blue smoke to billow from the crude chimneys cut into the cabins. People had lived their entire lives on these tiny boats; they had eaten, slept, and died on them, and it seemed there had been hundreds more since Nick last saw them. Larger junks were scattered here and there among them. And beyond them, the enormous, almost monstrous ships of the American fleet lay at anchor. "What a contrast," Nick thought. The sampans were small, cramped, and always crowded. The lanterns gave them an eerie, swaying appearance, while the giant American ships, brightly lit by their generators, made them seem almost deserted. They sat motionless, like boulders, in the harbor.
  
  Outside the hotel, Nick paid the taxi driver and, without looking back, quickly entered the building. Once inside, he asked the clerk for a room with a beautiful view.
  
  He got one overlooking the harbor. Directly below, waves of heads zigzagged like ants, hurrying nowhere. Nick stood a little to the side of the window, watching the moonlight shimmer on the water. After he'd tipped and dismissed the bellhop, he turned off all the lights in the room and returned to the window. The salty air reached his nostrils, mingled with the smell of cooking fish. He heard hundreds of voices from the sidewalk. He carefully studied the faces and, not seeing what he wanted, quickly crossed the window to make himself as unsightly a target as possible. The view from the other side proved more revealing.
  
  One man didn't move with the crowd. And he didn't cut through it. He stood under a lamppost with a newspaper in his hands.
  
  "God!" Nick thought. "But the newspaper! At night, in the middle of a crowd, under a bad streetlight-you're reading a newspaper?"
  
  Too many questions remained unanswered. Killmaster knew he could lose this obvious amateur whenever and if he chose. But he wanted answers. And Mr. Watsit following him was the first step he'd taken since beginning this mission. As Nick watched, a second man, a powerfully built man dressed like a coolie, approached him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His left hand clutched a brown-wrapped package. Words were exchanged. The first man pointed to the package, shaking his head. More words were exchanged, growing heated. The second man thrust the package at the first. He began to refuse, but reluctantly took it. He turned his back on the second man and disappeared into the crowd. The second man was now keeping an eye on the hotel.
  
  Nick thought Mr. Watsit was about to change into a coolie suit. That was probably what came with the kit. A plan was forming in Killmaster's head. Good ideas were being digested, formed, processed, slotted into place to become part of the plan. But it was still rough. Any plan taken from the mind was rough. Nick knew that. The polishing would come in stages as the plan was implemented. At least now he would start getting answers.
  
  Nick moved away from the window. He unpacked his suitcase, and when it was empty, he pulled out a hidden drawer. From this drawer, he removed a small package, not unlike the one the second man had carried. He unfolded the package and rewound it lengthwise. Still in the dark, he undressed completely, removed his weapon, and laid it on the bed. Once naked, he carefully peeled the gelatin, the soft, flesh-colored lining, from his waist. He clung tenaciously to some hair from his stomach as he pulled it off. He worked on it for half an hour and found himself sweating profusely from the pain of the hair being pulled out. Finally, he removed it. He let it fall to the floor at his feet and indulged in the luxury of rubbing and scratching his stomach. When he was satisfied, he carried Hugo, his stiletto, and the stuffing into the bathroom. He cut the membrane holding the gelatin in place and let the sticky mass fall into the toilet. It took four washes to get it all out. He followed it with the membrane itself. Then Nick returned to the window.
  
  Mr. Wotsit returned to the second man. Now he, too, looked like a coolie. Watching them, Nick felt dirty from the drying sweat. But he smiled. They were the beginning. When he entered the light of the answers to his questions, he knew he would have two shadows.
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  Nick Carter drew the curtains and turned on the light in the room. He went into the bathroom, took a leisurely shower, then shaved thoroughly. He knew the hardest test for the two men waiting outside would be time. It was hard to wait for him to do anything. He knew this because he'd been there once or twice. And the longer he kept them waiting, the more careless they became.
  
  After finishing in the bathroom, Nick walked barefoot to the bed. He took the folded cloth and secured it around his waist. When he was satisfied, he hung his tiny gas bomb between his legs, then pulled up his shorts and pulled the belt over the pad. He looked at his profile in the bathroom mirror. The folded cloth didn't look as real as gelatin, but it was the best he could do. Returning to the bed, Nick finished dressing, securing Hugo to his arm and Wilhelmina, Luger, to the waist of his pants. It was time for something to eat.
  
  Killmaster left all the lights on in his room. He thought one of the two men would probably want to search him.
  
  There was no point in making things more difficult for them. They should be ready by the time he finished eating.
  
  Nick ate a snack in the hotel dining room. He expected trouble, and when it came, he didn't want to be full. When the last course was cleared away, he leisurely smoked a cigarette. Forty-five minutes had passed since he left the room. After finishing his cigarette, he paid the check and stepped out into the cold night air again.
  
  His two followers were no longer under the streetlight. He took a few minutes to adjust to the cold, then quickly moved toward the harbor. The late hour had thinned the crowds on the sidewalks. Nick pushed through them without looking back. But by the time he reached the ferry, he was starting to worry. The two men were clearly amateurs. Was it possible he'd already lost them?
  
  A small group waited at the site. Six cars were lined up almost at the water's edge. Approaching the group, Nick saw the lights of a ferry heading toward the pier. He joined the others, shoved his hands in his pockets, and hunched over against the cold.
  
  The lights drew closer, giving shape to the enormous vessel. The low rumble of the engine shifted pitch. The water around the landing boiled white as the propellers reversed. The people around Nick slowly moved toward the approaching monster. Nick moved with them. He climbed aboard and quickly ascended the gangplank to the second deck. At the railing, his keen eyes scanned the dock. Two vehicles were already aboard. But he couldn't see his two shadows. Killmaster lit a cigarette, his gaze fixed on the deck below.
  
  When is the last one?
  
  
  
  
  
  The car was loaded, Nick decided to leave the ferry and look for his two followers. Perhaps they were lost. Moving away from the railing toward the stairs, he caught a glimpse of two coolies running along the pier toward the platform. The smaller man jumped aboard easily, but the heavier, slower one didn't. He probably hadn't done anything for a while. As he approached the side, he tripped and almost fell. The smaller man helped him with difficulty.
  
  Nick smiled. "Welcome aboard, gentlemen," he thought. Now, if only this ancient bathtub could just ferry him across the harbor without sinking, he'd lead them on a merry chase until they decided to make their move.
  
  The huge ferry chugged away from the dock, rolling slightly as it emerged into open water. Nick remained on the second deck, near the rail. He could no longer see the two coolies, but he felt their eyes watching him. The biting wind was damp. Another downpour was approaching. Nick watched as the other passengers huddled together against the cold. He kept his back to the wind. The ferry creaked and rocked, but did not sink.
  
  Killmaster waited on his perch on the second deck until the last car rolled toward the harbor from Kowloon. Stepping off the ferry, he carefully studied the faces of the people around him. His two shadows were not among them.
  
  On the landing, Nick hailed a rickshaw and gave the boy the address of the "Beautiful Bar," a small establishment he'd frequented before. He had no intention of going directly to the professor. Perhaps his two followers didn't know where the professor was and were hoping he'd lead them there. It didn't make sense, but he had to consider all possibilities. They were likely following him to see if he knew where the professor was. The fact that he'd come straight to Kowloon might tell them everything they wanted to know. If so, Nick needed to be eliminated quickly and quietly. Trouble was coming. Nick could feel it. He had to be prepared.
  
  The boy pulling the rickshaw sped effortlessly through the streets of Kowloon, his thin, muscular legs demonstrating the strength required for the job. To anyone observing, he looked like a typical American tourist. He leaned back in his seat and smoked a gold-tipped cigarette, his thick glasses looking first one way and then the other.
  
  The streets were slightly warmer than the harbor. Ancient buildings and fragile-looking houses blocked most of the wind. But moisture still hung low in thick clouds, waiting to be released. Since traffic was light, the rickshaw quickly stopped in front of a dark door with a large neon sign blinking above it. Nick paid the boy five Hong Kong dollars and gestured for him to wait. He entered the bar.
  
  Nine steps descended from the door to the bar itself. The place was small. Besides the bar, there were four tables, all filled. The tables surrounded a tiny open space where a sweet girl sang in a low, sexy voice. A colorful wagon wheel slowly spun in front of a spotlight, softly bathing the girl in blue, then red, then yellow, then green. It seemed to change depending on the type of song she sang. She looked best in red.
  
  The rest of the room was dark, save for the occasional dirty lamp. The bar was crowded, and at first glance, Nick realized he was the only non-Oriental in it. He took a position at the end of the bar, where he could see anyone entering or leaving the door. There were three girls at the bar, two of whom had already received their marks, and the third was getting into the swing of things, sitting first on one lap, then on the other, allowing herself to be fondled. Nick was about to attract the bartender's attention when he spotted his powerfully built follower.
  
  A man emerged through a beaded curtain from a small private table. He was wearing a business suit instead of a coolie suit. But he had changed hastily. His tie was askew, and part of his shirt front hung over his trousers. He was sweating. He kept wiping his forehead and mouth with a white handkerchief. He glanced casually around the room, then his eyes settled on Nick. His flabby cheeks spread into a polite smile, and he headed straight for Killmaster.
  
  Hugo fell into Nick's arms. He quickly scanned the bar, searching for the smaller man. The girl finished her song and bowed to sparse applause. She began speaking to the audience in Chinese. Blue light bathed her as the bartender walked to Nick's right. In front of him, a large man stood four steps away. The bartender asked in Chinese what he was drinking. Nick delayed answering, his eyes fixed on the man approaching him. The combo started playing, and the girl sang a different song. This one was livelier. The wheel spun faster, colors flashing above her, merging into a bright spot. Nick was ready for anything. The bartender shrugged and turned away. The smaller man was gone. Another man took the final step, bringing him face to face with Nick. A polite smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  remained on his face. He extended his plump right hand in a friendly gesture.
  
  "Mr. Wilson, I am correct," he said. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chin Ossa. May I speak with you?"
  
  "Yes, you can," Nick replied softly, quickly replacing Hugo and taking the outstretched hand.
  
  Chin Ossa pointed to the beaded curtain. "It's more private."
  
  "After you," Nick said, bowing slightly.
  
  Ossa walked through the curtain to a table and two chairs. A thin, sinewy man leaned against the far wall.
  
  He wasn't the little man who'd been following Nick. When he saw Killmaster, he moved away from the wall.
  
  Ossa said, "Please, Mr. Wilson, let my friend search you."
  
  The man approached Nick and paused, as if he couldn't decide. He reached out to Nick's chest. Nick carefully pulled his hand away.
  
  "Please, Mr. Wilson," Ossa whined. "We need to search you."
  
  "Not today," Nick answered, smiling slightly.
  
  The man tried to reach Nick's chest again.
  
  Still smiling, Nick said, "Tell your friend that if he touches me, I'll be forced to break his wrists."
  
  "Oh no!" Ossa exclaimed. "We don't want violence." He wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. In Cantonese, he ordered the man to leave.
  
  Flashes of colored light filled the room. A candle burned in a purple vase filled with wax in the center of the table. The man silently left the room as the girl began her song.
  
  Chin Ossa sat down heavily on one of the creaking wooden chairs. He wiped his face with his handkerchief again and waved Nick toward another chair.
  
  Killmaster didn't like this arrangement. The offered chair had its back to the beaded curtain. His own back would have been a good target. Instead, he moved the chair away from the table and to the side wall, where he could see both the curtain and Chin Ossa; then he sat down.
  
  Ossa gave him a nervous, polite smile. "You Americans are always full of caution and violence."
  
  Nick took off his glasses and began to clean them. "You said you wanted to talk to me."
  
  Ossa leaned on the table. His voice sounded like a conspiracy. "Mr. Wilson, there's no need for us to run around in the bushes, right?
  
  "Right," Nick replied. He put on his glasses and lit one of his cigarettes. He hadn't offered Ossa one. This was hardly a friendly discussion.
  
  "We both know," Ossa continued, "that you are in Hong Kong to see your friend Professor Lu."
  
  "May be."
  
  Sweat trickled down Ossa's nose and onto the table. He wiped his face again. "That can't be it. We've been watching you, we know who you are."
  
  Nick raised his eyebrows. "You?"
  
  "Of course." Ossa leaned back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "You're working for the capitalists on the same project as Professor Lu."
  
  "Of course," Nick said.
  
  Ossa swallowed hard. "My saddest duty is to inform you that Professor Lu is no longer in Hong Kong."
  
  "Really?" Nick feigned mild shock. He didn't believe anything this man said.
  
  "Yes. Professor Lu was en route to China last night." Ossa waited for this statement to sink in. Then he said, "It's a shame you wasted your trip here, but you don't have to stay in Hong Kong any longer. We'll certainly reimburse you for all expenses you incurred during your visit."
  
  "That would be great," Nick said. He dropped the cigarette on the floor and crushed it.
  
  Ossa frowned. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Nick suspiciously. "This is not something to joke about. Am I to think you don't believe me?"
  
  Nick stood up. "Of course I believe you. I can see from looking at you what a good, honest person you are. But if it's the same for you, I think I'll stay in Hong Kong and do a little searching on my own.
  
  Ossa's face flushed. His lips tightened. He slammed his fist on the table. "No messing around!"
  
  Nick turned to leave the room.
  
  "Wait!" Ossa exclaimed.
  
  At the curtain, Killmaster stopped and turned.
  
  The heavyset man smiled faintly and rubbed his handkerchief furiously over his face and neck. "Please forgive my outburst, I'm not feeling well. Please sit, sit." His plump hand gestured to a chair against the wall.
  
  "I'm leaving," Nick said.
  
  "Please," Ossa whined. "I have a proposition to make you."
  
  "What's the offer?" Nick didn't move toward the chair. Instead, he stepped to the side and pressed his back against the wall.
  
  Ossa refused to return Nick to his chair. "You were helping Professor Lu work on the grounds, weren't you?"
  
  Nick suddenly became interested in the conversation. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.
  
  Ossa narrowed his eyes again. "You don't have a family?"
  
  "No." Nick knew this from the file at headquarters.
  
  "Then money?" asked Ossa.
  
  "For what?" Killmaster wanted him to say.
  
  "To work with Professor Lu again."
  
  "In other words, join him."
  
  "Exactly."
  
  "In other words, to sell out the Motherland."
  
  Ossa smiled. He wasn't sweating as much. "Frankly speaking, yes."
  
  Nick sat down
  
  
  
  
  
  to the table, placing both palms on it. "You don't get the message, do you? I'm here to convince John to come home, not to join him." It had been a mistake to stand at the table with his back to the curtain. Nick realized this as soon as he heard the rustling of beads.
  
  A wiry man approached him from behind. Nick turned and jabbed the fingers of his right hand at the man's throat. The man dropped his dagger and stumbled back against the wall, clutching his throat. He opened his mouth several times, sliding down the wall to the floor.
  
  "Get out!" Ossa screamed, his puffy face red with rage.
  
  "That's us Americans," Nick said softly. "Just full of caution and violence."
  
  Ossa narrowed his eyes, his chubby hands clenched into fists. In Cantonese, he said, "I'll show you violence. I'll show you violence like you've never known."
  
  Nick felt tired. He turned and walked out from behind the table, breaking two strands of beads as he walked through the curtain. At the bar, the girl was bathed in red just as she was finishing her song. Nick walked to the steps, taking them two at a time, half expecting to hear a gunshot or a knife thrown at him. He reached the top step just as the girl finished her song. The audience applauded as he walked out the door.
  
  As he stepped outside, an icy wind blew across his face. The wind obscured the fog, and the sidewalks and streets glistened with dampness. Nick waited by the door, letting the tension slowly drain away. The sign above him flared brightly. The damp breeze refreshed his face after the smoky heat of the bar.
  
  An isolated rickshaw was parked at the curb, a boy crouched in front of it. But as Nick studied the crouching figure, he realized it wasn't a boy at all. It was Ossa's partner, the smaller of the two men following him.
  
  Killmaster took a deep breath. There would be violence now.
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  Killmaster stepped away from the door. For a moment, he considered walking along the sidewalk instead of approaching the rickshaw. But he was only putting it off. He'd have to face the hardships sooner or later.
  
  The man saw him approaching and jumped to his feet, still wearing his coolie suit.
  
  "Rickshaw, mister?" he asked.
  
  Nick said, "Where is the boy I told you to wait for?"
  
  "He's gone. I'm a good rickshaw driver. You see."
  
  Nick climbed into the seat. "Do you know where the Dragon Club is?"
  
  "I know you bet. Good place. I'll take it." He started moving down the street.
  
  Killmaster didn't care. His followers were no longer together. Now he had one in front and one behind, putting him smack in the middle. Apparently, there was another way in and out of the bar besides the front door. So Ossa had changed clothes before Nick arrived. Ossa should have already left the place and waited for his friend to deliver Nick. Now they had no choice. They couldn't force Chris Wilson to defect; they couldn't flush him out of Hong Kong. And they knew he was here to convince Professor Lu to return home. There was no other way. They would have to kill him.
  
  The fog grew thicker and began to soak Nick's coat. His glasses became stained with moisture. Nick removed them and placed them in the inside pocket of his suit. His eyes scanned both sides of the street. Every muscle in his body relaxed. He quickly assessed the distance between the seat he was sitting on and the street, trying to figure out the best way to land on his feet.
  
  How would they try that? He knew Ossa was waiting somewhere ahead. A gun would be too loud. Hong Kong had its own police force, after all. Knives would be better. They'd probably kill him, take everything he had, and dump him somewhere. Quick, neat, and efficient. To the police, it would be just another tourist robbed and murdered. That happened often in Hong Kong. Of course, Nick wasn't going to let them do that. But he figured they'd be just as good at street fighting as the amateurs.
  
  The little man ran into the unlit and desolate district of Kowloon. As far as Nick could tell, the man was still heading toward the Dragon Club. But Nick knew they would never reach the club.
  
  The rickshaw pulled into a narrow alley, flanked on both sides by four-story, unlit buildings. Besides the man's feet slapping steadily on the wet asphalt, the only other sound was the spasmodic patter of rainwater from the rooftops.
  
  Although Killmaster had expected it, the movement came unexpectedly, throwing him slightly off balance. The man lifted the front of the rickshaw high. Nick spun and leaped over the wheel. His left foot hit the street first, further throwing him off balance. He fell and rolled. On his back, he saw a smaller man rushing toward him, a hideous dagger held high in the air. The man leaped with a cry. Nick pulled his knees to his chest, and the balls of his feet hit the man's stomach. Grabbing the dagger by the wrist, Killmaster pulled the man toward him, then froze.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his legs, throwing the man over his head. He landed with a loud growl.
  
  As Nick rolled to his feet, Ossa kicked him, the force throwing him back. At the same time, Ossa swung his dagger. Killmaster felt the sharp edge dig into his forehead. He rolled and kept rolling until his back hit the wheel of an overturned rickshaw. It was too dark to see. Blood began to trickle from his forehead into his eyes. Nick brought his knees up and began to rise. Ossa's heavy foot slid across his cheek, tearing the skin. The force was enough to throw him sideways. He was thrown onto his back; then Ossa's knee, with all its weight, sank into Nick's stomach. Ossa aimed for his groin, but Nick raised his knees, blocking the blow. Still, the force was enough to take Nick's breath away.
  
  Then he saw the dagger approach his throat. Nick caught the thick wrist with his left hand. With his right fist, he struck Ossa in the groin. Ossa grunted. Nick struck again, a little lower. This time Ossa screamed in agony. He fell. Nick's breath caught in his throat and he used the rickshaw as leverage to get to his feet. He wiped blood from his eyes. Then a smaller man appeared to his left. Nick caught a glimpse of him just before he felt the blade cut into the muscle of his left arm. He punched the man in the face, sending him rolling into the rickshaw.
  
  Hugo was now at the master assassin's right hand. He retreated to one of the buildings, watching the two shadows approach him. "Well, gentlemen," he thought, "now come and get me." They were good, better than he thought. They fought with malice and left no doubt that their intent was to kill him. With his back to the building, Nick waited for them. The cut on his forehead didn't seem serious. The bleeding had slowed. His left arm ached, but he had suffered worse wounds. The two men widened their stances so that each attacked him from opposite sides. They crouched, determination on their faces, daggers pointed upward, at Nick's chest. He knew they would try to thrust their blades under his ribcage, high enough for the points to pierce his heart. There was no cold in the alley. All three were sweaty and slightly out of breath. The silence was broken only by the raindrops falling from the rooftops. It was the darkest night Nick had ever seen. The two men were mere shadows, only their daggers flashing every now and then.
  
  The smaller man lunged first. He came up low to Nick's right, moving quickly due to his size. There was a metallic clang as Hugo deflected the dagger. Before the smaller man could retreat, Ossa moved from the left, only a little more slowly. Again, Hugo deflected the blade. Both men retreated. Just as Nick began to relax a little, the smaller man lunged again, lower. Nick retreated, flicking the blade to the side. But Ossa struck high, aiming for his throat. Nick turned his head, feeling the blade slice across his earlobe. Both men retreated again, breathing heavier.
  
  Killmaster knew he'd come out third in a fight like this. The two could trade blows until they wore him down. When he tired, he'd make a mistake, and then they'd catch him. He had to turn the tables, and the best way to do that was to become the attacker. The smaller man would be easier to handle. That put him first.
  
  Nick feigned a lunge at Ossa, causing him to retreat slightly. The smaller man took advantage and advanced. Nick stepped back when the blade grazed his stomach. With his left hand, he grabbed the man by the wrist and threw him at Ossa with all his might. He hoped to throw the man onto Ossa's blade. But Ossa saw him coming and turned sideways. The two men collided, staggered, and fell. Nick circled them. The smaller man swung his dagger behind him before rising, likely thinking Nick was there. But Nick was right next to him. The hand stopped in front of him.
  
  With a movement almost faster than the eye can see, Nick slashed Hugo's wrist. He cried out, dropped the dagger, and clutched his wrist. Ossa was on his knees. He swung the dagger in a long arc. Nick had to jump back to keep the tip from tearing through his stomach. But for one instant, one fleeting second, Ossa's entire front was exposed. His left hand rested on the street, supporting him, his right almost behind him, finishing the swing. There was no time to aim for one body part; another would soon follow. Like a bright rattlesnake, Nick stepped up and struck Hugo, driving the blade almost to the hilt into the man's chest, then moved quickly away. Ossa let out a short cry. He tried futilely to throw the dagger back, but only managed to hit his side. His left arm, supporting him, collapsed, and he fell onto his elbow. Nick looked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  up to see a small man running out of the alley, still clutching his wrist.
  
  Nick carefully snatched the dagger from Ossa's hand and tossed it several feet. Ossa's supporting elbow gave way. His head fell into the crook of his arm. Nick felt the man's wrist. His pulse was slow, unsteady. He was dying. His breathing had become ragged, sparkling. Blood stained his lips and flowed freely from the wound. Hugo had severed an artery, the tip piercing a lung.
  
  "Ossa," Nick called softly. "Will you tell me who hired you?" He knew the two men hadn't attacked him on their own. They were working under orders. "Ossa," he said again.
  
  But Chin Ossa told no one. His rapid breathing stopped. He was dead.
  
  Nick wiped Hugo's scarlet blade on Ossa's pant leg. He regretted having to kill the heavy man. But there was no time to aim. He stood and examined his wounds. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding. Holding his handkerchief out in the rain until it was soaked, he wiped the blood from his eyes. His left arm ached, but the cut on his cheek and the cut on his stomach weren't serious. He'd come out of this better than Ossa, maybe even better than the next man. The rain grew heavier. His jacket was already soaked.
  
  Leaning against one of the buildings, Nick replaced Hugo. He pulled out Wilhelmina, checked the clip and the Luger. Without a backward glance at the battle scene or the corpse that had once been Chin Ossa, Killmaster walked out of the alley. There was no reason he couldn't see the professor now.
  
  Nick walked four blocks from the alley before finding a taxi. He gave the driver the address he'd memorized in Washington. Since the professor's escape was no secret, there was no indication where he'd stayed. Nick leaned back in his seat, pulled his thick glasses from his coat pocket, wiped them, and put them on.
  
  The taxi pulled up to a part of Kowloon that was as run-down as the alley. Nick paid the driver and stepped out into the chill night air again. Only after the taxi had driven away did he realize how dark the street looked. The houses were old and dilapidated; they seemed to have sagged in the rain. But Nick knew Eastern construction philosophy. These houses possessed a fragile strength, not like a boulder on the seashore, withstanding the constant pounding of the waves, but more like a spider's web during a hurricane. Not a single light illuminated the windows, and no one walked the street. The area seemed deserted.
  
  Nick had no doubt the professor would be well guarded, if only for his own protection. The Chi Corns expected someone would probably try to contact him. They weren't sure whether to convince Mm not to defect or kill him. Killmaster didn't think they'd bother to find out.
  
  The door's window was directly above its center. It was draped with a black curtain, but not so much as to block out all the light. Looking at it from the street, the house looked as deserted and dark as all the others. But when Nick stood at an angle to the door, he barely made out a yellow beam of light. He knocked on the door and waited. There was no movement inside. Nick knocked on the door. He heard the creak of a chair, then heavy footsteps grew louder. The door swung open, and Nick was confronted by a huge man. His massive shoulders touched each side of the doorway. The tank top he wore revealed enormous, hairy arms, thick as tree trunks, hanging like monkeys, almost to his knees. His broad, flat face was ugly, and his nose was deformed from repeated fractures. His eyes were razor-sharp shards in two layers of marshmallow flesh. The short black hair in the center of his forehead was combed and trimmed. He had no neck; his chin seemed to be supported by his chest. "Neanderthal," Nick thought. This guy had missed several evolutionary steps.
  
  The man grumbled something that sounded like, "What do you want?"
  
  "Chris Wilson, to see Professor Lu," Nick said dryly.
  
  "He's not here. Go," the monster grumbled and slammed the door in front of Nick.
  
  Killmaster resisted the impulse to open the door, or at least break the glass. He stood there for a few seconds, letting the anger drain out of him. He should have expected something like this. Being invited in would be too easy. The Neanderthal's heavy breathing came from behind the door. He would probably be happy if Nick tried something nice. Killmaster remembered the line from Jack and the Beanstalk: "I'll grind your bones to make bread." "Not today, friend," Nick thought. He had to see the professor, and he would. But if there was no other way, he'd rather not go through this mountain.
  
  Raindrops fell on the sidewalk like water bullets as Nick circled the side of the building. Between the buildings was a long, narrow space, about four feet wide, littered with cans and bottles. Nick easily climbed onto the locked wooden gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  and headed toward the back of the building. Halfway there, he found another door. He carefully turned the "Locked" handle. He continued, choosing his path as quietly as possible. At the end of the hallway was another unlocked gate. Nick opened it and found himself on a tiled patio.
  
  A single yellow lightbulb glowed on the building, its reflection reflected on the wet tiles. In the center was a small courtyard, the fountain overflowing. Mango trees were scattered around the edges. One was planted next to the building, high up, directly beneath the only window on this side.
  
  There was another door beneath the yellow lightbulb. It would have been easy, but the door was locked. He stepped back, hands on his hips, looking at the weak-looking tree. His clothes were soaked, there was a cut on his forehead, his left arm ached. And now he was about to climb a tree that probably wouldn't hold him, to reach a window that was probably locked. And it was still raining at night. At times like these, he had fleeting thoughts of making a living repairing shoes.
  
  There was only one thing left to do. The tree was young. Since mango trees sometimes reached ninety feet, its branches should be more flexible than brittle. It didn't look strong enough to hold him up. Nick began to climb. The lower branches were sturdy and easily supported his weight. He quickly made about halfway up. Then the branches thinned and curved dangerously as he stepped on them. Keeping his legs close to his torso, he minimized the bend. But by the time he reached the window, even the trunk thinned. And it was a good six feet from the building. Even when Nick was at the window, the branches blocked all light from the yellow bulb. He was encased in darkness. The only way he could see the window was a dark square on the side of the building. He couldn't reach it from the tree.
  
  He began to rock his weight back and forth. Mango groaned in protest but reluctantly moved. Nick lunged again. If the window was locked, he'd break it down. If the noise had brought the Neanderthal, he'd deal with him too. The tree really did start to sway. This was supposed to be a one-time deal. If there was nothing there to grab onto, he'd slide headfirst down the side of the building. It would be a bit messy. The tree leaned toward a dark square. Nick kicked sharply, his hands groping for air. Just as the tree flew away from the building, leaving him hanging on nothing, his fingers touched something solid. Sliding the fingers of both hands, he got a good grip on whatever it was just as the tree left him completely. Nick's knees hit the side of the building. He was hanging on the edge of some kind of box. He swung his leg over and pushed himself up. His knees sank into the dirt. A flower box! She was connected to the windowsill.
  
  The tree swayed back, its branches brushing his face. Killmaster reached for the window and immediately gave thanks for all the good things on earth. Not only was the window unlocked, it was ajar! He opened it all the way and then crawled through. His hands touched the carpet. He pulled his legs out and remained crouched under the window. Across from Nick and to his right, he heard the sound of deep breathing. The house was thin, tall, and square. Nick decided the main room and kitchen would be downstairs. That left the bathroom and bedroom upstairs. He took off his thick, rain-stained glasses. Yes, that would be the bedroom. The house was silent. Besides the breathing coming from the bed, the only other sound was the splash of rain outside the open window.
  
  Nick's eyes had now adjusted to the dark room. He could make out the shape of the bed and the bulge on it. With Hugo in his hand, he moved toward the bed. The drops from his wet clothes didn't make a sound on the carpet, but his boots squeezed with each step. He walked around the foot of the bed to the right. The man lay on his side, facing away from Nick. A lamp stood on the nightstand next to the bed. Nick touched the sharp blade of Hugo to the man's throat and simultaneously flicked the lamp. The room exploded with light. Killmaster kept his back to the lamp until his eyes adjusted to the bright light. The man turned his head, his eyes blinked and filled with tears. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. As soon as Nick saw the face, he moved Hugo a little further away from the man's throat.
  
  "What the hell..." the man focused his gaze on the stiletto a few inches from his chin.
  
  Nick said, "Professor Lou, I suppose."
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  Professor John Lu examined the sharp blade at his throat, then looked at Nick.
  
  "If you take this thing away, I'll get out of bed," he said softly.
  
  Nick pulled Hugo away, but kept him in his hand. "Are you Professor Lou?" he asked.
  
  "John. Nobody calls me Professor except our funny friends downstairs." He dangled his legs over the side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  and reached for his robe. "How about some coffee?"
  
  Nick frowned, a little confused by the man's attitude. He backed away as the man passed in front of him and crossed the room to the sink and coffee pot.
  
  Professor John Lu was a short, well-built man with black hair parted to the side. As he brewed coffee, his hands seemed almost gentle. His movements were smooth and precise. He was obviously in excellent physical condition. His dark eyes, with a very slight oriental slant, seemed to pierce everything he looked at. His face was broad, with high cheekbones and a beautiful nose. It was an extremely intelligent face. Nick guessed he was about thirty. He seemed a man who knew both his strengths and his weaknesses. Right now, as he turned on the stove, his dark eyes glanced nervously at the bedroom door.
  
  "Go on," Nick thought. "Professor Lou, I'd like..." He was stopped by the professor, who raised his hand and cocked his head to the side, listening. Nick heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. Both men froze as the steps reached the bedroom door. Nick transferred Hugo to his left hand. His right hand went under her coat and fell on Wilhelmina's bottom.
  
  The key clicked in the door lock. The door swung open, and a Neanderthal ran into the room, followed by a smaller man dressed in thin clothing. The enormous monster pointed at Nick and chuckled. He moved forward. The smaller man placed a hand on the larger one, stopping him. Then he smiled politely at the professor.
  
  "Who is your friend, professor?"
  
  "Nick said quickly. "Chris Wilson. I'm a friend of John's." Nick began to pull Wilhelmina out from under his belt. He knew that if the professor revealed this, he would have a hard time getting out of the room.
  
  John Lou looked at Nick suspiciously. Then he returned the little man's smile. "That's right," he said. "I'll talk to that man. Alone!"
  
  "Of course, of course," said the little man, bowing slightly. "As you wish." He gestured the monster away, and then, just before closing the door behind him, said, "You'll be very careful what you say, won't you, Professor?"
  
  "Get out!" Professor Lu shouted.
  
  The man slowly closed the door and locked it.
  
  John Lou turned to Nick, his brow furrowed in worry. "The bastards know they tricked me.
  
  They can afford to be generous." He studied Nick as if he were seeing him for the first time. "What the hell happened to you?"
  
  Nick loosened his grip on Wilhelmina. He transferred Hugo back to his right hand. It was becoming even more confusing. Professor Lu certainly didn't seem like the type to run away. He knew Nick wasn't Chris Wilson, but he was protecting him. And this friendly warmth suggested he'd half-expected Nick. But the only way to get answers was to ask questions.
  
  "Let's talk," Killmaster said.
  
  "Not yet." The professor set down two cups. "What do you drink in your coffee?"
  
  "Nothing. Black."
  
  John Lu poured coffee. "This is one of my many luxuries-a sink and a stove. Announcements of nearby attractions. That's what I get for working for the Chinese."
  
  "Why do it then?" Nick asked.
  
  Professor Lu gave him an almost hostile look. "Indeed," he said, emotionless. Then he glanced at the locked bedroom door and back at Nick. "By the way, how the hell did you get in here?"
  
  Nick nodded toward the open window. "Climbed a tree," he said.
  
  The professor laughed loudly. "Beautiful. Simply beautiful. You bet they'll chop down that tree tomorrow." He pointed at Hugo. "Are you going to hit me with that thing or remove it?"
  
  "I haven't decided yet."
  
  "Well, drink your coffee while you make up your mind." He handed Nick a cup, then walked over to the nightstand, which held, along with a lamp, a small transistor radio, and a pair of glasses. He turned on the radio, dialed the number of the British station broadcasting all night, and turned up the volume. When he put on his glasses, he looked rather scholarly. He pointed with his index finger at the stove.
  
  Nick followed him, deciding he could probably take the man without Hugo if he had to. He put away his stiletto.
  
  At the stove the professor said, "You're careful, aren't you?"
  
  "The room is bugged, isn't it?" Nick said.
  
  The professor raised his eyebrows. "And smart, too. I only hope you're as smart as you look. But you're right. The microphone is in the lamp. It took me two hours to find it."
  
  "But why, if you're here alone?"
  
  He shrugged. "Maybe I'm talking in my sleep."
  
  Nick sipped his coffee and reached into his soaking coat for one of the cigarettes. They were damp, but he lit one anyway. The professor declined the offer.
  
  "Professor," Nick said. "This whole thing is a little confusing to me."
  
  "Please! Call me John."
  
  "Okay, John. I know you want to leave. However, from what I've seen and heard in this room, I get the impression that you're being forced to do so."
  
  John tossed the remaining coffee into the sink, then leaned against it, bowing his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have to be careful," he said. "A subdued caution. I know you're not Chris. That means you might be from our government. Am I right?"
  
  Nick took a sip of coffee. "Maybe."
  
  "I've been thinking a lot in this room. And I've decided that if the agent tries to contact me, I'll tell him the real reason I'm defecting and try to get him to help me. I can't do this alone." He straightened up and looked straight at Nick. There were tears in his eyes. "God knows, I don't want to go." His voice wavered.
  
  "Then why you?" Nick asked.
  
  John took a deep breath. "Because they have my wife and son in China."
  
  Nick put the coffee on. He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it in the sink. But though his movements were slow and deliberate, his mind was working, digesting, discarding, storing, and questions stood out like bright neon signs. This couldn't be true. But if it were true, it would explain a lot. Had John Louie been forced to flee? Or was he giving Nick a beautiful snow job? Incidents began to form in his head. They had a shape, and like a giant puzzle, they began to merge, forming a definite pattern.
  
  John Lou studied Nick's face, his dark eyes troubled, asking unspoken questions. He wrung his hands nervously. Then he said, "If you're not who I think you are, then I just killed my family."
  
  "How so?" Nick asked. He looked into the man's eyes. Eyes could always tell him more than spoken words.
  
  John began pacing back and forth in front of Nick. "I was told that if I told anyone, my wife and son would be killed. If you are who I think you are, maybe I can convince you to help me. If not, then I just killed them.
  
  Nick took his coffee, sipping it, his face expressing only mild interest. "I just spoke with your wife and son," he said suddenly.
  
  John Lou stopped and turned to Nick. "Where did you talk to them?"
  
  "Orlando".
  
  The professor reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a photograph. "Who were you talking to?"
  
  Nick looked at the photo. It was a picture of his wife and son, whom he had met in Florida. "Yes," he said. He started to hand it back, but stopped. There was something about that picture.
  
  "Look closely," John said.
  
  Nick examined the photograph more closely. Of course! It was fantastic! There was a real difference. The woman in the photo looked slightly slimmer. She had very little, if any, eye makeup. Her nose and mouth were shaped differently, making her prettier. And the boy's eyes were closer together, with the same piercing quality as John's. He had a feminine mouth. Yeah, there was a difference, all right. The woman and boy in the photo were different from the two he'd spoken to in Orlando. The more he studied the picture, the more differences he could discern. First, the smile and even the shape of the ears.
  
  "Okay?" John asked anxiously.
  
  "Just a minute." Nick walked to the open window. Below, in the courtyard, a Neanderthal paced. The rain had subsided. It would probably be over by morning. Nick closed the window and took off his wet coat. The professor saw Wilhelmina tucked into his belt, but that didn't matter now. Everything about this assignment had changed. The answers to his questions were coming to him one after another.
  
  He had to notify Hawk first. Since the woman and boy in Orlando were fakes, they were working for Chi Corn. Hawk knew how to deal with them. The puzzle came together in his head, making the picture clearer. The fact that John Lu had been forced to flee explained almost everything. It explained why they were tracking him in the first place. And the hostility of the fake Mrs. Lu. The Chi Corns wanted to make sure he never reached the professor. Like Chris Wilson, he might even be able to convince his friend John to sacrifice his family. Nick doubted it, but to the Reds, it would sound reasonable. It wasn't for them.
  
  Nick heard about incidents that seemed insignificant when they happened. Like when Ossa tried to buy him. He was asked if Nick had a family. Killmaster hadn't tied him to anything at the time. But now-would they have kidnapped his family if he had one? Of course they would. They would have stopped at nothing to catch Professor Lu. That compound John was working on must have meant a lot to them. Another incident happened to him-yesterday, when he first met, as he thought, Mrs. Lu. He asked to speak to her. And she doubted the word. Chatter, outdated, overused, almost never used, but a word familiar to all Americans. She didn't know what it meant. Naturally, she didn't, because she was a Red Chinese, not an American. It was beautiful, professional, and, in the words of John Lu, simply beautiful.
  
  The professor stood in front of the sink, his hands clasped in front of him. His dark eyes bored into Nick's head, expectant, almost frightened.
  
  Nick said, "Okay, John. I am what you think I am. I can't
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll tell you everything right now, except that I'm an agent for one of the intelligence branches of our government."
  
  The man seemed to sag. His arms dropped to his sides, his chin resting on his chest. He took a long, deep, shaky breath. "Thank God," he said. It was barely above a whisper.
  
  Nick walked up to him and handed him back the photo. "Now you'll have to trust me completely. I'll help you, but you have to tell me everything.
  
  The professor nodded.
  
  "Let's start with how they kidnapped your wife and son."
  
  John seemed to perk up a little. "You have no idea how glad I am to be talking to someone about this. I've been carrying this around inside me for so long." He rubbed his hands together. "More coffee?"
  
  "No, thanks," Nick said.
  
  John Lu scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It all started about six months ago. When I came home from work, there was a van parked in front of my house. All my furniture was in the possession of two men. Katie and Mike were nowhere to be found. When I asked the two men what the hell they thought they were doing, one of them gave me instructions. He said that my wife and son were going to China. If I ever wanted to see them alive again, I'd better do as they said.
  
  "At first I thought it was a gag. They gave me an address in Orlando and told me to go there. I followed that until I got to the house in Orlando. There she was. And the boy, too. She never told me her real name, I just called her Kathy and the boy Mike. After the furniture was moved and the two guys were gone, she put the boy to bed and then undressed right in front of me. She said she would be my wife for a while, and we might as well make it convincing. When I refused to go to bed with her, she told me I better cooperate or Kathy and Mike would die horrible deaths."
  
  Nick said, "You lived together as husband and wife for six months?"
  
  John shrugged. "What else could I do?"
  
  "Didn't she give you any instructions or tell you what would happen next?"
  
  "Yes, the next morning. She told me that together we would make new friends. I used my work as an excuse to avoid old friends. When I was formulating the compound, I would take it to China, hand it over to the Reds, and then see my wife and boy again. Frankly, I was scared to death about Kathy and Mike. I saw that she was reporting to the Reds, so I had to do everything she said. And I couldn't understand how much she resembled Kathy.
  
  "So now you've completed the formula," Nick said. "Do they have it?"
  
  "That's it. I wasn't finished. I still haven't, I couldn't concentrate on my work. And after six months, things got a little tougher. My friends were insistent, and I was running out of excuses. She must have gotten word from above, because she suddenly told me I'd be working in a territory in China. She told me to announce my defection. She'd stay for a week or two, and then disappear. Everyone would think she'd joined me."
  
  "What about Chris Wilson? Didn't he know the woman was a fake?
  
  John smiled. "Oh, Chris. You know, he's a bachelor. Away from work, we never got together because of NASA security, but mostly because Chris and I didn't travel in the same social circles. Chris is a girl-chaser. Oh, I'm sure he enjoys his job, but his main focus is usually on girls.
  
  "I see." Nick poured himself another cup of coffee. "This compound you're working on must be important for Chi Corn. Can you tell me what it is without getting too technical?"
  
  "Of course. But the formula isn't finished yet. When and if I finish it, it will be in the form of a thin ointment, something like hand cream. You spread it on your skin, and if I'm right, it should make the skin impervious to sunlight, heat, and radiation. It will have a sort of cooling effect on the skin that will protect astronauts from harmful rays. Who knows? If I work on it long enough, I might even perfect it to the point where they won't need space suits. The Reds want it for its protection against nuclear burns and radiation. If they had it, there would be little to stop them from declaring nuclear war on the world."
  
  Nick took a sip of coffee. "Does this have anything to do with the discovery you made back in 1966?"
  
  The professor ran a hand through his hair. "No, that was something else entirely. While tinkering with an electron microscope, I was fortunate enough to find a way to isolate certain types of skin conditions that weren't serious in themselves, but once characterized, offered a small aid in diagnosing more serious conditions like ulcers, tumors, and possibly cancer."
  
  Nick chuckled. "You're too modest. As far as I'm concerned, it was more than just a little help. It was a major breakthrough."
  
  John shrugged. "That's what they say. Maybe they're exaggerating a little."
  
  Nick had no doubt he was talking to a brilliant man. John Lou was valuable not only to NASA, but to his country as well. Killmaster knew he had to stop the Reds from getting him. He finished his coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  and asked: "Do you have any idea how the Reds found out about the complex?"
  
  John shook his head. "No."
  
  "How long have you been working on this?"
  
  "I actually got this idea when I was in college. I had it in my head for a while, even jotting down some notes. But it wasn't until about a year ago that I really started putting the ideas into practice."
  
  "Have you told anyone about this?"
  
  "Oh, in college I might have mentioned it to a few friends. But when I was at NASA, I didn't tell anyone, not even Kathy."
  
  Nick approached the window again. A small transistor radio played a British marching song. Outside, the huge man was still lurking in the courtyard. Killmaster lit a moist, gold-tipped cigarette. His skin felt cold from the wet clothes he wore. "It all comes down to this," he said more to himself than to John, "breaking the power of the Chinese Reds."
  
  John remained respectfully silent.
  
  Nick said, "I have to get your wife and boy out of China." Saying it was easy, but Nick knew the execution would be something else entirely. He turned to the professor. "Do you have any idea where they might be in China?"
  
  John shrugged. "No."
  
  "Did any of them say anything that might give you a clue?"
  
  The professor thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. Then he shook his head, smiling faintly. "I'm afraid I can't be much help, can I?"
  
  "It's okay." Nick reached for his wet coat on the bed and pulled it around his broad shoulders. "Do you have any idea when they'll take you to China?" he asked.
  
  John's face seemed to brighten a little. "I think I can help you. I heard two athletes downstairs talking about what I think was an agreement for midnight next Tuesday."
  
  Nick looked at his watch. It was three ten in the morning on Wednesday. He had less than a week to find, get to, and get his wife and boy out of China. It wasn't looking good. But first things first. He had to do three things. First, he had to fake a statement with John over the microphone so the two downstairs wouldn't get mad. Second, he had to get out of this house unharmed. And third, he had to get into the scrambler and tell Hawk about the fake wife and boy in Orlando. After that, he'd have to play the odds.
  
  Nick motioned John over to the lamp. "Can you make this radio beep like it had static?" he whispered.
  
  John looked puzzled. "Of course. But why?" Understanding dawned in his eyes. Without a word, he fiddled with the radio. It squealed and then went silent.
  
  Nick said, "John, are you sure I can't convince you to come back with me?"
  
  "No, Chris. I want it this way."
  
  Nick thought it was a bit corny, but he hoped the two downstairs bought it.
  
  "Okay," Nick said. "They won't like it, but I'll tell them. How do I get out of this place?"
  
  John pressed a small button built into the nightstand.
  
  The two men shook hands silently. Nick walked to the window. The Neanderthal was no longer in the courtyard. Footsteps were heard on the stairs.
  
  "Before you go," John whispered, "I'd like to know the real name of the man who's helping me."
  
  "Nick Carter. I'm Agent AX."
  
  The key clicked in the lock. A smaller man slowly opened the door. The monster was not with him.
  
  "My friend is leaving," John said.
  
  The elegantly dressed man smiled politely. "Of course, Professor." He brought a whiff of cheap cologne into the room.
  
  "Goodbye, John," said Nick.
  
  "Goodbye, Chris."
  
  When Nick left the room, the man closed and locked the door. He pulled a .45-caliber military-issue automatic rifle from his belt. He pointed it at Nick's stomach.
  
  "What is this?" Nick asked.
  
  The clever man still had a polite smile. "Insurance that you'll leave Nastikho."
  
  Nick nodded and began to descend the stairs with the man behind him. If he tried anything, he could put the professor in danger. The other man was still nowhere to be seen.
  
  At the front door, a slick man said, "I don't know who you really are. But we're not so foolish as to think you and the professor were listening to British music while you were there. Whatever you're up to, don't try it. We know your face now. And you'll be watched closely. You've already put those people in great danger." He opened the door. "Goodbye, Mr. Wilson, if that's your real name."
  
  Nick knew the man meant his wife and boy when he said "persons of interest." Did they know he was an agent? He stepped out into the night air. The rain had turned to fog again. The door was closed and locked behind him.
  
  Nick took a deep breath of the crisp night air. He set off. At this hour, he had little chance of catching a taxi in this area. Time was his greatest enemy right now. It would be light in two or three hours. And he didn't even know where to look for his wife and boy. He had to contact Hawk.
  
  Killmaster was about to cross the street when a huge ape-man stepped out of the doorway, blocking his path. The hair on the back of Nick's neck stood up. So he'd have to deal with
  
  
  
  
  Still, with this creature. Without a word, the monster approached Nick and reached for his throat. Nick ducked and dodged the monster. The man's size was staggering, but that made him move slowly. Nick hit him over the ear with an open palm. It didn't bother him. The ape-man grabbed Nick by the arm and threw him like a rag doll against the building. Killmaster's head hit the solid structure. He felt dizzy.
  
  By the time he pulled out, the monster had Nick's throat in its huge, hairy hands. It lifted Nick from his feet. Nick felt the blood rushing to his head. He cut the man's ears, but his movements seemed agonizingly slow. He kicked him in the groin, knowing his blows were hitting their mark. But the man didn't even seem to feel it. His hands tightened their grip on Nick's throat. Every blow Nick landed would have killed a normal man. But this Neanderthal didn't even blink. He simply stood there, legs spread, holding Nick by the throat with all the strength in those enormous hands. Nick began to see flashes of color. His strength was gone; he felt no force in his blows. Panic at his impending death gripped his heart. He was losing consciousness. He had to do something fast! Hugo would work too slowly. He could probably hit the man twenty times before killing him. By then it would be too late for him.
  
  Wilhelmina! He seemed to move slowly. His hand was forever reaching for the Luger. Would he have the strength to pull the trigger? Wilhelmina was beyond his waist. He shoved the barrel into the man's throat and pulled the trigger with all his might. The recoil nearly knocked the Luger from his hand. The man's chin and nose were instantly blown from his head. The explosion echoed through the deserted streets. The man's eyes blinked uncontrollably. His knees began to tremble. And yet, the strength in his arms remained. Nick plunged the barrel into the monster's fleshy left eye and pulled the trigger again. The shot tore the man's forehead off. His legs began to buckle. Nick's fingers touched the street. He felt the hands loosen their grip on his throat. But the life was draining from him. He could hold his breath for four minutes, but that was already over. The man wasn't letting go fast enough. Nick fired twice more, completely severing the ape-man's head. The hands fell from his throat. The monster staggered back, decapitated. His hands rose to where his face should have been. He fell to his knees, then rolled over like a freshly felled tree.
  
  Nick coughed and fell to his knees. He took a deep breath, inhaling the acrid smell of gunsmoke. Lights came on in windows all over the neighborhood. The neighborhood was coming alive. The police would be coming, and Nick had no time for the police. He forced himself to move. Still out of breath, he ran to the end of the block and quickly walked out of the neighborhood. In the distance, he heard the unusual sound of a British police siren. Then he realized he was still holding Wilhelmina. He quickly tucked the Luger into his belt. He had come close to death many times in his career as a killmaster for AXE. But never this close.
  
  As soon as the Reds discovered the mess he'd just left, they'd immediately connect it to Ossa's death. If the smaller man who'd been with Ossa were still alive, he would have contacted them by now. They'd connected the two deaths with his visit to Professor Lu and knew he was an agent. He could almost assume his cover was blown. He had to contact Hawk. The professor and his family were in grave danger. Nick shook his head. This mission was going terribly wrong.
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  Hawk's unmistakable voice reached Nick through the scrambler. "Well, Carter. From what you've told me, it looks like your mission has changed."
  
  "Yes, sir," Nick said. He had just notified Hawk. He was in his hotel room on the Victoria side of Hong Kong. Outside the window, the night was beginning to fade a little.
  
  Hawk said, "You know the situation there better than I do. I'll deal with the woman and the boy on this matter. You know what needs to be done."
  
  "Yes," Nick said. "I need to find a way to find the professor's wife and son and get them out of China."
  
  "Take care of it in any way possible. I will arrive in Hong Kong on Tuesday afternoon."
  
  "Yes, sir." As always, Nick thought, Hawk was interested in results, not methods. Killmaster could use any method he wanted, as long as it got results.
  
  "Good luck," Hawk said, ending the conversation.
  
  Killmaster changed into a dry business suit. Since the lining around his waist wasn't wet, he left it there. It felt a little awkward to still be wearing it, especially since he was almost certain his cover had been blown. But he planned to change as soon as he knew where he was heading in China. And it felt comfortable around his waist. He knew clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was about to put them on, he was a little battered from the dagger cuts on his stomach. If he hadn't had the padding, his stomach would have been cut open like a freshly caught fish.
  
  Nick doubted Hawk would learn anything from the woman from Orlando. If she were as well trained as he thought, she would kill both herself and the boy before she said anything.
  
  Killmaster rubbed the bruise on his throat. It was already starting to fade. Where should he begin looking for the professor's wife and son? He could return to the house and force the well-dressed man to talk. But he'd already put John Lou in enough danger. If not the house, then where? He needed somewhere to start. Nick stood by the window, looking out onto the street. There were few people on the sidewalk now.
  
  He suddenly felt hungry. He hadn't eaten since checking into the hotel. The melody haunted him, like certain songs. It was one of the numbers the girl had sung. Nick stopped rubbing his throat. It was a straw, probably meaningless. But at least it was a start. He would eat something and then return to the "Beautiful Bar."
  
  Ossa had changed clothes there, which might mean he knew someone. Even so, there was no guarantee anyone would help him. But then again, it was a place to start.
  
  In the hotel dining room, Nick drank a glass of orange juice, followed by a plate of scrambled eggs with crispy bacon, toast, and three cups of black coffee. He lingered over the last cup of coffee, giving the food time to settle, then leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette from a fresh pack. It was then that he noticed the man watching him.
  
  He was outside, to the side of one of the hotel windows. Every now and then, he peered out to make sure Nick was still there. Killmaster recognized him as the wiry man who had been with Ossa at the Wonderful Bar. They had certainly not wasted any time.
  
  Nick paid the check and stepped outside. The night had faded to a murky gray. The buildings were no longer huge, dark shapes. They had form, visible through doors and windows. Most of the cars on the streets were taxis, which still needed their headlights on. The wet curbs and streets were now easier to spot. Heavy clouds still hung low, but the rain had stopped.
  
  Killmaster headed for the ferry landing. Now that he knew he was being followed again, there was no reason for him to go to the Fine Bar. At least not yet. The wiry man had a lot to tell him, if he could be coaxed into talking. First, they needed to change positions. He had to lose the man momentarily so he could follow. It was a gamble. Nick had a feeling the wiry man wasn't an amateur admirer like the other two.
  
  Before he reached the ferry, Nick drove down an alley. He ran to the end and waited. A wiry man turned the corner at a run. Nick walked quickly, hearing the man closing the gap between them. At the other corner, Nick did the same: he turned the corner, ran quickly to the end of the block, and then slowed to a brisk walk. The man stayed with him.
  
  Soon Nick arrived in the Victoria area he liked to call Sailors' Row. It was a stretch of narrow streets with brightly lit bars on either side. The area was usually bustling, with music playing from jukeboxes and prostitutes on every corner. But the night was drawing to a close. The lights still shone brightly, but the jukeboxes played quietly. The streetwalkers had either already gotten their marks or given up. Nick searched for a bar, not one he knew, but one that would suit his purposes. These sections were the same in every major city in the world. The buildings were always two-story. The ground floor housed a bar, a jukebox, and a dance floor. Girls floated here, letting themselves be seen. When one sailor showed interest, he asked her to dance, bought her a few drinks, and began haggling over the price. Once the price was set and paid, the girl led the sailor upstairs. The second floor looked like a hotel lobby, with rooms evenly spaced along the sides. The girl usually had her own room where she lived and worked. It contained little-a bed, of course, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers for her few knick-knacks and belongings. The layout of each building was the same. Nick knew them well.
  
  If his plan was going to work, he needed to widen the gap between him and his follower. The section occupied roughly four square blocks, which didn't give him much room to work. It was time to begin.
  
  Nick rounded the corner and ran at full speed. Halfway across the block, he reached a short alley blocked by a wooden fence at the other end. Dumpsters lined both sides of the alley. Killmaster knew he no longer had the cover of darkness. He had to use his speed. He ran quickly toward the fence, judging it to be about ten feet high. He pulled one of the dumpsters over the side, climbed onto it, and climbed over the fence. On the other side, he took off to the end of the block, turned the corner, and
  
  
  
  
  He found the building he was looking for. He was sitting on the tip of a triangular block. From across the street, he could easily see people coming and going. A lean-to lean-to was attached to the wall, its roof directly beneath one of the second-story windows. Nick made a mental note of where the room would be as he ran toward the bar.
  
  The neon sign above the front door read "Club Delight." It was bright, but not flickering. The door was open. Nick walked in. The room was dark. To his left, a bar with stools bent at various angles ran halfway down the room. A sailor sat at one of the stools, resting his head on the bar. To Nick's right, a jukebox sat silent, bathed in a bright blue light. The space between the bar and the jukebox was used for dancing. Besides, the booths were empty, except for the last one.
  
  There was a fat woman bent over papers. Thin, rimless glasses rested on the tip of her bulbous nose. She smoked a long cigarette stuck in a holder. When Nick entered, she glanced at him without turning her head, simply rolling her eyes to the top of her glasses and peering at him over them. All this was visible in the time it took Nick to reach the stairs to his left, at the end of the bar, from the front door. Nick didn't hesitate. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but by the time the word came out, Nick was already on the fourth step. He continued climbing, taking two steps at a time. When he reached the top, he was in a hallway. It was narrow, with one lantern halfway down, deeply carpeted, and smelled of sleep, sex, and cheap perfume. The rooms weren't exactly rooms, but were partitioned off on each side. The walls were about eight feet high, and the building's ceiling extended more than ten feet. Nick decided the window he wanted would be the third room on his right. As he began to do so, he noticed that the doors separating the rooms from the hall were cheap plywood, painted bright colors, with tinsel stars glued to them. The stars had girls' names, each one different. He passed Margo and Lila's doors. He wanted Vicky. Killmaster planned to be as polite as he had time, but he couldn't delay his explanation. When he tried to open Vicky's door and found it locked, he stepped back and cracked the lock with one powerful blow. The door swung open, slammed against the wall with a loud noise, and fell at an angle, its top hinge broken.
  
  Vicky was busy. She lay on the small bed, her plump, smooth legs spread wide, matching the thrusts of the large, red-haired man on top of her. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck. The muscles of his bare buttocks tensed, and his back glistened with sweat. His large hands covered her ample breasts completely. Vicky's skirt and panties lay in a crumpled heap by the bed. Her sailor uniform was neatly draped over the dresser.
  
  Nick had already gone to the window, trying to open it, before the sailor noticed him.
  
  He looked up. "Hello!" he shouted. "Who the hell are you?"
  
  He was muscular, large, and handsome. Now he stood on his elbows. The hair on his chest was thick and bright red.
  
  The window seemed to be jammed. Nick couldn't open it.
  
  The sailor's blue eyes flashed with anger. "I asked you a question, Sport," he said. His knees rose. He was about to leave Vicky.
  
  Vicky shouted: "Mac! Mac!"
  
  "Mac must be the bouncer," Nick thought. Finally, he cleared the window. He turned to the couple, giving them his biggest boyish grin. "Just passing through, guys," he said.
  
  The anger left the sailor's eyes. He began to smile, then chuckled, and finally laughed out loud. It was a hearty, loud laugh. "It's quite funny, when you think about it," he said.
  
  Nick stuck his right foot through the open window. He stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out ten Hong Kong dollars. He crumpled it up and carefully tossed it to the sailor. "Have fun," he said. Then: "Is that good?"
  
  The sailor glanced at Vicky with a grin, then at Nick. "I've had worse."
  
  Nick waved, then dropped four feet onto the roof of the barn. At the end, he fell to his knees and rolled over the edge. The street was eight feet below. He rounded the corner of the building and disappeared out the window, then dashed across the street and back. He stayed in the shadows, keeping close to the bar, until he returned to the window. Now he was directly across the street from the bar, from where he could see three sides of the building. Keeping his eyes on the window, he stepped into the shadows, leaned his back against the fence opposite it, and stopped.
  
  It was light enough to see the window clearly. Nick saw the head and shoulders of a wiry man poking through it. In his right hand, he held a military .45. "This group definitely had a thing for military .45s," Nick thought. The man took his time, scanning the street.
  
  Then Nick heard the sailor's voice. "Everything is fine now.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is too much. Fun is fun - one guy is fine, but two is a hell of a lot." Nick saw the sailor's arm wrap around the man's chest and drag him back into the room. "Damn it, clown. Look at me when I'm talking to you.
  
  "Mac! Mac!" Vicki shouted.
  
  Then the sailor said, "Don't point that gun at me, buddy. I'll shove this down your throat and make you eat it.
  
  There was a scuffle, the sound of splintering wood, the crack of a clenched fist in the face. Glass shattered, heavy objects fell to the floor. And Vicky screamed, "Mac! Mac!"
  
  Nick smiled and leaned against the fence. He shook his head, reached into his coat pocket, and lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. The noise from the window continued. Nick calmly smoked his cigarette. A third voice came from the window, low and demanding. A military .45 smashed through the top of the window and landed on the roof of the barn. "Probably Mac," Nick thought. He blew smoke rings into the air. As soon as the wiry man left the building, he followed. But it looked like it would take quite a while.
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  Dawn broke without the sun; it remained hidden behind dark clouds. The air was still chilly. Early in the morning, people began to appear on the streets of Hong Kong.
  
  Nick Carter leaned against the fence and listened. Hong Kong opened its eyes and stretched, preparing for the new day. Every city was bustling, but the nighttime noise was somehow different from the early morning. Smoke curled from the rooftops, mingling with the low clouds. The smell of cooking hung in the air.
  
  Nick stepped on the butt of his seventh cigarette. There had been no sound from the window for over an hour. Nick hoped the sailor and Mac had left behind a man wiry enough to follow him. This man was the straw Nick had grasped. If he didn't pay, a lot of time would be wasted. And time was something Nick didn't have.
  
  Where would this man go? Nick hoped that as soon as he realized he'd lost the one he was supposed to follow, he'd report it to his superiors. That would give Nick two straws to fall back on.
  
  Suddenly, a man appeared. He seemed to have rushed out of the front door, and he didn't look well at all. His steps stopped and staggered. His coat was torn over his shoulder. His face was pale from bruises, and both eyes were beginning to swell. He wandered aimlessly for a while, unsure of where to go. Then he slowly moved toward the harbor.
  
  Nick waited until the man was almost out of sight and then followed him. The man moved slowly, painfully. It seemed as if each step required tremendous effort. Killmaster wanted this man detained, not beaten to a pulp. However, he could appreciate the sailor's feelings. No one likes to be interrupted. Especially twice. And he imagined the wiry man was completely humorless. He probably became aggressive, waving that .45. Still, Nick sympathized with the man, but he could understand why the sailor did what he did.
  
  As he emerged from the sailors' playground, the man seemed to perk up a bit. His steps became more leisurely, then quicker. It seemed he'd just decided where he was going. Nick was two blocks behind. So far, the man hadn't looked back once.
  
  It wasn't until they reached the docks along the harbor that Nick realized where the man was headed. The ferry. He was heading back to Kowloon. Or was he coming from there? The man approached the morning crowd on the landing and stopped at the edge. Nick kept close to the buildings, trying to stay out of sight. The man seemed unsure of what he wanted to do. Twice he retreated from the landing and then returned. It seemed the beating had affected his mind. He glanced at the people around him, then at the harbor, where the ferry was heading. He walked back along the dock, stopped, and deliberately walked away from the pier. Nick frowned in confusion, waited until the man was almost out of sight, then followed him.
  
  The burly man led Nick straight to his hotel. Outside, under the same streetlight where Ossa and the man had met, he stopped and looked at Nick's window.
  
  This guy just wouldn't give up. Then Nick realized the man's actions on the ferry. He was supposed to work this way. If he reported what had really happened to his superiors, they would probably kill him. Was he really going to cross into Kowloon? Or was he heading to a dock somewhere? He looked across the harbor and moved along the dock. Maybe he knew Nick had caught up with him and thought he'd try to throw them off a bit.
  
  Nick was sure of one thing: the man had stopped moving. And you can't follow a man who's not leading you anywhere. It was time to talk.
  
  The burly man didn't move from the lamppost. He looked toward Nick's room as if praying for Killmaster to be there.
  
  The sidewalks became crowded. People moved quickly along them, dodging each other. Nick knew he had to be careful. He didn't want a crowd around him while he was confronting the enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the doorway of a building across the street from the hotel, Nick transferred Wilhelmina from his belt to his right coat pocket. He kept his hand in the pocket, his finger on the trigger, like in old gangster movies. Then he walked across the street.
  
  The wiry man was so lost in his thoughts, staring out the hotel window, that he didn't even notice Nika approaching. Nika came up behind him, placed his left hand on the man's shoulder, and plunged the barrel of the Wilhelmina into his lower back.
  
  "Instead of looking at the room, let's go back to it," he said.
  
  The man tensed. His gaze moved to the toes of his boots. Nick saw the muscles in his neck twitch.
  
  "Move," Nick said quietly, pressing the Luger harder against his back.
  
  The man complied silently. They entered the hotel and climbed the stairs like old friends, Killmaster smiling amiably at everyone they passed. When they reached the door, Nick already held the key in his left hand.
  
  "Put your hands behind your back and lean against the wall," Nick ordered.
  
  The man obeyed, his eyes watching Killmaster's movements closely.
  
  Nick opened the door and stepped back. "Okay. Inside.
  
  The man stepped away from the wall and entered the room. Nick followed, closing and locking the door behind him. He pulled Wilhelmina from his pocket and aimed the gun at the man's stomach.
  
  "Put your hands behind your neck and turn around," he ordered.
  
  And again the man obeyed silently.
  
  Nick patted the man's chest, his pants pockets, the insides of both legs. He knew the man no longer had the .45, but maybe he had something else. He found nothing. "You understand English," he said when he finished. "Do you speak it?"
  
  The man remained silent.
  
  "Okay," Nick said. "Put your hands down and turn around." The sailor and Mac had done a pretty good job on him. He looked sad.
  
  The man's gaze made Nick relax slightly. As the man turned to face him, his right foot slammed between Nick's legs. Pain shot through him like a bush. He doubled over, staggering backward. The man stepped forward and kicked Wilhelmina out of Nick's hand with his left foot. The sound of metal clicking as his foot connected with the Luger. A pain welled up in his groin as Nick stumbled against the wall. He silently cursed himself for not noticing the steel toes of the man's shoes. The man was following Wilhelmina. Nick took two deep breaths, then stepped away from the wall, gritting his teeth in anger. The anger was directed at himself, trying to make him relax, even though he shouldn't have. Apparently, the man wasn't in as bad shape as he looked.
  
  The man bent over, his fingers brushing against the Luger. Nick kicked him, and he fell. He rolled onto his side and lunged at those awful steel-tipped boots. The blow caught Nick in the stomach, sending him slamming back against the bed. The man selected the Luger again. Nick quickly stepped away from the bed, pushing Wilhelmina into the corner, out of reach. The burly man was kneeling. Nick slapped him across the neck with both sides of his open palm, then quickly struck the man across the nose with his open palm, severing his nostrils. The man screamed in agony, then collapsed in curls, covering his face with both hands. Nick crossed the room and picked up Wilhelmina.
  
  He said through his teeth, "Now you're going to tell me why you were following me and who you work for."
  
  The movement was too quick for Nick to notice. The man's hand moved to his shirt pocket, pulled out a small round pill, and popped it into his mouth.
  
  "Cyanide," Nick thought. He stuffed Wilhelmina into his coat pocket and quickly approached the man. With the fingers of both hands, he tried to pry the man's jaws apart to prevent his teeth from crushing the pill. But it was too late. The deadly liquid had already passed through the man's body. Within six seconds, he was dead.
  
  Nick stood, looking at the body. He recoiled and plopped down on the bed. There was a pain between his legs that would never go away. His hands were covered in blood from the man's face. He lay back down on the bed and covered his eyes with his right hand. This was his straw, his only gamble, and he had lost it. Wherever he went, there was a blank wall. He hadn't had a single decent break since he began this mission. Nick closed his eyes. He felt tired and exhausted.
  
  Nick didn't know how long he lay there. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Suddenly, he sat up abruptly. What's wrong with you, Carter? he thought. No time to wallow in self-pity. So, you've had a few bad breaks. That was part of the job. Opportunities were still open. You had more challenging assignments. Getting along with her.
  
  He started with a shower and shave while his mind raced over the remaining options. If he couldn't think of anything else, there was the Wonderful Bar.
  
  When he came out of the bathroom
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt much better. He tightened the padding around his waist. Instead of placing Pierre, the tiny gas bomb, between his legs, he taped it to the small indentation just behind his left ankle. When he pulled on his sock, a small lump was visible, but it looked like a swollen ankle. He finished dressing in the same business suit. He removed the magazine from Wilhelmina and replaced the four missing shells. He pinned Wilhelmina by the waistband where she had been before. Then Nick Carter returned to work.
  
  He started with the dead man. He carefully went through the man's pockets. The wallet looked like it had been recently purchased. Most likely a sailor's. Nick found two photographs of Chinese women, a laundry ticket, ninety Hong Kong dollars in cash, and a business card from the Wonderful Bar. This place kept appearing everywhere he turned. He looked at the back of the card. Scrawled in pencil were the words Victoria-Kwangchow.
  
  Nick left his body and slowly walked to the window. He looked out, but saw nothing. Guangzhou was Canton, China, the capital of Guangdong Province. Canton was just over a hundred miles from Hong Kong, in Red China. Were his wife and boy there? It was a large city. It lay on the north bank of the Pearl River, which flowed south into Hong Kong harbor. Perhaps his wife and boy were there.
  
  But Nick doubted that was what the card had said. It was the bar's calling card. He felt that everything Victoria-Guangzhou had in mind was right here, in Hong Kong. But what? A place? A thing? A person? And why did this man have such a card? Nick recalled all the events that had happened since he saw the man peering out the dining room window. One thing stood out: the man's strange actions at the ferry dock. Either he was about to board the ferry but was afraid to tell his superiors about his failure, or he knew Nick was there and didn't want to reveal where he was going. And so he set off along the dock.
  
  Killmaster could see the harbor from his window, but not the ferry landing. He pictured the scene in his mind's eye. The ferry landing was surrounded on each side by a floating community of sampans and junks. They lined up side by side almost to the landing. To get Katie Lou and Mike to Canton, they had to take them from the States to Hong Kong, and then...
  
  But of course! It was so obvious! From Hong Kong, they'd transported them down the Pearl River to Canton by boat! That's where the man was headed, leaving the dock-to a boat somewhere along this community of boats. But there were so many of them in the area. It had to be big enough to travel the hundred or so miles to Canton. A sampan could probably handle it, but that was unlikely. No, it had to be bigger than a sampan. That in itself narrowed it down, since ninety percent of the boats in the harbor were sampans. It was another risk, a straw, a gamble, whatever. But it was something.
  
  Nick pulled the curtain over the window. He packed his extra clothes into a suitcase, turned off the light, and left the room, locking the door behind him. He'd have to find another place to stay. If he checked out, someone would clean the room right away. He figured the body would be discovered later that evening. That might be enough time. In the hallway, Nick dropped the suitcase in a laundry chute. He climbed through the window at the end of the hallway and down the fire escape. At the bottom, he fell six feet down the ladder and found himself in an alley. He dusted himself off and quickly walked out into the street, now filled with people and heavy traffic. At the first mailbox he passed, Nick dropped his hotel key. Hawk would sort things out with the police and the hotel when he arrived in Hong Kong. Nick blended into the crowd on the sidewalk.
  
  The air was still crisp. But the heavy clouds had dispersed, and the sun shone brightly through the cracks in them. The streets and sidewalks were beginning to dry. People milled around and past Nick as he walked. Every now and then, hungover sailors, their uniforms rumpled, emerged from the docks. Nick thought of the red-haired sailor and wondered what he was doing at this hour; probably still fighting with Vicky. He smiled, remembering the scene when he burst into the room.
  
  Nick reached the docks and headed straight for the ferry landing, his experienced eyes scanning the multitude of sampans and junks strung together like chain links in the harbor. The boat wouldn't be in this bay, but on the other side of the dock. If there was a boat at all. He wasn't even sure how he'd choose it.
  
  The huge ferry chugged away from the dock as Nick approached. He crossed the dock to the docks on the other side. Nick knew he had to be careful. If the Reds caught him tinkering with their boat, they'd kill him first and then find out who he was.
  
  Killmaster remained close by
  
  
  
  
  
  The building, his eyes carefully studying every boat that looked larger than a sampan. He spent the entire morning and part of the afternoon fruitlessly. He walked along the docks almost as far as the boats. But when he reached the area where large ships from all over the world were either loading or unloading cargo, he turned back. He had covered almost a mile. The frustrating thing was that there were too many boats. Even after removing the sampans, a large number remained. Perhaps he had already passed this; he had nothing to identify them with. And again, a business card might not mean a boat at all.
  
  Nick reexamined each boat larger than a sampan as he made his way back to the ferry dock. The clouds had cleared; they hung high in the sky, like scattered popcorn on a navy blue tablecloth. And the afternoon sun warmed the docks, evaporating the moisture from the asphalt. Some boats were tied to the sampans; others were anchored a little further out. Nick noticed that water taxis regularly shuttled back and forth between the massive American navy ships. The afternoon tide had turned the large ships on their anchor chains, so they sat broadside across the harbor. Sampans gathered around the ships like leeches, their passengers diving for nickels dropped by the sailors.
  
  Nick spotted the barge shortly before reaching the landing. He'd missed it earlier because its bow was pointed toward the dock. It was anchored near a row of sampans, and the afternoon tide had caused it to sit broadside. From where Nick stood, he could see the port side and stern. Written in bold yellow letters on the stern was: Kwangchow!
  
  Nick retreated into the shadows of the warehouse. The man stood on the deck of the barge, peering through binoculars at the dock. His right wrist was wrapped in a white bandage.
  
  In the shadow of the warehouse, Nick smiled broadly. He allowed himself a deep, satisfied sigh. The man on the barge was, of course, Ossa's bosom friend. Nick leaned against the warehouse and sat down. Still smiling, he pulled out one of his cigarettes and lit it. Then he chuckled. He tilted his handsome head to the side and burst into laughter. He had just gotten his first break.
  
  Killmaster allowed himself this strange luxury for exactly one minute. He didn't care about the man with the binoculars; the sun was shining in his face. As long as Nick remained in the shadows, he was almost impossible to see from there. No, Nick had more to worry about. The police had undoubtedly found the body in his room and were probably looking for it now. They would be looking for Chris Wilson, the American tourist. It was time for Nick to become someone else.
  
  He stood up, stubbed out his cigarette, and headed toward the platform, staying in the shadows. He wouldn't have a chance of approaching the debris in daylight, at least not while the binoculars were on deck. Right now, he needed a place to change.
  
  When Nick reached the ferry, it was crowded. He walked carefully past the people, keeping an eye on the police.
  
  As he crossed it, he stepped onto the first finger of the dock, pointing toward the harbor. He walked slowly past the rows of sampans, watching them carefully. They stretched in rows like corn, and Nick continued until he found the one he wanted.
  
  He stood next to the dock, second row from the harbor. Nick, without thinking, stepped onto it and ducked under the roof of a small hut. He immediately noticed the signs of abandonment: the absence of any clothing, the roof where rain had poured, soaking the bunk and the small stove, and the tin cans with traces of rust on the lips. Who knew why and when the occupants had left? Perhaps they had found a place to stay on dry land until the storm passed. Perhaps they were dead. The sampan smelled musty. It had been abandoned for some time. Nick rummaged through the crannies and nooks and crannies and found a handful of rice and an unopened can of green beans.
  
  He couldn't see the barge from the sampan. There were about two hours of daylight left. It was a chance, but he had to make sure it was the right barge. He stripped off his clothes and removed the padding from his waist. He figured he could swim under the first row of sampans and reach the harbor in four minutes before needing to breathe air. If his binoculars were still on deck, he'd have to approach the wreck from the bow or starboard side.
  
  Naked except for Hugo, Nick slid over the side of the sampan into the icy water. He waited a few seconds for the initial chill to subside, then submerged and began to swim. He passed under the first row of sampans and turned right toward the waterside of the ferry. He then surfaced for just two deep breaths of fresh air. He caught a glimpse of the barge as he submerged again. The bow was pointed at him. He swam toward it, keeping about six feet below it.
  
  
  
  
  
  r. He had to take another breath of air before his hand touched the thick bottom of the barge.
  
  Moving along the keel, he allowed himself to slowly rise along the starboard side, almost astern. He was in the shadow of the barge, but there was no support, nothing to hold on to. The anchor chain lay over the bow. Nick placed his feet on the keel, hoping it would help him stay afloat. But the distance from the keel to the surface was too great. He couldn't keep his head in the water. He moved toward the stem, along the starboard side of the basket-woven rudder. By holding the rudder, he was able to remain in one position. He was still in the shadow of the barge.
  
  Then he saw a boat being lowered over the port side.
  
  A man with a bandaged wrist climbed in and trudged awkwardly toward the dock. He favored his wrist and couldn't pull the oars evenly.
  
  Nick waited, shivering, for about twenty minutes. The boat returned. This time, a woman was with the man. Her face was sternly beautiful, like a professional whore's. Her lips were full and bright red. Her cheeks were flushed where the skin lay tightly against the bone. Her hair was raven black, tightly pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were emerald-colored and equally intense. She wore a form-fitting lavender dress with a floral pattern, slit up both sides, reaching to her thighs. She sat in the boat, her knees together, her hands clasped. From Nick's perspective, he saw that she was wearing no panties. In fact, he doubted she was wearing anything under that bright silk.
  
  When they reached the edge of the junk, the man jumped on board, then extended his hand to help her.
  
  In Cantonese, the woman asked, "Have you heard from Yong yet?"
  
  "No," the man replied in the same dialect. "Perhaps he will complete his mission tomorrow."
  
  "Perhaps nothing," the woman snapped. "Perhaps he followed Ossa's path."
  
  "Ossa..." the man began.
  
  "Ossa was a fool. You, Ling, are a fool. I should have known better before leading an operation surrounded by fools."
  
  "But we are committed!" Ling exclaimed.
  
  The woman said, "Louder, they can't hear you in Victoria. You're an idiot. A newborn baby devotes itself to feeding itself, but can't do anything. You're a newborn baby, and a lame one at that.
  
  "If I ever see this..."
  
  "You either run or die. He's just one man. One man! And you're all like scared rabbits. Right now, he could be on his way to the woman and the boy. He can't wait much longer."
  
  "He will..."
  
  "He probably killed Yong. I thought that out of all of you, at least Yong would succeed."
  
  "Sheila, I..."
  
  "So you want to lay hands on me? We're waiting for Yonggu until tomorrow. If he's not back by tomorrow night, we'll load up and leave. I'd like to meet this man who scared you all. Ling! You're pawing at me like a puppy. Fine. Come into the cabin, and I'll make you at least half human.
  
  Nick had heard what would happen next many times before. He didn't need to freeze in the icy water to hear it again. He dove and moved along the bottom of the barge until he reached the bow. Then he filled his lungs with air and headed back to the sampan.
  
  The sun had almost set when he came up for another breath of air. Four minutes later, he passed under the first row of sampans again and returned to his borrowed one. He climbed aboard and dried himself with his business suit, vigorously rubbing his skin. Even after he was dry, it took him a while to stop shivering. He pulled the boat out to almost its full length and closed his eyes. He needed sleep. With Yong a dead man in Nick's room, it was unlikely he would show up tomorrow. That gave Nick at least until tomorrow evening. He had to figure out how to board this barge. But now he was tired. This cold water had sapped his strength. He withdrew from himself, letting the rocking sampan carry him. Tomorrow he would start. He would be well rested and ready for anything. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was Thursday. He had until Tuesday. Time flew by.
  
  Nick woke with a start. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. He heard the soft splash of water against the side of the sampan. The barge! The barge was still in the harbor? Perhaps the woman, Sheila, had changed her mind. Now the police knew about Yuna. Maybe they found out.
  
  He sat up stiffly from his hard bed and looked across the ferry dock. The large Navy ships had shifted positions in the harbor again. They sat alongside, their bows pointed toward Victoria. The sun was high, shimmering in the water. Nick spotted a barge, its stern turned toward the harbor. There was no sign of life on board.
  
  Nick cooked a handful of rice. He ate the rice and a can of green beans with his fingers. When he was finished, he placed the ninety Hong Kong dollars he'd taken from his suit into the empty can and then set the can back where he'd found it. Most likely, the passengers
  
  
  
  
  
  If the sampan didn't return, but if they did, he would at least pay for his room and board.
  
  Nick leaned back in the sampan and lit one of his cigarettes. The day was almost over. All he had to do was wait for nightfall.
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  Nick waited in the sampan until darkness fell. Lights glittered along the harbor, and beyond it he could see the lights of Kowloon. The junk was now out of his sight. He hadn't seen any movement on it all day. But of course, he waited until well past midnight.
  
  He wrapped Wilhelmina and Hugo in coolie clothes, which he tied around his waist. He didn't have a plastic bag, so he had to hold the clothes out of the water. Pierre, a tiny gas bomb, was attached with tape just behind his left armpit.
  
  The sampans around him were dark and silent. Nick plunged back into the icy water. He moved with a slow sideways stroke, holding the bundle over his head. He passed between two sampans in the front row, then headed for open water. He moved slowly, and he made sure there was no spray. Once outside the ferry, he turned right. Now he could see the dark silhouette of the barge. There were no lights. Passing the ferry dock, he headed straight for the barge's bow. Once there, he hung on to the anchor chain and rested. Now he would have to be very careful.
  
  Nick climbed the chain until his feet were out of the water. Then, using the bundle as a towel, he dried his feet and legs. He couldn't leave wet footprints on the deck. He climbed over the forward rail and dropped silently to the deck. He bowed his head, listening. Hearing nothing, he quietly dressed, tucked Wilhelmina into the waistband of his pants, and held Hugo in his hand. Crouching, he moved along the walkway on the left side of the cabin. He noticed that the boat was gone. When he reached the aft deck, he saw three sleeping bodies. "If Sheila and Ling were on board," Nick thought, "they would most likely be in the cabin." Those three must be the crew. Nick stepped easily between them. There was no door closing off the front of the cabin, only a small arched space. Nick stuck his head through, listening and looking. He heard no breathing except for the three behind him; he saw nothing. He went inside.
  
  To his left were three bunks, one on top of the other. To his right were a sink and a stove. Behind it was a long table with benches on either side. The mast ran through the center of the table. Two portholes lined the sides of the cabin. Behind the table was a door, probably the head. There was nowhere for him to hide in the cabin. The storage lockers were too small. All the open spaces along the bulkhead were clearly visible from the cabin. Nick looked down. There would be space below the main deck. They would probably use it for storage. Nick figured the hatch would be somewhere near the head of the bed. He carefully moved along the table and opened the door to the head.
  
  The toilet was flush with the deck, in the Eastern style, and too small for the hatch below. Nick retreated to the main cabin, scanning the deck with his eyes.
  
  There was just enough moonlight to make out silhouettes. He leaned over as he retreated, his fingers sliding lightly across the deck. He found the crack between the bunks and the washbasin. He ran his hands across the area, found the finger lift, and slowly rose. The hatch was hinged and well-used. When he opened it, it made only a slight squeak. The opening was about three feet square. Pure darkness awaited below. Nick knew the bottom of the junk couldn't be more than four feet down. He swung his legs over the edge and lowered himself. He sank only to chest level before his feet touched the bottom. Nick crouched, closing the hatch above him. All he could hear now was the gentle lapping of water against the sides of the junk. He knew that when they were ready to move, they would load supplies aboard. And they probably stored them in this place.
  
  Using his hands to guide him, Nick moved aft. The darkness was absolute; he had to navigate strictly by feel. He found only the furled spare sail. He turned back. If there had been nothing in front of the hatch, he might have been able to climb into the sail. But they would probably want to move it to the store. He had to find something better.
  
  In front of the hatch, he found five crates tied down. Working as quietly as possible, Nick untied the crates and arranged them so that there was space behind them and enough room from the top to the ceiling for him to crawl through. Then he tied them tightly again. The crates weren't very heavy, and because of the darkness, he couldn't read what they contained. Probably food. Nick crawled over them into his small space. He had to sit with his knees against his chest. He placed Hugo in one of the crates within easy reach and placed Wilhelmina between his legs. He leaned back, his ears trying
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught every sound. All he could hear was the water against the side of the junk. Then he heard something else. It was a light scraping sound. A chill ran through him.
  
  Rats!
  
  Sickly, dirty, larger ones, they were known to attack men. Nick had no idea how many there were. The scratching seemed to surround him. And he was trapped in darkness. If only he could see! Then he realized what they were doing. They were clawing at the boxes around him, trying to reach the top. They were probably starving, chasing him. Nick had Hugo in his hand. He knew he was taking a risk, but he felt trapped. He pulled out a lighter and lit a flame. For a moment, he was blinded by the light, then he saw two of them on top of the box.
  
  They were big, like alley cats. The whiskers on their long, pointed noses twitched back and forth. They looked down at him with slanted black eyes that glinted in the lighter's flame. The lighter was too hot. It fell to the deck and went out. Nick felt something furry fall into his lap. He swung at it with Hugo, hearing the snap of teeth on the blade. Then it was between his legs. He kept jabbing Hugo at it while his free hand searched for the lighter. Something tugged at his pant leg. Nick found the lighter and quickly lit it. The rat's jagged teeth caught in his pant leg. It shook its head back and forth, snapping its jaws. Nick stabbed it in the side with the stiletto. He stabbed it again. And again. The teeth came free, and the rat snapped its blade. Nick stabbed the stiletto into its belly, then shoved it into the face of another rat that was about to jump. Both rats crossed the box and climbed down the other side. The scratching stopped. Nick heard the others rushing toward the dead rat, then squabbling over it. Nick winced. One or two more might be killed during the fight, but not enough to hold out for long. They would be back.
  
  He closed the lighter and wiped the blood from Hugo's blade on his pants. He could see the morning light through the crack in the hatch.
  
  Two hours passed before Nick heard movement on deck. His legs were asleep; he could no longer feel them. Footsteps were heard above him, and the smell of cooking food dissipated. He tried to shift position, but seemed unable to move.
  
  He spent most of the morning dozing. The pain in his spine eased thanks to his incredible powers of concentration. He couldn't fall asleep because, though they were silent, the rats were still with him. Every now and then, he'd hear one of them scurrying around in front of one of the crates. He hated the thought of spending another night alone with them.
  
  Nick thought it was around noon when he heard a boat hit the side of the junk. Two more pairs of feet passed along the deck above him. There were muffled voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. Then he heard a diesel engine slowly revving, moving alongside the junk. The props were overturned, and he heard a dull thud on the deck. Another boat pulled alongside. Feet scuffled on the deck above him. There was a loud clang, like a board falling. Then, every now and then, there were thuds. Nick knew what it was. They were loading supplies. The junk was getting ready to move. He and the rats would soon have company.
  
  It took about an hour to load everything on board. Then the diesel started again, picked up speed, and the sound slowly faded. Suddenly, the hatch swung open, and Nick's shelter was flooded with bright light. He could hear rats scurrying for cover. The air was cool and refreshing as it flowed in. He heard a woman speaking Chinese.
  
  "Hurry," she said. "I want us on our way before dark."
  
  "He might be with the police." That sounded like Ling.
  
  "Calm down, stupid. The police don't have him. He's going to the woman and the boy. We have to get there before he does."
  
  One of the crew members was a few feet away from Nick. Another was outside the hatch, collecting crates from a third and passing them over. And what crates! Smaller ones were placed around the hatch, where they would be easy to reach. They contained food and the like. But there were only a few of those. Most of the crates were labeled in Chinese, and Nick read enough Chinese to figure out what they contained. Some were loaded with grenades, but most contained ammunition. They must have an army guarding Katie Lou and the boy, Nick thought. Sheila and Ling must have emerged from the hut; their voices had become muffled again.
  
  By the time the crew had dropped all the boxes, the light had almost gone out. Everything was piled behind the hatch. They didn't even approach Nick's shelter. Finally, it was all done. The last crew member climbed out and slammed the hatch shut. Nick found himself in complete darkness once again.
  
  The dark air smelled strongly of new crates. Nick heard the sound of feet pounding on the deck. A pulley creaked.
  
  
  
  
  "They must have raised the sail," he thought. Then he heard the clank of the anchor chain. The wooden bulkheads creaked. The barge seemed to be floating on the water. They were moving.
  
  They would most likely head to Guangzhou. Either there or somewhere on the banks of the Canton River, the professor's wife and son were there. Nick tried to imagine the area along the Canton River. It was flat, covered in tropical forest. This meant nothing to him. As he recalled, Guangzhou lay in the northeastern delta of the Si Chiang River. In this area, a maze of streams and canals flowed between small rice paddies. Each was dotted with villages.
  
  The barge rolled very quietly across the harbor. Nick recognized it as they headed up the Canton River. The forward motion seemed to slow, but the water sounded as if it were rushing past the sides of the barge. The rocking became a little more violent.
  
  Nick knew he couldn't stay where he was much longer. He sat in a pool of his own sweat. He was thirsty, and his stomach growled with hunger. The rats were hungry too, and they hadn't forgotten him.
  
  He'd heard their scratching for over an hour. First, he needed to inspect and chew through the new boxes. But getting to the food inside was too difficult. There he was, always there, warm from the smell of blood on his pants. So they came for him.
  
  Nick listened as their scratches on the boxes grew higher. He could tell exactly how high they were going. And he didn't want to waste lighter fluid. He knew he'd need it. Then he felt them on the boxes, first one, then another. Holding Hugo in his hand, he directed the flame to the lighter. He lifted the lighter and saw their sharp, whiskered noses before their black, glittering eyes. He counted five, then seven, and more boxes reached the top. His heart began to beat faster. One would be bolder than the others, make the first move. He would keep an eye on it. His wait was short.
  
  One moved forward, planting his feet at the edge of the box. Nick held the flame of his lighter to his whiskered nose and jabbed the tip at Hugo. The stiletto tore out the rat's right eye, and it fell. The others jumped on him almost before he could reach the other side of the box. He could hear them struggling over it. The flame in Nick's lighter went out. No more liquid.
  
  Killmaster was forced to abandon his position. Now that he had run out of lighter fluid, he was trapped without protection. There was no feeling in his legs; he couldn't get up. When the rats finished their friend, he would be next. He had one chance. He tucked Wilhelmina back into his belt and clamped his teeth around Hugo. He wanted the stiletto within reach. Hooking his fingers into the top box, he pulled with all his might. He lifted his elbows from above, then his chest. He tried kicking his legs to improve circulation, but they wouldn't move. Using his arms and elbows, he crawled over the top of the boxes and down the other side. He could hear the rats chewing and scratching around him. Now, along the bottom of the enclosure, Nick crawled toward one of the food crates.
  
  Using Hugo as a crowbar, he broke open one of the crates and climbed inside. Fruit. Peaches and bananas. Nick pulled out a bunch of bananas and three peaches. He began tossing and tossing the remaining fruit through the hatch between and around the grenade and ammunition crates. He could hear rats scurrying behind him. He ate hungrily but slowly; there was no point in getting sick. When he finished, he began to rub his legs. At first they tingled, then they hurt. The feeling returned slowly. He strained and flexed them, and soon they were strong enough to support his weight.
  
  Then he heard the powerful engine of another boat; it sounded like an old PT boat. The sound got closer until it was right next to him. Nick went to the hatch. He put his ear to it, trying to hear. But the voices were muffled, and the idling engine drowned them out. He considered lifting the hatch a little, but someone from the crew might be in the cockpit. "It's probably a patrol boat," he thought.
  
  He had to remember this, because he planned to return this way. The patrol boat had been alongside for over an hour. Nick wondered if they were going to search the barge. Of course they were. Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck above him. Nick now had full use of his legs. He dreaded the thought of returning to the confined space, but it seemed he would have to. Heavy footsteps were on the aft deck. Nick relieved himself on one of the ammunition boxes, then climbed over the boxes into his small shelter. He tucked Hugo into the box in front of him. Wilhelmina was between his legs again. He needed a shave, and his body stank, but he felt much better.
  
  There was a lot of talking during the search, but Nick couldn't hear the words. He heard what sounded like laughter. Maybe the woman, Sheila, was trying to deceive him.
  
  
  
  
  
  customs officers so they wouldn't see the grenades and ammunition. The barge was anchored, and the patrol boat's engines were turned off.
  
  Suddenly, Nick's hideout was flooded with morning light as the hatch opened, the beam of a flashlight shining around it.
  
  "What's down here?" a male voice asked in Chinese.
  
  "Just supplies," Sheila replied.
  
  A pair of legs fell through the hatch. They were dressed in the uniform of the Chinese regular army. Then a rifle entered, followed by the rest of the soldiers. He shone the flashlight on Nick and turned his back. The beam fell on an open food crate. Three rats flew out of the cage when the light hit them.
  
  "You have rats," the soldier said. Then the beam hit grenades and ammunition casings. "Aha! What do we have here?" he asked.
  
  From above the open hatch, Sheila said, "These are for the soldiers in the village. I told you about them..."
  
  The soldier moved on his haunches. "But why so many?" he asked. "There aren't that many soldiers there."
  
  "We expect trouble," Sheila replied.
  
  "I'll have to report this." He crawled back through the open hatch. "The rats opened one of your food boxes," he said shortly before the hatch slammed shut again.
  
  Nick could no longer hear the voices. His feet were beginning to drift off again. There were a few more minutes of muffled conversation, then the pulley creaked and the anchor chain began clanking again. The wreck seemed to strain against the mast. Powerful engines fired, and the patrol boat broke free. Water gushed over the sides and bottom of the wreck. They were on their way again.
  
  So they were waiting for him in some village. He felt as if tiny bits of information were being dropped at him. He'd already learned a lot since he'd boarded the barge. But the all-important "where" still eluded him. Nick pressed himself against the boxes to keep his legs straight. He worked with them until the feeling returned. Then he sat back down. If he could do this every now and then, it might keep his legs from falling asleep. For now, the rats seemed content with the open food crate.
  
  He heard footsteps approaching the hatch. The door opened, and daylight flooded in. Nick held Hugo. One of the crew members climbed in. He held a machete in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Crouching, he crawled toward the open food crate. His light struck two rats. When they tried to escape, the man cut them in half with two quick blows. He looked around for rats. Seeing none, he began stuffing the fruit back into the crate. When he cleared the area around him, he reached for the splintered board Nick had torn from the crate. He began to replace it, then stopped.
  
  He ran the beam of light along the edge of the board. A deep frown crossed his face. He ran his thumb along the edge, then looked at the two dead rats. He knew the rats hadn't opened the crate. The beam of light flashed everywhere. It stopped at the ammunition crates, which calmed Nick. The man began checking the crates. First, he looked through the grenade and ammunition crates. Finding nothing, he untied the food crates, pushed them closer together, and tied them again. Then he turned to Nick's crates. Working quickly, his fingers untied the knots holding the boxes. Nick had Hugo ready. The man pulled the ropes from the crates, then pulled the top box down. When he saw Nick, his eyebrows rose in surprise.
  
  "Yes!" he shouted and swung the machete again.
  
  Nick lunged forward, plunging the tip of his stiletto into the man's throat. The man gurgled, dropped his flashlight and machete, and stumbled back, blood gushing from the open wound.
  
  Nick started with the boxes. The junk rolled aside, causing the boxes to topple over, and he was thrown against the bulkhead. He looked up and saw a woman's hand, holding a small-caliber machine gun, pointed at him through the hatch.
  
  In perfect American, Sheila said, "Welcome aboard, dear. We've been waiting for you.
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  It took Nick a moment to regain full control of his legs. He paced the aft deck, breathing deeply, while Sheila watched his every move with her tiny machine gun. Ling stood next to the woman. Even he carried an old Army .45. Nick estimated it was around noon. He watched as two other crew members pulled their comrade through the hatch and tossed the body overboard. He smiled. The rats had eaten well.
  
  Nick then turned to the woman. "I'd like to freshen up and shave," he said.
  
  She looked at him with a glint in her cold emerald eyes. "Of course," she replied to his smile. "Would you like something to eat?"
  
  Nick nodded.
  
  Ling said, "We kill," in less-than-perfect English. There was hatred in his eyes.
  
  Nick thought Ling didn't like him very much. He entered the cabin and poured water into the sink. The couple stood behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both pistols were aimed at his back. Hugo and Wilhelmina were on the table. The barge bounced up and down the river.
  
  As Nick began shaving, Sheila said, "I suppose we should finish the formalities. I'm Sheila Kwan. My stupid friend's name is Ling. You, of course, are the infamous Mr. Wilson. What's your name?"
  
  "Chris," Nick said, keeping his back to them as he shaved.
  
  "Oh, yes. A friend of Professor Loo's. But we both know that's not your real name, right?
  
  "And you?"
  
  "It doesn't matter. We'll have to kill you anyway. You see, Chris, you were a naughty boy. First Ossa, then Big, and then Yong. And poor Ling will never have the full use of his arm again. You're a dangerous man, you know?"
  
  "We kill," Ling said with feeling.
  
  "Later, pet. Later."
  
  Nick asked, "Where did you learn to speak American like that?"
  
  "You noticed," Sheila said. "How sweet. Yes, I was educated in the States. But I've been away so long, I thought I'd forgotten some phrases. Do they still say words like fabulous, cool, and dig?"
  
  Nick finished with the sink. He turned to face the couple and nodded. "West Coast, right?" he asked. "California?"
  
  She smiled cheerfully in her green eyes. "Very good!" she said.
  
  Nick pressed her. "Isn't this Berkeley?" he asked.
  
  Her smile turned into a smirk. "Excellent!" she said. "I can certainly see why they sent you. You're smart." Her eyes swept over him approvingly. "And very nice to look at. It's been a long time since I had a big American."
  
  Ling said: "We kill, we kill!"
  
  Nick nodded at the man. "Doesn't he know anything?"
  
  In Chinese, Sheila told Ling to leave the hut. He argued with her briefly, but when she told him it was an order, he reluctantly left. One of the sailors placed a bowl of hot rice on the table. Sheila gathered Hugo and Wilhelmina and handed them to Ling outside the hut. Then she gestured for Nick to sit and eat.
  
  As Nick ate, he knew another question would soon be answered. Sheila sat down on the bench opposite him.
  
  "What happened between you and John?" Nick asked.
  
  She shrugged, the gun still pointed at him. "I guess you could say I wasn't his type. I loved college, I absolutely loved American men. I slept with too many of them for him. He wanted someone more permanent. I think he got what he wanted."
  
  "You mean Katie?"
  
  She nodded. "She's more his type-quiet, reserved. I bet she was a virgin when they married. I'll have to ask her."
  
  Nick asked, "How long were you with him?"
  
  "I don't know, probably a month or two."
  
  "Long enough to tell he was considering the idea of the complex."
  
  She smiled again. "Well, I was sent there to study."
  
  Nick finished his rice and pushed the bowl away. He lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. Sheila took the one he offered her, and as he was about to light her cigarette, he knocked the small machine gun out of her hand. It slid off the table and bounced off the floor. Nick reached to pick it up but stopped before his hand touched it. Ling stood in the doorway of the cabin, a .45 in his hand.
  
  "I kill," he said, cocking the trigger.
  
  "No!" Sheila cried. "Not yet." She quickly stepped between Nick and Ling. To Nick she said, "That wasn't very smart, baby. You're not going to make us tie you up, are you?" She tossed Ling her small machine gun and told him in Chinese to wait right outside the hut. She promised him that very soon he would be allowed to kill Nick.
  
  Ling chuckled and disappeared from sight.
  
  Sheila stood before Nick, adjusting her tight lavender dress. Her legs were slightly apart, and the silk clung to her body as if it were wet. Nick now knew she was wearing nothing underneath. She said hoarsely, "I don't want him to take you until I'm done with you." She cupped her hands just under her breasts. "I must be pretty good."
  
  "I bet so," Nick said. "And what about your boyfriend? He wants to see me dead enough already.
  
  Nick stood by one of the beds. Sheila moved closer to him, pressing her body against his. He felt a fire ignite within him.
  
  "I can handle him," she said in a hoarse whisper. She moved her hands under his shirt to his chest. "I haven't been kissed by an American in a long time."
  
  Nick pressed his lips to hers. He pressed his lips to hers. His hand lay on her back, then slowly slid down. She came closer to him.
  
  "How many more agents are working with you?" she whispered in his ear.
  
  Nick kissed her neck, her throat. His hands moved to her breasts. "I didn't hear the question," he replied in an equally quiet whisper.
  
  She tensed and weakly tried to push away. Her breathing was heavy. "I... have to know," she said.
  
  Nick pulled her close. His hand slid under her shirt, touching her bare flesh. Slowly, he began to lift her shift.
  
  "Later," she said hoarsely. "You I
  
  
  
  
  
  I'll tell you later when you know how good I am."
  
  "We'll see." Nick carefully laid her down on the bed and finished removing her shirt.
  
  She was good, good. Her body was flawless and fine-boned. She pressed herself against him and moaned in his ear. She writhed with him and pressed her firm, beautiful breasts against his chest. And when she reached the pinnacle of satisfaction, she scratched his back with her long nails, almost rising from the bunk, nipping at his earlobe with her teeth. Then she fell limply beneath him, her eyes closed, her arms at her sides. As Nick was about to climb out of the bunk, Ling entered the cabin, his face red with rage.
  
  He didn't say a word, but immediately got to work. The .45 was aimed at Nick's stomach. He cursed Nick in Chinese.
  
  Sheila also ordered him from the salon in Chinese. She came to life again and pulled her shirt over her head.
  
  "Who do you think I am?" Ling retorted in his Cantonese.
  
  "You are what I say you are. You do not own me or control me. Get out."
  
  "But with this... spy, this foreign agent."
  
  "Out!" she ordered. "Get out! I'll tell you when you can kill him.
  
  Ling gritted his teeth and stomped out of the cabin.
  
  Sheila looked at Nick, smiling slightly. Her cheeks were flushed. Her emerald eyes still shone with satisfaction. She smoothed her silk shirt and straightened her hair.
  
  Nick sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. Sheila came over and sat down opposite him.
  
  "I liked it," she said. "It's a shame we have to kill you. I could easily get used to you. However, I can't play games with you anymore. Then again, how many agents are working with you?"
  
  "No," Nick replied. "I'm alone."
  
  Sheila smiled, shaking her head. "It's hard to believe one person did everything you have. But let's say you're telling the truth. What did you hope to achieve by sneaking aboard?"
  
  The barge stopped rocking. It was running on smooth water. Nick couldn't see outside the hut, but he figured they were about to enter the small harbor at Whampoa or Huangpu. Large ships would pass through here. This was as far upriver as large ships could go. He estimated they were about twelve miles from Guangzhou.
  
  "I'm waiting," Sheila said.
  
  Nick said, "You know why I snuck on board. I told you I was working alone. If you don't believe me, then don't believe me.
  
  "Of course, you can't expect me to believe that your government will send one man to save John's wife and boy."
  
  "You can believe what you want." Nick wanted to go out on deck. He wanted to see where they were headed from Whampoa. "You think your boyfriend will shoot me if I try to stretch my legs?"
  
  Sheila tapped her fingernail against her front teeth. She studied him. "I guess," she said. "But I'm going with you." As he started to stand, she said, "You know, honey, it would be a lot nicer if you answered my questions here. When we get where we're going, it won't be nice."
  
  The late afternoon sun was diving through dark rain clouds as Nick stepped onto the deck. Two crew members walked forward, checking the river's depth. The ugly eye of Ling's .45-caliber pistol watched Nick closely. He was at the helm.
  
  Nick walked to the left side, threw his cigarette into the river and looked at the passing shore.
  
  They were moving away from Whampoa and the larger ships. They passed small sampans carrying entire families, men sweating as they worked against the current. Nick figured at this pace it would take them another full day to reach Kwangzhou, if that's where they were headed. That would be tomorrow. And what was tomorrow? Sunday! He had just over forty-eight hours to find Katie Lou and Mike and return them to Hong Kong. That meant he'd have to cut the journey time in half.
  
  He felt Sheila standing next to him, lightly running her fingers over his arm. She had other plans for him. He glanced at Ling. Ling had other plans for him, too. Things weren't looking good.
  
  Sheila wrapped herself around his arm, pressing her chest against it. "I'm bored," she said quietly. "Entertain me."
  
  Ling's .45-caliber pistol followed Nick as he walked with Sheila to the cabin. Once inside, Nick said, "You like torturing this guy?"
  
  "Linga?" She began to unbutton his shirt. "He knows his place." She ran her hands through the hair on his chest.
  
  Nick said, "It won't take him long to start firing his gun."
  
  She looked at him, smiled, and ran her wet tongue over her lips. "Then you better do as I say."
  
  Nick figured he could take Ling if necessary. Two crew members wouldn't be a problem. But he still didn't know where they were headed. It would be easier if he went with the woman until they reached their destination.
  
  "What do you want me to do?" he asked.
  
  Sheila stood away from him until she took off her shirt. She untied the bun behind her head, and her hair fell over her shoulders. It almost reached
  
  
  
  
  
  her waist. Then she unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to his ankles.
  
  "Ling!" she called.
  
  Ling immediately appeared at the entrance to the hut.
  
  In Chinese, Sheila said, "Watch him. Perhaps you'll learn something. But if he doesn't do as I say, shoot him."
  
  Nick thought he saw the trace of a smile at the corners of Ling's mouth.
  
  Sheila walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, spreading her legs. "On your knees, American," she ordered.
  
  The hair on the back of Nick's neck stood on end. He clenched his teeth and fell to his knees.
  
  "Now come to me, baby," Sheila said.
  
  If he turned left, he could knock the gun out of Ling's hand. But then what? He doubted any of them would tell him where they were going, even if he tried to force it out of them. He had to agree with this woman.
  
  "Ling!" Sheila said menacingly.
  
  Ling took a step forward, pointing the gun at Nick's head.
  
  Nick began to crawl toward the woman. He approached her and, as he did as she commanded, heard Lin's quiet chuckle.
  
  Sheila's breathing became ragged. In Chinese, she said, "See, Ling, dear? Do you see what he's doing? He's preparing me for you." Then she lay down on the bunk. "Quick, Ling," she breathed. "Tie him to the mast."
  
  Ling, holding the pistol, gestured toward the table. Nick gratefully obeyed. He sat down on the table itself, placing his feet on the bench. He wrapped his arms around the mast. Ling placed the .45 caliber pistol down and quickly and securely bound Nick's hands.
  
  "Hurry, darling," Sheila called. "I'm close."
  
  Ling placed the gun under the bunk and quickly undressed. Then he joined Sheila on the bunk.
  
  Nick watched them with a bitter taste in his mouth. Ling had gone at it with the grim determination of a lumberjack chopping down a tree. If he liked it, he didn't show it. Sheila held him close, whispering in his ear. The cabin had darkened with the setting sun. Nick could smell the damp air. It was cold. He wished he had pants on.
  
  When they finished, they fell asleep. Nick stayed awake until he heard one of the crew members snoring in the stern. The other was at the tiller, working the rudder. Nick could barely see him through the cabin door. Even he nodded in his sleep.
  
  Nick dozed for about an hour. Then he heard Sheila waking Ling for another attempt. Ling groaned in protest, but complied with the woman's wishes. It took him longer than the first time, and when he finished, he literally passed out. The hut was now plunged into darkness. Nick could only hear them. The barge rocked upriver.
  
  When Nick awoke again, the dawn was hazy. He felt something blurry brush his cheek. There was no feeling in his hands. The rope tightly wrapped around his wrists had cut off circulation, but there was sensation in other parts of his body. And he felt Sheila's hand on him. Her long raven hair slid back and forth across his face.
  
  "I was afraid I'd have to wake one of the team," she whispered as he opened his eyes.
  
  Nick remained silent. She resembled a little girl, with long hair falling over her fragile face. Her naked body was firm and well-built. But her hard green eyes always gave her away. She was a stern woman.
  
  She stood on the bench-table and gently brushed her breasts against his face. "You need a shave," she said. "I wish I could untie you, but I don't think Ling has the strength to hold a gun on you."
  
  With her hand on him and her breast lightly brushing his cheek, Nick couldn't control the fire inside him.
  
  "That's better," she said, smiling. "It might be a little awkward with your hands tied, but we'll manage, won't we, dear?"
  
  And despite himself and his dislike for her, he liked it. The woman was insatiable, but she knew men. She knew what they liked, and she provided it.
  
  When she was finished with him, she stepped back and let her eyes take in his entirety. Her tiny belly moved back and forth with her heavy breathing. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and said, "I think I'm going to cry when we have to kill you." Then she picked up the .45 and woke Ling. He rolled out of the bunk and stumbled after her out of the cabin onto the aft deck.
  
  They spent the entire morning there, leaving Nick tied to the mast. From what Nick could see through the cabin door, they had entered the delta south of Guangzhou. The area was dotted with rice paddies and canals branching off from the river. Sheila and Ling had a chart. They alternated between studying it and the right bank. They passed many junks and even more sampans. The sun was hazy and did little to warm the chill in the air.
  
  Funk crossed the delta and launched one of the channels. Sheila seemed satisfied with the course and rolled up the chart.
  
  Nick was untied and allowed to button his shirt and put on his pants. He was given a bowl of rice and two bananas. Ling kept a .45 caliber pistol with him the entire time. When he was finished, he went out.
  
  
  
  
  
  aft deck. Ling remained two feet behind him. Nick spent the day on the starboard side, smoking cigarettes and watching the goings-on. Every now and then, a Chinese regular soldier would catch his eye. He knew they were getting closer. After lunch, Sheila slept in the hut. Apparently, she'd had all the sex she needed in one day.
  
  The barge passed two villages filled with flimsy bamboo huts. The villagers passed by, paying no attention. It was dusk when Nick began to notice more and more soldiers on the shore. They looked at the barge with interest, as if they'd been expecting it.
  
  As darkness fell, Nick noticed a light coming on ahead. Sheila joined them on deck. As they approached, Nick noticed lights illuminating the dock. Soldiers were everywhere. This was another village, different from the others they had seen because this one had electric lighting. As far as Nick could see as they approached the dock, the bamboo huts were illuminated by lanterns. Two electric bulbs stood on either side of the dock, and the path between the huts was illuminated by lines of lights.
  
  Greedy hands seized the abandoned rope as the barge approached the dock. The sail fell, the anchor dropped. Sheila held Nick at gunpoint with her small machine gun while she ordered Ling to tie his hands behind his back. A plank was installed, connecting the barge to the dock. Soldiers crowded into the huts, some stood around the dock, watching. All were heavily armed. As Nick stepped off the barge, two soldiers followed him. Sheila spoke with one of the soldiers. As Ling led the way, the soldiers behind Nick nudged him gently, urging him to move. He followed Ling.
  
  As he passed through the row of lights, he spotted five huts: three on the left and two on the right. A string of lights running down the center seemed to be connected to some kind of generator at the end of the huts. He could hear it humming. The three huts to his left were filled with soldiers. The two to his right were dark and appeared empty. Three soldiers stood guard at the door of the second. Could this be where Katie Lou and the boy were? Nick remembered that. Of course, it could also be a decoy. They were waiting for him. He was led past all the huts. Nick only noticed it when they actually reached the structure. It was behind the huts and was a low, rectangular concrete building. It would be hard to see in the dark. Ling led him up seven cement steps to what looked like a steel door. Nick heard the generator almost directly behind him. Ling pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. It creaked open, and the group entered the building. Nick smelled the musty, damp scent of rotting flesh. He was led down a narrow, unlit corridor. Steel doors stood on either side. Ling stopped in front of one. He used the other key on the ring to unlock the door. Nick's hands were untied, and he was shoved into the cell. The door clanged shut behind him, leaving him in complete darkness.
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  Nick walked around his booth, touching the walls.
  
  No cracks, no crevices, just solid concrete. And the floor was the same as the walls. The hinges on the steel door were on the outside, sealed with concrete. There was no escape from the cell. The silence was so complete he could hear his own breathing. He sat down in the corner and lit one of his cigarettes. Since his lighter was out of fuel, he'd borrowed a box of matches from the barge. Only two cigarettes remained.
  
  He smoked, watching the ember of his cigarette flicker with each drag. "Sunday night," he thought, "and only until midnight Tuesday." He still hadn't found Katie Lou and the boy, Mike.
  
  Then he heard Sheila Kwan's soft voice, sounding as if it was coming from within the walls.
  
  "Nick Carter," she said. "You're not working alone. How many others are working with you? When will they be here?"
  
  Silence. Nick stubbed out the rest of his cigarette. Suddenly, the cell was flooded with light. Nick blinked, his eyes watering. In the center of the ceiling was a lit bulb, protected by a small wire mesh. As Nick's eyes adjusted to the bright light, the light went out. He estimated it lasted about twenty seconds. Now he was in darkness again. He rubbed his eyes. The sound came from the walls again. It sounded like a train whistle. Gradually, it grew louder, as if a train were approaching the cell. The sound grew louder and louder until it turned into a screeching sound. Just when Nick thought it would pass, the sound cut out. He estimated it was about thirty seconds. Then Sheila spoke to him again.
  
  "Professor Lu wants to join us," she said. "There's nothing you can do to prevent it." There was a click. Then, "Nick Carter. You're not working alone. How many others are working with you? When will they be here?"
  
  It was a recording. Nick waited for the lights to come on. But instead, he got a train whistle.
  
  
  
  
  
  And amplification. This time it was even louder. And the screeching began to hurt his ears. When he put his hands on them, the sound stopped. He was sweating. He knew what they were trying to do. It was an old Chinese torture trick. They used variations of it on soldiers in Korea. It was a process of mental breakdown. Make the brain like mush, and then mold it however you want. He could tell them he was alone, before the rice harvest, but they didn't believe him. The irony was that there was practically no defense against this kind of torture. The ability to endure pain was useless. They bypassed the body and shot straight for the brain.
  
  The light came on again. Nick's eyes watered from the brightness. This time the light only lasted ten seconds. It went out. Nick's shirt was soaked with sweat. He had to come up with some kind of protection. He waited, waited, waited. Would it be the light?
  
  A whistle? Or Sheila's voice? It was impossible to tell what was coming or how long it would last. But he knew he had to do something.
  
  The whistle wasn't far away anymore. It suddenly became high-pitched and loud. Nick got to work. His brain hadn't yet turned to mush. He tore a large strip off his shirt. The light came on, and he squeezed his eyes shut. When it went off again, he took the torn part of his shirt and tore it again into five smaller strips. He tore two of the strips in half again and crumpled them into tight little balls. He stuck four balls into his ears, two in each.
  
  When the whistle blew, he barely heard it. Of the three remaining strips, he folded two of them into loose pads and placed them over his eyes. He tied the third strip around his head to keep the pads in place. He was blind and deaf. He leaned back in his concrete corner, smiling. He lit another cigarette by feel. He knew they could strip him of all his clothes, but right now he was stalling.
  
  They turned up the whistle's volume, but the sound was so muted it didn't bother him. If Sheila's voice was there, he didn't hear it. He was almost finished with his cigarette when they came for him.
  
  He didn't hear the door open, but he could smell the fresh air. And he could feel the presence of others in the cell with him. The blindfold had been ripped from his head. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. The light was on. Two soldiers stood above him, another by the door. Both rifles were aimed at Nick. The soldier standing above Nick pointed to his ear, then to Nick's ear. Killmaster knew what he wanted. He removed his earplugs. The soldier lifted him and his rifle. Nick stood up and, pushing with the barrel of the rifle, walked out of the cell.
  
  He heard the generator running as soon as he exited the building. Two soldiers stood behind him, their rifles pressed against his back. They walked under the bare light bulbs between the huts and straight to the end of the hut closest to the concrete building. As they entered, Nick noticed it was divided into three sections. The first was something like a foyer. To the right of it, a door led to another room. Although Nick couldn't see it, he could hear the shrill whine and screech of a shortwave radio. Directly ahead, a closed door led to yet another room. He had no way of knowing what was in there. Above him, two smoky lanterns hung from bamboo beams. The radio room glowed with new lanterns. Then Nick realized that most of the generator's power was used to run the radio, the lights between the huts, and all the equipment in the concrete building. The huts themselves were illuminated by lanterns. While the two soldiers waited with him in the foyer, he leaned against the wall of the hut. It creaked under his weight. He ran his fingers over the rough surface. Splinters of bamboo came loose where he rubbed. Nick smiled faintly. The huts were tinderboxes, waiting to burn.
  
  Two soldiers stood on either side of Nick. Next to the door leading to the third room, two more soldiers sat on a bench, their rifles between their legs, their heads nodding, trying to fight off sleep. At the end of the bench, four crates were stacked on top of each other. Nick remembered them from the junk hold. The Chinese symbols on them indicated they were grenades. The top crate was open. Half the grenades were missing.
  
  A voice came over the radio. It spoke Chinese, a dialect Nick didn't understand. The operator responded in the same dialect. One word was spoken, which he understood. It was the name Lou. "The voice on the radio must be coming from the house where Professor Lou was being held," Nick thought. His mind was consumed, digested, discarded. And like a computer spitting out a card, a plan came to him. It was crude, but like all his plans, flexible.
  
  Then the door to the third room opened, and Ling appeared with his trusty .45. He nodded to the two soldiers, then gestured for Nick to enter the room. Sheila was waiting for him. Like Ling
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed Nick, closing the door behind her. Sheila ran up to Nick, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him passionately on the lips.
  
  "Oh, darling," she whispered hoarsely. "I just needed to have you one last time." She was still wearing the same silk nightgown she'd worn on the barge.
  
  The room was smaller than the other two. This one had a window. It held a crib, a table, and a wicker chair. There were three lanterns: two hanging from the rafters and one on the table. Hugo and Wilhelmina lay on the floor next to the chair. They had two Tommy guns with them. The table stood next to the cot, the chair against the wall to the right of the door. Nick was ready at any time.
  
  "I kill," Ling said. He sat down in the chair, the ugly face of the .45 aimed at Nick.
  
  "Yes, pet," Sheila cooed. "In a while." She unbuttoned Nick's shirt. "Are you surprised we learned your true identity?" she asked.
  
  "Not exactly," Nick replied. "You got it from John, didn't you?"
  
  She smiled. "It took a little convincing, but we have ways."
  
  "Did you kill him?"
  
  "Of course not. We need him."
  
  "I kill," Ling repeated.
  
  Sheila pulled her shirt over her head. She took Nick's hand and placed it on her bare chest. "We need to hurry," she said. "Ling's worried." She pulled Nick's pants down. Then she backed toward the bunk, pulling him along with her.
  
  A familiar fire was already burning inside Nick. It had started when his hand touched the warm flesh of her breast. He released the bun at the back of her head, letting her long black hair fall over her shoulders. Then he gently pushed her onto the bed.
  
  "Oh, baby," she cried as his face came close to hers. "I really wouldn't like it if you died."
  
  Nick's body pressed against hers. Her legs wrapped around him. He felt her passion mount as he worked her. It was little pleasure for him. It saddened him a little to use this act, which she loved so much, against her. His right arm was wrapped around her neck. He slipped his hand under her arm and tugged at the tape holding Pierre. He knew that once the deadly gas was released, he would have to hold his breath until he could leave the room. This gave him just over four minutes. He held Pierre in his hand. Sheila's eyes were closed. But the jerks he made, releasing the deadly gas, opened her eyes. She frowned and saw a tiny ball. With his left hand, Nick rolled the gas bomb under the cot toward Ling.
  
  "What have you done?" Sheila cried. Then her eyes widened. "Ling!" she screamed. "Kill him, Ling!"
  
  Ling jumped to his feet.
  
  Nick rolled onto his side, pulling Sheila with him, using her body as a shield. If Ling had shot Sheila in the back, he would have gotten Nick. But he was shifting the .45 from side to side, trying to aim. And that delay killed him. Nick held his breath. He knew it would only take a few seconds for the odorless gas to fill the room. Ling's hand touched his throat. The .45 clattered to the floor. Ling's knees buckled, and he fell. Then he fell face-first.
  
  Sheila struggled against Nick, but he held her close. Her eyes widened with fear. Tears welled up in them, and she shook her head as if she couldn't believe it was happening. Nick pressed his lips to hers. Her breath caught in her pants, then suddenly stopped. She went limp in his arms.
  
  Nick needed to move quickly. His head was already glowing from lack of oxygen. He rolled off the bunk, quickly gathered Hugo, Wilhelmina, one of Tommy's machine guns, and his pants, and then dashed out the open window. He staggered ten steps away from the hut, his lungs aching, his head a black blur. Then he dropped to his knees and inhaled the welcome air. He remained there for a moment, breathing deeply. When his head cleared, he shoved his legs into his pants, tucked Wilhelmina and Hugo into his belt, grabbed Tommy's pistol, and, crouching, headed back to the hut.
  
  He filled his lungs with air just before reaching the open window. The soldiers hadn't entered the room yet. Standing just outside the window, Nick pulled Wilhelmina from his belt, carefully aimed at one of the lanterns hanging from the rafters, and fired. The lantern spattered, spilling flaming kerosene across the wall. Nick fired at another, then at the one on the table. Flames licked the floor and climbed over two walls. The door opened. Nick ducked and crouched, walking around the hut. There was too much light in front of the huts. He put the Tommy gun down and took off his shirt. He buttoned three buttons, then tied the sleeves around his waist. Shaping it and fiddling with it, he had created a nice little pouch at his side.
  
  He grabbed his Tommy gun and headed for the front door. The back of the hut was ablaze. Nick knew he only had a few seconds before the other soldiers ran toward the fire. He approached the door and stopped. Through the row of bare light bulbs, he saw groups of soldiers marching toward the burning hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly at first, then faster, their rifles raised. Seconds passed. Nick kicked the door open with his right foot; he fired a burst from his Tommy gun, first to the right, then to the left. Two soldiers stood by the bench, their eyes heavy with sleep. As the stream of bullets rained down on them, they bared their teeth, their heads slamming twice against the wall behind them. Their bodies seemed to shift, then their heads smashed against each other, their rifles clanged to the floor, and like two blocks clasped in their hands, they fell onto their rifles.
  
  The door to the third room was open. Flames were already all over the walls, the rafters were already black. The room crackled as it burned. Two more soldiers were with Sheila and Ling, killed by poison gas. Nick saw Sheila's skin curl from the heat. Her hair was already scorched. And the seconds turned into a minute and went on. Nick went to the boxes of grenades. He began filling a makeshift bag with grenades. Then he remembered something-almost too late. He turned as a bullet crumpled his collar. The radio operator was about to fire again when Nick cut him from crotch to head with a burst from his Tommy gun. The man's arms extended straight out, slamming against either side of the doorway. They stood straight as he staggered and fell.
  
  Nick cursed under his breath. He should have taken care of the radio first. Since the man was still on the radio, he'd likely already contacted the patrol boat and the house where the professor was. Two minutes passed. Nick had ten grenades. That would be enough. Any second, the first wave of soldiers would burst through the door. There was little chance the poison gas would work now, but he wasn't about to breathe deeply. The front door was behind that. Maybe the radio room. He ran through the door.
  
  Luck was with him. There was a window in the radio room. Heavy feet pounded outside the hut, growing louder as soldiers approached the front door. Nick climbed out the window. Just below it, he crouched down and pulled one of the grenades from his pouch. Soldiers milled about the foyer, no one giving orders. Nick pulled the pin and began counting slowly. When he reached eight, he tossed the grenade through the open window and crouched, running away from the hut. He hadn't taken more than ten steps when the force of the explosion knocked him to his knees. He turned and saw the roof of the hut lift slightly, and then the seemingly unburned side bulged.
  
  As the sound of the explosion reached him, the walls of the hut split in half. Orange light and flames leaked through open windows and cracks. The roof sagged, leaning slightly. Nick got up and kept running. Now he could hear gunshots. Bullets ate into the still-wet mud around him. He ran full speed toward the concrete building and circled back around it. Then he stopped. He was right. The generator chugged to life inside the small, box-like bamboo hut. The soldier standing by the door was already reaching for his rifle. Nick shot him with his Tommy gun. Then he pulled a second grenade from his bag. Without thinking, he pulled the pin and began counting. He tossed the grenade into the open doorway leading to the generator. The explosion immediately darkened everything. Just in case, he pulled out another grenade and tossed it inside.
  
  Without waiting for the explosion, he flew into the undergrowth growing just behind the huts. He passed the first burning hut and went to the second. He was breathing heavily, crouched on the edge of a bush. There was a small open space near the open window at the back of the second hut. He could still hear the gunshots. Were they killing each other? There were shouts; someone was trying to give orders. Nick knew that once someone took command, disorder would no longer be his advantage. He wasn't moving fast enough! The fourth grenade was in his hand, the pin pulled. He ran, crouched, and, passing the open window, threw the grenade. He continued running toward the third hut, next to the canal. The only light now came from the flickering lanterns through the windows and doorways of the other three huts.
  
  He already had the fifth grenade in his hand. A soldier loomed before him. Nick, without stopping, sprayed bullets from his Tommy gun in a circle. The soldier jerked back and forth, all the way to the ground. Nick passed between the exploding second hut and the third. It seemed there was fire everywhere. Men's voices shouted, cursing at each other, some trying to give orders. Shots echoed in the night, mixed with the crackling of burning bamboo. The pin was pulled. Passing the open side window of the third hut, Nick tossed the grenade inside. It hit one of the soldiers in the head. The soldier bent down to pick it up. It was the last movement of his life. Nick was already under the garland of a darkened light bulb.
  
  
  
  
  
  moving on to the remaining two huts, when the hut burst into flames. The roof slid off in front.
  
  Now Nick was running into soldiers. They seemed to be everywhere, running aimlessly, unsure of what to do, firing into the shadows. The two huts on the other side couldn't be treated like the last three. Perhaps Katie Lou and Mike were in one of them. There were no lanterns in those huts. Nick reached the first and glanced at the second before entering. Three soldiers were still standing by the door. They weren't confused. A stray bullet kicked up the earth at his feet. Nick entered the hut. The flames from the other three huts provided just enough light for him to see their contents. This one was used for storing weapons and ammunition. Several cases were already open. Nick looked through them until he found a new clip for his Tommy gun.
  
  He had five grenades left in his makeshift bag. He'd only need one for this hut. One thing was certain: he had to be far away when this one took off. He decided to save it for later. He returned to the street. The soldiers were starting to gather. Someone had taken control. A pump had been set up by the canal, and hoses were spraying water onto the last two huts he'd hit. The first one had burned almost to the ground. Nick knew he had to get through these three soldiers. And there was no time like the present to start.
  
  He kept low to the ground, moving quickly. He shifted his Tommy gun to his left hand and pulled Wilhelmina from his belt. At the corner of the third hut, he stopped. Three soldiers stood with their rifles at the ready, their feet slightly apart. The Luger jumped in Nick's hand as he fired. The first soldier spun, dropped his rifle, clutched his stomach, and fell. Shots continued to ring out from the other end of the huts. But the confusion was leaving the soldiers. They began to listen. And Nick seemed to be the only one using a Tommy gun. This was what they had been waiting for. The other two soldiers turned to face him. Nick fired twice quickly. The soldiers jerked, collided, and fell. Nick heard the hiss of water extinguishing the flames. Time was running out. He rounded the corner to the front of the hut and threw open the door, Tommy gun at the ready. Once inside, he gritted his teeth and cursed. It was a decoy - the hut was empty.
  
  He no longer heard rifle shots. The soldiers began to gather. Nick's thoughts raced. Where could they be? Had they taken them somewhere? Was it all for nothing? Then he knew. It was a chance, but a good one. He left the hut and headed straight for the first one he hit. The flames died down, and flickering lights began to appear here and there. All that remained of the hut was a charred skeleton. Because the fire was so intense, the soldiers didn't even try to put it out. Nick went straight to where he thought Ling had fallen. There were five charred bodies, like mummies in a tomb. Smoke still curled from the floor, helping to hide Nick from the soldiers.
  
  His search was short-lived. All the clothes, of course, had been burned from Ling's body. A .45-caliber shotgun lay next to Ling's corpse. Nick nudged the body with his toe. It crumbled at his feet. But as he moved it, he found what he was looking for-an ash-colored keychain. When he picked it up, it was still hot to the touch. Some of the keys had melted. More soldiers had gathered on the dock. One of them was barking orders, calling others to join the group. Nick slowly walked away from the hut. He ran along a line of burned-out lanterns until they went out. Then he turned right and slowed when he reached a low concrete building.
  
  He walked down the cement steps. The fourth key unlocked the steel door. It creaked open. Just before Nick stepped inside, he glanced at the dock. The soldiers fanned out. They had begun searching for him. Nick entered a dark hallway. At the first door, he fumbled with the keys until he found the one that unlocked the door. He pushed it open, his Tommy gun at the ready. He smelled the stench of dead flesh. A body lay in the corner, the skin tightly clinging to the skeleton. It must have been quite some time ago. The next three cells were empty. He passed the one he was in, then noticed that one of the doors in the hallway was open. He walked up to it and stopped. He checked his Tommy gun to make sure it was ready, then stepped inside. A soldier lay just inside the door, his throat slit. Nick's eyes scanned the rest of the cell. At first, he almost missed them; then two shapes became clear to him.
  
  They huddled in a corner. Nick took two steps toward them and stopped. The woman held a dagger to the boy's throat, the tip piercing his skin. The boy's eyes reflected the woman's fear, her horror. She was wearing a shirt not much different from the one Sheila wore. But it was torn in front and across the chest. Nick looked at the dead soldier. He must have tried
  
  
  
  
  to rape her, and now she thought Nick was there to do the same. Then Nick realized that in the darkness of the cell, he looked Chinese, like a soldier. He was shirtless, his shoulder was bleeding slightly, a Tommy gun in his hand, a Luger and a stiletto slung in the waistband of his pants, and a bag of hand grenades hanging at his side. No, he didn't look like the United States Army had come to rescue her. He had to be very careful. If he made the wrong move, said the wrong thing, he knew she would slit the boy's throat and then plunge it into her own heart. He was about four feet away. He carefully knelt down and placed the Tommy gun on the floor. The woman shook her head and pressed the tip of the dagger harder against the boy's throat.
  
  "Katie," Nick said softly. "Katie, let me help you."
  
  She didn't move. Her eyes looked at him, still full of fear.
  
  Nick chose his words carefully. "Katie," he said again, even more softly. "John's waiting. Are you going to leave?"
  
  "Who... who are you?" she asked. The trace of fear left her eyes. She pressed the dagger less hard.
  
  "I'm here to help you," Nick said. "John sent me to take you and Mike to him. He's waiting for you."
  
  "Where?"
  
  "In Hong Kong. Now listen carefully. There are soldiers coming. If they find us, they will kill all three of us. We must act quickly. Will you allow me to help you?"
  
  Even more fear left her eyes. She pulled the dagger from the boy's throat. "I... I don't know," she said.
  
  Nick said, "I hate to push you like this, but if you take much longer, it won't be your decision."
  
  "How do I know I can trust you?"
  
  "You only have my word. Now, please." He extended his hand to her.
  
  Katie hesitated for a few more precious seconds. Then she seemed to make a decision. She held out the dagger to him.
  
  "Okay," Nick said. He turned to the boy. "Mike, can you swim?"
  
  "Yes, sir," the boy replied.
  
  "Great; here's what I want you to do. Follow me out of the building. Once we get outside, you both head straight to the rear. When you get to the back, enter the brush. Do you know where the canal is from here?"
  
  Katie nodded.
  
  "Then stay in the bushes. Don't show yourself. Move at an angle to the canal so you can get to it downstream from here. Hide and wait until you see trash coming down the canal. Then swim after the trash. There will be a line on the side you can grab onto. Remember that, Mike?
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  - Now you take good care of your mother. Make sure she does.
  
  "Yes, sir, I will," Mike replied, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
  
  "Good boy," Nick said. "Okay, let's go."
  
  He led them out of the cell, down a dark corridor. When he reached the door leading to the exit, he extended his hand for them to stop. Alone, he walked outside. The soldiers were stationed in a staggered line between the huts. They had been walking toward the concrete building, and now it was less than twenty yards away. Nick motioned to Katie and Mike.
  
  "You need to hurry," he whispered to them. "Remember, stay deep in the forest until you reach the canal. You'll hear a few explosions, but don't stop at anything."
  
  Katie nodded, then followed Mike along the wall and to the back.
  
  Nick gave them thirty seconds. He heard soldiers approaching. The fires in the last two huts were dying down, and the clouds obscured the moon. Darkness was on his side. He pulled another grenade from his pack and took a short run across the clearing. Halfway there, he pulled the pin and tossed the grenade over his head at the soldiers.
  
  He had already pulled out another grenade when the first exploded. The flash told Nick the soldiers were closer than he thought. The explosion killed three of them, leaving a gap in the center of the line. Nick reached the skeleton of the first hut. He pulled the pin on the second grenade and tossed it where he'd dropped the first. The soldiers screamed and fired again into the shadows. The second grenade exploded near the end of the line, destroying two more. The remaining soldiers ran for cover.
  
  Nick walked around the burnt-out hut from the opposite side, then crossed the clearing to the ammunition hut. He had another grenade in his hand. This one would be big. At the hut door, Nick pulled the pin and tossed the grenade into the hut. Then he felt movement to his left. A soldier rounded the corner of the hut and fired without aiming. The bullet split the lobe of Nick's right ear. The soldier cursed and turned the butt of his rifle toward Nick's head. Nick swung to the side and kicked the soldier in the stomach with his left foot. He finished the blow by pressing his half-closed fist into the soldier's collarbone. The impact cracked it.
  
  Seconds passed. Nick began to feel unsteady. He ran back across the clearing. A soldier blocked his path,
  
  
  
  
  
  The rifle was pointed straight at him. Nick hit the ground and rolled. When he felt his body hit the soldier's ankles, he swung for his groin. Three things happened almost simultaneously. The soldier grunted and fell on Nick, the rifle fired into the air, and a grenade in the bunker exploded. The first blast set off a cascade of larger explosions. The sides of the hut exploded. Flames rolled like a huge, orange, bouncing beach ball, illuminating the entire area. Pieces of metal and wood flew as if from a hundred gunshots. And the explosions continued, one after another. The soldiers screamed in pain as the debris struck them. The sky was a bright orange, sparks falling everywhere, starting fires.
  
  The soldier fell heavily on top of Nick. He absorbed most of the blast, and pieces of bamboo and metal pierced his neck and back. The explosions were less frequent now, and Nick heard the groans of wounded soldiers. He pushed the soldier off and picked up his Tommy gun. It seemed there was no one to stop him as he moved toward the dock. As he reached the barge, he noticed a crate of grenades next to a plank. He picked it up and carried it aboard. Then he dropped the plank and cast off all the ropes.
  
  Once aboard, he raised the sail. The junk creaked and slowly pulled away from the dock. Behind him, a tiny village was surrounded by small fires. Burning ammunition erupted every now and then. The islands of huts almost fluttered in the orange light of the flames, making the village seem ghostly. Nick pitied the soldiers; they had their jobs, but he had his too.
  
  Nick now held the junk at the tiller in the center of the canal. He figured he was just over a hundred miles from Hong Kong. Going downriver would be quicker than before, but he knew his problems weren't over yet. He lashed the tiller and tossed the rope overboard. The barge disappeared from view of the village; he heard only the occasional crack as more ammunition exploded. The land to starboard of the junk was low and flat, mostly rice paddies.
  
  Nick scanned the darkness along the left bank, searching for Katie and Mike. Then he spotted them, a little ahead of him, swimming after the junk. Mike reached the line first, and when he was high enough, Nick helped him aboard. Katie was right behind him. As she climbed over the railing, she stumbled and grabbed Nick for support. His arm grabbed her waist, and she fell against him. She pressed herself against him, burying her face in his chest. Her body was slippery with moisture. A feminine scent emanated from her, undisturbed by makeup or perfume. She pressed herself against him, as if in despair. Nick stroked her back. Compared to his, her body was thin and fragile. He realized she must have been through hell.
  
  She didn't sob or cry, she simply held onto him. Mike stood awkwardly next to them. After about two minutes, she slowly removed her arms from around him. She looked into his face, and Nick saw that she truly was a beautiful woman.
  
  "Thank you," she said. Her voice was soft and almost too low for a woman.
  
  "Don't thank me yet," Nick said. "We still have a long way to go. There might be clothes and rice in the cabin.
  
  Katie nodded and, putting her arm around Mike's shoulders, entered the cabin.
  
  Returning to the wheel, Nick considered what lay ahead. First came the delta. Sheila Kwan needed a map to cross it in daylight. He had no schedule and had to do it at night. Then came the patrol boat, and finally the border itself. For weapons, he had a Tommy pistol, a Luger, a stiletto, and a box of grenades. His army consisted of a beautiful woman and a twelve-year-old boy. And now he had less than 24 hours left.
  
  The channel began to widen. Nick knew they would soon be in the delta. Ahead and to the right, he saw tiny points of light. That day, he had followed Sheila's directions carefully; his mind recorded every turn, every change in course. But tonight, his movements would be general, not precise. He had only one thing in mind: the river current. If he could find it somewhere in that delta where all the channels converged, it would lead him in the right direction. Then the left and right banks fell away, and he was surrounded by water. He had entered the delta. Nick lashed the tiller and moved across the cabin toward the bow. He studied the dark water below him. Sampans and junks lay at anchor all over the delta. Some had lights, but most were dark. The barge creaked through the delta.
  
  Nick jumped down onto the main deck and unhooked the tiller. Katie emerged from the cabin with a bowl of steaming rice. She wore a bright red dress that hugged her figure tightly. Her hair was freshly combed.
  
  "Feeling better?" Nick asked. He started eating rice.
  
  "A lot. Mike fell asleep right away. He couldn't even finish his rice.
  
  Nick couldn't forget her beauty. The photograph John Lou showed him didn't do it justice.
  
  Katie looked at
  
  
  
  
  
  bare mast. "Did something happen?"
  
  "I'm waiting for the current." He handed her the empty bowl. "What do you know about all this?"
  
  She froze, and for a moment the fear she'd had in the cell showed in her eyes. "Nothing," she said softly. "They came to my house. Then they grabbed Mike. They held me down while one of them gave me an injection. The next thing I knew, I woke up in that cell. That's when the real horror began. The soldiers..." She hung her head, unable to speak.
  
  "Don't talk about it," Nick said.
  
  She looked up. "I was told John would be with me soon. Is he okay?"
  
  "As far as I know." Then Nick told her everything, omitting only his meetings with them. He told her about the complex, about his conversation with John, and finally, he said, "So, we only have until midnight to get you and Mike back to Hong Kong. And in a couple of hours it will be light..."
  
  Katie was silent for a long time. Then she said, "I'm afraid I've caused you a lot of trouble. And I don't even know your name.
  
  "It was worth the trouble to find you safe. My name is Nick Carter. I'm a government agent."
  
  The barge moved faster. The current caught it and propelled it forward, aided by a light breeze. Nick leaned back against the tiller. Katie leaned against the starboard rail, lost in her thoughts. "She's held up well so far," Nick thought. "But the hardest part was yet to come."
  
  The Delta was far behind. Ahead, Nick could see the lights of Whampoa. Large ships lay at anchor on either side of the river, leaving a narrow channel between them. Most of the town was dark, awaiting the dawn that was not far off. Katie retired to the cabin for a little sleep. Nick remained at the tiller, watching everything with his eyes.
  
  The barge moved on, letting the current and wind carry it toward Hong Kong. Nick dozed at the tiller, a nagging worry gnawed at him. Everything was going too smoothly, too easily. Of course, not all the soldiers in the village had been killed. Some of them must have escaped the fires long enough to sound the alarm. And the radio operator must have contacted someone before shooting Nick. Where was that patrol boat?
  
  Nick woke abruptly to find Katie standing before him, a cup of hot coffee in her hand. The darkness of the night had faded to such an extent that he could see the dense tropical forest on both banks of the river. The sun would rise soon.
  
  "Take this," Katie said. "You look like you need it."
  
  Nick took the coffee. His body was tense. A dull ache filled his neck and ears. He was unshaven and dirty, and he had about sixty miles to go.
  
  "Where's Mike?" He sipped his coffee, feeling the warmth right up until the end.
  
  "He's on the nose, watching."
  
  Suddenly he heard Mike scream.
  
  "Nick! Nick! The boat is coming!"
  
  "Take the tiller," Nick said to Katie. Mike was on one knee, pointing to the starboard side of the bow.
  
  "There," he said, "see, just walking up the river."
  
  The patrol boat moved quickly, cutting deep into the water. Nick could barely make out two soldiers standing by a gun on the foredeck. Time was short. Judging by the boat's approaching path, they knew he had Katie and Mike with him. The radio operator called them.
  
  "Good boy," Nick said. "Now let's make some plans." Together they jumped from the cockpit to the main deck. Nick opened the crate of grenades.
  
  "What is this?" Katie asked.
  
  Nick opened the lid of the briefcase. "Patrol boat. I'm sure they know about you and Mike. Our boat ride is over; we'll have to move to dry land now." His shirt bag was filled with grenades again. "I want you and Mike to swim to shore right now."
  
  "But..."
  
  "Now! No time to argue.
  
  Mike touched Nick's shoulder and dived overboard. Katie waited, looking into Nick's eyes.
  
  "You'll be killed," she said.
  
  "Not if everything goes the way I want. Now move! I'll meet you somewhere along the river.
  
  Katie kissed him on the cheek and ducked to the side.
  
  Now Nick could hear the patrol boat's powerful engines. He climbed into the cabin and dropped the sail. Then he jumped onto the tiller and yanked it sharply to the left. The junk heeled over and began to swing broadside across the river. The patrol boat was now closer. Nick saw an orange flame erupt from the muzzle. A shell whistled through the air and exploded right in front of the junk's bow. The barge seemed to shudder in shock. The port side faced the patrol boat. Nick positioned himself behind the starboard side of the cabin, his Tommy gun resting on top. The patrol boat was still too far away to open fire.
  
  The cannon fired again. And again a shell whistled through the air, only this time the explosion ruptured a cavity at the waterline just behind the bow. The barge jerked sharply, nearly knocking Nick off his feet, and immediately began to sink. Nick was still waiting. The patrol boat was already quite close. Three more soldiers opened fire with machine guns. The cabin around Nick was riddled with bullets. He was still waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hole in the starboard side. He wouldn't stay afloat for long. The patrol boat was close enough for him to see the soldiers' expressions. He waited for a certain sound. The soldiers stopped firing. The boat began to slow. Then Nick heard a sound. The patrol boat was approaching. The engines were off, Nick raised his head high enough to see. Then he opened fire. His first burst killed two soldiers firing the bow gun. He fired in a crisscross pattern, never stopping. The other three soldiers scurried back and forth, bumping into each other. Deck workers and soldiers ran across the deck, looking for cover.
  
  Nick put down his Tommy gun and pulled out the first grenade. He pulled the pin and tossed it, then pulled out another, pulled the pin, and tossed it, then pulled out a third, pulled the pin, and tossed it. He picked up his Tommy gun and dove back into the river. The first grenade exploded when he hit the water, which was icy. He kicked his powerful legs under the weight of the Tommy gun and the remaining grenades. He rose straight up and surfaced next to the boat. His second grenade tore the patrol boat's cabin apart. Nick hung on to the side of the barge, pulling another grenade from its sack. He pulled the pin with his teeth and hurled it over the barge's rail toward the open grenade crate. Then he let go and let the weight of his weapon carry him straight to the bottom of the river.
  
  His feet hit the slushy mud almost immediately; the bottom was only eight or nine feet down. As he began to move toward the shore, he vaguely heard a series of small explosions, followed by a huge one that knocked him off his feet and sent him tumbling over and over again. It felt like his ears were about to explode. But the concussion sent him hurtling toward the shore. Just a little more, and he would be able to lift his head above water. His brain was shattered, his lungs ached, there was a pain in the back of his neck; still, his tired legs continued to move.
  
  First he felt a cool sensation on the top of his head, then he lifted his nose and chin from the water and inhaled the sweet air. Three more steps lifted his head. He turned to look at the scene he had just left. The barge had already sunk, and the patrol boat was already sinking. The fire had engulfed most of what was visible, and now the waterline ran along the main deck. As he watched, the stern began to sink. As the water reached the fire, a loud hissing sound was heard. The boat slowly settled, water churning through it, filling every compartment and cavity, hissing with the fire, which diminished as the boat sank. Nick turned his back on it and blinked in the morning sun. He nodded with grim understanding. It was the dawn of the seventh day.
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  Katie and Mike waited among the trees for Nick to emerge onto the shore. Once on dry land, Nick took several deep breaths, trying to clear the ringing in his head.
  
  "Can I help you carry something?" Mike asked.
  
  Katie took his hand. "I'm glad you're okay."
  
  Their eyes met for a moment, and Nick almost said something he knew he'd regret. Her beauty was almost unbearable. To keep his mind off her, he checked his tiny arsenal. He'd lost all but four grenades in the river; Tommy's pistol had about a quarter of its clip left, and Wilhelmina had five shots left. Not good, but it would do.
  
  "What's going on?" Katie asked.
  
  Nick rubbed the stubble on his chin. "There are train tracks somewhere nearby. It would take us too long to buy another boat. Besides, the river would be too slow. I think we'll try to find those tracks. Let's go in that direction."
  
  He led the way through the forest and brush. Progress was slow due to the dense undergrowth, and they had to stop many times for Katie and Mike to rest. The sun was hot, and insects pestered them. They walked all morning, moving further and further from the river, down small valleys and over low peaks, until finally, shortly after noon, they came to the railroad tracks. The tracks themselves seemed to have cut a wide path through the undergrowth. The ground was clear for at least ten feet on either side. They glistened in the midday sun, so Nick knew they were well used.
  
  Katie and Mike plopped down at the edge of the thicket. They stretched, breathing heavily. Nick walked a short distance along the tracks, studying the area. He was drenched in sweat. It was impossible to tell when the next train would arrive. It could be any minute, or it could be hours. And he didn't have many hours left. He turned back to join Katie and Mike.
  
  Katie sat with her legs tucked under her. She looked at Nick, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. "Okay?" she said.
  
  Nick knelt down and picked up a few pebbles scattered on either side of the track. "Looks good," he said. "If we can stop the train."
  
  "Why should this be
  
  
  
  
  Top?"
  
  Nick looked at the tracks. "It's pretty smooth here. When and if a train goes by, it'll be moving pretty fast."
  
  Katie stood up, shaking off her clinging shirt, and placed her hands on her hips. "Okay, how do we stop this?"
  
  Nick had to smile. "Are you sure you're ready?"
  
  Katie put one foot slightly in front of the other, striking a very attractive pose. "I'm not a puny little flower to be kept in a teapot. And neither is Mike. We both come from good families. You've shown me that you're a resourceful and cruel man. Well, I'm not a bad man myself. The way I see it, we have the same goal - to get to Hong Kong before midnight. I think you've carried us long enough. I don't know how you're still standing, the way you look. It's time we started carrying our share of the load. Don't you agree, Mike?"
  
  Mike jumped to his feet. "Tell him, Mom."
  
  Katie winked at Mike, then looked at Nick, covering her eyes again. "So, I just have one question for you, Mr. Nick Carter. How do we stop this train?"
  
  Nick chuckled to himself. "Tough as nails, huh? Sounds like mutiny to me."
  
  Catby approached him, her hands at her sides. A serious, pleading expression crossed her beautiful face. She said softly, "Not a mutiny, sir. An offer of assistance out of respect, admiration, and loyalty to our leader. You destroy villages and blow up boats. Now show us how to stop trains."
  
  Nick felt a pain in his chest that he couldn't fully understand. And inside him, a feeling, a deep feeling for her, was growing.
  
  But that was impossible, he knew. She was a married woman with a family. No, he simply wanted to sleep, eat, and drink. Her beauty had overwhelmed him at a time when he couldn't.
  
  "Okay," he said, meeting her gaze. He pulled Hugo from his belt. "While I'm chopping down the branches and brush, I want you to pile them on the railroad tracks. We'll need a big pile so they can see from a distance." He returned to the thicket, Katie and Mike following. "They can't stop," he said, starting to cut. "But maybe they'll be slow enough for us to jump."
  
  It took almost two hours before Nick was satisfied with the height. It looked like a green, lush mound, about four feet in diameter and almost six feet high. From a distance, it looked like it would completely block any train.
  
  Katie stood up, placing the last branch on the pile, and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "What happens now?" she asked.
  
  Nick shrugged. "Now we wait."
  
  Mike started collecting pebbles and throwing them at the trees.
  
  Nick walked up behind the boy. "You've got a good hand there, Mike. Do you play Little League?"
  
  Mike stopped pumping and started shaking the stones in his hand. "Last year, I had four shutouts."
  
  "Four? That's good. How did you get into the league?"
  
  Mike threw the pebbles down in disgust. "We lost in the playoffs. We ended up in second place."
  
  Nick smiled. He could see his father in the boy, the way his straight black hair lay on one side of his forehead, the piercing black eyes. "Okay," he said. "There's always next year." He started to walk away. Mike took his hand and looked him in the eyes.
  
  "Nick, I'm worried about Mom."
  
  Nick glanced at Katie. She was sitting with her feet tucked under her, pulling weeds from between the pebbles, as if she were in her own yard. "Why are you worried?" he asked.
  
  "Tell me straight," Mike said. "We're not going to do that, are we?"
  
  "Of course we'll do it. We've got a few hours of daylight plus half a night. If we're not in Hong Kong, the time to worry is ten minutes to midnight. We've only got sixty miles to go. If we don't get there, I'll worry about you. But until then, keep saying we can handle it."
  
  "What about mother? She's not like you and me - I mean, being a woman and all that.
  
  "We're with you, Mike," Nick said emphatically. "We'll take care of her."
  
  The boy smiled. Nick approached Katie.
  
  She looked at him and shook her head. "I want you to try to get some sleep."
  
  "I don't want to miss the train," Nick said.
  
  Then Mike shouted, "Listen, Nick!"
  
  Nick turned around. Sure enough, the tracks were humming. He grabbed Katie's hand and yanked her to her feet. "Come on."
  
  Katie was already running alongside him. Mike joined them, and the three of them ran along the tracks. They ran until the pile they'd built disappeared behind them. Then Nick pulled Katie and Mike about five feet into the woods. Then they stopped.
  
  They gasped for breath for a moment until they could breathe normally. "It should be far enough," Nick said. "Don't do it until I tell you to."
  
  They heard a faint clicking sound that grew louder. Then they heard the rumble of a fast-moving train. Nick had his right arm around Katie, his left around Mike. Katie's cheek was pressed against his chest. Mike held a Tommy gun in his left hand. The noise grew louder; then they saw a huge black steam locomotive passing in front of them.
  
  
  
  
  m. A second later he passed them, and the freight cars blurred away. "He slowed down," Nick thought. "Easy."
  
  A loud screeching sound erupted, growing louder as the cars became more visible. Nick noticed that every fourth car had its door open. The screeching continued, slowing the enormous snaking mass of cars. A loud thud was heard, which Nick assumed was caused by the engines hitting a pile of bushes. Then the screeching stopped. The cars were moving slowly now. Then they began to pick up speed.
  
  "They're not going to stop," Nick said. "Come on. It's now or never."
  
  He passed Katie and Mike. The cars were rapidly gaining speed. He put all the strength into his tired legs and ran toward the open doorway of the boxcar. Placing his hand on the floor of the car, he jumped and spun, landing in a sitting position in the doorway. Katie was right behind him. He reached for her, but she began to retreat. Her breath caught, and she slowed. Nick knelt down. Holding the doorframe for support, he leaned out, wrapped his left arm around her slender waist, and swung her off her feet into the car behind him. Then he reached for Mike. But Mike quickly rose to his feet. He grabbed Nick's hand and jumped into the car. The Tommy gun clanked next to him. They leaned back, breathing heavily, feeling the car rock from side to side, listening to the clatter of wheels on treads. The car smelled of stale straw and old cow manure, but Nick couldn't help but smile. They were driving at about sixty miles an hour.
  
  The train ride lasted a little over half an hour. Katie and Mike were asleep. Even Nick dozed. He dried out all the shells in the Wilhelmina and the Tommy gun and rocked with the engine, nodding his head. The first thing he noticed was the longer gap between the clatter of the wheels. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the landscape was moving much more slowly. He quickly stood and moved toward the open door. The train was entering a village. More than fifteen soldiers blocked the tracks in front of the engine. It was dusk; the sun had almost set. Nick counted ten cars between his and the locomotive. The engine hissed and squealed as it came to a stop.
  
  "Mike," Nick called.
  
  Mike woke up immediately. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What is that?"
  
  "Soldiers. They stopped the train. Get Mom up. We have to leave."
  
  Mike shook Katie's shoulder. Her shirt was ripped almost to the waist from running to the train. She sat up without a word, then she and Mike rose to their feet.
  
  Nick said, "I think there's a highway nearby that leads to the border town of Shench One. We'll have to steal a car."
  
  "How far is it to this town?" Katie asked.
  
  "Probably twenty or thirty miles. We can still survive if we get a car."
  
  "Look," Mike said. "Soldiers around the locomotive."
  
  Nick said, "Now they'll start searching the freight cars. There are shadows on this side. I think we can get to that hut. I'll go first. I'll keep an eye on the soldiers and then I'll show you to follow them one by one."
  
  Nick took Tommy's pistol. He jumped out of the car, then waited, crouched, looking toward the front of the train. The soldiers were talking to the engineer. Crouching, he ran about fifteen feet to an old shack at the way station. He turned the corner and stopped. Watching the soldiers carefully, he gestured toward Mike and Katie. Katie fell first, and as she ran across the clearing, Mike got out of the car. Katie walked toward Nick, and Mike followed her.
  
  They moved behind the buildings toward the front of the train. When they were far enough ahead of the soldiers, they crossed the tracks.
  
  It was already dark when Nick found the highway. He stood on the edge, with Katie and Mike behind him.
  
  To his left was the village they had just come from, to his right was the road to Shench'Uan.
  
  "Are we hitchhiking?" Katie asked.
  
  Nick rubbed his heavily bearded chin. "There are too many soldiers moving along this road. We sure as hell don't want to stop a whole bunch of them. The border guards probably spend some evenings in this village and then leave. Of course, not a single soldier would stop for me."
  
  "They'll be for me," Katie said. "Soldiers are the same everywhere. They like girls. And let's face it, that's who I am."
  
  Nick said, "You don't have to sell me." He turned to look at the ravine that ran alongside the highway, then back at her. "You sure you can handle it?"
  
  She smiled and assumed that attractive pose again. "What do you think?"
  
  Nick smiled back. "Great. That's how we'll work this out. Mike, pull over here along the highway." He pointed at Katie. "Your story-your car crashed into a ravine. Your boy is hurt. You need help. It's a stupid story, but it's the best I can do on short notice."
  
  Katie was still smiling. "If they're soldiers, I don't think they'll be too interested in the story I'm telling them."
  
  Nick pointed a warning finger at her. "Just be careful."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  "Let's crawl into the ravine until we see a possible perspective."
  
  As they jumped into the ravine, a pair of headlights appeared from the village.
  
  Nick said, "Too high for a car. Looks like a truck. Stay where you are."
  
  It was a military truck. The soldiers sang as it passed. It continued moving along the highway. Then a second pair of headlights appeared.
  
  "It's a car," Nick said. "Get out, Mike."
  
  Mike jumped out of the ravine and stretched. Katie was right behind him. She straightened her shirt and smoothed her hair. Then she resumed her pose. As the car approached, she began waving her arms, trying to maintain the pose. The tires screeched on the pavement, and the car stopped abruptly. However, it only passed about seven feet over Katie before coming to a complete stop.
  
  There were three soldiers in it. They were drunk. Two immediately got out and headed back toward Katie. The driver got out, walked to the back, and stopped, watching the other two. They were laughing. Katie started telling her story, but she was right. All they wanted was her. One took her hand and mentioned something about how she looked. The other started stroking her chest, giving her an approving, approving look. Nick moved quickly along the ravine toward the front of the car. Ahead of him, he climbed out of the ravine and headed toward the driver. Hugo was in his right hand. He moved along the car and approached the soldier from behind. His left hand covered his mouth, and in one swift motion, he slit the man's throat. As the soldier fell to the ground, he felt warm blood on his hand.
  
  Katie pleaded with the other two. They were hip-high, and while one groped and rubbed her, the other dragged her toward the car. Nick went after the one dragging her. He came up behind him, grabbed him by the hair, yanked the soldier's head, and slashed Hugo across the throat. The last soldier saw him. He pushed Katie away and pulled out a sinister dagger. Nick didn't have time for a prolonged knife fight. The soldier's beady eyes were dulled by the drink. Nick took four steps back, shifted Hugo to his left arm, pulled Wilhelmina from his belt, and shot the man in the face. Katie screamed. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, and stumbled toward the car. Mike jumped to his feet. He stood motionless, staring at the scene. Nick didn't want any of them to see something like this, but he knew it had to happen. They were in his world, not theirs, and though Nick didn't care for that part of his job, he accepted it. He hoped they would. Without a second thought, Nick rolled the three bodies into the ravine.
  
  "Get in the car, Mike," he ordered.
  
  Mike didn't move. He stared at the ground with wide eyes.
  
  Nick walked up to him, punched him twice in the face, and pushed him toward the car. Mike went reluctantly at first, then seemed to break free and climb into the backseat. Katie was still leaning over, holding onto the car for support. Nick put an arm around her shoulder and helped her into the front seat. He ran around to the front of the car and got behind the wheel. He started the engine and drove off down the highway.
  
  It was a battered, tired 1950 Austin. The gas gauge showed half a tank of gas. The silence in the car was almost deafening. He could feel Katie's eyes boring into his face. The car smelled of stale wine. Nick wished he'd smoked one of his cigarettes. Finally, Katie spoke. "This is just a job for you, isn't it? You don't care about me or Mike. Just get us to Hong Kong by midnight, no matter what. And kill anyone who gets in your way."
  
  "Mom," Mike said. "He does it for Dad, too." He put his hand on Nick's shoulder. "Now I understand."
  
  Katie looked down at her fingers folded together in her lap. "I'm sorry, Nick," she said.
  
  Nick kept his eyes on the road. "That was rough on all of us. You're both okay for now. Don't leave me now. We still have that line to cross."
  
  She touched the steering wheel with his hand. "Your crew will not mutiny," she said.
  
  Suddenly, Nick heard the roar of a plane's engine. It seemed soft at first, then gradually grew louder. It was coming from behind them. Suddenly, the highway around the Austin erupted in flames. Nick turned the steering wheel first to the right, then to the left, zigzagging the car. As the plane passed overhead, a whooshing sound was heard, then it turned left, gaining altitude for another pass. Nick was traveling at fifty miles an hour. Ahead, he could faintly make out the taillights of a military truck.
  
  "How did they find out so quickly?" Katie asked.
  
  Nick said, "Another truck must have found the bodies and radioed them. Since it sounds like an old propeller plane, they probably grabbed everything that was flyable. I'm going to try something. I have a suspicion the pilot is flying strictly by the headlights.
  
  The plane hadn't flown over yet. Nick turned off the lights in the Austin, then turned off the engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  and stopped. He could hear Mike's heavy breathing from the back seat. There were no trees or anything he could park under. If he was wrong, they would be sitting ducks. Then he faintly heard the plane's engine. The engine noise grew louder. Nick felt himself starting to sweat. The plane was low. It approached them and continued to fall. Then Nick saw flames shooting from its wings. From this distance, he couldn't see the truck. But he saw an orange fireball rolling through the air, and he heard the deep thunder of an explosion. The plane rose for another pass.
  
  "We better sit down for a while," Nick said.
  
  Katie covered her face with her hands. They all saw the burning truck just over the horizon.
  
  The plane was higher, making its final pass. It passed the Austin, then the burning truck, and continued on. Nick slowly moved the Austin forward. He stayed on the shoulder of the highway, going less than thirty kilometers. He kept the lights on. They moved agonizingly slowly until they approached the burning truck. Bodies were scattered across the highway and along the shoulders. Some were already burning black, others were still burning. Katie covered her face with her hands to block out the sight. Mike leaned against the front seat, looking out the windshield with Nick. Nick crossed the Austin back and forth along the highway, trying to navigate the terrain without running over the bodies. He passed, then picked up speed, keeping the headlights on. Up ahead, he saw the flashing lights of Shench'One.
  
  As they drew closer to the city, Nick tried to imagine what the border would be like. It would be pointless to try to deceive them. Every soldier in China was probably looking for them. They'd have to break through. If he remembered correctly, this border was simply a large gate in the fence. Sure, there would be a barrier, but on the other side of the gate there would be nothing, at least until they reached Fan Ling on the Hong Kong side. That would be six or seven miles from the gate.
  
  Now they were approaching Shench'Uan. It had one main street, and at the end of it, Nick saw a fence. He pulled over and stopped. About ten soldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, scurried around the gate. A machine gun was positioned in front of the guardhouse. Because of the late hour, the street through town was dark and deserted, but the area around the gate was well lit.
  
  Nick rubbed his tired eyes. "That's it," he said. "We don't have that many weapons."
  
  "Nick." It was Mike. "There are three rifles in the back seat."
  
  Nick turned in his seat. "Good boy, Mike. They'll help." He looked at Katie. She was still looking at the railing. "Are you okay?" he asked.
  
  She turned to face him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her eyes filled with tears. Shaking her head from side to side, she said, "Nick, I... I don't think I can handle this."
  
  Killmaster took her hand. "Look, Katie, this is the end. Once we get through those gates, it's all over. You'll be with John again. You can go home."
  
  She closed her eyes and nodded.
  
  "Can you drive?" he asked.
  
  She nodded again.
  
  Nick climbed into the back seat. He checked the three guns. They were Russian-made, but they looked in good condition. He turned to Mike. "Roll down the windows on the left side there." Mike did so. Meanwhile, Katie got behind the wheel. Nick said, "I want you to sit on the floor, Mike, with your back to the door." Mike did as he was told. "Keep your head under that window." Killmaster untied his shirt around his waist. He placed four grenades side by side between Mike's legs. "Here's what you do, Mike," he said. "When I give you the word, you pull the pin on the first grenade, count to five, then throw it over your shoulder and out the window, count to ten, take the second grenade, and repeat it again until they're gone. Got it?"
  
  "Yes sir."
  
  Killmaster turned to Katie. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "See," he said, "it's a straight line from here to the gate. I want you to start in low gear, then shift into second. When the car's heading straight for the gate, I'll tell you. Then I want you to keep a firm grip on the steering wheel, press the gas pedal to the floor, and rest your head on the seat. Remember, both of you, take your time!"
  
  Katie nodded.
  
  Nick stopped at the window across from Mike with a Tommy gun. He made sure the three guns were within reach. "Everyone ready?" he asked.
  
  He received nods from both of them.
  
  "Okay, then let's go!"
  
  Katie jerked slightly as she started. She pulled into the middle of the street and headed toward the gate. Then she shifted into second gear.
  
  "You look good," Nick said. "Now hit!"
  
  The Austin seemed to sway as Katie pressed the gas pedal, then quickly began to pick up speed. Katie's head disappeared from view.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guards at the gate watched curiously as the car approached. Nick didn't want to open fire just yet. When the guards saw the Austin pick up speed, they realized what was happening. Their rifles dropped from their shoulders. Two of them quickly rushed to the machine gun. One fired his rifle, the bullet carving a star on the windshield. Nick leaned out the window and, with a short burst from his Tommy gun, cut one of the guards at the machine gun. More shots rang out, shattering the windshield. Nick fired two more short bursts, the bullets finding their marks. Then Tommy's gun ran out of ammunition. "Now, Mike!" he shouted.
  
  Mike fiddled with the grenades for a few seconds, then got down to business. They were a few yards from the crossbar. The first grenade exploded, killing one guard. The machine gun clanged, its bullets raining down on the car. The front side window was cut in half and fell out. Nick pulled out Wilhelmina. He fired, missed, and fired again, dropping one guard. The second grenade exploded next to the machine gun, but not enough to injure those operating it. He chattered, chewing the car. The windshield shattered, then opened as the last glass flew off. Nick kept firing, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing, until finally all he got was a click as he pulled the trigger. The third grenade exploded near the guard booth, leveling it. One of the machine gunners was hit by something and fell. The tire exploded as the chattering machine gun chewed through it. The Austin began to veer left. "Pull the wheel to the right!" Nick shouted at Katie. She pulled, the car straightened out, crashed through the fence, shuddered, and kept going. The fourth grenade obliterated most of the fence. Nick was firing one of the Russian rifles. His accuracy left much to be desired. The guards approached the car. Rifles were raised to their shoulders; they were firing into the rear of the car. The rear window was covered with stars from their bullets. They kept firing even after their bullets stopped hitting the car.
  
  "Are we done?" Katie asked.
  
  Killmaster threw the Russian rifle out the window. "You can sit down, but keep the gas pedal to the floor."
  
  Katie sat up. The Austin began to misfire, then cough. Finally, the engine simply stalled, and the car stopped.
  
  Mike had a green tint to his face. "Let me out," he yelled. "I think I'm going to get sick!" He got out of the car and disappeared into the bushes along the road.
  
  There was glass everywhere. Nick crawled into the front seat. Katie stared out the window that wasn't there. Her shoulders shook; then she began to cry. She didn't try to hide the tears; she let them come from somewhere deep inside her. They rolled down her cheeks and fell from her chin. Her whole body trembled. Nick wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
  
  Her face pressed against his chest. In a muffled voice, she sobbed, "Can... can I go away now?"
  
  Nick stroked her hair. "Let them come, Katie," he said softly. He knew it wasn't his hunger, thirst, or lack of sleep. His feeling for her pierced him deeply, deeper than he intended. Her cries turned to sobs. Her head moved slightly from his chest and rested in the crook of his arm. She sobbed, looking up at him, her eyelashes wet, her lips slightly parted. Nick gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. He touched her lips softly. She kissed him back, then pulled her head away from his.
  
  "You shouldn't have done that," she whispered.
  
  "I know," Nick said. "I'm sorry."
  
  She smiled weakly at him. "I'm not."
  
  Nick helped her out of the car. Mike joined them.
  
  "Feel better," Nick asked him.
  
  He nodded, then waved his hand toward the car. "What do we do now?"
  
  Nick started moving. "We're going to Fan Ling."
  
  They hadn't gone far when Nick heard the flapping of helicopter blades. He looked up and saw the helicopter approaching them. "Into the bushes!" he shouted.
  
  They crouched among the bushes. A helicopter circled above them. It dipped slightly, as if to be on the safe side, then flew off in the direction it had come from.
  
  "Did they see us?" Katie asked.
  
  "Probably." Nick's teeth were clenched tightly.
  
  Katie sighed. "I thought we'd be safe now."
  
  "You're safe," Nick said through clenched teeth. "I got you out, and you belong to me." He regretted saying it right afterward. His mind felt like oatmeal. He was tired of planning, of thinking; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept. He noticed Katie looking at him strangely. It was a secret feminine look he'd seen only twice before in his life. It told a multitude of unspoken words, always reduced to one word: "if." If he weren't who he was, if she weren't who she was, if they hadn't come from such completely different worlds, if he weren't devoted to his work and she to her family-if, if. Things like that had always been impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps they both knew it.
  
  Two pairs of headlights appeared on the highway. Wilhelmina was empty; Nick had only Hugo. He removed his belt pin. The cars approached them, and he stood up. They were Jaguar sedans, and the driver of the front car was Hawk. The cars stopped. The back door of the second car opened, and John Lou emerged with his right arm in a sling.
  
  "Dad!" Mike shouted and ran towards him.
  
  "John," Katie whispered. "John!" She ran up to him too.
  
  They hugged, all three crying. Nick removed Hugo. Hawk stepped out of the lead car, a black cigar butt clenched between his teeth. Nick approached him. He could see his loose suit, his wrinkled, leathery face.
  
  "You look terrible, Carter," Hawk said.
  
  Nick nodded. "Did you happen to bring a pack of cigarettes?"
  
  Hawk reached into his coat pocket and tossed a pack at Nick. "You got permission from the police," he said.
  
  Nick lit a cigarette. John Lou approached them, flanked by Katie and Mike. He extended his left hand. "Thank you, Nick," he said. His eyes filled with tears.
  
  Nick took her hand. "Take care of them."
  
  Mike pulled away from his father and hugged Nick around the waist. He was crying too.
  
  Killmaster ran a hand through the boy's hair. "It's almost time for spring training, isn't it?"
  
  Mike nodded and joined his father. Katie hugged the professor; she ignored Nick. They returned to the second car. The door was open for them. Mike got in, then John. Katie started to get in, but stopped, her leg almost inside. She said something to John and returned to Nick. She had a white knitted sweater over her shoulders. Now, for some reason, she looked more like a housewife. She stood in front of Nick, looking at him. "I don't think we'll ever see each other again."
  
  "It's an awfully long time," he said.
  
  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "I wish..."
  
  "Your family is waiting."
  
  She bit her lower lip and ran to the car. The door closed, the car started, and the Loo family disappeared from sight.
  
  Nick was alone with Hawk. "What happened to the professor's hand?" he asked.
  
  Hawk said, "That's how they got your name out of him. Pulled out a few nails, broke a couple bones. It wasn't easy."
  
  Nick was still looking at the taillights of Loo's car.
  
  Hawk opened the door. "You have a couple of weeks. I think you're planning to go back to Acapulco.
  
  Killmaster turned to Hawk. "Right now, all I need is hours of uninterrupted sleep." He thought of Laura Best and how things had gone in Acapulco, then of Sharon Russell, the pretty airline stewardess. "I think I'll try Barcelona this time," he said.
  
  "Later," Hawk told him. "You go to bed. Then I'll buy you a nice steak for dinner, and while we're getting drunk, you can tell me what happened. Barcelona is coming later."
  
  Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he wasn't sure, but he thought he felt Hawk pat him on the back as he got into the car.
  
  End
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  Carnival of Murders
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky
  
  
  
  Carnival of Murders
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One night in February 1976, three completely different people, in three completely different places, said the same thing without even realizing it. The first spoke of death, the second of help, and the third of passion. None of them could have known that their words, like a fantastic, invisible trap, would bring all three together. In the Brazilian mountains, about 250 kilometers from Rio de Janeiro, on the very edge of Cerro do Mar, the man who had mentioned death slowly twirled a chewed cigar in his fingers. He looked at the billowing smoke and, as he thought, almost closed his eyes. He leaned back in his straight-backed chair and looked across the table at the man who was waiting. He pursed his lips and nodded slowly.
  
  
  "Now," he said in a cold tone, "it must be done now."
  
  
  The other man turned and disappeared into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The young blond man drove into town along the toll road as quickly as he could. He thought about all those letters, the anxious doubts and sleepless nights, and also about the letter he had received today. Perhaps he had waited too long. He hadn't wanted to panic, but now he regretted it. In truth, he thought, he had never known exactly what to do, but after the last letter, he was sure that something had to be done; no matter what others thought. "Now," he said out loud. "It must be done now." Without slowing down, he drove through the tunnel into town.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the darkness of the room, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood before a girl who looked at him from her chair. Nick Carter had known her for some time. They drank martinis together when they were at parties, like this evening. She was a pretty brunette with a perky nose and full lips on a beautiful face. However, they never got beyond superficial conversation because she always found an excuse not to go further. But earlier in the evening, at Holden's party, he managed to persuade her to go with him. He kissed her deliberately slowly, awakening her desire with his tongue. And again, he noticed the conflict in her emotions. Trembling with desire, she still struggled with her passion. Keeping one hand on her neck, he untied her blouse with the other and let it slide over her soft shoulders. He removed her bra and gazed gratefully at her plump young breasts. Then he pulled down her skirt and panties, green with purple edges.
  
  
  Paula Rawlins looked at him with half-open eyes and allowed Nick's experienced hands to do their work. Nick noticed she made no attempt to help him. Only her trembling hands on his shoulders betrayed her inner confusion. He gently pressed her to the sofa, then removed his shirt to feel her naked body against his chest.
  
  
  "Now," he said, "it must be done now."
  
  
  "Yes," the girl gasped softly. "Oh, no. There you go." Nick kissed her all over, while Paula thrust her pelvis forward and suddenly began licking him everywhere. All she wanted now was to make love to Nick. As he pressed against her, she begged him to go faster, but Nick took his time. Paula pressed her lips to his mouth, her hands sliding down his body to his buttocks, pressing him against her as tightly as they could. The girl who didn't know what she wanted turned into a yearning female animal.
  
  
  "Nick, Nick," Paula breathed, quickly reaching climax. It felt like she was about to explode, as if she were momentarily suspended between two worlds. She threw her head back, pressing her chest and stomach against him. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
  
  
  Shaking and sobbing, she fell onto the sofa, hugging Nick tightly so he couldn't escape. Finally, she let go, and he lay down next to her, her pink nipples brushing against his chest.
  
  
  "Was it worth it?" Nick asked softly. "Oh, God, yes," Paula Rawlins replied. "More than worth it."
  
  
  "Then why did it take so long?"
  
  
  'What do you mean?' she asked innocently. 'You know damn well what I mean, darling,' Nick said. 'We've had plenty of opportunities, but you always found some transparent excuse. Now I know what you wanted. Then what's the fuss about?'
  
  
  She asked, "Promise me you won't laugh?" "I was afraid to disappoint you. I know you, Nick Carter. You're not your average groom. You're an expert on women."
  
  
  "You're exaggerating," Nick protested. "You act like you had to take an entrance exam." Nick laughed.
  
  
  from my own comparison.
  
  
  "That's not a bad description at all," Paula noted. "Nobody likes to lose."
  
  
  "Well, you didn't lose, dear. Are you the best in the class, or should I say in bed?
  
  
  "Are you really going on such a boring vacation tomorrow?" she asked, resting her head on his chest. "Definitely," Nick said, stretching out his long legs. Her question brought to mind the prospect of a long, quiet period. He needed to relax, recharge his batteries, and finally, Hawk agreed.
  
  
  "Let me go," Paula Rawlins said. "I can get a day off from the office."
  
  
  Nick looked at her soft, plump, white body. A woman was one way to get his body back into shape, he knew that well, but there were times when even that wasn't enough. There were times when a man needed to get away and be alone. To do nothing. This was such a time. Or, he amended, it would be from tomorrow. But tonight was tonight, and this amazing girl was still in his arms; a modest pleasure, full of internal contradiction.
  
  
  Nick cupped the full, soft breast in his hand and played with the pink nipple with his thumb. Paula immediately began breathing heavily and pulled Nick onto her. As she wrapped her leg around his, Nick heard the phone ring. It wasn't the small blue phone in his desk drawer, but the regular phone on his desk. He was glad about that. Luckily, it wasn't Hawk who had come to inform him of the latest disaster. Whoever it was, they'd get away with it. There were no calls right now.
  
  
  Indeed, he would not have picked up the phone if he had not received a signal from his sixth sense: that inexplicable subconscious alarm system that had saved his life many times.
  
  
  Paula held him tight. "Don't answer," she whispered. "Forget it." He wanted to, but he couldn't. He didn't answer the phone very often. But he knew he would now. This damn subconscious. It was even worse than Hawk, demanding more and lasting longer.
  
  
  "I'm so sorry, dear," he said, jumping to his feet. "If I'm wrong, I'll be back before you can even turn around."
  
  
  Nick crossed the room, aware that Paula's eyes were tracking his muscular, lithe body, like a resurrected Roman gladiator statue. The voice on the phone was unfamiliar to him.
  
  
  "Mr. Carter?" the voice asked. "You are speaking with Bill Dennison. Sorry to disturb you so late, but I need to talk to you.
  
  
  Nick frowned and suddenly smiled. "Bill Dennison," he said. Todd Dennison's son:
  
  
  
  
  'Yes sir.'
  
  
  "Oh my God, the last time I saw you, you were in a diaper. Where are you?"
  
  
  "I'm at the pay phone across from your house. The doorman told me not to bother you at all, but I had to try. I came from Rochester to see you. This is about my father.
  
  
  "Todd?" Nick asked. "What's wrong? Any problems?"
  
  
  "I don't know," said the young man. "That's why I came to you."
  
  
  - Then come in. I'll tell the doorman to let you in.
  
  
  Nick hung up, alerted the doorman, and walked over to Paula, who was getting dressed.
  
  
  "I've heard that before," she said, pulling up her skirt. "I understand. At least, I suppose you wouldn't have let me go if it weren't that important."
  
  
  "You're right. Thank you," Nick chuckled.
  
  You're a cool girl for more than one reason. Count on me calling you when I get back.
  
  
  "I'm definitely counting on it," Paula said. The bell rang as Nick let Paula out the back door. Bill Dennison was as tall as his father, but slimmer, without Todd's heavy build. Otherwise, his blond hair, bright blue eyes, and shy smile were identical to Todd's. He wasted no time and got straight to the point.
  
  
  "I'm glad you want to see me, Mr. Carter," he said. "Father has told me stories about you. I'm worried about Father. You probably know that he's setting up a new plantation in Brazil, about 250 kilometers from Rio de Janeiro. Father has a habit of always writing me complex, detailed letters. He wrote to me about a couple of curious incidents that happened at work. I don't think they could have been accidents . I suspected it was something more. Then he received vague threats, which he didn't take seriously. I wrote to him that I was going to visit him. But it's my last year of school. I'm studying at TH, and he didn't want that. He called me from Rio, scolded me severely, and said that if I came now, he would put me back on the boat in a straitjacket."
  
  
  "That's certainly unusual for your father," Nick said. He thought about the past. He'd first met Todd Dennison many years ago, when he was still a rookie in the spy business. At the time, Todd was working as an engineer in Tehran and saved Nick's life several times. They became good friends. Todd had followed his own path and was now a wealthy man, one of the country's greatest industrialists, always personally overseeing the construction of each of his plantations.
  
  
  "So you're worried about your father," Nick mused aloud. "You think he might be in danger. What kind of plantation is he building there?"
  
  
  "I don't know much about it, it's just located in a mountainous area, and my father's plan is to help the people there. Vader believes this scheme will best protect the country from agitators and dictators. All his new plantations are based on this philosophy and are therefore built in regions where there is unemployment and a need for food."
  
  
  "I completely agree with that," Nick said. "Is he alone there, or is there someone with him besides the staff?"
  
  
  "Well, as you know, Mom died last year, and Dad remarried soon after. Vivian is with him. I don't really know her. I was at school when they met, and I only came back for the wedding."
  
  
  "I was in Europe when they got married," Nick recalled. "I found the invitation when I got back. So, Bill, do you want me to go there and see what's going on?"
  
  
  Bill Dennison blushed and became shy.
  
  
  "I can't ask you to do that, Mr. Carter."
  
  
  "Please call me Nick."
  
  
  "I really don't know what I expect from you," the young man said. "I just needed someone to talk to about it, and I thought you might have an idea." Nick thought about what the boy had said. Bill Dennison was clearly genuinely worried about whether this was right or not. A flash of memories of past debts and old friendships flashed through his mind. He had been planning a fishing trip in the Canadian woods for a vacation. Well, those fish wouldn't swim away, and it would be time to relax. Rio was a beautiful city and it was the eve of the famous Carnival. Incidentally, a trip to Todd's was already a vacation.
  
  
  "Bill, you picked the right moment," Nick said. "I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow. I'm flying to Rio. You go back to school, and as soon as I see what the situation is, I'll call you. It's the only way to find out what's going on."
  
  
  "I can't tell you how grateful I am," Bill Dennison began, but Nick asked him to stop.
  
  
  'Forget it. You have nothing to worry about. But you did the right thing by warning me. Your father is too stubborn to do what he needs.'
  
  
  Nick led the boy to the elevator and returned to his apartment. He turned off the lights and went to bed. He managed to get a few more hours of sleep before he had to contact Hawk. The boss was in town visiting the AXE office. He wanted to be able to contact Nick any time of day for a few hours.
  
  
  "That's the mother hen in me talking," he said one day. "You mean the dragon mother," Nick corrected him.
  
  
  When Nick arrived at AXE's nondescript New York office, Hawk was already there: his skinny frame seemed to belong to someone other than the people sitting at the desk; you could imagine him out in the countryside or doing archaeological research, for example. His icy blue, piercing eyes were usually friendly today, but Nick now knew it was just a mask for anything but friendly interest.
  
  
  "Todd Dennison Industries," Nick said. "I heard they have an office in Rio."
  
  
  "I'm glad you changed your plans," Hawk said kindly. "Actually, I was going to suggest you go to Rio, but I didn't want you to think I was interfering with your plans." Hawk's smile was so friendly and pleasant that Nick began to doubt his suspicions.
  
  
  "Why did you ask me to go to Rio?" Nick asked.
  
  
  "Well, because you like Rio better, N3," Hawk replied cheerfully. "You'll like it much better than some godforsaken fishing spot like that. Rio has a wonderful climate, beautiful beaches, beautiful women, and it's practically a carnival. In fact, you'll feel much better there."
  
  
  "You don't have to sell me anything," Nick said. "What's behind it?"
  
  
  "Nothing but a good vacation," Hawk said.
  
  
  He paused, frowned, then handed Nick a piece of paper. "Here's a report we just got from one of our people. If you go there, maybe you can take a look, just out of pure interest, that goes without saying, doesn't it?"
  
  
  Nick quickly read the decrypted message, written in the style of a telegram.
  
  
  Big troubles ahead. Many unknowns. Probably foreign influences. Not entirely verifiable. Any help is welcome.
  
  
  Nick handed the paper back to Hawk, who continued to act.
  
  
  "Look," Killmaster said, "this is my vacation. I'm going to see an old friend who might need some help. But it's a vacation, you know? A VACATION. I desperately need a vacation, and you know it.
  
  
  Of course, my boy. You're right.'
  
  
  "And you wouldn't give me a job on vacation, would you?"
  
  
  "I wouldn't think about it."
  
  
  "No, of course not," Nick said grimly. "And there's certainly not much I can do about it? Or is that the case?"
  
  
  Hawk smiled welcomingly. "I always say this: there's nothing better than combining a little business with pleasure, but that's where I'm different from most people. Lots of fun."
  
  
  "Something tells me I don't even need to thank you," Nick said, standing up.
  
  
  "Always be polite, N3," Hawk joked.
  
  
  Nick shook his head and went out into the fresh air.
  
  
  He felt trapped. He sent Todd a telegram: "Surprise, old fart. Report to Flight 47, 10 a.m., February 10th." The tereographer ordered him to delete the word fart, but the rest remained unchanged. Todd knew that word was supposed to be there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they were under cloud cover, they saw Rio de Janeiro from under the plane's right wing. Soon, Nick spotted a giant granite cliff called Sugar Loaf, facing the even taller Corcovado, a hump topped with Christ the Redeemer. As the plane circled the city, Nick occasionally glimpsed the winding beaches surrounding it. Places known for sun, sand, and beautiful women: Copacabana, Ipanema, Botafogo, and Flamengo. It could have been a very nice vacation spot. Perhaps Todd's troubles were just innocent irritation. But what if they weren't?
  
  
  Then you still had Hawk, who was incredibly cunning. No, he didn't give him a new job, but Nick knew he was expected to hurry. And if action was needed, he had to act. Years of experience working with Hawk had taught him that casually mentioning an unimportant problem was tantamount to an assignment. For some reason, he had the feeling the word "vacation" was becoming increasingly vague. Still, he would try to make it a holiday.
  
  
  Out of habit, Nick checked Hugo, his slender stiletto in its leather sheath on his right sleeve, aware of the reassuring presence of Wilhelmina, his 9mm Luger. They were almost part of his body.
  
  
  He leaned back, fastened his seatbelt, and looked out at the approaching Santos Dumont Airport. It was built in the middle of a residential area, almost centrally located. Nick stepped off the plane into the warm sunlight and collected his luggage. He had only brought one suitcase. Traveling with one suitcase was much faster.
  
  
  He had just picked up his suitcase when the PA system interrupted the music for the news report. Passersby saw the broad-shouldered man suddenly freeze, suitcase in hand. His eyes turned cold.
  
  
  "Attention," the spokesman announced. "It has just been announced that the well-known American industrialist, Señor Dennison, was found dead this morning in his car on the Serra do Mar mountain road. Jorge Pilatto, sheriff of the small town of Los Reyes, commented that the industrialist was the victim of a robbery. It is believed that Señor Dennison stopped to give the killer a ride or assist him."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later, Nick, gritting his teeth, was driving through the city in a rented cream-colored Chevrolet. He'd memorized the directions well and chose the fastest route through Avenido Rio Branco and Rua Almirante Alexandrino. From there, he followed the streets to the highway, which led through dark green mountains and offered views of the city. The Redentor Highway gradually led him up the scrub-covered mountains around Morro Queimado and to the Cerro do Mar mountain range. He drove at a very high speed and didn't slow down.
  
  
  The bright sunlight was still there, but all Nick could feel was darkness and a lump in his throat. The news report could have been right. Todd could have been killed by one of those bandits in the mountains. It could have been like that. But Nick's cold rage told him that wasn't the case. He forced himself not to dwell on it. All he knew was the news and the fact that Todd's son was worried about his father. The two facts weren't necessarily connected.
  
  
  But if that's true, he thought darkly, he'd turn the city upside down to find out the truth. He was so lost in thought that all he noticed were the dangerous curves of Estrada, the highway growing steeper.
  
  
  But suddenly his attention was caught by a cloud of dust in his rearview mirror, which was too far from his own tires. Another car was speeding down Estrada at the same dangerous speed as Nick. Even faster! The car was getting closer. Nick was going as fast as he could. Any faster and he would fly off the road. He always managed to keep the car balanced. Estrada reached its highest point and suddenly turned into a steep, winding road. As Nick slowed to avoid flying out of the corner, he saw the approaching car in his rearview mirror. He immediately understood why the car was passing him. It was a big '57 Cadillac, and this car weighed twice as much as he did. With that weight, he could take the turns without slowing, and now on the long, fairly straight and steep descent, Nick quickly lost ground. He saw that there was only one person in the car. He was driving as far to the right of the road as possible. He almost scraped the jagged rock. It would be difficult, but an experienced driver would have enough room to drive along the side of the canyon.
  
  
  Since the Cadillac's driver was obviously experienced, Nick waited for the man to swerve. Instead, he saw the Cadillac hurtling toward him at incredible speed, like a battering ram. The car slammed loudly into Nick's rear bumper, threatening to knock him off his steering wheel. Only his exquisite cat-like reflexes kept the car from plunging into the ravine. Just before a sharp turn, the car slammed into him again. Nick felt the car slide forward, and he again had to strain with all his might to keep from falling into the ravine. At the corner, he didn't dare brake, as the heavier Cadillac would surely ram him again. A maniac was chasing him.
  
  
  Nick was first into the new turn and swung wide as the other car charged at him again. Saying a quick prayer, he timed it right, and Nick yanked the wheel to the right. This caused the Chevrolet to spin so sharply that it pushed the Cadillac. Nick watched as the man desperately tried to brake. But the car skidded and careened into a ravine. A loud crash and the crash of broken glass followed, but the gas tank didn't explode. The driver was alert and quick enough to turn off the ignition. Nick ran to the side of the road and saw the wrecked Cadillac lying on its side. He was just in time to see the man climb out of the car and stumble through thick brush.
  
  
  Nick slid down the jagged mountainside. Reaching the undergrowth, he leaped in. His prey couldn't be far away. Now everything had changed, and he was the pursuer. He listened for the attacker's noise, but there was dead silence. Nick realized that for a maniac, he was a very clever and cunning guy. He continued walking and saw a wet red stain on the leaves. A trail of blood ran to the right, and he quickly followed it. Suddenly, he heard a soft groan. He moved carefully but almost tripped over a body lying face down. When Nick dropped to his knees and the man turned, the face suddenly came to life. An elbow touched his throat. He fell, gasping for air. He saw the man rise, his face scratched and covered in blood.
  
  
  The man tried to lunge at Nick, but he managed to kick him in the stomach. Nick got up again and gave him another punch to the jaw.
  
  
  The man fell forward and didn't move. To make sure his attacker was dead, Nick flipped him over with his foot. The final blow proved fatal.
  
  
  Nick looked at the man. He was dark-haired and fair-skinned. He resembled a Slavic type. His body was square and thick. "He's not Brazilian," Nick thought, although he wasn't sure. Like America, Brazil was also a melting pot of nationalities. Nick knelt down and began searching the man's pockets. There was nothing in it: no wallet, no card, no personal documents, nothing that could identify him. Nick found only a small piece of paper with the words "Flight 47," 10 a.m., February 10th written on it. The man in front of him was not a maniac.
  
  
  He wanted to kill Nick deliberately and purposefully. Apparently, he was given a flight number and arrival time, and he was tracking it from the airport. Nick was sure this man wasn't a local hitman. He was too good for that, too professional. His movements gave Nick the impression of being well trained. This was evidenced by the lack of identification. The man knew Nick was a dangerous opponent and took precautions. There were no traces of him; everything looked very professional. Emerging from the undergrowth, Nick pondered the decrypted message in the AXE office. Someone had come out to silence him; and as quickly as possible, before he had a chance to restore order.
  
  
  Could this be connected to Todd's death? It seemed unlikely, and yet Todd was the only one who knew his flight and arrival time. But he'd sent a normal telegram; anyone could read it. Perhaps there was a traitor in the travel agency. Or maybe they'd thoroughly vetted all flights from America, assuming AXE would send someone. Still, he wondered if there was some connection between the two events. The only way to find out was to investigate Todd's death.
  
  
  Nick returned to his car and drove to Los Reyes. The estrada had flattened out as it now emerged onto a meseta, a plateau. He saw small farms and gray people lining the road. A collection of purple and white stucco houses loomed before him, and he saw a weathered wooden sign that read "Los Reyes." He pulled up next to a woman and child carrying a large load of laundry.
  
  
  "Bom dia," he said. - Onde fica a delegacia de policia?
  
  
  The woman pointed to a square at the end of the street, where a freshly painted stone house stood with a Policia sign over the entrance. He thanked her, thanked his Portuguese was still understandable, and drove to the police station. It was quiet inside, and the few cells he could see from the waiting room were empty. A man emerged from a small side room. He wore blue pants and a light blue shirt with the word Policia on the breast pocket. The man, who was shorter than Nick, had thick black hair, black eyes, and an olive chin. His determined and proud face looked imperturbably at Nick.
  
  
  "I've come for Senor Dennison," Nick said. "Are you the sheriff here?"
  
  
  "I'm the chief of police," Nika corrected. "Are you one of those journalists again? I've already told my story."
  
  
  "No, I'm a friend of Senor Dennison's," Nick replied. "I came to visit him today. My name is Carter, Nick Carter." He handed the man his papers. The man examined the papers and looked questioningly at Nick.
  
  
  He asked, "Are you the Nick Carter I heard about?"
  
  
  "Depends on what you heard," Nick said with a smile.
  
  
  "I think so," the police chief said, examining the powerful body again. "I'm Jorge Pilatto. Is this an official visit?"
  
  
  "No," Nick said. "At least I didn't come to Brazil in my official capacity. I came to visit an old friend, but it turned out differently. I'd like to see Todd's body."
  
  
  "Why, Señor Carter?" asked Jorge Pilatto. "Here is my official report. You can read it."
  
  
  "I want to see the body," Nick repeated.
  
  
  He said, "Do you think I don't understand my job?" Nick saw the man was agitated. Jorge Pilatto was quickly agitated, too quickly. "I'm not saying that. I said I wanted to see the body. If you insist, I'll first ask permission from Senor Dennison's widow."
  
  
  Jorge Pilatto's eyes flashed. Then his face relaxed, and he shook his head resignedly. "This way," he said.
  
  
  "When you have finished, I will be happy to receive an apology from the distinguished American who has honored us with his visit."
  
  
  Ignoring the blatant sarcasm, Nick followed Jorge Pilatto into a small room at the back of the prison. Nick braced himself. This kind of confrontation was always terrifying. No matter how many times you'd experienced it, and especially when it involved a good friend. Jorge lifted the gray sheet, and Nick approached the dead figure. He forced himself to view the corpse simply as a body, an organism to be studied. He studied the report pinned to the edge of the desk. "Bullet behind the left ear, again in the right temple." It was simple language. He turned his head from side to side, feeling the body with his hands.
  
  
  Nick looked back at the report, his lips pressed together, and turned to Jorge Pilatto, who he knew was watching him closely.
  
  
  "You're saying he was killed about four hours ago?" Nick asked. "How did you get here so fast?"
  
  
  "My assistant and I found him in the car on the way from his plantation to town. I was patrolling there half an hour ago, returned to town, and picked up my assistant for a final check. This was supposed to happen within half an hour."
  
  
  "If this hadn't happened then."
  
  
  Nick saw Jorge Pilatto's eyes widen. "Are you calling me a liar?" he hissed.
  
  
  "No," Nick said. "I'm just saying it happened at a different time."
  
  
  Nick turned and left. He'd revealed something else. Jorge Pilatto had something up his sleeve. He was insecure and felt like he didn't know what he needed to know. That's why he was so easily irritated and angry. Nick knew he had to overcome this attitude. He had to make the man see his flaws if he wanted to work with him. And he did. The police chief had influence in these matters. He knew people, conditions, personal enemies, and a lot of other useful information. Nick walked out of the building into the sunlight. He knew Jorge Pilatto was standing behind him.
  
  
  He stopped at the car door and turned around. "Thanks for your efforts," Nick said.
  
  
  "Wait," the man said. "Why are you so sure of your words, sir?"
  
  
  Nick had been waiting for this question. It meant the man's irritation had subsided, at least partially. It was a start, anyway. Nick didn't answer, but returned to the room.
  
  
  "Move your head, please," he said.
  
  
  When Jorge did this, Nick said, "Tough, huh? That's rigor mortis. It's in all the limbs, and it wouldn't have been there if Todd had been killed just four hours ago. He was killed earlier, somewhere else, and then ended up where you found him. You thought it was a robbery because his wallet was missing. The killer did it just to make that impression."
  
  
  Nick hoped Jorge Pilatto could think a little and be smart. He didn't want to humiliate the man. He simply wanted him to see that he had made a mistake. He wanted him to know that they had to work together to find the right facts.
  
  
  "I think I should be the one apologizing," Jorge said, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief.
  
  
  "Not necessarily," he replied. "There's only one way to learn, and that's through experience. But I think we should be honest with each other."
  
  
  Jorge Pilatto pursed his lips for a moment, then smiled. "You're right, Señor Carter," he admitted. "I've only been chief of police here for six months. I was elected here by the mountain people after our first free elections. For the first time, they had a choice, instead of being forced into slavery."
  
  
  "What did you do for this?"
  
  
  "I studied for a while, and then worked on the cocoa plantations. I was always interested in the road, and I was one of those people who encouraged voters to organize into groups. The people here are poor. They are nothing more than human cattle working on the coffee and cocoa plantations. Cheap slaves. A group of our people, with the support of an influential person, organized the people so that they could influence the government themselves. We wanted to show them how they could improve their conditions by voting themselves. The few officials in this area are controlled by wealthy plantation owners and rich peasants.
  
  
  They ignore the people's needs and thus become rich. When the sheriff died, I proposed holding an election so that the people could choose their police chief for the first time. I want to be a good public servant. I want to do the right thing for the people who elected me."
  
  
  "In that case," Nick said, "we need to find out who killed Dennison. My guess is his car is outside. Let's go take a look.
  
  
  Dennison's car was parked in a small courtyard next to the building. Nick found blood on the front seat, now dry and hard. Nick scraped a little of it into his handkerchief with Jorge's pocketknife.
  
  
  "I'll send it to our lab," he said. "I'd like to help, Señor Carter," Jorge said. "I'll do everything I can."
  
  
  "The first thing you can do is call me Nick," N3 said. "The second thing you can do is tell me who wanted Todd Dennison dead."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  Jorge Pilatto brewed a hot, strong Brazilian coffee on a small stove. Nick sipped it, listening to the police chief talk about people, land, and life in the mountains. He'd intended to tell Jorge about the attacker on the stage, but as he sat listening, he decided against it. The Brazilian was so preconceived that Nick doubted his emotions would allow him to assess the situation objectively. When Nick told him about the accidents during the plantation's construction, Jorge reacted rather naively.
  
  
  "Disgruntled workers?" he repeated. "Definitely not. Only one group of people will benefit from Senor Todd's death. The rich planters and rich landowners. There are about ten of them in power. They've had what you call the Covenant for several years now. The Covenant controls everything it can.
  
  
  Their wages are low, and most of the mountaineers have borrowed from the Covenant to survive. As a result, they are constantly in debt. The Covenant matters whether a person works or not and how much they earn while working. Senor Dennison would change all that. As a result, the Covenant members will have to work harder to obtain labor, thus raising wages and improving the treatment of the people. This plantation was the first threat to their control over the people and the land. Therefore, they would benefit if the plantation was not completed. They must have decided it was time to act. After their first attempt to prevent Senor Dennison from obtaining the land, they hired a hitman.
  
  
  Nick leaned back and recounted everything Jorge had said. He knew the Brazilian was waiting for his approval. No matter how quick and impatient Jorge was, it felt like he'd have to wait for hours.
  
  
  "Can you imagine now, Senor Nick?" he asked.
  
  
  "It's as clear as a log, isn't it?"
  
  
  "Obviously, yes," Nick said. "Too obvious. I've always learned to be suspicious of the obvious. You may be right, but I'd better think about it. Who was that man who supported you before the election for police chief?"
  
  
  Jorge's face took on a reverent expression, as if he were talking about a saint.
  
  
  "This is Rojadas," he said.
  
  
  "Rojadas," Nick told himself, checking the archive of names and people stored in a special section of his brain. The name meant nothing to him.
  
  
  "Yes, Rojadas," Jorge continued. "He was from Portugal, where he worked as a publisher for several small newspapers. There, he learned how to handle money and be a good leader among people. He founded a new political party, one that the Covenant hates and fears. It's a party of workers, of the poor, and he's gathered a group of organizers around him. They explain to the farmers why they should vote and make sure it actually happens. Rojadas provided all of that: leadership, knowledge, and money. There are people who say Rojadas is an extremist, a troublemaker, but those are the ones brainwashed by the Alliance."
  
  
  "And that Rojadas and his group are responsible for the people who elect you."
  
  
  "Yes," the police chief admitted. "But I'm not one of Rojadas's men, amigo. I'm my own boss. I don't take orders from anyone, and I expect that."
  
  
  Nick smiled. The man quickly rose to his feet. He certainly insisted on his independence, but you could easily use his personal pride to influence him. Nick had already done that himself. And yet, Nick still believed he could trust him.
  
  
  "What's the name of this new band, Jorge?" Nick asked. "Or do they not have a name?"
  
  
  'Yes. Rojadas calls it Novo Dia, the New Day group. Rojadas, Senor Nick, is a dedicated man.
  
  
  Nick thought that Hitler, Stalin, and Genghis Khan were all dedicated people. It just depends on what you're dedicated to.
  
  
  "I would like to meet Rojadas someday," he said.
  
  
  "I'll be happy to arrange that," the police chief replied. "He lives not far from here, in an abandoned mission near Barra do Piraí. He and his men have set up their headquarters there."
  
  
  "Muito obrigado," Nick said, standing up. "I'm going back to Rio to see Mrs. Dennison. But there's one more important thing you can do for me. You and I both know that Todd Dennison's death was no ordinary robbery. I want you to send word about it, just like before. I also want you to tell me that, as a personal friend of Todd's, I'm conducting my own investigation."
  
  
  Jorge looked up strangely. "Excuse me, Señor Nick," he said. "But isn't that how you warn them you're after them?"
  
  
  "I think so," Nick chuckled. "But it's the fastest way to get in touch with them. You can reach me at Todd's office or at Mrs. Dennison's."
  
  
  The return trip to Rio was quick and easy. He paused briefly at the spot where the Cadillac had plunged into the ravine. The car was hidden in dense undergrowth at the foot of the cliffs. It could be days, weeks, even months before it was found. Then it would be recorded as just another accident. Whoever sent it knew by now what had happened.
  
  
  He thought about the Covenant landowners and what Jorge had said.
  
  
  Arriving in Rio, he found Dennison's apartment in the Copacabana district, on Rua Constante Ramos, overlooking Praia de Copacabana, a beautiful stretch of beach that borders almost the entire city. Before his visit, he stopped at the post office and sent two telegrams. One was sent to Bill Dennison, telling him to stay at school until further notice. The other telegram was sent to Hawk, and Nick used a simple code for it. He didn't care if anyone deciphered it. Then he went to 445 Rua Constante Ramos, Dennison's apartment.
  
  
  After he rang the bell, the door opened, and Nick looked into a pair of light gray eyes smoldering beneath a strand of short flaxen hair. He watched as the eyes quickly slid over his powerful torso. He asked, "Mrs. Dennison?" "I'm Nick Carter."
  
  
  The girl's face brightened. "Oh my god, I'm so glad you're here," she said. "I've been waiting for you since this morning. You must have heard...?"
  
  
  There was impotent anger in her eyes. Nick saw her clenching her fists.
  
  
  "Yes, I heard," he said. "I've already been to Los Reyes and seen the police chief. That's why I came late."
  
  
  Vivian was wearing orange pajamas with a low cut front that accentuated her small, pointed breasts. "Not bad," he thought, trying to immediately put it out of his mind. She looked different than he expected. Now he had no idea what she would look like, but at least he didn't know Todd had such sultry taste.
  
  
  'You have no idea how glad I am that you're here,' she said, taking his hand and leading him into the apartment. 'I can't stand this anymore.'
  
  
  Her body was soft and warm against his arm, her face calm, her tone reasonable. She led him into a huge living room, furnished in a modern Swedish style, with a full-length window overlooking the ocean. As they entered, another girl rose from the L-shaped sofa. She was taller than Vivian Dennison and completely different. She wore a simple white dress that fit her like a glove. Large black eyes looked at Nick. Her mouth was wide and sensitive, and her long, black, shiny hair fell to her shoulders. She had round, full breasts and the tall, narrow appearance of Brazilian girls, completely different from the pale English schoolgirls. It was an odd combination, the two of them, and Nick found himself staring at her for far too long.
  
  
  "This is Maria Hawes," said Vivian Dennison. "Mary... or should I say was... Todd's secretary."
  
  
  Nick saw Maria Hawes's furious gaze on Vivian Dennison. He also noticed that Maria Hawes had red rims around her beautiful black eyes. When she began to speak, he was sure she had been crying. Her voice, soft and velvety, seemed uncertain and uncontrolled.
  
  
  "It's... my pleasure, sir," she said softly. "I was just about to leave."
  
  
  She turned to Vivian Dennison. "I'll be in the office if you need me." The two women looked at each other and said nothing, but their eyes spoke volumes. Nick glanced at them for a moment. They were so opposite. Although he couldn't base it on anything, he knew they hated each other. He glanced at Maria Hawes walking out the door, her slender hips and firm ass.
  
  
  "She has a lot of appeal, doesn't she?" Vivian said. "She had a Brazilian mother and an English father."
  
  
  Nick looked at Vivian, who had packed his suitcase and placed it in the side room. "Stay here, Nick," she said. "Todd wanted it this way. It's a large apartment with a soundproofed guest bedroom. You'll get all the freedom you need."
  
  
  She opened the window shutters, letting in sunlight. She walked in complete control. Oddly, Maria Hawes seemed far more upset. But he realized that some people were better at suppressing their feelings than others. Vivian left for a moment and returned, dressed in a dark blue dress, stockings, and high heels. She sat down on a long bench, and only now did she appear like a sad widow. Nick decided to tell her what he thought of the accident. When he finished, Vivian shook her head.
  
  
  "I can't believe it," she said. "It's too horrible to even think about. It must have been a robbery. It's just necessary. I can't imagine it. Oh God. There are so many things you don't know I want to talk to you about. Oh my God, I need someone to talk to.
  
  
  The phone interrupted their conversation. It was the first reaction to Todd's death. Business colleagues, coworkers, and friends from Rio were calling. Nick saw how Vivian handled everyone with her cool efficiency. There it was again, the feeling that she was completely different from the woman he expected to find here. Somehow, he thought, he had expected a softer, more domestic nature from her. This girl was in control and perfectly balanced, too balanced. She said the right things in the right way to everyone, but something didn't quite work out as it should have. Perhaps it was the look in those pale gray eyes he met while she spoke on the phone. Nick wondered if he had become too critical or suspicious. Maybe she was the kind of person who bottled up everything she felt and only let it out when she was alone.
  
  
  Finally she picked up the receiver and put it next to the phone.
  
  
  "I'm not on the phone anymore," Vivian said, looking at her watch. "I have to go to the bank. They've called three times already. I need to sign some papers. But I still want to talk to you, Nick. Let's do it tonight, when things have calmed down and we can be alone."
  
  
  "Okay," he said. "I still have things to do. I'll be back after lunch."
  
  
  She grabbed his hand and stood right in front of him, pressing her chest against his jacket.
  
  
  "I'm glad you're here, Nick," she said. "You can't imagine how nice it is to have my good friend Todd with me now. He's told me so much about you."
  
  
  "I'm glad I could help you," Nick said, wondering why her eyes always said something other than her lips.
  
  
  They went downstairs together, and when she left, Nick saw another acquaintance appear from behind a green plant.
  
  
  "Jorge!" Nick exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
  
  
  "That message I sent," said the police chief, "missed the mark. It was sent at one o'clock in the morning, when the Covenant called me. They want to meet you. They're waiting for you in the cocktail lounge of the Delmonido Hotel, across the street." The police chief put his cap on his head. "I didn't think your plan would work so quickly, Senor Nick," he said.
  
  
  "Just go in and ask for Senor Digrano. He's the President of the Covenant."
  
  
  "Okay," Nick replied. "Let's see what they say."
  
  
  "I'll wait here," Jorge said. "You won't come back with proof, but you'll see I'm right."
  
  
  The hotel bar was well lit for a cocktail lounge. Nick was led to a low, round table in the corner of the room. Five people were seated at this table. Senor Digrano stood up. He was a tall, stern man who spoke English well and clearly spoke for the others. They were all well-groomed, reserved, and formal. They looked at Nick with haughty, imperturbable gazes.
  
  
  "A coquette, Mr. Carter?" asked Digrano.
  
  
  "Aguardente, por favor," Nick replied, sitting in the empty chair clearly intended for him. The cognac he received was a Portuguese cognac of very good quality.
  
  
  "First, Senor Carter," DiGrano began, "our condolences on the death of your friend Senor Dennison. You may be wondering why we wanted to see you so soon."
  
  
  "Let me guess," Nick said. "You want my autograph."
  
  
  Digrano smiled politely. "We will not insult our intelligence with games,
  
  
  "Senor Carter," he continued. "We are not children or diplomats. We are men who know what we want. The tragic death of your friend, Senor Dennison, will undoubtedly leave his plantation unfinished. In time, all of this, the plantation and his murder, will be forgotten unless an issue is created out of it. When it does become an issue, there will be an investigation, and others will come to finish the plantation. We believe the less attention paid to it, the better for everyone. Do you understand that?"
  
  
  "So," Nick smiled softly, "you think I should mind my own business."
  
  
  Digrano nodded and smiled at Nick.
  
  
  "That's exactly what it is," he said.
  
  
  "Well, amigos," Nick said. "Then I can tell you this: I'm not leaving until I find out who killed Todd Dennison and why."
  
  
  Senor Digrano exchanged a few words with the others, forced a smile, and looked at Nick again.
  
  
  "We suggest you enjoy Rio and the Carnival, and then just go home, Señor Carter," he said. "It would be wise to do that. Frankly, most of the time we're used to getting our own way."
  
  
  "Me too, gentlemen," Nick said, standing up. "I suggest we end this pointless conversation. Thanks again for the brandy."
  
  
  He felt their eyes piercing his back as he walked out of the hotel. They weren't wasting their time on nonsense. They were openly threatening him, and they undoubtedly meant it. They wanted the plantation left unfinished. There was no doubt about that. How far would they go to convince him to stop? Probably quite far. But were they really responsible for Todd Dennison's murder, or were they simply taking their chance to leave the plantation unfinished? These were clearly cold, ruthless tough guys who didn't shy away from violence. They thought they could achieve their goal with overt threats. And yet, the simplicity of it all still irritated him. Perhaps Hawk's response to his telegram would shed some light on the matter. Somehow, he had the feeling that there was much more at stake here than just this small group of people. He hoped he was wrong, because if it were that simple, at least he would have a vacation. For a moment, the image of Maria Hawes flashed through his mind.
  
  
  Jorge was waiting for him at the turn in the road. Anyone would have been outraged by Jorge's "I told you so" attitude. But Nick understood this proud, hot-tempered, and insecure man; he even sympathized with him.
  
  
  Nick initially considered telling him about the Cadillac incident and the telegram to Hawk, but then decided against it. If years of experience had taught him anything, it was caution. The kind of caution that told him not to trust anyone until he was completely sure of himself. There could always be more to Jorge's strange attitude. He didn't think so, but he wasn't sure, so he simply told him about the threats against him. When he said he hadn't come to any conclusions, Jorge looked puzzled.
  
  
  He raged. "They were the only ones who benefited from Senor Todd's death. They threaten you, and you're still not sure?" "It's unbelievable. It's as clear as day."
  
  
  "If I'm right," Nick said slowly, "you thought Todd was the victim of a robbery. It was as clear as day."
  
  
  He watched as Jorge's jaw tightened and his face turned white with anger. He knew he'd gotten to him very badly, but this was the only way to get rid of this influence on his part.
  
  
  "I'm heading back to Los Reyes," Jorge said cheerfully. "You can reach me at my office if you need me."
  
  
  Nick watched Jorge drive away furiously, then trudged toward Praia Beach. The beach was almost deserted due to the gathering darkness. However, the boulevard was full of girls with beautiful long legs, narrow hips, and full, round breasts. Every time he looked at them, he thought of Maria House and her intriguing beauty. Her black hair and dark eyes haunted him. He wondered what it would be like to get to know her better. More than interesting, he was sure of it. Signs of the approaching Carnival were everywhere. It was the time when the entire city turned into a huge party crowd. The entire city was decorated with garlands and colorful lights. Nick paused for a moment as a group rehearsed sambas composed especially for Carnival. They would participate in the countless dance competitions that would be held during Carnival. Nick continued walking, and by the time he reached the end of Praia de Copacabana, it was already dark, so he decided to turn back. The neat, well-kept buildings ended in a network of narrow alleys lined with shops. As he turned, three fat men with nine beach umbrellas blocked his path. They held the umbrellas under their arms, but the ones at the top kept falling out. As Nick walked around them, one of the men pulled a piece of rope from his pocket and tried to tie the umbrellas together.
  
  
  "Help, sir," he shouted to Nick. "Could you lend me a hand?"
  
  
  Nick smiled and walked over to them. "Here you go," the man said, pointing to the spot where he wanted to tie the knot. Nick placed his hand there and saw the umbrella, like a large battering ram, coming towards him and slamming into his temple. Nick spun around and saw stars. He fell to his knees and then to the ground, struggling to stay conscious. The men grabbed him roughly and threw him back onto the ground. He lay motionless, using his immense willpower to stay conscious.
  
  
  "We can kill him here," he heard one of the men say. "Let's do it and leave."
  
  
  "No," he heard another say. "It would be too suspicious if the American's first friend were also found dead and robbed. You know we must not arouse any further suspicion. Our task is to throw him into the sea. You load him onto the car."
  
  
  Nick lay motionless, but his head was clear again. He was thinking. Damn it! The oldest trick in the world, and he'd fallen for it like a rookie. He saw three pairs of legs in front of his face. He was lying on his side, his left arm tucked under him. Bracing his hand on the tile, he summoned all the strength in his massive thigh muscles and kicked his attackers' ankles. They fell on top of him, but he got up as quickly as a cat. They placed heavy umbrellas against the wall of the house. Nick quickly grabbed one and stabbed one of the men in the stomach. The man collapsed to the ground, spitting blood.
  
  
  One of the other two lunged at him with outstretched arms. Nick easily dodged him, grabbed his arm, and slammed it against the wall. He heard the sound of bones breaking, and the man fell to the ground. The third suddenly pulled out a knife. Nick's stiletto, Hugo, was still securely fastened under his right sleeve, and he decided to leave it there. He was sure these men were amateurs. They were clumsy. Nick ducked as the third man tried to stab him. He let the man get closer, then pretended to jump. The man immediately responded by stabbing him with his own knife. As the man did so, Nick grabbed his arm and twisted it. The man screamed in pain. To be absolutely sure, he delivered another karate chop to the neck, and the man fell.
  
  
  It was all quick and easy. The only souvenir of the battle was a bruise on his temple. "Compared to the man from the Cadillac," Nick thought. He quickly searched their pockets. One had a wallet with identification. He was a government official. The other, along with some unimportant papers, had identification. He knew their names, they could be traced, but to do that he would have to involve the police, and Nick didn't want that. At least not yet. It would only complicate things. But all three had one thing: a small, neat white card. They were completely blank except for a small red dot in the middle. Probably some kind of sign. He put the three cards in his pocket and continued on his way.
  
  
  As he slowly approached Vivian Dennison's apartment, he could only think of one thing: someone clearly wanted to get rid of him. If these three scoundrels had been sent by the Covenant, they wouldn't have wasted any time. However, he suspected the Covenant was only out to frighten him, not kill him, and these three intended to kill him. Perhaps Vivian Dennison could shed some light on this strange tangle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  Vivian was waiting for Nick at home. She noticed the bruise immediately when he went into the bathroom to freshen up. Through the door, she watched Nick take off his jacket and unbutton his shirt. In the mirror, he saw her peering at his powerful, muscular body. She asked him what was wrong, and when he told her, fear flickered across her face. She turned and walked into the living room. Nick had a few drinks when he came out of the bathroom.
  
  
  "I thought you might find this useful," she said. "Of course I do." She was now wearing a long black dress, buttoned to the floor. A row of small buttons went into small loops rather than buttonholes. Nick took a sip and sat down on the long bench. Vivian sat down next to him, resting her glass on her lap.
  
  
  "What does a white card with a red dot in the middle mean?" he asked.
  
  
  Vivian thought for a moment. "I've never seen a map like this," she said. "But it's the symbol of the Novo Dia Party, a group of extremists from the mountains. They use it on all their banners and posters. How can that be?"
  
  
  "I saw this last time somewhere," Nick replied succinctly. So, Rojadas. A man of the people, a great benefactor, a great leader, Jorge. Why did three of his supporters try to kill him? Everyone sprang into action.
  
  
  Vivian put down her glass and, sitting there, seemed to be struggling not to cry. Only those round, full, cold eyes staring at him didn't fit. No matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find the slightest trace of sadness.
  
  
  "It's been a terrible day, you know?" she said. "It feels like the world is about to end, and there's no one to stop it. There's so much I want to say, but I can't. I don't have any friends here, no real friends. We haven't been here long enough to make any real friends, and I don't connect with people that easily. That's why you have no idea how happy I am that you're here, Nick." She took his hand for a moment. "But I need to talk about something. Something very important to me, Nick. One thing has become clear to me throughout the day. I know about Todd's murder, and I appreciate you trying to figure it out. But I want you to do something for me, even if you think it's futile. I want you to forget everything, Nick. Yes, I think it's for the best in the end. Let it all go. What happened happened. Todd is dead, and that can't be changed. I don't care who did it, why, or how. He's gone, and that's all that matters to me."
  
  
  Really? Nick almost asked, but didn't move. Just forget about it. It was the number one question on the local list. It seemed everyone wanted it. That guy from Cadillac, Covenant, the three Rojadas scoundrels, and now Vivian Dennison. Everyone wanted him to stop.
  
  
  "You're in shock, aren't you?" Vivian asked. 'You understand what I said.
  
  
  "It's hard to surprise me," Nick said.
  
  
  "I don't know if I can explain this, Nick," Vivian said. "It's about a lot of things. Once I've settled everything, I want to leave. I definitely don't want to stay here any longer than necessary. There are too many painful memories. I don't want to wait for an investigation into Todd's death. And Nick, if Todd was killed for some reason, I don't want to know that reason. Maybe he had gambling debts. He could have been involved in a suspicious relationship. Maybe it was another... woman.
  
  
  Nick admitted that these were all perfectly logical possibilities, except that Todd Dennison wouldn't have even considered it. And he was almost certain she knew it too, though then again, she didn't realize he knew it either. He let her continue. This was getting more and more interesting.
  
  
  "Do you understand, Nick?" she said, her voice shaking, her small, pointed breasts trembling. "I just want to remember Todd as he was. A lot of tears won't bring him back. Finding the killer won't bring him back. It'll only cause a lot of trouble. Maybe it's wrong to think that way, but I don't care. All I want is to run away from this with my memories. Oh, Nick, I... I'm so upset.
  
  
  She sat sobbing on his shoulder, her head pressed tightly against his, her body trembling. She placed her hand on his shirt, on his massive pectorals. Suddenly, she raised her head and made a smacking sound of passion. She could very well be completely honest and simply confused. It was possible, but he didn't think so. He knew he had to find out. If she played games with him, she would soon notice he had the upper hand. If he was right, he knew he would figure out her game. If he was wrong, he would exhaust himself apologizing to his old friend. But he had to find out.
  
  
  Nick leaned forward and traced her lips with his tongue. She moaned as he pressed his lips to hers and explored her mouth with his tongue. She grabbed his neck with her hands like a vice. He unbuttoned her dress and felt the warmth of her taut breasts. She was wearing nothing under it, and he cupped a breast in his hand. It was soft and exciting, and the nipple was already hard. He sucked on it, and when Vivian began to resist so hard, the dress fell off her, revealing her soft stomach, slender hips, and black triangle. Vivian became enraged and pulled his pants down.
  
  
  "Oh, God, oh God," she breathed, her eyes squeezed shut, and she rubbed his body with both hands. She wrapped her arms around his neck and legs, her nipples tickling his chest. He fucked her as fast as he could, and she gasped in pleasure. When she came, she screamed, released him, and fell backwards. Nick looked at her. He knew so much more now. Her gray eyes studied him intently. She turned and covered her face with her hands.
  
  
  "Oh my God," she sobbed. "What have I done? What must you think of me?"
  
  
  Damn it! He cursed himself. She saw the look in his eyes and realized he found her role as a grieving widow implausible. She pulled her dress back on, but left it unbuttoned, and leaned against his chest.
  
  
  "I'm so ashamed," she sobbed. "I'm so ashamed. I really don't want to talk about it, but I have to."
  
  
  Nick noticed that she quickly retreated.
  
  
  "Todd was so busy on that plantation," she sobbed. "He hadn't touched me in months, not that I blame him. He had too many problems, he was abnormally exhausted and confused. But I was hungry, Nick, and tonight, with you next to me, I just couldn't help myself. You understand that, don't you, Nick. It's important to me that you understand that."
  
  
  "Of course I understand, dear," Nick said soothingly. "These things just happen sometimes." He told himself she was no more a sad widow than he was a Carnival Queen, but she must continue to think she was smarter than him. Nick pulled her to his chest again.
  
  
  "These Rojadas supporters," Nick asked carefully, playing with her nipple, "Did Todd know him personally?"
  
  
  "I wouldn't know, Nick," she sighed contentedly. "Todd always kept me out of his business. I don't want to talk about it anymore, Nick. We'll talk about it tomorrow. When I get back to the States, I want us to stay together. Things will be different then, and I know we'll enjoy each other a lot more."
  
  
  She was clearly avoiding further questions. He wasn't entirely sure what she had to do with this case, but Vivian Dennison's name had to be on the list, and the list was growing longer.
  
  
  "It's late," Nick said, getting her ready. "It's way past bedtime."
  
  
  "Okay, I'm tired too," she admitted. "Of course I'm not going to sleep with you, Nick. I hope you understand that. What happened just now, well... it happened, but it wouldn't be nice if we went to bed together now."
  
  
  She'd played her game again. Her eyes confirmed it. Well, he could handle his role just as well as she could. He didn't care.
  
  
  "Of course, dear," he said. "You're absolutely right."
  
  
  He stood and pulled her close, pressing her against him. Slowly, he slid his muscular knee between her legs. Her breathing quickened, her muscles tensing with longing. He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. She struggled to continue playing her part.
  
  
  "Go to sleep, darling," he said. She struggled to control her body. Her lips wished him goodnight, but her eyes called him an asshole. She turned and walked into the bedroom. At the door, she turned again.
  
  
  "Will you do what I asked you to, Nick?" she asked pleadingly, like a little girl. "You're giving up this unpleasant task, aren't you?"
  
  
  She wasn't as smart as she thought, but he had to admit she played her game well.
  
  
  "Of course, dear," Nick replied, watching her eyes search his to make sure he was telling the truth. "I can't lie to you, Vivian," he added. This seemed to satisfy her, and she left. He wasn't lying. He would stop. He had known once. As he lay down to sleep, it occurred to him that he had never slept with a woman before, and he hadn't particularly enjoyed it.
  
  
  The next morning, the maid served breakfast. Vivian wore a somber black dress with a white collar. Telegrams and letters arrived from all over the world, and she talked on the phone constantly during breakfast. Nick had two telegrams, both from Hawk, delivered by special courier from Todd's office, where they had been sent. He was happy that Hawk also used a simple code. He could translate it as he read it. He was very pleased with the first telegram, as it confirmed his own suspicions.
  
  
  I checked all my sources in Portugal. No Rodjadas known to newspapers or offices. There's no file by that name here either. British and French intelligence also inquired. Nothing is known. Are you having a good vacation?
  
  
  "Very good," Nick growled.
  
  
  "What did you say?" Vivian asked, interrupting the phone call.
  
  
  "Nothing," Nick said. "Just a telegram from some third-rate joker."
  
  
  The fact that the Portuguese journalist's trail had reached a dead end meant nothing, but AXE didn't have a file on the man, which was telling. Jorge had said he wasn't from this country, making him a foreigner. Nick doubted Jorge was telling him fairy tales. Jorge and the others, of course, took the story in good faith. Nick opened the second telegram.
  
  
  "Two and a half million gold coins, illegally shipped aboard a ship bound for Rio, were intercepted. Does that help? Nice holiday weather?
  
  
  Nick crumpled up the telegrams and set them on fire. No, it didn't help him, but there had to be a connection, that was for sure. Rojadas and the money, there was a direct line between them. It didn't take that much money to bribe the police chief of a mountain town, but Rojadas had spent the money and received it from someone. Two and a half million in gold-that could buy a lot of people or a lot of things. Weapons, for example. If Rojadas was financed from outside, the question was, by whom and why? And what did Todd's death have to do with it?
  
  
  He said goodbye to Vivian and left the apartment. He was supposed to meet Rojadas, but first he would go to see Maria House. A secretary often knew more than his wife. He remembered the red around those large, black eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  The red rims around those beautiful eyes had disappeared, but they still held a sad look. Maria Hawes wore a red dress. Her full, round breasts pressed against the fabric.
  
  
  Todd's office turned out to be a small space in the city center. Maria was alone. He wanted to be able to talk to her quietly and dreaded the noisy, cluttered office. She greeted him with a tired smile, but she was friendly nonetheless. Nick already had an idea of what he wanted to do. It was going to be rough and merciless, but now it was time to get results. They would come, and soon.
  
  
  "Senor Carter," said Maria Hawes. "How are you? Have you discovered anything else?"
  
  
  "Very little," Nick replied. "But that's not why I came. I came for you."
  
  
  "I'm flattered, sir," the girl said.
  
  
  "Call me Nick," he said. "I wouldn't like it to be formal."
  
  
  "Okay, Senor... Nick," she corrected herself. "What do you want?"
  
  
  "A little or a lot," he said. "It depends on how you look at it." He walked around the table and stood next to her chair.
  
  
  "I'm here on vacation, Maria," he said. "I want to have fun, see things, have my own guide, and have fun with someone at the carnival."
  
  
  A small wrinkle appeared on her forehead. She was unsure, and Nick had embarrassed her a little. Finally, she began to understand.
  
  
  "I mean, you'll stay with me for a while," he said. "You won't regret it, darling. I've heard Brazilian girls are very different from other women. I want to experience it firsthand."
  
  
  Her eyes darkened and she pressed her lips together. He could see it would only take a moment before she exploded in anger.
  
  
  He quickly leaned down and kissed her soft, full lips. She couldn't turn around because he had her so tightly in his grip. Maria broke free and jumped up. Those kind eyes were now pitch black, shooting fire at Nick. Her breasts rose and fell in rhythm with her rapid breathing.
  
  
  "How dare you?" she yelled at him. "I thought you were Senor Todd's best friend, and that's all you can think about right now. You have no respect for him, no honor, no self-restraint? I... I'm shocked. Please leave this office immediately."
  
  
  "Calm down," Nick continued. "You're just a little confused. I can make you forget everything."
  
  
  "You... you...," she muttered, unable to find the right words to express her anger. "I don't know what to tell you. Senor Todd told me amazing things about you when he heard you were coming. It's a good thing he didn't know who you really were. He said you were the best secret agent, that you were loyal, honest, and a true friend. And now you come here and ask me to have some fun with you when Senor Todd died only yesterday. You bastard, do you hear me? Back off!"
  
  
  Nick laughed to himself. His first question had been answered. It wasn't a trick or a game. Just genuine, unadulterated anger. And yet, he wasn't entirely satisfied.
  
  
  "Okay," he said nonchalantly. "I was planning on stopping the investigation anyway."
  
  
  Her eyes widened with anger. She clapped her hands together in surprise. "I... I don't think I heard you," she said. "How can you say such a thing? It's not fair. Don't you want to know who killed Senor Todd? Don't you care about anything except having fun?"
  
  
  She was silent, trying to contain herself, crossing her arms in front of those beautiful, full breasts. Her words were cold and abrupt. "Look," she began, "from what I've heard from Senor Todd, you're the only one who can get to the bottom of this. Okay, do you want to spend Carnival with me? Do you want to meet some Brazilian girls? I'll do it, I'll do anything, if you promise to find Senor Todd's killer. We'll make a deal, okay?"
  
  
  Nick smiled broadly. The girl's feelings ran deep. She was willing to pay a high price for what she believed was right. She hadn't been the first to ask him to stop. This gave him courage. He decided it was time to inform her.
  
  
  "Okay, Maria Hawes," he said. "Calm down, you don't have to deal with me. I just needed to find out, and this was the fastest way."
  
  
  "Did you need to find out something?" she said, looking at him confusedly. "About me?"
  
  
  "Yes, about you," he replied. "There was something I needed to know. I tested your loyalty to Todd first.
  
  
  "You were testing me," she said, a little indignant.
  
  
  "I tested you," Nick said. "And you succeeded. I won't stop investigating, Maria, until I find out the truth. But I need help and reliable information. Do you believe me, Mary?"
  
  
  "I want to believe you, Senor Carter?" she said. Her eyes became friendly again, and she looked at him frankly.
  
  
  "Yes," he said. "Did you love Todd, Maria?" The girl turned and looked out the small window in the office. When she answered, she spoke slowly. She chose her words carefully as she looked out the window.
  
  
  "Love?" she said sadly. "I wish I knew what it really meant. I don't know if I loved Senor Todd. I know he was the nicest, most pleasant man I've ever met. I had great respect and deep admiration for him. Maybe I had some kind of love for him. By the way, if I loved him, that's my secret. We never had any adventures. He had a deep sense of justice. That's why he built this plantation. Neither of us would ever do anything that would make us lose our dignity towards each other. I'm not a prude, but my feelings for Senor Todd were too strong to take advantage of him."
  
  
  She turned her head towards Nick. Her eyes were sad and proud, making her irresistibly beautiful. A beauty of soul and body.
  
  
  "Maybe I didn't quite say what I wanted to say, Senor Carter," she said. "But it's something very personal. You're the only one I've ever talked to about it."
  
  
  "And you were very clear, Maria," Nick said. "I completely understand. You also know that not everyone felt the same way about Todd. There are those who think I should just forget the whole thing, like Vivian Dennison. She says what happened, happened, and finding the killer won't change that."
  
  
  "She told you that?" Maria said, her expression furious. "Maybe it's because she doesn't care. Have you ever thought about that?
  
  
  "I thought about it," Nick said, trying not to laugh. "Why are you thinking about it?"
  
  
  "Because she never showed any interest in Señor Todd, his work, or his problems," Maria Howes replied angrily. "She wasn't interested in the things that mattered to him. All she did was argue with him about that plantation. She wanted him to stop building it."
  
  
  "Are you sure, Maria?"
  
  
  "I heard her say it herself. I heard them arguing," she said. "She knew the plantation would cost money, lots of money. Money she'd rather spend on herself. She wanted Señor Todd to spend his money on big villas and yachts in Europe."
  
  
  When Mary spoke, her eyes glowed with a mixture of anger and disgust. It was an unusual feminine jealousy in this honest, sincere girl. She truly despised Vivian, and Nick agreed.
  
  
  "I want you to tell me everything you know," Nick said. "That Rodhadas" - did he and Todd know each other?
  
  
  Maria's eyes darkened. "Rojadas approached Senor Todd a few days ago, but it was top secret. How did you know?"
  
  
  "I was reading tea leaves," Nick said. 'Go on.'
  
  
  "Rojadas offered Señor Todd a large sum of money for the plantation, which was half finished. Señor Todd refused.
  
  
  "Rojadas said why he needed this unfinished plantation?"
  
  
  "Rojadas said he wanted him so his group could finish it. He said they were honest people who wanted to help people, and it would bring them many new followers. But Señor Todd thought there was something fishy about it. He told me he didn't trust Rojadas, that he didn't have the knowledge, the craftsmen, or the equipment to finish and maintain the plantation. Rojadas wanted Señor Todd gone."
  
  
  "Yeah," Nick mused out loud. "It would have made more sense if he'd asked Todd to stay and finish the plantation. So he didn't. What did Rojadas say when Todd refused?"
  
  
  He looked furious, and Señor Todd was worried. He said he could openly confront the hostility of the big landowners. But Rojadas was terrible."
  
  
  "You said Rojadas offered many arguments. How many?"
  
  
  "More than two million dollars."
  
  
  Nick whistled softly through his teeth. Now he, too, could understand Hawk's telegram. Those two and a half million gold coins they'd intercepted were intended for Rojadas to buy Todd's plantation. In the end, coincidence didn't matter all that much. But the real answers, like who gave so much money and why, still remained unanswered.
  
  
  "It takes a long time for a poor farmer," Nick said to Maria. "How was Rojadas going to give Todd all this money? Did he mention a bank account?
  
  
  "No, Senor Todd was supposed to meet with a broker who would hand over the money."
  
  
  Nick felt his blood rush, which always happened when he was on the right track. The middleman meant only one thing. Whoever was providing the money didn't want to risk Rojadas running off with it. It was all well-orchestrated by someone behind the scenes. Todd's plantation and his death could be a small part of something much larger. He turned back to the girl.
  
  
  "Name, Maria," he said. "I need a name. Did Todd mention the name of this middleman?"
  
  
  "Yes, I wrote it down. Here I found it," she said, rummaging through a box of papers. "Here he is, Albert Sollimage. He is an importer, and his business is in the Pierre Mau area.
  
  
  Nick stood up and, with a familiar gesture, checked the Luger in his shoulder holster. He lifted Maria's chin with his finger.
  
  
  "No more tests, Maria. No more deals," he said. "Maybe when this is over, we can work together in a different way. You are a very beautiful girl."
  
  
  Maria's bright black eyes were friendly, and she smiled. "My pleasure, Nick," she said promisingly. Nick kissed her on the cheek before leaving.
  
  
  
  
  The Pierre Mauá neighborhood was in the northern part of Rio. It was a small shop with a simple sign: "Imported Goods - Albert Sollimage." The storefront was painted black so it wouldn't be visible from the outside. It was a rather cluttered street, full of warehouses and dilapidated buildings. Nick parked his car on the corner and continued walking. This was a lead he didn't want to lose. The $2 million broker was more than just an importer. He would have a lot of useful information, and Nick intended to get it one way or another. This was quickly turning into big business. He still intended to find Todd's killer, but he was increasingly convinced he'd only seen the tip of the iceberg. If he caught Todd's killer, he'd learn a lot more. He was beginning to guess who was behind this. The Russians? The Chinese? They were active everywhere these days. When he entered the shop, he was still lost in thought. It was a small room with a narrow counter at one end, on which stood a few vases and wooden statues. Dusty bales lay on the ground and in boxes. Two small windows on the sides were covered with steel shutters. A small door led to the back of the store. Nick pressed the bell next to the counter. It rang friendly, and he waited. No one appeared, so he pressed it again. He called and listened for noise from the back of the store. He heard nothing. Suddenly, a chill came over him-a sixth sense of unease he never ignored. He walked around the counter and poked his head through the narrow doorframe. The back room was crammed to the ceiling with rows of wooden crates. Between them were narrow corridors.
  
  
  "Mr. Sollimage?" Nick called again. He entered the room and peered through the first narrow passage. His muscles tensed involuntarily when he saw the body lying on the floor. A stream of red liquid gushed onto the drawers, emerging from a hole in the man's temple. His eyes were open. Nick knelt beside the corpse and pulled his wallet from his inside pocket.
  
  
  Suddenly, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise-a primal instinct, part of his brain. This instinct told him that death was near. Experience told him there was no time to turn around. Kneeling beside the dead man, he could make only one move, and he did it. He dove over the body. As he leaped, he felt a sharp, piercing pain as an object grazed his temple. The fatal blow missed, but a trickle of blood appeared on his temple. When he stood up, he saw his attacker step over the body and approach him. The man was tall, dressed in a black suit, and had the same facial shape as the man from the Cadillac. In his right hand, he held a cane; Nick saw a two-inch nail in the handle. Silent, dirty, and very effective. Now Nick understood what had happened to Sollimage. The man was still approaching, and Nick retreated. Soon he crashed into the wall and was trapped. Nick let Hugo slip his sword from its sheath into his sleeve and felt the reassuring sharpness of the cold steel stiletto in his hand.
  
  
  He suddenly threw Hugo. The attacker, however, noticed it just in time and pushed away from the boxes. The stiletto pierced his chest. Nick followed the knife in a leap and was struck with a cane. The man approached Nick again. He swung the cane in the air like a scythe. Nick had almost no room. He didn't want to make noise, but noise was still better than being killed. He pulled the Luger from his shoulder holster. The attacker, however, was alert and quick, and when he saw Nick drawing the Luger, he drove a nail into Nick's hand. The Luger fell to the ground. When the man drove the nail into Nick's hand, he threw the weapon away. "This wasn't one of Rojadas's scoundrels, but a well-trained professional killer," Nick thought. But having driven the nail into Nick's hand, the man was within reach.
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, he punched the man in the jaw from the left. It was enough to buy Nick some time. The man spun on his feet as Nick freed his hand and dove into the narrow corridor. The man kicked the Luger somewhere between the boxes. Nick knew without a gun, he had to do something else, and fast. The tall man was too dangerous with his deadly cane. Nick went down another corridor. He heard the soft sound of rubber soles behind him. Too late; the corridor was a dead end. He turned and saw his opponent blocking the only exit. The man hadn't said a word yet: the mark of a professional killer.
  
  
  The conical sides of the crates and boxes were the perfect trap, giving the man and his weapon the maximum advantage. The killer approached slowly. The bastard was in no hurry; he knew his victim couldn't escape. Nick was still walking backwards, giving himself time and space. Suddenly, he jumped up and pulled on the top of a tall pile of crates. For a moment, the crate balanced on the edge, then fell to the ground. Nick ripped off the crate lid and used it as a shield. Holding the lid in front of him, he ran forward as fast as he could. He saw the man desperately jabbing a stick at the edge of the lid, but Nick mowed it down like a bulldozer. He brought the heavy lid down on the man. Nick lifted it again and saw a bloody face. The tall man rolled onto his side and stood up again. He was as hard as a rock. He lunged again.
  
  
  Nick caught him on his knee and punched him in the jaw. The man fell to the ground with a gurgle, and Nick saw him put his hand in his coat pocket.
  
  
  He pulled out a small pistol, no bigger than a Derringer. Nick's foot, perfectly aimed, struck the gun just as the man fired. The result was a loud report, not much louder than a pistol shot, and a gaping wound above the man's right eye. Damn it, Nick cursed. That hadn't been his intention. This man could have given him information.
  
  
  Nick searched the man's pockets. Like the Cadillac driver, he had no identification. However, something was now clear. This wasn't a local operation. The orders were being placed by professionals. Several million dollars had been allocated to Rojadas to purchase Todd's plantation. The money had been intercepted, forcing them to act quickly. The key was the silence of the middleman, Sollimage. Nick sensed it. He was sitting on a powder keg and didn't know where or when it would explode. Their decision to kill them rather than risk it was a clear sign that the explosion was coming. He didn't know what to do with the women. That didn't matter now either. He needed one more lead so he could learn a little more about Sollimage. Maybe Jorge could help him. Nick decided to tell him everything.
  
  
  He picked up the cane and examined the weapon closely. He discovered that by twisting the head of the cane, the nail could be made to disappear. He gazed with admiration at the handcrafted and cleverly designed thing. "It must have been something for special effects, to come up with such a thing," he thought. Certainly not something peasant revolutionaries would have dreamed up. Nick dropped the cane next to Albert Sollimage's body. Without a murder weapon, that small round hole in his temple would be a real mystery.
  
  
  Nick sheathed Hugo, picked up the Luger, and left the store. There were a few people on the street, and he walked slowly to his car. He drove off, turned onto Avenida Presidente Vargas, and headed toward Los Reyes. Once on the stage, he hit the gas and tore through the mountains.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  When Nick arrived in Los Reyes, Jorge was gone. A uniformed officer, obviously an assistant, told him the boss would be back in about an hour. Nick decided to wait outside in the warm sun. Observing the slow pace of the city, he, too, longed to live at that pace. And yet, it was a world surrounded by great haste: people who wanted to kill each other as quickly as possible, spurred on by ambitious types. This city had already suffered from this. There were underground forces, hidden hatreds, and suppressed vengeance that could flare up at the slightest opportunity. These innocent, peaceful people were cunningly exploited by cunning, ruthless individuals. The city's silence only increased Nick's impatience, and he was glad when Jorge finally appeared.
  
  
  In the office, Nick told about the three men who tried to kill him. When he finished, he placed three white cards with a red dot on the table. Jorge gritted his teeth. He said nothing as Nick continued. When Nick finished, Jorge leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at Nick long and thoughtfully.
  
  
  "You've said a lot, Señor Nick," Jorge said. "You've learned a lot in a very short time. I can't give you an answer to anything other than one, namely the three who attacked you. I'm certain they were sent by the Covenant. The fact that they had all three Novo Dia cards means nothing at all."
  
  
  "I think it means a hell of a lot," Nick countered.
  
  
  "No, amigo," said the Brazilian. "They could very well be members of the Novo Dia party and yet hired by the Association. My friend Rojadas has gathered a lot of people around him. They are not all angels. Most of them have almost no education, because almost all are poor. They have done almost everything in their lives. If he promised a high reward, which I am sure he did, it would not have been difficult to find three men for it." "And what about the money Rojadas offered Senor Todd?" asked Nick. "Where did he get it?
  
  
  "Maybe Rojadas borrowed the money," Jorge replied stubbornly. "Is that wrong? He needs the money. I think you have a complex. Everything that happened is connected to Rojadas. You want to smear him, and that makes me very suspicious."
  
  
  "If anyone here has a complex, comrade, I'd say it's you. You refuse to face the truth. So many things can't be solved."
  
  
  He saw Jorge spinning in his chair, angry. "I see the facts," he said angrily. "The most important thing is that Rojadas is a man of the people. He wants to help the people. Why would such a man want to stop Señor Todd from finishing his plantation? Now answer this!"
  
  
  "A man like that wouldn't have stopped the plantation," Nick admitted.
  
  
  "Finally," Jorge cried triumphantly. "It couldn't be any clearer, could it?"
  
  
  "Well, start again with your clarity," Nick replied. "I said such a man wouldn't do it. So what if Rojadas isn't such a man?"
  
  
  Jorge recoiled as if he'd been slapped in the face. His brows furrowed. "What are you trying to say?" he growled.
  
  
  "What if Rhoadas is an extremist who wants to wield power through someone abroad?" Nick asked, realizing Jorge might explode in anger. "What would such a man need most? He needs a bunch of disgruntled people. People without hope or good prospects. He needs people who obey him. That way, he can use them. Senor Todd's plantation would change that. As you yourself said, it would bring good wages, jobs, and new opportunities to the people. It would improve their lives, directly or indirectly. A man like that can't afford that. For his own benefit, the people must remain backward, restless, and penniless. Those who have received hope and material advancement cannot be manipulated and used as easily as those who have lost hope. The plantation, even if it were almost finished, would cause him to lose control of the people."
  
  
  "I don't want to listen to this nonsense anymore," Jorge shouted, standing up. "What right do you have to talk such nonsense here? Why are you trying to blackmail this man, the only one who tried to help these poor people? You were attacked by three men, and you're distorting the facts to blame Rojadas. Why?"
  
  
  "The Covenant didn't try to buy Senor Todd's plantation," Nick said. "They admitted they were glad the construction stopped and Todd died.
  
  And I need to tell you something else. I've been making inquiries about Rojadas. No one in Portugal knows him."
  
  
  "I don't believe you," Jorge shouted back. "You're just an emissary of the rich. You're not here to solve this murder case, you're here to destroy Rojadas. That's what you're trying to do. You're all fat, rich people in America. You can't stand being accused of murdering one of your own kind."
  
  
  The Brazilian fidgeted with his hands. He was barely holding himself in check. He stood straight, his head held high and defiant.
  
  
  "I want you to leave immediately," Jorge said. "I can remove you from here by saying that I have information that you are a troublemaker. I want you to leave Brazil."
  
  
  Nick realized there was no point in continuing. Only he could change Jorge Pilatto's position. Nick had to rely on Jorge's common sense and pride. He decided to give that pride one last push. "Okay," said Nick, standing by the door. "Now I know. This is the only village in the world with a blind police chief."
  
  
  He left, and when Jorge exploded, he was glad he didn't understand Portuguese very well.
  
  
  It was already evening when he arrived in Rio. He went to Vivian Dennison's apartment. Nick was worried about a wound on his hand. It was undoubtedly infected. He had to pour iodine on it. He always kept a small first aid kit in his suitcase.
  
  
  Nick kept thinking the time was approaching when something would happen. He knew it not from fact, but from instinct. Vivian Dennison was playing her game, and he was going to take care of her tonight. If she learned anything important, he'd hear about it before the night was out.
  
  
  In her pajamas, she opened the door, pulled him into the room, and pressed her lips to his. She took another step back, lowering her eyes.
  
  
  "I'm sorry, Nick," she said. "But since I hadn't heard from you all day, I was worried. I just had to do it."
  
  
  "You just had to let me try, honey," Nick said. He excused himself and went to his room to treat his hand. When he was finished, he returned to her. She was waiting for him on the couch.
  
  
  She asked, "Will you make me a drink?" "The bar is over there, Nick. Do you really put too much water in your drink?"
  
  
  Nick walked up to the bar and lifted the lid. The back of the lid was aluminum, like a mirror. He saw Vivian peering out. There was a strange smell in the room, Nick noticed. A smell that hadn't been there yesterday or last night. He recognized the smell, but couldn't immediately place it.
  
  
  "How about a Manhattan?" he asked, reaching for a bottle of vermouth.
  
  
  "Excellent," Vivian replied. "I'm sure you make really good cocktails."
  
  
  "Pretty strong," Nick said, still trying to place the scent. He leaned over to a small trash can with gold pedals and dropped a bottle cap into it. As he did so, he saw a half-smoked cigar lying at the bottom. Of course, now he knew. It was the scent of good Havana.
  
  
  "What have you been up to today?" he asked pleasantly, stirring their drinks. "Have you had any visitors?"
  
  
  "No one except the maid," Vivian replied. "I spent most of the morning on the phone, and this afternoon I started packing. I didn't want to go out. I wanted to be alone."
  
  
  Nick set the drinks on the coffee table and knew what he was about to do. Her deception had gone on long enough. What exactly she was doing with it, he didn't yet know, but she was still a first-class whore. He finished his Manhattan in one gulp and saw Vivian's surprised expression. Nick sat down next to her on the couch and smiled.
  
  
  "Okay, Vivian," he said cheerfully. "Game over. Confess."
  
  
  She looked confused and frowned. She asked, "What?" "I don't understand you, Nick."
  
  
  "You understand better than anyone," he smiled. It was his deadly smile, and unfortunately, she didn't know it. "Start talking. If you don't know where to begin, first tell me who your visitor was this afternoon."
  
  
  "Nick," she laughed softly. "I really don't understand you. What's going on?"
  
  
  He hit her hard across the face with the flat of his hand. Her Manhattan flew across the room, and the force of the blow sent her falling to the ground. He picked her up and hit her again, only this time less hard. She fell onto the couch. Now there was real fear in her eyes.
  
  
  "I don't like doing this," Nick told her. "It's not my way of doing it, but my mother always said I should do more things I didn't like. So, honey, I suggest you start talking now, or I'll do it harshly. I know someone was here this afternoon. There's a cigar in the wastebasket, and the whole house smells of cigar smoke. If you came from outside, like me, you'd notice right away. You didn't count on that, did you? Well, who was it?"
  
  
  She glared at him and turned her head to the side. He grabbed her short blonde hair and dragged it along with him. As she fell to the ground, she screamed in pain. Still holding her hair, he lifted her head and raised his hand threateningly. 'Again! Oh no, please!' she begged, horror in her eyes.
  
  
  "I'd be happy to hit you a few more times just for Todd," Nick said. "But I'm not here to express my personal feelings. I'm here to hear the truth. Well, do you have to talk, or are you going to get slapped?"
  
  
  "I'll tell you," she sobbed. "Please let me go... You're hurting me!"
  
  
  Nick grabbed her by the hair, and she screamed again. He threw her onto the couch. She sat up and looked at him with a mixture of respect and hatred.
  
  
  "Give me another drink first," she said. "Please, I... I need to get myself together a little."
  
  
  "Okay," he said. "I'm not reckless." He went to the bar and started mixing another Manhattan. A good drink might loosen her tongue a little. As he shook the drinks, he peered through the aluminum back of the bar. Vivian Dennison was no longer on the couch, and suddenly he saw her head reappear. She stood and walked slowly toward him. In one hand, she held a very sharp letter opener with a brass handle shaped like a dragon.
  
  
  Nick didn't move, only poured the Manhattan from the mixer into the glass. She was almost at his feet now, and he saw her hand rise to strike him. With a lightning-fast movement, he tossed the glass of Manhattan over his shoulder and into her face. She blinked involuntarily. He grabbed a letter opener and twisted her arm. Vivian screamed, but Nick held her hand behind her back.
  
  
  "Now you're going to talk, you little liar," he said. "Did you kill Todd?"
  
  
  At first he hadn't thought about it, but now that she wanted to kill him, he thought she was quite capable of it.
  
  
  "No," she breathed. "No, I swear!"
  
  
  "What does this have to do with you?" he asked, twisting her arm even more.
  
  
  "Please," she screamed. "Please stop, you're killing me... stop!"
  
  
  "Not yet," Nick said. "But I certainly will if you don't talk. What's your connection to Todd's murder?"
  
  
  "I told them... I told them when he comes back from the plantation, when he is alone."
  
  
  "You betrayed Todd," Nick said. "You betrayed your own husband." He threw her to the edge of the couch and grabbed her by the hair. He had to restrain himself from hitting her.
  
  
  "I didn't know they were going to kill him," she breathed. "You have to believe me, I didn't know. I... I thought they just wanted to scare him.
  
  
  "I wouldn't even believe you if you told me I was Nick Carter," he shouted at her. "Who are they?"
  
  
  "I can't tell you that," she said. "They'll kill me."
  
  
  He hit her again and heard the chattering of teeth. "Who was here this afternoon?"
  
  
  'New man. I can't say it,' she sobbed. 'They'll kill me. They told me so themselves.'
  
  
  "You're in trouble," Nick growled at her. "Because I'll kill you if you don't tell me."
  
  
  "You won't," she said with a look that could no longer hide her fear. "You won't," she repeated, "but they will."
  
  
  Nick cursed under his breath. She knew she was right. He wouldn't kill her, not under normal circumstances. He grabbed her by the pajamas and shook her like a rag doll.
  
  
  "I may not kill you, but I'll make you beg me to," he barked at her. "Why did they come here this afternoon? Why were they here?
  
  
  "They wanted money," she said breathlessly.
  
  
  "What money?" he asked, tightening the fabric around her neck.
  
  
  "The money Todd put aside to keep the plantation going for the first year," she screamed. "You... you're choking me."
  
  
  'Where are they?'
  
  
  "I don't know," she said. "It was an operating expense fund. Todd thought the plantation would be profitable at the end of the first year."
  
  
  "Who are they?" he asked again, but she didn't agree. She became stubborn.
  
  
  "I won't tell you," she said.
  
  
  Nick tried again. "What did you tell them this afternoon?" "They probably didn't leave with anything."
  
  
  He noticed the slight change in her eyes and knew immediately that she was about to lie again. He pulled her up so that she was standing. "One more lie and I won't kill you, but you'll beg me to kill you," he said wildly. "What did you tell them this afternoon?"
  
  
  "I told them who knows where the money is, the only person who knows: Maria."
  
  
  Nick felt his fingers tighten around Vivian's throat and saw the fearful look in her eyes again.
  
  
  "I really should kill you," he said. "But I have better plans for you. You're coming with me. First we'll get Maria, and then we'll go to a certain police chief, to whom I'll hand you over.
  
  
  He pushed her out into the hallway, holding her hand. "Let me change," she objected.
  
  
  "No time," he replied. Nick pushed her into the hallway. "Wherever you go, you'll be given a new dress and a new broom."
  
  
  He thought about Maria Hawes. That fake, selfish witch had betrayed her too. But they wouldn't kill Maria, at least not yet. At least not while she kept her mouth shut. Still, he wanted to go to her and take her to safety. The intercepted money transfer was crucial. That meant it was intended for other purposes. He considered leaving Vivian here in her apartment and making her talk. He didn't think it was such a good idea, but he could do it if he had to. No, he decided, Maria Hawes first. Vivian told him where Maria lived. It was a ten-minute drive. When they reached the revolving door in the lobby, Nick took a seat with her. He wouldn't let her escape. They had just passed through the revolving door when shots rang out. Quickly, he dropped to the ground, pulling Vivian down with him. But her death was swift. He heard the sound of gunshots ripping through her body.
  
  
  The girl fell forward. He rolled her over, Luger in hand. She was dead, three bullets in her chest. Even though he knew he wouldn't see anything, he watched anyway. The killers were gone. They'd been waiting for her and killed her at the first opportunity. Now other people were running. "Stay with her," Nick said to the first one who arrived. "I'm going to the doctor."
  
  
  He ran around the corner and jumped into his car. What he didn't need now were the Rio police. He felt stupid for not making Vivian talk. Everything she knew went with her to the grave.
  
  
  He was driving through the city at a dangerous speed. The house where Maria Howes lived turned out to be a small, nondescript building. She lived in building 2A.
  
  
  He rang the bell and ran up the stairs. The apartment door was ajar. A deep suspicion suddenly arose in him, and it was confirmed when he pushed the door open. He didn't have to scream, because she was no longer there. The apartment was in disarray: drawers overturned, chairs and a table overturned, cabinets overturned. They had already had her in their hands. But the mess he saw before him told him one thing: Maria hadn't spoken yet. If they had, they wouldn't have had to search her room inch by inch. Well, they would make her talk, he was sure of it. But as long as she kept her mouth shut, she was safe. Perhaps there would still be time to free her, if only he knew where she was.
  
  
  His eyes, trained to spot small details others might miss, wandered. There was something by the door, on the carpet in the hallway. Thick, reddish mud. He picked up some and rolled it between his fingers. It was fine, heavy mud, and he'd seen it before in the mountains. The shoe or boot that must have carried it had come straight from the mountains. But where? Perhaps one of the great Covenant farms? Or at Rojadas's mountain headquarters. Nick decided to take Rojadas.
  
  
  He ran down the stairs and drove as quickly as he could to the stage. Jorge told him that the old mission had taken place in the mountains, near Barra do Piraí.
  
  
  He wanted to take Vivian to Jorge to convince him, but now he had as little evidence as before. As he drove along the Urde road, Nick pieced together the facts. If he'd deduced correctly, Rojadas was working for several bigwigs. He employed rogue anarchists, but he also had a few professionals, undoubtedly the same people, who were also after his money. He was certain the bigwigs wanted much more than just stopping the construction of Todd's plantation. And the Covenant was nothing more than an annoying side effect. Unless they joined forces for a common goal. It had happened before, everywhere, and very often. It was possible, but Nick thought it unlikely. If Rojadas and the Covenant had decided to work together, the Covenant's share would almost certainly have been the money. Members could have received the money for Todd's application, individually or collectively. But they hadn't. The money had come from abroad, and Nick wondered again where it came from. He had a feeling that he would soon find out everything.
  
  
  The exit to Los Reyes was already behind him. Why did Jorge have to hate it so much? He approached a turnoff with a sign. One arrow pointed left, the other right. The sign read: "Barra do Mança - left" and "Barra do Piraí - right."
  
  
  Nick turned right and a few moments later saw the dam to the north. Along the way, he came to a group of houses. All were dark except one. He saw a dirty wooden sign that said "Bar." He stopped and walked inside. Plaster walls and a few round tables-there it was. A man standing behind the tap greeted him. The bar was made of stone and looked primitive.
  
  
  "Tell me," Nick asked. "Onde fica a mission velho?"
  
  
  The man smiled. "The old mission," he said. "Rojadas headquarters? Take the first old mountain road on the left. Go straight up. When you reach the top, you'll see the old mission post on the other side."
  
  
  "Muito obrigado," Nick said, running out. The easy part was over, he knew it. He found an old mountain road and drove the car along steep, narrow paths. Further on, there was a clearing, and he decided to park his car there. He continued on foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  A large man dressed in a white shirt and white trousers wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead and blew a cloud of smoke into the quiet room. He nervously drummed his left hand on the table. The smell of Havana cigar filled the modest room, which was both an office and a living space. The man tensed his powerful shoulder muscles and took several deep breaths. He knew he really should go to bed and get ready for... for tomorrow. All he always tried to do was get a good night's sleep. He knew he still couldn't sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day. From tomorrow, the name Rojadas would be entered into the history books alongside Lenin, Mao, and Castro. He still couldn't sleep due to nerves. Instead of confidence and excitement, for the past few days he had felt uneasy and even a little afraid. A large part of him had disappeared, but it was taking longer than he thought. The difficulties and problems were still too fresh in his memory. Some problems had not even been fully resolved yet.
  
  
  Perhaps the anger of the last few weeks was still there. He was a cautious man, a man who worked carefully and made sure all the necessary precautions were taken. It simply had to be done. He was the worst man if he had to make sudden and necessary changes to his plans. That was why he had been in such a bad mood and nerves for the last few days. He paced the room with long, heavy steps. Every now and then, he stopped to take a drag on his cigar. He thought about what had happened and felt his anger boiling again. Why did life have to be so damn unpredictable? It all started with the first Americano, that Dennison with his rotten plantation. Before that Americano presented his "great" plans, he had always controlled the people in the mountains. He could persuade them or break them. And then suddenly, overnight, the whole atmosphere changed. Even Jorge Pilatto, the naive madman, sided with Dennison and his plans. Not that it mattered. The people were the big problem.
  
  
  At first, he tried to delay the plantation's construction to the point that Americano abandoned his plans. But he refused to give in and began coming to the plantation in ever-increasing numbers. At the same time, the people began to see increasing hope for a better future and better prospects. He saw them praying at night in front of the unfinished main building of the plantation. He didn't like the idea, but he knew he had to act. The population had the wrong attitude, and he was forced to manipulate again. Fortunately for him, the second part of the plan was much better laid out. His army, composed of well-trained soldiers, was ready. For the first part of the plan, he had plenty of weapons and even a reserve army. With the plantation nearly finished, Rojadas only had to decide to carry out his plans more quickly.
  
  
  The first step was to find another way to capture Americano. He arranged for a maid to work for the Dennisons in Rio. It was easy to make the real maid disappear and replace her. The information the girl provided proved invaluable to Rojadas and brought him luck. Señora Dennison was as interested in stopping the plantation as he was. She had her reasons. They got together and made some plans. She was one of those self-confident, greedy, short-sighted, and actually stupid women. He enjoyed using her. Rojadas laughed. It all seemed so simple.
  
  
  When Todd was killed, he thought it would be the end, and he set his own schedule in motion again. Soon, a second Americano appeared. The message he then received directly from headquarters was both alarming and startling. He had to be extremely cautious and strike immediately. The presence of this man, a certain Nick Carter, caused quite a stir. At first, he thought they were greatly exaggerating at headquarters. They said he was an espionage specialist. Even the best in the world. They couldn't take any risks with him. Rojadas pursed his lips. Headquarters wasn't overly concerned. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. If they hadn't sent special agents, it could have caused Nick Carter even more trouble. He was glad they got to Sollimage in time.
  
  
  He knew it was too late to stop the plan, but damn chance, all those little things that had gone wrong. If he'd put off the final reckoning with this Dennison, everything could have gone so much easier. But how the hell was he supposed to know that N3 was going to Rio and that he was friends with Dennison? Ah, it was always such a stupid coincidence! And then there was that gold ship that was intercepted in America. Nick Carter knew it too. He was like a guided missile, so unwavering and ruthless. It would be good if he could get rid of that.
  
  
  And then this girl. He had her in his arms, but she was stubborn. It wasn't that he couldn't unravel it all, but she was something special. He didn't want to throw her to the dogs. She was too beautiful. He could make her his wife, and he was already licking his heavy, plump lips. After all, he would no longer be the shadowy leader of a small extremist group, but a world-class man. A woman like her would suit him. Rojadas threw away his cigar and took a long sip of water from the glass on the nightstand. Most women always see what's best for them pretty quickly. Perhaps if he went to her alone and struck up a friendly, calm conversation, he might achieve something.
  
  
  She'd been in one of the smallest cells downstairs for over four hours. It gave her time to think. He glanced at his watch. It would cost him a night's sleep, but he could always try. If he could get her to tell him where the money was, everything would be so much better. It also meant she wanted to do business with him. He felt a thrill surging inside. Still, he had to be careful. It would also be hard to keep his hands to himself. He wanted to caress and fondle her, but he didn't have time for that now.
  
  
  Rojadas pushed back his thick, greasy hair and opened the door. He descended the stone steps quickly, faster than one would expect from such a heavy man. The door to the small room, which had once been the crypt of an old monk, was locked. Through the small gap in the door, he saw Maria sitting in the corner. She opened her eyes as he slammed the bolt and stood up. He could just catch a glimpse of her crotch. Next to her, on a plate, lay an untouched empada, a meat pie. He entered, closed the door behind him, and smiled at the girl.
  
  
  "Maria, dear," he said softly. He had a kind, friendly voice that, despite its calm, was still convincing. "It's stupid not to eat. That's no way to do it."
  
  
  He sighed and shook his head sadly. "We need to talk, you and I," he told her. "You're too smart to be foolish. You could be a great help to me in my work, Maria. The world could be at your feet, baby. Think about it, you could have a future every girl would envy. You have no reason not to work with me. You don't owe these Americans anything. I don't want to hurt you, Maria. You're too pretty for that. I brought you here to convince you, to show you what's right."
  
  
  Rohadas swallowed, looking at the girl's round, full breasts.
  
  
  "You must be loyal to your people," he said. His eyes fell on her red satin lips. "You must be for us, not against us, my dear."
  
  
  He looked at her long, slender legs. "Think about your future. Forget the past. I'm interested in your well-being, Maria.
  
  
  He fidgeted nervously with his hands. He really wanted to cup her breasts and feel her body against his, but that would ruin everything. He had to handle this very cleverly. She was worth it. He restrained himself and spoke calmly, tenderly, fatherly. "Say something, darling," he said. "You don't need to be afraid."
  
  
  "Go to the moon," Maria replied. Rojadas bit his lip and tried to restrain himself, but couldn't.
  
  
  He exploded. "What's wrong with you?" "Don't be silly! Who do you think you are, Joan of Arc? You're not big enough, not important enough, to play the martyr."
  
  
  He saw her glaring at him and stopped his thunderous speech. He smiled again.
  
  
  "We're both dead tired, my dear," he said. "I only want the best for you. But yes, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Think about one more night. You'll find Rojadas is understanding and forgiving, Maria.
  
  
  He left the cell, bolted the door, and went to his room. She was like a tigress, and he'd just wasted his time. But if things weren't going well, that was too bad. Some women are only worth it when they're scared. For her, that was supposed to come the next day. Luckily, he was rid of that American agent. That was at least one less headache. He undressed and fell asleep right away. Good sleep always comes quickly to those with a clear conscience... and to those with none at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow crawled to the ledge and surveyed the state of the lower plateau, clearly visible in the moonlight. The mission outpost was built in a clearing and surrounded by a garden. It consisted of a main building and two outbuildings, forming a cross-shaped structure. The buildings were connected by open corridors. Kerosene lamps glowed on the outer walls and corridors, creating a medieval atmosphere. Nick half expected to see an imposing structure. Even in the darkness, he could see that the main building was in good condition. At the intersection of the main building and the outbuildings stood a fairly tall tower with a large clock. There were few outbuildings, both in poor condition. The building on the left looked like an empty shell, and the windows were missing glass. The roof had partially collapsed, and the floor was littered with debris.
  
  
  Nick checked everything again. Save for the soft kerosene light, the mission seemed deserted. There were no guards, no patrols: the house seemed completely deserted. Rojadas felt perfectly safe here, Nick wondered, or maybe Maria House was somewhere else. There was always a chance that Jorge was right after all and that it had all been an accident. Had Rojadas already escaped? If not, why didn't he have sentries? It was clear, of course, that he would come for the girl. There was only one way to get answers, so he moved toward the mission through the undergrowth and tall trees. The space ahead was too empty, so he turned right.
  
  
  The distance to the rear of the main building was no more than 15-20 meters. When he got there, he saw three rather strange-looking school buses. He checked his watch. It was still early tonight, but he knew that if he wanted to enter, it had to be now, in the shelter of the darkness. He stopped at the edge of the forest, looked around again, and ran to the rear of the main building. After another look, he slipped inside. The building was dark, but by the light of the kerosene lamps, he saw that he was in a former chapel. Four corridors led to this room.
  
  
  Nick heard laughter, the laughter of a man and a woman. He decided to try another corridor and simply slipped inside when he heard the phone ring. He was heading up the floor, accessible by a stone staircase at the end of the corridor. Someone answered the phone, and he heard a muffled voice. He stopped suddenly, and there was a moment of silence. Then came a hellish noise. First came the sound of a siren, followed by short screams, curses, and the sound of footsteps. As the piercing siren continued, Nick decided to take refuge in the chapel.
  
  
  High in the wall was a small window with a sofa underneath. Nick stood on it and looked out. There were now about thirty people in the courtyard, most of whom were dressed in nothing more than shorts. Apparently, the siren had interrupted their sleep, because he also saw about a dozen women, some bare-chested or wearing thin tank tops. Nick saw a man emerge and take command. He was a large, solidly built man with black hair, thick lips on a large head, and a calm, clear voice.
  
  
  "Attention!" he ordered. "Hurry! Make a circle through the forest and catch him. If he slipped in here, we will catch him."
  
  
  While the others went searching, the big man turned and ordered the woman to come in with him. Most of them had rifles or pistols slung over their shoulders and ammunition belts. Nick returned to the floor. It was clear they were looking for him.
  
  
  He slipped in unnoticed and apparently unexpectedly, and after the phone call, all hell broke loose. That phone call was the trigger, but who was calling, and who was waiting for him here? Nick quietly whispered a name... Jorge. It had to be Jorge. The police chief, of course, upon discovering that Nick had not left the country, immediately thought of Rojadas and quickly sounded the alarm. He felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. Did Jorge have something to do with Rojadas, or was this another stupid move on his part? But now he didn't have time to think about that. He had to hide, and fast. The people outside were already approaching, and he could hear them calling to each other. To his right was another stone staircase leading to an L-shaped balcony. "Back in the day," he thought, "there must have been a choir here." He carefully crossed the balcony and entered the corridor. At the end of the corridor, he saw a door standing ajar.
  
  
  ROJADAS PRIVATÓ-that was the text on the sign on the door. It was a large room. Against one wall was a bed and a small side room with a toilet and a sink. Against the opposite wall stood a large oak table, littered with magazines and a map of Rio de Janeiro. But his attention was mainly drawn to the posters of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara hanging above the table. Nick's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. They returned to the building.
  
  
  "Search every room," he heard a quiet voice. "Hurry!"
  
  
  Nick ran to the door and peered into the hall. On the other side of the hall was a stone spiral staircase. He ran toward it as quietly as he could. The further he climbed, the narrower the stairs became. Now he almost certainly knew where he was going... the clock tower! He could hide there until everything died down, and then go look for Maria. One thing was certain: good priests wouldn't go ringing the bells. Suddenly, he found himself outside again, seeing the outlines of the heavy bells. The stairs led to a small wooden platform of the bell tower. Nick thought that if he stayed low, he would have a view of the entire courtyard from the platform. An idea occurred to him. If he could gather a few carbines, he could hit everything in the courtyard from this position. He would be able to keep a decent group of people at bay. It wasn't a bad idea.
  
  
  He leaned over to get a better look, and then it happened. First, he heard a sharp crack of rotten wood. He felt himself falling headfirst into the black shaft of the bell tower. An automatic instinct to save himself sent him desperately searching for something to hold on to. He felt his hands clutching the bell ropes. The old, rough ropes chafed his hands, but he held on. A heavy ringing immediately followed. Damn it, he cursed himself, now was not the time to make his presence here public, literally or figuratively.
  
  
  He heard the sound of voices and approaching footsteps, and a moment later, many hands pulled him from the ropes. The narrowness of the ladder forced them to move one after another, but Nick was being watched closely. "Walk quietly behind us," the first man ordered, aiming his rifle at Nick's stomach. Nick glanced over his shoulder and estimated there were about six of them. He saw the first man's rifle swing slightly to the left as he stumbled back momentarily. Nick quickly pressed his rifle against the wall. At the same time, he punched the man in the stomach with all his might. He fell backward and landed on top of the other two. Nick's legs were grabbed by a pair of hands, pushed away, but grabbed again. He quickly grabbed Wilhelmina and hit the man over the head with the butt of his Luger. Nick continued to attack, but made no further progress. The element of surprise was gone.
  
  
  Suddenly, he was grabbed by the legs from behind again and fell forward. Several men jumped on him at once and took the Luger from him. Because the corridor was so narrow, he couldn't turn around. They dragged him down the stairs, lifted him up, and held the carbine right in front of his face.
  
  
  "One move and you're dead, Americano," the man said. Nick remained calm, and they began searching for another weapon.
  
  
  "Nothing more," he heard one man say, and another gave Nick a signal with a click of his rifle, signaling him to move on. Nick laughed to himself. Hugo settled comfortably into his sleeve.
  
  
  A potbellied man with a bandolier over his shoulder was waiting in the office. This was the man Nick had seen as the commander. An ironic smile appeared on his plump face.
  
  
  "So, Senor Carter," he said, "we finally meet. I didn't expect you to make such a dramatic entrance.
  
  
  "I like to come in a big fuss," Nick said innocently. "It's just my habit. Besides, it's nonsense that you expected me to come. You didn't know I was coming until I called."
  
  
  "That's true," Rojadas laughed again. "I was told you were killed along with the widow Dennison. Well, you see, I only have a lot of amateurs.
  
  
  "It's true," Nick thought, feeling Hugo against his arm. That's why it wasn't entirely safe. The thugs outside Vivian Dennison's apartment saw them both fall and ran away.
  
  
  "You are Rojadas," Nick said.
  
  
  "Sim, I am Rojadas," he said. "And you have come to rescue the girl, have you not?"
  
  
  "I planned it, yes," Nick said.
  
  
  "See you in the morning," Rojadas said. "You'll be safe for the rest of the night. I'm very sleepy. You could say it's one of my quirks. Besides, I won't have much time for sleep for the next few days anyway."
  
  
  "You also shouldn't pick up the phone in the middle of the night. "It interrupts your sleep," Nick said.
  
  
  "There's no point in asking for directions in small cafes," Rojadas resisted. "The farmers here tell me everything."
  
  
  That was it. The man from the little café where he'd stopped. It wasn't Jorge, after all. Somehow, he was happy about that.
  
  
  "Take him and lock him in a cell. Change the guard every two hours."
  
  
  Rohadas turned, and Nick was placed in one of the cells previously reserved for monks. A man stood guard at the door. Nick lay down on the floor. He stretched several times, tensing and relaxing his muscles. It was an Indian fakir technique that allows for complete mental and physical relaxation. Within minutes, he fell into a deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  Just as sunlight streaming through the small, high window woke him, the door opened. Two guards ordered him to stand and led him to Rojadas's office. He was simply putting away his razor and wiping soap from his face.
  
  
  "I was wondering about one thing," Rojadas said to Nick, looking at him thoughtfully. "Could you help the girl talk? I made her a few offers last night, and she was able to consider them. But we'll find out in a minute. If not, maybe you and I can make a deal."
  
  
  "What could I possibly gain from this?" Nick asked. "Your life, of course," Rojadas replied cheerfully.
  
  
  - What will happen to the girl then?
  
  
  "Of course she will live if she tells us what we want to know," Rojadas replied. "That's why I brought her here. I call my people amateurs because that's what they are. I didn't want them to make any more mistakes. She couldn't be killed until I knew everything. But now that I've seen her, I don't want her killed anymore."
  
  
  Nick had a few more questions, though he probably knew the answers. Still, he wanted to hear them from Rojadas himself. He decided to tease the man a little.
  
  
  "It seems your friends think of you the same way... a dilettante and a fool," he said. "At least, they don't seem to trust you very much."
  
  
  He saw the man's face darken. 'Why did you say that?' Rojadas said angrily.
  
  
  "They had their own people for important work," Nick replied nonchalantly. "And millions were transferred through an intermediary." "That's enough," I thought.
  
  
  "Two Russian agents were in Castro's service.
  
  
  "Rojadas shouted. "They were loaned to me for this operation. The money went through an intermediary to avoid direct contact with me. President Castro gave it specifically for this plan."
  
  
  So that's how it was. Fidel was behind it. So he was in trouble again. Finally, it all became clear to Nick. The two specialists had been hired. The amateurs, of course, belonged to Rojadas. Now it even became clear to him what had happened to the gold. If the Russians or Chinese had been behind it, they would have been worried about the money too. Nobody likes to lose that much money. They just wouldn't have reacted so fanatically. They wouldn't have been so desperate for more money.
  
  
  He felt Maria's chances of survival were slim unless she spoke. Now Rojadas was desperate. Of course, Nick wasn't thinking about negotiating with him. He'd break his promise as soon as he got the information. But at least it would buy him a little time.
  
  
  "You were talking about negotiations," Nick said to the man. "Were you negotiating with Todd Dennison too? Is this how your arrangements ended?"
  
  
  "No, he was nothing more than a stubborn obstacle," Rojadas replied. "He was not someone to be dealt with."
  
  
  "Because his plantation turned out to be the opposite of your propaganda of despair and misery," Nick concluded.
  
  
  "Exactly," Rojadas admitted, blowing smoke from his cigar. "Now people are reacting the way we want them to."
  
  
  "What is your task?" Nick asked. This was the key to the solution. It would make everything perfectly clear.
  
  
  "Massacres," said Rojadas. "The carnival begins today. Rio will be a sea of partygoers. All the key government officials will also be there to open the party. We've been informed that the president, state governors, cabinet members, and mayors of Brazil's major cities will be present at the opening. And among the revelers will be my people and myself. Around noon, when all the government officials gather to open the feast, we will revolt. A perfect opportunity with a perfect cover, right?"
  
  
  Nick didn't answer. There was no need, because they both knew the answer all too well. The carnival would indeed be the perfect cover. It would give Rojadas the opportunity to strike and escape. For a moment, he considered stabbing Hugo in that thick chest. Without a massacre, there would be no coup d'état, which they were clearly counting on. But killing Rojadas probably wouldn't stop it. Perhaps he'd considered the possibility and appointed a deputy. No, playing the game now would likely cost him his life and wouldn't interfere with the plan. He had to play the game as long as possible, at least to be able to choose the most opportune moment for whatever it was. "I suppose you'll force people to respond," he began.
  
  
  "Of course," Rojadas said with a smile. "There will not only be chaos and confusion, but also a place for a leader. We've been inciting the people as much as possible, sowing the seeds of revolution, so to speak. We have enough weapons for the first stage. Each of my men will lead an uprising in the city after the assassination. We've also bribed some military personnel to take control as well. There will be the usual announcements and announcements-that's when we take power. It's just a matter of time."
  
  
  "And this new government is led by a guy named Rojadas," Nick said.
  
  
  "Correct guess."
  
  
  "You needed the intercepted money to buy more weapons and ammunition, and also to get high hopes."
  
  
  "You're beginning to understand, amigo. International arms dealers are capitalists in the truest sense of the word. They're free entrepreneurs, selling to anyone and asking for more than half upfront. That's why Senor Dennison's money is so important. We've heard the money is made up of ordinary US dollars. That's what traders are after."
  
  
  Rojadas turned to one of the guards. "Bring the girl here," he ordered. "If the young lady refuses to cooperate, I'll have to resort to more forceful methods if she doesn't listen to you, amigo."
  
  
  Nick leaned against the wall and thought quickly. Twelve o'clock was a deadly moment. Within four hours, any rational modern government would be destroyed. Within four hours, an important member of the United Nations, ostensibly for the good of the people, would be transformed into a land of oppression and slavery. Within four hours, the largest and most popular carnival in the world would become nothing more than a mask for murder, a carnival of murder instead of laughter. Death would rule the day instead of happiness. Fidel Castro glared at him from the wall. "Not yet, buddy," Nick muttered under his breath. "I'll find something to say about this. I don't know how yet, but it will work, it has to work."
  
  
  He glanced at the doorframe as Maria entered. She was wearing a white silk blouse and a simple, heavy skirt. Her eyes looked at Nick with pity, but he winked at her. She was frightened, he could see it, but her face held a determined expression.
  
  
  "Have you thought about what I said last night, my dear?" Rojadas asked sweetly. Maria looked at him with disdain and turned away. Rojadas shrugged and approached her. "Then we'll teach you a lesson," he said sadly. "I was hoping this wouldn't be necessary, but you're making it impossible for me. I'm going to find out where that money is and take you as my wife. I'm sure you'll want to cooperate after my little show."
  
  
  He deliberately unbuttoned Maria's blouse slowly and pulled it aside. He ripped off her bra with his large hand, revealing her full, soft breasts. Maria seemed to be staring straight ahead.
  
  
  "They're so beautiful, aren't they?" he said. "It would be a shame if anything happened to him, wouldn't it, darling?"
  
  
  He stepped back and looked at her as she rebuttoned her blouse. The red circles around her eyes were the only sign that she was feeling anything. She continued to stare straight ahead, her lips pursed.
  
  
  He turned to Nick. "I'd still like to spare her, you understand?" he said. "So I'll sacrifice one of the girls. They're all whores I brought here so my men can relax a little after their exercise."
  
  
  He turned to the guard. "Take the small, skinny one with the big breasts and red hair. You know what to do. Then take these two to the old building, to the stone stairs behind it. I'll be right there."
  
  
  As Nick walked next to Maria, he felt her hand grab his. Her body was trembling.
  
  
  "You can save yourself, Maria," he said softly. She asked, "Why?" "Of course, to let that pig mess with me. I'd rather die. Senor Todd died because he wanted to do something for the Brazilian people. If he can die, so can I. Rojadas won't help the people. He'll oppress them and use them as slaves. I won't tell him anything."
  
  
  They approached the oldest building and were led through the back entrance. At the back were eight stone steps. There must have been an altar here. A guard ordered them to stand at the top of the stairs, and the men stood behind them. Nick saw two guards drag a naked, struggling, cursing girl through the side entrance. They beat her and threw her to the ground. Then they drove wooden stakes into the ground and bound her, spreading her arms and legs.
  
  
  The girl continued screaming, and Nick heard her beg for mercy. She was thin, with long, sagging breasts and a small, flat stomach. Suddenly, Nick noticed Rojadas standing next to Maria. He gave a signal, and the two men hurried out of the building. The girl was left crying and cursing. "Listen and watch, my dear," Rojadas said to Maria. "They smeared honey between her breasts and legs. We'll do the same to you, my dear, if you don't cooperate. Now we need to wait quietly."
  
  
  Nick watched as the girl struggled to break free, her chest heaving. But she was securely bound. Then, suddenly, his attention was drawn to movement near the wall opposite him. Maria noticed it too and clutched his hand in fear. The movement turned into a shadow, the shadow of a large rat, which cautiously moved further into the room. Then Nick saw another, and another, and more and more appeared. The floor was littered with enormous rats, and they were still emerging from everywhere: from old lairs, from the columns, and from pits in the corners of the hall. They all hesitantly approached the girl, paused for a moment to sniff the scent of honey, and then continued on. The girl raised her head and now saw the rats approaching her. She turned her head as far as she could to see Rojadas and began screaming desperately.
  
  
  "Let me go, Rojadas," she begged. "What have I done? Oh God, no... I beg you, Rojadas! I didn't do it, whatever it was, I didn't do it!"
  
  
  "It's for a good cause," Rojadas replied. "To hell with your good cause!" she cried. "Oh, for God's sake, let me go. There you go!" The rats waited a short distance away, and more kept coming. Maria squeezed Nick's hand even tighter. The first rat, a large, gray, dirty beast, approached her and tripped over the girl's stomach. She began to scream terribly as another rat jumped on her. Nick saw the other two climb onto her legs. The first rat found honey on her left breast and sank its teeth impatiently into the flesh. The girl screamed more terribly than Nick had ever heard. Maria tried to turn her head, but Rojadas held her by the hair.
  
  
  "No, no, dear," he said. "I don't want you to miss anything."
  
  
  The girl was now screaming incessantly. The sound reverberated off the walls, making everything even more terrifying.
  
  
  Nick saw a swarm of rats at her feet, and blood was pouring from her chest. Her screams turned to moans. Finally, Rojadas gave the order to two guards, who fired several shots into the air. The rats scattered in all directions, returning to the safety of their lairs.
  
  
  Nick pressed Maria's head to his shoulder, and suddenly she collapsed. She didn't faint, as she clung to his legs and trembled like a straw. The girl below her lay motionless, moaning only slightly. Poor thing, she wasn't dead yet.
  
  
  "Take them outside," Rojadas ordered as he left. Nick supported Maria and held her tightly. Dejected, they walked outside.
  
  
  "Well, my dear?" Rojadas said, lifting her chin with a thick finger. "Are you going to talk now? I wouldn't want to give you a second supper to those filthy creatures." Maria hit Rojadas square in the face, the sound echoing throughout the courtyard.
  
  
  "I'd rather have rats between my legs than you," she said furiously. Rojadas was alarmed by Maria's angry gaze.
  
  
  "Bring her and prepare her," he ordered the guards. "Put plenty of honey on it. Put some on her bitter lips, too."
  
  
  Nick felt his muscles tense as he prepared to drop Hugo into his palm. He had to act now, and he hoped that if Rojadas had a replacement, he could get her too. He couldn't watch Maria sacrifice herself. As he was about to place Hugo in his hand, he heard gunshots. The first shot hit the guard on the right. The second hit another frozen guard. Rojadas took cover behind a barrel from the bullets as the courtyard was under heavy fire. Nick grabbed Maria's hand. The shooter lay on the edge of the ledge, continuing to fire at lightning speed.
  
  
  "Let's go!" Nick shouted. "We've got cover!" Nick pulled the girl along with him and ran as fast as he could toward the opposite bushes. The shooter continued firing at the windows and doors, forcing everyone to take cover. Several of Rojadas's men returned fire, but their shots were ineffective. Nick and Maria had had enough time to reach the bushes, and now they were climbing the cliff. Thorns and thorns cut them all, and Nick saw Maria's blouse tear, revealing most of those delicious breasts. The shooting stopped, and Nick waited. The only sounds he could hear were faint noises and screams. The trees blocked his view. Maria leaned her head against his shoulder and pressed herself tightly against him.
  
  
  "Thank you, Nick, thank you," she sobbed.
  
  
  "You don't need to thank me, dear," he said. "Thank that man with his rifles." He knew the stranger must have more than one rifle. The man was firing too quickly and regularly for him to reload. Unless he was alone.
  
  
  "But you came here looking for me," she said, hugging him tightly. "You risked your life to save me. Well done, Nick. No one I know has ever done that. I'll thank you very much later, Nick. That's for sure." He considered telling her that he didn't have time for that because he had so much work to do. He decided not to. She was happy now. Then why should he spoil her fun? A little gratitude was good for a girl, especially a pretty one.
  
  
  "Come on," he said. "We have to get back to Rio. Maybe I can stop the disaster after all."
  
  
  He was just helping Mary up when he heard a voice calling.
  
  
  "Senor Nick, here I am, right!"
  
  
  "Jorge!" Nick shouted when he saw the man emerge. He was holding two guns in one hand and one in the other. "I thought... I was hoping."
  
  
  The man hugged Nick warmly. "Amigo," the Brazilian said. "I have to apologize again. I must be really stupid, right?"
  
  
  "No," Nick replied. "Not stupid, just a little stubborn. You're here now? That proves it."
  
  
  "I couldn't get what you said out of my head," Jorge said, a little sadly. "I started thinking, and a lot of things I'd previously pushed into the corners of my mind came to light. Everything became clear to me. Maybe it was your mention of a blind police chief in Los Reyes that bothered me. Either way, I couldn't avoid it anymore. I put my feelings aside and looked at things the way a police chief would. When I heard on the radio that Vivian Dennison had been killed, I knew something was wrong. I knew you wouldn't leave the country on my orders. That's not your path, Señor Nick. So I asked myself, where would you go then? The answer was easy enough. I came here, waited, and took a good look. I've seen enough."
  
  
  Suddenly Nick heard the roar of heavy engines. "School buses," he said. "I saw three buses parked behind the mission. They're on their way. They'll probably be looking for us."
  
  
  "This way," Jorge said. "There's an old cave that cuts through the mountain. I used to play there when I was a kid. They'll never find us there."
  
  
  With Jorge in front and Maria in the middle, they set off across the rocky ground. They had only gone about a hundred yards when Nick called. "Wait a minute," he said. "Listen. Where are they going?"
  
  
  "The engines are dying down," Jorge said, frowning. "They're moving on. They won't be looking for us!"
  
  
  "Of course not," Nick shouted angrily. "How stupid of me. They're going to Rio. That's all Rojadas can do now. There's no time to pursue us. He'll bring his men there, and they'll then blend into the crowd, ready to strike."
  
  
  He paused and saw the confused expressions on Jorge and Maria's faces. He'd completely forgotten they didn't know. When Nick finished speaking, they looked a little pale. He was checking every possible way to foil the plan. There was no time to contact the president or other government officials. They were undoubtedly en route or attending the festivities. Even if he could contact them, they probably wouldn't believe him anyway. "Rio Carnival is full of fun-loving people, and by the time they checked the call, assuming they did, it was too late."
  
  
  "Listen, my police car is just down the road," Jorge said. "Let's head back into town and see if we can do anything."
  
  
  Nick and Maria followed them, and within minutes, with sirens blaring, they were driving through the mountains to Los Reyes.
  
  
  "We don't even know what they'll look like at Carnival," Nick said angrily, slamming his fists on the door. He'd never felt so powerless. "You can bet they're dressing up. Like several hundred thousand other people." Nick turned to Maria. "Did you hear them talking about anything?" he asked the girl. "Did you hear them talking about Carnival, anything that could help us?"
  
  
  "Off camera, I could hear the women teasing the men," she recalled. "They kept calling them Chuck and saying, 'Muito prazer, Chuck... nice to meet you, Chuck.' They were really having fun."
  
  
  "Chuck?" Nick repeated. "What does that mean again?"
  
  
  Jorge frowned again and steered the car onto the highway. "That name means something," he said. "It has to do with history or legend. Let me think about it for a second. History... legend... wait, I get it! Chuck was a Mayan god. God of rain and thunder. His followers were known by the same name... Chuck, they were called the Reds.
  
  
  "That's it," Nick shouted. "They're going to dress up as Mayan gods so they can recognize each other and work together. They'll probably work to some kind of fixed plan."
  
  
  The police car stopped in front of the station, and Jorge looked at Nick. "I know a few men in the mountains who do what I say. They trust me. They'll believe me. I'll round them up and take them to Rio. How many men does Rojadas have with him, Señor Nick?"
  
  
  "About twenty-five."
  
  
  "I can't bring more than ten. But maybe that will be enough if we get there before Rojadas strikes."
  
  
  "How long will it be before you get your people together?"
  
  
  Jorge grinned. "That's the worst part. Most of them don't have phones. We'll have to pick them up one by one. It takes a long time."
  
  
  "And time is what we desperately need," Nick said. "Rojadas is already on his way, and now he'll position his men in the crowd, ready to strike at his signal. I'm going to buy myself some time, Jorge. I'm going alone.
  
  
  The police chief was astonished. "Only you, Senor Nick. Only against Rojadas and his men? I'm afraid even you can't do it."
  
  
  "Not if the government men are already there. But I can be in Rio by noon. I'll keep Rojadas' men busy so they can't start killing. At least, I hope it works. And if you can, you'll have just enough time to find your men. All they need to know is to grab anyone dressed as a Mayan god."
  
  
  "Good luck, amigo," said the Brazilian. "Take my car. I have a few more here.
  
  
  "Do you really think you can keep them busy long enough?" Maria asked, getting into the car next to him. "You're on your own, Nick."
  
  
  He turned on the siren and took off.
  
  
  "Darling, I'll definitely try," he said grimly. "It's not just Rojadas and his movement, or the disaster, that this will mean for Brazil. There's so much more to it. The big guys behind the scenes now want to see if a stupid little dictator like Fidel can pull this off. If he succeeds, it means a whole new wave of similar upheavals all over the world in the future. We can't let that happen. Brazil can't let that happen. I can't let that happen. If you knew my boss, you'd know what I mean."
  
  
  Nick gave her a smile full of boldness, confidence, courage, and nerves of steel. "He'll be alone," Maria told herself again, looking at the handsome, strong man sitting next to her. She'd never known anyone like him. She knew that if anyone could do it, he could. She silently prayed for his safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can I join you?" Maria asked from the door of her apartment. They completed the trip in record time. "Maybe I can help you with something."
  
  
  "No," Nick said. "I'm already concerned with my own safety."
  
  
  He wanted to run away, but she hugged him and kissed him quickly with her soft, wet, and enticing lips. She let go of him and ran into the building. "I will pray for you," she said, almost sobbing.
  
  
  Nick went to Floriano Square. Jorge said that was probably where the opening would take place. The streets were already filled with carnival parades, making it impossible to drive. The only things moving through the crowd were decorated cars, each with its own theme and usually filled with scantily clad girls. No matter how important and deadly his goal, he couldn't ignore the beauty of the girls around him. Some were white, some light brown, others almost black, but all were in high spirits and having fun. Nick tried to avoid three of them, but it was too late. They grabbed him and forced him to dance. Bikinis ' They were dressed as if their bikinis had been borrowed from five-year-old preschoolers. "Stay with us, sweet boy," one of them said, laughing and pressing her breasts against him. "You'll have fun, I promise."
  
  
  "I believe you, baby," Nick replied, laughing. "But I have a date with God."
  
  
  He slipped out of their hands, clapped her on the back, and continued. The square was a colorful event. The stage was empty, save for a few, probably junior officers. He sighed with relief. The stage itself was square and consisted of a movable steel structure. He dodged several more revelers and began searching the crowd for a Mayan god costume. It was difficult. There were a crowd of people, and the costumes were varied. He looked around again and suddenly saw a platform about twenty meters from the stage. The platform was a small Mayan temple and was made of papier-mâché. On it were about ten people dressed in short cloaks, long pants, sandals, masks, and helmets with feathers. Nick smiled grimly. He could already see Rojadas. He was the only one with an orange feather on his helmet, and he was at the front of the platform.
  
  
  Nick glanced around quickly, picking out the remaining men in the crowd. Then his attention was drawn to the small square objects the men wore on their wrists, strapped to their belts. They had radios. He cursed everything. At least Rojadas had thought this part of the plan through. He knew the radios would make his job harder. Just like the platform. Rojadas could see everything from there. He'd rush to give orders as soon as he saw Nick engage one of his men.
  
  
  Nick continued along the row of houses on the side of the square because there were fewer people there. All he could do was rush into the party crowd. He was simply observing everything when he felt a cold, hard object poke him in the ribs. He turned and saw a man standing next to him. The man was wearing a business suit, had high cheekbones, and cropped hair.
  
  
  "Start walking back," he said. "Slowly. One wrong move and it's all over.
  
  
  Nick returned to the building. He was about to say something to the man when he received a sharp blow to the ear. He saw red and yellow stars, felt himself being dragged down the corridor, and lost consciousness...
  
  
  His head throbbed, and he saw a dim light in his half-open eyes. He opened them fully and tried to stop the spinning before his eyes. He dimly made out a wall and two figures in business suits on either side of the window. Nick tried to sit up, but his hands and feet were bound. The first man approached him and dragged him to a chair by the window. It was obviously a cheap hotel room. Through the window, he could see everything that was happening in the square. The two men were silent, and Nick saw that one of them was holding a gun and pointing it out the window.
  
  
  "From here, you can see how it's happening," he told Nick with a distinct Russian accent. These weren't Rojadas's men, and Nick bit his lip. It was his own fault. He'd been paying too much attention to Rojadas and his men. Incidentally, the rebel leader himself had told him he only worked with two professionals.
  
  
  "Rojadas told you I was going to chase him?" Nick asked.
  
  
  "Rojadas?" said the man with the pistol, smirking contemptuously. "He doesn't even know we're here. We were sent here immediately to find out why our people didn't tell us anything. When we arrived yesterday and heard you were here, we immediately realized what was happening. We told our people and had to stop you as soon as possible."
  
  
  "So, you're helping Rohadas with his rebellion," Nick concluded.
  
  
  "True," the Russian admitted. "But for us, that's only a secondary objective. Of course, our people want to succeed, but they don't want to interfere directly. We didn't expect to be able to stop you. It was unexpectedly easy."
  
  
  "Unexpected," Nick thought. "Just say so. One of those unexpected turns that changes the course of history." They took up position in the square, saw him approaching, and intervened. When he looked out the window, he felt far away on one side and close to his goal on the other.
  
  
  "We could shoot you and then go home," one of the Russians said again. "But we're professionals, like you. We take as few risks as possible. There's a lot of noise down there, and a shot would probably go unnoticed. But we're not risking anything. We'll wait until Rojadas and his men start shooting. That would be the end of the famous N3's career. It's kind of a shame it had to be like this, in a small, cluttered hotel room, isn't it?"
  
  
  "I completely agree," Nick said.
  
  
  "Why don't you set me free and forget about everything?"
  
  
  A cold smile appeared on the Russian's face. He glanced at his watch. "It won't be long," he said. "Then we'll free you forever."
  
  
  The second man approached the window and began to watch the scene below. Nick saw him sitting on a chair with a gun and his feet braced against the frame. The man continued to point the gun at Nick. They remained silent, except when they commented on the bikini or the suit. Nick tried to untie the ropes on his wrists, but to no avail. His wrists ached, and he felt a rush of blood. He began desperately searching for a way out. He couldn't watch the carnage helplessly. It would hurt far more than being shot like a dog. Time was almost up. But the cornered cat was making strange leaps. Nick had a bold, desperate plan.
  
  
  He was moving his legs excessively, testing the ropes. The Russian saw it. He smiled coldly and looked out the window again. He was sure Nick was helpless, and that was exactly what Nick hoped for. Killmaster's eyes darted back and forth, assessing the distances. He only had one chance, and if he was going to succeed, everything had to go in the right order.
  
  
  The man with the gun was still swinging his legs on the windowsill, resting on the back legs of his chair. The gun in his hand was pointed precisely at the right angle. Nick carefully shifted his weight in the chair, tensing his muscles like springs about to relax. He looked everything over again, took a deep breath, and kicked out with all his might.
  
  
  His feet touched the back legs of the chair with the Russian on them. The chair slid out from under the man. The Russian reflexively pulled the trigger and shot the other man straight in the face. The one with the gun fell to the ground. Nick jumped on the man and landed with his knees on his neck. He felt all the air being forced out of his body and heard a crack. He fell heavily to the ground, and the Russian desperately clutched his throat. A hideous grimace crossed his face. He struggled to breathe, his hands moving convulsively. His face turned bright red. His body shook violently, tensed spasmodically, and suddenly froze. Nick quickly glanced at the other man, who was hanging halfway out the window.
  
  
  It worked, but he lost a lot of precious time, and he was still tied up. Inch by inch, he moved toward the old-fashioned metal bedstead. Some parts were uneven and slightly sharp. He rubbed the ropes around his wrists against them. Finally, he felt the tension in the ropes slacken, and with a twist of his hands, he was able to free them. He freed his ankles, grabbed the Russian's pistol, and ran outside.
  
  
  He counted on Hugo and his strong arms to deal with Rojadas's men. There were too many people, too many children, and too many innocents to risk a shootout. Still, perhaps it was necessary. He pocketed his pistol and ran into the crowd. He avoided a group of partygoers and threaded his way through the crowd. Rojadas's men were easy to spot by their suits. They were still standing in the same places. As Nick elbowed hard, he noticed a movement in the crowd. They had formed a group of revelers who would dance all day, bringing people in and out. The bloc leader stood next to two masked assassins. Nick joined the group at the end, and they began dancing a polonaise among the people. Nick was dragged unceremoniously along. As they passed two Mayan gods, Nick quickly jumped out of line and struck with his stiletto at the silent, invisible messenger of death. It wasn't exactly Nick's style-killing people without warning and without remorse. Still, he didn't spare these two. They were vipers, ready to attack innocents, vipers dressed like revelers.
  
  
  When one man suddenly saw his comrade fall, he turned and saw Nick. He tried to draw his pistol, but the stiletto struck again. Nick caught the man and laid him on the floor as if he were dead drunk.
  
  
  But Rojadas saw this and knew very well what was happening. Nick looked at the platform and saw the rebel leader talking on the radio. The slight advantage he had had, the element of surprise, was gone, he realized, when he saw the three Mayan gods approaching. He ducked behind three girls with large papier-mâché fruit baskets on their heads and headed toward the row of buildings. An idea struck him. A man in a pirate costume stood in front of the door. Nick carefully approached the man and suddenly grabbed him. He deliberately pressed certain nerve points, and the man lost consciousness. Nick donned the costume and applied an eye patch.
  
  
  "Sorry, buddy," he said to the prone partygoer.
  
  
  Continuing on, he saw two assassins a few yards away, looking at the crowd in surprise. He walked up to them, stood between them, and took Hugo in his left hand. Both his hands touched the men. He felt them choke and saw them collapse.
  
  
  "Kill two birds with one stone," said Nick. He saw the surprise of the passersby and smiled amiably.
  
  
  "Calm down, amigo," he called cheerfully. "I told you not to drink too much." Passersby turned, and Nick pulled the man to his feet. The man stumbled, and Nick threw him into the building. He turned just in time to see the third Mayan god rushing toward him with a large hunting knife.
  
  
  Nick leaped back into the house. The knife tore through the pirate's suit. The man's speed sent him slamming into Nick, sending them both crashing to the ground. Nick's head hit the hard edge of his helmet. The pain enraged him. He grabbed his attacker's head and slammed it hard into the ground. The man was in his final convulsions. Nick grabbed the radio and ran outside, holding it to his ear. He heard Rojadas's angry yell through the radio.
  
  
  "There he is," the chieftain shouted. "They let him go, the idiots. There's that pirate in the red cloth and the eye patch... next to the big building. Get him! Quickly!"
  
  
  Nick dropped his radio and ran down a narrow path at the edge of the crowd. He saw two more feathered killers break away from the crowd to follow him. At that moment, a partygoer dressed in a red shirt, cape, and devil mask passed Nick and ran down a narrow alley. Nick followed the devil, and when they reached the middle of the alley, he grabbed him. He did it as gently as possible. Nick propped the man against the wall and donned the devil costume.
  
  
  "I started out as a pirate, and now I'm promoted to devil," he muttered. "That's life, man."
  
  
  He was just leaving the alley when the attackers dispersed and began looking for him at the edge of the crowd.
  
  
  "Surprise!" he shouted at the first man, punching him hard in the stomach. When the man doubled over, Nick gave him another quick pat on the neck and let him fall forward. He ran after the others.
  
  
  "Heads or tails!" Nick grinned gleefully, grabbing the second man by the arm and slamming it against the lamppost. He took the gun from him and returned to the other man to do the same. These two might still have trouble with their guns. He paused to look over the crowd at the platform. Rojadas had seen everything and was pointing angrily at Nick. Nick was doing well so far, but he began searching the street for Jorge and his men. There was nothing in sight, and when he looked back at the platform, he saw that Rojadas, obviously very worried, had sent all his men after him. They formed two rows and pushed through the crowd, approaching him like pincers. Suddenly, Nick saw the mass split in two. He stood in front of the group and saw another platform pass by.
  
  
  The chariot was covered in flowers, and a wreath hung over a flower throne. A girl with curly blond hair sat on the throne, surrounded by other girls with high bobs and long dresses. As the crowd rushed toward the platform, Nick looked again. All the girls were heavily made up, and their movements were overly exaggerated as they threw flowers into the crowd. "Damn it," Nick growled. "I might be an idiot if they're not transvestites."
  
  
  Some ran behind the platform, catching the flowers the "girls" had thrown away as gracefully as possible. The first row of feathered costumes reached the opposite side of the crowd. The Devil made sure to keep the platform between him and his opponents. He knew he was hiding from them and quickened his pace as the cart reached the edge of the crowd. The clumsy cart got stuck at the end of the street on a slight bend. Nick and a few others were still running alongside. As the car turned, he asked the "blonde" for a rose. The figure leaned forward to hand him the flower. Nick grabbed his wrist and pulled. A man in a red dress, long black gloves, and a blond wig fell into his arms. He threw the boy over his shoulder and ran down the alley. The crowd began to laugh wildly.
  
  
  Nick chuckled because he knew why they were laughing. They were thinking about the disappointment that awaited him. He laid the man down on the street and took off the devil costume. "Put this costume on, dear," he said.
  
  
  He decided to just leave the bra. It might not have been particularly attractive, but a girl just had to make do with what she had. When he returned, he saw two rows of suited assassins lined up in a semicircle. The sound of approaching sirens startled him.
  
  
  It was Jorge's men! He glanced quickly at Rojadas's platform. He was giving orders over the radio, and Nick saw Rojadas's men mingle with the crowd again. Suddenly, he saw a blue shirt and cap emerge from an alley. Several men in work clothes, armed with picks and shovels, ran after him. Jorge spotted Rojadas's men and gave his orders. Nick took a few steps forward until the feathered assassin ran into him.
  
  
  "Desculpe, senhorita," the man said. "I'm sorry."
  
  
  "Huplak!" Nick shouted, turning the man to the left. The man's head hit the cobblestones. Nick took the pistol from him, emptied the magazine, and threw the weapon away. The other god just managed to see someone in a red dress bending over his friend.
  
  
  "Hey," Nick shouted in a shrill voice. "I think your friend is sick."
  
  
  The man ran quickly. Nick waited for him to get closer, then kicked the guy with his stiletto heel. The assassin automatically leaned forward and cried out in pain. Nick quickly uppercut him with his knee, and the man fell forward. He looked around and saw Jorge's men dealing with the other assassins. However, it wouldn't work. They would fail either way. Rojadas was still on the platform, continuing to bark orders over the radio. Jorge and his men had already captured quite a few assassins, but Nick saw that it wasn't enough. Rojadas had about six more men in the crowd. Nick quickly removed his dress, wig, and high heels. He knew Rojadas was continuing to urge his men to stick to their plan. He continued to insist that it could still work.
  
  
  The worst part was that he was right.
  
  
  Tall men climbed onto the podium. Rojadas's floating vessel was too far away to reach it in time. Nick had pierced his way. He could no longer contact Rojadas, but maybe he still could. At first, he tried to push through, but when that failed, he began to crawl. He had been looking at the stage before. It was completely indistinguishable.
  
  
  Finally, long steel supports appeared before him, secured with long iron bolts. He examined the structure and found three spots where he could gain a foothold. He leaned over and braced himself against one of the rungs. His feet sank into the gravel. He shifted his weight and tried again. The rung dug into his shoulder, and he heard his shirt rip as he strained his back muscles. The bolt gave slightly, but it was enough. He pulled the support out, fell to his knees, and began to breathe nervously.
  
  
  He listened, expecting to hear the opening salvos. He knew it was seconds. The second pole was much easier. He looked up and saw the place was sinking. The third pole was the hardest. He had to pull it out first and then dive out from under the podium, otherwise he would be crushed. The third pole was closest to the edge of the stage and the lowest to the ground. He placed his back under the bar and lifted it. It dug into his skin, and his back muscles ached. He pulled the handle with all his might, but it was no use. He arched his back again and yanked the handle. This time it worked, and he dived out from under it.
  
  
  The stage collapsed and loud screams rang out. Tomorrow there would be many officials with bruises and scratches. But at least Brazil still had a government, and the United Nations would retain one member. Immediately after the stage collapsed, he heard gunshots and laughed darkly. It was too late. He stood up, stepped on the rafters, and looked around. The crowd had eliminated the remaining assassins. Jorge and his men had cordoned off the square. But the platform was empty, and Rojadas had escaped. Nick could just see a flash of orange light moving toward the far corner of the square.
  
  
  That bastard was still at large. Nick jumped up from his seat and ran through the chaos on stage. As he made his way through the alleys adjacent to the square, he could hear the wail of sirens. He knew all the big squares and avenues were filled with people, and Rojadas knew it too. He would definitely go into the back streets. Nick cursed himself for not knowing Rio well enough to cut off that bastard. He saw an orange hat fly around the corner just in time. The intersection must have led to the next avenue, and Nick, like Rojadas, entered the first alley. The man turned around, and Nick saw him draw his gun. He fired once, and Nick was forced to stop and take cover. He briefly considered drawing his gun, but then changed his mind. It would be better if he caught Rojadas alive.
  
  
  Nick felt his back muscles ache. Any normal person would have stopped, but Nick gritted his teeth and picked up speed. He watched as the rebel leader threw away his helmet. Nick chuckled to himself. He knew Rojadas was now sweating and out of breath. Nick reached the top of the hill and saw Rojadas crossing a small square.
  
  
  An open trolleybus had just pulled up. People were hanging everywhere. Except that they were now wearing suits, it was a common sight. Rojadas jumped on, and Nick chased after him. Others who were about to board stopped when they saw a man in a suit threatening the driver with a gun. Rojadas had a free ride and a trolley full of hostages in one fell swoop.
  
  
  It wasn't just luck. This man came here on purpose. He prepared everything well.
  
  
  "Bonds, sir," Nick called to one of the men. "Where is this bus going?"
  
  
  "Go down the hill and then north," the boy replied.
  
  
  "Where will he stop?" Nick asked again. "The final stop?"
  
  
  "In the Maua Pier area."
  
  
  Nick pursed his lips. The Mauá Pier area! The middleman, Alberto Sollimage, was there. That's why Rojadas went there. Nick turned back to the man next to him.
  
  
  "I have to go to the Mau'a pier area," he said. "How do I get there, maybe by taxi? This is very important."
  
  
  "Except for a few taxis, nothing else works," said one boy. "That man was a bandit, wasn't he?"
  
  
  "Very bad," Nick said. "He just tried to kill your president."
  
  
  The group of people looked surprised.
  
  
  "If I get to the Mau'a Pier area in time, I can capture it," Nick continued. "What's the fastest way? Perhaps you know a shortcut."
  
  
  One of the boys pointed to a parked truck: "Do you know how to drive, sir?"
  
  
  "I can drive," Nick said. "Do you have the ignition keys?"
  
  
  "We'll push," the boy said. "The door's open. You're going. It's mostly a descent anyway, at least the first part of the way there."
  
  
  The partygoers enthusiastically prepared to push the truck. Nick grinned and climbed behind the wheel. It might not have been the best mode of transportation, but it was the best. And it was faster than running. He hadn't thought about that yet. He wanted to grab Rožadas and not look at his exhausted face. His assistants jumped into the back, and he saw the boys standing by the side windows.
  
  
  "Follow the tracks of the trolleybus, sir," one of them shouted.
  
  
  They didn't break the world record, but they pulled ahead. Whenever the road climbed again or became level, his new helpers pushed the truck further. Almost all of them were boys, and they really enjoyed it. Nick was almost certain that Rojadas had already reached the warehouse and would believe he'd left Nick in the square. Finally, they reached the edge of the Pier Mau'a neighborhood, and Nick stopped the car.
  
  
  "Muito abrigado, amigos," Nick shouted.
  
  
  "We're coming with you, sir," the boy shouted back.
  
  
  "No," Nick quickly replied. "Thank you, but this man is armed and very dangerous. I'd rather go alone."
  
  
  He meant what he'd told them. Incidentally, such a herd of boys would be too conspicuous. Nick wanted Rojadas to continue to think he wasn't in a difficult situation.
  
  
  He waved goodbye and ran down the street. After passing a winding alley and a narrow lane, he finally reached the black-painted windows of a store. The front door was open, the lock broken. Nick crept inside cautiously. Memories of his previous visit were still fresh in his mind. It was deathly quiet inside. A light was on in the back of the box. He pulled out his gun and entered the store. An open box lay on the floor. From the pieces of wood lying on the floor, he could tell it had been hastily broken into. He knelt down next to it. It was a fairly flat box with a small red dot on it. The inside was filled with straw, and Nick carefully reached inside with his hands. All he found was a small piece of paper.
  
  
  These were the factory instructions: inflate carefully, slowly.
  
  
  Nick was deep in thought. "Inflate slowly," he repeated several times, standing up. He looked at the empty box again. It was... a dinghy! The Mauá Pier area borders Guanabara Bay. Rojadas wanted to escape by boat. Of course, there was an agreed-upon location, probably one of the small offshore islands. Nick ran as fast as he could toward the bay. Rojadas would have wasted a lot of time inflating the boat. Nick stuck his feet out from under his hole and soon saw the blue waters of the bay before him. Rojadas couldn't set sail yet. A long line of piers stretched along the beach. Everything was completely deserted, because everyone had gone to a party downtown. Then he saw a figure kneeling at the edge of the pier. The boat lay on the wooden planks of the dock.
  
  
  After Rojadas checked his boat, he pushed it into the water. Nick raised his pistol again and took careful aim. He still wanted to take him alive. He shot a hole in the boat. He saw Rojadas stare at the hole in surprise. The man slowly stood up and saw Nick approaching him with the gun pointed at him. He obediently raised his hands.
  
  
  "Take the gun out of the holster and throw it away. But slowly," Nick ordered.
  
  
  Rojadas obeyed, and Nick threw the gun away. He fell into the water.
  
  
  "You never give up either, do you, sir?" Rojadas sighed. "Looks like you've won."
  
  
  "Really," Nick said laconically. "Take the boat. They'll want to know where it came from. They'll want to know every detail of your plan."
  
  
  Rojadas sighed and grabbed the boat from the side. Without air, it was nothing more than an elongated, shapeless lump of rubber. He dragged it along as he began to walk. The man seemed completely defeated, apparently drained of all his manhood. So Nick relaxed a little, and then it happened!
  
  
  As Rojadas passed him, he suddenly threw a piece of rubber into the air and hit Nick in the face with it. Then, with lightning speed, Rojadas leaped at Nick's feet. Nick fell and dropped his gun. Turning, he tried to avoid the stairwell, but was hit in the temple. He desperately tried to grab onto something, but to no avail. He fell into the water.
  
  
  As soon as he surfaced, he saw Rojadas grab a pistol and take aim. He ducked quickly, and the bullet missed his head. He swam quickly under the pier and surfaced between the slippery pillars. He heard Rojadas slowly pacing back and forth. Suddenly, he stopped. Nick tried to make as little noise as possible. The man was standing on the starboard side of the pier. Nick turned and looked. He expected to see the man's thick head hanging over the edge. Nick immediately disappeared when Rojadas fired again. Two shots from Rojadas and one from Nick himself: three in total. Nick calculated that there were only three bullets left in the pistol. He swam out from under the pier and surfaced with a loud noise. Rojadas quickly turned and fired. Two more, Nick told himself. He dove again, swam under the pier, and surfaced on the other side. Silently, he pulled himself to the edge of the pier and saw Rohadas standing with his back to him.
  
  
  "Rojadas," he shouted. "Look around!"
  
  
  The man turned and fired again. Nick quickly fell into the water. He counted two shots. This time he surfaced in front of the pier, where there was a ladder. He climbed onto it, looking like a sea monster. Rojadas saw him, pulled the trigger, but heard nothing but the click of the firing pin hitting the empty magazine.
  
  
  "You should learn to count," Nick said. He walked forward. The man wanted to attack him, holding his hands out in front of him like two battering rams.
  
  ear. Nick stopped him with a left hook. Again it caught him in the eye, and blood spurted. Suddenly he thought of the poor girl's blood on the mission. Nick was hitting him constantly now. Rojadas swayed from side to side from the blows. He fell onto the wooden pier. Nick picked him up and nearly knocked his head off his shoulders. The man stood up again, and his eyes were wild and frightened. When Nick approached him again, he backed away. Rojadas turned and ran to the edge of the pier. Without waiting, he dived under.
  
  
  "Stop!" Nick shouted. "It's too shallow." A moment later, Nick heard a loud crash. He ran to the edge of the pier and saw jagged rocks jutting out of the water. Rojadas hung there like a large butterfly, and the water turned red. Nick watched as the body was pulled from the rocks by the waves and sank. He took a deep breath and walked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick pressed the doorbell and waited. He'd spent the entire morning with Jorge, and now he felt a little sad because he had to leave.
  
  
  "Thank you, amigo," the police chief said. "But mostly because of me. You've opened my eyes to so many things. I hope you'll come see me again."
  
  
  "If you're Rio's commissioner," Nick replied with a laugh.
  
  
  "I hope you do, Senor Nick," Jorge said, hugging him.
  
  
  'See you later,' said Nick.
  
  
  After saying goodbye to Jorge, he sent a telegram to Bill Dennison informing him that a plantation was waiting for him.
  
  
  Maria opened the door for him, hugged him and pressed her soft lips to his.
  
  
  "Nick, Nick," she murmured. "It's been such a long wait. I wish I could come with you."
  
  
  She was wearing a red judo suit. When Nick put his hand on her back, he noticed that she was not wearing a bra.
  
  
  "I made us a delicious meal," she said. "Pato with abacaxi and arroz."
  
  
  "Duck with pineapple and rice," Nick repeated. "Sounds good."
  
  
  "Do you want to eat first... or later, Nick?" she asked, her eyes shining.
  
  
  "After what?" he asked casually. A sultry smile appeared on her lips. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him, playing with her tongue in his mouth. With one hand, she unbuckled her belt, and the suit slid off her shoulders. Nick felt those beautiful, soft, full breasts.
  
  
  Mary groaned softly. "Oh, Nick, Nick," she said. "We're having a late lunch today, okay?"
  
  
  "The later the better," he said.
  
  
  Maria made love like a bolero. She started agonizingly slowly. Her skin was creamy, and her hands caressed his body.
  
  
  When he took her, she simply turned into a wild animal. Half-sobbing, half-laughing, she cried out with desire and arousal. Rapidly rising to her zenith, her short, breathless cries turned into one long moan, almost a groan. Then she suddenly froze. Coming to her senses, she pressed herself into his arms.
  
  
  "How can a woman after you be satisfied with another man?" Maria asked, looking at him seriously.
  
  
  "I can do that," he told her with a smile. "You like someone just the way they are."
  
  
  "Will you ever come back?" she asked doubtfully.
  
  
  "I'll come back someday," Nick said. "If there's one reason to come back to anything, it's you." They stayed in bed until sunset. They did it twice more before dinner, like two people who had to live with memories. The sun was about to rise when he sadly and reluctantly left. He'd known many girls, but none of them radiated such warmth and sincerity as Maria. A small voice inside him told him it was good he had to go. You could love this girl and love in a way that no one in this business could afford. Affection, passion, grace, honor... but not love.
  
  
  He headed straight to the airport to the waiting plane. He gazed at the blurry outline of Sugar Loaf Mountain for a while, then fell asleep. "Sleep is a wonderful thing," he sighed.
  
  
  
  
  The door to Hawk's office at AXE headquarters was open, and Nick walked in. His blue eyes behind his glasses looked at him cheerfully and welcomingly.
  
  
  "It's good to see you again, N3," Hawk said with a smile. "You look well rested."
  
  
  "Fair?" Nick said.
  
  
  "Well, why not, my boy. You've just returned from vacation in this beautiful Rio de Janeiro. How was the carnival?
  
  
  "Simply killer."
  
  
  For a moment he thought he saw a strange look in Hawk's eyes, but he wasn't sure.
  
  
  "So did you have a good time?"
  
  
  "I wouldn't miss this for the world."
  
  
  "Do you remember those difficulties I told you about?" Hawk asked casually. "It seems they solved them themselves."
  
  
  'I'm glad to hear it.'
  
  
  "Well then I guess you know what I'm looking forward to," Hawk said cheerfully.
  
  
  'What then?'
  
  
  "Of course, I will find a good job for myself."
  
  
  "You know what I'm looking forward to?" Nick asked.
  
  
  'What will it be then?'
  
  
  "Next holiday."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the book:
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to ignore a plea for help from the son of his old friend, Todd Dennison, Carter abandons a planned vacation in Canada and, guided by instinct and Wilhelmina, flies to Rio de Janeiro.
  
  
  Upon arriving, he learns that Dennison was killed less than four hours earlier, is nearly run off the road, and encounters a girl with smoky gray eyes. Then, "Killmaster" begins hunting the killers with deadly precision.
  
  A melee that turns Rio's annual carnival into a terrifying spectacle; bullets replace confetti, and gunshots replace rousing music; for Nick, it becomes a carnival of murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Rhodesia
  
  
  translated by Lev Shklovsky
  
  
  Dedicated to the people of the secret services of the United States of America
  
  Chapter One
  
  From the mezzanine of New York's East Side Airport, Nick looked down, following Hawk's vague directions. "To the left of the second column. The one with the stagecoach. A dashing guy in gray tweed with four girls."
  "I see them."
  "This is Gus Boyd. Watch them for a while. We might see something interesting." They settled back into the green two-seater saloon, facing the railing.
  A very attractive blonde in a beautifully tailored yellow knit suit spoke to Boyd. Nick scanned the photographs and names he'd studied. She was Bootie DeLong, living outside of Texas for three months and, according to the smug CIF (Consolidated Intelligence File), inclined to support radical ideas. Nick didn't trust such information. The spy network was so extensive and uncritical that the files of half the country's college students contained disinformation-raw, misleading, and useless. Bootie's father was H.F. DeLong, who had risen from a dump truck driver to millions in construction, oil, and finance. Someday, people like H.F. would hear about these affairs, and the explosion would be unforgettable.
  
  The hawk said, "Your gaze is caught, Nicholas. Which one?"
  
  "They all look like fine young Americans."
  "I'm sure the eight other people who will join you in Frankfurt are just as charming. You're a lucky man. Thirty days to get to know each other-to get to know each other well."
  "I had other plans," Nick replied. "Can't pretend this is a vacation." A note of grumbling escaped his voice. It always did when he was in action. His senses sharpened, his reflexes alert, like a fencer en garde, he felt obligated and betrayed.
  Yesterday, David Hawk played his cards smartly-asking rather than commanding. "If you complain of being overtired or feeling unwell, N3, I'll accept it. You're not the only man I have. You're the best."
  The adamant protests Nick had formed in his head on the way to Bard Art Galleries-an AXE front operation-melted away. He listened, and Hawk continued, the wise, kindly eyes under his gray brows grimly firm. "This is Rhodesia. One of the few places you've never been. You know about sanctions. They don't work. The Rhodesians ship copper, chromite, asbestos, and other materials by shipload from Beira, Portugal, with strange invoices. Four shipments of copper arrived in Japan last month. We protested. The Japanese said, 'The bills of lading say this is South Africa. This is South Africa.' Some of that copper is now in mainland China.
  "The Rhodesians are smart. They're valiant. I've been there. They're outnumbered twenty to one by the blacks, but they claim to have done more for the natives than they could ever have done for themselves. That led to the break with Britain and the sanctions. I'll leave the moral rightness or wrongness to the economists and sociologists. But now we move on to gold-and a greater China."
  He had Nick, and he knew it. He continued, "The country has been mining gold almost since Cecil Rhodes discovered it. Now we hear of vast new deposits stretching beneath some of their famous gold reefs. Mines, perhaps from ancient Zimbabwean exploitation or new discoveries, I don't know. You'll find out."
  Captivated and fascinated, Nick remarked, "King Solomon's Mines? I remember-that was Rider Haggard? Lost cities and mines..."
  "The Queen of Sheba's treasury? Possibly." Then Hawke revealed the true depth of his knowledge. "What does the Bible say? 1 Kings 9:26, 28. 'And King Solomon built a fleet of ships... and they came to Ophir and took gold from there and brought it to King Solomon.'" The African words Sabi and Aufur could refer to ancient Sheba and Ophir. We'll leave that to the archaeologists. We know gold has recently emerged from this region, and suddenly we hear there's much more. What does that mean in the current global situation? Especially if great China can amass a decent pile."
  Nick frowned. "But the free world will buy it as quickly as it's mined. We have the exchange. The manufacturing economy has leverage."
  "Usually, yes." Hawk handed Nick a thick file, and realized what had caught his attention. "But we shouldn't discount, first and foremost, the manufacturing wealth of eight hundred million Chinese. Or the possibility that, after stockpiling, the price will rise from thirty-five dollars an ounce. Or the way Chinese influence surrounds Rhodesia, like the tendrils of a giant banyan tree. Or-Judas."
  "Judas! - Is he there?"
  "Perhaps. There's been talk of a strange organization of assassins led by a man with claws instead of hands. Read the file when you have time, Nicholas. And you won't have much. As I said, the Rhodesians are shrewd. They flushed out most of the British agents. They'd read James Bond and all that. Four of ours were flushed out without further ado, and two were not.
  
  
  
  Our large company is clearly being watched there. So, if Judas is behind the problem, we're in trouble. Especially since his ally seems to be Xi Jiang Kalgan."
  "Si Kalgan!" Nick exclaimed. "I thought he was dead when I was involved in those Indonesian kidnappings." 1
  "We think Xi is with Judas, and probably Heinrich Müller too, if he's alive after that Java Sea shooting. China has allegedly backed Judas again, and he's spinning his web in Rhodesia. His cover companies and front men are, as usual, well-organized. He must be providing Odessa with finance. Someone-many of the old Nazis we're watching-have risen financially again. Incidentally, several good coppersmiths from their club have dropped off the radar in Chile. They may have joined Judas. Their stories and photos are on file, but finding them isn't your job. Just look and listen. Get evidence, if you can, that Judas is tightening his grip on Rhodesia's export flow, but if you can't get the evidence, your word is enough. Of course, Nick, if you get the chance-the order is still the same regarding Judas. Use your own judgment..."
  
  Hawk's voice trailed off. Nick knew he was thinking of the scarred and battered Judas, who had lived ten lives in one and escaped death. It was rumored that his name had once been Martin Bormann, and that was possible. If so, then the Holocaust he had fought in 1944-1945 had turned his hard iron into steel, honed his cunning, and made him forget pain and death in vast quantities. Nick wouldn't deny him courage. Experience had taught him that the bravest are usually the kindest. The cruel and ruthless are scum. Judas's brilliant military leadership, lightning-fast tactical acumen, and swift combat prowess were beyond doubt.
  Nick said, "I'll read the file. What's my cover?"
  Hawk's firm, thin mouth softened momentarily. The lines at the corners of his sharp eyes relaxed, becoming less like deep slits. "Thank you, Nicholas. I won't forget this. We'll arrange a vacation for you when you return. You'll travel as Andrew Grant, a tour escort assistant with the Edman Educational Tour. You'll help escort twelve young ladies across the country. Isn't that the most interesting cover you've ever seen? The escort's lead escort is an experienced man named Gus Boyd. He and the girls think you're an Edman official, checking out the new tour. Manning Edman told them about you."
  "What does he know?"
  "He thinks you're from the CIA, but you haven't actually told him anything. He's already helped them."
  "Can Boyd gain popularity?"
  "It won't make much of a difference. Strange people often travel as escorts. Organized tours are part of the tourism industry. Free travel at low cost."
  "I need to know about the country..."
  "Whitney will be waiting for you at American Express this evening at seven. He will show you a couple of hours of color film and give you some information."
  The films about Rhodesia were impressive. So beautiful that Nick didn't bother to watch them. No other country could combine the vibrant flora of Florida with the features of California and the Grand Canyon of Colorado scattered across the Painted Desert landscape, all retouched. Whitney gave him a stack of color photographs and detailed verbal advice.
  Now, hunched over and his eyes lowered below the railing, he studied the blonde in the yellow suit. Maybe this would work out. She was alert, the most beautiful girl in the room. Boyd tried to draw their attention to them all. What the hell could they possibly be talking about in this place? It was less interesting than at the train station. The brunette in the sailor's beret was striking. That would be Teddy Northway from Philadelphia. The other black-haired girl would be Ruth Crossman, very pretty in her own way; but maybe it was the black-rimmed glasses. The second blonde was something special: tall, with long hair, not as attractive as Booty, and yet... She would be Janet Olson.
  Hawk's hand fell lightly on his shoulder, stopping his pleasant appraisal. "There. Entering from the far gate, a medium-sized, neatly dressed black man."
  "I see him."
  "This is John J. Johnson. He can play folk blues on a horn so soft it will make you cry. He's an artist with the same talent as Armstrong. But he's more interested in politics. He's not Brother X, more of a non-aligned Malcolm X fan and socialist. Not a Black Power supporter. He's friends with all of them, which may make him more dangerous than those who squabble among themselves."
  "How dangerous is it?" Nick asked, watching the skinny black man make his way through the crowd.
  "He's smart," Hawk muttered flatly. "Our society, from top to bottom, fears him the most. A man with brains who sees through everything."
  
  Nick nodded dispassionately.
  
  
  
  It was a typical Hawk statement. You wondered about the man and the philosophy behind it, and then realized he hadn't actually revealed anything. It was his way of painting an accurate picture of a person in relation to the world at a given moment. He watched as Johnson stopped when he saw Boyd and the four girls. He knew exactly where to find them. He used the pole as a barrier between himself and Boyd.
  Bootie DeLonge saw him and stepped away from the group, pretending to read the arrivals and departures panel. She passed Johnson and turned. For a moment, her white and black skin contrasted like the focal point in a Bruegel painting. Johnson handed her something and immediately turned away, heading for the 38th Street entrance. Bootie stuffed something into the large leather bag slung over her shoulder and returned to the small group.
  "What was that?" Nick asked.
  "I don't know," Hawk replied. "We have a guy in the civil rights group they both belong to. It's at the college. You saw his name on the file. She knew Johnson was coming here, but she didn't know why." He paused, then added wryly, "Johnson's really smart. He doesn't trust our guy."
  "Propaganda for brothers and sisters in Rhodesia?"
  "Perhaps. I think you should try to find out, Nicholas."
  Nick glanced at his watch. It was two minutes before he was supposed to join the group. "Is anything else going to happen?"
  "That's all, Nick. Sorry, nothing more. If we get anything vital you need to know, I'll send a courier. Code word 'biltong' repeated three times."
  They stood up, immediately turning their backs to the room. Hawk's hand grabbed Nick's, squeezing his firm arm just below the bicep. Then the older man disappeared around the corner into the office corridor. Nick descended the escalator.
  Nick introduced himself to Boyd and the girls. He offered a light handshake and a shy smile. Up close, Gus Boyd looked very fit. His tan wasn't as deep as Nick's, but he wasn't overly fat, and he was striking. "Welcome aboard," he said as Nick released the slender Janet Olson from his wiry arms. "Luggage?"
  "Tested at Kennedy."
  "Okay. Girls, please excuse us for going around twice, just go through the Lufthansa counter twice. The limousines are waiting outside."
  As the clerk sorted through their tickets, Boyd said, "Have you worked with tours before?"
  "With American Express. Once upon a time. Many years ago."
  "Nothing has changed. There shouldn't be any problems with these dolls. We have eight more in Frankfurt. They also worked in Europe. Do they tell you about them?"
  "Yes."
  "Have you known Manny for a long time?"
  "No. Just joined the team."
  "Okay, just follow my directions."
  The cashier handed back the stack of tickets. "It's okay. You didn't need to check in here..."
  "I know," Boyd said. "Just be careful."
  Bootie Delong and Teddy Northway took a few steps away from the other two girls, waiting for them. Teddy muttered, "Wow. What the hell, Grant! Did you see those shoulders? Where did they dig up that handsome swinger?"
  Booty watched the broad backs of "Andrew Grant" and Boyd head toward the counter. "Maybe they were digging deep." Her green eyes were slightly lidded, thoughtful and reflective. The soft curve of her red lips became very firm for a moment, almost hard. "These two strike me as worthwhile guys. I hope not. This Andy Grant is too good to be a simple employee. Boyd looks more like a CIA agent. A lightweight who likes the easy life. But Grant is a government agent, if I know anything."
  Teddy giggled. "They all look alike, don't they? Like FBI people lined up at the Peace Parade-remember? But-I don't know, Bootie. Grant looks different somehow."
  "Okay, we'll find out," Buti promised.
  * * *
  First class on the Lufthansa 707 was only half full. The busy season was over. Nick reminded himself that while winter was approaching in the United States and Europe, it was ending in Rhodesia. He was chatting with Buti when the group dispersed, and it was natural to follow her and take the aisle seat next to her. She seemed to welcome his company. Boyd graciously checked everyone's comfort, like a flight attendant, and then joined Janet Olson. Teddy Northway and Ruth Crossman sat together.
  First class. Four hundred and seventy-eight dollars for this leg of the trip alone. Their fathers must be rich. Out of the corner of his eye, he admired the rounded curve of Bootie's cheeks and the pert, straight nose. There was no baby fat on her jaw. It was so nice to be so beautiful.
  Over a beer she asked, "Andy, have you been to Rhodesia before?"
  "No, Gus is the expert." "What a strange girl," he thought. She'd pointed directly to the question of ruse. Why send an assistant who didn't know the country? He continued, "I'm supposed to carry bags and support Gus. And learn. We're planning more excursions in the area, and I'll probably lead some of them. In a way, it's a bonus for your group. If you remember, the tour only required one guide."
  Bootie's hand, holding the glass, stopped on his leg as she leaned towards him. "No problem, two handsome men are better than one.
  
  How long have you been with Edman?
  To hell with that girl! "No. I came from American Express." He had to stick to the truth. He wondered if Janet was pumping Boyd so the girls could compare notes later.
  "I love to travel. Although I have a funny feeling of guilt..."
  "Why?"
  "Look at us. Here, in the lap of luxury. There must be fifty people right now, watching over our comfort and safety. Down below..." She sighed, took a sip, her hand resting on his leg again. "You know-bombs, murders, hunger, poverty. Haven't you ever felt that way? You escorts live the good life. Great food. Beautiful women.
  He grinned into her green eyes. She smelled good, looked good, felt good. You could go far off the beaten path with such a sweet little thing and enjoy the ride until the bills came-"Swing now"-"Pay later"-"Cry at your leisure." She was as naive as a Chicago district attorney at a casual party with her alderman brother.
  "It's a difficult job," he said politely. It would be funny to take the needle out of her cute hand and stick it into her lovely bottom.
  "For difficult men? I bet you and Boyd are breaking hearts month after month, I see you in the moonlight on the Riviera with older, lonely ladies. Widows from L.A. with a million blue chips have committed suicide to get you. Those in the front row at Birch meetings waving brochures."
  "They were all engrossed in the gaming tables."
  "Not with you and Gus. I'm a woman. I know.
  "I'm not sure what you remind me of, Bootie. But there are a few things you don't know about an escort. He's an underpaid, overworked, feverish drifter. He's prone to frequent dysentery from strange foods, because you can't avoid all infections. He's afraid to drink water, eat fresh vegetables, or eat ice cream, even in the U.S. Avoiding them has become a conditioned reflex. His luggage is usually filled with dirty shirts and impressive suits. His watch is in a repair shop in San Francisco, his new suit is from a tailor in Hong Kong, and he's trying to subsist on two pairs of shoes with holes in the soles until he gets to Rome, where he has two new pairs that were made six months ago."
  They were silent for a while. Then Buti said doubtfully, "You're deceiving me."
  "Listen: His skin has been itching ever since he discovered something mysterious in Calcutta. Doctors have given him seven different antihistamines and recommended a year-long round of allergy tests, which is to say they're baffled. He buys a few stocks, living like a pauper when he's in the States because he can't resist the surefire advice wealthy travelers give him. But he's out of the country so often that he can't keep up with the market and all his purchases. He's lost touch with all the friends he likes. He'd like to get a dog, but you can see how impossible that is. As for hobbies and interests, he can forget about them unless he's collecting matchboxes from hotels he hopes he'll never see again or restaurants that made him sick."
  "Urgh." Bootie growled, and Nick stopped. "I know you're teasing me, but a lot of this sounds like it could be true. If you and Gus show any signs of that kind of life during this month's trip, I'm founding a society to prevent this cruelty."
  "Just look..."
  Lufthansa served the usual magnificent dinner. Over brandy and coffee, her green eyes settled on Nick again. He felt the hair on his neck smell pleasant. "It's perfume," he told himself, "but he's always been susceptible to wary blondes." She said, "You made a mistake."
  "How?"
  "You told me everything about the life of an escort from the third person. You never said 'I' or 'we'. You guessed a lot and made some up."
  Nick sighed, keeping his face expressionless like a Chicago district attorney. "You'll see for yourself."
  The stewardess cleared away the cups, and curls of golden hair tickled his cheek. Bootie said, "If that's true, poor thing, I'll be so sorry for you. I just have to cheer you up and try to make you happy. I mean, you can ask me anything. I think it's terrible these days that such fine young people like you and Gus are forced to live like galley slaves."
  He saw the shimmer of emerald spheres, felt a hand-no longer glass-on his leg. Some of the lights in the cabin were off, and the passageway was momentarily empty... He turned his head and pressed his lips to soft red ones. He was sure she was bracing herself for this, half-mocking, half-forming a feminine weapon, but her head jerked slightly as their lips met-but did not retreat. It was a beautiful, well-fitted, fragrant, and pliable formation of flesh. He had meant it to be a five-second thing. It was like stepping on sweet, soft quicksand with a veiled threat-or eating a peanut. The first move was a trap. He closed his eyes for a moment to savor the soft, tingling sensations that swept across his lips, teeth, and tongue...
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened one eye, saw that her eyelids were lowered, and closed the world again for just a few seconds.
  A hand patted his shoulder, and he became wary and pulled away. "Janet's not feeling well," Gus Boyd said softly. "Nothing serious. Just a little airsickness. She says she's prone to it. I gave her a couple of pills. But she'd like to see you for a minute, please."
  Bootie climbed out of her seat, and Gus joined Nick. The young man seemed more relaxed, his demeanor friendlier, as if what he'd just seen had guaranteed Nick professional status. "That's Curie," he said. "Janet's a doll, but I can't take my eyes off Teddy. She's got a playful look. Glad to see you're making the acquaintance. This Prey looks like a girl with class."
  "Plus brains. She started the third degree. I told her a sad story about the hard life of an escort and the need for kindness."
  Gus laughed. "It's a new approach. And it might work. Most of the guys are working themselves to death, and, hell, anyone with a shred of common sense knows they're just Gray Line conductors without megaphones. Janet got me pretty pumped, too. About the wonders you can see in Rhodesia."
  "This isn't a cheap tour. Are all their families provided for?"
  "I guess, except Ruth. She has some kind of scholarship or gift funded by her college. Washburn in accounting keeps me informed, so I'll have an idea of who to work with for tips. It doesn't matter much to this group. Young, slutty girls. Selfish bitches."
  Nick's eyebrows rose in the dim light. "I used to prefer older girls," he replied. "Some of them were very grateful."
  "Sure. Chuck Aforzio did great last year. Married this old lady from Arizona. He's got houses in five or six other places. He's supposed to be worth forty or fifty million. He's a great guy. Did you know him?"
  "No."
  "How long have you been at American Express, Andy?"
  "Off and on for four or five years. I've done a lot of special FIT tours. But I've never had a chance to touch Rhodesia, although I've been to most of the rest of Africa. So remember, you're the senior escort, Gus, and I won't bother you. You can order me around wherever you need a hole in the line plugged. I know Manning probably told you I have free rein and am prepared to travel and leave you for a few days. But if I do, I'll try to tell you in advance. Meanwhile-you're the boss."
  Boyd nodded. "Thanks. I knew you were straight the minute I saw you. If you get Edman, I think you'll be a good guy to work for. I was afraid I'd get another gay guy. I don't mind lovers, but they can be a real pain when there's real work to be done or the box gets tight. You know about the trouble in Rhodesia? A bunch of blacks chased Triggs and son's group right out of the market. A couple of tourists got scratched. I don't think it'll happen again. Rhodesians are methodical and tough. We'll probably get a cop on us. Anyway, I know a contractor. He'll give us a guard or two, along with the cars, if it looks like it's needed."
  Nick thanked Boyd for the briefing and then casually asked, "How about some extra money? With all the sanctions and all that, are there any really good angles? They're mining a lot of gold.
  Although no one was close enough to hear them and they spoke in very low voices, Gus lowered his voice to an even lower level. "Have you ever dealt with this, Andy?"
  "Yes. In a way. All I'd ask for in life is the chance to buy at a price in the US or Europe and have a reliable pipeline to India. I'd heard there were good channels from Rhodesia to India, so I was interested..."
  "I have a point. I need to get to know you better."
  "You just said you knew the moment you saw me that I was a regular. What's wrong now?"
  Gus snorted impatiently. "If you're a regular, you know what I mean. I don't care about this job with Edman. But the gold operation is a whole different story. A lot of boys got rich. I mean escorts, pilots, stewards, airline reps. But a lot of them ended up in rooms with bars. And in some of the countries they were arrested in, the service they got was truly terrible." Gus paused and winced slightly. "It's not good-five years with lice. I've worked hard on that pun, but it tells you what I mean. If you have a man working with you, say, 'The customs officer wants a piece,' you'll go home if he's a hot operator. But if you rush, you risk a lot. You can buy most of these Asian boys for a piece of cake, but they constantly need victims to show they're doing their job and cover up the deals they're involved in. So if they force you, you could fall hard."
  "I have a friend in Calcutta," Nick said. "He's got enough weight to help us, but the rim needs to be set up beforehand."
  "Maybe we'll have a chance," Gus replied. "Stay in touch with him if you can. It's a gamble if you don't have brakes. Boys who move things
  Automatically calculates ten percent loss to make the government guys look like they're doing their job, and another ten percent for grease. It's inappropriate. Sometimes you walk in, especially with an Amex or Edman Tours badge or something, and you walk right past. They won't even look under your spare shirt. Other times, you get a full inspection, and it's sudden death."
  "I played with quarter bars once. We were very lucky."
  Gus was intrigued. "No sweat, huh? How much did you make at the bar?"
  Nick smiled briefly. His new partner used the confession to test his knowledge and, therefore, his credibility. "Imagine it. We had five bars. 100 ounces each. Profit was thirty-one dollars per ounce, and lubrication costs were fifteen percent. There were two of us. We split about $11,000 over three days of work and two hours of worry."
  "Macau?"
  "Now, Gus, I mentioned Calcutta before, and you haven't told me much. As you say, let's get acquainted and see what we think of each other. I'd say the basic point is this: If you can help establish a source in Rhodesia, I have a gateway to India. One or both of us could travel the route on a make-believe tour, or on our way to join a party in Delhi or something. Our nice badges and my connection will help us get there."
  "Let's think about it carefully."
  Nick told him he would think about it. He would think about it every second, because the pipeline leading to the illegal gold from the Rhodesian mines must, somewhere along its junctions and connections, lead to the world of Judas and Si Kalgan.
  Bootie returned to the seat next to him, and Gus joined Janet. The flight attendant gave them pillows and blankets as they reclined their seats to a nearly horizontal level. Nick took one of the blankets and turned off the reading light.
  They entered the strange silence of the dry capsule. The monotonous roar of the body that contained them, their own light iron lung. Booty didn't protest when he took only one blanket, so she performed a small ceremony, tucking it over both. If you could ignore the projections, you could imagine yourself in a cozy double bed.
  Nick glanced at the ceiling and remembered Trixie Skidmore, the Pan Am flight attendant with whom he'd once spent a few cultural days in London. Trixie had said, "I grew up in Ocala, Florida, and used to go back and forth to Jax on Greyhound, and believe me, I thought I'd seen everything in the world of sex done in those back seats. You know, the long ones that go right across the bus. Well, honey, I just never had any education until I got in the air. I've seen fornication, handjobs, blow jobs, side-swapping, spoon darts, down Ys, and whips."
  Nick laughed heartily. "What do you do when you catch them?"
  "I wish them luck, dear. If they need another blanket or pillow, or if you choose another lamp or two, I'll help." He remembered Trixie pressing her plump, full lips to his bare chest and murmuring, "I love lovers, dear, because I love love, and I need lots of it."
  He felt Booty's soft breath on his jaw. "Andy, are you very sleepy?"
  "No, not particularly. Just sleepy, Bootie. Well-fed - and it's been a busy day. I'm happy."
  "Satisfied? How so?"
  "I'm dating you. I know you'll be good company. You have no idea how dangerous it can be to travel with uninteresting and stuck-up people. You're a smart girl. You have ideas and thoughts that you keep hidden."
  Nick was glad she couldn't see his expression in the dim light. He meant what he said, but he'd left out a lot. She had ideas and thoughts she was hiding, and they could be interesting and valuable-or distorted and deadly. He wanted to know exactly what her connection was to John J. Johnson and what the black man had given her.
  "You're a strange man, Andy. Have you ever been in any other business besides travel? I could imagine you running some kind of executive. Not insurance or finance, but some kind of business that involves action."
  "I've done some other things. Like everyone else. But I like the travel business. My partner and I might buy some of Edman's work." He couldn't tell if she was pumping him or just curious about his past. "What are your hopes, now that college is over?"
  "Work on something. Create. Live." She sighed, stretched, twisted, and pressed herself against him, realigning her soft curves as they spread across his body, touching in many places. She kissed his chin.
  He slid his hand between her arm and her body. There was no resistance; as he lifted her up and back, he felt her soft breast push against him. He stroked her gently, slowly reading the Braille across the smooth skin. When his tactile fingertips noticed her nipples hardening, he concentrated, reading the exciting phrase over and over. She let out a soft purr, and he felt light, slender fingers exploring his tie clip, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling up his undershirt.
  
  
  
  
  He thought the pads of her hand might be cool, but they were like warm feathers above his navel. He pulled on the yellow sweater, and her skin felt like warm silk.
  She pressed her lips to his, and it felt better than before, their flesh merging like soft, buttery toffee into one sweet mass. He solved the brief riddle of her bra, and the Braille became vivid and real, his senses rejoicing in the ancient contact, subconscious memories of well-being and nourishment, stirred by the warm push of her firm breast.
  Her manipulations sent memories and anticipation running down his spine. She was deft, creative, patient. As soon as he found the zipper on the side of her skirt, she whispered, "Tell me what this is..."
  "It's the best thing that's happened to me in a long, long time," he replied softly.
  "That's good. But I mean something else."
  Her hand was a magnet, a cordless vibrator, the insistent coaxing of a milkmaid, the caress of a gentle giant, enveloping his entire body, the grip of a butterfly on a pulsating leaf. What did she want him to say? She knew what she was doing. "It's delicious," he said. "Bathing in cotton candy. Being able to fly on moonlight. Riding a roller coaster in a good dream. How would you describe it when..."
  "I mean what's under your left arm," she muttered distinctly. "You've been hiding it from me ever since we sat down. Why are you carrying a gun?"
  
  Chapter two.
  
  He was torn from a pleasant pink cloud. Oh, Wilhelmina, why do you have to be so thick and heavy to be so accurate and reliable? Stewart, AXE's chief weapons engineer, had modified the Lugers with shortened barrels and thin plastic grips, but they were still large guns that could be concealed even in perfectly fitted underarm holsters. While walking or sitting, they were neatly concealed, without a single bulge, but when you wrestled a kitten like Bootie, sooner or later she'd bump into metal.
  "We're going to Africa," Nick reminded her, "where our clients are exposed to a lot of dangers. Besides, I'm your security guard. We've never had any problems there; it's a truly civilized place, but..."
  "And you will protect us from lions, tigers and natives with spears?"
  "That's a rude thought." He felt stupid. Booty had the most annoying way of saving ordinary things that made you laugh. The delightful fingers gave one last stroke, making him involuntarily flinch, and then retreated. He felt both disappointed and stupid.
  "I think you're talking nonsense," Bootie whispered. "Are you FBI?"
  "Of course not."
  "If you were their agent, I suppose you would lie."
  "I hate lies." It was true. He hoped she wouldn't return to her job as district attorney and question him about other government agencies. Most people didn't know about AXE, but Booty wasn't most people.
  "Are you a private detective? Did one of our fathers hire you to keep an eye on one or all of us? If he did, I..."
  "You have a great imagination for such a young girl." That stopped her in her tracks. "You've lived in your comfortable, protected world for so long that you think that's it. Have you ever been in a Mexican shack? Have you seen the slums of El Paso? Remember the Indian shacks on the back roads in Navajo Country?"
  "Yes," she answered hesitantly.
  His voice remained low, but firm and firm. It could work-when in doubt and pressed, attack. "Wherever we go, these people would qualify as high-income suburbanites. In Rhodesia itself, whites are outnumbered twenty to one. They keep their upper lips tense and smile, because if they don't, their teeth will chatter. Count the revolutionaries looking across the borders, and in some places, the odds are seventy-five to one. When the opposition gets weapons-and they will-it will be worse than Israel against the Arab legions."
  "But tourists usually don't bother, right?"
  "There have been a lot of incidents, as they call them. There could be danger, and my job is to eliminate it. If you're going to tease me, I'll change my seat and we'll do the rest. Let's go on a business trip. You'll enjoy it. I'll just work."
  "Don't be angry, Andy. What do you think of the situation in Africa, where we're headed? I mean, the Europeans have taken the best parts of the country away from the natives, haven't they? And the raw materials..."
  "I'm not interested in politics," Nick lied. "I suppose the natives get some perks. Do you know the girls who join us in Frankfurt?"
  She didn't answer. She fell asleep, snuggled up to him.
  The eight new additions to the group attracted attention, each in their own way. Nick wondered if wealth contributed to good looks or whether it was the good food, extra vitamins, educational resources, and expensive clothing. They changed airlines in Johannesburg and saw for the first time the African mountains, jungles, and endless plains of bundu, veld, and bush.
  Salisbury reminded Nick of Tucson, Arizona, with Atlanta, Georgia, suburbs, and greenery thrown in. They were given a tour of the city under contract with the brilliant Austin's Tora.
  
  
  
  Nick noted that a contractor for local car, guide, and tour services brought four burly men in addition to seven drivers and vehicles. Safety?
  They saw a modern city with wide streets lined with colorful flowering trees, numerous parks, and modern British architecture. Nick was driving with Ian Masters, a contractor, Booty, and Ruth Crossman, and Masters pointed out places they'd like to visit at their leisure. Masters was a powerful man with a booming voice that matched his curved black lancer's moustache. Everyone expected him to shout at any moment, "Troooop. Canter. Attack!"
  "Okay, organize special visits for people," he said. "I'll hand out checklists at dinner tonight. You shouldn't miss the museum and the National Gallery of Rhodesia. The National Archives galleries are very useful, and Robert McIlwaine National Park with its nature reserve will spur you on to Wankie. You'll want to see the aloes and cycads at Ewanrigg Park, Mazou, and Balancing Rocks."
  Bootie and Ruth were asking him questions. Nick assumed they'd asked the others to listen to his baritone and watch his mustache sway up and down.
  Dinner in the private dining room of their hotel, the Meikles, was a great success. Masters brought three large young men, resplendent in tuxedos, and the stories, drinking, and dancing continued until midnight. Gus Boyd divided his attentions among the girls appropriately, but danced most often with Janet Olson. Nick played the role of proper escort, conversing primarily with the eight girls who had joined them in Germany, and felt unusually resentful of the way Masters and Booty got along. He danced with Ruth Crossman when they said goodnight and left.
  He couldn't help but wonder-all the girls had separate rooms. He sat sullenly with Ruth on the couch, washing down nightcaps with whiskey and soda. Only the brunette, Teddy Northway, was still with them, dancing cozily with one of the Masters men, Bruce Todd, a tanned youth and a local football star.
  "She'll take care of herself. She likes you."
  Nick blinked and looked at Ruth. The dark-haired girl spoke so rarely that you forgot she was with you. He looked at her. Without her dark-rimmed glasses, her eyes had the hazy, unfocused tenderness of the nearsighted-and even her features were quite beautiful. You thought of her as quiet and sweet-never bothering anyone?
  "What?" Nick asked.
  "Prey, of course. Don't pretend. It's on your mind."
  "I'm thinking about a girl."
  "Okay, Andy."
  He led her to her room in the east wing and paused in the doorway. "I hope you had a good evening, Ruth. You dance very well."
  "Come in and close the door."
  He blinked again and obeyed. She turned off one of the two lamps the maid had left on, pulled back the curtains to reveal the city lights, poured two Cutty Sark glasses, and topped it off with soda water without asking him if he wanted one. He stood admiring the two double beds, one of which had the covers neatly folded back.
  She handed him a glass. "Sit down, Andy. Take off your jacket if you're warm."
  He slowly took off his pearl gray tuxedo, she casually hung it in the closet and walked back to stand in front of him. "Are you just going to stand there all night?"
  He slowly hugged her, looking into her misty brown eyes. "I think I should have told you sooner," he said, "you're beautiful when you open your eyes wide."
  "Thank you. A lot of people forget to look at this."
  He kissed her and found her seemingly firm lips surprisingly soft and pliant, her tongue bold and shocking against the gentle gusts of feminine, alcoholic breath. She pressed her slender body against him, and in an instant, one thighbone and a softly padded knee fit him like a puzzle piece fitting into the perfect slot.
  Later, as he removed her bra and admired her magnificent body stretched out on the smooth white sheet, he said, "I'm a damn fool, Ruth. And please forgive me."
  She kissed the inside of his ear and took a small sip before asking hoarsely, "Shouldn't he have?"
  "Don't forget to watch."
  She snorted softly, like a giggle. "I forgive you." She ran the tip of her tongue along his jawline, around the top of his ear, tickled his cheek, and he felt the warm, wet, trembling probe again. He had completely forgotten about Booty.
  * * *
  When Nick stepped out of the elevator into the spacious lobby the next morning, Gus Boyd was waiting for him. The senior attendant said, "Andy, good morning. Just a second before we go to breakfast. Five girls are already there. They're strong, aren't they? How are you feeling since opening?"
  "Great, Gus. You could use a couple more hours of sleep."
  They passed the table. "Me too. Janet's quite the demanding doll. Did you do this with Booty or did Masters finish his score?"
  "I ended up with Ruth. Very nice."
  
  
  
  
  Nick wished he'd missed this chatter between the boys. He had to be truthful; he needed Boyd's complete trust. Then he felt guilty-the boy was just trying to be friendly. The escort had undoubtedly exchanged this trusting relationship as a matter of course. He himself, always acting alone behind invisible barriers, was losing touch with others. He'd have to see.
  "I've decided we'll be free today," Gus announced cheerfully. "Masters and his merry men are taking the girls to Evanrigg Park. They'll have lunch with them and show them a few more sights. We won't have to pick them up until cocktail time. Want to get into the gold business?"
  "It's been on my mind since we talked."
  They changed course, exited, and strolled along the sidewalk beneath porticoes that reminded Nick of Flagler Street in Miami. Two wary young men inhaled the morning air. "I'd like to get to know you better, Andy, but I assume you're straight. I'll introduce you to my contact. Do you have any cash on you? I mean real money."
  Sixteen thousand US dollars
  "It's almost twice what I'm holding, but I think my reputation is good. And if we convince this guy that we can actually make a case.
  Nick asked casually, "Can you trust him? What do you know about his past? Any chance of a trap?"
  Gus chuckled. "You're cautious, Andy. I think I like that. This guy's name is Alan Wilson. His father was a geologist who discovered some gold deposits-they're called pegs in Africa. Alan's a tough guy. So he served as a mercenary in the Congo, and I heard he was real fast and loose with lead and steel. Not to mention, I told you Wilson's dad retired, probably loaded with gold, I think. Alan's in the export business. Gold, asbestos, chrome. Real big shipments. He's a real pro. I checked him out in New York."
  Nick winced. If Gus had accurately described Wilson, the boy would have stuck his neck out next to a man who knew how to handle an axe. No wonder amateur smugglers and embezzlers, who so often ended up dead immediately after fatal accidents, asked, "How did you test him?"
  "My banker friend sent an inquiry to the First Rhodesian Commercial Bank. Alan is valued at mid-seven figures."
  "He seems too big and outspoken to be interested in our little deals."
  "It's not square. You'll see. Do you think your Indian unit could handle a really big operation?"
  "I'm sure of it."
  "That's our entrance!" Gus happily clicked the door shut and immediately lowered his voice. "He told me the last time I saw him that he wanted to start a really big operation. Let's try it with a small batch. If we can get a big production line going, and I'm sure we can, once we have the material to operate, we'll make a fortune."
  "Most of the world's gold production is sold legally, Gus. What makes you think Wilson can supply it in large quantities? Has he opened any new mines?"
  "From the way he spoke, I'm sure so."
  * * *
  In a nearly new Zodiac Executive, thoughtfully provided by Ian Masters, Gus drove Nick off the Goromonzi Road. The landscape again reminded Nick of Arizona in its prime, though he noted that the vegetation seemed dry except in places where it was artificially watered. He recalled his briefing reports: a drought was looming in Rhodesia. The white population looked healthy and alert; many men, including police officers, wore starched shorts. The black natives went about their business with unusual attentiveness.
  Something about this seemed odd. He studied the people rolling along the boulevard thoughtfully and decided it was the tension. Beneath the sharp, tense demeanor of the whites, one could sense anxiety and doubt. One could guess that behind the friendly industriousness of the blacks lurked a watchful impatience, a masked resentment.
  The sign read "WILSON." He stood in front of a warehouse-type building complex, in front of which sat a long, three-story office building that could have belonged to one of the most highly controlled corporations in the United States.
  The installation was neat and well-painted, the lush foliage creating colorful patterns on the brown-green lawn. As they rounded the driveway to the large parking lot, Nick saw trucks parked at the loading ramps behind them, all large, the nearest a gigantic new International dwarfing the eight-wheeled Leyland Octopus maneuvering behind it.
  Alan Wilson was a large man in the large office. Nick guessed he was six feet three inches tall and 245 pounds-hardly obese. He was tanned, moved easily, and the way he slammed the door and returned to his desk after Boyd briefly introduced Nick made it clear he wasn't happy to see them. Hostility was etched on every side of his face.
  Gus understood the message, and his words became confused. "Alan... Mr. Wilson... I... we've come to continue... the conversation about gold..."
  "Who the hell told you?"
  "Last time you said... we agreed... I was going to..."
  
  
  "I said I'll sell you gold if you want it. If you do, show your papers to Mr. Trizzle at the front desk and place your order. Anything else?"
  
  
  
  
  Nick felt sorry for Boyd. Gus had a backbone, but it would take a few more years to strengthen it in situations like this. When you spent your time barking orders at restless travelers who ignored you because they wanted to believe you knew what you were doing, you weren't prepared for the big guy you thought was friendly to turn around and hit you in the face with a wet fish. Hard. And that's what Wilson did.
  "Mr. Grant has good connections in India," Gus said too loudly.
  "Me too."
  "Mr. Grant... and... Andy is experienced. He transported gold..."
  "Shut your stupid mouth. I don't want to hear about it. And I certainly didn't tell you to bring someone like that here."
  "But you said..."
  "Who - you said. You say it yourself, Boyd. Too much of this for too many people. You're like most Yankees I've met. You have a disease. Constant diarrhea from the mouth."
  Nick winced in sympathy for Boyd. Smack. Getting hit in the face with fish after fish could be terrifying if you didn't know the cure. You should grab the first one and either cook it or hit the one giving it twice as hard. Gus blushed a bright pink. Wilson's heavy face looked like something carved from aged brown beef, deep-frozen solid. Gus opened his mouth under Wilson's angry glare, but nothing came out. He glanced at Nick.
  "Now get out of here," Wilson growled. "And don't come back. If I hear you say anything about me I don't like, I'll find you and smash your head in."
  Gus looked at Nick again and asked, "What the hell went wrong?" What did I do? This man is crazy.
  Nick coughed politely. Wilson's heavy gaze fell on him. Nick said evenly, "I don't think Gus meant any harm. Not as much as you pretend. He was doing you a favor. I have markets for up to ten million pounds of gold a month. At top prices. Any currency. And if you could guarantee more, which of course you can't, I have the option of turning to the IMF for additional funds."
  "Ah!" Wilson squared his ox-like shoulders and made a tent out of his large hands. Nick thought they resembled animated hockey mittens. "A chatterbox brought me a liar. And how do you know how much gold I can deliver?"
  "Your entire country produces that much a year. Say, about thirty million dollars? So come out of your clouds, Wilson, and talk business with the peasants."
  "Bless my soul and body! Expert in shimmering gold! Where did you get your figurines, Yankee?"
  Nick was pleased to note Wilson's interest. The man was no fool; he believed in listening and learning, even if he feigned impetuosity.
  "When I'm in business, I like to know everything about it," Nick said. "When it comes to gold, you're a piece of cake, Wilson. South Africa alone produces fifty-five times more than Rhodesia. At thirty-five dollars per troy ounce of pure gold, the world produces about two billion dollars annually. I'd say."
  "You're exaggerating a lot," Wilson disagreed.
  "No, the official figures are understated. They don't include the US, Greater China, North Korea, Eastern Europe-or the amounts that are stolen or not reported."
  Wilson studied Nick silently. Gus couldn't keep his mouth shut. He spoiled it by saying, "See, Alan? Andy really knows his stuff. He operated..."
  One mitten-like hand silenced him with a halting gesture. "How long have you known Grant?"
  "Huh? Well, not for long. But in our business, we learn..."
  "You'll learn how to pick grandma's wallets. Shut up. Grant, tell me about your channels to India. How reliable are they? What are the agreements..."
  Nick interrupted him. "I'm not telling you anything, Wilson. I just decided you disagree with my policies."
  "What policy?"
  "I don't do business with loudmouths, braggarts, bullies, or mercenaries. I'll take a black gentleman over a white asshole any day. Come on, Gus, we're leaving."
  Wilson slowly rose to his full height. He looked like a giant, as if the demo maker had taken a thin linen suit and stuffed it with muscle-a size 52. Nick didn't like it. When they moved quickly after the needle or their faces flushed, he could tell their minds were spinning out of control. Wilson moved slowly, his anger shining primarily from his hot eyes and the stern hardness of his mouth. "You're a big man, Grant," he said softly.
  "Not as tall as you."
  "Sense of humor. Too bad you're not bigger - and you have a small stomach. I like a little exercise."
  Nick grinned and seemed to stretch comfortably in his chair, but in reality he was leaning on his leg. "Don't let that stop you. Your name is Windy Wilson?"
  The large man must have pressed the button with his foot-his hands were visible the entire time. A sturdy man-tall but not wide-popped his head into the large office. "Yes, Mr. Wilson?"
  "Come in and close the door, Maurice. After I throw out this big monkey, you'll make sure Boyd leaves one way or another."
  Maurice leaned against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick noticed he had crossed his arms, as if he didn't expect to be called away anytime soon.
  
  
  
  Like a sports spectator, Wilson slid around the large table and quickly grabbed Nick's forearm. The arm came away-along with Nick, who jumped sideways out of the leather chair and twisted under Wilson's groping hands. Nick darted past Maurice to the far wall. He said, "Gus, come here."
  Boyd proved he could move. He dashed across the room so quickly that Wilson stopped in surprise.
  Nick pushed the young man into a niche between two ceiling-high bookcases and thrust Wilhelmina into his hand, flicking the safety. "She's ready to fire. Be careful."
  He watched as Maurice, hesitantly but warily, drew his small machine gun, keeping it pointed at the floor. Wilson stood in the center of the office, a colossus in linen. "No shooting, Yankee. You'll hang yourself if you shoot anyone in this country."
  Nick took four steps away from Gus. "It's up to you, Bucko. What's Maurice holding-a spray gun?"
  "Don't shoot, boys," Wilson repeated and jumped on Nick.
  There was plenty of room. Nick eased off the pedal and dodged, watching as Wilson followed him efficiently and with poise, then hit the big man in the nose with a left lightning bolt, strictly experimental.
  The left punch he received in return was fast, accurate, and if he hadn't slipped, would have loosened his teeth. It tore the skin off his left ear as he caught his other left in the big man's ribs and leaped away. He felt as if he'd punched a leathery, jumping horse, but he thought he saw Wilson flinch. He actually saw the big man's start-then the punch landed as the other man decided to keep his balance and continue the attack. Wilson was close. Nick turned and said, "Queensberry Rules?"
  "Of course, Yankee. Unless you're cheating. Better not. I know all the games."
  Wilson proved this by switching to boxing, jabbing, and throwing left punches: some bouncing off Nick's arms and fists, others tugging as Nick parried or blocked. They circled like roosters. The lefts that landed brought grimaces to Gus Boyd's astonished face. Maurice's brown features were expressionless, but his left hand-the one not holding the pistol-clenched in sympathy with each blow.
  Nick thought he had a chance when a left jab bounced low off his armpit. He blew steam off his right heel with a solid right stance, aimed squarely at the giant's jaw-and lost his balance when Wilson slammed into him inside, on the right side of his head. Left and right slapped Nick's ribs like slaps. He didn't dare go back and couldn't get his hands inside to protect himself from the brutal blows. He grabbed, struggled, twisted and turned, pushing at his opponent until he tied those punishing hands. He gained leverage, pushed, and quickly broke away.
  He knew he'd done wrong even before the left landed. His superior vision caught the right as it crossed the outgoing punch and struck him in the face like a battering ram. He jerked left and tried to escape, but the fist was much faster than the retreat of his face. He stumbled backward, caught his heel on the carpet, tripped up another leg, and slammed into a bookcase with a thud that shook the room. He landed in a pile of broken shelves and falling books. Even as he flipped and bounced forward and up, recovering like a wrestler, the volumes still clattered to the floor.
  "Right now!" Nick commanded his aching arms. He stepped forward, threw a long left near his eyes, a short right to the ribs, and felt a thrill of triumph when his own half-hook with his right surprised Wilson as it slid up his shoulder and caught him hard on the cheek. Wilson couldn't get his right foot out in time to catch himself. He swayed sideways like a knocked-down statue, took one stumbling step, and collapsed onto the table between two windows. The table legs snapped, and a large, squat vase of gorgeous flowers flew ten feet and shattered on the main table. Magazines, ashtrays, a tray, and a water decanter clattered beneath the large man's writhing body.
  He rolled over, pulled his hands under him and jumped.
  Then a fight started.
  Chapter Three
  If you've never seen two good, big men fight "fairly," you have a lot of misconceptions about fisticuffs. The staged mockery on television is misleading. Those unguarded punches might break a man's jaw, but in reality, they rarely land. TV fights are a ballet of lousy punching.
  Old boys with bare fists went fifty rounds, fighting for four hours, because first you learn to take care of yourself. It becomes automatic. And if you can survive for a few minutes, your opponent will be stunned, and you'll both be flailing your arms wildly. It becomes a case of two battering rams falling on each other. The unofficial record is held by two unknowns, an Englishman and an American sailor, who fought in a Chinese cafe in St. John's, Newfoundland, for seven hours. No timeout. Draw.
  Nick thought about it briefly over the next twenty minutes as he and Wilson fought from one end of the office to the other.
  
  
  
  They punched each other. They separated and traded long-range blows. They grappled, wrestled, and pulled. Each man missed a dozen opportunities to use a piece of furniture as a weapon. Once, Wilson struck Nick below the belt, hitting his thigh bone, and immediately said, albeit under his breath, "Sorry, I slipped."
  They smashed a table by the window, four easy chairs, a priceless sideboard, two end tables, a tape recorder, a desktop computer, and a small bar. Wilson's desk was swept clean and pinned to the workbench behind it. Both men's jackets were torn. Wilson was bleeding from a cut above his left eye, and beads of blood were running down his cheek and spattering the debris.
  Nick worked on that eye, opening the wound with glancing and clawing blows that in themselves did further damage. His right hand was blood red. His heart ached, and his ears rang unpleasantly from the blows to his skull. He saw Wilson's head sway from side to side, but those huge fists kept coming-slowly, it seemed, but they arrived. He parried one and punched him. Again, to the eyes. Score.
  They both slipped in Wilson's blood and pressed themselves against each other, eyeball to eyeball, gasping so hard they nearly performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Wilson kept blinking to clear the blood from his eyes. Nick desperately gathered strength in his aching, leaden arms. They grabbed each other's biceps, looking at each other again. Nick felt Wilson summoning his remaining strength with the same weary hope that tensed his own numb muscles.
  Their eyes seemed to say, 'What the hell are we doing here?
  Nick said between breaths, "That's a... bad... cut."
  Wilson nodded, seeming to think about it for the first time. His wind whistled and died. He exhaled, "Yeah... guess... better... fix... that."
  "If... you... don't... have... a bad... scar."
  "Yeah... disgusting... calling... drawing?"
  "Or... Round... One."
  Nick's powerful grip loosened. He relaxed, staggered back, and was the first to rise to his feet. He thought he'd never reach the table, so he made one and sat down on it, his head bowed. Wilson collapsed back against the wall.
  Gus and Maurice glanced at each other like two shy schoolboys. The office was silent for over a minute, save for the agonizing inhalations and exhalations of the battered men.
  Nick ran his tongue over his teeth. They were all there. The inside of his mouth was badly cut, his lips pouting. They probably both had black eyes.
  Wilson rose to his feet and stood unsteadily, looking out at the chaos. "Maurice, show Mr. Grant the bath."
  Nick was led out of the room and they took a few steps down the hallway. He filled a basin with cold water and plunged his throbbing face into it. There was a knock on the door, and Gus entered, carrying Wilhelmina and Hugo-a thin knife that had been shaken out of its sheath on Nick's arm. "Are you okay?"
  "Certainly."
  "G. Andy, I didn't know. He's changed."
  "I don't think so. Things have changed. He has a main outlet for all his gold - if he has a lot, as we think - so he doesn't need us anymore."
  Nick filled the glass with more water, dipped his head again, and dried himself with thick white towels. Gus held out the weapon. "I didn't know you-I brought this."
  Nick tucked Wilhelmina into his shirt and inserted Hugo. "Looks like I might need them. This is a tough country."
  "But... customs..."
  "So far so good. How's Wilson?"
  "Maurice took him to another bathroom."
  "Let's get out of here."
  "Okay." But Gus couldn't help himself. "Andy, I have to tell you. Wilson has a lot of gold. I've bought from him before."
  "So you have a way out?"
  "It was just a quarter-bar. I sold it in Beirut."
  "But they don't pay much there."
  "He sold it to me for thirty dollars an ounce."
  "Oh." Nick's head spun. Wilson had indeed had so much gold back then that he was willing to sell it at a good price, but now he'd either lost the source or figured out a satisfactory way to get it to market.
  They walked out and down the hallway toward the lobby and entrance. As they passed an open door marked "Ladies," Wilson called out, "Ho, Grant."
  Nick stopped and peered in cautiously. "Yeah? Like an eye?"
  "Okay." Blood was still leaking from under the bandage. "Are you feeling okay?"
  "No. I feel like I've been hit by a bulldozer."
  Wilson walked to the door and grinned through swollen lips. "Man, I could have used you in the Congo. How did the Luger come about?"
  "They tell me that Africa is dangerous."
  "It could be."
  Nick watched the man closely. There was a lot of ego and self-doubt here, as well as that extra bit of loneliness that strong people create around themselves when they can't lower their heads and listen to lesser people. They build their own islands apart from the main one and are surprised by their isolation.
  Nick chose his words carefully. "No offense. I was just trying to make a buck. I shouldn't have come. You don't know me, and I don't blame you for being cautious. Gus said it was all true..."
  
  
  
  
  He hated to hang a silly cap on Boyd, but every impression mattered now.
  "Do you really have a line?"
  "Calcutta."
  "Sahib Sanya?"
  "His friends are Goahan and Fried." Nick named two leading gold operators on India's black market.
  "I see. Take a hint. Forget about it for a while. Everything changes."
  "Yes. Prices are constantly rising. Maybe I can contact Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining. I heard they're busy. Can you contact me or make an introduction?"
  Wilson's good eye widened. "Grant, listen to me. You're not an Interpol spy. They don't have Lugers, and they can't fight, I think I have your number. Forget about gold. At least not in Rhodesia. And stay away from THB."
  "Why? You want to get all their products for yourself?"
  Wilson laughed, wincing as his torn cheeks brushed against his teeth. Nick knew he thought this answer confirmed his assessment of "Andy Grant." Wilson had lived his entire life in a world distinct from black and white, for us or against us. He was selfish, considered it normal and noble, and judged no one for it.
  The big man's laughter filled the doorway. "I suppose you've heard of the Golden Tusks and can just feel them. Or can't you just see them? Crossing the Bunda. So big they take six black men to carry each one? By God, you think about it a little and you can almost taste them, can't you?"
  "I've never heard of the Golden Tusks," Nick replied, "but you painted a beautiful picture. Where can I find them?"
  "You can't. It's a fairy tale. Gold sweats-and what is, is what they say. At least right now," Wilson's face pouted, his lips swollen. However, he still managed a grin, and Nick realized it was the first time he'd seen him smile.
  "Do I look like you?" Nick asked.
  "I think so. They'll know you're onto something. Too bad you're doing the waist-panty thing, Grant. If you come back here looking for something, come see me."
  "For a second round? I don't think I can make it before then."
  Wilson appreciated the implied compliment. "No-where we use tools. Tools that go bu-du-du-du-du brrr-r ...
  "Cash? I'm not a romantic."
  "Of course-though in my case-" He paused, studying Nick. "Well, you're a white man. You'll understand when you see a little more of the country."
  "I wonder if I will?" Nick replied. "Thanks for everything."
  
  * * *
  
  Driving toward Salisbury through the brightly lit landscape, Gus apologized. "I was scared, Andy. I should have gone alone or checked on the phone. Last time he was cooperative and full of promises for the future. Man, that was some garbage. Were you a pro?"
  Nick knew the compliment was a bit oily, but the guy meant well. "No harm done, Gus. If his current channels get clogged, he'll come back to us quickly enough, but that's unlikely. He's very happy under his current circumstances. No, I wasn't a professional in college."
  "Just a little more! And he would have killed me."
  "You wouldn't mess with him. Wilson is a big kid with principles. He fights fair. He only kills people when the principle is right, as he sees it."
  "I... I don't understand..."
  "He was a mercenary, wasn't he? You know how those boys act when they get their hands on the natives."
  Gus tightened his hands on the steering wheel and said thoughtfully, "I heard. You don't think a guy like Alan is mowing them down."
  "You know better. It's an old, old pattern. Visit Mom on Saturday, church on Sunday, and blow up on Monday. When you try to work it out with yourself, you get tight knots. In your head. The connections and relays there start to smoke and burn out. And what about these Golden Tusks? Have you ever heard of them?"
  Gus shrugged. "Last time I was here, there was a story about a shipment of gold tusks that were sent by rail and through Beirut to circumvent sanctions. There was an article in The Rhodesia Herald speculating whether they were cast that way and painted white, or found in old ruins in Zimbabwe and disappeared. It's the old myth of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba."
  "Do you think the story was true?"
  "No. When I was in India, I discussed it with some guys who should have known. They said there was a lot of gold coming from Rhodesia, but it was all in good 400-ounce bars."
  When they reached the Meikles Hotel, Nick slipped through the side entrance and went up to his room. He took hot and cold baths, rubbed himself lightly with alcohol, and took a nap. His ribs ached, but he felt no sharp pain indicating a fracture. At six o'clock, he dressed carefully and, when Gus called him, applied the eyeliner he'd bought. It helped some, but the full-length mirror told him he looked like a very well-dressed pirate after a hard battle. He shrugged, turned off the light, and followed Gus to the cocktail bar.
  After his visitors left, Alan Wilson used Maurice's office while half a dozen of his staff worked on his treatment.
  
  
  
  
  He examined three photographs of Nick taken with a hidden camera.
  "Not bad. They show his face from different angles. By God, he's powerful. We'll be able to use him someday." He tucked the prints into an envelope. "Have Herman deliver them to Mike Bohr."
  Maurice took the envelope, walked through the complex of offices and warehouses to the control room at the rear of the refinery, and relayed Wilson's order. As he slowly made his way back to the front offices, his lean, dark face wore a satisfied expression. Wilson was to carry out the order: immediately photograph anyone interested in buying gold and forward them to Boreman. Mike Boreman was the chairman of Taylor-Hill-Boreman, and he had a brief moment of unease that forced him to follow Alan Wilson. Maurice was part of the chain of command. He was paid a thousand dollars a month to monitor Wilson, and he intended to continue doing so.
  * * *
  Around the time Nick camouflaged his darkened eye with makeup, Herman Doosen began a very cautious approach to the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company airport. The giant installation was classified as a military research no-fly zone, with forty square miles of protected airspace above it. Before departing Salisbury, flying VFR in scorching sunshine, Herman called the Rhodesian Air Force Control Center and the Rhodesian Air Police. As he approached the restricted area, he radioed his position and direction and received further clearance from the station controller.
  Herman carried out his duties with absolute precision. He was paid more than most airline pilots, and he had a vague feeling of sympathy for Rhodesia and the THB. It was as if the whole world was against them, just as the world had once been against Germany. It was strange that when you worked hard and did your duty, it seemed as if people disliked you for no apparent reason. It was obvious that the THB had discovered a gigantic gold deposit. Good! Good for them, good for Rhodesia, good for Herman.
  He began his first landing, flying over the squalid native huts, packed like brown marble into boxes within their protective walls. Long, snake-like posts of barbed wire lined the road from one of the mines to the natives' territory, guarded by men on horseback and in jeeps.
  Herman made his first ninety-degree turn on target, at airspeed, at rpm, at descent speed, accurate to the degree on course. Perhaps Kramkin, the senior pilot, was watching, or perhaps not. That's not the point; you did your job perfectly out of self-dedication, and-to what end? Herman often puzzled over the fact that this had once been his father, strict and fair. Then the Air Force -he was still in the Republican Reserves-then the Bemex Oil Exploration Company; he was truly heartbroken when the young firm went bankrupt. He blamed the British and Americans for their money and connections failing.
  He made the final turn, pleased to see that he would land precisely on the third yellow runway bar and land like a feather. He was hoping for a Chinese pilot. Si Kalgan looked excellent. It would be nice to get to know him better, such a handsome devil with a real brain. If he hadn't looked Chinese, you would have thought him German - so quiet, alert, and methodical. Of course, his race didn't matter - if there was one thing Hermann truly prided himself on, it was his impartiality. That's where Hitler, for all his subtlety, had gone wrong. Hermann realized this himself and was proud of his insight.
  A crew member waved a yellow baton at him, directing him toward the cable. Herman paused and was pleased to see Si Kalgan and the crippled old man waiting under the field office awning. He thought of him as a crippled old man, as he usually traveled in the electric cart he was currently sitting in, but there wasn't much wrong with his body, and certainly nothing slow in his mind or speech. He had an artificial arm and wore a large eye patch, but even when he walked-limping-he moved as decisively as he spoke. His name was Mike Bohr, but Herman was sure he'd once had a different name, perhaps in Germany, but it was best not to think about that.
  Herman stopped in front of the two men and handed the envelope to the cart. "Good evening, Mr. Kalgan - Mr. Bor. Mr. Wilson sent this to you."
  Si smiled at Herman. "Nice landing, a pleasure to watch. Report to Mr. Kramkin. I believe he wants you back in the morning with some of the staff."
  Herman decided not to salute, but he paid attention, bowed, and entered the office. Bor thoughtfully tapped the photographs on the aluminum armrest. "Andrew Grant," he said softly. "A man of many names."
  "Is he the one you and Heinrich met before?"
  "Yes." Bor handed him the photographs. "Never forget that face-until we eliminate him. Call Wilson and warn him. Clearly order him to take no action. We'll sort this out. There must be no mistakes. Come on-we must talk to Heinrich."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting in a luxuriously furnished room with a wall that retracted to connect to a spacious courtyard, Bor and Heinrich talked quietly while Kalgan made a phone call. "There's no doubt about it. Do you agree?" Bor asked.
  Heinrich, a gray-haired man in his fifties who seemed to sit at attention even in the deep, foam-cushioned chair, nodded. "That's AXman. I think he's finally hit the wrong spot. We have information ahead of time, so we plan and then strike." He clasped his hands together with a small slap. "Surprise us."
  "We won't make any mistakes," Bor said, in the measured tones of a chief of staff outlining strategy. "We assume he'll accompany the tour group to Vanki. He must do so to maintain what he considers his cover. This is our ideal strike spot, as the Italians say. Deep in the bush. We'll have an armored truck. The helicopter is in reserve. Use Hermann, he's dedicated, and Krol as a spotter, he's an excellent marksman-for a Pole. Roadblocks. Draw up a full tactical plan and map, Heinrich. Some people will say we use a hammer to hit a bug, but they don't know the bug like we do, eh?"
  "It's a beetle with a wasp sting and skin like a chameleon. Don't underestimate it." Müller's face expressed the ugly anger of bitter memories.
  "We want more information if we can get it, but our primary goal is to eliminate Andrew Grant once and for all. Call it Operation Kill the Bug. Yes, good name, it will help us preserve our primary target.
  "Kill the Beetle," Müller repeated, savoring the words. "I like it."
  "So," the man named Bor continued, marking dots on the metal projections of his artificial arm, "why is he in Rhodesia? Political assessment? Is he looking for us again? Are they interested in the increasing flow of gold we are so happy to provide? Perhaps they have heard of our well-organized gunsmiths' success? Or perhaps none of that? I suggest you brief Foster and send him with Herman to Salisbury in the morning. Have him speak to Wilson. Give him clear orders-find out. He is only to gather intelligence, not to disturb our quarry."
  "He follows orders," Heinrich Müller said approvingly. "Your tactical plan is, as always, excellent."
  "Thank you." A good eye flashed at Müller, but even in gratitude for the compliment it had a cold, merciless look, like a cobra looking at a target, plus a cold narrowing, like a selfish reptile.
  * * *
  Nick discovered something he hadn't known - how smart travel agents, tour operators, and travel contractors make their important clients happy. After cocktails at the hotel, Ian Masters and four of his handsome, cheerful men took the girls to a party at the South African Club, a beautiful tropical-style building set amid lush greenery, illuminated by colorful lights and refreshed by sparkling fountains.
  At the club, the girls, resplendent in their bright dresses, were introduced to a dozen men. All were young, and most were handsome; two were in uniform, and for added presence, two older townsmen, one of whom sported a tuxedo adorned with numerous jewels.
  A long table in the corner of the main dining room, adjacent to the dance floor, with its own bar and service area, was reserved for the party. After introductions and pleasant conversation, they discovered place cards, on which each girl was cleverly seated between two men. Nick and Gus found themselves side by side at the far end of the table.
  The senior escort muttered, "Ian's a good operator. It's popular with the women. They've seen enough of you and me."
  "Look where he put the Loot. Next to old Sir Humphrey Condon. Ian knows she's a VIP. I didn't tell him."
  "Maybe Manny sent her old man's credit score in confidential advice."
  "With that body, she can handle it without any problems. She looks great, maybe he figured it out." Gus chuckled. "Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time with her."
  "I haven't been spending much time lately. But Ruth is good company. Anyway, I'm worried about Booty..."
  "What! Not so soon. It's only been three days-you couldn't..."
  "Not what you think. She's cool. Something's wrong. If we're going to get into the gold business, I suggest we keep an eye on her."
  "Prey! Is she dangerous... spying..."
  "You know how these kids love adventure. The CIA has gotten into a lot of trouble using kindergarten spies. Usually they do it for the money, but a girl like Bootie could go for the glamour. Little Miss Jane Bond."
  Gus took a long sip of wine. "Wow, now that you mention it, it fits with what happened while I was getting dressed. She called and said she wasn't going with the group tomorrow morning. It's free time for shopping in the afternoon, anyway. She hired a car and was going on her own. I tried to pressure her, and she was being sneaky. Said she wanted to visit someone in the Motoroshang area. I tried to talk her out of it, but hell- if they have the means, they can do whatever they want. She's getting a car from Selfridges Self-Drive Cars."
  
  
  "She could have easily gotten it from Masters, couldn't she?"
  "Yeah." Gus trailed off with a hiss, his eyes narrowing and thoughtful. "Maybe you're right about her. I thought she just wanted to be independent, like some of them. Show you they could act on their own..."
  "Could you contact Selfridge's to find out about the car and delivery time?"
  "They have a night room. Give me a minute." He returned five minutes later, his expression slightly grim. "Singer car. At the hotel at eight. Looks like you're right. She arranged the loan and authorization by telegraph. Why didn't she ever tell us about this?"
  "Part of the plot, old man. When you get a chance, ask Masters to arrange for me to drive to the hotel by myself at seven. Make sure it's as fast as that Singer."
  Later that evening, between roasts and sweets, Gus said to Nick, "Okay. BMW 1800 for you at seven. Ian promises it will be in perfect shape."
  Just after eleven, Nick said goodnight and left the club. He wouldn't be missed. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. The food was excellent, the wine plentiful, the music pleasant. Ruth Crossman was with a dashing fellow who seemed to exude fun, friendliness, and courage.
  Nick returned to Meikles, soaked his battered body in the hot and cold baths again, and checked his gear. He always felt better when every item was in place, oiled, cleaned, soaped, or polished as needed. Your mind seemed to function faster when you weren't plagued by petty doubts or worries.
  He removed the bundles of banknotes from his khaki money belt and replaced them with four blocks of explosive plastic, shaped and wrapped like Cadbury chocolate bars. He installed eight fuses, the kind he usually found in his pipe cleaners, and identified only by tiny drops of solder at one end of the wire. He turned on the transmitter's small beep, which gave a signal eight or ten miles away under normal conditions, and noted the directional response of his wallet-sized transistor radio. Edge toward the transmitter, strong signal. Flat toward the beep, weakest signal.
  He turned around and was grateful that no one had disturbed him until he got the call at six. His travel alarm went off with a bang as he hung up.
  At age seven, he met one of the muscular young men who had been at the party the night before, John Patton. Patton handed him a set of keys and pointed to a blue BMW, gleaming in the crisp morning air. "Gasped and checked, Mr. Grant. Mr. Masters said you were especially keen for it to be in tip-top shape."
  "Thank you, John. It was a good party last night. Did you have a good rest?"
  "Awesome. What a wonderful group you brought. Have a great trip."
  Patton hurried away. Nick chuckled slightly. Patton didn't even blink an eyelid to indicate what he meant by "wonderful," but he was snuggled up to Janet Olson, and Nick saw him drink a fair amount of the Stout.
  Nick parked the BMW again, checked the controls, inspected the trunk, and inspected the engine. He checked the subframe as best he could, then used the radio to check for any telltale emissions. He walked around the entire car, scanning every frequency his special set could pick up, before deciding the car was clean. He went up to Gus's room and found the senior attendant rushing through a shave, his eyes clouded and bloodshot in the light of the bathroom lights. "Great evening," Gus said. "You were smart to refuse. Whew! I left at five."
  "You should live a healthy life. I left early."
  Gus studied Nick's face. "That eye goes black even under the makeup. You look almost as bad as I do."
  "Sour grapes. You'll feel better after breakfast. I'm going to need a little help. Escort Bootie to her car when she arrives, then return her to the hotel under some pretext. How about they put a box of lunch in there, then take her back to pick it up. Don't tell her what it is-she'll find some excuse not to get it, or she's probably already ordered one."
  Most of the girls were late for breakfast. Nick wandered into the lobby, looked out onto the street, and at precisely eight o'clock saw a cream-colored Singer van in one of the corner spaces. A young man in a white jacket entered the hotel, and the public address system called Ms. DeLong. Through the window, Nick watched as Bootie and Gus met the delivery man at the desk and walked out to the Singer van. They talked. The man in the white jacket left Bootie, and Gus returned to the hotel. Nick slipped out the door near the gallery.
  He quickly walked behind the parked cars and pretended to drop something behind the Rover parked next to the Singer. He disappeared from view. When he emerged, the beeper emitter was secured under the Singer's rear frame.
  From the corner, he watched Bootie and Gus leave the hotel with a small box and Bootie's large purse. They stopped under the portico.
  
  
  
  
  Nick watched until Bootie got into the Singer and started the engine, then hurried back to the BMW. When he reached the turnoff, the Singer was halfway down the block. Gus spotted it and waved it upward. "Good luck," he said, like a signal.
  Bootie headed north. The day was glorious, the bright sun illuminating a landscape reminiscent of Southern California in arid weather-not desert, but almost mountainous, with dense vegetation and strange rock formations. Nick followed, staying well behind, confirming contact with the beep of the radio resting against the back of the seat next to him.
  The more he saw of the country, the more he liked it-the climate, the landscape, and the people. Blacks seemed calm and often prosperous, driving all sorts of cars and trucks. He reminded himself that he was seeing the developed, commercial part of the country and should reserve judgment.
  He saw an elephant grazing near an irrigation pump, and from the astonished looks of passersby, he concluded they were as surprised as he was. The animal had likely arrived in civilization due to the drought.
  The sign of England was everywhere, and it suited him perfectly, as if the sunlit countryside and hardy tropical vegetation were as good a backdrop as the mildly humid cloudscape of the British Isles. The baobabs caught his eye. They extended strange arms into space, like banyans or Florida fig trees. He passed one that must have been thirty feet across and reached a crossroads. Signs included Ayrshire, Eldorado, Picaninyamba, Sinoy. Nick stopped, picked up the radio, and turned it on. The strongest signal came straight ahead. He walked straight ahead and checked the ba-hip again. Straight ahead, loud and clear.
  He rounded the bend and saw Booty's Singer parked at a roadside gate; he slammed on the brakes of the BMW and cleverly hid it in a parking lot apparently used by trucks. He jumped out and peered over the neatly trimmed bushes that obscured a cluster of garbage bins. There were no cars on the road. Booty's horn honked four times. After a long wait, a black man in khaki shorts, a shirt, and a cap ran down the side road and unlocked the gate. The car pulled in, and the man locked the gate, got in, drove down the slope, and disappeared from view. Nick waited a moment, then drove the BMW toward the gate.
  It was an interesting barrier: unobtrusive and impenetrable, though it looked flimsy. A three-inch steel rod swung on a pivoting counterweight. Painted red and white, it could have been mistaken for wood. Its free end was secured with a sturdy chain and a fist-sized English lock.
  Nick knew he could hack it or break it, but it was a matter of strategy. In the center of the pole hung a long, oblong sign with neat yellow letters: "SPARTACUS FARM," "PETER VAN PRES," PRIVATE ROAD.
  There was no fence on either side of the gate, but the ditch from the main road formed a ditch impassable even for a jeep. Nick decided it had been cleverly dug by an excavator.
  He returned to the BMW, drove it further into the bush, and locked it. Carrying a small radio, he walked along the bund, following a course parallel to the dirt road. He crossed several dry creeks that reminded him of New Mexico during the dry season. Much of the vegetation seemed to have the characteristics of a desert, capable of retaining moisture during periods of drought. He heard a strange growling sound from a clump of brush and walked around it, wondering if Wilhelmina could stop a rhinoceros or whatever else you might encounter here.
  Keeping the road in sight, he spotted the roof of a small house and approached it until he could survey the area. The house was cement or stucco, with a large cattle pen and neat fields extending up the valley to the west, hidden from view. The road ran past the house into the bushes, to the north. He took out his small brass telescope and examined the details. Two small horses grazed under the shady roof, like a Mexican ramada; the small, windowless building resembled a garage. Two large dogs sat and looked in his direction, their jaws gravely thoughtful as they passed through his lens.
  Nick crawled back and continued parallel to the road until he'd covered a mile from the house. The bushes grew thicker and rougher. He reached the road and followed it, opening and closing the cattle gate. His pipe indicated that the Singer was ahead of him. He moved forward, cautiously, but keeping the ground covered.
  The dry road was gravel and looked well-drained, but in this weather, that didn't matter. He saw dozens of cattle under the trees, some very far away. A small snake skittered off the gravel as he ran past, and once he saw a lizard-like creature on a log that would have won any prize for ugliness-six inches long, it had various colors, scales, horns, and gleaming, vicious-looking teeth.
  
  
  He stopped and wiped his head, and she looked at him seriously, not moving.
  Nick looked at his watch - 1:06. He had been walking for two hours; the estimated distance was seven miles. He had made a pirate hat out of a scarf to protect himself from the scorching sun. He approached the pumping station, where the diesel engine purred smoothly, and the pipes disappeared into the bund. There was a tap at the pumping station, and he took a drink after smelling and examining the water. It must have come from deep underground and was probably fine; he really needed it. He walked up the rise and peered ahead cautiously. He took out his telescope and extended it.
  A powerful small lens revealed a large Californian ranch house surrounded by trees and well-manicured vegetation. There were several outbuildings and kraals. The Singer circled alongside a Land Rover, a sports MG, and a classic car he didn't recognize-a long-hooded roadster that must have been thirty years old, but looked three years old.
  In the spacious courtyard with a canopy on one side of the house, he saw several people sitting in brightly colored chairs. He focused intently-Booty, an old man with weathered skin who gave the impression of being the master and leader even from this distance; three other white men in shorts; two black men...
  He watched. One of them was John J. Johnson, last seen at New York's East Side Airport, described by Hawk as a rare man with a hot pipe. Then he gave Booty an envelope. Nick assumed he'd come to collect it. Very smart. The tour group, with its credentials, easily cleared customs, barely opening their luggage.
  Nick crawled down the hill, turned 180 degrees, and examined his tracks. He felt uneasy. He couldn't actually see anything behind him, but he thought he heard a short call that didn't match the sounds of animals. "Intuition," he thought. Or just excessive caution in this strange land. He studied the road and the bund-nothing.
  It took him an hour to circle around, shielding himself from view from the courtyard, and approach the house. He crawled sixty feet from the group behind the screens and hid behind a thick, gnarled tree; the other manicured bushes and colorful plantings were too small to conceal the dwarf. He aimed his telescope through a gap in the branches. At this angle, there would be no visible sun glare from the lens.
  He could only hear snatches of conversation. They seemed to be having a pleasant meeting. Glasses, cups, and bottles were on the tables. Obviously, Booty had come here for a good dinner. He was very eager for it. The patriarch, who looked like the owner, talked a lot, as did John Johnson and another short, wiry black man in a dark brown shirt, pants, and heavy boots. After watching for at least half an hour, he saw Johnson pick up a package from the table that he recognized as the one Booty had received in New York, or its twin. Nick was never one to jump to conclusions. He heard Johnson say, "... a little... twelve thousand... vital to us... we like to pay... nothing for nothing..."
  The older man said, "...donations were better before...sanctions...goodwill..." He spoke evenly and quietly, but Nick thought he heard the words "golden tusks."
  Johnson unfolded a sheet of paper from the package, which Nick heard: "Thread and needles... a ridiculous code, but understandable..."
  His rich baritone sounded better than the others. He continued, "...it's a good gun, and the ammo is reliable. Explosives always work, at least for now. Better than an A16..." Nick lost the rest of his words in a chuckle.
  A motor rumbled along the road behind Nick. A dusty Volkswagen appeared, parked in the driveway. A woman in her forties entered the house, greeted by an older man who introduced her to Booty as Martha Ryerson. The woman moved as if she spent most of her time outdoors; her gait was quick, her coordination excellent. Nick decided she was almost beautiful, with expressive, open features and neat, short brown hair that stayed in place when she removed her wide-brimmed hat. Who would...
  A heavy voice behind Nick said, "Don't move too fast."
  Very quickly-Nick didn't move. You can tell when they mean it, and you probably have something to back it up with. A deep voice with a musical British accent said to someone Nick couldn't see, "Zanga, tell Mr. Prez." Then, louder: "You can turn around now."
  Nick turned. A medium-sized black man in white shorts and a pale blue sports shirt stood with a double-barreled shotgun tucked under his arm, aimed just to the left of Nick's knees. The gun was expensive, with crisp, deep engravings on the metal, and it was a 10-gauge-a short-range, portable weapon.
  These thoughts passed through his mind as he calmly watched his captor. He didn't intend to move or speak at first-that made some people nervous.
  
  
  
  
  A movement to the side caught his attention. The two dogs he'd seen in the small house at the beginning of the road approached the black man and looked at Nick, as if to say, "Our dinner?"
  They were Rhodesian Ridgebacks, sometimes called lion dogs, weighing about a hundred pounds each. They could break a deer's leg with a snap and twist, bring down large game with their ram, and three of them could hold off a lion. The Negro said, "Stop, Gimba. Stop, Jane."
  They sat down next to him and opened their mouths at Nick. The other man looked at them. Nick turned and jumped back, trying to keep the tree between him and the shotgun.
  He was counting on several things. The dogs had just been told to "stay." That might delay them for a moment. The black man probably wasn't the leader here-not in "white" Rhodesia-and he might have been told not to shoot.
  Bang! It sounded like both barrels firing. Nick heard the howl and screech of light cutting through the air where he'd been a moment ago. It slammed into the garage he was approaching, creating a jagged circle to his right. He saw it as he leaped up, hooked his hand onto the roof, and launched his body up and over the top in a single bound and roll.
  As he disappeared from sight, he heard the scraping of dogs' paws and the heavier sounds of a man running. Each dog let out a loud, hoarse bark that echoed along the line, as if to say, "Here he is!"
  Nick could picture them thrusting their front paws against the garage wall, those huge mouths with inch-long teeth that reminded him of crocodiles, hoping to bite. Two black hands grabbed the edge of the roof. An angry black face appeared. Nick snatched Wilhelmina and crouched, placing the gun an inch from the man's nose. They both froze for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. Nick shook his head and said, "No."
  The black face didn't change expression. His strong arms opened, and he disappeared from view. On 125th Street, Nick thought, he'd be called a real cool cat.
  He examined the roof. It was covered with a light-colored compound, like smooth, hard plaster, and had no obstructions. If it hadn't been for the slight slope back, you could have put up a net and used it for a ping-pong court. A poor place for defense. He looked up. They could climb any of the dozen trees and shoot at him if it came down to it.
  He pulled out Hugo and dug out the molding. Perhaps he could cut a hole in the plastic and steal the car-if it were inside the stalls. Hugo, his steel pounding with all its might, sent out shavings smaller than a fingernail. He'd need an hour to make a bowl for the explosives. He sheathed Hugo.
  He heard voices. A man shouted, "Tembo, who's up there?"
  Tembo described him. Booty exclaimed, "Andy Grant!"
  The first man's voice, British with a hint of a Scottish chin, asked who Andy Grant was. Booty explained, adding that he had a gun.
  Tembo's deep tone confirmed it. "He has it with him. A Luger."
  Nick sighed. Tembo was nearby. He guessed the Scottish accent belonged to the older man he'd seen in the courtyard. It carried authority. Now it said, "Put your guns down, boys. You shouldn't have shot, Tembo."
  "I didn't try to shoot him," Tembo's voice replied.
  Nick decided he believed it - but the shot was damn close.
  The voice with the hangnail grew louder. "Hello, Andy Grant?"
  "Yes," Nick replied. They knew it anyway.
  "You have a beautiful Highland name. Are you Scottish?"
  "It's been so long since I knew which end of the kilt to fit into."
  "You should learn, buddy. They're more comfortable than shorts." The other man chuckled. "Want to come down?"
  "No."
  "Well, look at us. We won't hurt you."
  Nick decided to take a chance. He doubted they'd kill him by accident, in front of Booty. And he had no intention of winning anything from this rooftop-it was one of the worst positions he'd ever found himself in. The simplest thing could turn out to be the most dangerous. He was glad none of his vicious opponents had ever lured him into such a trap. Judas would have tossed a few grenades and then riddled him with rifle fire from the trees for good measure. He cocked his head and added a grin, "Hello, everyone."
  Oddly enough, at that moment the PA system filled the area with a drumbeat. Everyone froze. Then a fine orchestra-it sounded like the Scots Guards Band or the Grenadiers-thundered and thundered into the opening bars of "The Garb of Auld Gaul." In the center of the group, beneath him, an old man with weathered skin, over six feet tall, thin and straight as a plumb line, bellowed, "Harry! Please come and turn it down a bit."
  The white man Kick had seen in the group on the patio turned and ran toward the house. The older man looked back at Nick. "Sorry, we weren't expecting a conversation with music. It's a beautiful tune. Do you recognize it?"
  Nick nodded and named her.
  
  
  
  The old man looked at him. He had a kind, thoughtful face, and he stood quietly. Nick felt uneasy. Before you knew them, they were the most dangerous type in the world. They were loyal and straightforward-or pure poison. They were the ones who led the troops with the whip. Marched up and down the trenches, singing "Highland Laddie," until they were shot down and replaced. They sat in the saddle like the Sixteenth Lancers when they ran into forty thousand Sikhs with sixty-seven artillery pieces at Aliwal. The damned fools, of course, attacked.
  Nick looked down. History was very useful; it gave you a chance against men and limited your mistakes. Dobie stood twenty feet behind the tall old man. With her were two other white men he'd noticed on the porch, and a woman introduced as Martha Ryerson. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and looked like a sweet matron over English garden tea.
  The old man said, "Mr. Grant, I'm Peter van Preez. You know Miss DeLong. Let me introduce Mrs. Martha Ryerson. And Mr. Tommy Howe on her left, and Mr. Fred Maxwell on her right."
  Nick nodded to everyone and said he was very pleased. The sun, like a hot iron, lay on his neck, where his pirate cap didn't reach. He realized how he should look, took it in his left hand, wiped his forehead, and put it away.
  Van Prez said, "It's hot out there. Would you mind dropping the gun and joining us for something a little cooler?"
  "I'd like something cool, but I'd rather keep the gun. I'm sure we can discuss it."
  "Sir, we can. Miss Delong says she thinks you're an American FBI agent. If so, you're not arguing with us."
  "Of course, I'm not only concerned about Miss Delong's safety. That's why I followed her."
  Buti couldn't keep silent. She said, "How did you know I came here? I was looking in the mirror the whole time. You weren't behind me."
  "Yeah, I was," Nick said. "You just didn't look hard enough. You should have walked up the driveway. Then turned back. Then you would have caught me."
  Booty glared at him. If only a look could give her a rash! The now softer "Robes of Old Gaul" ended. The group switched to "Road to the Isles." The white man was slowly returning from the house. Nick glanced under his supporting arm. Something moved in the corner of the roof, behind him.
  "Can I come down..."
  "Drop your gun, buddy." The tone wasn't so gentle.
  Nick shook his head, pretending to think. Something screeched over the battle music, and he was engulfed in a net and swept off the roof. He was groping for Wilhelmina when he landed with a stunning thud at Peter van Prez's feet.
  The older man leaped, grabbing Nick's pistol-wielding hand with both hands as Wilhelmina became entangled in the net ropes. A moment later, Tommy and Fred were caught in the pile. The Luger jerked away from him. Another fold of the stake covered him as the whites bounced back, and the two blacks flipped the ends of the net with practiced precision.
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Nick landed partially on his head. He thought his reflexes were normal, but they slowed for a few seconds, even though he understood everything that was happening. He felt like a TV viewer who'd been sitting there for so long that he'd gone numb, his muscles refusing to activate, even as his mind continued to absorb the screen's contents.
  It was damn humiliating. Two black men took the ends of the nets and retreated. They resembled Tembo. He imagined one of them might be Zanga, come to warn Peter. He saw John J. Johnson emerge from around the corner of the garage. He was there to help them with the net.
  The band struck up "Dumbarton's Drums," and Nick frowned. The rousing music was deliberately played to drown out the noise of moving people and the network. And Peter van Prees organized the movement in seconds with the smooth tactics of a seasoned strategist. He came across as a likeable, eccentric old man who plays the bagpipes for his friends and laments the loss of horses to the cavalry because it interferes with fox hunting while he's on active duty. Enough historical background-the old man probably knew his way around random-choice computer analysis.
  Nick took a couple of deep breaths. His head cleared, but he felt no less stupidly restrained than a freshly caught animal. He could have reached Hugo and freed himself instantly, but Tommy Howe wielded the Luger with such skill, and you could bet there was more firepower hidden here and there.
  Bootie giggled. "If J. Edgar could see you now..."
  Nick felt a heat rise up his neck. Why hadn't he insisted on this vacation or retired? He said to Peter, "I'll have a cool drink right now if you'll get me out of this mess."
  "I don't think you have another weapon," Peter said, then demonstrated his diplomatic skill by not having Nick searched-after letting him know he'd considered the possibility. "Unzip it, boys. Please forgive the rough treatment, Mr. Grant. But you've overstepped your bounds, you know. These are bad times. You never know. I don't think that's true."
  
  
  
  
  That we have any quarrels unless the United States is prepared to put hard pressure on us, and that doesn't make sense. Or does it?
  Tembo unrolled the net. Nick stood up and rubbed his elbow. "Frankly, I don't believe we have any disagreements. Miss Delong is my concern."
  Peter wasn't buying it, but he didn't refuse. "Let's go somewhere cool. A glass is a good day."
  Everyone except Tembo and Zangi leisurely walked out into the courtyard. Peter personally prepared the whiskey and handed it to Nick. Another subtle gesture of appeasement. "Anyone named Grant takes a whiskey and water. Did you know you were being chased off the highway?"
  "I thought about it once or twice, but I didn't see anything. How did you know I was coming?"
  "Dogs in a small house. Have you seen them?"
  "Yes."
  Tembo was inside. He called me and then followed you. The dogs are watching silently. You may have heard him order them to hold back and not alert you. It sounds like an animal's growl, but your ears might not believe it."
  Nick nodded in agreement and took a sip of whiskey. Ahhh. He noticed that Van Pree sometimes lost the burrs in his speech and spoke like an educated Englishman. He pointed to the beautifully furnished courtyard. "A very nice house, Mr. Van Pree."
  "Thank you. It shows what hard work, thrift, and a solid inheritance can do. You're wondering why my name is Afrikaans, but my actions and accent are Scottish. My mother, Duncan, married a van Preez. He invented the first treks out of South Africa and much of this." He waved his hand at the vast expanses of land. "Cattle, tobacco, minerals. He had a keen eye."
  The others settled into the foam chairs and lounge chairs. The patio could have served as a small family resort. Bootie was next to John Johnson, Howe, Maxwell, and Zanga. Mrs. Ryerson brought Nick a tray of appetizers-meat and cheese on triangles of bread, nuts, and pretzels. Nick took a handful. She sat with them. "You've had a long, hot walk, Mr. Grant. I could drive you. Is that your BMW parked by the highway?"
  "Yes," Nick said. "The strong gate stopped me. I didn't know it was that far."
  Mrs. Ryerson nudged the tray toward his elbow. "Try the biltong. Here..." She pointed to what looked like dried beef rolled on bread with drippings of sauce. "Biltong is just salted meat, but it's delicious when cooked properly. It's a little pepper sauce on the biltong."
  Nick smiled at her and sampled one of the canapés, his mind clicking. Biltong-biltong-biltong. For a moment, he remembered Hawk's last, shrewd, kind look and caution. His elbow ached, and he rubbed it. Yes, kind Papa Hawk, pushing Junior out of the plane door for a parachute jump. It has to be done, son. I'll be there when you hit the ground. Don't worry, your flight is guaranteed.
  "What do you think of Rhodesia, Mr. Grant?" asked van Preez.
  "Fascinating. Captivating."
  Martha Ryerson chuckled. Van Prez glanced at her sharply, and she returned his gaze cheerfully. "Have you met many of our citizens?"
  "Masters, tour contractor. Alan Wilson, businessman."
  "Ah yes, Wilson. One of our most enthusiastic advocates of independence. And healthy business conditions."
  "He mentioned something about it."
  "He's also a brave man. In his own way. Roman legionaries are brave in their own way. A kind of half-interested patriotism."
  "I thought he'd have made a fine Confederate cavalryman," Nick said, following suit. "You get philosophy when you combine courage, ideals, and greed in Waring's blend."
  "Wareing blender?" asked van Preez.
  "It's a machine that brings them all together," Mrs. Ryerson explained. "It mixes everything up and turns it into soup."
  Van Prez nodded, imagining the process. "It fits. And they can never be separated again. We have plenty of those."
  "But not you," Nick said cautiously. "I think your point of view is more reasonable." He glanced at John Johnson.
  "Reasonable? Some call it treason. For the record, I can't decide."
  Nick doubted the mind behind those piercing eyes had ever been permanently damaged. "I understand this is a very difficult situation."
  Van Prez poured them some whiskey. "That's right. Whose independence comes first? You had a similar problem with the Indians. Should we solve it your way?"
  Nick refused to get involved. When he fell silent, Mrs. Ryerson interjected, "Are you just giving a tour, Mr. Grant? Or do you have other interests?"
  "I've often thought about getting into the gold business. Wilson turned me down when I tried to buy it. I heard that the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company had opened new mines.
  "If I were you, I'd stay away from them," van Preez said quickly.
  "Why?"
  "They have markets for everything they produce. And they're a tough crowd with strong political connections... There are rumors that other things are going on behind the golden facade - strange rumors of hired killers.
  
  If they catch you like we did, you won't be easy to catch. You won't survive." "And what does that leave you with as a Rhodesian patriot?" Van Prez shrugged. "On the balance sheet." "Did you know people also say they're funding new Nazis? They contribute to the Odessa Fund, they support half a dozen dictators with both arms and gold." "I've heard it. I don't necessarily believe it." "Is that unbelievable?" "Why would they sell out to the Communists and fund the Fascists?" "Which joke is better? First you dump the Socialists, using their own money to finance their strikes, and then you finish off the democracies at your leisure. When it's all over, they'll build statues of Hitler in every capital of the world. Three hundred feet high. He would have done it. Just a little late, that's all. " Van Prez and Mrs. Ryerson looked at each other questioningly. Nick supposed the idea had been here before. The only sounds were the trills and cries of birds. Finally, van Prez said, "I must think about that tea time." He stood up. "And then Bootie and I can leave?" "Go and wash up. Mrs. Ryerson will show you the way. As for your leaving, we'll have to have an indaba here in the parking lot about that." He waved his hand, hugging everyone else. Nick shrugged and followed Mrs. Ryerson through the sliding glass doors into the house. She led him down a long hallway and pointed to a door. "There." Nick whispered, "Biltong is fine. Robert Morris should have sent more to Valley Forge." The name of the American patriot and Washington's winter quarters were the identifying words of AXE. Mrs. Ryerson gave the correct answer. "Israel Putnam, a general from Connecticut. You've arrived at a bad time, Grant. Johnson was smuggled through Tanzania. Tembo and Zanga just returned from Zambia. They have a guerrilla group in the jungle along the river. They're fighting the Rhodesian army now. And they're doing such good work the Rhodesians had to bring in South African troops." "Did Dobie bring the money?" "Yes. She's just a courier. But van Preez might think you've seen too much to let her go. If the Rhodesian police show you photos of Tembo and Zanga, you might be able to identify them." "What do you advise?" "I don't know. I've lived here for six years. I'm at location AX P21. I can probably get you released eventually if they hold you." "They won't," Nick promised. "Don't blow your cover, it's too valuable." "Thank you. "And you..." "N3." Martha Ryerson swallowed and calmed down. Nick decided she was a beautiful girl. She was still very attractive. And she obviously knew that N3 stood for Killmaster. She whispered, "Good luck," and left. The bathroom was state-of-the-art and well-appointed. Nick washed quickly, tried men's lotion and cologne, and combed his dark brown hair. When he returned across the long hall, van Pree and his guests were gathered in the large dining room. The buffet-a smorgasbord, really-was on a side table at least twenty-five feet long, covered with a snowy canvas and adorned with shining cutlery. Peter graciously handed the first large plates to Mrs. Ryerson and Booty and invited them to begin eating. Nick loaded his plate with meat and salad. Howe was monopolizing Booty, which was fine with Nick until he had eaten a few mouthfuls. A black man and a woman in white uniform to pour tea. Nick noticed the revolving doors and decided that the kitchen was beyond the butler's pantry. When he felt a little less empty, Nick said pleasantly to van Prez, "This is an excellent dinner. It reminds me of England." "Thank you." "Have you sealed my fate?" "Don't be so melodramatic. Yes, we must ask you to stay at least until tomorrow. We'll call your friends and say you're having engine trouble." Nick frowned. For the first time, he felt a hint of hostility toward his host. The old man had put down roots in a country that had suddenly blossomed with problems like a plague of locusts. He could sympathize with him. But this was too arbitrary. "May I ask why we are being detained?" Nick asked. "Actually, it's only you who are being detained. Booty is happy to accept my hospitality. I don't suppose you'll go to the authorities. It's none of your business, and you seem like a reasonable man, but we can't take any chances. Even when you leave, I'll ask you as a gentleman to forget everything you've seen here." "I assume you mean... anyone," Nick corrected. "Yes." Nick noticed the cold, hateful look John Johnson cast in his direction. There had to be a reason they needed a one-day favor. They probably had a column or task force between Van Pree's ranch and the jungle valley. He said. "Suppose I promise-as a gentleman-not to talk if you let us go back now." Van Pree's serious gaze turned to Johnson, Howe, Tembo. Nick read denial on their faces. "I'm so sorry," van Preez replied. "Me too," Nick muttered. He finished his meal and pulled out a cigarette, rummaging in his pants pocket for a lighter. It wasn't like they hadn't asked for one. He felt a twinge of satisfaction at having gone on the attack, and then scolded himself.
  
  
  Killmaster must control his emotions, especially his ego. He mustn't lose his temper over that unexpected slap from the garage roof, or over being tied up like a captured animal.
  Putting away the lighter, he pulled two oval, egg-shaped containers from his shorts pocket. He was careful not to mistake them for the pellets on the left, which contained explosives.
  He studied the room. It was air-conditioned; the patio and hall doors were closed. Servants had just passed through the swing door into the kitchen. It was a large room, but Stuart had developed a large expansion of the expelling gas, compressed under very high pressure. He fumbled for the small switches and flipped the safety switch. He said loudly, "Well, if we have to stay, I suppose we'll make the most of it. We can..."
  His voice did not rise above the loud double puff-puff and hiss as the two gas bombs released their charges.
  "What was that?" van Prez roared, stopping halfway at the table.
  Nick held his breath and began to count.
  "I don't know," Maxwell replied across the table and pushed back his chair. "Looks like a small explosion. Somewhere on the floor?"
  Van Prez bent over, gasped, and slowly collapsed like an oak tree pierced by a chain saw.
  "Peter! What happened?" Maxwell walked around the table, staggered, and fell. Mrs. Ryerson threw her head back as if she were dozing.
  Booty's head fell onto the remains of his salad. Howe choked, cursed, shoved his hand under his jacket, and then slumped back against the chair, looking like an unconscious Napoleon. Tembo, three seats away, managed to reach Peter. This was the worst possible direction he could have taken. He fell asleep like a tired baby.
  John Johnson was a problem. He didn't know what had happened, but he stood up and walked away from the table, sniffing suspiciously. The two dogs left outside instinctively knew something was wrong with their owner. They hit the glass partition with a double crash, barking, their giant jaws small red caves framed by white teeth. The glass was strong-it held.
  Johnson pressed his hand to his hip. Nick lifted the plate and carefully rammed it into the man's throat.
  Johnson recoiled, his face calm and without hatred, a serenity in black. The hand he'd been holding on his hip suddenly dangled forward, the end of a limp, leaden arm. He sighed heavily, trying to pull himself together, determination evident in his helpless eyes. Nick picked up Van Prez's plate and weighed it like a disc. The man didn't give in easily. Johnson's eyes closed, and he collapsed.
  Nick carefully replaced Van Prez's plate. He was still counting-one hundred twenty-one, one hundred twenty-two. He felt no need to breathe. Holding his breath was one of his best skills; he could almost reach the unofficial record.
  He pulled a small blue Spanish revolver from Johnson's pocket, took several pistols from the unconscious van Prez, Howe, Maxwell, and Tembo. He pulled Wilhelmina from Maxwell's belt and, to make sure everything was in order, searched the bags of Booty and Mrs. Ryerson. No one had any weapons.
  He ran to the double doors of the butler's pantry and flung them open. The spacious room, with its astonishing number of wall cabinets and three built-in sinks, was empty. He ran through the tie room to the kitchen. At the other end of the room, the screen door slammed shut. The man and woman who served them fled across the service yard. Nick closed and locked the door to keep the dogs out.
  Fresh air with a strange scent flowed softly through the screen. Nick exhaled, emptied, and filled his lungs. He wondered if they had a spice garden near the kitchen. The running black men disappeared from view.
  The big house suddenly became silent. The only sounds were distant birds and the quiet murmur of water in the kettle on the stove.
  In the pantry next to the kitchen, Nick found a fifty-foot coil of nylon clothesline. He returned to the dining room. The men and women lay where they had fallen, looking sadly helpless. Only Johnson and Tembo showed signs of regaining consciousness. Johnson was muttering unintelligible words. Tembo was shaking his head very slowly from side to side.
  Nick tied them up first, slinging nails around their wrists and ankles, secured with square knots. He did it without looking much like the old boatswain's mate.
  
  Chapter Five
  
  It only took a few minutes to neutralize the rest. He bound Howe and Maxwell's ankles-they were tough guys, and he wouldn't have survived a kick with his hands tied-but only bound van Prez's hands, leaving Booty and Mrs. Ryerson free. He gathered the pistols on the buffet table and emptied them all, tossing the cartridges into a greasy bowl with the remains of a green salad.
  He thoughtfully dipped the cartridges into the slime, then poured some salad from another into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He then took a clean plate, selected two thick slices of roast beef and a spoonful of seasoned beans, and sat down in the place he occupied for dinner.
  Johnson and Tembo were the first to wake up. The dogs were sitting behind a glass partition, watching warily, their fur raised. Johnson croaked, "Damn... you... Grant. You... will regret... you... never coming to... our land."
  "Your land?" Nick paused with a forkful of beef.
  "The land of my people. We will take it back and hang bastards like you. Why are you interfering? You think you can rule the world! We'll show you! We're doing it now and we're doing it well. More..."
  His tone grew higher and higher. Nick said sharply, "Shut up and go back to your chair if you can. I'm eating."
  Johnson turned, struggled to his feet, and jumped back into his seat. Tembo, seeing the demonstration, said nothing, but did the same. Nick reminded himself not to let Tembo approach him with a weapon.
  By the time Nick had washed his plate and poured himself another cup of tea from the teapot on the buffet table, comfortably warm in his cozy wool knitwear, the others had followed Johnson and Tembo's lead. They said nothing, just looked at him. He wanted to feel victorious and take revenge-instead, he felt like a skeleton at a feast.
  Van Prez's gaze was a mixture of anger and disappointment, making him almost regret having prevailed-as if he'd done the wrong thing. He was forced to break the silence himself. "Miss Delong and I will return to Salisbury now. Unless you'd like to tell me more about your... er... program. And I'd appreciate any information you'd like to add about Taylor-Hill-Boreman."
  "I'm not going anywhere with you, beast!" Booty screamed.
  "Now, Booty," van Prez said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Mr. Grant is in control. It would be worse if he returned without you. Are you planning to turn us in, Grant?"
  "Turn you in? To whom? Why? We had a little fun. I learned a few things, but I'm not going to tell anyone. In fact, I've forgotten all your names. Sounds silly. I usually have an excellent memory. No, I stopped by your ranch, found nothing but Miss Delong, and we went back to town. How does that sound?"
  "Spoken like a mountain man," van Preez said thoughtfully. "About Taylor Hill. They've built a mine. Possibly the best gold mine in the country. It's selling fast, but you know that. Everyone. And my advice still holds. Stay away from them. They have political connections and power. They'll kill you if you go against them."
  "How about we go against them together?"
  "We have no reason for this."
  "Do you believe that your problems do not concern them?"
  "Not yet. When the day comes..." Van Prez looked around at his friends. "I had to ask if you agreed with me."
  Heads nodded affirmatively. Johnson said, "Don't trust him. Honky's a government official. He..."
  "You don't trust me?" van Prez asked softly. "I'm a traitor."
  Johnson looked down. "I'm sorry."
  "We understand. There was a time when my men killed Englishmen on sight. Now some of us call ourselves English without thinking much about it. After all, John, we are all... people. Parts of a whole."
  Nick stood up, pulled Hugo from its sheath, and freed van Prez. "Mrs. Ryerson, please get the table knife and free everyone else. Miss Delong, shall we go?"
  With a quiet, expressive wave of the shuttlecock, Bootie picked up her purse and opened the patio door. Two dogs burst into the room, their beaded eyes fixed on Nick but their gaze fixed on van Prez. The old man said, "Stay... Jane... Gimba... stay."
  The dogs stopped, wagged their tails, and snatched the chunks of meat van Prez threw them in mid-flight. Nick followed Booty outside.
  Sitting in the Singer, Nick looked at van Prez. "Sorry if I ruined everyone's tea."
  He thought he saw a glimmer of joy in his piercing eyes. "No harm done." That seemed to clear the air. Perhaps we all know where we stand better now. I don't think the boys will really believe you until they know you meant to keep quiet." Suddenly, van Preez straightened up, raised his hand, and shouted, "No! Vallo. It's all right."
  Nick crouched, feeling Wilhelmina with his fingers. At the foot of a low, greenish-brown tree, two hundred yards away, he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a man in a prone shooting position. He narrowed his remarkably perceptive eyes and decided that Vallo was the dark-skinned kitchen staff member who had been serving them and had fled when Nick invaded the kitchen.
  Nick squinted, his 20/15 vision sharply focused. The rifle had a scope. He said, "Well, Peter, the situation has changed again. Your men are determined.
  "We all jump to conclusions sometimes," van Preez replied. "Especially when we have preconditions. None of my men ever ran very far. One of them gave his life for me years ago in the jungle. Perhaps I feel I owe them something for that. It's difficult to disentangle our personal motivations and social actions."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is your conclusion about me?" Nick asked, curiously and because it would be a valuable note for future reference.
  "Are you wondering if I can shoot you on the highway?"
  "Of course not. You could have let Vallo catch me a moment ago. I'm sure he was hunting game big enough to hit me."
  Van Prez nodded. "You're right. I believe your word is as good as mine. You have genuine courage, and that usually means honesty. It's the coward who shrinks from fear through no fault of his own, sometimes twice over-stabbing in the back or shooting wildly at enemies. Or...bombing women and children."
  Nick shook his head without a smile. "You're dragging me into politics again. That's not my thing. I just want to see this tour group off safely..."
  The bell rang, sharply, forcefully. "Wait," van Preez said. "That's the gate you passed. You don't want to meet a cattle truck on this road." He ran up the wide steps-his gait was light and springy, like a young man's-and pulled a telephone from its gray metal box. "Peter here..." He listened. "Right," he barked, his whole attitude changing. "Keep out of sight."
  He hung up and shouted into the house, "Maxwell!"
  There was a replying cry. "Yes?"
  "Army patrol arriving. Give me the M5 handset. Make it short. Code four."
  "Code four." Maxwell's head appeared briefly at the porch window, then he was gone. Van Prez rushed to the car.
  "The army and the police. They're probably just checking."
  "How do they get through your gates?" Nick asked. "Break them down?"
  "No. They're demanding duplicate keys from all of us." Van Prez looked worried, tension drawing extra lines across his weathered face for the first time since Nick had met him.
  "I think every minute counts now," Nick said softly. "Your code four must be between here and the jungle valley, and whoever they are, they can't move fast. I'll give you a few more minutes. Dobie-let's go."
  Bootie looked at van Prez. "Do as he says," the old man barked. He stuck his hand through the window. "Thank you, Grant. You must be a Highlander."
  Bootie pulled the car onto the driveway. They crested the first peak, and the ranch disappeared behind them. "Press!" Nick said.
  "What are you going to do?"
  "Give Peter and the others some time."
  "Why would you do that?" Dobie increased her speed, rocking the car through the holes in the gravel.
  "I owe them a wonderful day." The pumping station came into view. Everything was just as Nick remembered-pipes running under the road and emerging on both sides; there was only room for one car. "Stop right between those pipes-at the pumping station."
  Bootie flew several hundred yards, stopping in a shower of dust and dry earth. Nick jumped out, unscrewed the valve on the right rear tire, and air rushed out. He replaced the valve stem.
  He walked over to the spare tire, removed the valve stem, and twisted it in his fingers until the core bent. He leaned against Booty's window. "Here's our story when the army arrives. We lost air in the tire. The spare tire was empty. I think it was a clogged valve stem. All we need now is a pump."
  "Here they come."
  Against the cloudless sky, dust rose-so clear and blue it seemed luminous, retouched with bright ink. The dust formed a dirty panel, rising and spreading. Its base was a road, a cut in the bund. A jeep sped through the cut, a small red and yellow pennant flying from its antenna, as if an ancient spearman had lost his spear and flag to the machine age. Behind the jeep came three armored personnel carriers, giant armadillos with heavy machine guns for heads. Behind them came two six-by-six trucks, the latter towing a small tanker that danced across the uneven road, as if to say, "I may be the smallest and last, but not least-I'm the water you'll need when you're thirsty..."
  Gunga Din with rubber tires.
  The jeep stopped ten feet from the Singer. The officer in the right-hand seat casually climbed out and approached Nick. He wore British-style tropical fatigues with shorts, retaining his garrison cap in place of his sunny topi. He couldn't have been more than thirty, and he had the tense expression of a man who takes his job seriously and is dissatisfied because he's not sure he's doing the right job. The curse of modern military service was eating away at him; they tell you it's your duty, but they make the mistake of teaching you to reason so you can handle modern equipment. You get a history of the Nuremberg Trials and the Geneva Conferences and realize everyone's confused, which means someone must be lying to you. You pick up a book of Marx to see what they're all arguing about, and suddenly you feel like you're sitting on a rickety fence, listening to bad advice being shouted at you.
  "Problems?" the officer asked, looking carefully at the surrounding bushes.
  Nick noted that the machine gun sight in the first armored personnel carrier remained on him, and the officer never got inside the line of fire.
  
  
  
  The steel snouts of the next two armored vehicles popped out, one to the left, one to the right. The soldier climbed down from the first truck and quickly inspected the small pumping station.
  "Flat tire," Nick said. He held out the valve. "Bad valve. I replaced it, but we don't have a pump."
  "We might have one," the officer replied, not looking at Nick. He continued to calmly scan the road ahead, the bund, the nearby trees with the greedy interest of a typical tourist, wanting to see everything but not worrying about what he missed. Nick knew he hadn't missed anything. Finally, he looked at Nick and the car. "Strange place you've stopped."
  "Why?"
  "Completely blocks the road."
  "We're talking about where the air came out of the tire. I think we stopped here because the pumping station is the only visible part of civilization."
  "Hmm. Oh, yes. Are you American?"
  "Yes."
  "Can I see your documents? We don't usually do this, but these are unusual times. It will make things easier if I don't have to interrogate you."
  "What if I don't have any documents? We weren't told that this country was like Europe or some place behind the Iron Curtain where you have to wear a badge around your neck."
  "Then please tell me who you are and where you've been." The officer casually checked all the tires, even kicking one with his foot.
  Nick handed him his passport. He was rewarded with a look that said, "You could have just done this in the first place."
  The officer read carefully, making notes in his notebook. It was as if he were saying to himself, "You could have installed a spare tire."
  "That wasn't possible," Nick lied. "I used a valve stem from it. You know those rental cars."
  "I know." He handed Nick Edman Toor's passport and identification. "I'm Lieutenant Sandeman, Mr. Grant. Did you meet anyone in Salisbury?"
  "Ian Masters is our tour contractor."
  "I've never heard of Edman's educational tours. Are they like American Express?"
  "Yes. There are dozens of small tour companies that specialize in this. You might say that not everyone needs a Chevrolet. Our group consists of young women from wealthy families. It's an expensive outing."
  "What a fine job you're doing." Sandeman turned and called the jeep. "Corporal, please bring a tire pump."
  Sandeman chatted with Booty and glanced at her papers while a short, gruff soldier pumped up a flat tire. Then the officer turned back to Nick. "What were you doing here?"
  "We were visiting Mr. van Prez," Bootie interjected smoothly. "He's my pen pal."
  "How sweet of him," Sandeman replied pleasantly. "Did you come together?"
  "You know we didn't," Nick said. "You saw my BMW parked near the highway. Miss Delong left early, I followed her later. She forgot I didn't have a key to the gate, and I didn't want to damage it. So I went in. Didn't realize how far it was. This part of your country is like our West."
  Sandeman's tense, youthful face remained expressionless. "Your tire is underinflated. Please stop and let us pass."
  He saluted them and climbed into a passing jeep. The column disappeared into its own dust.
  Bootie drove the car toward the main road. After Nick opened the barrier with the key she'd given him and closed it behind them, she said, "Before you get in the car, I want to tell you, Andy, that was kind of you. I don't know why you did it, but I know every minute you delayed helped van Prez."
  "And some others. I like him. And the rest of these people, I think, are good people when they are at home and living peacefully there."
  She stopped the car next to the BMW and thought for a moment. "I don't understand. Did you like Johnson and Tembo too?"
  "Of course. And Vallo. Even if I hardly saw him, I like a man who does his job well."
  Bootie sighed and shook her head. Nick thought she was truly beautiful in the dim light. Her bright blonde hair was disheveled, her features were tired, but her pert chin was raised, and her graceful jawline was firm. He felt a strong attraction to her-why would such a beautiful girl, who could probably have everything in the world, get involved in international politics? This was more than just a way to relieve boredom or feel important. When this girl gave herself to him, it was a serious commitment.
  "You look tired, Booty," he said softly. "Perhaps we should stop somewhere for a pick-me-up, as they say around here?"
  She threw her head back, put her feet forward, and sighed. "Yeah. I think all these surprises are tiring me out. Yeah, let's stop somewhere."
  "We'll do better than this." He got out and walked around the car. "Move."
  "What about your car?" she asked, complying.
  "I'll pick it up later. I think I can use it on my account as a personal service for a special client."
  He eased the car toward Salisbury. Booty glanced at him, then rested her head on the seat and studied this man, who was becoming more and more of a mystery to her and more and more attractive. She decided he was handsome, and a step ahead.
  
  
  
  
  Her first impression was that he was handsome and empty, like so many others she'd met. His features had an actor's flexibility. She'd seen them look as stern as granite, but she'd decided there was always a kindness in his eyes that never changed.
  There was no doubting his strength and determination, but it was tempered by-mercy? That wasn't quite right, but it had to be. He was probably some kind of government agent, though he might have been a private detective, hired by-Edman Tours-her father? She remembered how van Prez had failed to extract the precise alliance from him. She sighed, let her head rest on his shoulder, and placed one hand on his leg, not a sensual touch, simply because that was the natural position in which she had fallen. He patted her hand, and she felt warmth in her chest and belly. The gentle gesture evoked in her more than an erotic caress. Many men. He probably enjoyed it in bed, though that wasn't necessarily what was to follow. She was almost certain he had slept with Ruth, and the next morning Ruth looked contented and dreamy-eyed, so perhaps...
  She was sleeping.
  Nick found her weight pleasant; she smelled good and felt good. He hugged her. She purred and relaxed even more against him. He drove automatically and constructed several fantasies in which Buti found herself in various interesting situations. As he pulled up to the Meikles Hotel, he muttered, "Bum..."
  "Hmph...?" He enjoyed watching her wake up. "Thank you for letting me sleep." She became fully alert, not half-conscious like many women, as if they hated facing the world again.
  He paused at the door of her room until she said, "Oh, let's have a drink. I don't know where the others are now, and you?"
  "No" '
  "Do you want to get dressed and go to lunch?"
  "No."
  "I hate eating alone..."
  "Me too." He didn't usually do that, but he was surprised to realize it was true tonight. He didn't want to leave her and face the loneliness of his room or the only table in the dining room. "A bad order from room service."
  "Please bring some ice and a couple of bottles of soda first."
  He ordered the settings and menu, then called Selfridge to pick up the Singer and Masters to bring the BMW. The girl on the phone at Masters said, "That's a bit unusual, Mr. Grant. There will be an extra charge."
  "Consult Ian Masters," he said. "I'm leading the tour."
  "Oh, then there may be no extra charge."
  "Thank you." He hung up. They'd quickly learned the ropes of the tourist business. He wondered if Gus Boyd had received any cash payment from Masters. It wasn't his business, and he didn't care; you just wanted to know exactly where everyone stood and how tall they were.
  They enjoyed two drinks, a superb dinner with a good bottle of rosé, and pulled out the sofa to gaze at the city lights with coffee and brandy. Booty turned off the lights, except for the lamp over which she hung a towel. "It's calming," she explained.
  "Intimate," Nick replied.
  "Dangerous".
  "Sensual."
  She laughed. "A few years ago, a virtuous girl wouldn't have gotten herself into a situation like this. Alone in her bedroom. The door is closed."
  "I locked her," Nick said cheerfully. "That's when virtue was its own reward-boredom. Or are you reminding me that you're virtuous?"
  "I... I don't know." She stretched out in the living room, giving him an inspiring view of her long, nylon-clad legs in the gloom. They were beautiful in the daylight; in the soft mystery of the near-darkness, they became two patterns of captivating curves. She knew he was staring at them dreamily over his brandy glass. Sure-she knew they were good. In fact, she knew they were excellent-she often compared them to the supposedly perfect ones in the Sunday ads of The York Times magazine. Sleek models had become the standard of perfection in Texas, though most women in the know hid their Times and pretended to loyally read only local papers.
  She glanced at him sideways. He gave you a terribly warm feeling. Comfortable, she decided. He was very comfortable. She remembered their contacts on the plane that first night. Ugh! All men. She had been so sure he was no good, that she had played him wrong-that was why he had left with Ruth after that first dinner. She had rejected him, now he was back, and he was worth it. She saw him as several men in one-friend, adviser, confidant. She slid over father, lover. You knew you could rely on him. Peter van Preez made that clear. She felt a surge of pride at the impression he had made. A glow spread up her neck and down to the base of her spine.
  She felt his hand on her breast, and suddenly he was tugging at the right spot, and she had to catch her breath to keep from jumping. He was so gentle. Did that mean he'd had an awful lot of practice? No, he was naturally gifted with subtle touches, sometimes moving like a trained dancer. She sighed and touched his lips. Hmm.
  
  
  
  
  She soared through space, but she could fly whenever she wanted, simply by extending her arm like a wing. She closed her eyes tightly and performed a slow loop that stirred the warmth in her belly, like the loop-winding machine at Santone amusement park. His mouth was so pliant-could one say the man had amazingly beautiful lips?
  Her blouse was off and her skirt unbuttoned. She lifted her hips to make it easier for him and finished unbuttoning his shirt. She lifted his undershirt and her fingers found the soft down on his chest, smoothing it back and forth as if you were grooming a dog's manhood. He smelled enticingly of man. His nipples responded to her tongue, and she giggled inwardly, pleased that she wasn't the only one aroused by the right touch. Once his spine arched, he made a contented humming sound. She slowly sucked on the hardened cones of flesh, instantly capturing them again as they escaped her lips, delighting in the way his shoulders straightened, with reflexive pleasure at each loss and return. Her bra was gone. Let him discover that she was better built than Ruth.
  She felt a burning sensation-of delight, not pain. No, not burning, but vibration. A warm vibration, as if one of those pulsation massage machines had suddenly enveloped her entire body.
  She felt his lips descend to her breasts, kissing them in narrowing circles of moist warmth. Oh! A very good man. She felt him loosen her garter belt and undo the buttonholes of one stocking. Then they rolled down-gone. She stretched out her long legs, feeling the tension leave her muscles and be replaced by a delicious, relaxed warmth. "Oh yes," she thought, "a penny in the pound"-is that what they say in Rhodesia?
  The back of her hand brushed his belt buckle, and almost without thinking, she turned her hand and unbuckled it. There was a soft thud-she assumed it was his pants and shorts-as they fell to the floor. She opened her eyes to the dim light. Really. Ah... She swallowed and felt deliciously smothered as he kissed her and rubbed her back and backside.
  She pressed herself against him and tried to lengthen her breathing, which was so short and ragged it was awkward. He would have known she was truly breathing heavily for him. His fingers stroked her hips, and she gasped, her self-criticism vanishing. Her spine was a column of warm, sweet oil, her mind a cauldron of consent. After all, when two people truly enjoyed and cared for each other...
  She kissed his body, responding to the forward thrust and the push of her libido that snapped her last ropes of conditioned restraint. It's okay, I need this, it's so... good. The perfect contact made her tense. She froze for a moment, then relaxed like a blooming flower in a slow-motion nature film. Oh. A column of warm oil almost boiled in her belly, churning and pulsing deliciously around her heart, flowing through her flexing lungs until they felt hot. She swallowed again. Trembling rods, like glowing balls of neon, descended from the small of her back to her skull. She imagined her golden hair sticking up and up, bathed in static electricity. Of course, it wasn't, it just felt that way.
  He left her for a moment and turned her over. She remained completely pliant, only the rapid rise and fall of her generous breasts and her rapid breathing indicating that she was alive. "He's going to take me," she thought, "properly." A girl eventually liked being taken. Oh-oh. A sigh and a sigh. A long breath and a whisper: "Oh yes."
  She felt herself being deliciously received, not just once, but again and again. Layer after layer of warm depth spread and welcomed, then retreated, making room for the next advance. She felt as if she were built like an artichoke, each delicate leaf within, each possessed and taken. She writhed and worked with him, to speed the harvest. Her cheek was wet, and she thought she was shedding tears of shocked delight, but they didn't matter. She didn't realize her nails were digging into his flesh like the flexing claws of an ecstatic cat. He thrust his lower backs forward until their pelvic bones pressed together as tightly as a clenched fist, feeling her body eagerly straining for his steady thrust.
  "Darling," he murmured, "you're so damn beautiful you scare me. I wanted to tell you earlier..."
  "Tell... me... now," she breathed.
  
  * * *
  Judas, before he called himself Mike Bohr, found Stash Foster in Bombay, where Foster was a peddler of the many evils of humanity that arise when countless, unwanted, and vast masses of it appear. Judas was recruited by Bohr to recruit three small-time wholesalers. While aboard Judas's Portuguese motor sailer, Foster found himself smack in the middle of one of Judas's petty problems. Judas wanted them to have high-quality cocaine and didn't want to pay for it, especially because he wanted to get the two men and woman out of the way, as their activities fit neatly into his growing organization.
  
  
  
  
  They were tied up as soon as the ship disappeared from view, ploughing through the scorching Arabian Sea and heading south to Colombo. In his luxuriously furnished cabin, Judas mused to Heinrich Müller, while Foster listened: "The best place for them is overboard."
  "Yes," Müller agreed.
  Foster decided he was being tested. He passed the test because Bombay was a lousy place for a Pole to make a living, even if he was always six jumps ahead of the local gangsters. The language problem was too great, and you were damn conspicuous. This Judas was building a big business and had real money.
  He asked, "Do you want me to throw them away?"
  "Please," Judas purred.
  Foster hauled them onto the deck, hands bound, one by one, the woman first. He slit their throats, severed their heads completely, and butchered the corpses before tossing them into the filthy sea. He made a weighted bundle out of clothing and tossed it. When he was finished, a pool of blood, only a yard wide, remained on the deck, forming a red, runny puddle.
  Foster quickly threw down his heads one after another.
  Judas, who was standing with Müller at the helm, nodded approvingly. "Hose it down," he ordered Müller. "Foster, let's talk."
  This was the man Judas had ordered to watch Nick, and he made a mistake, though it could have turned out to be a good thing. Foster had the greed of a pig, the temperament of a weasel, and the prudence of a baboon. An adult baboon is smarter than most dogs, with the exception of a female Rhodesian Ridgeback, but baboons think in strange little circles, and he was outdone by men who had the time to fashion weapons from the sticks and stones they had.
  Judas said to Foster, "Look, Andrew Grant is dangerous, stay out of his sight. We will take care of him."
  Foster the baboon's brain immediately concluded that he would gain recognition by "taking care" of Grant. If he succeeded, he would likely achieve recognition; Judas considered himself an opportunist. He came very close.
  It was the man who had seen Nick leave Meikles that morning. A small, neatly dressed man with powerful, baboon-like shoulders. He was so unobtrusive among the people on the sidewalk that Nick hadn't noticed him.
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Nick woke before dawn and ordered coffee as soon as room service began. He kissed Bootie as he woke up, pleased to see her mood match his own; the lovemaking had been magnificent, now it was time for a new day. Make your goodbye flawless, and your anticipation of the next kiss will ease many difficult moments. She drank her coffee after a long farewell hug and slipped away after he checked the hallway, finding it clear.
  As Nick was cleaning his sports jacket, Gus Boyd appeared, bright and cheerful. He sniffed the air in the room. Nick frowned inwardly; the air conditioning hadn't removed all of Booty's perfume. Gus said, "Ah, friendship. Wonderful Varia et mutabilis semper femina."
  Nick had to grin. The guy was observant and had a good grasp of Latin. How would you translate that? A woman is always fickle?
  "I prefer happy customers," Nick said. "How is Janet doing?"
  Gus poured himself some coffee. "She's a sweet cake. There's lipstick on one of these cups. You leave clues everywhere."
  "No, no," Nick didn't glance at the sideboard. "She didn't put anything on before she left. Are all the other girls... uh, happy with Edman's efforts?"
  "They absolutely love the place. Not a damn complaint, which, you know, is unusual. Last time, they had a free night so they could explore the restaurants if they wanted. They each had a date with one of these colonial types, and they embraced it."
  "Did Jan Masters put his boys up to this?"
  Gus shrugged. "Maybe. I encourage it. And if Masters puts a few checks in the account at dinner, I never mind, as long as the tour goes well."
  "Are we still leaving Salisbury this afternoon?"
  "Yes. We're flying to Bulawayo and taking the morning train to the game reserve."
  "Can you do without me?" Nick turned off the light and opened the balcony door. Bright sun and fresh air flooded the room. He handed Gus a cigarette and lit one himself. "I'll join you at Wankie. I want to take a closer look at the gold situation. We'll beat those bastards yet. They have a source, and they don't want to let us use it."
  "Sure." Gus shrugged. "It's all routine. Masters has an office in Bulawayo that processes transfers there." In fact, while he liked Nick, he was glad to lose him, for a while or for a while. He preferred to tip unsupervised-you could get a good percentage on a long trip without losing waiters and porters, and Bulawayo had a wonderful shop where women tended to lose all thrift and spend dollars like pennies. They bought Sandawana emeralds, copper utensils, antelope and zebra skins in such quantities that he always had to arrange for separate luggage dispatch.
  
  
  
  
  He had a commission with the store. Last time, his cut was $240. Not bad for an hour's layover. "Be careful, Nick. The way Wilson spoke this time was very different from when I did business with him before. Dude, what nonsense you wrote!" He shook his head at the memory. "He's become... dangerous, I think."
  "So you feel the same way?" Nick winced, fingering his sore ribs. Falling off the roof of the Van Prez hadn't helped anyone. "This guy could be the Black Killer. You mean you didn't notice it before? When you bought gold for thirty dollars an ounce?"
  Gus blushed. "I thought, 'Oh, shit, I don't know what I figured.' This thing started wobbling. I'd have ditched it right there, I guess. If you think we're going to be in big trouble if something goes wrong, I'm willing to take a chance, but I like to watch the odds."
  "Wilson sounded like he meant it when he told us to forget about the gold business. But we know he must have found a damn good market since you were last here... Then he can't have it for any amount of money. He's found a pipeline, or his associates have. Let's find out what it is if we can."
  "Do you still believe there are Golden Tusks, Andy?"
  "No." It was a fairly simple question, and Nick answered it directly. Gus wanted to know if he was working with a realist. They could buy some and paint them gold. Hollow fangs of gold, to get around sanctions and help smuggle the stuff to India or somewhere else. Even London. But now I think your friend in India is right. There are plenty of good four-hundred-ounce bars coming out of Rhodesia. Notice he didn't say kilograms, grams, jockey's bandages, or any of the slang terms smugglers use. Nice, big, standard bars. Delicious. It feels so good at the bottom of your suitcase-after you've cleared customs."
  Gus grinned, his imagination running wild. "Yeah-and half a dozen of them shipped in with our travel luggage would be even better!"
  Nick clapped him on the shoulder, and they went down to the hall. He left Gus in the dining hallway and walked out into the sunlit street. Foster followed in his footsteps.
  Stash Foster had an excellent description of Nick and photographs, but one day he staged a counter-march at the Shepherds', so he could see Nick in person. He was confident in his man. What he didn't realize was that Nick had an amazing photographic eye and memory, especially when concentrating. At Duke, during a controlled test, Nick once recalled sixty-seven photographs of strangers and matched them with their names.
  Stash had no way of knowing that, as he passed Nick among a group of shoppers, Nick caught his gaze and cataloged him-the baboon. The other people were animals, objects, emotions, any related details that aided his memory. Stash received an accurate description.
  Nick thoroughly enjoyed his brisk walks-Salisbury Street, Garden Avenue, Baker Avenue-he walked when there was a crowd, and when there were few people walking, he walked twice. His strange walks irritated Stash Foster, who thought, "What a psycho! There's no escape, nothing to be done: a stupid bodybuilder. It would be nice to bleed that big, healthy body; to see that straight spine and those broad shoulders slump, twisted, crushed." He frowned, his wide lips touching the skin of his high cheekbones until he looked more ape-like than ever.
  He was wrong when he said Nick wouldn't go anywhere, wouldn't do anything. AXman's mind was preoccupied at every moment, pondering, writing, studying. By the time he finished his long walk, he knew almost nothing about Salisbury's main district, and the sociologist would have been delighted to hear his impressions.
  Nick was saddened by his findings. He knew the pattern. When you've visited most countries in the world, your ability to assess groups expands like a wide-angle lens. A narrower perspective reveals hardworking, sincere whites who had wrested civilization from nature through courage and hard work. Blacks were lazy. What had they done about it? Aren't they now-thanks to European ingenuity and generosity-better off than ever?
  You could easily sell this painting. It was bought and framed many times by the defeated Union of the South in the United States, Hitler supporters, dismal Americans from Boston to Los Angeles, and especially many in police departments and sheriff's offices. People like the KKK and the Birchers made a career out of repurposing it and repurposing it under new names.
  Skin didn't have to be black. Stories were woven around red, yellow, brown, and white. Nick knew this situation was easy to create because all men carry two fundamental explosives within them: fear and guilt. Fear is easiest to see. You have an insecure blue-collar or white-collar job, your bills, your worries, taxes, overwork, boredom, or disdain for the future.
  
  
  
  
  They are competitors, tax-devourers who crowd employment offices, crowd schools, roam the streets, ready for violence, and rob you in an alley. They probably don't know God, just like you.
  Guilt is more insidious. Every man has, at one time or another, run through his mind a thousand times over perversion, masturbation, rape, murder, theft, incest, corruption, cruelty, fraud, debauchery, and downing a third martini, cheating a little on his tax return, or telling the cop he was only fifty-five when he was over seventy.
  You know you can't do that. You're okay. But they! Oh my God! (They don't really love Him either.) They love them all the time and-well, some of them, anyway, at every opportunity.
  Nick paused on the corner, people-watching. A couple of girls in soft cotton dresses and sunhats smiled at him. He smiled back and left the TV on so a plain-looking girl could be seen walking behind them. She beamed and blushed. He took a taxi to the Rhodesian Railways office.
  Stash Foster followed him, leading his driver, watching Nick's taxi. "I can just see the city. Please turn right... that way now."
  Oddly enough, the third taxi was in the strange procession, and its passenger made no attempt to surprise his driver. He told him, "Follow number 268 and don't lose it." He was keeping an eye on Nick.
  Because the ride was short and Stash's taxi was moving unevenly rather than constantly on Nick's tail, the man in the third taxi didn't notice. At the railway office, Stash dismissed his taxi. The third man got out, paid the driver, and followed Nick straight into the building. He caught up with Nick as AXman walked down a long, cool, covered corridor. "Mr. Grant?"
  Nick turned and recognized the lawman. Sometimes he thought professional criminals were right when they said they could "smell a man in civilian clothes." There was an aura, a subtle emanation. This one was tall, slender, athletic. A serious guy, about forty.
  "That's right," Nick replied.
  He was shown a leather case containing an ID card and badge. "George Barnes. Rhodesian Security Forces."
  Nick chuckled. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it."
  The joke fell flat because the beer from the party the night before had been mistakenly left open. Barnes said, "Lieutenant Sandeman asked me to speak with you. He gave me your description, and I saw you on Garden Avenue."
  Nick wondered how long Barnes had been following him. "That was nice of Sandeman. Did he think I'd get lost?"
  Barnes still didn't smile, his clear face remained serious. He had a northern English accent, but his voice was clear and understandable. "Do you remember seeing Lieutenant Sandeman and his group?"
  "Yes, indeed. He helped me when I had a puncture."
  "Oh?" Sandeman obviously hadn't had time to fill in all the details. "Well-apparently, after he helped you, he ran into trouble. His patrol was in the bush about ten miles from the van Prez farm when they came under fire. Four of his men were killed."
  Nick dropped his half-smile. "I'm so sorry. News like this is never good."
  "Could you tell me exactly who you saw at Van Prez's?"
  Nick rubbed his broad chin. "Let's see-there was Peter van Pree himself. A well-groomed old man, like one of our western ranchers. A real one, who worked on this. About sixty, I'd guess. He wore..."
  "We know van Prez," Barnes prompted. "Who else?"
  "Well, there were a couple of white men and a white woman, and I think about four or five black men. Although I could see the same black men coming and going, because they kind of look alike - you know."
  Nick, looking thoughtfully at the point above Barnes's head, saw suspicion flit across the man's face, linger, and then disappear, replaced by resignation.
  "You don't remember any names?"
  "No. It wasn't that formal of a dinner."
  Nick waited for him to bring up Booty. He didn't. Perhaps Sandeman had forgotten her name, dismissed her as unimportant, or Barnes was holding back for his own reasons or questioning her separately.
  Barnes changed his approach. "How do you like Rhodesia?"
  "Charming. I'm just surprised by the ambush on the patrol. Bandits?"
  "No, politics, I suppose, you know well. But thank you for sparing my feelings. How did you know it was an ambush?"
  "I didn't know. It's pretty obvious, or maybe I connected your mention in the bushes."
  They walked over to a row of phones. Nick said, "Excuse me? I want to make a call."
  "Of course. Who do you want to see in these buildings?"
  "Roger Tillborn".
  "Roggie? I know him well. Call me and I'll show you his office."
  Nick called Meikles, and Dobie was summoned. If the Rhodesian police had been able to intercept the call so quickly, they would have beaten AXE to it, which he doubted. When she answered, he briefly recounted George Barnes's questions and explained that he had merely admitted to meeting van Prees. Booty thanked him, adding, "See you at Victoria Falls, dear."
  "I hope so, dear. Have a good time and play quietly."
  If Barnes suspected the call, he didn't show it.
  
  
  
  They found Roger Tillborn, the operations director of Rhodesian Railways, in a high-ceilinged office that looked like a set for a Jay Gould film. There was plenty of beautiful oiled wood, the smell of wax, heavy furniture, and three magnificent model locomotives, each on its own yard-long desk.
  Barnes introduced Nick to Tillborn, a short, thin, quick man in a black suit who looked like he'd had a terrific day at work.
  "I got your name from the Railroad Century Library in New York," Nick said. "I'm going to write an article to complement the photographs of your railroads. Especially your Beyer-Garratt steam locomotives."
  Nick didn't miss the look Barnes and Tillborn exchanged. It seemed to say, "Maybe, maybe not"-every undesirable villain seems to think they can hide anything by posing as a journalist.
  "I'm flattered," Tillborn said, but he didn't say, "What can I do for you?"
  "Oh, I don't want you to do anything, just tell me where I can get a picture of one of the German Union class 2-2-2 plus 2-6-2 steam locomotives with the swinging forward water tank. We don't have anything like them in the States, and I don't think you'll be using them for long."
  A satisfied, slightly glassy look spread across Tillborn's serious features. "Yes. A very interesting engine." He opened a drawer on his giant desk and pulled out a photograph. "Here's the picture we took. Practically a photograph of the car. No life, but beautiful details."
  Nick studied it and nodded admiringly. "Beautiful beast. This is a beautiful photo..."
  "You can have it. We made several prints. If you use it, trust Rhodesian Railways. Did you notice the model on that first table?"
  "Yes." Nick turned and looked at the gleaming little locomotive, his gaze filled with love. "Another Garratt. GM class four- cylinder. The most powerful engine in the world, running on a sixty-pound ramp."
  "That's right! What would you say if I told you it still works?"
  "No!"
  "Yes!"
  Tillborn beamed. Nick looked surprised and delighted. He was desperately trying to remember how many unique locomotives were listed there. He couldn't.
  George Barnes sighed and handed Nick a card. "I see you two will get along. Mr. Grant, if you remember anything from your trip to Van Prez that might help me or Lieutenant Sandeman, will you let me know?"
  "I'll definitely call." "You know, I won't remember anything," Nick thought, "you're hoping I'll stumble across something and I'll have to call you and you'll work on it from there." "Nice to meet you."
  Tillborn didn't even notice his departure. He said, "You'll certainly have better photo opportunities around Bulawayo. Have you seen David Morgan's photos in Trains?"
  "Yes. Excellent."
  "How are your trains doing in the United States? I was wondering..."
  Nick truly enjoyed the half-hour conversation about railways, grateful for the detailed research into Rhodesian railways and for his extraordinary memory. Tillborn, a true enthusiast and passionate about his work, showed him photographs related to the country's transport history, which would be invaluable to a true journalist, and asked for tea.
  When the conversation turned to air and truck competitions, Nick made his pitch. "Single trains and new types of large, specialized freight cars are saving us in the United States," he said. "Though thousands of small freight sidings are abandoned. I suppose you have the same problem as England."
  "Oh, yes." Tillborn walked over to the giant map on the wall. "See the blue marks? Unused access roads."
  Nick joined him, shaking his head. "Reminds me of our Western roads. Luckily, several new access roads are earmarked for new business. A giant plant or a new mine producing large tonnages. I suppose with the sanctions, you can't build large plants now. The construction site has been delayed."
  Tillborn sighed. "You're so right. But the day will come..."
  Nick nodded confidentially. "Of course, the world knows about your interline traffic. From the Portuguese and South African routes to Zambia and beyond. But if the Chinese build this road, they threaten..."
  They can. They have teams working on surveys."
  Nick pointed to a red marker on the railway line near the border on the way to Lorenco Marquez. "I bet that's a new oil transportation site for off-road use and such. Do you have enough capacity for that?"
  Tillborn looked pleased. "You're right. We're using all the power we have, so the Beyer-Garratts are still running. We just don't have enough diesels yet."
  "I hope you never get enough. Although I imagine that as a serving official, you appreciate their effectiveness..."
  "I'm not entirely sure," Tillborn sighed. "But progress can't be stopped. Diesels are lighter on rails, but steam locomotives are economical. We have an order for diesels."
  "I won't ask you what country you're from."
  "Please don't. I shouldn't tell you."
  Nick pointed at another red mark. "Here's another new one, not far from Shamva. Decent tonnage."
  
  
  "
  "That's right. A few cars a week, but that will increase."
  Nick followed the tracks on the map, apparently with casual curiosity. "Here's another one. Looks solid."
  "Oh, yes. Taylor Hill Boreman Shipyard. They're giving us orders for several cars a day. I understand they've done a fantastic job of tying it up. I hope it holds up."
  "That's wonderful. Several carriages a day?"
  "Oh, yeah. The syndicate hit him. Foreign connections and all that, it's pretty hush-hush these days, but how can we be secretive when we're picking up cars from there some day? I wanted to give them a small carrier, but we don't have any to spare, so they ordered their own."
  "I'm guessing from the same country you ordered the diesels from." Nick laughed and raised his hand. "Don't tell me where!"
  His owner joined in the chuckle. "I won't."
  "Do you think I should take some pictures of their new yards? Or would that be... er, undiplomatic. It's not worth the fuss."
  "I wouldn't. There are so many other good scenes. They're extremely secretive fellows. I mean, they operate in isolation and all that. The road guards. They even get upset when our train crews come in, but they can't do anything about it until they get their own. There was some talk about them abusing the help of the Negroes. Rumor has it, I suppose, no sane operator treats his workers badly. Can't run production like that, and the labor board will have something to say about it."
  Nick left with a warm handshake and a good feeling. He decided to send Roger Tillborn a copy of "Alexander's Iron Horses: American Locomotives." The official deserved it. Several cars a day from Taylor Hill Boreman!
  In the rotunda of the vast building complex, Nick paused to glance at a photograph of Cecil Rhodes next to an early Rhodesian train. His ever-vigilant eyes saw a man pass by the corridor he had just left, and he slowed when he saw Nick... or for some other reason. He was eighty feet away. He looked vaguely familiar. Nick registered the fact. He decided not to go directly outside, but to stroll down the long gallery, clean, cool, and dim, the sun streaming through the oval arches like rows of narrow yellow spears.
  Despite Tillborn's enthusiasm, it was clear that Rhodesian Railways was in the same situation as the rest of the world. Fewer passengers, larger and longer loads, fewer staff, and fewer facilities. Half the offices in the gallery were closed; some dark doors still bore nostalgic signs: "Salisbury Baggage Director." Sleeping car supplies. Assistant ticket master.
  Behind Nick, Stash Foster reached the rotunda and peered around a column at AXman's retreating back. As Nick turned right, down another passage leading to the tracks and marshalling yards, Stash quickly moved on his rubber boots and stopped just around the corner to watch Nick emerge into the paved yard. Stash was thirty feet from that broad back. He chose the precise spot, just below the shoulder and to the left of the spine, where his knife would enter-hard, deep, horizontal, so he could cut between the ribs.
  Nick felt a strange uneasiness. It was unlikely that his keen hearing had detected the suspicious gliding of Stash's almost silent feet, or that the human scent lingering in the rotunda as he entered the building behind Nick had awakened some primitive warning gland in Nick's nostrils and warned him, to warn his brain. However, it was a fact that Stash resented, and Nick didn't know that no horse or dog would approach Stash Foster or stand near him without a riot, a sound, and a desire to attack or flee.
  The courtyard had once been a bustling place, where engines and machines stopped to receive orders, and their crews to confer with officials or gather supplies. Now it was clean and deserted. A diesel engine passed, pulling a long wagon. Nick raised his hand to the driver and watched as they disappeared from view. The machines rumbled and clanked.
  Stash closed his fingers around the knife he carried in a sheath attached to his belt. He could reach it by sucking in air, just like he did now. It hung low, the leather hanger sagging as he sat. He loved talking to people, thinking smugly, "If only you knew! I have a knife in my lap. It could be in your stomach in a second."
  Stash's blade was double-edged, with a chunky handle, a short version of Nick's own Hugo. Its five-inch blade wasn't quite as sharp as the Hugo's, but Stash retained the edge on both sides. He liked to sharpen it with a small whetstone he kept in his watch pocket. Insert it into the right side, move it side to side, and pull it out! And you can insert it again before your victim recovers from the shock.
  The sun glinted off the steel as Stash held it low and steady, like a killer, about to strike and slash, and leaped forward. He stared intently at the spot on Nick's back where the tip would enter.
  Minibuses sped past on the road
  
  
  
  
  "Nick didn't hear anything. However, they tell the story of the French fighter pilot Castellux, who supposedly sensed attackers on his tail. One day, three Fokkers flew at him-one-two-three. Castellux dodged them-one-two-three."
  Perhaps it was a solar flare flashing from space onto the blade of a nearby window, or a piece of metal that momentarily reflected, catching Nick's eye and alerting his senses. He never knew-but he suddenly turned his head to check his return trail and saw the baboon's face darting toward him from less than eight feet away, saw the blade...
  Nick fell to the right, pushing off with his left foot, twisting his body. Stash paid for his concentration and lack of flexibility. He tried to follow that spot on Nick's back, but his own momentum carried him too far, too fast. He skidded to a stop, turned, slowed, and dropped the tip of his knife.
  The AXE Hand-to-Hand Combat Guide suggests: When confronted by a man holding a knife correctly, first consider a quick strike to the testicles or running.
  There's a lot more to this, about finding weapons and so on, but right now Nick realized those first two defenses weren't working. He was down and too contorted to kick, and as for running...
  The blade struck him squarely in the chest, hard and direct. He winced, his back trembling with pain as the tip sank beneath his right nipple, making a dull clanking sound. Stash pressed against him, propelled forward by his own powerful spring. Nick grabbed the deadly right wrist with his left hand, his reflexes as instantaneous and precise as a fencing master parrying an apprentice's attack. Stash bent his knees and tried to pull away, suddenly alarmed by the crushing force of the grip, which felt like it carried a two-ton weight, and the force sufficient to break the bones in his hand.
  He was no novice. He twisted his knife hand toward Nick's thumb-an irresistible breakaway maneuver, a tactic any active woman could use to free herself from the most powerful man. Nick felt his grip slip as his hand twisted; the blade prevented him from reaching Wilhelmina. He braced himself and pushed with all his muscle power, throwing Stash back four or five feet just before his grip on the knife hand broke.
  Stash regained his balance, ready to strike again, but paused for a moment, seeing something astonishing: Nick had ripped open his left jacket sleeve and his shirt sleeve to freely pull out Hugo. Stash saw the second shimmering blade flash again and again, its tip a yard from his own.
  He lunged. The opposite blade ducked, parrying his blow with a tiny left turn and an upward thrust en quarte. He felt the superior muscles carrying his knife and arm upward, and he felt horribly naked and helpless as he tried to regain control, pull back his blade and arm, and cut again. He clutched his hand to his chest again as that terribly fast steel shard he had encountered rose up, crossed his blade, and struck him in the throat. He gasped, lashed out at the man who was rising from the ground, and felt horror as his left arm, like a granite block, rose against his right wrist. He tried to twist back, to strike to the side.
  That terrifying blade swung to the right as Nick feinted, and Stash dumbly moved his hand to parry. Nick felt the pressure on his blocking wrist and pressed lightly and directly into Stash's arms.
  Stash knew it was coming. He'd known it since that first sparkling flash had headed for his throat, but for a moment he thought he'd saved himself and would win. He felt dread and terror. The victim, his hands bound, wasn't waiting...
  His brain was still anxiously shouting commands to his overwhelmed body when panic gripped him-simultaneously with Nick's blade, which entered near his Adam's apple and passed completely through his throat and spinal cord, the tip protruding like a snake with a metal tongue beneath his hairline. The day turned red-black with flashes of gold. The last blazing colors Stash had ever seen.
  When he fell, Nick pulled Hugo away and walked away. They didn't always die right away.
  Stash lay in a wide pool of blood. Red patterns writhed around him in semicircles. He'd hit his head in the fall. His slit throat transformed what might have been a scream into an unearthly whine and creaking.
  Nick pushed Stash's knife away and searched the fallen man, keeping away from the blood and picking at his pockets like a seagull pecking at a corpse. He took the wallet and card case. He wiped Hugo on the man's jacket, high on the shoulder where it could have been mistaken for human blood, avoiding the hand that was groping for him in his death throes.
  Nick returned to the building entrance and waited, watching. Stash's convulsions diminished, like a wind-up toy spinning downward. The last van passed, and Nick was grateful there was no platform or cabin at its end. The courtyard was quiet. He walked through the gallery, found a rarely used door on the street, and walked away.
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Nick returned to Meikles. There was no point in calling a taxi or giving the police another time. Barnes would decide he should be questioned about the death at the railway station, and a long walk was a flexible unit of time.
  
  
  
  He bought a newspaper as he passed through the lobby. In his room, he undressed, poured cold water over the two-inch cut on his chest, and examined the card case and wallet he'd taken from the man. They told him little beyond Stash's name and an address in Bulawayo. Would Alan Wilson have told him off? Protecting millions made you rude, but he couldn't believe that stabbing someone in the back was Wilson's style.
  That left Judas-or "Mike Bohr," or someone else at THB. Never discounting Gus Boyd, Ian Masters, and even Peter van Prez, Johnson, Howe, Maxwell... Nick sighed. He put the wad of bills from his wallet along with his own money, without counting them, cut up the wallet, burned what he could in an ashtray, and flushed the rest down the toilet.
  He carefully examined the fabric of his coat, shirt, and undershirt. The only blood was from his own knife scratch. He rinsed the undershirt and shirt in cold water and tore them into shreds, removing the tags from the collars. Unfolding the clean shirt, he looked tenderly and regretfully at Hugo, tied to his bare forearm. Then he called Masters' office and ordered a car.
  There was no point in giving up the jacket; Barnes had every right to ask about it. He found a tailor's shop far from the hotel and had it repaired. He drove a few miles to Selous, admiring the countryside, and then turned back toward town. The vast groves of fruit trees looked just like parts of California, with long irrigation lines and giant sprayers pulled by tractors. One day, he saw a horse-drawn cart with sprayers and stopped to watch the Negroes operating it. He assumed their trade was doomed, like the cotton pickers in Dixie. A strange tree caught his eye, and he used his guidebook to identify it-a candelabra or a giant spurge.
  Barnes waited in the hotel lobby. The interrogation was thorough, but yielded no results. Did he know Stash Foster? How did he get from Tillborn's office to his hotel? What time did he arrive? Did he know anyone who belonged to Zimbabwean political parties?
  Nick was surprised, because the only completely honest answer he gave was to the last question. "No, I don't think so. Now tell me-why the questions?"
  "A man was stabbed to death at the train station today. Around the time you were there."
  Nick looked at her in amazement. "Not-Roger? Oh no..."
  "No, no. The man I asked if you knew. Foster."
  "Would you like to describe him?"
  Barnes did. Nick shrugged. Barnes left. But Nick didn't allow himself to be delighted. He was a smart man.
  He returned the car to Masters and flew a DC-3 via Kariba to the main camp in Wankie National Park. He was delighted to find a fully modern resort at the main camp. The manager accepted him as one of the guides for Edman's tour, which was scheduled to arrive that morning, and put him up in a comfortable two-bedroom chalet-"Free for the first night."
  Nick began to appreciate the escort business.
  Although Nick had read about Wankie National Park, he was amazed. He knew that its five thousand square miles were home to seven thousand elephants, vast herds of buffalo, as well as rhinos, zebras, giraffes, leopards, antelopes in countless varieties, and dozens of other species he hadn't even bothered to remember. Nevertheless, Main Camp was as comfortable as civilization could make it, with an airstrip where CAA DC-3s were met by the latest cars and countless minibuses, striped black and white like mechanical zebras.
  Returning to the main lodge, he saw Bruce Todd, Ian Masters' man - the "football star" - standing at the entrance.
  He greeted Nick: "Hi, I heard you arrived. Do you like it?"
  "Great. We're both early..."
  "I'm sort of an advance scout. Checking rooms, cars, and stuff. Feeling like sunset?"
  "Good idea." They walked into the cocktail bar, two tanned young men who attracted women's eyes.
  Over whiskey and soda, Nick's body relaxed, but his mind was active. It was logical for Masters to send an "advance man." It was also possible, even probable, that the Salisbury athlete, Todd, had ties to George Barnes and the Rhodesian security forces. Of course, Barnes would have found it advisable to keep an eye on "Andrew Grant" for a while; he was the prime suspect in Foster's strange death.
  He thought about the train cars that departed the THB mine complex every day. Bills of lading would be pointless. Perhaps chrome or nickel ore and gold were hidden in any train car they chose? That would be clever and practical. But the train cars? They must be dripping with the stuff! He tried to recall the shipping weight of asbestos. He doubted he'd read about them, because he couldn't remember them.
  Sanctions - ha! He had no clear opinion on what was right and what was wrong, or on the political issues involved, but the old, bitter truth applied: where there are enough self-interested parties involved, the rest of the rules don't apply.
  
  
  
  
  Wilson, Masters, Todd, and others likely knew exactly what THB was doing and approved of it. They might even have been paid. One thing was certain: in this situation, he could only rely on himself. Everyone else was a suspect.
  And the assassins Judas was supposed to send, the effective force of killers he could dispatch across Africa? That suited the man. It meant more money in his pocket, and it helped him get rid of a lot of unwanted enemies. Someday, his mercenaries would be even more useful. Someday... Yeah, with the new Nazis.
  Then he thought of Booty, Johnson, and van Prez. They didn't fit the mold. You couldn't imagine them motivated solely by money. Nazism? That really wasn't it. And Mrs. Ryerson? A woman like her could enjoy the good life in Charlottesville-riding cars, doing social events, being admired, invited everywhere. Yet, like several other AXE agents he'd met, she'd isolated herself here. When it came down to it, what was her own motivation? AXE offered her twenty grand a year to oversee their security operations, but he was roaming the world for less. All you could tell yourself was that you wanted your ounce of weight on the right side of the scale. Okay, but who's to say which side was right? A man could...
  "...two watering holes nearby-Nyamandhlovu and Guvulala Pans," Todd said. Nick listened intently. "You can sit up high and watch the animals come to the watering holes in the evening. We'll go there tomorrow. The girls will love the steenbok. They look like Disney's Bambi."
  "Show them to Teddy Northway," Nick said, amused by the pink hue of Todd's tanned neck. "Is there a spare car I can use?"
  "Actually, no. We have two sedans of our own, and we use minibuses with a guide for guests. You know, you can't drive here after dark. And don't let guests out of the cars. It can get a little dangerous with some of the livestock. Lions sometimes show up in prides of fifteen or so."
  Nick hid his disappointment. They were less than a hundred miles from the THB property. The road on this side didn't quite reach it, but he figured there might be unmarked trails he could park on or, if necessary, walk. He had a small compass, a mosquito net, and a plastic poncho so small it fit in his pocket. His little map was five years old, but it would do.
  They went to the dining room and ate canna steaks, which Nick found delicious. Later, they danced with some very nice girls, and Nick excused himself shortly before eleven. Whether or not he'd been able to investigate THB from that point on, he'd lit enough fuses that one of the unknown explosive forces would soon be unleashed. It was a good time to stay sharp.
  * * *
  He joined Bruce Todd for an early breakfast, and they rode the fourteen miles to Dett Station. The long, gleaming train was thronged with people, including five or six tour groups in addition to their own. Two groups had to wait for a car. Masters wisely put his man in charge. They had two sedans, a minibus, and a Volvo station wagon.
  The girls were bright and radiant, chatting about their adventures. Nick helped Gus with his luggage. "Smooth journey?" he asked the senior escort.
  "They're happy. This is a special train." Gus chuckled, carrying a heavy bag. "Not that the regular ones aren't much better than Penn Central!"
  After a hearty "early tea," they set off in the same vehicles across the turbulent Bund. Wankie, the guide, drove a small striped bus, and at the manager's request, since he had no staff, Gus and Bruce drove the sedans, while Nick took the wheel of a Volvo van. They stopped at Kaushe Pan, the Mtoa Dam, and made several stops on the narrow road to observe herds of game.
  Nick admitted it was amazing. Once you left Main Camp, you entered another world, harsh, primitive, threatening, and beautiful. He'd chosen Booty, Ruth Crossman, and Janet Olson for his car, and he enjoyed the company. The girls used hundreds of feet of film on ostriches, baboons, and fallow deer. They groaned sympathetically when they saw lions tearing apart a dead zebra.
  Near Chompany Dam, a helicopter flew overhead, looking out of place. It must have been a pterodactyl. Soon after, the small caravan gathered, sharing a cold beer that Bruce had brewed from a portable cooler, and then, as tour groups do, they parted ways. The minibus stopped to inspect a large herd of buffalo, the passengers of the sedan photographed wildebeest, and, at the girls' urging, Nick pushed the wagon along a long, winding loop of road that could have been run through the Arizona hills during a dry sprint.
  Ahead, at the foot of the hill, he saw a truck stopped at a crossroads where, if he remembered the map, the roads branched off to Wankie, Matetsi, and back to Main Camp via a different route. The truck was marked in large letters: Wankie Research Project.
  
  
  
  As they drove away, he saw the panel van stop two hundred feet along the northeast road. They were using the same camouflage. It was odd-he hadn't noticed how the park administration slapped their name on everything. They liked to create an impression of naturalness. It was odd.
  He slowed. A stocky man got out of the truck and waved a red flag. Nick remembered the construction projects he'd seen in Salisbury-they'd had warning flags, but right now he couldn't recall seeing a red one. Again, strange.
  He snorted, his nostrils flaring like those of the animals around them, sensing something unusual, something that could signal danger. He slowed, squinted, and looked at the flagman, who reminded him of someone. What? Raise a baboon! There wasn't an exact resemblance in the face, save for the high cheekbones, but his gait was simian, arrogant, and yet with a certain directness, he carried the flag with him. Workers handle them casually, not like the pennants on Swiss flags.
  Nick took his foot off the brake and pressed the gas pedal.
  Booty, who was sitting next to him, called out, "Hey, Andy, see the flag?"
  The road wasn't wide enough to accommodate the man; a low cliff dropped off to one side, and the truck blocked the narrow passage. Nick took aim and blew his horn. The man waved his flag wildly, then jumped aside as the wagon flew past where he stood. The girls in the backseat gasped. Bootie said in a high-pitched voice, "Hi, Andy!"
  Nick glanced at the truck's cab as he passed. The driver was a stocky, sullen fellow. If you were to choose the norm for a Rhodesian, he wouldn't be it. Pale white skin, hostility on his face. Nick caught a glimpse of the man sitting next to him, surprised that the Volvo accelerated instead of stopping. A Chinese man! And although the single out-of-focus image in the AX files was a poor shot, he could have been Si Kalgan.
  As they passed the sedan being delivered, the rear door opened and a man began to climb out, dragging something that might have been a weapon. The Volvo passed before he could identify the object, but the hand that emerged from the front held a large automatic rifle. Unmistakably.
  Nick's stomach turned cold. Ahead lay a quarter mile of winding road to the first turn and safety. Girls! Were they shooting?
  "Lie down, girls. On the floor. Now!"
  Shots! They shot.
  Shots! He praised the Volvo's carburetor; it sucked down gas and delivered power without hesitation. He thought one of those shots had hit the car, but it could have been his imagination or a bump in the road. He assumed the man in the small truck had fired twice and then gotten out to take aim. Nick fervently hoped he was a bad shot.
  Shots fired!
  There was a slightly wider road surface, and Nick used it to save the car. Now they were really racing.
  Shots! Weaker, but you can't outrun bullets. Shots!
  The bastard may have used his last bullet. Shot!
  The Volvo flew over the gap like a boy racing into the lake for his first spring jump.
  Rub-a-due-due-due. Nick gasped. The man in the back of the abandoned sedan had a submachine gun. He must have felt it in surprise. They were over the hill.
  Ahead lay a long, winding descent with a warning sign at the bottom. He accelerated halfway down, then slammed on the brakes. They must be doing seventy-five, but he didn't shift his focus to watch the meter. How fast would this truck go? If it were a good one, or upgraded, they'd be sitting ducks in the Volvo if he caught up. The big truck wasn't a threat yet.
  Of course, the big truck posed no threat, but Nick had no way of knowing that. It was Judas's own design, with waist-high armor, a 460-horsepower engine, and heavy machine guns at the bow and stern with a full 180-degree field of fire through ports usually hidden by panels.
  Its racks held machine guns, grenades, and rifles with sniper scopes. But, like the tanks Hitler first sent to Russia, it was damn good for the job. It was difficult to maneuver, and on the narrow roads, speeds couldn't exceed 50 miles per hour because the turns slowed it down. The Volvo was out of sight before this "tank" even moved.
  The sedan's speed was another matter. It was cool, and the driver, growling half-angrily at Krol next to him as they rolled, was a hotshot with horsepower. The windshield, as it was listed in the local parts catalogs, was cleverly divided and hinged, so the right half could be folded for clear forward visibility or used as a shooting window. Krol crouched and opened it, holding his .44 submachine gun temporarily slung over his shoulder, then raised it to the opening. He fired a few shots with the heavier Skoda but switched to the 7.92 in the tight quarters. Regardless, he was proud of his skill with automatic weapons.
  They roared over the hump onto the road and rolled down the slope on springs. All they saw of the Volvo was a cloud of dust and a vanishing shape. "Go," Krol barked. "I'll hold fire until we cover them."
  The driver was a tough city Croat who called himself Bloch after joining the Germans when he was sixteen.
  
  
  
  
  Whether he was young or not, he had such a brutal reputation for persecuting his own people that he retreated with his Wehrmacht comrades all the way to Berlin. Smart, he survived. He was a good driver and handled the souped-up vehicle with skill. They flew down the slope, smoothly turned the corner, and overtook the Volvo on the long, straightaway that led to a line of jagged hills.
  "We'll catch them," Bloch said confidently. "We have the speed."
  Nick had the same thought-they'd catch us. He watched the sedan's feed in his rearview mirror for a long moment as it slid out of the corner, turned slightly, straightened, and picked up speed like a big bullet. It was an experienced driver and a very good engine against a Volvo with an experienced driver and a good standard engine. The result was predictable. He used all his skill and courage to maintain every inch separating the two cars, which now amounted to less than a quarter mile.
  The road wound through a brown-sandy, mixed-green landscape, skirting cliffs, skirting dry streams, crossing or winding through hills. It was no longer a modern road, though it was well-maintained and roadworthy. For a moment, Nick felt as if he'd been here before, and then he realized why. The terrain and the situation were reminiscent of the car chase scenes he'd loved in TV shows as a child. They were usually set in California, just like this, in the countryside.
  Now he had a perfect feel for the Volvo. He swung it over the stone bridge and made a gentle, sliding right turn, using every bit of the road to avoid losing more speed than necessary. Around the next turn, he passed one of the minibuses. He hoped the sedan would meet him on the bridge and hold him off.
  Bootie, Nick noticed and appreciated, had kept the girls quiet, but now that they were out of sight of their pursuers, Janet Olson opened up. "Mr. Grant! What happened? Did they really shoot at us?"
  For a moment, Nick considered telling them it was all part of the park's fun, like the fake stagecoach and train robberies in the "frontier town" rides, but then he thought better of it. They needed to know it was serious so they could duck or run.
  "Bandits," he said, which was close enough.
  "Well, I'll be damned," Ruth Crossman said, her voice level and unwavering. Only the curse word she would never normally use betrayed her agitation. "Tough girl," Nick thought.
  "Could this be part of the revolution?" asked Buti.
  "Of course," Nick said. "It'll be everywhere sooner or later, but I feel sorry for us if it happens sooner."
  "It was so... planned," Buti said.
  "Well planned, just a few holes. Luckily, we found some."
  "How did you know they were fakes?"
  "Those trucks were over-decorated. Big signs. A flag. Everything so methodical and logical. And did you notice how that guy handled the flag? It was like he was leading a parade, not working on a hot day."
  Janet said from behind, "They're out of sight."
  "That bus might have slowed them down at the bridge," Nick replied. "You'll see them next time. We've got about fifty miles of this road ahead, and I'm not looking for much help. Gus and Bruce were too far behind us to know what happened."
  He sped past a jeep, calmly rolling toward them, carrying an elderly couple. They had broken through a narrow gorge and found themselves on a wide, barren plain surrounded by hills. The bottom of the small valley was littered with abandoned coal mines, reminiscent of the bleak Colorado mining areas before the foliage grew back.
  "What... what are we going to do?" Janet asked timidly. "Keep quiet, let him drive and think," Bootie ordered.
  Nick was grateful for that. He had Wilhelmina and fourteen rounds. The plastic and safety catch were under his belt, but that would take time and a suitable location, and he couldn't count on anything.
  A few old side roads offered the opportunity to go around and attack, but with a pistol against machine guns and girls in the car, that wasn't an option. The truck hadn't yet reached the valley; they must have been stopped at the bridge. He unbuckled his belt and zipped up his fly.
  This, Booty remarked sarcastically, with a slight tremor in her words: "Let"s talk about time and place!"
  Nick chuckled. He pulled on his flat khaki belt, unbuckled it, and pulled it out. "Take this, Dobie. Look in the pockets near the buckle. Find a flat, black, plastic-like object."
  "I have one. What is it?"
  "It's explosive. We may not have a chance to use it, but let's be prepared. Now go to the pocket that doesn't have the black block. You'll find some pipe cleaners. Give them to me."
  She obeyed. He felt with his fingers the "tube" without the control knob at the end that distinguished electric thermal detonators from fuses.
  
  
  
  
  He selected a fuse. "Put the rest back." She did. "Take this one and run your fingers along the edge of the block to find a small wax drop. If you look closely, it's covering the hole."
  "Understood"
  "Insert the end of this wire into the hole. Penetrate the wax. Be careful not to bend the wire, otherwise you may ruin it."
  He couldn't look; the road wound through old mine waste. She said, "I see. It's almost an inch."
  "That's right. There's a lid. The wax was supposed to prevent sparks. No smoking, girls."
  They all assured him that nicotine was the last thing on their mind right now.
  Nick cursed the fact that they were going too fast to stop as they flew past dilapidated buildings that suited his purpose. They varied in size and shape, had windows, and were accessible by several gravel roads. Then they dropped into a small depression with a dip and a bank of springs, passed an ominous pool of yellow-green water, and soared into another section of old mine slag.
  There were more buildings ahead. Nick said, "We have to take a chance. I'm approaching a building. When I tell you to go, go! Got it?"
  He assumed those strained, strangled sounds meant "yes." Reckless speed and realization had reached their imagination. In fifty miles, the horror would unfold. He saw the truck enter the valley, and the beetle crash into the barren, arid landscape. It was about half a mile away. He braked, jab-jab-jimp...
  A wide side road, likely a truck exit, led to the next group of buildings. He crashed into it and drove two hundred yards toward the structures. The truck would have no trouble following their dust cloud.
  The first buildings were warehouses, offices and shops.
  He assumed this village must have been self-sufficient in the old days-there were about twenty of them. He pulled up again on what looked like an abandoned street in a ghost town, full of buildings, and stopped at what might have been a store. He shouted, "Come on!"
  He ran towards the building, found a window, hit the glass hard, clearing the shards from the frame as best he could.
  "Inside!" He lifted Ruth Crossman through the hole, then the other two. "Stay out of their sight. Hide if you can find a place."
  He ran back to the Volvo and drove through the village, slowing as he passed row after row of monotonous cottages, no doubt once white workers' quarters. The natives would have had a plot of land in the thicket of thatched huts. When the road began to curve, he stopped and looked back. A truck had turned off the main road and was picking up speed in his direction.
  He waited, wishing he had something to brace the back seat with-and it was time. Even a few bales of cotton or hay would soothe the itch in his back. After confirming they'd noticed him, he followed the road up the winding slope toward what must have been the works; it looked like an artificial hill with a small pond and a shaft at the top.
  A broken line of rusty narrow-gauge tracks ran parallel to the road, crossing it several times. He reached the top of the artificial hill and grunted. The only way down was the way he'd come. That was good; it would make them overconfident. They'd think they had him, but he'd fall with his shield, or on it. He grinned, or thought his grimace was a grin. Thoughts like that kept you from shuddering, imagining what might have happened, or from the chill in your stomach.
  He roared in a semicircle around the buildings and found what he wanted-a sturdy, small, oblong building next to the water. It looked lonely, ruined, but solid and sturdy-an oblong, windowless structure about thirty feet long. He hoped its roof was as strong as its walls. It was made of galvanized iron.
  The Volvo came to a stop as he turned it around the gray wall; out of their sight, it stopped. He jumped out, clambered onto the roof of the car and the building, moving with a low silhouette like a snake. Now-if only these two had been true to their training! And if only there had been more than two of them... Perhaps there was another man hiding behind him, but he doubted it.
  He lay flat. You never broke the horizon in a place like this, and you didn't go through it. He heard the truck pull onto the plateau and slowly. They would look at the dust cloud that ended at the Volvo's last sharp turn. He heard the truck approaching and slowing. He took out a pack of matches, holding the plastic one at the ready, the fuse horizontal. He felt better, squeezing Wilhelmina in his hand.
  They stopped. He guessed they were two hundred feet from the hut. He heard the door open. "Down," said a veiled voice.
  Yes, Nick thought, follow your example.
  Another door opened, but neither slammed shut. These boys were meticulous workers. He heard the clatter of feet on the gravel, a growl like "Flanken."
  The fuses were twelve-second fuses, Light or subtract two depending on how carefully you lit the end.
  
  
  
  
  The match's scratch was terribly loud. Nick lit the fuse-now it would burn even in a storm or underwater-and knelt down.
  His heart sank. His ears betrayed him; the truck was at least three hundred feet away. Two men were getting out to circle the building on either side. They were focused on the corners ahead, but not so much that they weren't watching the horizon. He saw the submachine gun held by the man to his left rise up. Nick changed his mind, tossed the plastic into the pistol carrier, and with a growl, it fell with a bitter crash, like tearing fabric. He heard a scream. Nine-ten-eleven-twelve-boom!
  He had no illusions. The small bomb was powerful, but with luck it would work. Making his way across the roof to a point far from where he had just emerged, he peered over the edge.
  The man carrying the MP-44 fell, writhing and groaning, the massive weapon five feet ahead of him. He had apparently tried to run to the right, and the bomb had exploded behind him. He didn't appear to be badly injured. Nick hoped he'd been shaken enough to remain dazed for a few minutes; now he was worried about the other man. He was nowhere to be seen.
  Nick crawled forward, seeing nothing. The other one must have crossed to the other side of the building. You can wait-or you can move. Nick moved as quickly and quietly as he could. He plopped down on the next rim, on the side the shooter was heading. As he'd expected-nothing. He ran to the back edge of the roof, bringing Wilhelmina to it at the same time as his head. The black, scarred ground was empty.
  Danger! By now, the man would be crawling along the wall, perhaps turning into the far corner. He walked to the front corner and peered out. He was wrong.
  When Bloch saw the shape of a head on the roof and the exploding grenade hurtling toward him and Krol, he lunged forward. Correct tactics: get away, dive underwater, and land-unless you can drop your helmet on the bomb. The explosion was surprisingly powerful, even at eighty feet. It shook him to the roots of his teeth.
  Instead of walking along the wall, he squatted in its center, looking left and right up. Left and right and up. He looked up when Nick looked at him-for a moment, every man looked into a face they would never forget.
  Bloch balanced a Mauser in his right hand, wielding it well, but he was still slightly dazed, and even if he hadn't been, the outcome couldn't have been in doubt. Nick fired with the instant reflexes of an athlete and the skill of tens of thousands of shots, firing slow, rapid, and from any position, including hanging over rooftops. He chose the point on Bloch's upturned nose, where the bullet would land, and the nine-millimeter bullet missed by a quarter of an inch. This exposed the back of his head.
  Even with the blow, Bloch fell forward, as men often do, and Nick saw the gaping wound. It was a nasty sight. He jumped off the roof and ran around the corner of the building-carefully-and found Krol in shock, reaching for his weapon. Nick ran over and picked it up. Krol stared at him, his mouth working, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and one eye.
  "Who are you?" Nick asked. Sometimes they talk in shock. Krol didn't do that.
  Nick quickly searched him, finding no other weapons. The alligator skin wallet contained nothing but money. He quickly returned to the dead man. All he had was a driver's license issued to John Blake. Nick told the corpse, "You don't look like John Blake."
  Carrying the Mauser, he approached the truck. It appeared to be undamaged by the explosion. He opened the hood, unfastened the distributor cap, and pocketed it. In the back, he found another submachine gun and a metal box containing eight magazines and at least two hundred extra rounds of ammunition. He took two magazines, wondering why there weren't more guns. Judas was known for his love of superior firepower.
  He placed the pistols on the back of the Volvo and rolled down the hill. He had to knock twice before the girls appeared at the window. "We heard gunshots," Booty said in a high-pitched voice. She swallowed and lowered her tone. "Are you okay?"
  "Sure." He helped them. "Our friends in the little truck won't bother us anymore. Let's get out of here before the big one shows up."
  Janet Olson had a small cut on her hand from a shard of glass. "Keep it clean until we get some medical supplies," Nick ordered. "We can catch anything here."
  A buzzing noise in the sky caught his attention. A helicopter appeared from the southeast, where they'd come from, hovering along the road like a scout bee. Nick thought, "Oh no! Not exactly-and fifty miles away from everything with these girls!"
  The whirlwind spotted them, flew over, and continued hovering near the truck, which stood silently on the plateau. "Let's go!" said Nick.
  As they reached the main road, a large truck emerged from the ravine at the end of the valley.
  
  
  
  Nick could imagine the two-way radio conversation as the helicopter described the scene, pausing to peer at the body of "John Blake." Once they decided...
  Nick raced northeast in the Volvo. They'd made up their minds. A truck was firing at them from a distance. It looked like a .50 caliber, but it was probably a European heavyweight.
  With a sigh of relief, Nick steered the Volvo around the turns leading to the slope. The big track hadn't demonstrated speed, only firepower.
  On the other hand, the cheap car gave them all the speed they needed!
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  The Volvo raced toward the top of the first mountain like a mouse in a maze with the food at the end. Along the way, they passed a tourist caravan of four vehicles. Nick hoped the sight of them would temporarily cool the helicopter's nerves, especially since they were carrying combat weapons. It was a small, two-seater French-made bird, but good modern weapons aren't all that common.
  At the top of the slope, the road winds along the edge of a cliff with a viewing platform for parking. It was empty. Nick drove up to the edge. The truck continued steadily toward the hills, simply passing the car tour. To Nick's surprise, the helicopter disappeared to the east.
  He considered the possibilities. They needed fuel; they were going to get the distributor cap to haul the truck and its body away; they were circling and setting up a roadblock in front of him, putting him between him and the larger truck. Or was it all these reasons? One thing was certain: he was now against Judas. He had taken over the entire organization.
  The girls regained their composure, which meant questions. He answered them as best he thought best and quickly drove toward the western exit of the gigantic forest preserve. Please-no building blocks in the way!
  "Do you think the whole country is in trouble?" Janet asked. "I mean, like Vietnam and all those African countries? A real revolution?"
  "The country is in trouble," Nick replied, "but I think we're confused about our special lot. Maybe bandits. Maybe revolutionaries. Maybe they know your parents have money and want to kidnap you."
  "Ha!" Booty snorted and looked at him skeptically, but she didn't intervene.
  "Share your ideas," Nick said kindly.
  "I'm not sure. But when a tour guide carries a gun and it was possibly a bomb that you had there, we heard - good!"
  "Almost as bad as if one of your girls was carrying money or messages to the rebels, huh?"
  Buti shut up.
  Ruth Crossman said calmly, "I think it's wonderfully exciting."
  Nick drove for over an hour. They passed Zimpa Pan, Mount Suntichi, and the Chonba Dam. Cars and minibuses passed them from time to time, but Nick knew that unless he encountered an army or police patrol, he had to keep civilians out of this mess. And if he encountered the wrong patrol, and they were politically or financially connected to the THB mafia, it could be fatal. There was another problem: Judas tended to outfit small squads in the uniforms of local authorities. He once organized an entire Brazilian police outpost for a robbery that went smoothly. Nick couldn't see himself walking into the arms of any armed squad without a thorough paper check first.
  The road climbed, leaving behind the strange, half-barren, half-jungle valley of the reserve, and they reached the ridge along which ran the railway and highway between Bulawayo and Victoria Falls. Nick stopped at a gas station in a small village, pulling the Volvo under the ramada-like roof above the pump.
  Several white men frowned at the road. They looked nervous.
  The girls entered the building, and a tall, tanned attendant muttered to Nick, "Are you going back to the main camp?"
  "Yes," Nick replied, taken aback by the confidential manner of the usually open and cordial Rhodesians.
  "We shouldn't alarm the ladies, but we expect a little trouble. Some guerrillas have been operating south of Sebungwe. I believe they're hoping to cut the railway. They killed four soldiers a few miles from Lubimbi. It would be a good idea to return to the main camp now."
  "Thanks," Nick replied. "I didn't know the rebels were getting that far. Last I heard, your boys and the South Africans helping them had the situation under control. I understand they killed a hundred rebels."
  The man finished filling the tank and shook his head. "We've got problems we don't talk about. We've had four thousand people south of the Zambezi in six months. They're finding underground camps and all that. We don't have enough gas for constant air patrols." He patted the Volvo. "We're still pumping them up for the tourist trade, but I don't know how long they'll keep it up. Yankees, huh?"
  "Yes."
  "You know. You have your operations in Mississippi and-let's see-Georgia, don't you?" He winked with wistful intimacy. "You do a lot of good, but where will it lead?"
  Nick paid him. "Where, really? What's the shortest route to Main Camp?"
  "Six miles along the highway. Turn right.
  
  
  About forty miles according to the signs. Then two more people at the signs. They can't let us through."
  The girls returned and Nick followed the man's instructions.
  Their refueling stop took about eight minutes. He hadn't seen any sign of the large truck for an hour. If it was still following them, it was far behind. He wondered why the helicopter hadn't returned to scout them. They covered six miles and reached a wide, paved road. They'd traveled about two miles when they began to pass an army convoy heading west. Nick estimated it to be a battalion with heavy equipment left behind. He was honed for jungle warfare. He thought. Good luck, you'll need it.
  Buti said, "Why don't you stop the officer and tell him what happened to us?"
  Nick explained his reasons without adding that he hoped Judas had removed the remains of "John Blake." A lengthy explanation of what had happened would have been awkward.
  "It's nice to see the soldiers passing by," Janet said. "It's hard to remember that some of them might be against us."
  "Not really against us," Nick corrected. "Just not with us."
  "She really does look at these handsome men," Ruth said. "Some of them are nice. Look-there's only a picture of Charlton Heston."
  Nick wasn't looking. He was busy watching the speck in the sky following the small column. Sure enough, as soon as the last armored personnel carrier passed, the speck grew in size. A few minutes later, it was close enough to be recognized. Their old friend, the helicopter carrying two people that had left them in the valley.
  "There they are again," Ruth said almost happily. "Isn't it interesting?"
  "Oh, that's great, man," Bootie agreed, but you knew she didn't mean it.
  Nick said, "They're too cute up there. Maybe we should shake them up?"
  "Go ahead," Ruth said.
  "Give them hell!" Janet barked.
  "How do you shake them?" asked Booty.
  "You'll see," Nick promised. "If they ask for it."
  They asked for it. As the Volvo passed an open, deserted stretch of muddy, dry bungalow, a whirlwind slammed into the driver's side of the car. They wanted a closer look, a close-up. Nick let the helicopter settle, then slammed on the brakes and shouted, "Get out and land on the right side!"
  The girls were getting used to it. They scrambled and crouched low, like a combat team. Nick flung open the back door, grabbed the submachine gun, cut the safety, and aimed a stream of lead at the helicopter, which was hurtling away at full power. It was a long range, but you could get lucky.
  "Again," he said. "Let's go, team!"
  "Teach me how to use one of these things," Ruth said.
  "If we have the opportunity," Nick agreed.
  The helicopter flew ahead of them, over the hot road, like a waiting vulture. Nick drove about twenty miles, ready to stop and shoot at the plane if it came any closer. It didn't. They passed several side roads, but he didn't dare take any of them. A dead end with a truck pulling in behind them would be fatal. Far ahead, he saw a black spot on the side of the road, and his spirits sank. When he could see it more clearly, he silently vowed to himself. A parked car, a large one. He stopped, started to reverse direction, and stopped. A man jumped into the parked car, and it moved toward them. He was shooting at the Volvo. Two miles back, as the strange car sped behind them, he reached the side road he had marked and pulled into it. The car followed him.
  Buti said, "They're winning."
  "Look at them," Nick ordered.
  The chase covered six or seven miles. The large sedan was in no hurry to get any closer. This worried him. They were being driven into dead ends or into bushes. The country became more hilly, with narrow bridges over dry watercourses. He carefully chose one and stopped on the single-lane bridge when his pursuers were no longer visible.
  "Up and down the creek bed," he said. They were doing it very well now. He waited in the ravine, using it as a trench. The sedan driver saw the stopped Volvo and stopped out of reach, then moved forward very slowly. Nick waited, peering through a tuft of grass.
  The moment had arrived! He fired short bursts and saw a tire go flat. Three men tumbled out of the car, two of them armed with long guns. They fell to the ground. Well-aimed bullets hit the Volvo. That was enough for Nick. He raised the barrel and fired short bursts at them from a distance.
  They found his position. A large-caliber bullet tore through the gravel five feet to his right. Good shots, powerful weapon. He dropped out of sight and changed magazines. Lead pounded and rattled on the ridge overhead. The girls were sitting directly below him. He moved twenty feet to the left and looked over the edge again. It was good they were exposed at this angle. The helicopter thundered with six-round bursts, spraying sand onto cars and people. This was not its day. The glass shattered, but all three ran back down the road, out of sight.
  "Come on," he said. "Follow me."
  He quickly led the girls along the dry stream.
  
  
  
  
  They ran as they should, they scattered, crawled along the sides of the Volvo. They will waste half an hour.
  When his small patrol was far from the bridge, Nick led them out of the ravine into the bushes parallel to the road.
  He was grateful that all the girls wore sensible shoes. They'd need them. He had Wilhelmina with thirteen rounds. No luck? One submachine gun, an extra magazine, a compass, some odds and ends, and hope.
  Hope waned as the sun set in the west, but he didn't let the girls know they were hungry and thirsty; he knew it. He saved their strength with frequent rests and cheerful comments, but the air was hot and harsh. They came to a deep crevice, and he had to follow it back to the road. It was empty. He said, "We're going. If anyone hears a car or a plane, speak up."
  "Where are we going?" Janet asked. She seemed scared and tired.
  "According to my map, if I remember it, this road takes us to Bingi. A town of decent size." He didn't add that Bingi was about eighty miles away in a jungle valley.
  They passed a shallow, murky pool. Ruth said, "If only this were drinkable."
  "We can't take any chances," Nick said. "I'll bet you money if you drink, you're dead."
  Just before dark, he led them off the road, cleared a rough patch of ground, and said, "Make yourself comfortable. Get some sleep if you can. We can't travel at night."
  They spoke wearily, but there were no complaints. He was proud of them.
  "Let's set the clock," Booty said. "You need some sleep, Andy."
  Nearby, an animal emitted a strange, rumbling roar. Nick said, "Pull yourself together. You're going to get your wish, Ruth."
  In the dying light, he showed them how to release the safety on the submachine gun. "Shoot it like a pistol, but don't hold the trigger."
  "I don't understand," Janet said. "Not holding the trigger?"
  "No. You have to constantly adjust your aim. I can't demonstrate it, so you imagine it. Here..." He opened the magazine and emptied the chamber. He demonstrated by touching the trigger and making sounds like short bursts. "Brrr-rup. Brrr-rup."
  Each of them tried. He said, "Great, you've all been promoted to sergeant."
  To his surprise, he got three or four hours of light sleep between Ruth and Janet while Booty was on duty. This proved he trusted her. In the first dim gray light, he led them down the road.
  Moving at a ten-minute mile pace, they'd covered a long way by the time Nick's watch said ten o'clock. But they were tiring. He could have kept this up all day, but the girls were almost finished without much rest. He let them take turns carrying the submachine gun. They took the job seriously. He told them, though he didn't believe it, that all they had to do was stay out of the hands of the "bandits" until Edman's company, represented by Gus Boyd, raised the alarm. The legitimate army and police would be looking for them, and the publicity would make attacking them too risky for the "bandits." He obeyed well.
  The terrain sloped downwards, and as they rounded a bend in the rugged terrain, they came across a native dozing under a thatched lean-to by the road. He pretended not to speak English. Nick urged him on. He was wary. Half a mile down the winding path, they came upon a small complex of thatched huts, filled with the usual fields of flour and tobacco, kraals, and pens for dunking cattle. The village was conveniently located. The hillside location presented challenges; the fields were uneven and the kraal fences were harder to maintain, but all the rainfall drained into the ponds through a network of ditches that ran up the slope like veins.
  As they approached, several men working under cover attempted to hide the car under a tarp. Nick said to his captive, "Where's the boss? Mukhle Itikos?"
  The man shook his head stubbornly. One of the assembled men, proud of his English, said, "The boss is over there." He spoke flawlessly, pointing to a nearby hut with a wide ramada.
  A short, muscular man emerged from the hut and looked at them questioningly. When he saw Nick's Luger casually held before him, he frowned.
  "Get that car out of the barn. I want to look at it."
  Several of the gathered black men began to mutter. Nick took the submachine gun from Janet and held it out suspiciously. The muscular man said, "My name is Ross. Could you introduce yourself?"
  His diction was even better than the little girl's. Nick named them correctly and concluded, "...to that car."
  When the tarp was removed, Nick blinked. Concealed within was a nearly new jeep. He examined it, watching the village men, now nine in number. He wondered if that was all. In the back of the open shed, he found four extra cans of gasoline.
  He said to Ross, "Please bring us some water and something to eat. Then go away. Don't hurt anyone. I'll pay you well, and you'll get your jeep."
  One of the men said something to Ross in his native language.
  
  
  
  Ross answered briefly. Nick felt uneasy. These people were too tough. They did as they were told, but it was as if they were curious, not intimidating. Ross asked, "Would you be involved with Mapolisa or the Rhodesian forces?"
  "Nobody."
  The black man who spoke said, "Mkivas..." Nick understood the first word, "white people," but the rest sounded threatening.
  "Where is your gun?" he asked Ross.
  "The government took everything."
  Nick didn't believe it. The government might gain something, but this group was overconfident. He felt increasingly uneasy. If they turned on him, and he had a feeling they might, he wouldn't be able to bring them down, no matter how hard he tried. Killmaster didn't mean a mass murderer.
  Suddenly, Booty approached Ross and spoke quietly. Nick lost some of it as he moved toward them, but he heard: "...Peter van Pree and Mr. Garfield Todd. John Johnson too. Zimbabwe seventy-three."
  Nick recognized the name Todd, the former prime minister of Rhodesia, who tried to reduce tensions between whites and blacks. A group of whites exiled him to his ranch for his liberal views.
  Ross looked at Nick, and AXman realized how right he was. It wasn't the look of a man who'd been pushed. He had an idea that Ross would join the rebellion if circumstances demanded it. Ross said, "Miss Delong knows my friends. You'll get food and water, and I'll take you to Binji. You could be a spy for the police. I don't know. I don't think so. But I don't want any shooting here."
  "There are people watching us," Nick said. "I think tough guys from the THB gang. And any moment now, a helicopter from the same gang will be overhead. Then you'll understand I'm not a police spy. But you better conserve your firepower, if you have any."
  Ross's calm face gleamed with gratitude. "We destroyed one of the bridges you crossed. It will take them many hours to get here. That's why our guard was so careless..." He glanced at the man. The guard lowered his head.
  "We surprised him," Nick suggested.
  "That's kind of you," Ross replied. "I hope that's the first lie you've ever told me."
  Twenty minutes later, they were rolling northeast in the jeep, Nick at the wheel, Ross next to him, three girls in the back, and Ruth holding the machine gun. She was turning into a real guerrilla. About two hours later, on a road called Wyoming 1905, they reached a slightly better road, where a sign pointing left spelled out "Bingee" in faded letters. Nick glanced at the compass and turned right.
  "What's the idea?" Ross asked.
  "Binji's no good for us," Nick explained. "We have to cross the country. Then to Zambia, where Buti's connections are apparently strong. And I imagine yours are as well. If you can get me to the THB mining operations, so much the better. You must hate them. I hear they work your people like slaves."
  "You don't understand what you're proposing. Once the roads die out, you have to cross a hundred miles of jungle. And if you don't know it, there's a small war going on between the guerrillas and the Security Army."
  "If there's a war, the roads are bad, right?"
  "Oh, a few paths here and there. But you won't survive."
  "Yes, we will," Nick answered with more confidence than he felt, "with your help."
  From the back seat, Booty said, "Oh, Andy, you have to. Listen to him."
  "Yes," Nick replied. "He knows what I'm doing will help his gear, too. What we tell about THB will shock the world, and the government here will be shamed. Ross will be a hero."
  "You're angry," Ross said with disgust. "The odds of this working are fifty to one, as you say. I should have beaten you in the village."
  "You had a gun, didn't you?"
  "The whole time you were there, there was a rifle pointed at you. I'm too soft. That's the trouble with idealists."
  Nick offered him a cigarette. "If it made you feel better, I wouldn't shoot either."
  Ross lit a cigarette, and they briefly looked at each other. Nick realized that, except for the shadow, Ross's expression was very similar to the one he often saw in his mirror. Confidence and questioning.
  They drove the jeep for another sixty miles before a helicopter flew overhead, but they were now in jungle country, and the helicopter pilots were having trouble finding them across thousands of miles of road. They parked under vegetation as thick as woven straw and let the helicopter fly past. Nick explained to the girls why they shouldn't look up, saying, "Now you know why guerrilla warfare works in Vietnam. You can hide easily."
  One day, when Nick's compass showed they should go; a faint trail to their right told Ross, "No, stick to the main road. It curves just beyond the next line of hills. This road dead-ends in a false escarpment. It's about a mile away."
  Beyond the hills, Nick learned Ross had spoken the truth. They reached a small village that day, and Ross received water, flour cake, and biltong to conserve his small supply.
  
  
  
  Nick had no choice but to let the man speak to the natives in a language he did not understand.
  As they were leaving, Nick saw a horse-drawn cart being prepared. "Where are they going?"
  "They'll come back the way we came, dragging branches. That'll erase our tracks, not that we're easy to track in this dry weather, but a good tracker can do it."
  There were no more bridges, only fords across streams with a trickle of water remaining. Most of them were dry. As the sun was setting, they passed a herd of elephants. The large animals were active, clumsily clinging to each other, turning to look at the jeep.
  "Go on," Ross said quietly. "They were given fermented fruit juice to drink. Sometimes they get sick."
  "Elephant hangover?" Nick asked, "I've never heard of that."
  "It's true. You don't want to date one when they're high and feeling sick, or when they're really hungover."
  "They actually make alcohol? How?"
  "In their stomachs."
  They waded across a wider stream, and Janet said, "Can't we get our feet wet and wash ourselves?"
  "Later," Ross advised, "there are crocodiles and bad worms."
  As darkness fell, they reached an empty lot-four neat huts with a courtyard enclosed by a wall and gate, and a corral. Nick looked at the huts approvingly. They had clean skins and simple furniture. "Is this where you said we'd sleep?"
  "Yes. This used to be the last patrol post when they came in on horseback. It's still in use. A village five miles from here watches it. That's the only problem with my people. So damn law-abiding and loyal to the government."
  "These must be virtues," Nick said, unloading the food box.
  "Not for revolution," Ross said bitterly. "You must remain crude and vile until your rulers become civilized. When you grow up and they remain barbarians-with all their tiled bathtubs and mechanical toys-you're screwed. My people are crawling with spies because they think it's right. Run, tell a policeman. They don't realize they're being robbed. They have Kaffir beer and ghettos."
  "If you were that mature," Nick said, "you wouldn't have ended up in the ghetto."
  Ross paused and looked puzzled. "Why?"
  "You wouldn't reproduce like bedbugs. Four hundred thousand to four million, right? You could win the game with brains and birth control."
  "That's not true..." Ross paused. He knew there was a flaw in the idea somewhere, but it hadn't been noticed in his revolutionary interpretation.
  He was quiet as night fell. They hid the jeep, ate, and shared the available space. They gratefully bathed in the laundry room. Ross said the water was clean.
  The next morning, they drove thirty miles, and the road ended in an abandoned village, unlike a settlement. It was falling apart. "They'd moved," Ross said bitterly. "They were suspicious because they wanted to remain independent."
  Nick looked at the jungle. "You know the paths? From here - we go."
  Ross nodded. "I could do it alone."
  "Then let's do it together. Legs were made before jeeps."
  Perhaps because of the dry weather, with the animals drawn to the remaining waterholes, the trail was dry rather than a wet nightmare. Nick fashioned head nets for them all from his pack, though Ross insisted he could manage without one. They camped their first night on a hill that showed signs of recent habitation. There were thatched shelters and fire pits. "Guerrillas?" Nick asked.
  "Usually hunters."
  The sounds of the night were the roars of animals and the cries of birds; the rumble of the forest echoing nearby. Ross assured them that most of the animals had learned the hard way to avoid camp, but that wasn't true. Just after midnight, Nick was awakened by a soft voice coming from the door of his cabin. "Andy?"
  "Yes," he whispered.
  "I Can't Sleep." Ruth Crossman's voice.
  "Scared?"
  "I don't... think so."
  "Here..." He found her warm hand and pulled her toward the taut leather bed. "You're lonely." He kissed her comfortingly. "You need some cuddles after all the stress."
  "I tell myself I like it." She pressed herself against him.
  On the third day, they came to a narrow road. They were back in the bundu bush country, and the path was fairly straight. Ross said, "This marks the edge of the TNV's territory. They patrol four times a day-or more."
  Nick said, "Can you take me to a place where I can get a good look at the position?"
  "I can, but it would be easier to go around and get out of here. We're heading to Zambia or towards Salisbury. You can't do anything against THB alone."
  "I want to see their operation. I want to know what's going on, instead of getting all my information secondhand. Then maybe I can put real pressure on them."
  "Bootie didn't tell me that, Grant. She said you helped Peter van Prez. Who are you? Why are you an enemy of THB? Do you know Mike Bohr?"
  "I think I know Mike Bohr. If I do, and he is the man I think he is, then he is a murderous tyrant."
  "I could tell you that. He has a lot of my people in concentration camps that he
  calls settlements. Are you from the international police? The UN?
  "No. And Ross - I don't know where you are."
  "I am a patriot"
  "How are Peter and Johnson?"
  Ross said sadly, "We see things differently. In every revolution there are many points of view."
  "Trust me, I'll knock out THB when I can?"
  "Let's."
  A few hours later, they crested the miniature escarpment, and Nick held his breath. He gazed out over a mining empire. As far as he could see, there were workings, camps, parking lots, and warehouses. A railway line and road entered from the southeast. Many of the operations were surrounded by sturdy fences. Cabins, seemingly stretching endlessly in the bright sunlight, had high fences, watchtowers, and guarded gatehouses.
  Nick said, "Why not hand over the weapons to your men in the units and take them over?"
  "That's one of the areas where my group differs from Peter's," Ross said sadly. "It might not work anyway. You'll find it hard to believe, but the colonial rule here has made my people very law-abiding over the years. They bow their heads, kiss their whips, and polish their chains."
  "Only rulers can break the law," Nick muttered.
  "This is right."
  "Where does Bor live and his headquarters?"
  "Over the hill, past the last mine. It's a beautiful place. It's fenced in and guarded. You can't get in."
  "I don't have to. I just want to see it to let you know that I've seen his private kingdom with my own eyes. Who lives with him? The servants must have spoken."
  "A few Germans. I think you'll be interested in Heinrich Müller. Xi Kalgan, a Chinese. And a few people of different nationalities, but they're all criminals, I think. He's shipping our ore and asbestos all over the world."
  Nick looked at the rough, black features and didn't smile. Ross had known far more than he'd let on from the start. He shook the strong hand. "Will you take the girls to Salisbury? Or will you send them to some part of civilization?"
  "And you?"
  "I'll be fine. I'm going to get the full picture and go. I have a compass."
  "Why risk your life?"
  "I get paid to do this. I have to do my job right."
  "I'll get the girls out tonight." Ross sighed. "I think you're taking too many risks. Good luck, Grant, if that's your name."
  Ross crawled back down the hill into the hidden valley where they'd left the girls. They were gone. The tracks told the story. They'd been overtaken by men in boots. White men. THB personnel, of course. A truck and a car had taken them along a patrol road. Ross stepped off his own jungle trail and cursed. The price of overconfidence. No wonder the pursuers in the truck and sedan seemed slow. They'd called trackers and were following them the entire time, possibly contacting THB by radio.
  He looked sadly at the distant hills where the Andrew Grant was now probably entering the mining kingdom; a trap with a beautiful bait.
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Ross would have been surprised to see Nick at this moment. The mouse had crawled into the trap so quietly that no one knew about it-yet. Nick joined a group of white men in the locker room behind the mess hall. When they left, he grabbed a blue jacket and a yellow hard hat. He strolled through the bustle of the shipping docks as if he'd worked there his whole life.
  He spent the day in the giant smelting furnaces, weaving past narrow-gauge ore trains, purposefully entering and exiting warehouses and office buildings. The natives didn't dare look at him or question him-white people weren't used to that. The THB operated like a precision machine-there were no strangers inside.
  Judas's move worked. When the girls were brought to the villa, he growled, "Where are the two men?"
  The patrol team, dispatched to the girls by radio, said they thought they were with the jungle team. Herman Dusen, the leader of the volunteer jungle stalkers, turned pale. He was exhausted; he'd brought his group for food and rest. He thought the patrol had recovered all the loot!
  Judas cursed, then sent his entire security detail out of the camp and into the jungle, toward the patrol roads. Inside, Nick did everything. He saw trucks and train cars loaded with chrome and asbestos, and he saw wooden crates being moved from gold smelters to be hidden under other cargo while inspectors kept a careful inventory.
  He spoke to one of them, getting along well with his German because the man was Austrian. He asked, "Is this the one for the Far Eastern ship?"
  The man obediently checked his tablet and invoices. "Nain. Genoa. Escort Lebeau." He turned away, businesslike and busy.
  Nick found the communications center-a room full of rattling teletypes and gravel-colored radios. He received a form from the operator and wrote a telegram to Roger Tillborn, Rhodesian Railways. The form was numbered in German army style. No one would dare...
  The operator read the message: "Ninety ore cars required for the next thirty days." Proceed only to Beyer-Garratt power stations under the direction of Engineer Barnes. Signed, Gransh.
  
  
  
  
  The operator was also busy. He asked: "Railway wire. Free?"
  "Yes."
  Nick was near a truck stop when the sirens went off like a bomb warning. He climbed into the back of a giant dump truck. Peering through the roof, he watched the search unfold all day, eventually concluding they were looking for him, even though he had no knowledge of the girls' abduction.
  He learned of this after dark, propping up the electrified fence around Judas's villa with sticks and crawling toward the illuminated courtyard. In the enclosed enclosure closest to the house sat Mike Bohr, Müller, and Si Kalgan. In the further enclosure, with a pool in the center, were Booty, Ruth, and Janet. They were tethered to a wire fence, naked. A large male baboon ignored them, chewing on a green stalk.
  Nick winced, grabbed Wilhelmina, and, seeing Bor, stopped. The light was strange. Then he realized the three men were in a glass enclosure-a bulletproof box with air conditioning! Nick quickly retreated. What a trap! A few minutes later, he saw two men moving silently through the bushes toward where he stood. Herman Dusen was patrolling, determined to correct his mistake.
  They circled the house. Nick followed, unhooking one of the pieces of plastic cord from his waist, which no one had known he was carrying. They were pliable, with a tensile strength of over a ton.
  Herman-though Nick didn't know his name-went first. He paused to inspect the outer electric fence. He died without a sound, from a brief jolt of his arms and legs that died down within sixty seconds. His companion returned along the dark path. His end came just as quickly. Nick leaned over and felt a slight nausea for a few seconds-a reaction he'd never even mentioned to Hawk.
  Nick returned to his patch of bushes overlooking the glass chest and looked at it with a sense of helplessness. The three men were laughing. Mike Bor pointed to the pool in the zoo enclosure, where naked girls hung like pathetic figurines. The baboon retreated to a tree. Something crawled out of the water. Nick winced. A crocodile. Probably hungry. Janet Olson screamed.
  Nick ran to the fence. Bor, Müller, and Kalgan stood up, Kalgan holding a long rifle. Well, at the moment, he couldn't hit them, and they couldn't hit him. They depended on the two men he'd just eliminated. He placed Wilhelmina's bullets precisely in the eyes of each crocodile from a range of forty feet.
  Mike Bora's heavily accented English roared over the loudspeaker. "Drop the gun, AXman. You're surrounded."
  Nick ran back to the gardeners and crouched. He'd never felt so helpless. Bohr was right. Müller was on the phone. They'd have plenty of reinforcements here in a few minutes. The three men laughed at him. Far down the hill, an engine roared to life. Midler's lips moved mockingly. Nick had escaped, for the first time in his career. He walked away from the road and the house, letting them see him run, hoping they'd momentarily forget the girls because the prey hadn't seen the bait.
  In the comfortably cool enclosure, Bor chuckled. "Look how he runs! He's an American. They're cowards when they know you have power. Müller-send your men north."
  Müller barked into the phone. Then he said, "Marzon is there with a squad right now. Damn them. And thirty men are approaching from the outer road. Herman and the inner patrols will soon be behind him."
  Not quite. Herman and his squad leader were cooling off under a baobab tree. Nick slipped past a three-man patrol and stopped, seeing the road. Eight or nine men were lining it. One was holding a dog on a leash. A man standing by a combat vehicle was using a radio. Nick sighed and inserted the safety into the plastic plate. Three of them and nine bullets-and he would begin using rocks against the army. A portable searchlight scanned the area.
  A small column of trucks climbed up the slope from the north. The man with the radio turned and held it, as if confused. Nick squinted. The man clinging to the side of the first truck was Ross! He fell to the ground as Nick watched. The truck pulled up next to the command vehicle, and men stepped out of its back. They were black! The command vehicle's headlights went out.
  The white man behind the radio operator raised his machine gun. Nick fired a bullet into his middle. The action exploded with the sound of the shot.
  It was like a mini-war. Orange tracers cut through the night. Nick watched the blacks attack, flank, crawl, shoot. They moved like soldiers with a purpose. Hard to stop. The whites broke, retreated, some were shot in the back. Nick shouted to Ross, and a burly black man ran up to him. Ross was carrying an automatic shotgun. He said, "I thought you were dead."
  "Close to it."
  They moved into the glow of the trucks' headlights, and Peter van Preez joined them. The old man looked like a victorious general.
  
  
  
  
  He looked at Nick without emotion. "You provoked something. The Rhodesian unit that was pursuing us went around to join another one that came from outside. Why?"
  "I sent a message to George Barnes. Tina's anti-trafficking team is a group of international criminals. I guess they can't buy all your politicians."
  Van Prez turned on the radio. "The local workers are leaving their settlements. The accusations against TL will shake things up. But we have to get out of here before the guards arrive."
  "Give me the truck," Nick said. "They have girls on the hill."
  "Trucks cost money," van Preez said thoughtfully. He looked at Ross. "Do we dare?"
  "I'll buy you a new one or send you the price through Johnson," Nick exclaimed.
  "Give it to him," Ross said. He handed Nick the shotgun. "Send us the price of one of these."
  "It's a promise."
  Nick sped past wrecked cars and bodies, pulled onto the side road leading to the villa, and climbed as fast as the engine's roar would carry him. Clusters of fires burned across the valley, but they were only a short distance away from the fires flaring everywhere. In the distance, near the main gate, tracer bullets clicked and flickered, and the sound of gunfire was heavy. It looked as if Mike Bohr and company had lost their political connections-or couldn't get them quickly enough. His security must have been trying to stop the army column, and that was it.
  He rolled out onto the plateau and circled the house. He saw three men in the courtyard. They weren't laughing anymore. He drove straight toward them.
  The heavy Internationale was rolling with good momentum when it crashed into a wide-mesh chain-link fence. The barrier was carried along by the truck in a tearing mess of shredding wire, falling posts, and shrieking metal. Deck chairs and sun loungers flew like toys before the impact of the fence and the truck. Just before Nick crashed into the bulletproof glass box sheltering Bor, Müller, and Kalgan, the V-shaped section of the fence, pushed forward like a metallic sound wave by the truck's nose, parted with a loud clang.
  Bor rushed toward the house, and Nick watched as Müller controlled himself. The old man either had the courage or was petrified. Kalgan's oriental features were a mask of angry hatred as he yanked Müller, and then the truck slammed into the window, and everything vanished in the clash of metal against glass. Nick braced himself against the steering wheel and firewall. Müller and Kalgan vanished, suddenly obscured by a screen of shattered, sharded glass. The material buckled, gave way, and became opaque, a web of ruptures.
  A cloud of steam billowed from the truck's cracked radiator. Nick struggled with the jammed door, knowing that Müller and Kalgan had entered the glass shelter's exit door and followed Bor into the main house. Finally, he tossed the shotgun out the window and climbed out after him.
  The door to the house swung open as he ran around the shelter and approached it-the truck and the fence to the right formed a barrier. He fired a shotgun blast into the center of it, and it opened. No one was expecting him.
  A girl's terrified scream rang out through the hissing of the truck's smoking radiator. He turned, surprised to see the lights still on-he'd knocked down several streetlights-and hoping they'd go out. He'd be a good target if Müller and the others approached the upper windows.
  Rushing to the fence separating the courtyard from the yard, he found the gate and stepped through. The baboon cowered in the corner, the crocodile's corpse trembled. He severed Booty's bonds with Hugo. "What's wrong here?" he snapped.
  "I don't know," she sobbed. "Janet screamed."
  He released her, said, "Release Ruth," and went to Janet. "Are you okay?"
  "Yes," she trembled, "a terrible big beetle crawled up my leg."
  Nick untied her hands. "You have courage."
  "A damn fascinating tour."
  He raised his shotgun. "Untie your legs." He ran into the courtyard and to the door of the house. He was searching the last of many rooms when George Barnes found him. The Rhodesian policeman said, "Hello. Is this a bit worrying? I got your message from Tilborn. Clever."
  "Thank you. Bor and his team have disappeared."
  "We'll get them. I really want to hear your story."
  "I haven't figured it all out yet. Let's get out of here. This place could explode at any moment." He was handing out blankets to the girls.
  Nick was wrong. The villa was brightly lit as they walked down the hill. Barnes said, "Okay, Grant. What happened?"
  "Mike Bohr or THB must have thought I was a business rival or something. I had a lot of surprises. People attacked me, tried to kidnap me. Annoyed my tour clients. Followed us all over the country. They were very cruel, so I drove past them in a truck."
  Barnes laughed heartily. "Let's talk about the accomplishments of this decade. As I understand it, you provoked a native uprising. You stopped the fighting between our army and the guerrillas. And you exposed enough smuggling and treachery on the part of the THB to put part of our government on its ear.
  
  
  The radio was howling so loudly from headquarters that I left it."
  "Well, well," Nick said innocently, "wasn't it? Just a random chain of events. But you were lucky, weren't you? THB abused your workers, cheated your customs, and helped your enemies-they sold to everyone, you know. You'll get a good rap for it."
  "If we ever fix this."
  Of course, you'll fix it. Nick remarked how easy it was when you were dealing with large quantities of gold, which possessed immense power and no patriotism. The free world felt better when the yellow metal fell into hands that valued it. They followed Judas to Lourenço Marques, and his trail vanished. Nick could guess where-up the Mozambique Channel to the Indian Ocean in one of the large ocean-going boats he liked. He said nothing, since technically his goal had been achieved, and he was still Andrew Grant, chaperoning a tour group.
  Indeed, the assistant chief of police of Rhodesia presented him with a certificate of appreciation at a small dinner. The publication helped him decide against accepting Hawk's offer via encrypted cable to leave the tour under any pretext and return to Washington. He decided to end the trip for the sake of appearances.
  After all, Gus was good company, as was Bootie, and Ruth, and Janet, and Teddy, and...
  
  
  
  
  
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