Carter Nick : другие произведения.

Six Bloody Summer Days

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Школа кожевенного мастерства: сумки, ремни своими руками
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  DESERT DEATH TRAP.
  
  The American Ambassador assassinated. President Mendanike dead in an "accidental" plane crash. His beautiful widow held prisoner. A ruthless, devious man named Abu Osman plotting to overthrow the new government. And Colonel Mohammed Doosa, head of the Russian-style secret police, with his own murderous plans…
  
  AXE might have let the small North African republic boil in its own bloodbath if it hadn't been for "Cockeye" — the stolen missile, the deadliest weapon in NATO's nuclear arsenal. Killmaster's assignment: walk into this desert hell, alone, find the missile — and destroy it.
  
  He didn't have much time. He had exactly SIX BLOODY SUMMER DAYS!
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Chapter 19
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Killmaster
  
  Six Bloody Summer Days
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  I sat in the boat and listened to the silence. The water was shimmering gold in the sun. I squinted against its brightness, my eyes scanning the conifers clustered in gnome-like conclaves at the lake's edge. Black spruce and birch climbed to the ridges. But nothing larger than a gnat moved within range of my vision. It was unnatural; a combination of factors. I could wait, or I could start the action. I don't like waiting. What I was after might not like waiting either. My right arm came back smoothly, my left hand loose and relaxed, and then the forward motion, straight forward, and careful with the wrist.
  
  The silence held. My left hand began its delicate assignment. I could feel the sweat on my neck and forehead. The weather was out of joint. It should have been sharp and cool with a breeze ruffling the water. Instead, I saw a single small lip of wave and caught the discoloration beneath it. Steady!
  
  My adversary made his move. Murderously swift, and right on target, he struck… and ran. He was three pounds if he was an ounce, all speckled arctic char and full of fight. I stood to do battle. For two days I'd been after him. I knew that although the other trout would He deep in the water because of the unseasonable heat, this loner liked to go his own way, to feed in the shallows amongst the reeds. I'd seen him. I'd stalked him, and there was something about his independence that I liked. Maybe he reminded me of me, Nick Carter, enjoying some much-needed R&R on a wilderness lake in Quebec.
  
  I knew he'd be a fighter, but he was more; he was full of guile. Maybe more Hawk than Carter, I thought, as he darted under the boat and tried to foul the line. "No such luck, chum," I said. It seemed for a moment there were only the two of us, contesting in an empty world. But it couldn't last, just like the stillness couldn't last.
  
  A gnat's buzz, but then louder than that, a noise of complaint building to a familiar whuf-whuf-whuf. A mote in the sky heading straight toward me, and I needed no magic reflection in the water to tell me it meant goodbye to R & R and another five days of fishing in Lac Closse. The life of a secret agent is never more apt to be interrupted than when he is recovering from the hazards of his profession.
  
  But not now, dammit! I was proving that not all fishing stories are a foot long and a shark's belly wide. I had a whale on the line, and everything else would have to wait. But it wouldn't.
  
  The big RCAF AB 206A came bumbling in right over me, and the down thrust of its fans not only churned up the water but nearly knocked me over. I was not amused. I waved the bloody thing off, and it skittered sideways like an overgrown dragonfly.
  
  My adversary had gone deep in the noise and confusion. Now he shot to the surface and broke water, shaking like a terrier, trying to throw the hook. I hoped the sight would impress whoever was sitting up in the chopper. It must have, because they sat up there in the air motionless, making a helluva racket while I played my friend on the line. He broke water a half a dozen times more before I got him close to the boat. Then there was the tricky business of keeping the line taut with my right hand while getting the net under him with my left. In fishing, if you want the fish, you never hurry it. You stay cool and easy, coordinated; something I'm good at.
  
  Maybe he wasn't a foot long, but he looked it. And the color of him — a rich tan, full of reds and browns with a handsome speckled belly. He was exhausted but he wasn't quitting. Even when I held him up for my aerial audience, he tried to shake loose. He was too free and full of spirit to put over a fire, and besides, I knew I was leaving. I kissed his slimy head and threw him back where he belonged. He broke water once, not in thanks, but in defiance, and then he was gone.
  
  I rowed in to the shore, tied the boat to the dock and collected my gear from the cabin. Then I went out to the end of the dock and the chopper dropped its rope ladder, and I climbed on up, breathing balsam and pine, saying goodbye to peace and relaxation.
  
  Whenever I, or any AXE agent, is given R & R time, we know it is borrowed like all the rest of our time. In my case, I knew, too, that if it was necessary to contact me, the RCAF would be used to carry the message, so it had been no surprise to see the chopper come whirling over the treetops. What did surprise me was to find Hawk waiting for me inside.
  
  David Hawk is my boss, the director and chief of operations for AXE, the smallest agency in the U. S. Government and the most lethal. Our business is global espionage. When it comes to the rough stuff, we take over where the CIA and the rest of the intelligence boys leave off. Besides the President, fewer than ten officials in the whole bureaucracy know we exist. Which is the way Intelligence is supposed to be. AXE is like Ben Franklin's axiom: Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. We're the one that stays alive, and Hawk is head man. At first glance, you might get the idea he's an over-aged, not too successful used car dealer. Good cover for a man I consider to be the shrewdest operator in the deadliest game of all.
  
  As I stuck my head up through the hatch and a crewman reached to give me a hand with my bag, I saw Hawk bent over his cupped hands, trying to get his ubiquitous cigar lit in the draft. By the time I was up and in and the hatch closed, he was sitting with his head tilted back, contentedly sucking smoke and brimstone from the foul smelling brand of cheroot he cherishes.
  
  "Nice catch you had there," he said cocking a sardonic eye at me. "Sit down and fasten up, so we can get out of this wilderness paradise."
  
  "If I'd known you were coming, I would have caught two, sir," I said, sitting down beside him.
  
  His rumpled suit fit him like a cast-down gunny sack, and there was no doubt that the nattily coveralled crewman couldn't figure out why there was such VIP treatment for an unkempt old geezer and a fair-to-middlin' trout fisherman.
  
  "Son," Hawk's rasp rose over the chopper's heavy huffing, "see if you can go help the pilot."
  
  The crewman, a corporal, hesitated only a moment. Then with a curt nod, he moved forward toward the cockpit. The blandness in Hawk's expression departed with him. Now the lean lined face took on a cast that often made me think someone in Hawk's family tree had been a Sioux or Cheyenne war chief. The expression reflected a contained force, full of sagacity and perception, ready to act.
  
  "Sorry about the interruption. We've got a DEFCON Alert." Hawk used official words like a Scotsman spends money.
  
  "Global, sir?" I felt a faint tingling in the back of my neck.
  
  "No. Worse." He had his attaché case on his lap as he spoke. "This will give you the background." He handed me an AXE briefing folder with a red stripe on the cover, which meant for the eyes of the President only. This was a second copy. There was a short summary. It read like the fleshed-in scenario of a conversation Hawk and I had had no more than a week past. That didn't mean that AXE headquarters at Dupont Circle in the nation's capital was bugged. Behind the shopworn cover of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services, we are unbuggable. Nor did it mean we were clairvoyant, although there are times when I'm sure Hawk has the gift. It simply meant that from existing conditions one can conclude, without using a computer, that there will be certain results. In this case the result was overdue — nuclear theft. It was also nuclear theft of a new top secret tactical weapon, which meant there would be some ticklish diplomacy decisions on the part of the President.
  
  The Cockeye is in the SRAM class — short range attack missile. It is an off-shoot of the Shrike, which we supplied the Israelis during the Yom Kippur war. There the similarity ends. The Cockeye is a nuke, and unlike any other short range tactical nuclear weapon, it is ninety percent efficient. Translated, that means whereas other nukes of the same size and type — whether in Warsaw Pact arsenals, Peking bunkers, or our own — can take out a city block, the Cockeye can take out a city. An extremely mobile cylindrical object, exactly sixteen feet long, weighing less than a half a ton, with a range of 150 miles, the Cockeye is a strong ace to have in your defensive deck. And having it had rubbed some of the worry lines out of the faces of our plans and policy people at SHAPE and in the Pentagon.
  
  Reading the details of the Cockeye's loss, one factor was obvious; the expertise of those who carried out the operation. It was a smooth, slick job, and showed a precise knowledge of the layout of the bunkers at Katzweiller just north of Kaiserslauten in the Rheinland Platz, where a squadron of Cockeyes were stored.
  
  There had been thick fog, not unusual at this time of year or at the hour of 0300. There were no survivors in the fifty-man guard complement, and the details of time and movement had been put together by CID after the fact. They came in a truck, later found, disguised as a U. S. Army six by eight. Had they not been wearing G. I. clothes, it was assumed they would have met at least some resistance. Knives were used on the three M.P.s on duty at the gate, and on the bunker guards. From the position of the bodies of the latter, it was assumed that they thought their killers were their relief. The two officers and the others died in their beds, gassed. Cute.
  
  Only one Cockeye complete with nuclear warhead was stolen. Immediate suspicion would focus on the KGB or the Chicom SEPO, using a team of Caucasian Maoists.
  
  But not for long. At the same time the Cockeye was being lifted, another theft was being carried out a few kilometers to the south at a storage depot at Otterbach. It was not the same group that stole the Cockeye, but the same techniques were used. In this case, the object snatched was our latest model RPV — Remote Pilotless Vehicle — black box and all.
  
  The RPV isn't much longer than the Cockeye. It has short stubby wings and it can fly at mach 2. Its principal use has been photo-reconnaissance. But mate a Cockeye on an RPV, and you've got a nuclear missile with a range of 4200 miles and the capacity to kill a million people.
  
  "Nuclear blackmail, here we come," I said.
  
  Hawk grunted, and I reached for one of my custom made cigarettes to try to tone down the smell of his cigar.
  
  There was a single paragraph devoted to what might be called the bitter pill:
  
  Due to conditions of time and weather and the elimination of all personnel involved, discovery of the theft at Katzweiller did not occur until 0540 hours and at Otterbach until 0555 hours. Although USECOM at Hiedelberg and SHAPE at Casteau were immediately appraised of the Otterbach attack, U.S. and NATO Headquarters were not informed, for reasons presently under investigation, of the Cockeye's disappearance until 0730 hours.
  
  
  
  "Why the snafu?" I said, looking up.
  
  "Some rank-happy brigade commander who thought he could solve it all himself because he located the truck. It could have made the difference."
  
  The next evaluation told why. AXE, like all Allied intelligence agencies, had thrown everything into a maximum effort to hunt down the killers and recover the stolen goods. There wasn't a truck, train, bus, or plane moving anywhere in a 1500-kilometers radius of Kaiserlauten that wasn't being stopped and searched. All ground transportation crossing western European frontiers and Iron Curtain borders was being double checked. Aerial surveillance, utilizing special detection devices, was blanketing the globe. Every agent in the field from Kirkenes to Khartoum had a single mission — find the Cockeye. Had the buzzer been pushed to mount the effort at the time of discovery instead of nearly two hours later, I might have still been fishing.
  
  An AXE Prelim, had come up with a working assumption based on four criteria: 1. No major adversary power had carried out the operation. They had their own RPVs, and to steal one as a diversion would have been too high a risk. 2. The theft of the RPV, therefore, was as important to the operation as was the theft of the Cockeye. 3. Time was the key factor once the theft had taken place. Those who carried out the dual operation could not know how much time they had. This meant an immediate need for concealment or transportation out of the area.
  
  If retained in the area, the possessors would be under constant pressure of discovery, and their ability to act would be severely restricted. 4. The Cockeye and the RPV were most probably flown from a suspected point within the area to a suspected point outside of it.
  
  An examination of the movement of all aerial traffic within the zone of action directly following the thefts offered a single clue. A DC-7 propeller-type cargo plane, belonging to the North African Peoples Republic had taken off from Rentstuhl Flugzeugtrager outside of Kaiserlauten at 0500 on the morning in question.
  
  The aircraft had arrived a week earlier for engine maintenance work, Rentstuhl specializing in the overhaul of non-jet aircraft.
  
  With the fog, the DC-7 had taken off under bare minimums. Its manifest, which had been checked by customs the night before, showed it was carrying spare engine parts. Parked at the far end of the field ramp, the plane was in an isolated position and, in the fog, not visible from the tower or administration building during the critical period.
  
  The flight crew of three, appearing to be NAPR military pilots, had arrived at operations at 0400. They had filed a flight plan for Heraklion airport in Athens. At 0720, Civitavecchia Air Traffic Control was informed the flight plan had been changed to Lamana direct, capital of the NAPR.
  
  Possible conclusion: the Cockeye and the RPV had been on board the DC-7.
  
  "That's kind of thin, sir," I said, closing the folder.
  
  "That was yesterday. It's gotten fatter since, and I know what you're thinking — that Ben d'Oko Mendanike of the North African Peoples Republic would never get himself mixed up in anything like this."
  
  That's what I had been thinking.
  
  "Well, he's not mixed up in it anymore. He's dead." Hawk waggled the stub of his cheroot, and squinted his eyes against the sun coming in the port." So's Carl Petersen, our Ambassador to the NAPR. Both of them killed after they had met for a secret meeting. Petersen by hit and run truck and Mendanike in an air crash at Budan about three hours later, and all in the same time reference as the swiping of the Cockeye."
  
  "It could be coincidence."
  
  "It could, but have you got any better ideas?" he said grumpily.
  
  "No, sir, but aside from Mendanike being incapable of planning nuclear theft, he hasn't got anyone in that rat pack army of his that could rob a piggy bank. And, as we both know, the situation in the NAPR has long been ripe for a colonel's coup."
  
  He gave me a hard look. "I don't think I'll let you go fishing again. One!" He held up his thumb. "The nuke and the RPV are swiped from point A. Two!" Up came his forefinger. "Until something better comes along, that DC-7 is the only damned lead we've got. Three!" Up came the remaining fingers — and I noticed he had a long life line — "Nick Carter is leaving for point B to see if he can find what was taken from point A. Clear?"
  
  "More or less." I grinned at him, and the sour look gave way to what might be called his benign scowl.
  
  "It's a dinger, son," he said quietly. "I know it's thin, but there's no time. There's no telling what the bastards have in mind. The President has been put in the spot of having to get on the hot line to Moscow and Peking to inform our partners in detente that we've lost a weapon they don't know anything about and that it could be aimed at one of their cities."
  
  Hawk is not the worrying kind. Neither of us are. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been sitting where he was, and I wouldn't have been sitting next to him. But in the fading afternoon light the lines in his face seemed a little more deeply etched, and behind the steadiness of his pale blue eyes there lurked a glimmer of concern. We had a problem.
  
  To me, that is the name of the game, something I've been accused of thriving on. Strip away all the ands, ifs, and buts, get rid of the official jargon and it's simply a matter of how you proceed.
  
  We were proceeding, Hawk informed me, to Dorval Airport outside of Montreal. There I'd be boarding an Air Canada flight, direct to Rome, then an NAA Caravelle to Lamana. I was going in as Ned Cole, chief correspondent for Amalgamated Press and Wire Services — AP&WS. My assignment — to report on the sudden and tragic death of Prime Minister Ben d'Oko Mendanike. The cover was solid enough. But for back-up I was carrying a second passport, a French one, in the name of Jacques D'Avignon, hydrologist and water engineer for the Euro-combine RAPCO. Fresh water to the NAPR was on a par with oil. They had damned little of either.
  
  We had no AXE personnel on the scene to backstop me. I said we were small. My only official contact would be Henry Sutton, CIA resident cum U.S. embassy commercial attaché. He would be expecting me in connection with the Ambassador's death, but unaware of my real mission. Even in a situation like this, AXE policy is to divulge operational plans to cooperating intelligence agencies only at the discretion of the agent in the field.
  
  At the outset, I had two avenues of approach: Mendanike's Pakistani widow, Shema, and the crew of the DC-7. The widow, because she might know the subject of the secret meeting between Ambassador Petersen and her late husband and the reason for the sudden flight to Budan. As for the crew of the DC-7, I wanted to discuss flight plans with them for obvious reasons.
  
  Like I said, it was usual procedure. It was Hawk who said, "You've got a maximum of no time to find out if the Cockeye and the RPV are there."
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  During the remainder of the trip down from the fishing camp, I committed to memory a bulk of background material that Hawk handed me. Mostly it dealt with the North African Peoples Republic.
  
  Every AXE agent has an up-to-date picture of the geopolitical face of the globe. As Killmaster N3 my own knowledge is, of course, broad and deep. It has to be, so that in zeroing in on specifics, I'm already halfway there.
  
  Of all the countries in the Maghreb, the NAPR is the poorest. It had been U.N.-created in the late '50s out of an arid slice of former French holdings. As a "newly emerged third world nation," its emergence had been purely political.
  
  Its capital, Lamana, is a deep water port, strategically located and long coveted by the Soviets. Admiral S. G. Gorshkov, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Navy had said, in secret testimony before the Central Committee of the Politburo, that Lamana was the key to control of the western Mediterranean. It didn't take a military genius to see why.
  
  Preventing that control were relations between the NAPR's man of destiny, Ben d'Oko Mendanike and Washington. It was not a relationship cemented in good fellowship. The only thing Mendanike liked about the U.S. was its continuous flow of aid. He took it with one hand while verbally slapping the face of his benefactor every chance he got. But in return for the aid, he kept the Soviets out of bunkering rights in Lamana, and he was also smart enough to be afraid of having them on his territory.
  
  There were some parallels to the situation in regard to Tito and the Soviet push for Adriatic ports. Mendanike's name was often linked to that of the Yugoslavian leader. In fact, the thick banner headline on the Montreal Star read: Mendanike, North African Tito Dead.
  
  A Ceylonese by birth, educated at Oxford, Mendanike had grabbed power in 1964, deposing and killing old King Fahki in a bloody coup. Fahki's kinsman, Shiek Hassan Abu Osman, hadn't taken kindly to the switch, and when Washington refused to supply him with arms, he made a journey to Peking. His decade-long guerrilla campaign in the southern sector of the NAPR's sandpile around Budan got occasional press mention. Osman's numbers were few, but like Mustapha Barzani in Iraq, he wasn't about to quit, and his Chinese suppliers were patient.
  
  Killed in the crash with Mendanike were six of his closest advisors. In fact, the only remaining member of his ruling coterie was General Salem Azziz Tasahmed. For reasons still unknown, he hadn't been hauled out of bed with the other six to make the unexpected flight on a one-way ticket to the obituary column.
  
  Following the news of the crash, Tasahmed had declared marshal law and had announced that he would head a caretaker government. The General was forty, trained at St. Cyr, the former French West Point, and had been a Colonel at the time of the '64 coup. He had one wife, Mendanike's sister, and he and Ben had been heralded as pals to the death. On that point an AXE Inform read:
  
  Tasahmed known to be dealing since June, 1974, with KGB agent A. V. Sellin, resident chief, Malta, attached to Hdqtrs. Black Sea Fleet, Vice Admiral V. S. Sysoyev, commanding.
  
  
  
  As the Star clarioned, Mendanike's "tragic death" had brought outraged demands from a number of third and fourth world leaders for an emergency session of the U.N. Security Council. Accidental death was not accepted. The beleaguered CIA was again the whipping boy, and while it was not felt that the Security Council could bring about the resurrection of "the noted statesman and champion of peoples' rights," the meeting would give ample opportunity to vent spleen against U.S. imperialist war-mongers.
  
  With all the additional background that Hawk had supplied me, my original evaluation had not shifted. Fact was, it had been reinforced. The situation had all the ingredients of the classic case of Soviet-inspired counter coup. And the only connecting link between Katzweiller and Lamana was an over-age DC-7 that had taken off on what appeared to be a routine flight, its one suspicious action the changing of its point of destination in midcourse.
  
  By the time we had landed at the RCAF hanger at Dorval, I had changed into a business suit and had assumed the identity of Ned Cole of AP & WS. Whenever I am off duty, a fully-packed travel bag and special AXE attaché case is left at headquarters for a quick pickup, and Hawk had picked them up. Off duty or on, my standard apparel consists of Wilhelmina, my 9mm luger, Hugo, my arm secured stiletto, and Pierre, a walnut size killer gas bomb which I usually carry tucked in my jockey shorts. I've been frisked thoroughly more times than I can count, and one of the reasons I'm around to talk about it is because no one has thought to search in that location.
  
  I stood on the flight line in the early evening darkness with Hawk, as he got ready to board the executive jet which would whisk him back to the capital. There was no further need to talk background details.
  
  "Naturally, the President is damned anxious to have this thing wrapped up before it goes public," Hawk said, as he cupped his hands and fired up another cigar.
  
  "I figure they're keeping it quiet for one of two reasons, maybe both. Wherever they've stashed the Cockeye, it's taking them time to get it set up on the RPV and to work in the avionics. It could be too complicated for them."
  
  "What's the other reason?"
  
  "Logistics. If its blackmail, demands have to be made, conditions met. It takes time to put a plan like that into operation."
  
  "Let's hope it takes enough to give us enough… You feel okay?" It was the first mention he'd made of the reason for my having been fishing on a lake in Quebec.
  
  "I can't stand long vacations."
  
  "How's the leg?"
  
  "Better. At least I have it, and that Tupamaro bastard is a head shorter."
  
  "Hmmm." The end of his cigar glowed red in the chill dusk.
  
  "Okay, sir," a voice called from the jet.
  
  "Sorry to leave you with my fishing tackle," I said.
  
  "I'll try my luck in the Potomac. Goodbye, son. Keep in touch."
  
  "His hand was like ironwood."
  
  A car took me to the airport terminal. On the short ride I stepped back into harness. The check-in was swift Security had been signaled to pass me with a cursory look at my attaché case and a patty-cake body search. The 747 hardly had a paying load. Even though I was traveling economy class, as any good news reporter, I had three seats to myself, which was fine for assimilation and sleep.
  
  During drinks and dinner I did my assimilating. But as Hawk had said, it all came down to one thing. The stolen goods could be somewhere in the NAPR. If they were there, my mission was not only to locate them, but also to get rid of whoever had put them there. To aid me from above there would be satellite and SR-71 reconnaissance.
  
  It used to be that truth was stronger than fiction. Now its violence that's way ahead of fiction. TV and movies and books can't keep pace. It has become a matter of one-upsmanship. And a major reason for the acceleration is because today in Los Angeles or Munich or Rome or Athens, those who butcher their fellow man too often get away with it. In the good old U.S.A. the do-gooders worry over the attackers, not the victims. AXE doesn't operate that way. Otherwise, it couldn't operate at all. Ours is an older code. Kill or be killed. Defend what needs defending. Get back whatever has fallen into the enemy's hands. No rules, really. Just results.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  The terminal building of Rome's Leonardo da Vinci Airport is basically a long glassed-in concave corridor with a gaggle of airline counters, expresso bars, and newsstands. The glass faces the flight line and there are descending ramps from a multitude of entrance gates where the planes of major airlines cluster together. The less prestigious carriers, going to North Africa and points south and east are loaded off the rear wings of the terminal, which proves that at least in Rome, in spite of the newfound clout of the Arab oil producing nations, a certain set of distinctions is still observed.
  
  The walk down the wide, heavily-populated corridor was good for two things — observation and the exercising of a convalescent leg. Observation was the more important. Since departing the Air Canada flight, I had known I was under surveillance. It's a built-in sense that comes from long experience. I never argue with it. It was there as I debarked up the ramp, and grew with the cappuccino I ordered at the expresso bar. It remained solid as I strolled to the newsstand and bought the Rome Corriere Delia Sera, and sat down in a nearby chair to peruse the headlines. Mendanike was still page one. The country was reported tense but under tight control. I decided it was time to go to the men's room to straighten my tie.
  
  I had spotted him while examining the news from Lamana. He was small and wiry with a sallow complexion and nondescript clothes. He might have been from anywhere, a typical face in the crowd. It was his intent that interested me, not his anonymity. Only Hawk and AXE central control knew I was in Rome… supposedly.
  
  In the men's room mirror my face glowered at me. I made a note to remind myself to smile more. If I wasn't careful I'd start looking like somebody's idea of a secret agent.
  
  There was a fairly constant flow of traffic in an out of the room, but my little watcher did not enter. Too much of a pro perhaps. When I exited and went down the stairs to the main corridor he had disappeared.
  
  There was plenty of time before my flight, but I walked to the far distant check-in point to see if I could flush him out. He did not flush. I sat down to think it over. He was real. His purpose probably had been to confirm my arrival and report it. To whom? I had no answer, but if his control was forewarned, so was I. Perhaps the advantage lay with the opposition, but they'd made a bad mistake. Their interest indicated Hawk's long shot had something going for it.
  
  I went back to reading the Corriere. It was full of speculation on Mendanike's death and what it meant for the NAPR. The details of the crash coincided with those that Hawk had supplied. The plane had been making a normal ADF landing approach to the strip at the edge of the Budan Oasis. Normal in every way except that it had flown into the ground eight miles short of the end of the runway. The plane had exploded on impact. The cry was sabotage, but so far no one had been able to explain how the DC-6 had flown into the desert sand, wheels extended, its rate of descent apparently standard at a time when the weather was "gin clear" between daylight and darkness. This ruled out an explosion on board or another plane shooting Mendanike down. General Tasahmed was quoted as saying there would be a full investigation.
  
  My fellow passengers began to gather. A mixed bag, predominantly Arab, some in western dress, others not. There were a few non-Arabs. Three, from their conversation, were French engineers, the other two were British heavy equipment salesmen. In view of the circumstances, I didn't think their timing to do business was all that good. But that sort of thing doesn't seem to bother the British.
  
  The assembled group took cursory note of each other, checked their watches from time to time, and waited for the boarding crew to arrive to begin the ritual of check in and check over. Since the last Rome airport massacre, even the Arab airlines have begun to take security seriously. Wilhelmina and Hugo were in their detection-proof cells in the attaché case. There would be no trouble on that score, but when only one male NAA clerk arrived, twenty minutes late, clipboard under arm, I knew trouble was coming from another source.
  
  He spoke in Arabic first, then bad English, his nasal voice flat and unapologetic.
  
  Some amongst the waiting throng groaned. Others fired questions. A few began to protest and argue with the attendant, who immediately became defensive.
  
  "I say," the larger of the two Englishmen seemed suddenly to be aware of my presence, "what seems to be the problem? A delay?"
  
  "I'm afraid so. He suggests that we come back at one o'clock."
  
  "One o'clock! But that's not until…"
  
  "One o'clock," sighed his mournful-eyed companion.
  
  While they chewed on the bad news, I debated calling a Rome number and having an aircraft put at my disposal. First, it was a matter of whether the loss of time was worth the risk of making a special arrival, which would attract attention at a time when suspicions had become more paranoid in Lamana than usual. And second, there was the question as to whether I was being set up for a killing. I decided that somehow I would have to make up the lost time. As for now, I'd get some additional rest. I left the two Britishers debating whether they would have a second breakfast of bloody marys before they canceled their reservations, or afterward.
  
  On the terminal's second floor, there is a so-called transient hotel where one can rent a cell-like room with a double decker bunk. Pull the heavy window curtains and you can shut out the light if not the sound of jets.
  
  In the lower bunk I arranged both pillows under a blanket and let a pants leg hang out. Then I climbed to the upper level and lay down to await developments.
  
  The NAA flight clerk had announced that the three-hour delay was due to a mechanical problem. From my position in the waiting area I had been able to see our Caravelle on the flight line below. Baggage was being loaded into its underbelly and a fuel truck attendant was topping off the plane's tanks with JP-4. If the aircraft had mechanical difficulties there had been no mechanics in sight, and no evidence that anyone was doing anything to fix things. It was a fuzzy situation. I chose to take it personally. Survival in my business requires a direct attitude. Better to be proven wrong than dead. In the hotel register I had written my name large and clear.
  
  He came an hour and fifteen minutes later. I could have left the key in the lock and made it more difficult for him, but I didn't want it to be difficult. I wanted to talk to him. I heard the faint click of the tumblers as his key made its turn.
  
  I came down off the bunk, landing cat-footed on the cold marble floor. Since the door opened inward, I moved around its edge. A crack showed. The opening widened. In came the cannon, a Beretta with a bulk silencer. I recognized the bony wrist, the shiny blue jacket.
  
  The gun coughed twice, and in the semi-darkness the pillows jumped convincingly in response. It was a waste of ammunition to let him continue. I karate-chopped his wrist, and as the Beretta hit the floor, I catapulted him into the room, slamming him against the double decker, kicking the door shut with my foot.
  
  He was little but he was quick on the recovery and fast as a snake, the poisonous kind. He went back between the bed poles, sommersaulting and coming up with a blade in his left hand, it looked like a small machete. He went into a crouch, wearing an unfriendly expression. I moved in, crowding him, Hugo circling.
  
  He spat, trying to distract me as he thrust for my gut, then went for my throat. His breath came in short gasps, his yellowish eyes glazed. I feinted with Hugo, and as he counter-slashed, I drop-kicked for the crotch. He avoided most of the impact, but now I had him back against the wall. He tried to come off it, aiming to cleave my skull. I caught his wrist before he could part my hair. Then I had him spun around, his face slammed into the wall, arm twisted up to his neck, Hugo needling his throat. His weapon made a pleasant clattering sound as it hit the floor. His breath was hoarse, as though he had been running a very long way and had lost the race.
  
  "You have no time to spare. Who sent you?" I tried it in four languages and then raised his arm to the breaking point. He writhed and choked. I drew blood with Hugo.
  
  "Another five seconds and you are dead," I said in Italian.
  
  I was wrong in any language. He was dead in four. He made a whimpering sound, and then I felt his body convulse, his muscles contracting as though trying to break loose from within. He collapsed, and I had to hold him up. He'd bitten the bullet all right, only it had been filled with cyanide. I could smell the bitter almonds as I eased him onto the bunk.
  
  In the rictus of death he didn't look any better than he had alive. He carried no identification, which was not surprising. That he had killed himself to prevent me from making him talk proved either fanatical dedication or fear of a more painful death once he had talked — or both.
  
  I sat down on the bunk and lit a cigarette. I never waste time considering what might have happened if I had done something differently. The luxury of self-recrimination I leave to the philosopher. What I had here were the remains of a murderous little somebody who had first checked on my arrival, and then had gone out of his way to try to prevent my departure.
  
  Sometime between his surveillance and his final act, someone with a considerable amount of clout had had me staked out for assassination by ordering a long delay of a scheduled flight. My would-be assassin's instructions on the method he could use to get rid of me must have been flexible. He couldn't know I would decide to get some rest. I could have done a half a dozen other things to pass the time, all of them in public view. This would have made the killer's job more difficult and the chances of his being caught possible. What it all indicated was a certain degree of desperation.
  
  The attempt also raised serious questions: Someone knew I was Nick Carter, not Ned Cole. How? If that someone was connected with the NAPR, why kill me in Rome? Why not let me come to Lamana and finish me there without risk? One answer could be that whoever had directed my new roommate was not directly NAPR-connected but North African Airlines-connected. Since the two were part of the same structure, the orders to kill came from outside both but had considerable influence within the airlines.
  
  There was no telling whether the corpse in my bunk had a wing man. In any case, someone would be waiting to get a report on the success of the mission. It was going to be interesting to see what the silence would produce. I left him under the blanket. Beretta beneath the pillow. The Carabinieri would have fun trying to figure it out.
  
  So would Hawk. I sent him a coded cable addressed to Mrs. Helen Cole at a D.C. address. In it I asked for all background on ownership and control of North African Airlines. I also mentioned that it appeared my cover had been blown. Then I retired to the airport restaurant for some fairly good cataloni and a fiaschi of Bardolino. Only my waiter paid any attention to me.
  
  It was ten minutes to one when I returned to the boarding area. Passengers were already being checked through, the mechanical problem had been solved. The two Britishers, more red in the face but none the worse for the delay, were jawing at each other as a tough-looking Arab with a red fez frisked them for weaponry.
  
  My own clearance was routine. None of the three male attendants gave me more of a checking over than anyone else. I went on through the gate and down the ramp into the afternoon sunlight, making it a point to put myself in the midst of the flow of passengers. I didn't think anyone was going to take a shot at me from this vantage point, but then I hadn't expected a reception committee, either.
  
  The interior of the Caravelle was narrow and the double seats on each side of the aisle were built for payload not comfort. There was Utile room for hand luggage, and the overhead racks, which were meant only for coats and hats, were crammed with all manner of goods. The two stewardesses, in short-skirted navy blue uniforms, didn't try to enforce the rules, knowing it was useless. The paint was peeling, as was the beige decor beside my head. I hoped the aircraft maintenance was a bit more professional. I had chosen a seat at the rear. That way I could check new arrivals and not have my back to anyone.
  
  At 1320 there were no more passengers boarding. Most of the seats were occupied. Still, the tail ramp remained down and the pilot had not switched on his generators. Arabic Muzak was entertaining us. It didn't seem likely that we were waiting for another announcement of mechanical delay. We weren't. We were waiting for the arrival of the last passenger.
  
  He came with a huff and a puff, stumbling heavily up the steps, the taller of the two stewardesses waiting to receive him.
  
  I heard him wheezing in French, "Hurry, hurry, hurry. Everything is hurry… And I am always late!" Then he saw the stewardess and switched to Arabic, "As salam alikum, binti."
  
  "Wa alikum as salam, abui," she replied, smiling, reaching to give him a hand. And then in French, "There is no rush, Doctor."
  
  "Ahhh, you tell that to your reservation desk!" He was loaded down with a plastic bag full of wine bottles and a battered, over-sized attaché case.
  
  The stewardess clucked over him, relieving him of his goods while he panted and protested at the unnaturalness of departure times. His taxi had been caught in the damnable Rome traffic. The least the FAO could have done was to supply him with a car, etc., etc.
  
  The doctor was a big man with heavy features. He had a pelt of curly, close-cropped gray hair. That, along with his taffy-hued skin, indicated a degree of black ancestry. His dark blue eyes supplied an interesting contrast. As the stewardess stowed his possessions, he thumped down in the seat beside me, wiping his face with a handkerchief and apologizing while catching his breath.
  
  I spoke to him in English as the tail ladder rose and locked into place. "Kind of a tough race, hey?"
  
  Now he looked at me with interest. "Ahh, English," he said.
  
  "Several times removed. American."
  
  He threw his meaty hands wide, "American!" It sounded as though he'd made an exciting discovery. "Well, welcome! Welcome!" He extended his hand. "I am Doctor Otto van der Meer of the U.N. Food and Agricultural Organization." He accent was more French than Dutch.
  
  "Your seat belt, Doctor," said the stewardess.
  
  "What? What!" He had a booming voice, and I noticed several of the passengers look back and either smile or wave to him.
  
  The belt secure over his bulging middle, he turned his attention to me again as the Caravelle moved away from its pad and began to taxi. "So — an American. RAPCO?"
  
  "No, I'm a journalist. My name is Cole."
  
  "Ahh, a journalist, I see. How do you do, Mr. Cole, a pleasure." His handshake indicated that beneath the girth lay something more solid. "Who are you with, The New York Times?"
  
  "No. AP and WS."
  
  "Oh, yes, yes. Very good." He didn't know AP & WS from AT & T, nor did he care. "I suppose you are coming to Lamana because of the Prime Minister's death."
  
  "That's what my editor suggested."
  
  "A terrible thing. I was here in Rome when I heard."
  
  He wagged his head. "A sad shock."
  
  "You knew him well?"
  
  "Oh yes, of course."
  
  "Do you mind if I combine business with pleasure and ask you some questions about him?"
  
  He blinked at me. His forehead was broad and long, which gave an odd foreshortened cast to the lower part of his face. "No, no, not at all. Ask me what you like, and I'll tell you all I can."
  
  I brought out my notebook, and for the next hour it was Q and A. I filled a lot of pages with information I already had.
  
  The doctor was of the popular opinion that even if Mendanike's death had been accidental, which he doubted, a colonel's coup was somewhere in the making.
  
  "The colonel being General Tasahmed?"
  
  He shrugged. "He would be the most obvious choice."
  
  "But where's the coup in it? Mendanike's gone. Wouldn't the succession go to the general anyway?"
  
  "There could be a colonel in it. Colonel Mohammed Doosa is chief of security. It is said that he has modeled his organization along the lines of the Egyptian Mukhabarat."
  
  Which had been modeled, with the aid of Soviet advisors, along the lines of the KGB. I had read about Doosa in my briefing papers. They indicated he was Tasahmed's man. "What can he do if the army belongs to Tasahmed?"
  
  "The army is not the Mukhabarat," he muttered. Then he sighed, folding his meaty arms on his chest, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. "You must understand something, Mr. Cole. I have spent most of my life in Africa. I have seen this sort of thing before. But I am an international civil servant. Politics do not interest me, they disgust me. A pack of jackals fighting to see who can be top jackal. Mendanike may have seemed a windbag to the outside, but he was no fool in his homeland. He took care of his people as best he could, and it is difficult to say what the outcome will be now that he is gone, but if things run true to form it will be bloody."
  
  The doctor had become long in the tooth and obscure in meaning. "Are you saying Doosa is getting outside help?"
  
  "Well, I am not wishing to be quoted, but in the capacity of my work I must travel the country much, and I am not blind."
  
  "You mean Abu Osman fits into it?"
  
  "Osman!" He looked at me, eyes wide. "Osman is a reactionary old fool running around in the sand calling for a holy war like a camel bawling for water. No, no, this is something else."
  
  "I'm not going to play guessing games, Doctor."
  
  "Look, I am talking too much already. You are a nice American journalist, but I don't really know you. I don't know what you will do with my words."
  
  "I'm listening, not quoting. This is a backgrounder. Whatever you have in mind I would have to check out anyway."
  
  "One thing I have in mind, Mr. Cole, is that you may have trouble checking on anything. You may not even be permitted to enter the country." He was becoming slightly truculent.
  
  "That's the chance any newsman has to take when his editor says, go."
  
  "Old. I'm sure it is. But there will be no friendliness to any Americans right now, particularly to one asking questions."
  
  "Well, if I'm going to have the dubious distinction of being thrown out of the place before I get into it, I'll try to speak softly," I said. "You know, of course, about our Ambassador's death?"
  
  "Certainly, but that means nothing to the people. They are only thinking about the death of their leader. You see a connection between the two? Well" — he took a deep breath and let out a sigh, a man making a reluctant decision — " look, I will say one more thing, and then that is enough of this interviewing. In the last months there have been some people coming into the country. I know their look from having seen them in other places. Guerrillas, mercenaries, commandos — what you will — a few coming in at a time, not staying in Lamana, going off into the country. I see them in the villages. Why should such people come to this place? I ask myself. There is nothing here. Who is paying them? Not Mendanike. So maybe they are tourists on holiday, sitting in the coffee shops, admiring the view. You figure it out, Mr. Newspaperman. Fini." He put period to it, spreading his hands. "Now, you will excuse me. I need to rest." He put his head and seat back and went to sleep.
  
  His position had been that of a man wanting to talk but reluctant to do so, becoming more reluctant as he proceeded, until he had reached the point of being upset and disgruntled at his frankness with an unknown journalist. Either he talked too much or he was a good actor.
  
  In any case, there was no need to tell me about the influx if he didn't think it was so. Commando types had stolen the nuke, and although the Middle East from Casablanca to South Yemen was full of them, it could be a lead.
  
  When the good doctor awoke from his snooze he was in a better frame of mind. We still had about an hour to go, and I encouraged him to talk about his agricultural projects. He had spent most of his life in Africa. He had a Belgian father — not Dutch — and had gone to the University of Louvain, but after that his life had been dedicated to the food problems of the Dark Continent.
  
  As the pilot began his descent, van der Meer switched from telling me about the world catastrophe of spreading drought to fastening his seat belt. "Ecoutez, my friend," he said, "customs here is never easy. For you at this time it can be made very difficult. You stay with me. I will make you an FAO writer, how is that?"
  
  "I wouldn't want to get you in trouble."
  
  He snorted. "No trouble for me. They know me well enough."
  
  It sounded like an opportunity. If it was something else, I'd find out why. "I appreciate the offer" I said. "I'll tag along behind."
  
  "I suppose you don't speak Arabic?"
  
  There's always an advantage in playing dumb to the language of a hostile land. "It's not one of my talents," I said.
  
  "Hmmm." He nodded pontifically. "What about French?"
  
  "Un peu."
  
  "Well, use it as best you can if you are questioned, and you will be questioned." He rolled his eyes.
  
  "I'll try," I said, wondering if in my cover as a journalist I could write an article on why the "liberated" elite of former French possessions prefer speaking French as a status symbol, rather than their own native tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  The city of Lamana sits on the edge of an ancient half-moon harbor, old before the Romans threw out the Carthaginians. We flew over it and the dusty metropolis below. It hadn't grown much since my last stop through.
  
  "Have you been here before?" the doctor asked.
  
  "I expected Lamana to be larger." I said in the way of implying I hadn't.
  
  "It would have to have a reason to grow. The Roman ruins at Portarious were once a tourist attraction. Maybe if we discover oil, who knows."
  
  Lamana's airport terminal was the typical square yellowish building with adjoining wings. Set apart from it was a single large hanger with a high arching roof. Aside from our aircraft, no other planes were on the flight line. What was on the flight line was a platoon of infantry, sporting blue and white checked kefiyas for headgear. They were equipped with Belgian FN 7.65 submachine guns and backed up by a half-dozen conveniently placed French Panhard AML combat cars.
  
  A squad of the platoon was strung out along the sun baked tarmac. We marched past them, heading for the custom's wing of the terminal. One stewardess led the parade, the other brought up the rear. In helping the doctor with his overload, I noted the squad had a sloppy look, no spit and polish, just sullen stares.
  
  "I don't like it," the doctor muttered. "Maybe the coup already."
  
  The Douane — "Customs" — in any third or fourth world state, is a drawn-out affair. It is one way of getting even. It also cuts down on the unemployment. Give a man a uniform, tell him he's boss, and you don't have to pay him much to keep him on the job. But here, two new factors had been added — outrage at the loss of the leader, and uncertainty. The result was tension and a sense of fear among the new arrivals. I could smell it in the stinking airless barn which served the purpose of greeting the returnee.
  
  The line moved with predetermined slowness, the traveler having to present debarcation carte, passport, and immunization record at separate stations manned by inspectors eager to cause trouble and delay. Up ahead, voices were raised in anger between the three Frenchmen and examining officials. The trio from Paris were not having any; they were wise to the game.
  
  When it was van der Meer's turn, he greeted the officer at the counter in Arabic — a long-lost brother. The brother grunted noncommital replies and did his stamping with a heavy hand.
  
  As I stepped up to the counter, the doctor switched to French for my benefit. "This man is a friend. He has come from Rome to write about the experimental farms."
  
  The official, thick-necked and square-faced, waved the doctor on and concentrated on my papers. When he saw the passport his head snapped up, and he stared at me with angry satisfaction. "American!" he spit it out in English, a dirty word. And then he snarled in Arabic, "Why have you come here?"
  
  "C'est dommage, M'sieu. Je ne comprend pas," I said, holding his mud-stained eyes with my own.
  
  "Raison! Raison!" he shouted, drawing attention. "Porquoi êtes-vous ici?" And then in Arabic, "Son of a dung eater."
  
  "As your famous Doctor van der Meer has said," I stuck to the French, "I am here to report on the progress you have made, turning the desert into productive land. It is the kind of good news that should be reported everywhere. Don't you agree, M'sieu Major?"
  
  That backed him off a bit. Raising his rank from under-lieutenant didn't hurt. It brought a grunt.
  
  "It is a thing you can be proud of." I brought out my cigarette case and offered him one. "You are fortunate to have such a man as the doctor." I smiled at van der Meer who was in line at the next counter, looking worriedly over his shoulder at us.
  
  The newly ranked major grunted again, taking the cigarette, impressed with the gold initials. I held the lighter. "How long do you plan to stay here?" he growled, studying my AXE-forged visa.
  
  "A week, in-shallah."
  
  "No, not as Allah wills but as Mustafa wills." He exhaled a cloud of smoke pointing at himself.
  
  "If you like, I'll put you in the article I'm going to write. Major Mustafa who welcomed me and made it possible for me to tell others of the great things you are doing here." I gave it the grand gesture.
  
  If he was aware that this was a put-on he realized he'd better not show it. I was speaking loudly enough so that all the other inspectors could hear me. Arabs have a dry sense of humor. They like nothing better than to see a loud-mouth in their midst made fun of. I sensed that some at least were not keen on Mustafa.
  
  Actually, he was much easier to play than the trout. Once past him, the checking and stamping became more routine. The luggage search was thorough, but not thorough enough to disturb Wilhelmina and Hugo. I only heard myself referred to twice as a "filthy American spy." By the time the white chalk mark of clearance was awarded my attaché case and bag, I was feeling right at home.
  
  Van der Meer had waited for me, and as we departed the sweltering shed, the two Britishers, who spoke neither French nor Arabic, were making the welkin ring with Mustafa.
  
  The bearer dumped our luggage in a vintage Chevy's trunk. The doctor handed out the baksheesh, and with many blessings from Allah we climbed aboard.
  
  "You are staying at the Lamana Palace?" My host was perspiring heavily.
  
  "Yes."
  
  I took in the scene. The terminal looked more humane from the front. There was a circular drive with an arm jutting off for hanger traffic and a gravel road leading out across the jebel toward a mirage of lakes. In the heat haze to the south the broken hills were higher, wind-blasted, sun-scorched. The hard blue sky was a merciless radiator.
  
  "You will not find it lives up to its name… palace." The doctor sighed, sitting back after giving the driver instructions. "But it's the best Lamana can offer."
  
  "I want to thank you for your help in there." I, too, was sitting back as the driver tried to put the accelerator through the floor before he had completed the turn on to exit road.
  
  The doctor was having none of it. "Slow down, you sixth son of a camel driver!" He bellowed in Arabic. "Slow down, or I'll report you to security!"
  
  The driver threw a surprised glance in the mirror, lifted his foot, and went into a sulk.
  
  "Ahh, it is too much." Van der Meer mopped his face with his handkerchief. "All so foolish, such a waste. I compliment you on the manner in which you handled yourself. Your French was good."
  
  "It could have been worse. They might have taken my passport."
  
  "They'll take it at the hotel, and God knows when you'll get it back."
  
  "You know, maybe I will come out and do an article on your work. Where can I find you?"
  
  "I would be honored." He sounded like he meant it. "If I were staying in the city I would invite you to be my guest. But I must go to Pakar. We have a station there where we are growing soybeans and cotton. I should be back tomorrow. Why don't you take my card? If you are still here, call on me. I will take you to the main area of our work, and you can ask me what you like."
  
  "If I'm not in jail or haven't been thrown out, we'll give it a try, doctor. Do you think there's been a coup already?"
  
  Van der Meer spoke to the driver, "Is all quiet in the city?"
  
  "Soldiers and tanks, but all quiet."
  
  "Wait until they have the funeral. If I were you, Mr. Cole, I'd stay off the street at that time. As a matter of fact, why don't you come with me now? Until things quiet down."
  
  "Thanks, but I'm afraid the press is something that won't wait, not even on funerals."
  
  Over the complaining of the badly used engine, I heard a new sound. I glanced back. Through the gray screen of our dust another vehicle was coming up fast. It was a two-lane road. I knew if the oncoming driver wanted to pass, he would have already swung into the passing lane. There wasn't time for a briefing. I came over the seat, knocking the driver off the wheel, hauling the Chevy hard to starboard then to port. I fought to stay on the road as gravel spewed and rubber shrieked. There was a single wrenching clang of metal against metal as the other car shot past. He'd been going too fast to brake and correct his aim.
  
  There was no chance to get a look at him, and once past, he didn't slow down. The driver began howling in rage as though calling the faithful to prayer. Van der Meer's sound track seemed to have gotten stuck in the groove. "My word! My word!" was all that came out. I returned the wheel to the driver, feeling better, hoping the near miss was an indication of something more than someone in a killing hurry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  The doctor bid me a worried farewell at the hotel entrance. He would send a message as soon as he returned from Pakar. Telephoning would be impossible. He hoped I would be cautious, etc., etc.
  
  As we had driven along the Hadrian Pelt, rimming the harbor, there was plenty of evidence that General Tasahmed had his forces on display. When we pulled up before the dirty white face of the hotel, troops were scattered among the palms and cypress like weeds. Their presence only seemed to add to van der Meer's concern for me. "Je vous remercie beaucoup, Docteur," I said, getting out of the cab. "A la prochaine fois. Bon chance en Pakar."
  
  "Oui! Oui!" He stuck his head out the window, nearly losing his hat. "Mon plaisir, a bientôt, a bientôt!"
  
  "You bet." The driver was never going to forgive me for saving his life, but the baksheesh I handed him produced my luggage, and I went quickly up the stone steps into the dim recess of the hotel's foyer.
  
  Forty years ago the Lamana Palace had been the best the French colonists had been able to offer themselves. The old patina remained, as did the coolness. But the smell was more recent, as was the concierge.
  
  The pressure of time no longer permitted the luxury of playing games. When he found I could speak French he went into the routine of not having received a request for a reservation. Unfortunately, all the rooms were booked. He had a moon face with spiked black hair and limpid black eyes to match. The perfume he bathed in went with his gestures, as did his fawn-hued vest.
  
  I was the only arrival at the moment, and the foyer was large enough so that no one appeared to be paying any attention to us. I brought forth my confirmation telex with my left hand while my right fastened on the vest. Then I brought the two close together, hauling him partially over the counter.
  
  "You have a choice," I said quietly. "You can eat this confirmation of my reservation or you can give me the key to my room right now."
  
  Perhaps it was the expression his bulging eyes saw in mine. He indicated he was not hungry. I let him go. Preening his ruffled feathers, he produced a key.
  
  "Merci, bien." I smiled pleasantly.
  
  "You must fill out the identity card and leave your passport," he rasped, rubbing his chest.
  
  "Later," I said, taking the card. "When I've had some sleep."
  
  "But M'sieur…!"
  
  I walked away, signaling a boy to carry my bag.
  
  Whenever I want information or service in a city I have two sources: Taxi drivers and bell hops. In this case, it was the latter. His name was Ali. He had the face of a gamin and blue eyes a million years old. He spoke a fine brand of pidgin French. Right away, I saw I had made a friend.
  
  He flipped me a knowing glance as we walked to the baroque elevator. "Master has made an enemy of a bad man." His face lit up in a wide grin.
  
  "I found his manners poor."
  
  "His mother was a pig, his father a goat. He will cause you trouble." His voice came out of his belly.
  
  Going up in the stable size elevator Ali told me his name and informed me that the concierge, Aref Lacoute, was a police spy, a pimp, a queer, and a mean bastard.
  
  "The Master has come far," Ali said, unlocking the door to my room.
  
  "And still farther to go, Ali." I moved past him into the dimly lit cubicle Lacoute had assigned me. Ali flipped on the light, which didn't help much. "If I have need of a car, would you know where one can be found?"
  
  He grinned. "Whatever Master wants Ali can find… and the cost will not make you curse me too much."
  
  "I want a car that runs better than an old camel."
  
  "Or a new one," he laughed. "How soon?"
  
  "Now would be a good time."
  
  "Ten minutes from now and it is yours."
  
  "Is there a back exit?"
  
  He gave me a critical look. "Master is not going to bring trouble?"
  
  "Not today. Why are there so many soldiers about?" I noticed his concentration as I took a fist full of rials out of my wallet.
  
  "That is the doing of the general. Now that the Boss is dead. He will be boss."
  
  "Was the dead Boss a good man?"
  
  "As any boss," he shrugged.
  
  "Will there be trouble?"
  
  "Only for those who are against the general."
  
  "Are there many?"
  
  "There is word there are some. Some want the fine lady of the dead Boss to rule in his place."
  
  "What do you say?"
  
  "I don't say. I listen."
  
  "How much of this do you need?" I fanned the bills out at him.
  
  He squinted at me. "Master is not very smart. I could rob you."
  
  "No." I smiled down at him. "I want to hire you. If you cheat me — well, in-shallah."
  
  He took what he needed, then told me how to reach the hotel's rear exit. "Ten minutes," he said, winked at me, and was gone.
  
  I locked the door and pulled up the blind on the room's single window. It was actually a door that let out on to a small balcony. It offered me a view of flat top roofs and a glimpse of the harbor. It also let in some fresh air. As I cushioned Wilhelmina in my shoulder holster and secured Hugo to my forearm, I gave some thought to Henry Sutton, the CIA resident. Had our positions been reversed I would have had someone at the airport to check on my arrival, a driver who would have been alert and a contact here at the hotel to smooth my entrance. There would have been a message indicating the availability of a car. Henry was not showing me much.
  
  The rear entrance of the hotel let out on to a stinking alley. It was just wide enough for the Fiat 1100. Ali and the car's owner were waiting for me, the former to receive my benediction and the latter to see how much richer I would make him.
  
  "You like it, Master?" Ali patted the film of dust on the fender.
  
  I liked it better when I got in and fired it up. At least all four cylinders were operating. The owner's day was ruined when I refused to bargain, gave him half of what he quoted for four days' rental, and drove out of the cul-de-sac, calling on Allah to bless them both.
  
  Lamana was more like a large town than a city. The French had laid out its streets in a fan shape and interlaced them with a number of floral parks, thanks to the acquifer on which the area rested. The mixture of Moorish architecture and French planning gave Lamana an old world charm that even its liberators had not been able to erase.
  
  I had committed its streets to memory during the helicopter ride to Montreal, and I moved along in the thin flow of traffic, heading toward the outskirts and the U.S. Embassy on Rue Pepin. At the main intersections there were armored cars and crews taking their ease. I purposely swung past the Presidential Palace. Its ornate gate was draped in black crepe. Through the gold colored bars I could see a long, palm-decked drive. The lay out, exterior and interior were also fixed in my mind. Protection for the Palace was not greater than at any other point. It could be Tasahmed had his troops out to make an impression, not because he expected trouble.
  
  The embassy, a bit white villa, sat behind a long high white wall. The flag on its roof was at half staff. I was pleased to see the Marines on guard at the gate and even more pleased with their no nonsense manner. My passport was checked. The Fiat was checked from hood to trunk. A call was put through to Sutton. A response came back, and I was instructed where to park and to report to the Sergeant upon entering the embassy. It all took about two minutes, very polite but nobody was missing a trick.
  
  Inside the door I found the sergeant. He would have been hard to miss. I was glad we were on the same side. He did his rechecking, then directed me to take the left arm of the sweeping twin branch staircase. Room 204 was my destination.
  
  I went up the carpeted stairs amid the smell of flowers, the quiet of the place funeral. The stillness was not only a measure of the occasion but also the hour. It was after five.
  
  I knocked on 204, and without waiting for a response, opened the door and barged in. It was an outer office, and the auburn-haired woman who was waiting to receive me did something to soften the head of steam I had been building for Sutton. Elegant was my first reaction; no ordinary secretary, was my second.
  
  I was right on both counts.
  
  "Mr. Cole," she said, coming toward me, "We've been expecting you."
  
  I hadn't been expecting her, but our brief handshake said something good for the unexpected. "I came as soon as I could."
  
  "Ouch." She winced at my sarcasm, her pale green eyes crinkling. Her smile was subtle, like her scent, the color of her hair something special, Yeats and Cathlin ni Hulihan all rolled into one. Instead, she was Paula Mathews, assistant and secretary to the missing Henry Sutton. "Where is he?" I said, following her into her office.
  
  She didn't answer until we got seated. "Henry — Mr. Sutton — is working on a lead… with regard to the Ambassador's death."
  
  "What's that going to solve?"
  
  "I… I don't really know… Except it might answer why he was killed."
  
  "There's nothing on that?"
  
  "No." She shook her head.
  
  "When will Sutton be back?"
  
  "He thought by seven."
  
  "Has anything come in for me?"
  
  "Oh, yes, I almost forgot." She handed me the envelope on her desk.
  
  "Excuse me." Hawk's coded response to my Rome query was brief and offered no real answers: Ownership of NAA 60% Mendanike, 30% Tasahmed, 10% Shema. If Tasahmed or Shema wanted to kill me, it certainly could be done more easily here than in Rome.
  
  I looked up at Paula, noting the full swell of her breasts against her blouse. "I need the use of your communications office."
  
  "Whatever help we can be." Her gesture was a graceful motion.
  
  "Let's go talk to communications."
  
  The communications section and its chief operator, Charlie Neal, offered a bit of reassurance. The equipment was the latest, Neal knew his business. Using a different dummy address, I encoded an AXE-Sp. for Hawk: Need all on FAO Dr. Otto van der Meer.
  
  "I should have a reply on that within a half hour, Charlie." I said. "You'll let me know."
  
  "We'll be at my quarters," Paula enlightened us both.
  
  Within the walled grounds of the embassy compound there were a number of small bungalows for members of the staff. Until recently, living in such a residence had been optional, Paula informed me, but terrorist actions against U.S. personnel had made it mandatory that all women, particularly single women, assigned to the NAPR, be domiciled in them.
  
  "Not a bad idea," I said as we walked up the path to her cottage.
  
  "It has its points, but it is confining."
  
  The surrounding cypress gave the place a nice feel of privacy, although there was a similar cottage close by. The red bougainvillea against the white facing added an air of tranquility, as illusory as all the rest.
  
  "Ordinarily I'd be sharing my estate with someone I probably couldn't stand, but for once, being short-handed has paid off." I liked the way she tossed her head.
  
  There was a small patio in the back off an even smaller kitchen, and we sat on it and tried some gin and tonic. "I thought it would be more comfortable here," she said.
  
  "I like your judgment. Let me indulge with one of my indulgences." I offered my cigarettes.
  
  "Hmm… gold lettering, how very fancy."
  
  "You'll like the tobacco. You are in the same business as Henry?"
  
  She nodded as I extended the lighter.
  
  "When does the roof blow off?"
  
  "There will be trouble tomorrow at the funeral. But General Tasahmed has no real opposition."
  
  "What was going on here before Mendanike and the Ambassador died?"
  
  She gave me a careful speculative look. "Maybe you'd better wait and talk to Mr. Sutton about that."
  
  "I don't have time to wait. Whatever you know, let's have it right now."
  
  She didn't like my tone. "Listen, Mr. Cole…"
  
  "No, you listen. You received instructions to cooperate. I like the way you cooperate, but don't go all official on me. I need to know, and right now." I held my eyes on her, and I could feel the sparks.
  
  She looked away. I couldn't tell if the color in her cheeks was there because she wanted to tell me to go to hell or because the effect we were having on each other was mutual. After a moment her eyes came back to mine, cool and faintly hostile.
  
  "There are two things. One, I'm surprised you don't already know. Since August we have been sending information to Langley on the arrival of professional terrorist types from different locations…"
  
  "Arriving singley and in twos and threes." I finished for her. "The question is — where are they?"
  
  "We're not sure. They just arrive and disappear. We thought the Prime Minister was behind it. Ambassador Petersen wanted to discuss it with him."
  
  I felt sad that van der Meer had more answers than these people did. "Are they still coming in?"
  
  "Two arrived on the twenty-fourth, from Dhofar."
  
  "You feel Mendanike was bringing them in to beef up his push against Osman?"
  
  "We've been trying to verify the possibility."
  
  "What kind of a relationship did Ben d'Oko have with the General?"
  
  "Kissing cousins."
  
  She had all the standard answers. "Is there any evidence to show that they might have stopped kissing, that Tasahmed got rid of Mendanike?"
  
  "Naturally, it comes to mind. But we have no evidence. If Henry can learn the identity of the driver who killed Ambassador Petersen, perhaps we'll find that out, too."
  
  I winced into my glass. "Where does Colonel Doosa fit in?"
  
  "In the general's pocket. He does the dirty work and likes it. When you look at him you see scales."
  
  I put down my empty glass. "What's the second item you mentioned?"
  
  "It may be nothing. There's a man named Hans Gueyer, wanting to make contact with Mr. Sutton."
  
  "Who is he?"
  
  "He's the chief mechanic for North African Airlines."
  
  My ears pricked up. "Did he give any indication of what he wanted?"
  
  "No. He wanted to come around. I said we'd call."
  
  From the point of view of my sex urge, Paula Mathews was a smashing success. As a CIA operative or assistant operative, or whatever she doubled at, she put me in mind of her missing boss. "Do you know where Gueyer is?"
  
  "Well, there's only one NAA hanger at the airport. He said he'd be there until eight."
  
  I stood up. "Paula, I'm sorry there isn't time to talk about the color of your hair and the smell of jasmine. I'd like to have a rain check on it. In the meantime, would you ask Henry to meet me at the bar in the Lamana Palace at eight and to bring the reply to my cable?"
  
  As she rose, the color was back in her cheeks. "Mr. Sutton may have an appointment."
  
  "Tell him to cancel it." I put my hands on her shoulders. "And thanks for the drink." I kissed her forehead chastely and moved off, smiling at her puzzled stare.
  
  Chapter 6
  
  The light was fading from the sun-baked sky as I approached the airport. The field lights were on and the tower beacon was fingering the heavy red twilight. There were now three armored cars parked in front of the drive instead of two. I knew the hanger entrance would be similarly attended. I had not been followed from the city, nor had anyone observed my access to or from the embassy. The blockade ahead would be a bit more difficult.
  
  I swung off the main drive onto the short length of road leading to the hanger. At road's end was a guard box and beside it a French AMX command jeep and a TT 6 armored personnel carrier. Some of the personnel were lounging about until they saw me approaching. Then they snapped to as though I was the invading force they'd been waiting for. I was waved to a stop a good fifty feet from the gate.
  
  A sergeant led out a squad of four, their FNs at the ready. The greeting was harsh and in Arabic. I was in forbidden territory. What the hell did I think I was doing!
  
  My response was in French. I was a representative of the Society Aeronautique de Paris. I had business with M'sieur Gueyer, le chef de Mecanicien des Avions Africque Nord. Was this not the correct place to enter? With that question I presented my duly stamped official French passport.
  
  The sergeant took the document and retreated with it to the guard box where two officers concentrated on turning the pages. My four guards eyed me without love. I waited for the next step, knowing pretty well what it was going to be.
  
  This time a lieutenant accompanied the sergeant. He was a shade less unfriendly and addressed me in French. What was the purpose of my visit? Why did I want to see M'sieur Gueyer?
  
  I explained that NAA was having trouble with the avionics of its new Fourberge 724C, and I had been dispatched from Paris to correct the problem. I then took the lieutenant into my confidence and described in technical detail with gestures what was involved. I waxed enthusiastic. He finally had enough, handed me back my passport and waved me on, giving the order to let me through.
  
  "Allah maak!" I called and saluted as I passed the gate. The salute was returned. We were all on the same side. May Allah bless lax security, as well.
  
  There were only two cars in the parking area beside the hanger. I had expected to run into additional guards, but there were none. Once through the perimeter, it appeared you were in. On the flight line were a pair of old DC-3s. Inside the hanger was another, with its engines disembowled. Aside from a Caravelle and several smaller twin engine jobs, there was a spanking new Gulfstream jet. Beneath the cockpit window was the emblem of the NAPR. This had undoubtedly been Mendanike's version of Air Force One. Why take a DC-6 to Budan when you had a sweet crate like this?
  
  In noting the assorted aircraft, as I walked through the interior of the hanger, I noted no moving bodies. It was after quitting time, that was for sure. Along the back of the hanger there was a glassed in office section. Through its windows I saw a light and headed for it.
  
  Hans Gueyer had a puckish face with foxy, shoe-button eyes. His bald dome was the color of cured leather. He was short and stocky, with hefty forearms and big, grease-pitted hands. He had a way of cocking his head, like a robin listening for a worm. He had it cocked at me as I came through the door.
  
  "Mr. Gueyer?"
  
  "That's me." His voice had been rubbed with sandpaper.
  
  As I put out my hand he wiped his on his dirty white coverall before extending it. "You wanted to see Mr. Sutton?"
  
  He looked through the glass partition suddenly on guard and then back at me. "You're not Sutton."
  
  "That's right. My name is Cole. Mr. Sutton and I know each other."
  
  "Hmmm." I could hear the wheels clicking behind his heavily furrowed brow. "How did you get in here? They've got this place buttoned up tighter 'n a cow's arse at milkin' time."
  
  "I didn't come to be milked."
  
  He stared at me a second and then let out a burst of laughter. "Pretty good. Sit down, Mr. Cole." He gestured toward the chair on the otherside of his cluttered desk. "I don't think anybody'll bother us."
  
  We sat and he opened up a desk drawer and brought out a bottle of bonded bourbon and some paper cups. "Feel like a snort? Don't have any ice?"
  
  "You do all right," I said, nodding at the bottle.
  
  "Oh, I travel a bit. Say when."
  
  I said, and after we got past the cheers and lighting up our own brands, Hans cocked his head at me and got to it. "What can I do for you, Mr. Cole?"
  
  "I think it goes the other way around. You wanted to see us."
  
  "What's your job at the embassy, Mr. Cole? I thought I knew everyone there."
  
  "I arrived this afternoon. Henry asked me to fill in. The people for whom I work gave me instructions — don't waste time. Shall we get down to it?"
  
  He took a slug of his drink and tilted his head back. "I have some information. But I've found that nothing comes easy or cheap in this world."
  
  "No argument. What's the information? What's the price?"
  
  He let out a bark of laughter. "Jesus, you're no Arab, that's for sure! And yeah, I know, you don't have time to waste." He leaned forward, putting his arms on his desk. The overhead light made the sweat shine on his dome. "Okay, because I'm a patriot at heart, I'll give you this for peanuts. A thousand bucks of U.S. peanuts on account and five thousand if I can produce the evidence."
  
  "What good is the first part if you can't produce the second?"
  
  "Oh, but I can. It just may take a little time because everything is so buggared up here right now. You want a refill?"
  
  "No, thanks. Let's put it this way. I'll give you three hundred on deposit. If part one is good, you'll get the other seven and a guarantee of the five thousand if you produce."
  
  He toasted me with the last of his drink, gulped it down and poured himself another. "I'm reasonable," he said. "Let's see the three hundred."
  
  "There's only one thing." I pulled my wallet out. "If I don't think what you have is worth the deposit, I'll have to take it back."
  
  "Sure, no sweat, you'll see."
  
  "Also I want some answers to a few questions of my own."
  
  "Whatever I can do to help." He beamed as he counted the six fifties and tucked them in the breast pocket of his coverall. "Okay," he checked through the partition, cocked his head and lowered his voice. "Mendanike's plane crash was no accident. I know how it was done. The evidence is in the wreckage at Budan."
  
  "Do you know who did it?"
  
  "No, but any damn fool could make a pretty good guess. Tasahmed's number one now."
  
  "My people don't pay for guesses. Where's the DC-7?"
  
  "DC-7! It was a six that Mendanike and his gang were flying." His voice rose. "And they damned well should have been flying the Gulfstream. That was the first thing that tipped me off. But it was the landing…"
  
  "Hans," I held up my hand. "The seven, where is the DC-7 that is the property of NAA?"
  
  He had been pulled up short. He was hurt. "At Rufa, the military base. What the hell has that got to do…"
  
  "Why is it at Rufa? Is it usually based there?"
  
  "It's on loan to the Army, has been for a couple of months."
  
  "What about its crew?"
  
  "Strictly military. Look, aren't you interested in how they got Mendanike? This is a helluva story. It's happened before. The pattern was the same, the approach was the same. It was a perfect set up. It…"
  
  "Were you on duty when Mendanike took off?"
  
  "Hell, no! If I had been he'd be alive today… or maybe I'd be dead, too. Kahlid was on duty. He was night chief. Only he isn't around any more, night or day. Very sick, I'm told. So I'm tryin' to tell you somethin' before I get sick, only you wanna talk about that goddamned DC-7. When they took it out of here I said, good riddance!"
  
  As he rattled on I made a routine check through the glass partition. There were no lights on in the hanger, but there was enough fading twilight to see the new arrivals in silhouette. There were five of them. They were moving across the hangar spread out in extended order. The switch for the overhead fight was on the wall behind Hans.
  
  "Turn off that light, fast!" I cut in.
  
  He got the message from my tone and the fact that he'd been around long enough to know when to shut up and do as he was told.
  
  There was a nasty bronchial cough, mixed with the tinkle of shattered glass as I went over backward in the chair and came up on my knees. Wilhelmina in hand. In the darkness I could hear Hans breathing heavily.
  
  "Is there a back door?"
  
  "In the connecting office." His voice was shaking.
  
  "Crawl in there and wait. I'll take care of things here."
  
  My words were punctuated by several more coughs and a couple of ricochets. I was not anxious to open up with the 9mm and summon the infantry. The attack was thoroughly half-assed. There had been no need to ruin the glass windows so that five heros could take one unarmed mechanic. Silencers meant they didn't belong to the company guarding the airport. Maybe their idea was to scare Hans to death.
  
  I heard Hans slither into the adjoining office. I crouched by the door and waited. Not for long. With a clatter of feet, the first of the attackers came barreling in. I tripped him low, and, as he stumbled forward, I gave him the butt of Wilhelmina. He'd hardly hit the floor before number two followed. I took him in a half crouch and he took Hugo up to the hilt. He let out a gibbering scream and collapsed over my shoulder. I drove forward, using him as a shield, and we ran into number three.
  
  As contact was made I flung the jack-knifed body off my shoulder into him. He was quicker and smarter. He slipped free of the dead weight and came at me gun up ready to shoot. I dove just before he fired, going in under his arm, and we went down on the hanger floor. He was big and strong and stank of desert sweat. I had hold of his gun wrist. He avoided my knee to the crotch, left hand trying to fasten on my throat. With two more of his pals around I had no time to waste on the art of Grecco-Roman wrestling. I let his free hand find my throat and drove Hugo in under his arm pit. He convulsed and began to thrash, and I came up off him fast, ready for the other two. I heard someone running. I thought it was a good idea and went back through the office door in a crouch.
  
  "Hans!" I hissed.
  
  "Cole!"
  
  "Get that door open but stay down."
  
  "Don't worry!"
  
  The door exited off the back of the hangar. The running feet could have meant that our visitors had decided to meet us there. What with the airport lights, the lights at the guard post, and the clarity of the early evening darkness, there was no problem in seeing if we had unwelcome company. We didn't, for the moment.
  
  "My car is around the side," I said. "You follow me. Watch our backside. Let's go."
  
  It was a pretty naked jaunt from the rear of the hangar around to the vacant parking lot. The Fiat stood out like the Washington Monument.
  
  "Where's your car, Hans?" I asked.
  
  "On the other side of the hangar." He had to trot to keep up with me, and he was out of breath from more than being out of breath. "I park it there because there's more shade, and…"
  
  "Good. You get in the back and get on the floor and don't move an inch."
  
  He didn't argue. I started the Fiat, doing my sums on two counts. If the visitors had been after me, they would have known where my car was parked. If they weren't a part of the command guarding the airport, they were infiltrators, no big deal for guerrilla types. In any case, they had come to get Hans, not me.
  
  When I approached the guard point I brought the car to a stop, dimmed the headlights to show my thoughtfulness, and got out. If the lieutenant and his boys had been clued in on the assassination squad, I'd find out now.
  
  The original four led by the sergeant came at me. "Vive la NAPR, Sergeant," I sang out, moving toward them.
  
  "Ahh, you," the sergeant said.
  
  "I'll be back in the morning. You want to stamp my passport?"
  
  "Tomorrow is a day of prayer and mourning," he growled. "Do not come here."
  
  "Ah, yes. I understand."
  
  "Get out of here," the sergeant gestured with a snap of his arm.
  
  I moved slowly back to the car, my eyes on the arching silhouette of the hangar. So far, so good. I smiled, waved to the guards, and began to drive away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  Once clear of the airport and sure we were not being followed, I turned back to my hidden passenger.
  
  "Okay, chum. Come up and join me."
  
  He came over the back seat and thunked down, hauling his bottle of bourbon out of his coverall. "Jesus!" he said and treated himself to a long swig. "You want one?" he gasped, holding out the bottle.
  
  "Never touch it when I'm driving."
  
  "My God, you are some kind of somethin', pal. Here…" he reached for his breast pocket, "you take this back. You just saved my life. Anything I got that you want is for free."
  
  "Easy, Hans." I couldn't help laughing. "All in the line of duty. Keep the money. You'll earn it."
  
  "But hell! Where did you ever learn to operate like that!"
  
  "Huh? Why, all my life. Twenty years in Africa and "How long have you been around planes?"
  
  "Huh? Why, all my life. Twenty years in Africa and before that…"
  
  "I guess you know a pilot tube from a turbine. You're a pro in your business." I'm one in mine. Where can I take you where you'll be safe?"
  
  "My place. It's got a high wall and strong gate and old Thor will bite the arse out of a tin goose if I tell him."
  
  "You're the navigator. Any idea who those unfriendlies were?"
  
  "Jesus, no! I never got a look at 'em anyway."
  
  "Does Tashamed's army have any commando units?"
  
  "Beats me. Only thing I know is they all wear that blue checked head gear."
  
  It was a point. One of the attackers had been wearing a beret, the other two were bareheaded.
  
  "You sure you don't want some of this? I'm apt to drink the whole thing, and then I'll catch hell."
  
  "Just don't get so lost in it that you can't pay attention to what I'm saying. You know Mendanike's death was no accident. Who else have you told that to?"
  
  "Nobody. Just you.'-'
  
  "Is there some other reason someone wants your scalp?"
  
  "Beats me."
  
  I hit the brakes and brought the Fiat to a stop. Hans was thrown forward against the dash, his bottle clanging dangerously. I grabbed him by his coverall and hauled him around to face me. "I want some answers right now or you'll walk home with that jug between your teeth. Understand?"
  
  He stared at me, speechless for once, eyes wide, mouth open, nodding dumbly. I released him and we got going again. I waited a moment for him to recover, then silently offered him a cigarette. He took it just as silently.
  
  "Now, who did you tell about your theory on the crash?"
  
  "Khalid… He was at the hangar when I came on duty. Word of the crash had already come in. When I asked him why they had taken the DC-6 instead of the Gulfstream, he said a generator was out on the jet. I knew he was lying. I'd checked out everything on the Gulfstream the day before. I also knew he was scared shitless. To scare him even more and to get him to talk, I told him I knew how the DC-6 had been sabotaged."
  
  "And did he talk?"
  
  "Nah."
  
  "How did you know it was sabotage?"
  
  "Like I said, it was just like another crash that happened in Africa. Same exact thing. Everybody knew that one was sabotage, too, only nobody could prove it. Then I proved it. If I can get to Budan I can prove it on this one, too."
  
  A siren wailing in the distance offered an ambiguous answer. "It could be an ambulance. We'll see what kind of a dune buggy we've got." I shifted down to second and eased the Fiat off the road on to what I hoped was hardpan.
  
  "We'll get stuck for sure." Hans bounced around, looking back and forth.
  
  The wheels found some traction as I moved on an angle toward the cover of a low bluff.
  
  "They're comin' awful fast!"
  
  I was hoping to get far enough off the road to be out of range of the approaching headlights, that or behind the bluff. The wheels began to dig in and churn. There was no good fighting it. "Leg it," I said, killing the engine and going out my side.
  
  The Fiat's off-white color was a nice blend in the desert. Enough so that when the big command car went charging past, followed by an ambulance, we weren't spotted. The siren sounded, wailing in the cold night air. Then they were gone, and we got up and moved back to the car, Hans muttering, "Whatta way to finish a day."
  
  "You can thank Allah you didn't finish it permanently."
  
  "Yeah. Now how are we gonna get out of here?"
  
  "We'll rub your bottle and maybe a geni will come along. If not, I'm sure you're good at pushing."
  
  With only a couple of minor halts, we were back on the road in ten minutes and at Hans' villa in another twenty.
  
  The foreign quarter of Lamana was a section of white-walled Moorish styled houses centered around a park, Lafeyette by name. We did some recon before entering Hans' domain. His place was on a side street off the park. We circled it twice. There were no cars on the street and no street lights.
  
  "And you told Khalid all that?"
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "Did you tell anyone else?"
  
  "Erica, my daughter, but she wouldn't say anything."
  
  "Now tell me what else you've been up to that would make someone sore enough to want to kill you?"
  
  "I'm damned if I know. Honest!" He held out his hand to keep me off. "I do a bit of smuggling, everybody does. But that's no reason to kill a guy."
  
  "No, they'll only take your right hand. I suppose the log books for that DC-7 are on the plane."
  
  "Yeah. Might have some old engine logs if that would help. You couldn't get into Rufa."
  
  "Security tighter than around here?"
  
  "Hell, yes."
  
  "You say the plane was on loan to the military. Know what for?"
  
  "Sure. Paratroop training. Would you tell me why you…"
  
  "Where did you do your maintenance on it, major overhaul and that sort of thing?"
  
  "We did everything but the major right here. For that, I used Olympic in Athens."
  
  "When did it have its last major?"
  
  "Oh, it was due when they took it. They said they'd handle it."
  
  "One other question," I said, shutting off the headlights, "is there a turn-off on this road?"
  
  He jerked up straight and then swiveled his head around, getting the message. "Not a goddamned one! Jesus, you think they're after us."
  
  I pulled up, and he got out and went to the door in the wall that had a judas window. I heard Thor give a low growl of welcome. Hans rang the bell with two shorts and a long. An overhead light went on.
  
  "She musta been worryin' about me," he chuckled. "Erica, it's me, honey," he called. "I got a friend, so hold Thor."
  
  The bar was pulled. The door swung open, and I followed him into the courtyard. In the poor light I got the impression that she was tall. She had on something white and was holding the growling dog. "Thor, stop it!" she said, her voice deep and throaty.
  
  Hans knelt, putting his hand on Thor's head. "Thor, this is my friend. You treat him like a friend!"
  
  I squatted down by the dog and let him sniff my hand. "Hi, Thor," I said, "you're the kind of guy to have around when the silver's been polished."
  
  He sniffed and began to wag his tail. I stood up and saw Erica looking me over. "My name is Ned Cole. I gave your father a lift home."
  
  "From the smell of him, I'm sure he needed it." There was a touch of humor in the gruffness.
  
  "That's a fine thing to say." Hans thrust out the bottle. "Look, I hardly broke the surface of it."
  
  We all laughed, and I liked the sound of hers, uninhibited. "Come on in, Mr. Cole. What happened to your car, Dad?"
  
  "It… ahh… broke down. I didn't want to take the time to fix it, mostly because Mr. Cole here…"
  
  "Are you in the aviation business?" She opened the door and held it for us to pass. In the light I got a better look at her.
  
  She had a miniature of her father's ski-jump nose. Beyond that she must have favored her mother. Aphrodite in a pair of white shorts. Against the chill she had on a blue turtle neck sweater that looked hard put to hold everything in. The rest of her measurements measured up, and when she closed the door and walked past she looked as good going away as she did head on. In fact, barefoot or on horse back, Erica Gueyer, her dark hair long and natural, her blue eyes direct and perceptive, was a most welcome sight for anybody's 20/10 vision.
  
  "Can I get you something?" The faint smile was teasing.
  
  "Not right now, thanks." I returned the favor.
  
  "Listen, honey, has there been anybody here? Has anybody called?"
  
  "No… I let Kazza go home when I came from the clinic. Why, are you expecting company?"
  
  "I hope not. I mean, no. But things aren't so good right now and…"
  
  "Doctor Rabul said it would be better if I didn't come in tomorrow. I think he's being silly and so are you. Don't you agree, Mr. Cole?" We were still looking each other over.
  
  "I'm just a stranger here, Miss Gueyer. But I suppose things could get a little out of hand. Good excuse to have a day off anyway, isn't it?"
  
  "The doc's right. Hey, how about a cold beer and some grub?" I didn't know whether Hans was asking me or telling her.
  
  "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't stay." My regret was genuine. "You might be smart to take the day off, too, Hans."
  
  "What happened?" Erica said, looking from me to her father.
  
  "Now, don't you look at me like that," he bridled. "I didn't do a damned thing, did I?"
  
  "Not that I know of." I winked at her. "I'll check with you both in the morning. I don't want to leave that car out there too long. It might lose its essentials."
  
  "I'll open the gate and you can bring it into the courtyard." Hans was not eager to have me depart, either.
  
  "I'll come for breakfast, if you'll invite me." I cocked my head at Erica.
  
  "How do you like your eggs?" She cocked her head back at me, the gesture a copy of her father's.
  
  "I'll take the specialty of the house. What time?"
  
  "Whenever you come, I'll be ready."
  
  "A bientôt," I extended my hand. It was a handshake I hated to give up.
  
  "A bientôt." We both laughed and Hans looked puzzled.
  
  "I'll see you off," he said.
  
  At the car I gave him some quick advice. "You better tell her everything. If you have some friends where you can spend the night it wouldn't be a bad idea. If you do stay here, tell Thor to keep his teeth sharpened. Do you have a gun?"
  
  "Yeah. Anybody tryin' to come over that wall will set off an alarm that'll wake the dead. I rigged it myself."
  
  "See you in the morning, Hans."
  
  "Sure. And, hey, thanks for everything, but I didn't earn this dough yet."
  
  "Stay loose and you will."
  
  I drove away wishing I could stay. I had no time to protect them, and the odds were solid that the goons would come hunting again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  Driving back into the center of the city, I went over what had been a long and not very productive day. Except for the direct attempt to remove me in Rome, I had little more to go on now than when Hawk had scooped me up from my idyllic lake retreat.
  
  Most everything that had happened since pointed toward internal troubles for the NAPR but damned little toward it having become a hide-away for a nuclear weapon. The car that had nearly run van der Meer and myself down could have been a lousy driver or a welcoming committee for an unwelcome American. So far, all Sutton had offered was a girl named Paula, who wasn't a bad offering if you had nothing else to do.
  
  The only suspicious angle on the attack on Hans was, why the numbers and why the place? The answer could be that they wanted to keep things buttoned up, and what better place than a field under military control. The numbers could mean they hadn't planned to kill him until they'd scared him into talking. The influx of mercenaries was the only slim lead. Guerrillas brought in by someone and trained somewhere to carry out the theft. The obvious someone was Tasahmed but the look and manner of his troops only reinforced what AXE files indicated, no professional capacity. Of course, at Rufa things could be different. A dozen Soviet instructors could make it different. It looked like a visit to Rufa had a high priority. The only positive thing about the DC-7 was that it had gone much farther afield for its maintenance than was necessary. Add it all up, and it made a nice pile of sand.
  
  To park the Fiat in the alley where I'd picked it up was no good. To leave it on the street was no good either; it was a good way to lose it.
  
  With the city buttoned up, pedestrian traffic was almost as thin as car and horse traffic. I headed for the central square. Next to the central Bureau de Poste was the Commissariat de Police. In front of its faded facade there were a half a dozen cars angled in. I angled in beside one, a Volks bug that looked no more official than my own vehicle. The two gendarmes at the building entrance gave me a cursory glance. It seemed like a good parking place until Ali supplied something better. An ancient Lamanian proverb says, "If you don't want to be noticed, park your camel in the herd of your enemies."
  
  The hotel's bar was called the Green Room. Green because it was walled with ancient green drapes. There was no bar but an assortment of equally aged Morrocan chairs grouped around hardwood tables. A half century ago it had been an elegant French saloon where the gentlemen sniffed their Courvoisier or slugged their cognac. Now it was a side pocket where the non-believer could still get a drink because Mohammedan law had to accept economic reality. The reality was four times the cost of a normal drink. At least that was one of Henry Sutton's complaints.
  
  I could have spotted him in Grand Central at five on a friday afternoon. He was Taft, Yale, and probably Harvard Business School. Well-bred features, tall, angular with an air of wealth showing in his clothes, watch, bracelet, class ring, and that indefinable manner of bored assurance that borders on smugness. He was stamped State Department. Why he had CIA tagged to it, I leave to the experts.
  
  The Green Room was full of cigar smoke and little clots of businessmen, feeding each other the latest rumors. I spotted the pair of Britishers among them. Sutton, whose real name was undoubtedly something like Duncan Coldrich Ashforth the Third, was sitting alone in a corner, dividing his time between sipping his beer and glancing at his watch.
  
  I sat down beside him, extending my hand. "Mr. Sutton, I'm Ned Cole. Sorry I'm late, the traffic."
  
  Momentary surprise gave way to quick appraisal. "Oh, how do you do. We heard you were coming." He was with their own nittering. The sound level was strong speaking for the assembled, but the assembled were busy enough so that we could talk in absolute privacy.
  
  "I'll be making some newsworthy notes," I said, smiling, taking out a pocket notebook. "You answer some questions."
  
  "I think it would make more sense if we went to the embassy." He had an adenoidal voice that went with his lofty nose.
  
  "I've already been to the embassy, Henry. I heard you were busy. Did you bring the reply to my AZ Priority?"
  
  "It's in my pocket, but see here…"
  
  "You can give it to me when we walk out. Do you have anything on the purpose of the meeting between Mendanike and Petersen."
  
  He stared at me, upset, glacial. "I don't report to you, Cole. I…"
  
  "You do now, and you'd better get to it damned fast." I smiled and nodded, making a note on the page. "Your instructions came via the White House, so let's cut out the crap. What about Petersen?"
  
  "Ambassador Petersen," he underlined the first word, "was a personal friend. I feel personally responsible for his death. I…"
  
  "I couldn't care less." I signaled the waiter, indicating Sutton's beer bottle and holding up two fingers. "Save your wounded feelings and give me the facts." I scribbled another nothing in my notebook, letting him catch his breath.
  
  "The truck that hit the Ambassador's car was an unmarked truck." He said it as though he was spitting teeth. "I've located it."
  
  I looked at him. He was puffed up with annoyance, fast on his way to becoming enraged. "Bully for you. Have you located who owns it?"
  
  He shook his head. "Not yet."
  
  "Is that your only lead as to the purpose of the midnight meeting?" My tone stamped the color deeper in his tanned face.
  
  "The meeting took place at 0100 hours. We still don't know its purpose."
  
  "If you had said so in the first place, we could have saved a minute. As I understand it, Mendanike had no regard for the Ambassador."
  
  "He didn't understand the Ambassador. The Ambassador tried and tried to…"
  
  "So the nature of Mendanike's call to Petersen was unusual."
  
  "Yes, you could say that."
  
  "Who exactly did Petersen talk to before he left for the Presidential Palace?"
  
  "Only his wife and the Marine guard. He simply told his wife where he was going, and he also told the Marine guard. He should have had his driver. If he had called me…"
  
  "Don't you have any contacts inside the Palace?"
  
  "You think that's easy?"
  
  The waiter brought the beer, and I thought what a complete bust this rover boy was. One AXE back-up agent from the R section stationed in Lamana, and I'd have had my answers.
  
  There's something you'd better know right now," he said, as the waiter walked away. "We have information that there's going to be trouble here tomorrow. You'd be wise to spend the day inside the embassy. Things could get very ugly."
  
  I sipped my beer. "The guerrilla types that have been coming in here, who do they belong to?"
  
  "My hunch is that they were brought in by Mendanike to use against Osman in the south."
  
  "You go by hunches, hey?"
  
  He'd had it. His eyes narrowed down and he leaned toward me. "Mr. Cole, you're not an officer from my agency. You're from DIA or some other operation. You may be important back home, but I run the station here, and I've had all the guff…"
  
  I stood up, "I'll walk out with you," I said smiling down at him and pocketing my notebook. He followed me out of the room into the lobby corridor.
  
  "Just one thing," I added, as he stiffly fell into step beside me. "I'll probably be checking with you tomorrow. I want a written report on the Ambassador's death with all details; no hunches, just facts. I want all you have on the mercenaries. I want to know what contacts you have in this city and this country. I want to know what Osman is up to, and…"
  
  He stopped. "Now, you see here…!"
  
  "Henry boy," and I was through with the smiling act, "you'll do just as I say or I'll have you shipped out of here so fast, you won't have time to pack your dancing pumps. Now suppose we step into the salon des hommes, and you can give me my AZ-Priority. You've just been given yours."
  
  He departed under a full head of steam, and I ambled toward the elevator, thinking the agency should be able to do better even in a garden spot like this.
  
  Previously, I had noted that Lacoute, the concierge, had been relieved by the night man. I nodded at him, and he gave me a glassy I-know-something-you-don't know-smile. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ali's head pop up from behind a potted palm. He gave me a quick signal, and I strolled past the cultured tree, happy to make contact. Maybe my Aladdin could summon up some etable food.
  
  "Master!" he hissed, as I stopped to tie my shoe, "don't go to your room. The police pigs are there. The head man and his tough guys."
  
  "Old friends of mine, Ah," I said, "but thanks. I want some place where I can be private for a little while."
  
  "Get off the elevator at the second floor."
  
  I straightened, thinking of what Ali would do with Henry Sutton's job. Maybe I could get him a scholarship at Yale.
  
  He met me on the second floor and guided me to a room similar to my own two floors above. "You will be safe here, Master," he said.
  
  "I'd rather have a full stomach. Can you get me something to eat?"
  
  "Couscous?"
  
  "Yeah, and coffee. Incidentally, where's a good place to park that car?"
  
  He grinned fit to bust. "Maybe in front of the police commissariat?"
  
  "Get out of here." I aimed a playful boot at his rear.
  
  He swiveled away. "Master is not so stupid."
  
  I locked the door after him and sat down to read the AXE response. It added up to two zeros. Dr. Otto van der Meer was exactly what he professed to be and highly regarded as well. His mother had been a Zulu. Africa was his agricultural beat. Satellite and aerial photo-recon over the NAPR had come up with nothing.
  
  I had no shredder to destroy the AZ, but I had a match. I burned, then flushed it, and thought about my guests waiting above. I was not surprised at their arrival. Whether Lacoute had called them or not. Customs would have passed the word. I could avoid them if I chose. I did not choose, but they'd have to wait until the inner man had been restored.
  
  Ah was right, the couscous was good, and so was the heavy black coffee. "Does Master wish the car to be brought here?" he asked.
  
  "You think it's safe where it is?"
  
  "I don't think it will be stolen." He played it straight.
  
  "Can you suggest a more private place?"
  
  "Yes, when Master brings it, I will show him."
  
  "That's apt to be much later."
  
  "Stay in this room tonight, Master, and you will sleep well. Those above will get tired and leave. That pig's bladder Lacoute, he brought them."
  
  "Thanks for the tip, Ali." I brought out some bills. "Close your eyes and take a pick."
  
  "Master is not too bright about money."
  
  "This is for more than a tip. This is for information. You know the American Ambassador was killed. I want to know who killed him."
  
  His eyes widened. "You could fill your hand with ten times what you hold, and I could not give you the answer."
  
  "Not now, but you keep those sharp ears open and who knows what you'll hear."
  
  He shook his head. "I don't want them cut off."
  
  "Listen quietly."
  
  If I hear something, then you pay me. Not now. You have already paid me twice too much. It's no fun that way. You must bargain."
  
  When he had left I unloaded Wilhelmina, Hugo, and the French passport. The luger went under the mattress, Hugo in the toilet chamber, and the passport at the rear of the closet shelf. It was time to get acquainted with the opposition and, as the saying goes, I wanted to be clean.
  
  I entered my room, registering the proper surprise at the reception committee. The room would have been crowded with three in it. With five, it was nearly SRO.
  
  The door was slammed shut, locked, and I was frisked by one of the uniformed intruders. Whereas the army boys sported khaki, my visitors were decked out in olive green. The colonel seated in the chair facing me received my passport from my frisker without taking his eyes from me.
  
  "What's going on here!" I managed to get out. "W-who are you?"
  
  "Shut up," he said in passable English." I will talk, you will answer. Where have you been?" From the nearly filled ash tray, it was obvious he was an impatient waiter.
  
  "What do you mean, where have I been?"
  
  A brief command was given, and the bull on my left backhanded me across the mouth. I tasted sulfur and blood. I gasped and tried to act duly stunned.
  
  "I said, you will answer, not make stupid sounds." The colonel tapped a fresh cigarette against his silver case. He had sinewy fingers. They went with the rest of him; a coiled snake from blackjack boots up. The acquiline face was handsome in a murderous sort of way — thin-lipped, thin-nosed, thin-eyed. Obsidian eyes; merciless, intelligent, humorless. From the neatness of his uniform, it was apparent he was fastidious, well organized, not like the military types I had seen so far. In desert garb he could have played Abd el Krim in his prime.
  
  "Now where have you been?" he repeated.
  
  "At… at the U.S. Embassy." I bottled my lips with my handkerchief. "I… I was there to pay my respects. I'm a newspaperman."
  
  "We know all about who you are. Who invited you here?"
  
  "I shook my head stupidly. "N-nobody invited me. I-I just came… to… to write about your agricultural projects."
  
  "We are flattered," he exhaled a cloud of smoke, "but you are a liar." He nodded at the mound of meat on my right. I had just enough time to tense my stomach muscles and give with the blow. Even so, the agonized cough and the doubling over was not all play-acting. I went down on my knees clutching my gut. I was yanked to my feet by my hair. I sobbed for breath, sagging under the scalping.
  
  "What the hell!" I gasped weakly.
  
  "What the hell, indeed. Why did you come here?"
  
  "To write about the Prime Minister's death." I got it out while pretending to gulp for aid.
  
  "And what could you possibly write about it, other than your stinking CIA killed him?" His voice crackled angrily. "Maybe you are from the CIA! How do I know you're not?"
  
  "No, not CIA!" I held out my hand.
  
  I didn't see the blow coming from the third man behind me. It was a rabbit punch, and this time I really did go down. I had to fight hard not to come up with Persian rug in my eye. The easiest way was to pretend to be out. I went still.
  
  "Fool!" the colonel snapped in Arabic. "You probably broke his neck."
  
  "It was only a light blow, sir!"
  
  "These Americans can't take much," the belly-puncher muttered.
  
  "Shut your face and get some water."
  
  The water felt good. I stirred and groaned. Hauled again to my feet, I tried to rub my neck with one hand and my stomach with the other.
  
  "Listen to me, uninvited writer of lies," a hand back in my hair jerked my head up so I'd give the colonel the proper attention, "there is a flight leaving Lamana at 0700 for Cairo. You will be at the airport at 0500 so that you will have plenty of time to be on it. If you are not on it, your stay here will be permanent."
  
  He stood up, and standing he had even more of a razor-like quality. He shook my passport before my nose. "I'll keep this, and you may have it returned when you pass through customs. Is that clear to you?"
  
  I nodded dumbly.
  
  "And if you would like to write a story about your pleasant stay here, say that Colonel Mohammed Doosa was the man who entertained you the most."
  
  He went past me, and the dandy who had given me the rabbit punch gave me a boot in the tail and a shove that sent me across the room on to the bed.
  
  At the door Doosa said. "I will leave Ashad here to assure your protection. We like to show our hospitality even to uninvited guests."
  
  Besides a stiff neck and a sore gut, I didn't have much to show for having thrown myself to the lions of the desert. I had met Doosa and learned that he didn't know Nick Carter from Ned Cole, which meant he had played no part in ordering my assassination. He didn't see me as a problem, and that was a point for my side. He wouldn't be on guard against me until I didn't show for the flight. It was just 2100, which meant I had nine hours leeway. I had a couple of more stops on the agenda, and it was high time I got going. If they turned out as dry as the rest, I might stage a coup of my own.
  
  Ashad, who had been left to watch over me, was the one who had done me the most damage, all from behind. While he sat down to take his ease in the chair Doosa had vacated, I went into the cubicle designated as a salle de bain and cleaned up the wreckage. Aside from a bruised lip I didn't look much worse than usual.
  
  Ashad was watching me with a sneer as I bent to pick up my handkerchief. "Your mother was a dung eater," I said in Arabic.
  
  He couldn't believe he had heard me right. He came up out of the chair, mouth wide, eyes full of rage, and I launched with leap and karate kick. My foot caught him at the apex of neck and jaw, and I felt the bones go as his head nearly came unstuck. He went over the back of the chair, slammed against the wall, and hit the floor with a crash that rattled the crockery.
  
  For the second time that day I put a corpse to bed. Then I changed my clothes, donning black suit with matching turtle neck shirt. It wasn't that I was in mourning, but the color suited the occasion.
  
  When I departed I took the backstairs to my room on the second floor. There I recovered my equipment and deposited the bag and attaché case. From the case I extracted some necessities — an extra two clips for the luger, one of them incendiaries. Behind my knee I fastened a special AXE button-sized homing device. Should the need arise, its signal would summon a 600-man Ranger battalion from the Sixth Fleet. A spare Pierre went into an inside pocket. Finally, the neatly compacted thirty foot length of nylon rope, with its fail-safe attachment, went around my middle as a second belt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  I left the hotel by the alley, and keeping to similar alleys, reached the Presidential Palace at its north wall. The wall was a half mile long with guard boxes at either end and two in between.
  
  The guards did not mount a continuous patrol. Every ten minutes or so two-man teams would march out in opposite directions, meet their compatriots and return to home base. Although the street paralleling the wall did have overhead lights, I could see that getting through the perimeter was not going to present much of a problem. It was a matter of timing. The street lights did little to illuminate the wall. However, the wall was a good twenty feet high and white. Dressed in black, I was going to look like a tarantula going over it.
  
  I waited until the center team had completed its halfhearted patrol, then I moved from the ditch, where I had taken cover, in a fast sprint to the wall itself. There were low scrubs along it, and I settled down in them to ready the rope.
  
  When I was set I moved to a point directly behind the center guard box. The two occupants were sitting in front of it, talking. I could see the glow of their cigarettes and hear their muted voices. Only if they turned around would they see me.
  
  I stood, checked, and made my cast. The rope went up and over. There was a faint clunk as its special attachment automatically dug in on the far side. The sound did not disturb the smokers. I gave the rope a testing tug and then walked on up. I made a note to congratulate AXE Supply on its field operations shoes. The soles were like magnets.
  
  As is the custom in the East, the top of the wall was littered with shards of broken glass. I carefully slithered over, reversed my position, and using the rope as a break, dropped down into the parkland of the Presidential grounds.
  
  There had never been a president in the country's history, but once it became the NAPR, in respect to the meaninglessness of political agitprop, the name had been changed from Royal Palace to Presidential. By whatever name, it was quite a piece of real estate. In the darkness it gave the impression of being on a par with the grounds of Versailles.
  
  I headed toward the faint glow in the sky that indicated the location of the palace. There were night birds but no guards and no dogs patrolling. This reinforced my feeling that Tasahmed wasn't really anticipating opposition from anyone.
  
  I was almost relieved to see that the palace proper was under a guard of sorts. It was on a par with the boys manning the outer wall. I went through them like Scotch through cracked ice. My point of entry was over another wall, this one only about ten feet high. It concealed a courtyard that was off limits to all but Shema Mendanike and her ladies, kind of women's lib in reverse. I hoped none of them would be waiting as I scaled its protective arm. One side of the courtyard was palace wall, and AXE blueprints indicated that Shema's quarters were in that wing.
  
  The courtyard smelled of jasmin. It had cloistered walkways and a centering fountain. It also had a vine-covered, ladder-like trellis that climbed the high side of the palace wall to a point below a window in which a dim light glowed. How could a wandering agent ignore it?
  
  By concentrating on it I nearly finished Nick Carter and an evening of Douglas Fairbanks. The whole thing had been much too easy, and I didn't see him in the dark of the cloistered walk. My break was that he didn't see me until I landed in a crouch in the flower bed.
  
  If he had been smart he would have waited where he was until he could nail me from behind. That, or beat on a brass gong and summon a lot of help. Instead, he came rocketing out of the walkway with a bark like a walrus, part surprise, part anger.
  
  I saw the flash of knife in his hand and took the coward's way out. Time was of the essense, and I didn't want to meet his friends. Hugo's flight was short and true, penetrating to the hilt at the vulnerable point where the throat joins with the apex of the sternum.
  
  He went down choking in his blood, crashing about in the flowers. While he kicked out his last, I double-checked the courtyard to make sure we were alone. When I returned he had managed to claw Hugo from his throat. It was his final piece of management. I wiped the stiletto on his shirt and got down to cases with the trellis.
  
  It felt strong enough to take my weight. I left the rope in the vines and like Jack-in-the-Beanstalk, went on up.
  
  Before I was in reach of the window I could hear voices, a woman's raised and a man's low. To reach the window I saw I was going to have to balance on the top of the trellis, my body pressed against the wall, hands overhead, stretching for the ledge. It was one of those deeply indented affairs with a long slanting sill and a pointed arch. There was nothing to grip. Purchase would have to come through fingers and feet. The sound of the voices convinced me that using the rope was no alternative. If the attachment hit the glass or clanked against something, that would be that. I had to do it the hard way.
  
  By standing on my toes, with Hugo between my teeth, I was able to hook my fingers on the ledge. Then I had to chin myself, my toes curled against the wall but not pushing the lower part of my body outward. When I got my chin on the ledge, I let it take some of the weight as I let go with my right hand and reached to grab the inside of the sill.
  
  The rest was a matter of getting into the room without making any noise. It was a casement window, opening inward, and I went through it like a badger trying to go through a mole's tunnel. At the end of it I could see that the light was not coming from the room I was about to enter but off of it. That's where the voices were coming from, too.
  
  This, I realized, was a bedroom, and from the size of the bed and the subtle odor of perfume, it was a woman's boudoir. A mirror that covered all of one wall caught my reflection and momentarily checked me.
  
  Through the open door I looked out on to a much larger room, a proper royal salon. However, its size and furnishings simply registered as I took in its occupants, particularly the female one.
  
  She was elfin, raven-haired, black-eyed, and probably related to a humming bird. She was wearing a one-piece gold lamé kaftan, fastened at the throat. Even so, in her anger, her breasts were accented, and the way she moved about in quick swirls and darts accented the rest of her perfectly proportioned body. "You're a goddamned liar, Tasahmed;" she snapped in French.
  
  The AXE Indentdex of the General needed updating. He was putting on weight. His face was too full, there was a good start on a second chin, and he was beginning to puff out his uniform where it should have been tucked in. He was still a handsome man; tall, light on his feet, heavy-featured with a scrub mustache. He had an olive complexion, and there was some distinguished gray at his temples.
  
  He was obviously not bothered by Shema Mendanike's manner or words. In fact, he was both amused and enjoying her movements. "My dear Madame," he smiled, "you simply fail to understand the nature of the situation."
  
  "I understand it well enough." She planted herself in front of him, glaring up. "You're holding me prisoner here until you're sure you're in control!"
  
  "You make it sound like some kind of melodrama," he chuckled. "Of course, I have to assume control. Who else could?"
  
  "Indeed who else could! You got rid of old pigeon feathers and…!"
  
  He let out a belch of laughter and tried to put his hands on her shoulders. "Madame, that is no way to speak of your late husband or of me. As I have told you more than once, I knew nothing about his flight before I was informed of its termination. His death is as Allah wills."
  
  "Even if I did believe you, what's that got to do with keeping me in this place?"
  
  "Shema!" Again he tried to put his hands on her. "I'm not keeping you anywhere. But right now it is dangerous to leave, and tomorrow is the funeral."
  
  "This afternoon I wished to go to the Pakistani Embassy to send word to my father. You prevented me from going. Why?"
  
  "As I have said," he sighed, a man ill used, "for your own protection. We have reason to believe that Ben d'Oko was killed by outside forces. We have no way of knowing that they wouldn't attempt to kill you, too. Do you think for one minute at this time I would risk a hair of your precious head?" He reached out to pat it, but she flitted away. He was beginning to stalk her.
  
  "What outside forces?" she sneared.
  
  "The CIA, for one. They have long wanted to remove Ben d'Oko." He shook his head sadly.
  
  "Did they want to get him as much as you did?"
  
  "Why are you so unkind to me? I would do anything for you."
  
  "Do you want me for your second, third, or fourth wife?"
  
  That brought some color to his face. "What have I to do to convince you that I have your best interests at heart?"
  
  "Do you really want to know?" She was back in front of him again.
  
  "Yes." He nodded, looking down at her.
  
  "You can order me a car to take me to the Pakistani Embassy."
  
  "At this hour, my dear? It's out of the question." And now his hands were on her shoulders. She tried to pull away, but he had her.
  
  "Let go of me, you dung eater!" she snarled, struggling to break free.
  
  As he tightened his hold, she tried to knee him in the groin, spitting in his face and butting him with her head. She was not going to give up without a fight, even though he was too strong for her.
  
  Tasahmed got her up off the floor, and while she fought and kicked and swore, he headed for the bedroom. I flattened myself against the wall by the door. But at the moment he wouldn't have seen me if I had been wearing fire-engine red and been lit up with neon lights.
  
  He flung her on the bed and said something through his teeth about the need for understanding. He had plenty of need for that. She got a hand free and clawed him as he tried to pin her down. He swore and swung. She let out a yelp and he gave her two more for good measure. She began to sob, not in defeat but in fury and frustration. I heard the kaftan rip as he pealed it from her and now he was muttering heatedly in Arabic. The way to paradise was pitted with a resisting houri.
  
  Physical strength and weight finally overcame spirit and determination. He got his knee between her legs and forced her thighs apart. With his left hand he held her wrists above her head and with his right he pulled his own clothes away. Her only remaining weapon was her hips. She kept thrusting them up at him, arching her back, trying to buck him off. The movement only excited him further. She was cursing and sobbing, and he was kneeling between her legs when I broke it up.
  
  He never knew what hit him, which was the way I wanted it. I stunned him by clapping my palms against his ears. As he stiffened from the shock, I put thumbs to the pressure points on his neck. Then it was a matter of rolling him off and keeping Shema under control.
  
  "Flower of the night," I said in Urdu, as I hauled Tasahmed clear. "Trust me, I am a friend."
  
  In the half light the whiteness of her body was like quicksilver. For the moment all she could do was suck in air and stare at me.
  
  "I am here to help you." I scooped up the ruin of the kaftan and tossed it to her. She didn't seem to be in a hurry to put it on. She sat rubbing her wrists, and I could sympathize with the general's intentions.
  
  She finally found her tongue and said in British English, "The bloody sonofabitch! The goddamned pig! The dog!"
  
  "He wasn't very polite, particularly for a general." I said in English.
  
  She angrily pulled the kaftan around her. "Who are you? Where did you come from, and what do you want?"
  
  "I'm a friend. And I want to talk to you."
  
  She looked over the side of the bed. "Did you kill the bastard?"
  
  -"No, I just put him out of his misery for a while."
  
  She jumped off the bed. "Misery! I'll show him some misery!"
  
  I heard her foot hit home. The general's body jerked spasmodically. He didn't know how lucky he was to be somewhere else. She glided away toward her dressing room alcove. "Get out of here while I put something on," she said.
  
  I took care of Tasahmed while she took care of covering up. I used his neck piece for a blindfold, his handkerchief for a gag, and his belt to tie his wrists. He came well equipped.
  
  She turned on the overhead light as I finished, and we re-examined each other across the over-sized bed. She had put on a pale blue negligee made out of spun sugar candy. It didn't hide what was beneath. It just made sure you knew it was all there. Her inspection of Nick Carter was equally thorough.
  
  "You're the first American man I've met who looked like a man," she said. "Where did you learn to speak Urdu?"
  
  I took a post graduate course at Islamabad Tech. Where did you learn to speak English?"
  
  "I had an English governness who was married to a sergeant major, or didn't anyone ever tell you about the Empire? You still haven't answered my questions — who are you? If I call the guards they'll cut your bloody throat!"
  
  "Then I wouldn't be able to tell you who I am."
  
  She grinned, looking fey and cagey at the same time. "And I wouldn't be able to thank you for getting that pig off me."
  
  "So why don't we sit down and start from the bottom."
  
  "I must say I've never been introduced to a man in my bedroom before. But since we began here." She sat down on her side of the bed and gestured for me to sit on mine. "Now, begin."
  
  "I came through that window," I said, "hoping to find you at home."
  
  "What did you do, fly through it on your magic carpet?" she snapped. "Don't try to fool me."
  
  "I didn't fly, I climbed, and I don't have time to fool you."
  
  "You're one of those bloody agents the general was talking about."
  
  "I'm someone who wants to ask you a couple of questions. Then I'll get on my carpet and go."
  
  She got up and crossed to the window and leaned out. Her movements accentuated a derriere any poet could have written a sonnet to.
  
  "I'll bet you'd be good on Nanga Parbat," she said coming back to the bed. "This is a strange happening but I owe you something. What do you want to know?"
  
  "Why was your husband in such a hurry to get to Budan in the middle of the night?"
  
  "Hah! That queer boy! He never told me why he was going anywhere. Usually, he'd just send word for me to come along. He liked to show me off, to make everyone think he knew how to pick a wife, a sexy, rich Pakistani who'd gone to London finishing school. Little boys were what he liked."
  
  "So you didn't have much communication with him, and you didn't see him before he left on his flight?"
  
  She stood up, holding her arms at the elbow and began the humming bird routine. "Yes, as a mater of fact, I did see him. He woke me up. He was frightened. Of course, he was like an old woman, but maybe I should have paid more attention to him then."
  
  "Can you remember what he said?"
  
  "Of course, I can! What do you think I am, stupid! He said if anything happened to him I should go to my country's embassy and have Ambassador Abdul Khan give me protection. I said, 'Why, where are you going?' He said, 'I'm going to Budan to meet Abu Osman.' I could see why he was frightened. The shiek had threatened to castrate him, although I don't know if that would have been possible. I said, 'Why are you going to see that murdering old sheep cover? He didn't give me an answer. He just said something about it being Allah's will. I was half asleep anyway and not very happy to have been awakened. Maybe I should have paid more attention." She sighed. "Poor old Ben d'Oko, if he'd only been half as good in bed as he was bouncing up and down on the U.N. podium. Imagine, chasing choir boys when he could have had any woman in the country!"
  
  "Frankly, I don't have that kind of an imagination, Shema."
  
  She sat down on my side of the bed. "Do you know, I've slept in this bed alone for four years!" She said it like it was my fault, glaring at me, the nipples of her breasts trying to burrow through the cobweb material of her negligee. "What is your name?"
  
  "Ned Cole."
  
  "All right, Edward," she put her hands on my shoulders. "It's my turn, now, and if we don't put an end to four years of emptiness, I'll call the guard and help him make an end of you."
  
  You've heard the old saw about the woman who was a tiger in bed. Shema would have made her look like a pussy cat. We kissed, and she got hold of my tongue, sucking it with a subtle tugging motion. As my hands found her breasts, her hands went after me as though they were furious with my clothing. In four years of celibacy she had not forgotten how to unfasten a belt and unzip a zipper. As I moved to reciprocate, she pulled her head back.
  
  Her eyes were wide and bright, her lips pouting. "You are my guest!" she panted in Urdu. "It is a custom of the East to entertain your guest. This is my bed, and you are here at my invitation."
  
  She pushed me to my back, and began tracing moist maps on my body with her lips. Then, suddenly, she was straddling me. With her back arched, her breasts thrust out, her knees gripping my hips, she gripped my hands with hers and said, "I will dance for you."
  
  I watched her face as she lowered herself slowly, inch by inch, into position. Her eyes blinked and went wide, her lips parted, she sucked in her breath. Then she began to dance, and the motion was all in her hips and pelvis. I caressed her. Her head went back in abandon as she worked to make up for four loveless years.
  
  When she moved upward, I put an end to her dance and began one of my own. I brought her up over my head, holding her in the air. Then as she began struggling, furious that I had terminated her sensual gavotte, I brought her down, rolling to reverse our position.
  
  "No!" she said, starting to wrestle. "No, no, no!"
  
  After all, I Was her guest. I rolled back over, pulling her easily on top of me. Our thrusts became faster, more frantic. We moved as one now, and her eyes closed as she slumped forward, holding back the crest of our final wave.
  
  I gently moved from under her, rolling us both over. Then I was looking down at her, feeling her legs come up to lock around me. Her fingers dug into my back, her teeth into my shoulder as she shuddered, "Please!" Now there was no holding back. We came together, an ecstatic shiver passing from my body to hers.
  
  If we could have spent the rest of the night together, we might have written a new edition of Kama Sutra. As it was, Tasahmed was coming back to the real world.
  
  "Why don't you kill him?" she said, as I lit one of my cigarettes for her.
  
  "If I did that, where would you be?" I knelt down to look him over.
  
  "No worse off than I am now, Edward."
  
  "Oh, much worse off, Shema. He doesn't want anything to happen to you. But if anything happened to him here in your quarters — well, it's not worth the risk."
  
  It wasn't worth it for another reason. Tasahmed dead wasn't any good to me. He might be, alive. At the same time if I questioned him in front of Shema there was no telling what I'd get. It would be the cart before the camel. The camel was Osman.
  
  He had been Mendanike's arch enemy, and yet Ben d'Oko had gone to great lengths in order to have a meeting with him. It seemed logical that Osman would have refused to attend if he didn't have some prior indication of the purpose of the pow wow. It also seemed logical that Nick Carter had better have a meeting with Osman right away, before putting the Q and A to Tasahmed. So much for being logical.
  
  "Shema, why don't you call the boys and have them take the general to bed. Tell them he fainted from the excitement." I began removing the gag.
  
  She giggled. "You think almost as well as you make love. When he is gone we can have the rest of the night."
  
  I didn't break the bad news to her. I held down the dressing room while two guards, somewhat puzzled but smirking, carted a groggy Arabian knight away to his pad.
  
  "Now," she came waltzing into the bedroom, casting away the robe she had put on for the departure of the general, "this time we shall have the mirror to show us what we are enjoying." She threw her arms wide and pirouetted before me nude, a humming bird again.
  
  I put my arms around her, knowing I'd probably hate myself in the morning. She responded. I applied pressure where it was least expected or desired. She stiffened momentarily and then went limp. I picked her up and carried her to the bed. I tucked her in and kissed her good night. Then I turned out the light, and after checking the courtyard from the window, exited with care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  Hawk would have said that the time spent with Shema had been a dangerous waste. Maybe. But aside from the delight, I needed that wild blend of East-West creature as an ally, someone I could back against Tasahmed if the occasion arose. Still, a lot of time had been exercised away. I wasted no more of it, picking up the Fiat in front of the Commissariat de Police and heading for the embassy. When I pulled up at its gate I was through playing games.
  
  The gate was closed. There was a bell and speaking box. I rang the bell with several long bursts. When I didn't get a play back, I rang again harder.
  
  This time a voice interrupted, coming out of the wall speaker like a recorded message. "The embassy is closed until 0800 hours, sir."
  
  "Is this the Marine guard? "I spoke into the box.
  
  "Yes, sir, this is Corporal Simms."
  
  "Corporal, do you know what a seven-five-three is?"
  
  There was a momentary pause. "Yes, sir." There was more snap to it.
  
  "Well, this is a seven-five-three, and I'd appreciate it if you'd let me in at once."
  
  "Who are you, sir?"
  
  "Mr. Sutton can tell you that. This is a seven — five — three. I want immediate action, Corporal."
  
  Another momentary pause and then, "Stand by, sir."
  
  I got back in the car, pleased that a suggestion made by AXE had become SOP with U.S. embassies and installations around the world. The idea was that with the increase in terrorism and kidnapping it was necessary that simple identification could be supplied at a moment's notice in an emergency. For each day there was a different sequence of numbers sent from Washington. Since AXE was the supplier, I always operated with the list memorized for two weeks running.
  
  The gate swung open, and I drove through into a floodlit entrance area. For a welcoming committee there were three marines with M16s and Corporal Simms with a .45.
  
  "Sorry, sir, you'll have to get out of the car," he said looking down at me. "Your identification, please."
  
  "Mr. Sutton will supply that," I said climbing out. "Please get him."
  
  "He's being contacted." The Corporal made a quick check of the car. I gave him the keys to the trunk. That was the end of the conversation. The Marines watched me as I lit a cigarette and waited for Sutton to shake his butt. It was a much nicer butt than Sutton's that finally arrived on the scene, but it infuriated me.
  
  Paula Mathews was wearing tight-fitting twill slacks and a fur-lined flight jacket against the chill. With her Irish setter hair tucked up in a bun and her peaches-and-cream complexion still a bit smudged with sleep, she would have made a welcome addition to most any gathering. Even though the three marines didn't take their eyes off of me, they would have agreed.
  
  "Do you know this man, Miss Mathews? "Corporal Simms asked.
  
  "Yes, Corporal." She was a little out of breath and not sure whether she should be out of sorts. "What's the trouble, Mr. Cole?"
  
  "Where's Sutton?"
  
  "He's very tired and he asked me…"
  
  "I'd like to use your phone, Corporal."
  
  The corporal was a bit unsure. He looked at Paula for confirmation.
  
  I supplied it instead. "That's an order, Corporal. Right now!" My tone would have gotten a nod from a boot camp drill instructor.
  
  "Yes, sir!" The three of us walked to the guard installation in silence. In the small inner room he indicated the phone.
  
  He left and I saw that Paula's face had the glow of her hair. "See here! Who do you think…"
  
  "What's his number and don't waste time throwing a shoe."
  
  With her fists clenched, eyes shooting sparks, she looked good enough to photograph. "Five, double zero, three," she hissed.
  
  I turned and dialed the number. It rang for too long before Sutton came on complaining, "Paula, I told you…"
  
  "Sutton, I need the use of the embassy plane right now. Shake your arse and alert the crew. Then get down here to the gate so Miss Mathews can go back to bed where she belongs."
  
  I could hear the wires humming as he picked up his teeth. When he spoke he handed me mine. "The embassy plane is still in Tunis. I assume the crew is with it. Now if you think…"
  
  "What I think will be put in writing and sent to your director at Langley. In the meantime, is there a back up plane?"
  
  "No. There's only the Convair."
  
  "Do you have facilities for charter?"
  
  He snorted sarcastically. "From whom! There are no private sources. We're an embassy. We don't own the country."
  
  "I assume other embassies have aircraft. Are there no reciprocal agreements in case of an emergency?"
  
  "It would take an ambassador to get action, and as you know… we have no ambassador." He smiled smugly.
  
  "Let's put it another way. This is a Red One priority. I need an aircraft. I need it now. Can you help?"
  
  There was another humming of the wires. "This is damned short notice, and in the middle of the night, besides. I'll see what I can do. Call me back in an hour." He hung up.
  
  I turned and saw Paula studying me with a frown. "Can I help?" she said.
  
  "Yup." I took out pencil and paper and began writing. "These are UHF transmission frequencies. Alert your communications people to monitor them. I may be calling in. My code name will be Piper. I'll be calling Charlie. Got it?"
  
  "Well, where are you going?"
  
  "Someday we'll sit on your patio, and I'll tell you all about it."
  
  She walked out to the car with me. I climbed in. "Is Henry going to help?" she said.
  
  I looked up at her. "Go to bed, Paula." I signaled the corporal to activate the gate switch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  On some missions the breaks ride with you. On others you pick up a few as you go. On some you don't get any. I was brooding as I came around the corner on to Hans Gueyer's street. I figured he might have some ideas on how to hitch a plane ride to Budan.
  
  The headlights shone down the narrow street. There was a single car parked on it, right beside Gueyer's gate. It was a dirt-coated Mercedes, bearing an official look. I drove past. It was empty or the driver was asleep on the seat. The last wasn't likely. I picked up speed and went around the comer. In my mind's eye I could see Erica in those shorts and turtleneck sweater.
  
  I left the Fiat in the park. There was no pedestrian traffic, not even a stray dog to watch me sprint down the street that paralleled Gueyer's. I had the rope to get me over intervening walls and through the grounds of a villa that backed on Han's two story Moorish-style affair. It had a surrounding porch with arches and tile. A light shone from a window on the ground floor. Much as I wanted to home on it, I circled the house first.
  
  There was no outside guard. There was only Thor, dead. He'd been shot several times. Between his clenched fangs was a piece of olive drab. I made for the fight in the window.
  
  There was something about the scene that was reminiscent of an earlier one in which I had played an unsuspecting Peeping Tom. That one had had some comic overtones. There was nothing funny about this one. Hans Gueyer, his face puffed and bloodied, was struggling to get free from the grip of a heavy man in an olive green uniform who was half strangling him with one arm while he held the point of a knife against the mechanic's throat.
  
  Hans' effort was not so much to escape his captor as it was to go to his daughter's rescue. Erica's clothes had been stripped from her and she was spread-eagled on the dining room table. Standing behind her, holding her wrists, was another recognizable charmer in olive green. Erica's legs hung down on each side of the table, her ankles secured with a rope. Standing at the table's end was an ugly sonofabitch. Dressed, he would have been in olive green, too. Overseeing and directing the homey little scene was Colonel Mohammed Doosa. He was seated facing the back of his chair with his chin resting on its crest.
  
  I leave philosophy to the philosophers, but it has always been my belief that the only way to handle the rapist is by removing his ability to rape. In Shema's case I didn't think it would ever be rape, not at least in the sense of what was about to happen here. Erica had been gagged, and all the muscles in her body where taut and arching, screaming for release.
  
  I saw Doosa nod his head at the slavering goon, heard Hans shout, "For crissake, I've told you everything!"
  
  Then Wilhelmina spoke. Once for the would-be rapist who went down shrieking. Once to put a third eye in the head of Hans' tormenter. Once more to put paid to the third man who let Erica's wrists go in search of his weapon.
  
  Doosa was on his feet, one hand on his .45. "Freeze, or you're dead!" I ordered in French. "Just give me the excuse, Doosa!" He thought better of it. "Get your hands over your head! Face the wall!" He obeyed.
  
  Hans and Erica were in shock. "Hans!" I switched to English. "Come out of it! Grab a gun! If he so much as blinks, shoot him!"
  
  Hans moved like a man sleep walking. I smashed out the remainder of the glass with the butt of Wilhelmina, anxious to get inside. By the time I'd done so Erica had freed herself and disappeared. The writhing character on the floor lay balled up and still in his own blood, unconscious or dead.
  
  Hans was weaving on his feet, eyes glassy, not quite sure the nightmare had ended. I relieved him of the FN and patted him on the shoulder. "Get yourself a belt of some of that bourbon. I'll take care of things here."
  
  He nodded dumbly and went tottering through the door to the kitchen.
  
  "Turn around." I said to Doosa.
  
  He came around anxious to see if I was who he thought I was. He had the start of a smirk as he said, "Vous serez…"
  
  My backhand across his chops not only removed the smirk and stopped the words, the force of it also slammed his head against the wall and started a red flow from his lips.
  
  "You will be quiet," I said as his momentary shock turned to confined rage. "You will answer when you are spoken to in the manner you instructed me earlier. Don't tempt me. I'm on the thin edge of disembowling you. What do you want from these people?"
  
  "The bloody bastard wanted to know what I knew about the crash." Hans had washed his face, had his bottle in hand, and although he was still breathing like a man who had run too far, his rasping voice was back in tune and the glassiness had gone from his eyes. "Only he wouldn't believe me when I told him. Lemme smash this bottle on his skull!" He came forward, the intention written on his bruised face.
  
  "Go see how Erica is." I grabbed him by the arm.
  
  He suddenly remembered Erica and went charging off, calling her name.
  
  "Why do you care what he knows about the crash?"
  
  Doosa shrugged. "It's my job to care. If he knows how it happened, then he must know who made it happen. You will be well advised…"
  
  My fist didn't travel far. It jack-knifed him. I waited until the wretching stopped and he came back up, then I played back his own record to him, "I said you will answer, not make stupid sounds. Obviously he doesn't know who, even if he does know how. Or do you think he'd refuse to answer while you let one of your apes rape his daughter?"
  
  Doosa's voice whistled in his throat. "It is my job to find out."
  
  "Mine, too." I shoved the luger in his gut and stuck Hugo's point under his chin. "My time is very short, Colonel. Yours will be even shorter if you don't cooperate." I had him flattened against the wall, neck back, chin reaching away from the stiletto's point. "Why did Mendanike want to see Abu Osman?"
  
  Through gritted teeth, shaking his head, he choked, "Before Allah, I don't know!"
  
  Hugo drew blood. Doosa tried to back through the wall. "I swear it on the Koran! On my mother's tomb!"
  
  I relaxed the pressure a bit. "Why did Mendanike want to see Ambassador Petersen?"
  
  He shook his head. "I am only the Chief of Security! I would not know such a thing!"
  
  This time Hugo did more than tickle. Doosa's head banged on the wall as he squealed. "Once more. I said, why? It's the only once you'll ever get."
  
  He came apart and began to babble, sobbing, "Because! Because! He feared a coup! Because he feared General Tasahmed was going to kill him!"
  
  "And you had our Ambassador murdered."
  
  "It was an accident!"
  
  "Like sabotaging the plane was an accident. Tasahmed was afraid Mendanike was going to try and make a deal with Osman."
  
  "No! No!" He wagged his head from side to side. "That is why I came here to question Geyer. We picked up talk that he knew how the crash had happened and…"
  
  "And your time has run out." I stepped back and he looked down the barrel of Wilhelmina, his eyes wide and black as her muzzle. He went down on his knees as though he had heard the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. Somehow he hadn't impressed me as being so soft under fire, but then you never know how much is facade in a type like this.
  
  If what he'd said was true or even half true, it wasn't just his time that had run out but mine as well. There was no stolen nuke in this sandpile, only a bunch of third-rate third world coup players. The game was clear enough. Tasahmed had made a deal with the Soviets. Lamana was the prize and Mendanike the goat. Mendanike had caught on, and it didn't really make a damn bit of difference who had fragged his plane or how… and yet — and yet — "I could pack it all up and notify Hawk to start looking elsewhere, or I could use up valuable time and play it out to the bitter end.
  
  "Just stay on your knees," I said as Hans and Erica came back in the room. She had on slacks and a different turtleneck. She was pale but her eyes were clear and under control.
  
  "How are you?"
  
  She had a wan smile. "I'm okay… thanks to you."
  
  "My pleasure. Why don't you go in the other room while we take care of things here?"
  
  The bodies on the floor, alive and dead, looked like the final scene from Hamlet. As a nurse in this part of the world she'd no doubt seen her share of gore and she couldn't have very charitable feelings about the remains. "I'll put on the breakfast you were coming to," she said as she wove her way across the room.
  
  "What are you going to do with him?" Hans said, looking at the prostrated chief of security.
  
  "I haven't decided whether to shoot him in the head or cut his throat."
  
  Hans cocked his head at me, not sure whether I meant it. The only reason I didn't was the possibility that Doosa alive could be of more use than Doosa in paradise. "I came back here to ask you a question," I said.
  
  "Pal," Hans shook his head, "you've got a standing invitation to come here any hour day or night to ask me anythin' you want!"
  
  "Okay. Make the answer good. I need a plane to get me to Budan right now. Where do I find it?"
  
  He stared at me, blinked, rubbed his chin and then grinned like a Cheshire cat and pointed his bottle at Doosa. "That sonofabitch could order us one. They're two NAA Dakotas sittin' on the line, checked and ready to go. One of 'em is scheduled for a run to…"
  
  "I don't want their life history. Where do we get a crew?"
  
  "He can order a crew. All he has to do is call flight operations. The phone service is lousy, but at this hour…"
  
  "Get up, Doosa."
  
  He didn't have to be told twice, but I could see he had recovered some of his composure. The glint was back in his eye. He began to brush off his uniform.
  
  The phone was in the entrance foyer. It had white walls and a parquette floor. In the dining room everything had been shadowed, but here, with the light on, we all stood out clearly. Doosa gazed at me as though mine was a face he wanted to remember but at the same time would like to forget.
  
  "I'm going to give you some instructions," I said. "You follow them or we'll leave you for the garbage collector. You will order an aircraft, you will order a crew. They will be standing by for your arrival." I gave him the details while Hans contacted flight operations.
  
  When we left the house Hans and I were wearing the uniforms of two of Doosa's men. For a minute I thought Hans was going to wreck the show. He saw what they'd done to his dog and he went after Doosa. The Colonel was twice his height but he was no match for the enraged mechanic. It was all I could do to haul him off while Erica calmed him down. Then I got Doosa back on his feet and in some semblance of marching order. I didn't want him to look so mauled that he wouldn't pass inspection.
  
  Hans drove with Doosa beside him. I sat behind the Colonel, Erica next to me. She was silent during most of the drive, glancing at me every now and again. I reached out and took her hand. She held on hard, her grip warm and grateful.
  
  "You're feeling all right?"
  
  "I'm fine now."
  
  "It was no good leaving you behind."
  
  "You couldn't have left me."
  
  "You've been to Budan before?"
  
  "Frequently. I'm with the World Health Organization. There's a clinic there I visit regularly."
  
  "Good. Then the trip won't be wasted for you."
  
  "It wouldn't be wasted in any case." She held up the thermos. "Would you like another cup?"
  
  "Not right now, thanks."
  
  Hans kept his mind on driving, and I kept my eye on Doosa. I had wanted to put him in the back with me, but that would have put Erica in the front. A woman riding in the front of an official car at this hour would trigger attention. Doosa knew he was a finger squeeze away from being dead. He was either a coward or a good actor. Had we been alone and had there been time, I could have found out which quick enough. But for now I had to play by feel, and I didn't much like what I felt.
  
  Doosa had given instructions on the phone that he would be arriving at the checkpoint gate at approximately 0230. Those on duty had been notified that there was to be no delay. It was not an order I could depend on being carried out. "Let's make sure you know your lines, chum. When we are stopped how will you handle it?"
  
  "I will declare who I am…"
  
  "In French not Arabic."
  
  "And I will order them to let us pass if they do not do so automatically."
  
  "Suppose you're asked to get out of the car?"
  
  "I will remain where I am and demand to see the officer in command."
  
  "Hans, if anything goes wrong and I shoot the Colonel, what will you do?"
  
  "I'll have another drink and check to the dealer. No, I'll go on emergency rich and head for the hanger. We'll bail out of this thing at the side entrance, go on through the hanger and pick up my dune buggy where I left it on the other side. After that, I leave it to you."
  
  After that we'd be playing it strictly by ear. I was hoping it wasn't going to be necessary, and thanks to Doosa's fear, or his latent talent as an actor, it wasn't.
  
  When we came within shooting range of the hanger checkpoint, a blinding light was thrown on us. Hans braked to a stop and Doosa stuck his head out the window and bellowed angrily. The light went off but not Doosa.
  
  "Just don't lay it on too thick," I said.
  
  We went through the gate entrance, returning the salutes of the guard. It couldn't have been smoother. I felt Erica relax, her breath going out in a long sigh. I gave her knee a pat.
  
  "When we pull up by the plane, Erica, you come out my side, go past me and get on board. Don't have anything to say to anyone. Doosa, you follow her. I'll be right behind. Hans, you bring up the rear. The pilot will want to know our destination. Tell him Budan and that he can file his flight plan after we take off."
  
  It wasn't difficult to locate our plane. The hanger lights bathed the flight line, and we could see the two man flight crew, doing their walk around check of the old DC-3 Dakota. Hans pulled up beside it, but he didn't leave the car as instructed. I realized why. Aside from the pilots there were two NAA maintenance men, making a last minute inspection. Even in his ill fitting uniform Hans figured they'd recognize him.
  
  Erica went on board fast. The pilots came to attention before Doosa, saluting him. He gave them their instructions, and they stood aside waiting for him to ascend the steps.
  
  I couldn't take the chance of leaving Hans behind, and I certainly couldn't take my eye off of Doosa. I knew the ground men couldn't be dismissed. They had to stand by with the fire extinguishers when the plane was started. They were hovering around the cabin entrance like a couple of moths.
  
  "Colonel, sir," I said, "you wanted to check on whether that call came through. Couldn't one of these men do that?" I nodded at the pair. "And the other could have a look at our rear axle."
  
  Doosa was a quick study. He glanced over his shoulder at me blankly for a second and then snapped orders.
  
  "Sir," the pilot said, "we can contact base operations on the radio and see about your call."
  
  "No need. He can use the exercise." He indicated the rounder of the two and then climbed on board. I followed, wondering if I should nominate him for an Emmy. It was just too damn pat. But whatever it was, it was getting me where I wanted to go, and it was keeping Doosa alive and that was number one on his list.
  
  The pilots came on after us and a few seconds later Hans made his entrance. He activated the closing mechanism on the cabin door. Once he had it secured, he leaned against it with a weary sigh. "Jeezuz, both those characters out there work for me!"
  
  "Do the pilots know you?"
  
  "Nah. They're military from Rufa. Whenever a bastard like this flies they use military crews."
  
  The Dakota was an executive type, for VIPs. It had a couple of wide lounges running along the sides, a bar, a desk, reclining chairs and floor carpeting.
  
  The co-pilot stuck his head out the cockpit door and said, "No messages for you, sir. Will you fasten your seat belts? We'll be taking off directly."
  
  A few seconds later I heard the energizer start its building hum, then an engine choked and coughed and came to life with a solid backfire. "All aboard for Budan," Hans said, eyeing the bar.
  
  The Colonel sat across from me, seat belt secured, taking his ease. His hatchet face was blank enough but I saw a hint of smugness in his eyes.
  
  "Doosa, if you didn't sabotage Mendanike's plane, who do you think did?"
  
  "Perhaps Mr. Gueyer can tell you that," he said, trying to return the game to square one.
  
  "I'd be interested to hear your theories," I said. "It's not only a long way to Budan, it will be a long way from the altitude we fly at to the ground. You may take that route while we take the other."
  
  He thought that over for a minute while the plane came to a halt and began its before-take off engine check. "Think it over until we're airborne," I said.
  
  It was a different sensation taking off in an old twin engine clunker. You wondered if the thing was going to get up enough speed to fly, and then you realized you were flying.
  
  Once the engines were throttled back I told Hans to go forward and have the pilot turn off the overhead light. "You ride with them. When we're about an hour from landing, I want them to contact Budan so that security headquarters there can be informed that their chief is arriving. He wants the latest information on Osman's whereabouts plus a car waiting at the airport."
  
  "You bet." Hans stood up, bottle in hand.
  
  "And you'd better leave that here. You don't want to arouse suspicions, and you don't want to start any bad habits."
  
  He frowned at me, looked at the bottle and then replaced it. "Okay, pal, anything you say."
  
  "Erica," I said, "why don't you lie down up there and sack out?"
  
  She gave me a smile and stood up. "Yes, sir."
  
  With the main lights off and just a couple of side lights on, the Colonel and I sat in shadow. I didn't offer him a cigarette. "Now let's hear it loud and clear. You swear on the Koran your boss didn't finish Mendanike. Who did?"
  
  "We suspect outside forces."
  
  "Don't give me that CIA crap."
  
  "We don't know who. Soviets, Chinese, Israelis."
  
  I knew he was lying on the Soviet score which meant he was lying, period. "What are your grounds?"
  
  "Since we didn't do it, someone else did. Osman is supported by the Chinese."
  
  "Sure. So Mendanike wants to see Osman in a hurry, and they bump him off before he can tell them why."
  
  Doosa shrugged. "You asked me who. There is little to go on. The accident looked like a normal accident. Your friend said he knew otherwise. Naturally, we wanted to know, we…"
  
  "What about the mercenaries you've been bringing in, the cute boys from South Yemen and other points?"
  
  That brought a moment of stillness. "Those people came in under Mendanike's orders. He never said why. We just had instructions to let them enter. It worried General Tasahmed. We…"
  
  "Where did these mercenaries hang out?"
  
  "Mostly at Pakar."
  
  "What's there?"
  
  "It's our second largest city. It's not far from the Libyian border."
  
  "What have they been doing for excitement."
  
  "Nothing. Just hanging around."
  
  It was a can of worms and a can of lies. It still added up to the obvious. This bastard was the head of the NAPR's execution detail, but like Tasahmed he was still worth more to me alive and in reasonably good shape than dead — at least until I'd had a chance to talk to Osman.
  
  There was a small lavatory compartment at the rear of the plane. I tucked the colonel in it. To make sure he stayed put I used the pants of the uniform I'd been wearing to tie his hands and feet. In strips the pants made pretty fair rope. I left him seated on the throne, his own pants pulled down around his ankles for good measure. Then I stretched out on the lounge opposite Erica and was asleep in two minutes.
  
  At some point it was not Doosa who reached paradise but Nick Carter. A warm and gentle hand had unfastened my belt. It began to caress and stroke me. It undid buttons and opened a zipper. It fanned out over my body and was joined by its twin. My chest, my stomach, my everything came in for a touch that was night music at its most subtle.
  
  I awoke as her lips and body came down on mine. My arms went around her, surprised to find there was no sweater, nothing but rounded artistry. With our tongues gently exploring, I rolled us over on to our sides, and my hand went down to find that what was unclothed above was unclothed below. I began to return her favors and she moaned, nodding her head and then whispering against my lips, "Oh, yes! Yes!"
  
  I shut off her words with my mouth and let my other hand concentrate on her breasts. My lips, too, were hungry for them.
  
  "Please!" she choked as I eased her under me, feeling her hips seeking a mutual rhythm.
  
  I entered her slowly, her fingers anxious to bring me into her. "Wonderful!" she gasped.
  
  For her it was part emotional reaction to what had nearly happened and part some unspoken but quickly recognized attraction between us. I knew this as I made love to her, and so there was no weariness. Instead, there was a deep giving and receiving, a soaring mutuality of thrust and counter thrust.
  
  It was too good to last and too urgent for us both to find release. We came, she sobbing in the delight of her orgasm, me knowing you don't find paradise if you're asleep.
  
  We lay on the lounge, taking our ease, smoking a cigarette. The steady rumbling of the engines was lulling me back to sleep. "You know," she said reflectively, "I don't know what you are."
  
  "I'm a man on his way to Budan, traveling first class magic carpet."
  
  "But it really doesn't matter," she ignored my reply, "at least right now."
  
  "Remind me to introduce myself formally some day."
  
  She ruffled my hair and leaned over to kiss me. "I think I like you much better informally. I like you saving me from gombeen men, and I like you up here in the sky where no one can bother us."
  
  I pulled her down beside me. "Maybe you'd like a repeat performance."
  
  "I'd love a repeat performance." Her hand went up to stub out the cigarette.
  
  "One good turn deserves another," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the engines changing pitch awakened me. The early morning light was flooding through the cabin. Erica lay on the lounge across from me curled in sleep. I sat up and yawned and had a look out the port. We were over high arid country, letting down through a clear sky, free of the heat haze that would form later. The mountains were bare and there wasn't much green in between. Budan, I knew, was the exception. It lay in a valley fed by underground acquifers the only real water supply in ten thousand square miles.
  
  Hans came out the cockpit door. Despite his battered look he was bright eyed and bushy tailed over the prospect ahead. "We're coming in," he said, "we'll make the approach right over the crash site. You come up forward and I'll show you what happened."
  
  "Sit down a minute," I said. "Was Budan informed of our ETA?"
  
  "Sure, just like you said."
  
  "Good. Now get out of that uniform and stay here with us."
  
  "But I gotta…"
  
  "You simmer down and listen. This is not a field trip for the pleasure of Hans Gueyer."
  
  "Yeah, I know, but the crash…"
  
  "You can look into it all you want once I see how things stack up. Doosa will be with me."
  
  "Hey, where is he?"
  
  "Powdering his nose. You've been here before, what kind of a set-up is there at the airport — security, facilities, and so on?"
  
  Erica woke up while he was filling me in. There was a single east-west strip, hangar and terminal building. Since this was an official flight there would be no clearance check, and security never consisted of more than a fiddler's guard. It was about as I had figured.
  
  "I assume there's a guest house or a hotel for visitors."
  
  "Sure, the Ashbal."
  
  "You and Erica will be staying there until I come for you."
  
  "Now wait a minute, pal, what do you mean, stay?"
  
  "When you're not out digging in the wreckage or getting thrown in jail and Erica isn't visiting the clinic — that's where you'll stay. I don't know how long this is going to take. Understand?"
  
  "Yeah, yeah, sure, fine. I got you." He was happy again.
  
  I heard the gear thump down. "And if you don't get out of that uniform I'll peal it off of you."
  
  I began talking to Erica, trying to ignore the look in her eye. "This could take me a day, maybe more, but you should be okay if you stick close to the clinic. Will the howling for Mendanike be as intense here as in Lamana?"
  
  "Nah," Hans said, pulling off the olive green pants. "A lot of Osman sympathizers here."
  
  I stood up, deciding it was time for our host to join the crowd. "One more thing, don't take any weapons with you. Stash what you have here." I planned to do the same with the exception of Doosa's .45 and Pierre.
  
  The Chief of Security was not at his best. There was a choleric cast to his swarthy complexion. His bloodshot eye had a nice glaze. His bottom Up had developed an unbecoming pout. He'd been on the potty too long.
  
  I freed his hands and feet and he sat glowering rubbing his wrists. "You can pull up you own pants," I said. "Then you can join us for coffee."
  
  There was coffee. Erica had seen to it on the small galley forward. She played stewardess and served the crew as well. Hans had no time for restoratives, his face pressed against the window.
  
  "Hey, come here, look! I can see where they went in! Right on the dime, right the way I said! Perfect!"
  
  I glanced out the window and saw that we were flying parallel to the edge of the valley. It looked lush, but the mountains on either side of us were something else. I hoped Osman wasn't far away or holed up in a cave. Hawk had put no fixed time limit on my search, but every minute without an answer was another minute too many.
  
  "You see the wreckage?" Hans chortled.
  
  I saw the wreckage. It looked like a small junk yard spread along the flat land a few miles short of the runway, a long black streak cluttered with burned and broken aircraft parts. It was apparent no one was collecting them for investigation. The fact should have meant more to me, but Doosa came out of the john limping, still rubbing his wrists, distracting my attention.
  
  "Sit there," I indicated, and he sat down stiffly.
  
  "Erica, bring the coffee and come join us. I have to give the benediction. Hans, you, too."
  
  After we land," I said to Doosa, "you will give the crew orders to remain at base operations. Hans, you and Erica will stay on board until after the Colonel and I have left. None of us will leave the plane until after the crew. Hans, what about transportation for you two?"
  
  "There should be a taxi, but if there ain't, I can borrow the station chief's jeep. I'll drop Erica at the clinic, and then I'm on a bee line."
  
  "If you're not at the Ashbal or back here on board when I'm ready to go, you'll be left behind."
  
  "Well, how the hell am I supposed to know when that will be!"
  
  "When I'm ready I'll check the Ashbal first, then the clinic, then here. That's the best I can do for you."
  
  "What is it you're after?" Erica asked as the plane slowed in its descent, flaps extended, wheels reaching to make contact. "Maybe I can help."
  
  "I wish you could, but the Colonel has volunteered to be my guide." The Colonel sipped his coffee, lids lowered.
  
  The wheels touched, squeeked and we were down in Budan. The airport did not have a busy look. However, as we taxied in I spotted a half dozen guerrilla types, standing in front of the terminal watching our approach. They were wearing bandoleers and carrying A-47 Kalashnikov rifles. There was also an official car parked on the flight line.
  
  "Is that an honor guard, or the regular guard?" I said to Hans.
  
  "Looks about usual."
  
  The pilot swung the plane around, the engines died, the props clanking to a halt. Hans had the door open and the ladder down before the pilots came out of the cockpit. Doosa gave them their instructions. I saw the co-pilot was puzzled by the fact that Hans and I were no longer sporting olive green. "Change of uniform," I said to him and winked. He got the message, gave me a grin and they departed.
  
  We sat in the plane in the early morning stillness. I had noticed an imperceptible change in Doosa's manner. It could have been the coffee had restored him, or he thought he saw an end to his captivity. He was looking beyond me over my shoulder through the port, observing some of the members of his honor guard who had straggled out on the flight line.
  
  "Les règlec de jeu — the rules of the game — Doosa, you'll play as I order or the game will be over. Don't get cute. You and I are leaving now. You, two paces ahead. You'll go directly to the car and get in. That's all you'll do. Let's go, now." I stood up, his .45 in hand.
  
  I let him watch me put my jacket over my arm to conceal it. "Apres vous, mon Colonel. Try to keep out of trouble you two," I said as we made our exit.
  
  The honor guard did not line up in proper military order as we marched to the car, a Citroen in need of a face lifting. They stood about, looking at the plane, eyeing us and generally giving the impression of aloofness. Their uniforms were not uniform, only their equipment matched. They were certainly not mercenary types, but as I followed Doosa into the back of the car, the alarm bells were ringing. They weren't on duty for his benefit, so what were they doing standing around guarding an empty airport? The answer could have been — simply as a precaution in view of what was going on. Too bad it wasn't the right answer.
  
  "Allons." I said to the driver and then to Doosa in English, "Ask him if he brought the requested information."
  
  The driver nodded, pulling out on the circular key-hole drive fronting the airport. "A contact has been made, sir," he spoke in French. "I am taking you to meet with him. He knows where Shiek Hassan Abu Osman is to be found."
  
  Doosa sat back, folding his arms across his chest. Again he had his eye lids lowered, showing no reaction.
  
  "Ask him how far we have to go?"
  
  The driver pointed in the direction of the mountains ahead. "Only twenty miles," he said.
  
  We were driving across the valley and not into Budan itself. There were widely scattered intersections amidst the field of wheat and cotton and soybeans. At the intersections there were units similar to the one at the airport. Some of the troops were equipped with AK-47s. Others had FNs and their heavier equipment was equally mixed. They made no effort to stop us, and I was willing to accept they were up and about, like their brothers at the airport, because this was the day of Mendanike's funeral, and Tasahmed was assuring that his rise to power was properly greased. Later, when I had time to reflect on my conclusion, I wondered what Hawk would have said had he been sitting next to me.
  
  "Osman will kill you," The colonel broke the silence, speaking in English.
  
  "I'm touched that you're concerned."
  
  "He hates Americans."
  
  "Naturally. What will he do to you?"
  
  "Besides, you're wasting your time."
  
  "If I am, I'll file a complaint against your office."
  
  "This man we are going to see, I know him. He's not reliable."
  
  "Colonel… be quiet. I'm sure our contact is the best your service can supply. No doubt old Hassan will hang you up by your balls to dry, but that's your problem."
  
  We crossed the narrow valley and began to climb a winding gravel track, the greenness thinning out fast. The heat had begun, but we left some of the humidity as we went up in a cloud of dust. It was not a long climb. We came around a curve facing a plateau with a stone structure at its edge. It had a high surrounding wall and the appearance of a 19th century fortress, with a square center and two chunky wings.
  
  The driver eased off the road on to a camel track and we bumped down it to the wall. There was no sign of anyone.
  
  The driver spoke in Arabic, looking in the mirror. "You are expected, sir."
  
  I got out of the car after Doosa, feeling the hot wind and the taste of dust in it. "Go on," I said, letting him hear the click of the .45's hammer.
  
  We went through the arched entrance gate into a wide stone courtyard where nothing grew. The place had slit windows and a let's-get-out-of-here feel.
  
  "What's our contact's name?"
  
  "Safed." The Colonel was staring at the stone-work. He looked long and stiff and pale around the gills.
  
  "Tell him to get his arse out here on the double."
  
  "Safed, you miserable camel thief," the Colonel sounded, "come out!"
  
  Like tar baby, Safed said nothing, did nothing. The door, a double iron affair, stayed shut. The wind woofed around us.
  
  "Try again." I said. The second try got no more reaction than the first.
  
  "See if it's open." I watched him move toward it, knowing the whole thing stank. The wind was mocking.
  
  Over it I caught a whisper of an alien sound. As I swung to face it, I knew the answer to the batches of irregular troops. I caught a glimpse of the driver's set face and with him four dandies with leveled Kalashnikovs.
  
  I got off two shots before everything in my head blew up in a searing wave of flame and swept me away to nowhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  At some undetermined time and place my head had been melted down and forged into a bell. I had been present at both events. I had enjoyed neither. I had suffered through them in silence. It's a matter of conditioning. But when some omnipotent bastard began beating on my new dome with a gong, I decided to protest, particularly when the count went past twelve.
  
  I addressed the universe in Urdu because Shema was queen of the night, and it seemed only fitting. Whether it was the tone of my obscenities or the pounding gong or the combination of both that belched me up from the darkness of nowhere into the darkness of someplace, I'll never know. For the moment, all I knew was that I'd been willing to swap someplace for nowhere. Then the moment passed and my brain slowly picked itself up and started to shrug off the clobbering it had taken.
  
  I was lying on a mat of stinking straw. My hands and feet were tied. My head hurt like hell, throbbing as though something wanted to tear loose. I turned it carefully, which just put a lot of white lights in front of me where there weren't any lights. After a few more similar experiments I decided the worst I was suffering was a slight concussion. The driver hadn't "-shot me, he'd cold cocked me. My clothes hadn't been taken. Pierre was in place. Things had been worse in the life and times of Nick Carter.
  
  Something scuttled across my feet, and I knew I had company. A bit of fight filtered in from the cell door. But even without it, my location didn't require a course in architecture. The air stank powerfully. The rats had had previous tenants.
  
  After several tries I managed to sit up. Using my heels I edged across the floor until I had a stone wall at my back. When the white lights stopped flashing and the throbbing in my skull settled down to an acceptable level, I tested the ropes holding my wrists in a vise. Not a prayer.
  
  There was nothing to do but relax and wait. I'd come to see Osman. Now I figured the chances were pretty good that I would get to see him. I'd gotten the message a bit late. Had I gotten it sooner I might have saved a headache. The boys at the airport, like the boys at the intersections and the welcoming committee here hadn't been Mendanike's or Tasahmed's troops, they'd been the Shiek's. Osman had taken Budan in all the upset over Ben d'Oko's death. The Chinese turn out Ak-47s as well as the Soviets.
  
  My having sent word of Doosa's arrival had alerted the reception department. We had not been taken to the center of Budan because obviously we would have seen signs of whatever fighting had gone on. We had been brought here instead. The question was, why hadn't Doosa recognized Osman's men at the airport? I thought I had the answer to that, too. At any rate, my failure to recognize the changing of the guard in Budan until I was trapped could still work out better than having to chase Osman all over the mountains to ask him a question.
  
  The clanging of a key in the lock and the unbarring of the door awoke me. The sleep had helped. The numbness in my hands and wrists was more uncomfortable than the throbbing in my head. I shut my eyes against the glare of the light, felt hands on my legs and a knife cutting the ropes at my ankles.
  
  I was hauled to my feet. The world spun round. The white flashes turned to bright neon. I sucked in my breath and let my pair of handlers hold me up.
  
  All the way down the stone corridor I played sick while taking in the layout of the place. It wasn't much — a half dozen cells on each side with a guard room on the left. I wondered if Erica and Hans had been given residency. There were four dim lights in wall brackets and the only exit was a flight of stone steps leading upward, making a right angle.
  
  The end of the right angle brought us up on to a semidark foyer. The slit windows offered the only light. The best that could be said for the place was the coolness. Off the foyer there were several doors. I was muscled toward the largest. There my right guard — and he could have used some — pounded on the door with a hairy fist and got the come in call.
  
  They launched me with the intention of putting me on my face before the assembled. I managed to remain upright. The room was better lit than the foyer but not by much. There was a table with three sons of the desert facing me, wearing black and white checked kefiyas. The one in the center had the face of an old vulture, hooked nose, hooded black eyes, a thin hard mouth and a pointed chin. There was a strong resemblance in the pair on either side of him. A family portrait — Osman and his boys. They studied me with all the charm of cobras intent on a strike.
  
  "Pahh!" Hassan broke the silence. "Like all yankee dogs, he stinks!"
  
  "A running imperialist dog," intoned the son on the left.
  
  "Let's teach him some thought reform," suggested the other.
  
  "If he could speak, what would he say?" Osman's eyes flickered with contempt.
  
  I answered him in Arabic, "Ayeesh, ya kdeesh, ta yunbut al — hasheesh — 'live, o mules, until the grass grows.' "
  
  That put out the nickering and shut them up for a minute. "So," the shiek put his hands on the table, "you speak the language of the faithful."
  
  "In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate," I quoted, "I take refuge with the Lord of men, the King of men, the God of men, from the evil of the slinking whisperer who whispers in the breast of men or jinn and men."
  
  They stared at me, then the sons looked to the father for reaction. "You recite the Koran. Are you one of us?" There was a new tone of interest in his sandpaper voice.
  
  "I have studied your book and the prophet Mohammed. In time of need, its words give strength."
  
  "Let's hear such words." Osman thought he had me, that I might be good for a couple of verses and that would be all.
  
  I began with The Opening — "Praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of all Being." Then I went on to some verses from The Cow, the House of Imran, The Spoils and The Night Journey.
  
  Osman stopped me and began throwing out lines from the book of Mary and Ta Ha for me to match. My being able to respond comes with having a photographic memory. After a while he gave it up arid sat back to study me.
  
  "For a dirty rotten imperialist son of a camel dung eater, you know our book well enough. It is a credit to you. Perhaps it will get you into paradise, but it won't get you out of here. You are a spy, and we cut off the heads of spies. Why did you come here?"
  
  "To find you, that is if you are Hassan Abu Osman."
  
  His sons looked at him in surprise. He tried to hide his grin, then they all had a good laugh. "Yes," he said, "thanks to Allah, I am Hassan Abu Osman. What do you wish of me?"
  
  "It's a private matter."
  
  "Ahh! Nothing is private from these two jackels. They'll fight over my bones when I'm dead. Why would a yankee spy wish to see me? Do you want to put me on the throne in Lamana? With Allah's help I'll do that myself."
  
  "I thought it was Mao's help you were getting."
  
  He didn't bridle, he cackled and the boys joined in. "Oh, I'll take what that non-believer has to offer just like I'll take what you have to offer if I think it's worth taking. What do you have to offer, yankee spy?" He was having fun.
  
  "I was hoping you'd have something to offer me."
  
  "Oh, have no fear of that. Before I have you publicly executed, I'll offer you el Feddan. He'll make you call on Allah for a quick end."
  
  "I'm talking about something important."
  
  He stared at me and let go with another cackle. "Important, hey! I agree, your life is of no importance." He pounded on the table and called," I want el Feddan! Tell him to come at once!"
  
  Someone behind me made a quick exit. "Suppose I could guarantee your taking over the rest of the country," I said.
  
  "That would be a guarantee I would spit on." He spat.
  
  "So after you spit on it, the question still stands. You've got Budan. Whether you can hold it or not is another question, but you'll never get Lamana from here or Pakar. Tasahmed is no Mendanike. At least Mendanike was willing to make a deal."
  
  Osman's eyes flared. "So I was right. You bloody imperialists were behind him. If he had lived I would have put his head in the square!"
  
  "You mean he didn't tell you!" I pretended amazement, knowing damned well what the answer was going to be.
  
  The shiek and his son exchanged glances then looked at me. "You tell me," he said.
  
  "Tasahmed was planning a coup backed by the Russians. My Government convinced Mendanike that he should try to make peace with you and…"
  
  Osman let out a howl of derision and beat the table, "So that's why that bag of guts wanted to see me, to really make a deal! I said it was so! It was what made me decide to take Budan. If he was so bad off that he had to see me, I knew I could take it. It fell like a rotten coconut!" He had another good spit.
  
  I felt like joining him. There it all was. The answer I had been almost positive I was going to get. As for stealing nukes, this whole crowd was somewhere back at the Battle of Khartoum. The trouble now was that I looked like the Chinese Gordon of the piece, and he'd ended up with his head on a pike.
  
  I heard the door open behind me and Osman's gaze shifted over my shoulder. "El-Feddan," he beckoned, "come meet your yankee spy."
  
  El-Feddan, which means the bull, was all of that. He was no taller than I, but he must have been half as wide again, and it was all muscle. He looked more Mongolian than Arab. It wasn't a pleasant face, wherever he'd been spawned. Yellowish eyes, a flattened nose, rubbery lips. There was no neck, just a pedestal of muscle holding the gourd of his shaven head. He wore an open bush jacket, but no one had to guess what lay under it. He ignored me, his eyes on his chief, waiting for the word to turn me into a yoyo.
  
  There was a delay due to the sound of outside activity. Again the door was flung open and I turned to see Erica and Hans being hauled into the room by some members of the praetorian guard. Strolling in behind them was my old pal, Mohammed Doosa. I'd had it figured about right. The colonel was either Osman's man in the enemy camp or Tasahmed's man in Osman's tent… or both. I didn't have time to dwell on it, but there was something I wanted to ask him, providing I could keep my head on.
  
  Erica had a nasty mouse under her left eye. She was pale and breathing hard. She stared at me with a mixture of anguish and hope.
  
  "Hang in there, child," I said in English. She lowered her head and shook it unable to answer.
  
  Hans had been cuffed around and he was half out on his feet. When his handler let him go he sank down on his knees.
  
  "Which one of you wants her?" Osman asked his thirsty sons.
  
  They both gobbled at once, practically drooling. The crafty old bastard howled with glee and pounded the table. "You can fight over her bones like you can fight over mine… when I'm through with her!"
  
  They both shut up, staring at the table, wondering how they could figure a way to get him in a boney state.
  
  "So, Colonel, all is well?" Osman gave Doosa an oily grin.
  
  "As Allah wills," Doosa touched his forehead in salute, approaching the table. "May one ask a favor?"
  
  "But ask it," Osman said.
  
  "I'd like to question him before the execution."
  
  "Humm." Osman scratched his chin. "I plan to turn him over to el-Feddan. When he's through I don't think this one will be able to answer anything. What about that pile of camel dung on the floor, won't he do as well?"
  
  "Oh, I want to question him, too."
  
  "Well, you'll have to be satisfied with what I can offer, Colonel. El-Feddan needs his exercise. Otherwise, he becomes ugly." This brought gales of laughter and even a grunt of approval from the Bull.
  
  "If I've got to fight this cow's udder, you could at least have honor enough to give me the use of my hands." I said.
  
  This was the first time Doosa had heard me speak Arabic. It wiped the smirk away, and my words didn't do much for el-Feddan's sense of humor either.
  
  "Oh, you'll have your hands," Osman chuckled. "You can use them to pray with. I'll even see that you have weapons."
  
  "Are you a betting man, Shiek Hassan Abu Osman?" I said, knowing there was never an Arab born who wasn't. "You want this bull to soften me up for the kill. Why not make our contest the kill? If I win, my friends and I get safe passage back to Lamana."
  
  That brought what is called a pregnant silence. All eyes were on the head man, who had his eyes on me. "You know, yankee spy," he said, tugging on his pointed chin. "I think you must be a man. I admire a man even if he's a stinking imperialist. You can die fighting."
  
  "And if I win?"
  
  "You won't win, but I have no bargain with you. Should Allah, by some unseen stroke, favor el-Feddan with ill fortune," he rolled his eyes at the Bull, "then we shall see." He stood up, and I saw what a runty old banty rooster he was. "Bring them," he ordered.
  
  The place of battle was outside the wall on the plateau near where we had left the Citroen. There were several French jeeps parked beside it. As many of Osman's entourage as could crowded on to its roof, while the others, about twenty in all, stood around in a semi-circle to watch the fun. The table had been brought and Osman, his sons, and Doosa, sat behind it. Erica and her father had been forced to sit on the ground.
  
  My watch was gone, but the sun was about noon high and the heat a powerful force. Down on the plain where the green ended there were dust devils. The flank of the bare mountain rose up, and I saw a hawk lazily circling, riding the thermals. A good omen. I needed one as I rubbed my wrists, flexing my fingers, working some strength back into them.
  
  I watched as el-Feddan took off his jacket and exposed his torso. Then he took off his calecons to the cheers of the assembled group. An Arabian nudist, no less. What he had below was almost as formidable as what he had up top. It wasn't exactly an Achilles heel, but I figured it on doing him about as much good if I could get in close without being crushed to death.
  
  I stripped to the waist to catcalls. David and Goliath, but no sling shot. Still, Osman hadn't been kidding about weapons. I had thought it was going to be strictly body contact. It might come to that, but before it did I was thrown a thin meshed palm fiber net and wrapped in it a knife with an eight inch blade.
  
  As a judo or karate buff will tell you, it's not size that counts. It's speed, coordination and timing. There was little doubt that my opponent possessed all three. As for Nick Carter, let's just say that possession was not at its peak. My right leg was not fully recovered from a past encounter. My head, while clear, throbbed from a more recent one. The sun's glare took conditioning, which didn't come with a few blinks of the eyelids. There was no way of maneuvering free of its effect. The blade in my hand was familiar enough, the net was not. The way the naked ape before me handled his reminded me of what's at the other end of the bull — the toreador.
  
  Putting my life on the line is part of my job. In most cases it's a matter of split-second action. Sudden contact, merciless response and no time for reflection. A challenge like this is something else again. Having a chance to evaluate what I'm up against adds a certain amount of stimulation to the game. I knew two things: If I was going to win I had to do it fast. My best weapon was guile. I had to convince the bull and all assembled that they weren't about to witness a fight but a slaughter.
  
  I held up the net clumsily, "I can't use this!" I called to Osman. "I thought this was going to be a fair fight!"
  
  Osman silenced the jeers and howls. "It is you who asked to meet el-Feddan. You have the same weapons as he. Before Allah, the contest is fair!"
  
  I began looking around frantically for a way to escape. The semi-circle had become a circle. "But — but I can't fight with these!" There was a note of pleading and fear in my voice as I held out knife and net.
  
  Over the insults of the chorus, Osman shouted angrily, "Then die with them, yankee spy! And I mistook you for a man!"
  
  I backed away, feeling the rough stone underfoot, glad I wasn't barefoot like my opponent, who was wearing nothing but a sour grin. I saw that Erica had buried her face in her hands. Hans had his arm around her and was staring at me, pale and helpless.
  
  "Finish it, el-Feddan!" Osman ordered.
  
  Over the sudden silence of the crowd, my cry, "No! Please!" was on a par with Doosa's performance the previous evening. I didn't have time to catch his reaction. I was busy trying to back out of the ring, my arms extended, futilely trying to hold off the inevitable.
  
  The bull came toward me, flat-footed, somewhat in the style of the Japanese Sumo wrestler. In his left hand he dangled the net; in his right he held the knife close to his thigh. His plan was simple enough, tangle me in the net and then marinate me in my own blood.
  
  The crowd had taken up the cry again: "Kill him! kill him!" I stopped back peddling and began edging along its front. I could feel spit hitting my back. Nails raked it. I made sure not to retreat further. I didn't want to risk being shoved from behind and thrown off balance. The sun beat down and the sweat ran.
  
  El-Feddan stalked me with confidence, playing it out for the troops. Bit by bit he closed in, his grin frozen, his yellow eyes fixed. I waited for the tell-tale of his attack. There always is one no matter how imperceptible. Because he was sure of himself, he telegraphed it. And at that instant I moved.
  
  As I had backed and circled I had balled the net. Just as his net arm began the motion to cast, I slung mine at his face. In reflex, his arm rose to block it, and at the same time, he ducked and shifted his stance. I followed on his motion, using the leverage of his being off balance. I went under his net, thrusting low. I got about a half inch of blade into him. Then he had spun away his arm slashing down to deflect my lunge. It had happened so fast that Osman and company were still trying to figure it out when be turned and rushed me.
  
  Going past him in my lunge I had gotten into the center of the ring, and as he came barreling at me, I leaped clear of his rush and gave him a boot in his behind as he went past.
  
  There was a moment of dead silence. Here was their champion with blood running down his belly, putting red rain drops on the stones, and for good measure he'd just been kicked in the behind by a cowardly yankee spy. They got the message and great howls of laughter went up. Now the cat-calls were for el-Feddan. What was he, a chicken instead of a bull?
  
  Arabs love to play tricks. The crowd realized I'd played mine. They appreciated it. The bull didn't, which was what I wanted. I'd failed to get him by convincing him I wasn't worth his time. Now my only advantage was to get him so teed off he'd lose his judgment.
  
  As he rounded on me, the grin was gone, the yellow eyes blazed. The sweat running on his chest glistened in the sunlight. He halted and put his knife between his teeth. Then he used his knife hand to smear the blood from his wound all over his chest and face. The significance escaped me, but I ended his toilet by kicking for his groin. He took the blow on his thigh, and it felt as plough I'd kicked a stone wall.
  
  The crowd was really excited. They knew they had a fight. I heard Hans shout, "Cut his head off, Ned!" Then I shut out the sounds, concentrating on survival.
  
  We circled, he feinting, looking for an opening. I had recovered my net and held it balled again in my left hand. Now instead of a wide open stance, I faced him in a fencer's crouch, knife arm half extended, net arm up and hanging. I couldn't afford the breath, but I began to taunt him.
  
  "Bull! You're no bull, you're not even a cow — a fat camel's hide stuffed with pig's excrement!"
  
  That brought him. He feinted high with the net and cast low. I'd never seen a faster motion. Even though I leapt back, the net snared my right foot, nearly tripping me. At the same time I only half avoided his follow-through as he tried to trap my knife hand by grabbing my wrist. He got my shoulder instead. His own knife came at me, slicing upward. I felt it rake my ribs as I twisted to the right and slashed at his throat, branding his chest. Then I pivoted and slammed the net into his face, yanking my shoulder free. His hand clawed at my throat. Our knives clashed and drew sparks. He took a step back to get clear of my net in his face, and I shook free of his. Then I moved forward on the attack and he jumped away.
  
  We hadn't been at it long, but it seemed very long. My mouth was a dried out water hole. My breath was hot and ragged. The pain in my right leg was playing counterpart to the drum beat in my head. I'd drawn more blood than he, but he had more to spare. I took another step forward, grinning at him, waving my knife.
  
  Whether it was pride, the roar of the crowd, or fury at the thought of being beaten, he charged. I went down on my back, taking him on my feet and catapulting him over my head. He landed face up in front of Osman, momentarily stunned.
  
  The crowd ate it up. He came off the ground bent low, going for my legs. I leaped above his knife, but he was right behind it, and I had no time to avoid the momentum of his rush. His net was gone but not the hand that held it. It caught my knife wrist. His blade went back for the killing blow. With time running out, I kicked with all I had for the extra point.
  
  There are a lot of sensitive parts of the body. But remember this, if you're ever trapped in close, there is no more vunerable point of contact than your mugger's shin. There's nothing there but bone and nerves. The front of my shoes had been reinforced with a thin band of metal for just such an eventuality.
  
  El-Feddan threw back his head and roared to Allah, his knife hand hanging in mid-thrust. I karate-chopped his wrist, tore my knife hand free, and with a back-hand swipe cut what throat he had from ear to ear.
  
  He went down on his knees, choking, trying to repair the damage with his hands. The arterial blood spewed out between his fingers. El-Feddan fell over, his body convulsing, his heels starting to kick. Aside from the sounds of his dying, there was absolute silence. Osman watched his champion depart for paradise with a fixed stare.
  
  Usually in a bull fight, the toreador who plays the bull to the death is awarded the ears. I considered it, but then I decided I had pushed my luck far enough. Instead, I walked over to the table, brushing the sweat from my eyes, fend placed the bloody knife on it. "May a thousand houris guide him to his rest," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  The outcome of the fight shook old Osman. His sons were all for finishing me right then and there. He shut them up. El-Feddan lay in a great pool of his own blood, the flies at him, the buzzards already circling. The ragged company of troops stood silent, waiting for the command of their leader. Hans couldn't take his eyes from the dead man and Erica couldn't take her eyes from me.
  
  The Shiek rose and looked at me. "In-shallah, you are a man, yankee spy, much man. Were things otherwise, I could use you. I will think before I decide what is to be done." He turned to the bearded officer standing with his arms folded at the end of the table. "Put them in the cells!"
  
  "What about her?" the right-hand son pointed.
  
  The father ignored him. "The two men in one cell, the woman separate."
  
  I let my breath out easily. Had his reaction been otherwise, he would have been my hostage with the knife at his throat. I'd palmed el-Feddan's blade and had it stuck down through my back pocket.
  
  The troops began to drift away. Orders were given to remove the corpse. Doosa stood to one side, careful to keep his mouth shut. When I was permitted to put on my shirt, I let the tails hang out, which concealed the haft of the knife.
  
  A guard of six fell in around the three of us and marched us back into the building.
  
  "God, if I live to be a hundred," Hans sighed, "I don't hope to see anything like that again."
  
  "Shut up!" said the squad leader in Arabic.
  
  They put Erica in the first cell directly across from the guard room, "See you soon, child," I said. "Keep your spirits up."
  
  "I'll try," she whispered.
  
  They stuck us in the cell I'd occupied before. As I figured they would, they tied our hands and feet, and left us in the stinking darkness.
  
  Hans began to mutter.
  
  I cut him off. "Like the other man said, shut up, old boy."
  
  He halted in mid-cry.
  
  "Now answer me a question, can you fly the DC-3 with me as your co-pilot?"
  
  "The Dakota? Sure, but…"
  
  "Good. We have things to do." I told him about the knife and we maneuvered around until we got back to back. As a mechanic his fingers were agile and sure. He had the blade out of my pocket on the first try and the palm fibre cords on my wrists sawed through in a couple of minutes. We had to work fast for more reasons than one. If someone suddenly realized that el-Feddan's knife was missing, we'd have quick company.
  
  "I suppose you've got a key for the lock, too." Hans hissed.
  
  "No, you have. I want you to start screaming — shreet, shreet."
  
  "Snake?"
  
  "That's my boy. Whatever verdict Osman reaches he wants us in good shape when he makes it. If we're dead from snake bites our warders will be dead, too. At least two of them will come running. I want you to sit in the corner with your back against the wall, hands behind you, rope around your ankles. You start yelling and you don't stop until they come. After that, don't move and don't do anything else until I tell you. Got it?"
  
  "Yeah, sure, pal, whatever you say."
  
  "Start singing."
  
  Hans sounded, and the way he went on I began to wonder if we weren't in a din of snakes. Over his trumpeting I heard the approaching cavalry.
  
  The key was in the lock, the bolt was pulled, the door was flung open. Number one charged in AK-47 at the ready, light behind him flooding the cell. El-Feddan's knife did kill that day. Its victim hadn't hit the floor before I had hands on the light holder behind him. I ran him head first against the wall, spun him around and broke his neck with a karate chop.
  
  "Get their djellabas off and put one of them on, the kefiya, too," I ordered, taking a quick look down the corridor.
  
  There was no one in sight, and I was off and running. I had Pierre in one hand, an AK in the other. I wasn't anxious to use it for obvious reasons. This was Pierre's show. One whiff of his perfume and that was the last whiff.
  
  As I reached the guard room, one of the jailors was starting to come out to investigate. He had time to open his mouth. The barrel of the Kalashnikov drove him backward and cut off any vocal response. Pierre landed on the table, valve open, where the other three sat. I pulled the door shut. There was a faint scrabbling on the other side. That was all.
  
  I counted to ten, let the air out of my lungs, and then took in a chestful. I entered and closed the metal door after me. Pierre was now on the floor, looking like a walnut. His victims were larger. The second one I searched had the keys.
  
  There were a lot of things about Erica that appealed to me. One was that she could take it and keep her balance. By the time I'd gotten her out of her cell and down to ours, I'd given her the plan and she was ready to move.
  
  "I knew you'd come," was all she said. Then she watched the corridor while I put on djellaba and kefiya, and we were ready to move out.
  
  The plan was simple. I didn't know where Osman was, but Hans and I were going to march Erica out of the place as though we did. We went down the corridor and up the stairs, a proper military escort. I had shown Hans how to shoulder slink the AK, safety off, firing on automatic. As a rifle the Kalashnikov is actually a machine gun.
  
  When we reached the entrance area I noticed it was much darker than earlier. When I eased open the door, I saw why. The blue sky had turned black. We were in for an afternoon cloud burst. Allah was indeed being merciful. I saw a half dozen of the troops heading for shelter in the building's left wing.
  
  "We go down the steps and right through the gate," I said. "If the Citroen is gone, we'll try for one of the jeeps.
  
  If there's no transportation, we'll swim off the mountain."
  
  A tremendous crack of thunder made Erica jump.
  
  "Sorry we didn't bring an umbrella," I smiled at her. "Let's go before we get damaged by hail stones."
  
  The wind belted us as we came out the door. There was no time to admire the view, but I saw that the storm was coming up the valley toward us. The sky was pale yellow below and ink above* split with jagged streaks of lightning.
  
  As we went through the gate, more troops came scuttling in. They gave us curious glances, but they were in too much of a hurry to escape the approaching deluge to do more than that.
  
  The Citroen was gone, so were the jeeps, which meant that Osman and Co. had moved elsewhere. That was the good news.
  
  Hans phrased the bad. "How the hell are we going to get out of here?"
  
  "That truck." I pointed to a big rig coming down the mountain road. By the time I was in hailing distance I saw that the driver was planning to pull in and sit out the storm. Wise man. His truck was an open bed affair. Battered and bruised, it was no match for the overload of boulders it was hauling.
  
  I waved him to a stop as the thunder sounded. He grinned nervously down at me as we went through the ritual. "Friend," I said, "you will take us to Budan."
  
  "Of a certainty, Captain, when the storm has passed."
  
  "No, now. It is very urgent." I signaled Erica to go around the cab and climb in. "It is orders."
  
  "But you have jeeps, there beyond the wall!" he gestured.
  
  "There is a lack of petrol." From the vantage point of the road I saw that we had missed the jeeps because they had been brought inside and parked at the end of the building. They meant possible pursuit.
  
  "But… but the storm!" the driver protested. "And there is no room!" he waved his arms.
  
  "Are you with Shiek Hassan Abu Osman?" I elevated the barrel of the AK my smile gone.
  
  "Yes, yes! Always!"
  
  The thunder sounded and the wind began to put out. I felt the first heavy drops. "Hans, get in with Erica. When we're off the mountain, have him turn in at the first cross road."
  
  "Where are you going to be?"
  
  "I'll be taking a much needed bath in the rock pile. Now, move!"
  
  By the time I'd climbed over the tailgate the rain was starting to bucket. I settled myself in amongst the rock load as the truck ground into gear and moved out on to the road. I knew in minutes the visibility would be down to fifty feet or less. I wasn't anxious to be beaten to death by ice water, but against the chance of a rear guard action I was willing to accept the punishment.
  
  Our escape had taken no more than five minutes. It had gone off smoothly thanks to the weather and this truck. However, I didn't think we were going to get away that easily, and I was right.
  
  The truck had just navigated the first wide turn away from the plateau when over the bombardment of the thunder and the thunder of the deluge, I caught the wail of a siren.
  
  The rain had become a blinding torrent streaked with blinding flashes of lightning. Those in the pursuing French jeep had the advantage of being under cover. I had the advantage of surprise.
  
  Our driver was in low gear inching down the grade and the Panhard jeep came up fast. I waited until it was about to swing out to ahead us off before I triggered two bursts at its front tires. I hit pay dirt.
  
  I caught a vague blur of the driver frantically trying to correct the gyrating skid of the vehicle. Then it shot off the road, up-ending in the rain gorged ditch. In the lightning's glare I saw two more like it moving down on us. The one in the lead mounted a fifty-caliber machine gun.
  
  The machine gun opened up at the same moment I did. The tailgate clanged and the rocks around me sang with richochets. My aim was more direct. The machine gun stopped, but through the curtain of rain I saw a second man rising to take the gun. I went for the driver and the Kalashnikov clicked empty. I had no spare ammo.
  
  The second gunner went for the tires which gave me a chance to get the boulder over the tailgate. It was a big brute, and if it hadn't been positioned as it was so I could leverage it off with the rifle, I could never have lifted it.
  
  The jeep was too close, and the gunner was throwing lead all over the landscape, as the driver tried to swerve from what he must have seen coming. His aim was no better than the man on the gun. He hit the boulder head on and the Panhard literally split in half, flinging out its riders like rag dolls.
  
  We weren't in such good shape either. With all his shooting the gunner had to have bit something, and just as I saw him hurtling in mid-flight, I felt the bed of the truck starting to swing out. The driver felt it, too, and fought the skid. I knew if I went over with the load there wouldn't be any need to bury me. I was off balance, but I jumped for the rim of the tailgate. I got one hand on it as the bed of the truck jacknifed and started down the road sideways. Slow as we had been going, the weight of the load supplied momentum to the skid. There could be only one result.
  
  I had one leg over the side when she began to flip. The tilt gave me the leverage I needed to fling myself clear. I went off in a backward vault and landed in the muck of the soft shoulder. Even as I hit I saw the truck wagon go over. The sound it made was on a par with the thunder. The load, turned loose on the down slope, went crashing away in an avalanche. The cab of the truck was all that mattered. It had been torn free of the load. Either Allah or the driver had kept it from spinning out of control. It had come to a stop on the opposite side of the road in the drainage ditch, water from the torrent over its front wheels.
  
  I came up out of the muck, running toward it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the third jeep maneuvering slowly through the wreckage of its twin. I got to the cap and wrenched the door open. The three of them looked at me blankly. There was no time for conversation. I grabbed the AK in Hans' lap.
  
  "Hey!" was all he managed, and I realized as I spun away, looking for quick cover, he hadn't recognized me.
  
  Fifty-foot visibility? It was no more than twenty. The rain was my ally. The final Panhard nosed through it cautiously. Those in it had seen the destruction of the second jeep and the wreck of the truck — at least to the degree that they could see anything in detail. They did not see me flat in a puddle by the ditch. They moved past at a crawl. I came up in a crouch and followed in the jeep's tracks on the blind side. It stopped short of the cab.
  
  There were only two of them. They got out, AKs at the ready. I waited until they were between the cab and the jeep before I shouted at them.
  
  "Drop your weapons! Move and you're dead!" A flash of lightning lit us up in a drenched still life. I waited until the thunder died to tell them more. "Drop your guns in front of you!"
  
  The one on the left moved to do so quickly, hoping to spin around and nail me. I nailed him instead and he ended up on top of his weapon. The man on his right did as he was told.
  
  "Go across the road and keep on walking until you reach the valley." I ordered.
  
  He didn't want to do that. "But I will be swept away in the water!"
  
  'Take your choice. Now!"
  
  He started walking. I knew he wouldn't go far, but he'd go far enough. I watched him until he disappeared in the rain. Then I went back to the cab.
  
  The water in the ditch was climbing, and its force had swung the nose around. I hauled the door open and said, "Come on, get out of there before you go over Niagra Falls."
  
  "My truck! What about my truck!" the driver wailed.
  
  "Tell your benefactor, Hassan Abu Osman, to buy you a new one. Let's go, you two," I said in English, "we don't want to miss our flight."
  
  By the time we were off the mountain the worst of the storm had passed. The Panhard gave us official cover so long as we weren't stopped at a check point. We were in luck, because the cloudburst had driven everyone inside. I had been worried about the road being flooded out, but it had been built with just that thought in mind. The drainage wadis on either side were river-wide and rampaging.
  
  Both Erica and her father had gone silent on me. Delayed shock, with one shock on top of the other. If you're not trained for it, it can turn you into a pumpkin.
  
  "It's been a busy day," I said. "You've done great — only one more river to cross."
  
  "How are we gonna get that plane out of here?" In his gallabyya Hans looked like something out of Beau Ceste, and I had all the appeal of a pile of wet laundry.
  
  "We shouldn't have too much trouble," I said, not wanting them tensed up again. "The pilots will have been taken prisoner. (I didn't add, and probably shot) This car is an official car." I patted the wheel. "It won't look suspicious when I drive it on to the field and park beside the plane. You get up in the cockpit and start things moving. Erica, you get on board and relax. I'll pull the pins and take care of everything else."
  
  "Did you get what you came here for?" She said it very quietly, looking straight ahead.
  
  The direct answer was, no. The whole thing had been a paper chase. Only one tangible fact had come out of it. Doosa. As a double or a triple agent, his interest in Hans Gueyer's possible knowledge of the crash was overly pointed. Bring him in for questioning, yes. Have him shot, yes. But to push it the way he had indicated was something else.
  
  "Hans," I said, "what about you, did you get what you came for?"
  
  He sat up straight, coming back to life. "Jeesus, yeah! I forgot! I was right, I found it! I…"
  
  "Okay, okay," I laughed. "Tell me about it after we get out of this garden spot."
  
  "But I was right all the time! I knew damned well that's how they did it!"
  
  "Good. That's the airport ahead. Now, pay attention. Unless I tell you otherwise, even if we get stopped, the plan goes. Get on board and get those fans turning. Think you can do it?"
  
  "Yeah, yeah, sure."
  
  "One other question, could Osman put anything up to shoot us down?"
  
  "Nah, there ain't no fighters here. Best they've got is a twin Beach."
  
  "If things get rough, don't start shooting until I do."
  
  I cranked down the window. The rain was tapering off, but it was still something more strenuous than an afternoon shower. "Which of you was born under the sign of Pices?" I said. "I think he's on our side."
  
  "I was," Erica said. "What are you?"
  
  "Scorpio."
  
  "Not the age of Aquarius." She was smiling faintly.
  
  "Your smile is the best sign of all… Okay, here we go."
  
  We came around the circle, the tires throwing water, hissing on the pavement. There was no one outside the terminal. I drove up on the walk leading to the gate. There was a link chain across it. Its snapping was drowned in a thunder clap.
  
  The airport tower topped the terminal. Its rotating beacon was in action. There would probably be a pair of operators on duty. I swung on to the flight line and drove slowly past the front of the building, hugging its overhanging to avoid being spotted from above.
  
  The terminal's plate glass windows were rain glazed but I could see movement behind them. "The place is full of soldiers!" Hans gasped.
  
  "No problem, they're keeping out of the wet. Remember, we look like we're on their side."
  
  I came to the end of the building and made the turn. With the rain, the plane was not under guard, which was another break for us. It stood alone, waiting.
  
  "Hans, if any shooting starts, you fire up those engines and get out of here. Otherwise, wait until I join you in the cockpit."
  
  "Give me the gun on the floor," Erica said, "I can help you."
  
  "You can help me in the cockpit," Hans said.
  
  "The cabin door is shut, does that mean it's locked?"
  
  "No, there's no outside lock on that one." Hans sighed.
  
  I swung away from the side of the building and pulled up parallel to the fuselage but far enough away for the tail to clear the jeep.
  
  "Okay, friends," I smiled at them. "Let's go back to Lamana. Hans, get the door open and go right in. Don't hurry, act natural. I'll tell you when, Erica." I let the engine idle.
  
  For a moment as I watched Hans I thought he had been wrong about the cabin door being unlocked. He couldn't get it open. Erica sucked in her breath. Then with a twist and a tug, he hauled it free. Once inside he turned in the door and gave a thumbs up signal.
  
  "All right, Erica, go like it was an afternoon stroll in the rain."
  
  After she was on board I waited, watching for reaction from the terminal. If it turned into a shoot out, I would use the jeep in an attempt to draw off the pursuit. The sky was clearing over the mountains to the north and west, and the rain was shutting down to a drizzle. The boys would be coming out for air soon.
  
  On every aircraft there are exterior locks for the control surfaces so that in a wind such as we had just had the alerions and elevators and tail aren't torn loose and the plane flipped over. They are called pins, three on the tail section and one for each wing. I had just released the first on the tail when the company arrived.
  
  There were three of them and they had their AKs at the ready.
  
  "Brothers," I called with a wave, "can you help?"
  
  "We cannot fly," one of them answered, and the. others laughed.
  
  "No, but you can aid others who have to. The colonel is in a great hurry."
  
  By the time they ambled over I had the pins off of the tail section. "The wing there," I held up the lock, "just slide it off."
  
  As they clustered to do so, I moved to the other wing and set the alerion free. When I came around the tail they had the lock in hand. "May Allah bring you praise," I said, taking it.
  
  "You would have needed more than Allah's praise had you been flying in that storm," the largest of them said, eyeing my wet down condition.
  
  "I was flying in it but without wings." I twisted some water from my sleeve and we all laughed as I turned from them and headed for the jeep. I dumped the load in the back. I had had one of the AKs' shoulder slings. I did the same with its twin and hand carried the third. My last move at the jeep was to cut the switch and pocket the key.
  
  The trio was still by the wing, watching my approach, curious but not quite suspicious.
  
  "Brothers," I said, "would one of you ask the mechanic in the hangar to come with the fire bottle so we do not fly before we are ready?"
  
  They weren't sure of themselves about planes or fire bottles and as one of them started to move away they all decided to go.
  
  "Ten thousand thanks!" I called, climbing aboard.
  
  Hans had gotten rid of Arab togs and was hunched in the pilot's seat, going through a last minute cockpit check. Erica was in the co-pilot's seat, her arm raised to activate the energizing switch.
  
  "All set?"
  
  "When you are." He nodded.
  
  "Are you tuned to the tower frequency?"
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "Give me the mic and let's get out of here."
  
  He handed it back to be. "Energize," he said to Erica, and the rising whine of the energizer filled the cockpit.
  
  He had the right prop spinning and the left beginning to rotate before the tower came to life. "NAA-four — one — five! Report who's on board at once!"
  
  "Budan tower, this is Colonel Doosa's flight." That stopped him for a second and by the time he came back Hans was taxiing.
  
  "Four-one-five, we have no clearance for Colonel Doosa's flight. Who are you? What is your flight plan?"
  
  "Budan tower, say again, I'm not reading you."
  
  "Four-one-five!" his voice had gone up the register, "return to the flight line and report to airport command!" I had counted on Osman not having any control tower operators in his menagerie. The man on the horn had either switched sides voluntarily or to save his neck. In any case, he wasn't at his best. "Come back! Come back!" he began shouting.
  
  We were on the taxi strip, paralleling the runway, heading down wind. "Hans," I said, hearing a siren starting to wail over the engines, "if you can get this bird up going in the wrong direction, I wouldn't worry about flight rules."
  
  He acted, moving the throttles to the stop, leaning forward as though his motion would get us off the ground. The voice in the tower was shouting, "We will fire on you! We will fire on you!"
  
  I was beginning to wonder whether there was going to be any need. The throttles had nowhere else to go. The props were in low pitch, the mixture was emergency rich and the engines were howling full out. But we weren't flying. The palm trees at the end of the field were growing to an incredible height. Erica was bent over, her hand on the gear lever. She was looking at her father who seemed to be frozen in place. I was standing behind them, tuning down the frantic voice of the tower operator, unable to hear gunfire through the roar of the Pratt-Whitneys.
  
  "Gear up!" Hans snapped. I was sure we weren't off the ground, but Erica didn't argue, and as she went through the motions, Hans brought the yoke back and we went clawing up into the tree tops. Over the engines' blast, I heard them scrape along the plane's belly.
  
  Airborne, he eased the yoke forward, adjusting throttle, props, and mixture. Then he sighed. "Man, don't ever ask me to try that again!"
  
  To the microphone I said, "Budan Tower, this is NAA, four-one-five. Over and out."
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  At ten thousand feet we were locked in a curtain of haze. I shoved the co-pilot's seat back and brought out cigarettes. "Here, chum," I said, "you've earned your pay."
  
  Busy adjusting the auto-pilot, he gave me a crooked smile and said, "It's been some kind of day.
  
  "Erica's coffee should help. Is there any place to land besides Lamana?"
  
  "I've been thinking about it." He took a cigarette, and I held the lighter. "There's an old strip east of the city. They used to use it for practice. Maybe I can put us down there, but then what?"
  
  "When we get closer I'll arrange transportation."
  
  He cocked his head at me, squinting. "I wouldn't have believed that once. What are you lookin' for, anyway?"
  
  "You've been wanting to tell me about Mendanike's crash. Now's a good time. How did it happen?"
  
  That caught him. "Okay, now I'm gonna give it to you, slow… in the nose wheel section of the DC-6B there are six CO-two cylinders, three on each side, eleven point six gallons of the stuff in each. You got it? Well, if you have a fire in either the engines or the cargo or baggage compartments, you trigger those babies from the cockpit, and all six of them go to work and put out the fire. Now, the system operates automatically. Aluminum hose lines running from the cylinders carry the CO-two under pressure to whatever point the pilot directs. You know about CO-two?"
  
  "It's odorless. It's not good to breathe. It can't be traced in the blood stream."
  
  "Right. Breathe enough of it, it'll kill you deader'n hell. Now if someone was to fix things so that all that CO-two came up in the cockpit, and the crew didn't know it, the crew would go to sleep pretty fast. You with me?"
  
  "I'm holding my breath."
  
  "Okay, now that takes some doin', 'cause, like I said, the system is automatic, and if somebody made a mistake and fired some of that CO-two the cockpit would be shut off from the fumes. All right, in the nose wheel section there's a twenty-eight-volt micro-switch. It supplies current to an indicator light in the cockpit that shows when the gear is up. Now if I was to run a wire from that switch to the electric solenoid on the number one cylinder on each bank, when the switch was triggered it would release the CO-two in both, which would automatically fire the other four cylinders. That's how the system works, number one goes, they all go. Still follow me?"
  
  "How do you trigger it?"
  
  "Ahh, that's the beauty of it. The wire from the solenoids is rigged to a penny-ante switch with twin terminals and a trigger. Any mechanic can make one. You attach it to the rubber nose wheel cushion so that when the gear is lifted and the nose wheel retracts into the housing it brushes against the switch and cocks it."
  
  "And when the gear is lowered, it fires."
  
  "You got it! You got it! But there's more to it than that. When that switch is installed, all connections from the cockpit to the extinguisher system, except the one to the forward cargo compartment, have to be disconnected."
  
  "Is that a big job?"
  
  "Nah. Ten minutes with a pair of pliers and you've got it made. One man in the nose wheel can do the whole job in less than twenty minutes."
  
  "And when he's done, what have you got?"
  
  "You've got a fool proof way to finish off everybody on the flight deck during the landing approach. Plane takes off, gear comes up, nose wheel cocks the trigger. Plane gets ready to land, and it doesn't matter where, gear comes down, and as the nose wheel lowers, it fires the trigger.
  
  The electric charge releases the CO-two in the number one cylinders, and the others fire automatically. That puts nearly eight gallons of CO-two in the forward cargo compartment. It's located under the flight deck. It rises through the air vents which have been shorted out so they won't automatically close. Like you said, you can't smell the stuff. In three minutes from the time the gear goes down, the crew is finished."
  
  "Sounds like you've tried it out."
  
  He grinned, nodding. "That's right we tried it. Only that was after the crash. We were trying to prove how another crash had happened, but nobody would listen to us, and we couldn't get our hands on the wreckage. They buried it and had it under guard. If I could have gotten my hands on…"
  
  "Is the fire extinguisher system in the DC-6 special to it?"
  
  "There are others pretty much like it, but both planes were DC-6Bs, and when I heard the details right away I figured it might be a repeat. That flight was secret, too, I just like Mendanike's. Weather was clear, everything normal, and the plane makes a standard approach and flies right into the ground. There were three teams of investigators and the best they could come up with was that maybe the crew had gone to sleep. We knew the crew, and we knew they weren't the type to do that, so a couple of us began our own investigation and that's what we came up with."
  
  "Did you find any proof that that was how Mendanike crashed?"
  
  "Hell, yes! I had the damned proof! Doosa and those bastards took it from me. In the system there are four directional valves. In each there is a check valve, see? It holds things back until you're ready to let the CO-two flow. Take away the check valve and the whole smear will go through the line. I located the directional valve for the forward compartment. The check valve was gone from it, but not from the other three. Those peckers…" He threw up his hands.
  
  I sat back, looking out at the reddish haze. It was certainly an ingenuous method of sabotage. "When Doosa was questioning you, you admitted you knew how the job had been done?"
  
  "Yeah, sure. What else could I do? Erica was…"
  
  "But that didn't satisfy him."
  
  "No. He wanted to know who did it. How the hell should I know that?"
  
  "Did he ask you that again today when he had you picked up?"
  
  "Nope. I didn't see him until his goons brought me up on the mountain."
  
  "This first crash, the one you investigated earlier, did that happen here?"
  
  "Nah." He was wearing his grin again. "That was bigger news than this. That was when I was in the Congo before it became Zaire. I was in Leopoldville, working for Tansair. Albertina was the name of that plane, and a guy named Dag Hammerskjold was her number one passenger. Of course, that must've been before your time."
  
  I didn't react. I let him go on rambling. It was my fault for not having extracted the information from him sooner. I reached up and began to tune the frequency dial. "Did you tell Doosa about the Hammerskjold crash?"
  
  "No… No, I don't think so."
  
  I shut my eyes and drew on memory: Katanga, the break-away province in the Congo. Moshe Tshombe, its leader, fighting against U.N. troops. Hell to pay. British sore. Soviets sore about the bumping off of their boy Lumumba. Khrushchev had come to the U.N. earlier and had warned Hammarskjold that he'd better resign. Hammerskjold had gone to the Congo to put out the fire. Flies off to a secret meeting with Tshombe at Ndola. Not unlike Mendanike flying to see Osman. Plane crashes in landing. Verdict — no verdict. Cause of accident never found. Pilot error was the best they could come up with… Until Hans Gueyer came along. Question: What has ancient history got to do with a stolen nuke? Answer: Nothing — yet.
  
  "Are we close enough to contact friends in Lamana?" I said adjusting the earphones.
  
  "Give it a try. But what do you think of my story?"
  
  "You can sell it for a million bucks, but I'd wait until I was back in Hoboken. Now give me an ETA, and I think you and Erica had better plan to spend some time at the embassy until we can move you to a healthier climate."
  
  "Yeah, I guess it is time to move on, but hell, that bastard Doosa's on the other side."
  
  "Don't count on it. Does this strip we're going to land on have a name?"
  
  "Used to be known as Kilo Forty because it's forty kilometers from Rufa."
  
  "Okay, the ETA."
  
  "Say 1830. Who are you going to call, the Pope?"
  
  "No, his boss." I raised the mic. "Charlie, Charlie, this is Piper, this is Piper. Over." I repeated the call three times before a static response came back.
  
  Pig Latin is an out-of-date kid's language in which you put the last part of a word in front of it and then add ay, like, illkay the umbay — kill the bum. It works fine in places where its use is unknown. You're speaking in the clear — and your message is brief. I was sure Charlie at the embassy would be able to translate.
  
  I gave it to him twice, and got the answer I wanted.
  
  "Ilokay ortyfay — eeneightay irtythay," I said — kilo forty, eighteen thirty."
  
  The answer was: "Eadingray ouya oudlay and earclay — reading you loud and clear."
  
  "Ain't you the fancy one," Hans chortled. "I haven't used that ufstay since I was in ickersnay."
  
  "Let's hope no one else has either."
  
  What I wanted to send instead of a where and when signal was a call for AXE to relay its file on the Hammerskjold crash of September 1961. A long gone case, but I had seen the file on it once, and I knew it was listed under a special green card which meant — Probable Assassination. But even in pig latin I couldn't risk the request. Doosa had wanted to know if Hans knew who had sabotaged Mendanike's plane. If there was a connection between that crash and one almost fifteen years ago, my putting out the name Hammerskjold on an open radio frequency in any form couldn't be chanced. There was nothing third world or unsophisticated in the technique used to destroy both planes. It was the first indication that there might be someone in the NAPR with technical expertise — the kind that went with stealing a Cockeye and an RPV.
  
  "Hans, in the Hammerskjold crash, did you have any idea who was behind it?"
  
  "Nope. There were a lot of characters who wanted to get rid of old Dag. The plane was left unguarded for a long time before it took off. Any mechanic — "
  
  "Any mechanic could do it, but someone had to figure it out first. Have you ever seen anyone in Lamana you recognize from the Congo days?"
  
  "If there is, I haven't seen 'em. 'Course, that was a long time back. Hey, where are you goin'?"
  
  "To put on some more coffee, and to check on Erica."
  
  "God, could I use a drink! But I'll settle for the coffee."
  
  Erica was on the settee, curled up in a blanket. I started to move away from where she lay when her arm snaked out around my leg. She opened her eyes and grinned. "I wanted you to come."
  
  "You should have rung the call button."
  
  She threw off the blanket. In bra and bikini briefs, she would have cured anyone's sore eyes — just as a starter. "I want you to do me a favor…"
  
  I stood looking down at her. The smile was gone, her voice was in her throat. "I don't think we have much time," she said, her hand moving up my leg.
  
  I did us both a favor. There wasn't, after all, much time. I slipped out of my own clothes, as she slid out of the little that she was wearing. Gently, I lay over her on the settee and in a moment our bodies became one as we moved together, first slowly, then more urgently until we were both shuddering in union, cresting together…
  
  After I had tucked her in again she opened one languid eye and put her hand on the back of my neck. "Do you suppose I'll ever know who you are?"
  
  "When we have a chance I'll tell you." I said. "Want some coffee?"
  
  "That'll be nice." She grinned, smacked her lips, and closed her eyes.
  
  I made the coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  As we approached Kilo Forty, Hans lost altitude and changed course. We came in hedge-hoping the dune tops, not only to avoid Rufa's radar control, but also to obscure possible visual sighting.
  
  Hans was as good a homing pigeon as he was a mechanic because suddenly we were flying over a ribbon of sand-drifted concrete. I spotted the strip after I saw the Land Rover parked beside it. There was an American flag whipping from its engine mount There were two people beside it, watching us.
  
  I had been monitoring Rufa Air Traffic Control, and as Hans made a fly by to look over the condition of the runway, I picked up a familiar voice. It was Doosa, barely within voice range. He identified himself and the call letters of the twin Beach. He alerted Rufa to be on the lookout for us, and to shoot us down if we did not obey orders to land. If taken alive we were to be held for his arrival.
  
  "This may a bit rough," Hans said. "Maybe you better go back and sit with Erica just in case those cracks are bigger than they look from up here."
  
  "Just put her down, chum I'll handle the gear and flaps on your command." He had enough to think about without my telling him we could have company.
  
  He brought the old bird down in a wheel landing with plenty of power so he could get off again fast if he found the strip was too broken up or drifted over.
  
  As we came to a bumpy stop half way down the eroded runway, I said, "Hans, you're a real pro. Now cut those switches and let's get out of here."
  
  Erica was already at the cabin door, swinging the latch as I came down the aisle. "Don't leave anything that belongs to you, honey," I said.
  
  "I didn't bring that much." She smiled at me. "What now?"
  
  "Now we ride, instead of fly."
  
  "Anywhere with you," she said and we swung open the door.
  
  Sutton was standing below, looking up at us, Corporal Simms behind him.
  
  "Glad you could make it," I said, hopping down. I held my hand for Erica.
  
  "We better move," he said, his eyes taking her in.
  
  As we piled into the Land Rover the light was going fast, which was one good thing to be said about eventide in the desert.
  
  "I don't think you were spotted." Sutton swung around to face us so he could re-examine Erica.
  
  "This is Miss Gueyer and Mr. Gueyer," I made the introductions. "They'll need to be quartered at the embassy for the time being. They may want a quick flight out of here. I'll explain later. What's the situation in Lamana?"
  
  "About as we expected, a lot of hell raised at the funeral, a mob outside the embassy. Things are quieter now. I suppose you know Osman took Budan. Tasahmed is making plans to retake it He seems in firm control here."
  
  "Anything going on outside?"
  
  He pulled his eyes away from Erica. "Not anything that is generally known," he said heavily. It was obvious his own headquarters had filled him in, probably because of the stink he had raised about my being on the scene. But whatever he knew and whatever he thought only one point interested me. Whoever had stolen the Cockeye and the RPV hadn't made a public announcement of the fact as yet.
  
  We had been bumping along over what had once been an access road. In the fading light the Corporal hauled the Rover up over a Up of hardpan on to a better road. "Corporal, can you pick up Rufa on that thing?" I asked.
  
  "Yes, sir. We were monitoring it," he said, his hand moving to the tuning dials on the pedestal receiver. A voice blared in, speaking in French and then repeating in Arabic, alerting a fighter element to be on the lookout for us south of Lamana.
  
  "Looks like you arrived just in time," Sutton's attempt at dryness was slightly damp.
  
  At the embassy it was Paula who escorted Erica and her father away to somewhere that had hot water and food. She also informed me that I had received a special invitation to interview Madam Mendanike at the Presidential Palace at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. It appeared that Shema was looking for a return romp.
  
  Then I was alone with Sutton. "You could have told me," he said, his tone indicating things would have been different had I done so." Of course, I think the Cockeye being anywhere in a radius of a thousand miles of here is pure nonsense."
  
  "Then what would have been the point of telling you?"
  
  "There's absolutely no connection between Ambassador Petersen's death and the theft," he said. "We've got the truck, and the police found the driver. He's confessed everything. It was a damned fool accident."
  
  "Life is full of them, isn't it. Thanks for picking us up." I turned away and went up the stairs, heading for the communications room.
  
  Charlie Neal left me alone in a soundproof cubicle with a scrambler while he went to make the proper connection. The scrambler is a great invention. It works electronically, chewing up your words into unintelligibles and then spitting them out on the other end good as new. The scrambler has one defect. If monitored by a third party the words can be unscrambled in route by an even more ingenuous electronic device. In such manner a great many state secrets have become known to a great many. The counter to that is to have a constantly changing code within the scrambler. That makes monitored translation impossible. At least so far.
  
  AXE had such a code and by giving Charlie Neal a special dial sequence I knew Hawk and I would be talking privately, though at length, because of the long pauses necessary for the scrambling to take place.
  
  I didn't waste time on salutations. "The Hammarskjold crash." I said. "Conclusions with regard to motivation and individual involvement."
  
  Even strained through a scrambler, Hawk's voice had that driving quality. "Request being checked. Meanwhile, no positive indication from any sources as to location of missing equipment. German press reporting rumors of disappearance. Bundeswehr and SHAPE have denied. Kremlin is threatening to go public with announcement at 1200 hours GMT tomorrow if missing problem not solved."
  
  He stopped speaking; and I sat there with nothing to say, waiting for him to come up with the answers to my questions. Nuclear theft — its growing possibility — has been written about at length. It has also been written that we in the West have become so conditioned to terrorist actions that threat of nuclear blackmail would simply be looked on as the next step in the rising scale of violence. I didn't buy it.
  
  The Kremlin making the announcement would be a deadly psycho-political blow for NATO and the U.S. It would mean global uproar. And the only thing that would top it was the question of who had the Cockeye, and where was it aimed. Out of it could come a nuclear confrontation that would make all the rest seem minor.
  
  Hawk's voice terminated my scrambler-produced thoughts. "AXE conclusion on Hammarskjold crash was possible sabotage by the use of undetectable gas. No mechanical proof located. Suspicions focused on Dr. Cornelius Mertens, Belgian national. Mertens, a long time KGB operative specializing in technical areas, doubled as a United Nations security officer. Mertens not given to discipline. He may have been acting on his own in the Congo. He was reported killed in Egypt during the '67 War."
  
  As Hawk had relayed the report, my hopes had opened an eye. It was closed again. I sat there with my own eyes shut." How accurate is the report on his death?"
  
  I waited. "Known to have been at Mukhabarat headquarters in Port Said. The building was leveled, no reported survivors. Mertens has not been observed since."
  
  It looked like a dead end. I had one last duce. "Was Dr. Otto van der Meer in Egypt during the '67 War?"
  
  That was the longest wait. When Hawk spoke again, even over the scrambler the sand paper was a lighter grade. "Affirmative on van der Meer. He was there in June. He was reported to have been taken ill. After the war no one saw him until he turned up in September in Algiers."
  
  "I'll keep in touch," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  While I showered and shaved in Sutton's quarters, a native-born embassy driver recovered my Fiat intact. He had been supplied with all the right answers if questioned, but there was no one around to ask them.
  
  Sutton was anxious to be clued in and to polish the apple for past sins. All I wanted from him was a map of the city. While I studied it the phone rang. It was Paula. Dinner was ready if we were. I hated to forego the pleasure. I told Sutton to make my apologies. Then I got out of the place. I was tired of having people in my way, official or otherwise. When I have a job to do, I prefer to do it solo.
  
  Van der Meer's villa was on Rue Flagey, several blocks from the central square. Once again I parked in front of police headquarters. I wanted to check out Lamana's atmosphere the day after the big funeral. Quiet was the word for it. The troops were gone. The police guards lazed in the archway, smoking cigarettes and chatting. They gave me no more than a glance. It looked like Tasahmed's only worry was Shema's wrath, and in Budan, Osman's occupation. The first he would enjoy taming, and the other he could recapture when he was ready.
  
  I crossed the park in the dimly lit darkness, knowing that if this fling led to nothing more than soybeans and cotton, I'd have to signal failure to Hawk and get out. That Mertens could be doubling for van der Meer was perfectly feasible. Disguise and skin dyes would be no problem for a professional. Agriculture expertise could also be acquired. Since Africa and the U.N. had been their joint areas of operation, Mertens might well have cultivated van der Meer, and if van der Meer had died by either accident or direction during the Six-Day War, taking over his identity would have been a real coup on Mertens part. Nobody could ask for better cover.
  
  Rue Flagey was in darkness, and there was no light on van der Meer's front gate. I had to go over the wall again. But first, to protect my hands from broken glass, I used my coat in a sweeping action. I made quite a haul. After I shook it out I checked Wilhelmina and Hugo, happy that Pierre's twin was in residence. Then I lept from a crouch.
  
  The other side of the wall was just as dark. There were no lights on in the villa. It was too early for bedtime. The Doctor was not at home. Neither was anyone else. The place was shut up and shuttered like an Egyptian tomb, the windows above as sealed as those below. The silencer, tucked in an inside arm pocket, fitted Wilhelmina snugly. One shot on the rear entrance lock, and I was inside.
  
  The air was as heavy as the darkness. No one had been home for a while. The thin ray of my flash picked up furnishings, rugs, tapestries, artifacts. There was a big central room, dotted with ottomans. Adjoining it was a dining room, then a hall and off of it, the Doctor's den. That's where I hit pay dirt.
  
  The walls were lined with books, but it was the massive table in the center of the room that held me. The beam of my flash played over the papier-mâché miniatures. It was not a model of an experimental agriculture station, but a made to scale display of the ruins of Portarius.
  
  In the briefing papers Hawk had given me to study there had been mention of the ruins. Mendanike had closed them to the public four years ago, following an accident during a light and sound performance in which a column had fallen and killed a couple in the audience. At the time I had read the item the thought had brushed by that the incident hardly seemed important enough to shut up the ruins and thereby cut off one of Lamana's few tourist attractions. Now I could fault myself for not having fastened on the obscure point. Obscure like a Roman chariot race on a hot Saturday afternoon.
  
  I took the risk and turned on a lamp. In its glow Portarius was spread out in all its time worn glory. It had been a substantial city colony established after the fall of Carthage. At its peak, the city had been home to thirty thousand Romans after their slaves. Now its model lay before me, a display of broken walls and columns and narrow streets — a place full of very ancient ghosts and perhaps one very modern nuclear weapon and its launch vehicle. What a noble spot to hide it, mount it, and let it go! It could be easily camouflaged to look just like another column or arch. Satellite cameras would fail to detect it.
  
  There was nothing else in the room amongst the books, or on the ornate desk that indicated archeology was Dr. van der Meer — nee Mertens hobby. On the wall there was a good map, showing that Portarius lay 30 killometers — about 18 miles up the coast east of Lamana, and that another 60 killometers south of Portarius lay Pakar. After so much of nothing fitting, it fit perfectly: the Doctor's select crew of commandoes coming to Lamana two and three at a time, being tunneled to Pakar and then to Portarius. A warning bell clanged against my chain of thought.
  
  I turned off the lamp and stood in the dark listening to the scampering sounds — four-footed, not two. But there had been no scampering since I had reached the den. I had closed the den door on entering. I stood to one side of it, Wilhelmina in hand. No fight could have shown through the room's two shuttered windows. Before I had come in the back I had spotted no wiring to indicate an alarm. Still, with a professional like Mertens I could have tripped something capable of alerting the Warsaw Pact.
  
  I was not in the mood to stand around breathing dust and super-heated air, waiting to find out. I moved to the nearest window. The shutter was a metal pull down with louvres. It was anchored to rings at either side with a simple catch. I pocketed the luger and unfastened them. I let the shutter rise, holding against its spring release to keep it from winding with a clatter. With my back to the door I didn't like the situation worth a damn; I made the perfect silhouette for target practice. The window had a handle and I had it turned almost as soon as I had the shutter up. Then it was over and out.
  
  I'm not Killmaster N3 because of a lack of sensitivity. It's that hidden sensitivity — fifth, sixth, or seventh sense — that has kept me alive. As I ran for the wall, all of my senses were flashing red. They couldn't save me, but the warning was clear enough and when suddenly the whole place fit up like Kennedy Stadium at kickoff time, I knew my instincts were in good shape even if my future was in doubt.
  
  I launched myself and went into a roll behind the only available piece of cover, a majestic palm. On my back I shot out the two closest lights on the wall and then picked off the nearest on the roof. My marksmanship had all the effect of blotting out the lights with a cobweb. There were too many of them.
  
  A voice boomed out through a bullhorn in French. "Throw out your gun and face the wall!"
  
  Automatic fire punctuated the command, chipping away at the palm trunk a few feet above my head. The firing had come from the villa's crenelated parapet. It was seconded by a companion piece in the shrubs at the front of the house. More of the palm took a beating. A third, this one from the back of the house had a go. If they kept it up they were going to kill the tree.
  
  They had me boxed. Even if I could get over the wall they'd have someone there waiting. The thing had been carefully set up. The only question was, had they known before or after I entered the house that I had come to call.
  
  I got my answer quick enough. "M'sieur Carter, you will be dead in a minute if you do not obey!"
  
  That one really made me obey. Not because of the threat that I'd be dead if I didn't, but because somebody knew who I was. And the only one who was supposed to know that in all of the NAPR was Nick Carter.
  
  Reluctantly, I tossed Wilhelmina out in the cold light and walked to the wall like a man who is sure he is about to be stood against it.
  
  "Put your hands on the wall and bend over!" came the command.
  
  There was a long wait, most likely for the psychological effect it was supposed to have on me, before I heard approaching footsteps. A hand fastened in my hair and yanked my head up. I caught a glimpse of combat boots and olive green sleeve before a blindfold went across my eyes. A hand pawed expertly over my body looking for concealed weapons. It didn't find Hugo or Pierre but my dip of incendiaries was forfeit. My arms were pulled back, my wrists tied. Then with a hand on each side I was propelled forward The idea seemed to be to put me in the way of everything that would make me trip and louse up my shins. The obstacle courses ended, as I figured it would, with me being sat in the back of a car, my two landlers on either side. Then it was off and away.
  
  I leaned my head back, breathing in the night air. "Just how many miles is it to Portarius?" I asked.
  
  "Shut up," said one of my guards.
  
  "Only far enough for a one-way trip," came the answer from the front.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  I didn't mind the one-way ride at all. The window was down, there was a breeze off the sea, and somewhere out there a carrier was patroling. All I had to do was activate the homing button attached to my right leg behind my knee and I could bring six hundred reserves quick enough. But for the moment I was content to play along.
  
  It had been obvious from the beginning that the theft had not been planned over night. More like four years in the making — from the time Mendanike had closed Portarius over an incident that was no accident. It could have been that Mertens, posing as van der Meer, had convinced Mendanike that he wanted to use the ruins for some other purpose than its present one. From that point on, Mertens had made his preparations behind the triple cover of his identity, the ruins and a down-at-the-heels state.
  
  His ring would have included agents at Casteau and Hidelberg. Otherwise he would have had no way of knowing that while the Cockeye is the most lethal tactical nuclear weapon in the NATO stockpile, it is also the most vulnerable. All other nukes have a double key system which guards against such theft.
  
  In 1970 a mutinous element in the Greek Army tried to seize bunkers near Thesalonkia where tactical nukes were stored. They were stopped by a squadron of Greek Air Force fighters. Even if they had gotten hold of the nukes they would have been no use to them or a threat to anybody. They would have lacked the second key.
  
  With the Cockeye it's different. Its integrated circuitry and avonics are such that anyone who gets hold of its black box and understands its operation is in the position to detonate it. It was for that reason that the Cockeye was under special security guard. That Mertens was able to zap the guard showed just how sharp he and his playmates were.
  
  Poor old Mendanike had either learned the bitter truth or had gotten cold feet once the Cockeye was on his home ground. In desperation, he had alerted Ambassador Petersen. Although I didn't have all the pieces, I saw Doosa and Tasahmed in on the deal. Their job had been to maintain a front and keep public attention focused on it. Shema was no threat. She was perfect for generating the myth of counter-coup. Only Hans Gueyer had been a threat, and it was thanks to him that I was sitting in the back of a car trussed up like a chicken on my way to the glory that once was Rome's.
  
  It had, after all, been a couple of long days. I decided some sleep was in order. Bumping over uneven ground plus the chill of the night, woke me.
  
  The car came to a stop. Voices spoke swiftly in whispers. We moved on. The bumping stopped and I could tell we were descending. The breeze, the sound of the sea were gone. The echo thrown back by the car said we were in an enclosed area. We came to a stop again. This time the engine was switched off. Doors opened. More muted voices, two speaking in German, one saying, "Don't waste time."
  
  The guard on my right pushed me toward the left. The one on my left fastened on my collar. I managed to keep from choking. A generator was humming. A metal door clanged. It had a shipboard sound. There was more walking. I could feel cool air circulating. Portarius had had some updating installed.
  
  There was a muttered command and I was sat down. The hand on my collar went to the knot of my blindfold. I blinked in the sudden light, trying to focus my eyes.
  
  There were three of them sitting at a table facing me. The pair on either side of the head man were unfamiliar, and in the dim lighting they were more in shadow than their boss. Also in shadow behind them was the high tail section of a DC-7. This was an underground hanger, and I was glad I hadn't gone hunting the plane at Rufa. The walls on either side were metal but the canopy above was camouflage. No doubt there would be a camouflaged runway beyond, but I wondered why satellite sensors hadn't exposed it.
  
  "Do you find it impressive?" my host asked.
  
  "What do you call it, late Roman or neo-Wright Brothers?"
  
  "I must say I expected you sooner," he ignored my comment.
  
  "I came as soon as I could, but I think you'll have to take up the delay with the Colonel."
  
  He ignored that, too. "You know you almost lost me a bet. I hate to lose bets. Isn't that right, Dr. Schroeder?"
  
  Dr. Schroeder was on his left, a round hard face and grey crew cut. "Jah," was his response.
  
  "Tell me, do I call you van der Meer or Mertens?"
  
  "Hah!" he smacked his palm down on the table. "Good! I told you, I told you!" he said excitedly to his buddies. "And that's one bet I do win, Doctor Villa. I said he would find out."
  
  Dr. Villa, a thinner type with mustache, grunted.
  
  "You sound like a gambling man," I said.
  
  "Oh no, I never gamble. I only bet on sure things. Like I bet on you, Mr. Carter. I did think you'd be here for breakfast, however."
  
  "Well, you had the opportunity to invite me."
  
  "I wanted to but yesterday was a bit too soon. You ruined my day and there was much to do."
  
  "It's best to be thorough."
  
  "Exactly!" He blinked and tugged at his nose. "As one professional to another, I'm sure you'll agree it's a trait that makes the difference. I know my colleagues and I can sum up the success of our activities — our mission — " he held out his hand in benediction, "through thoroughness. Is that not so, gentlemen?"
  
  They muttered a response. He had the floor. "Yes, thoroughness. You know, Mr. Carter, why most bank robberies, no matter how well planned, are a failure? The robbery may be excellently executed, but it's after the fact — after it!" he held up his finger lecturing, "where the thing comes apart. And the reason, of course, is the failure to be thorough in the total planning — after the fact as much as before it." He smiled sweetly. "Do you know how long we have had this operation in the planning stage?"
  
  "About four years, give or take a couple of months."
  
  "Excellent! Excellent! You see what I mean?" He addressed his silent partners and then turned back to me. "Once phase one had been completed we knew we were into a critical seventy two hour period. The liberated material had to be landed here without detection. And once here, we had to make sure it was not discovered. That's where you come into our thoroughness, Mr. Carter."
  
  "I knew there had to be a place for me somewhere."
  
  "We knew there was one organization in the West above all others from whom we might expect trouble. AXE, and from AXE, comes Nick Carter. Why, we have a napilok on you as thick as War and Peace."
  
  "I hope it reads as well."
  
  "Oh, better in some respects." He used his fingers. "The West German BND is a laugh. The CIA has lost its operational ability, thanks to exposure and employing the kind of idiots they sent out here. M.I.6 is occupied in Ulster and Cyprus. The French and the Italian SID are involved with home grown terrorists and so forth and so forth. Only AXE, and from AXE, yourself — that is how we read it, and we needed no computer to tell us."
  
  "Shall I rise and thank you for the eulogy?"
  
  "No need. As your organization prides itself on excellence, so do we Mr. Carter, so do we. As I said, we've been expecting you."
  
  "If you were expecting me why did you try to have me killed in Rome?"
  
  Mertens frowned "That was a mistake, and I apologize. Our station chief in Rome was alerted to watch for you. Through over-zealousness he misinterpreted his instructions. He had no way of knowing you had a part to play in our organizational plan. Even so his actions were unforgiveable and he's no longer with us. I came all the way from Lamana to join you on the return. So now you understand."
  
  "No, I don't. If Doosa had had his way, I'd have been back in Rome by way of Cairo."
  
  "Doosa is sometimes a fool. He misjudged your abilities, but believe me you wouldn't have gone to Cairo, you'd have come here. Instead, you went to Budan on a wild goose chase."
  
  "You fit the description," I said, watching the fixed grin fade.
  
  "Quite. Well, it's time to move along." He nodded to the guards behind me.
  
  As he rambled on, I had considered pressing the back of my leg against the chair and activating the homing signal. I decided to wait for two reasons. He expected to use me, which meant execution was not in the plans right now, and I was willing to play along until I'd seen the Cockeye in the flesh.
  
  The guards brought me to my feet. Mertens and his fellow Phds were similarly dressed in natty field green combat fatigues. Their boots had a high polish. It looked as though Mertens and company had been involved in swiping more than nuclear weapons.
  
  Schroeder stood head and shoulders above the other two. The dueling scars on his cheeks, the flat Prussian face — subtract thirty years and you had S.S. Captured on the Eastern front, re-structured, returned to the East German Democratic Republic to head an MBS terrorist squad, then Africa for more of the same, and as my talkative host would say, "and so forth and so forth."
  
  The other one, Villa hailed from the same locale. Swarthy, a narrow withdrawn face with glittering black eyes. He had the look of an avid inquisitor, the type that burned to make you burn — and overaged Che.
  
  "My wrists," I said, "they'd feel better untied."
  
  "I regret it, Mr. Carter," Mertens sounded sad, "but as I said, we plan carefully, and we plan to keep you as harmless as possible. We do not underestimate your abilities."
  
  He gestured as one of the guards stepped away from me to the metal door and spun its circular handle. The door swung open and I looked out on an area that gave the impression of being a football field complete with stadium. Its spectators had flocked to something more delicate than pigskin. This had been the city's coliseum. We stepped out on to what had once been dungeons and cages under the floor of the amphitheater. All that remained of the ancient masonry was the stone floor and the surrounding walls.
  
  There was a moon, and by its light I could see meshed camouflage netting overhead, and above it the circular ruins of the coliseum proper. In the center of the cleared dungeon area was the missing Cockeye. It was mounted on the RPV. Both were sitting on a launch ramp, pitched at a very low angle.
  
  We moved out toward the launching ramp. It was a perfect hiding place. All the satellite, and SR-71 cameras in space would never spot it — at least not until it was launched. It was certainly ironic — here, tucked in the ruins, the ultimate device for making ruins.
  
  "Well, Mr. Carter, what do you think?" Mertens said.
  
  "I'm puzzled."
  
  He stopped. "Oh, how's that?"
  
  "You were speaking of being thorough. Even in the dark I see it all around me, even to the snipers you've got placed up there. It doesn't make sense."
  
  "Really? You hear what he says comrades? What doesn't make sense?"
  
  "What you were saying about people who plan robberies and then fail in the get-away, I'd say you'd made the same mistake."
  
  "You would? Horst, Jose, where have we made a mistake?"
  
  "The first mistake," Schroeder spoke in German, "was to bring him here."
  
  "Oh, don't start that again," Villa, snapped, "just because you're too stupid to understand the…"
  
  "Jah! I understand well enough. If it weren't for my kommando that missile wouldn't be sitting there. If…"
  
  "Your commando! It was my planning that…"
  
  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Mertens voice rose above the bickering. "What is before us is due to our joint efforts. There is no need to debate, nor is there time. But our guest says we have made a mistake, and I for one would like to know where we have erred. Tell us, Mr. Carter."
  
  Although I couldn't manage it at the moment I was ready to depress the homing button on the back of my leg. I'd found what I had been sent to find, but all I could do for the moment was to look for an opening. "As long as you don't launch that bird," I said, "it's well hidden. Once you do, NADGE or Sixth Fleet, will pick it up. You'll be in the bag before you hit what you're aiming at."
  
  "That would never do, would it? My, no. Well, take a good look, Mr. Carter. I wanted you to see what you'll be helping to launch. In the meantime, there's much to be done."
  
  They took me back inside, not to the DC-7s revetment but to a room on the opposite side of the launch pad. I've been in a few mission control centers. I've seen electronic consoles and their guidance systems, their monitoring telemetry. I hadn't seen any that appeared more sophisticated than what Mertens and group had put together in the bowels of Portarius.
  
  There were a half dozen technicians in the room, all as smartly uniformed as their superiors. Two were seated at the control module, going through a check list. They had all snapped to attention as we had entered and were put at ease by Schroeder.
  
  "I wanted you to see this, too." Mertens beamed. "Now we have had to adapt our own control to the Cockeye's black box. No easy job, my friend, but thanks to the talent we have assembled here, we are nearing the count down."
  
  "Andre, may I interrupt for a moment. I think our guest could use a short briefing. May we have a look at the target, please?"
  
  Andre had colorless eyes and long supple fingers. One of them tapped two buttons on the panel to his left. An ERX scanning screen with a Mark 7 interlock blanketed the wall. On it with exceptional clarity lay the boot of the Black Sea. The knot in it was the roughly diamond-shaped Crimean Peninsula. The rail line from Dniepropietrovsk was a lace, running through the eyelet of Dzhankoy to Sevastopol.
  
  Sevastopol is more than headquarters for the Soviet Black Sea Fleet, it is to the southern sea frontier of the USSR what Murmansk is to the northern. Admiral Yegorov may have a hundred more ships in his northern fleet than Admiral Sysoyev has in his Black Sea command, with which he stocks the Mediterranean, but with six Kresta class missile cruisers, fifty Kashin destroyers and nearly as many Y class subs, he isn't exactly suffering.
  
  The scanner moved in for a close up of Sevastopol. I didn't need one. I'd been there. It was definitely a target for someone with nuclear ambitions.
  
  "Do you recognize it?" Mertens chortled.
  
  "Vaguely. Someone told me its radar defenses are impenetrable."
  
  "Someone told you incorrectly. Isn't that so, André?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "André, show our guest the projected course."
  
  André hit some more buttons, and we were looking at the entire Mediterranean area from Lamana eastward including Italy, Greece, Turkey and the Black Sea. A green line extended almost directly to the Ionian Sea between Kythera and Antikythera, between the Peloponnesos and, Crete. There the line wove its way through the islands of the Cyclades in the Aegean. It cut north of Lemnos and east of Samothrace. It skirted the narrow passage of the Dardenelles, and going overland south of Alexandropoalis, it crossed into Turkish territory, aiming north of Hayabolu, exiting on to the Black Sea near Daglari. From there, it went direct to Sevastopol.
  
  "Most direct and to the point," Mertens said. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. Radar will pick up what satellite cameras have failed to uncover. The RPV doesn't travel that fast, and that will have made all this a waste of time. Isn't that so?"
  
  "You have the floor," I said, anxious to get it all.
  
  "Of course, radar would pick up our little effort… if there was anything for it to pick up. Altitude, Mr. Carter, altitude. As you saw, our package will be traveling over water all but a short distance of the way. We have programmed it for a constant altitude of thirty feet. When it crosses land, it will follow the contour of the earth, trees, gorges — whatever, and its altitude will not vary. And as you well know, radar will not scan at that low a trajectory."
  
  I saw Sevastopol with its narrow estuary, its surrounding cliffs honeycombed with detection fans. The damn thing about it was that any missile has to have an angle on its trajectory. The Cockeye mounted on the RPV needed none. That was the purpose of its theft. It could go in at almost ground zero, straight as an arrow.
  
  "Have I answered all your questions?" He was beaming again.
  
  "All but one. Why are you all so anxious to start World War Three?"
  
  "That's why I have you here, Mr. Carter, to prevent it! Think of the sacrifice you will be making for mankind. Come along now, I have something else I want to show you before the program begins. Thank you, André."
  
  The control room had a wheel lock also. It had been built with blast protection in mind. There wouldn't be much need of that in launching an RPV with a load of JP-4. Possibly Merten's original plan had been to lift an ICBM.
  
  They led me from mission control along an unlit stone passage, using flashlights. We climbed some ancient stairs and came out amongst the ruins. There the moon became our guide. We followed what must have been main street until we came to a single-story complex of modern construction. During the walk I had spotted security guards stationed on the high points.
  
  "Well," Mertens said, "I'm sure you'll excuse Dr. Schroeder and Dr. Villa. You'll be seeing them later, but for now, they have things to do and so do we."
  
  I was anxious to sit down for one reason. With the back of a chair to press my leg against I could increase the population of Portarious by an even six hundred. Ordinarily, I do my own work, and there are no reinforcements to call in. But this wasn't ordinary, and Hawk had given me my orders. The problem was I didn't get to sit down.
  
  There were no lights showing within the complex, another indication of planning. Our Samos tracking cameras are powerful enough to pick up a flea on a golf ball from a couple of hundred miles up. In a routine pass a satellite would pick up lights in the ruins. In this non-routine situation a photointerpreter would take note and pass on the information.
  
  Mertens led the way down a corridor to his working office. There was a desk and some chairs, but the whole room was a jumble of pieces and parts of electronic equipment.
  
  "I must apologize for the mess," he said.
  
  "You must have been neater than this with Hammarskjold." I said, looking for an empty chair but not seeing one.
  
  He stared at me for a second and then chuckled. He was at his desk, fiddling around in his papers.
  
  "How many of you are in this thing?" I asked, moving toward a table, planning to sit on it. "Or is that a state secret?"
  
  "Nothing is secret from you, Mr. Carter." He held up some papers. "With you, we number exactly fifty-one. All of us are here ready for the launch. When the dust has settled, so to speak, we will be moving on to the next phase. Now I'm going to read to you your part in the program. You will tape it, and we will see that it is put in the proper hands for world broadcast. You will be famous." He grinned. The expression reminded me of a hyena, looking up from someone else's kill.
  
  "People of the world!" he read like a third rate ham, "the organization responsible for the nuclear destruction of the Russian port of Sevastopol is called AXE. AXE is a special espionage agency of the U.S. Government, engaged in assassination and overthrow. Its director and chief of operations is David Hawk. The theft of the Cockeye missile and its launch vehicle and the targeting of both was carried out by Hawk. I, Nick Carter, assisted in the execution of the mission. I did so under protest. I will be dead by the time these words are broadcast. I am marked for murder by AXE.
  
  "Behind this act of nuclear genocide there is a two-fold plan. The destruction of Sevastopol will be blamed on the Peoples Republic of China. In the possible nuclear war and world turmoil to follow, Hawk, with the backing of the Pentagon, plans to seize power in the United States. There is no time to give details. My last hope is that my words will be heard everywhere!"
  
  "Well," he looked up, the man who had just given the keynote speech, "how does it sound?"
  
  "Scratchy. Syntax isn't too sharp either."
  
  "Ahh, but think of the impact."
  
  "It will have all the impact of a wet egg," I said.
  
  "More like a fried egg, Mr. Carter, or maybe a cooked goose?"
  
  "How ever you serve it, no one will buy it."
  
  "Hah! Sevastopol is devastated. The world stands at the brink of destruction. Just think of the effect of your confession in the United States. One, it will reveal that a secret arm of your government's intelligence is responsible for the horror. Two, it will inform the American public of a spy agency no one knew about. Three, in view of a growing lack of public support, it will bring your system down with a crash!" He smacked his fist on the desk and for a moment the madness shone through his bulging eyes.
  
  "Oh, I assure you, Mr. Carter, we have thought it through, we have long planned for this moment. You see in this organization we are all bound in seeking the same goal. Can you guess what it is?"
  
  "To be present at your own execution."
  
  He put on a nasty smirk. "Your country lacks the fortitude to execute anyone. Our aim is to bring down your insufferable system. To sow anarchy… and then with the proper support, pick up the pieces and mold them properly." He had his fist clenched and the gleam was back.
  
  "Hail Caesar." I stepped back to sit on the table, but one of the guards pushed me away.
  
  He acted as though he hadn't heard me. "What is it your Marine Corps says — a few good men? Well, our few are better than any. Every man a professional in his field, knowing what he's to do, how to do it, and with a purpose in mind. It's the purpose that counts in the end. I'll show you what I mean."
  
  "Tell me, is Tasahmed one of your fifty professionals?"
  
  "The general is an ally. In return for his cooperation, we got rid of Mendanike. His reward is the NAPR, and ours is to depart quietly at the proper time." While he was bubbling along he had set up a film projector and had threaded a film into it. It set on his desk and he aimed it at the wall.
  
  "You have no idea how long I've been looking forward to having you here, Mr. Carter. You, too, are a professional, but even if you weren't I'm sure you'd be wondering how we gained so much knowledge of AXE and yourself. Thoroughness. You'll see."
  
  I saw, but before I did I had to listen to more. "In today's world of medical technology, there is no man who cannot be made to perform as required. However, in some things I am old fashioned. The hyperdermic needle is too easy. I prefer to use physical means to obtain psychological ends."
  
  "Do you supply seats for your movies?"
  
  "Not in this case. I'd rather have you stand. Your comfort is not one of my interests." He gestured and the guards maneuvered me so I was facing the wall that would serve as a screen.
  
  He flipped the light switch. "I'm sure you'll recognize an old friend. "The projector began to whir.
  
  He was right. I'd have recognized Joe Banks if he'd been disguised as a gorilla. I'm N-3 in the pecking order. He was N-6 until he disappeared in Tripoli about four years ago. Hawk had told me Joe had gotten wind of something by accident. The accident had been fatal. One evening he had departed the flea-bag hotel where he was living and vanished. There had been no trace. And now I knew where the wind had led him.
  
  Until I saw Merten's film, in which he was featured, my feeling about him was simply cold-blooded. I'd kill him as soon as I was able. Halfway through his production my teeth were locked together so hard my jaw muscles were ready to pop. I could feel the sweat on my neck, the taste of bile in my throat and a fire burning white in every pore.
  
  I had never seen a man skinned alive. I watched that happen to Joe Banks, pinned like a butterfly on a board. I watched Mertens directing two goons, with skinning knives pealing him like a bloody grape. I watched Mertens practically slobbering over Joe's agony.
  
  The film cranked on, but I had closed my eyes. I had to think, and I couldn't do it watching the life being torn and ripped out of an old friend. Standing or lying I couldn't depress the homing button with my hands tied. Trying to get Hugo in position to free my wrists would take too long and attract the attention of my watchers. I had to get next to something solid.
  
  I could hear Mertens rambling on. "You know, in the end he agreed to tell us everything — if we'd only shoot him. You pour salt on raw flesh and the pain is very severe."
  
  I groaned and tried to stagger toward the desk. I didn't get six inches before my helpmates yanked me back into position.
  
  "Oh, it is distressful, yes." Mertens sighed. "And, of course, we kept our word. But before we put him out of his misery he told us enough about AXE and Nick Carter so in time we were able to put together what we had to know. Of course, it wasn't until much later that we decided to program you and AXE into our operation. So you see." He flicked off the machine and turned on the lights.
  
  I let saliva run out of my mouth and crashed to the floor, taking the impact on my shoulder. As hands were laid on me I came up fast, planning a back flip that would land me on the desk where I could get my leg against its edge.
  
  No way. They blocked all movement, holding me firmly. They were pretty cute. One was Korean and the other was a Latino. Whatever their geography, they'd studied the same text. -
  
  "My, my," Mertens clucked, "I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Are you worried that you might receive the same treatment? No fear, you'd be no use to us in that undressed state. We want you in good voice."
  
  He marched to the door, and I let my guards do the work, putting on the fainting act, letting them half drag me along behind.
  
  At the end of the corridor we came to ruins again and stone stairs going down. Mertens hit a switch and light flooded up from below, showing the dusty way to death.
  
  He did what I hoped. He went first. In my business you don't weigh small favors, you grab them. I stumbled and as I felt the grip on me tighten, I swung up my feet, tucked them in and slammed them out. I connected with Merten's back. With a yelp he went plummeting down the stairs. The power of my thrust yanked my guard off balance, and we weren't far behind.
  
  I tried to tuck my head in, but it's no good without arms. I never did reach the bottom. Somewhere between it and launch point I went out into deep space, where it's black and cold and empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  Someone was calling my name, but it wasn't really my name. "You've got it wrong," I said, "you'll have to start over."
  
  "Ned! Ned Cole! Please, please!"
  
  "There's no need to be frightened. Try some deep breathing." I could hear my voice, but there was a difference in what I was thinking, and what I was saying. I fought to straighten it out by opening my eyes. I shut them again fast in the glare. "Just take the knife out," I muttered.
  
  "Ned! Ned, it's me, Paula Mathews!"
  
  On the next try I saw that she was right. She was facing me, and she never looked lovelier. She had nothing on but her makeup and not much of that. She'd been staked out on an ancient stone slab — a sacrificial altar. This had once been a torture chamber and still was. The only modern addition was the lighting, bright and garish.
  
  In any light, Paula was a beautiful creature. With her arms pulled back, thrusting her breasts out, the nipples erect not in passion but in fear, the curves and joinings of her body accentuated, I got things sorted out fast.
  
  "Oh, thank God!" she said as she saw me staring at her.
  
  "How long have I been here?" There was a stone stake in the center of the room. I was not only tied to it hand and foot, but also around the chest.
  
  "I… I don't know. When I woke up, you were — with — with blood all over your face. I thought…"
  
  The message came through like the cut of a skinning knife. They were going to do to her what they had done to Joe Banks if I didn't play ball. "How did they get you?"
  
  "There was a call. They said you'd been in an accident, and…"
  
  "Why didn't Sutton come?"
  
  "He… he'd been called to a meeting at the Palace with General Tasahmed."
  
  I shook my head to clear the fuzziness and wished I hadn't. "Paula," I began.
  
  "Well, what do we have here?" Colonel Doosa had to stoop to make his entrance. He was sporting a new uniform with a general's star on his shoulders. "My, how charming." He came over and took a long thirsty look at Paula. He reached out and stroked her breasts. I heard her suck in her breath.
  
  "Magnificent, really magnificent." He ran his hands down her legs. "A real thoroughbred. I am a great rider of thoroughbreds." She sobbed as he thrust his paw between her thighs. "Pure gold," he sighed.
  
  "You're not man enough to ride a goat, and a sow would throw you out of the pen," I said, hoping to pull him toward me.
  
  It worked. He came at me with an oily grin. "I'm glad to see you again."
  
  I barely had time to tighten my gut before his left slammed into it and his right followed through on my jaw. I spit blood at him, and he went to work on me.
  
  I wasn't pretending altogether that he'd put me away. But through the pain and numbness I held onto the need to buy time. It was a tortuous way to buy it, but I didn't have any other.
  
  When he stopped, he was breathing hard. "The doctor said I wasn't to damage you too much, but we'll try again when you feel more up to it." He turned away from me and went back to Paula.
  
  My wrists had the feeling of having been left in a vise too long, but I could still move my fingers. Many were the hours I'd practiced such an exercise in the AXE gym with Peter Andrus standing by. Peter wasn't a Houdini. He was better. His job was to instruct and train the N section how to do what nobody else could do whether tied up, handcuffed, or thrown in the river in a barrel of cement. My fingers began their stretch for the half of Hugo under my shirt.
  
  Then time ran out as Mertens and Villa came in.
  
  "Colonel, get your hands off of that girl!" Mertens' head was swathed in a bandage, and even with my head hanging I could tell his didn't feel much better. He limped into the light and saw me — blood dripping, apparently out cold.
  
  "Why, damn you!" he bellowed. "What have you done to him?"
  
  He grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head up. I heard him suck in his breath at the sight of me. "Doctor Villa, get water, get a stimulant! Doosa, if…"
  
  "I only softened him up a little, so he'll be more inclined to cooperate."
  
  "Get out of here! Get out, get out!"
  
  Mertens examined me again, feeling my heart. Then he went over to Paula, fluttering, "I hope you'll excuse his behavior."
  
  "I'd like to get out of here, too, Doctor van der Meer." Paula's voice had a quiver in it, but she wasn't one for hysterics.
  
  "And you shall, you shall, my dear… providing we are able to obtain this gentleman's assistance."
  
  He was a prize, that charmer — solicitous of her well-being while preparing to skin her alive.
  
  Che's old man came back and I got a bucket of water for my aching head. I didn't react. Villa had a go at me, pulling down my eye lid, checking my skull. "He may have hurt him badly," he said. "There's blood in his ear and on the back of his head where it's been knocked against the stone."
  
  "But this can't be!" Mertens actually wailed.
  
  "Or he could be bluffing."
  
  "Yes!" Now they were both standing before me. I heard a match strike.
  
  "What are you going to do?"
  
  "Test."
  
  The flame seared my cheek, and frizzled my hair. It took all the control I had left to stay limp. The agony was not measureable. The flame ate its way into my flesh. I could smell it burning.
  
  "That's enough," Mertens said. "He's really unconscious. I have no desire to cremate him here."
  
  "I'm still not sure. We can try another way, we can start on her."
  
  I didn't see Schroeder come into the room. His gutteral voice suddenly boomed out. "Doctor, we have fifteen minutes to begin the count down. You are needed."
  
  "There will be no launch until we get what we want here," Mertens said.
  
  "But the programming is set, all the data fed in."
  
  "I know, I know. You will have to hold until I come."
  
  "That cannot be for long. There is no provision for delay beyond the set time for launch."
  
  "I will come as soon as I can!"
  
  "Jah! I said your plan with him is no good, and it is no good." He departed muttering.
  
  "He's an ass," Mertens sighed, "all he wants to do is blow up Sevastopol."
  
  "Let that sadist Doosa start on her with the knife, and we'll see if that brings him around." Villa was speaking in German for the moment, and I hoped Paula wasn't reading him.
  
  My fingers were short on strength and less on feeling, but I could detect the lump of Hugo's haft. By twisting my hand I was able to fasten three fingers over it. I began to try to ease it into the palm of my hand. The pressure was structured to release the band that held the blade strapped to my forearm. But it didn't release, not by the time Villa was back with Doosa.
  
  "I don't know whether you've rendered him inoperative, Colonel," Mertens snapped. "If you have, you'll be executed. Dr. Villa thinks he could be bluffing. If he is, you live. You like the girl so much, you can start on her with this."
  
  "I don't understand." Doosa's voice was low and seething.
  
  "It's perfectly simple. You're experienced at it. Start on her arm or her breast or anywhere you like. But get to it now!"
  
  "Wh-what are you going to do!" Paula's voice was high-pitched now, near the breaking point. My fingers lacked the strength to free Hugo.
  
  "I've never done this to a woman," Doosa's voice faltered.
  
  "You will now, or you'll be dead." Mertens sounded like a plucked wire ready to snap.
  
  I kept my head down, fingers straining. All I could hear was heavy breathing. Paula whimpered, "Please, no!" and then she began to scream.
  
  The strap gave way and the haft of Hugo was in my palm. I moved it and the blade cut through my shirt. Now it was a matter of working the stiletto against the cords without dropping it. I shut out Paula's screaming and concentrated. I was sweating blood, and blood was making my fingers sticky when I was finally satisfied I'd loosened my bonds.
  
  "Wait! Stop!" I gasped.
  
  That brought them running.
  
  "You were right, Dr. Villa, you were right!" Mertens chortled.
  
  "Leave her alone," I mumbled.
  
  "Of course, of course! We won't touch another hair on her head if you play your part."
  
  Paula had fainted. Her left arm was blood covered. The truth was, if it had been necessary to sacrifice her to prevent the launch I would have kept my mouth shut no matter how bad the scene.
  
  Getting Doosa to beat me up had bought me some time. Paula had bought me some more. One tug and my hands would be free. If my feet had been free I wouldn't have waited. As it was, with three of them, I had to play along.
  
  "Dr. Villa, the tape recorder please."
  
  "Water!" I croaked.
  
  "Señor Carter will stop the pretending or the Colonel will return to the girl." Villa checked the portable Sony as Mertens produced my confession.
  
  "Read it through," he said, holding the paper in front of my eyes.
  
  "Can't read anything without water."
  
  There was still a bit left in the bucket, and Doosa held it while I choked and guzzled.
  
  "Now read it, and no more tricks," Mertens ordered. He was shook up from the excitement of it.
  
  "What about the girl?"
  
  "You have my word she won't be touched again." He put his hand over his heart.
  
  She wouldn't be touched, she'd be shot just as soon as I was out of the way.
  
  "Read Carter! Read!" The paper shook in my face as Villa stuck the microphone up to my mouth.
  
  They'd kill me once the confession was taped. With both of them in close I could get them with Hugo. That left Doosa, who was out of reach. Aside from his own holstered .45, he had managed to confiscate Wilhelmina and had her stuck in his belt. If I could get him closer, I'd go for the Luger and take them all.
  
  I managed to screw up the confession three times before Villa warned me that if I didn't project properly, Doosa would start whittling again on Paula.
  
  On the fourth take I was ready. When I reached the line, "I have no time to give details," I was going to supply a few of my own. I didn't get the chance. As I read, "Behind this act of nuclear genocide there is a two-fold plan," Schroeder stuck his head through the entrance and ruined my performance.
  
  "Mertens!" he barked in German. "We cannot hold the count down. You must come at once!"
  
  "In a minute," Mertens yelped. "Now you've spoiled it!"
  
  "There's no time to argue. You're both needed at once, otherwise, we'll have to abort."
  
  He was gone before Mertens could stamp his foot.
  
  "The Colonel can handle the recording, Doctor." Villa suggested, handing the recorder and mic to Doosa, heading for the doorless entrance.
  
  "All right, all right! Colonel, start the recording from the beginning. I want him alive when I come back. When his body's found in Stuttgart, I want it to be recognizable." He went scuttling away.
  
  Paula was conscious again, but her eyes were glassy with shock. Her head kept rolling around as though she wasn't able to understand what was going on. Doosa was grinning at me as he stepped up with the paper in one hand the mic in the other.
  
  I spit on his new uniform. As he reacted, looking down, I snapped the last strand holding my wrists. My arms, released from the pole came around like springs. I fastened my left hand on the back of his neck, and as I slammed him in close, my right drove Hugo in low and piston-like.
  
  His shriek was one of agonized disbelief. He fought to pull away from the killing blade, but my arm was around his back now. His neck arched, his head went back, eyes and mouth open to Allah, his hands trying to fasten on my wrist.
  
  I had no mercy. He deserved none. I gutted him as I would a fish from belly to brisket and flung him away. He went down mewling, legs pulled up in the fetal position. As he thrashed around, heels kicking, trying to hold in his innards without much luck, I cut away the rope and those holding my feet. Then finally my hand went to the homing button. Sixth Fleet monitors would be picking up my signal.
  
  Paula wasn't sure what was happening, and I didn't have time to tell her. Her eyes were like agates as she watched the colonel trying to kick his way into paradise. He was still scrabbling around in a sea of his own blood and gore as I cut her loose. I saw she had fainted again, which in the circumstances wasn't a bad idea.
  
  I recovered Wilhelmina from the floor, worked loose by Doosa's Danse Macabre. I also relieved him of his .45 and found in his pocket my clip of incendiaries.
  
  "Where you're headed, you might just as well travel light," I said to him. He didn't hear me. He was already on the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  I found no one on guard in Mertens' office complex, nor did I expect to. The action was at the launch site. The fifty would be at mission control or out on the walls supplying precautionary security. Those in the control room would be locked in. There'd be no chance of stopping the launch from there. I had to get the Cockeye itself.
  
  I hadn't gone ten feet beyond the complex, following the main street, when a search light on a promotory of ruins, knifed out its beam and a voice shouted for me to halt. I went down behind a low wall in a crouch and began to run. The light attempted to follow. A machine gun began to chatter, blasting the ancient bricks.
  
  I went around a corner, cutting down a rock strewn alley. The light had gone out, but I could hear whistles sounding and the pound of running feet. In the moonlit darkness I spotted an arch. I went through it and hit the ground behind a length of Doric pillar. A couple of pursuers went pounding by. Then I was up and over a back wall, trying to angle toward the main street again. In the maze of ruins my progress was too slow. A wall higher than the rest fronted me. I took a running jump and lying on its ragged top I spotted the high ground. Once I reached it I'd be in better position to zero in on the coliseum.
  
  Going cross lots, I ran into another search light. This time there were grenades to go with the automatic fire. I made a note to congratulate the Romans on the solid construction of their walls. I made an end run behind one and got clear of the noise and confusion.
  
  It became a helluva game of hide and seek. I couldn't take the chance of returning fire; it would only pinpoint me. As long as they didn't catch me in their lights or actually see me, they couldn't be sure where I was, or where I was headed. When I finally saw the hump on one side of the coliseum against the sky, I also saw lights winking along its top. The pursuit had either gotten ahead of me or whoever was in command was smart enough to know it was pointless to chase me around in the rubble when the only thing they had to guard was the Cockeye and the RPV.
  
  I knew there could only be a few minutes to launch, and I had to spend too many of them reaching the amphitheater of the coliseum without being spotted. At the end, I ran into an ambush. A falling stone, as I came over a wall, alerted them. But instead of waiting, they began shooting. I let out a scream, and then ducking and running, I reached an entrance portal and dove into its tunnel.
  
  Three of them came after me. Bellied down, I let Doosa's .45 finish their run. The tunnel echoed to the roar of gunfire, and before the sound had faded I was at the amphitheater entrance of the passage-way, looking for the star of the show.
  
  The camouflage hid it. I started down the crowd-worn steps. Almost immediately there was a shout of warning. A light probed from above. Automatic fire began to stutter and echo from behind me and on three sides. I let out a cry and took a header. After three summersaults I put on the brakes and managed to halt my descent before I made it too real. I went on hands and knees to the next aisle. Then I was up and racing down again.
  
  They spotted me, and their fire sought me out. A slug burned against my leg. Another furrowed my side, the brushing impact twisting me, nearly leveling me. Below was a pool of black. Its oblong marked the boundary of what had once been the coliseum's floor. The black was the camouflage netting. I dove, arching out over it, then dropping straight down.
  
  My hands hit the mesh netting. I felt it flex to the weight of my plunge and then start to snap. My legs swung down, ready to absorb the impact. I hadn't expected the netting to hold me up, just to check the final fall. I hit in standard paratroop style, going down on hands and knees and into a roll. The camouflage would conceal what was under it, but it could not black out light beamed through, particularly now that I had torn a hole through it. Three powerful beams from above fingered after me. There were shouted commands and the sound of troops assembling on the double. They had come not to bury Caesar but Nick Carter. And I had come not to fight lions barehanded but to take on a Cockeye and its RPV. The latter was my target. I had Wilhelmina, primed with a magazine of incendiaries.
  
  Ordinarily, I wouldn't have carried such exotic ammunition. A slug will do the job without the need of added fireworks. Except when the target is a tank full of JP-4. A standard Luger round would not ignite jet fuel.
  
  I was not reflecting on the fact, or how in my profession you learn to size up and prepare for eventualities before they get flung at you. I was busy trying to find enough cover to prove that I had prepared well before the gunners above found the range and target.
  
  Before me was the black silhouette of the RPV on its launching track with the Cockeye on its back. It was primed to raise more global hell than its makers had ever dreamed. Behind this still life of death, along the far rim of the enclosure, was a pencil of bluish light, marking the viewing window of Mertens' mission control.
  
  From where I lay directly across from mission control, it was too distant for accurate shooting with the Luger. I knew as soon as I started to shoot I would draw fire. I had no choice, no time. I broke from cover, running directly toward the RPV. I got off three shots before the lights caught me and the slugs began to bracket. I went down in a shoulder roll and got off four and five on the ground and seven as I came upright.
  
  Then I didn't have to shoot anymore. The RPV broke out in a sudden rash of flame. It shot upward, making an angry huffing sound. I hit the dirt again, and this time when I came up I ducked around the back of the launch track and headed toward the blue light.
  
  The searchlight beams got stuck on the flaming RPV and held. The shooting snapped off. In its place there were multi-lingual shouts. They all added up to: Run like hell! I could hear the action being taken. As seasoned terrorists, the gang above was tough and well trained, great for hijacking a plane, massacring hostages or even stealing a nuke. But their scientific education ended there. They were running like they had never run before because being atomized was not a part of the contract.
  
  The next two sounds were mechanical. There was the low whine of the RPV's turbine starting to rotate and the clang of the lock on a metal door. The door was beside the blue window light and out of it came Dr. Cornelius Mertens, KGB (Ret.). He was gibbering like an enraged ape. In the mounting light of the flames and the unmanned lights, he resembled one, as he scrambled toward the launch pad. Eyes bulging, arms waving, he went by me oblivious to everything but his prize. He attacked the flames with his coat, trying to beat them down, a man gone berserk.
  
  Unable to make progress from the rear, he ran to the front of the track and climbed up on it, flailing and ranting. Then his outcry checked for a second, and when he gave cry again it was a piercing shout of terror.
  
  I didn't have to move to know what had happened. I saw him with his head thrown back, his arms no longer waving, but thrust straight out against the RPVs intake vent, trying to get loose from the clutch of his pride and joy.
  
  But it wouldn't let him go. It wanted him, and as he fought and pleaded and screamed, it slowly sucked him into its turbine until it choked itself to death on what I suppose could be called Mertensburger. It seemed a proper way for him to depart.
  
  Even before he'd gurgled his last, I was on my way to tie up some loose ends. The metal door stood open. It led to an entry-way to the main door of the control room. It, too, stood open. Through it I saw the room and its occupants. There were ten of them, including Villa and Schroeder. They were all staring at their launch screen, watching in frozen wonder the departure of their leader. They weren't far behind him, nor did I take time to bid them a pleasant journey.
  
  I bowled Pierre into their midst. Then I pulled the door shut and spun the locking wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  The flames from the RPV set fire to something flammable in the camouflage netting, and the whole thing had gone up in a brief but dramatic torch. It gave the Huey pilots of the Ranger team more than an electronic beep to home in on.
  
  Seen from Lamana, it also brought Tasahmed on the run. He had known the hour of launch. The sudden pyrotechnics signaled something had gone wrong, and in his position he couldn't ignore it. Nor under the circumstances would he send someone else to investigate.
  
  He came with a force of twenty who were quickly disarmed by the Rangers, but the General's arrival put the team's CO., Colonel Bill Moore in what he considered a political spot. His orders were — recover the stolen goods and get the hell out. His force was invading sovereign territory. An international incident was to be avoided at all costs. If he had to fight to recover the Cockeye that was one thing, but beyond that, even if attacked, he was not to respond. Typical.
  
  In the first moments of our meeting under the fan of the command chopper, I had filled him in and told him he should be prepared for the General's arrival. I knew if Tasahmed did not show up, I would be going into Lamana to find him. As it was, the mopping up operation took longer than anticipated. The physical end of it consisted of tending to Paula — which a couple of medics handled neatly — and making sure Mertens' commandoes either surrendered or kept on moving into the desert. It was the technical part that took time. With all of Mertens' fancy electronic diddling, Moore's technicians had to make sure that the Cockeye was immobilized and safe.
  
  Moore was a solid unflappable type, short on words, direct on orders — the kind whose men are ready to follow him anywhere. The General had recovered most of his composure when he was brought before the colonel at the launch ramp.
  
  "Who are you, sir? What are your troops doing here?" Tasahmed blustered in French.
  
  "Colonel William J. Moore, United States Army"! he answered in English. "We're taking that nuclear missile out of here. It belongs to us."
  
  "You are trespassing! You are an imperialist invasion force! You…!" He had switched to English.
  
  "General, you take it up with my Government. Now please stand clear."
  
  "And my countrymen whom you have butchered," he pointed to the neat row of bodies that had been collected and laid out in front of Mertens mission control, "I'll take that up with more than your government!" He was working himself up into a lather.
  
  I stepped out of the shadows. "How much time, Colonel?"
  
  "Seven minutes and we're airborne."
  
  "The General and I will be in the revetment. I'll be going with you."
  
  "Seven minutes," the Colonel repeated and moved away to watch his men slowly easing the Cockeye off the burned out RPV.
  
  "Who are you?" Tasahmed studied my messed up face in the arc light.
  
  "The man with the gun," I said, letting him feel Wilhelmina's snout. "We're going in there with the DC-7 right now."
  
  He didn't argue. I sat him in the chair I had occupied earlier, and I sat at the table, the luger resting on it.
  
  "You have two choices," I said. "Either, you can join that row of your friends out there… or you can ask for asylum."
  
  That brought him up straight, black eyes glittering. "Asylum!"
  
  "General, I'm not going to waste my time chatting with you. I've got a chopper to catch. You're as responsible for what nearly happened here as any of your dead friends. Whereas Mertens and his boys were psycho, you're no such thing. You've got all your buttons. You played along to get what you wanted. Well, there's something we want. You can give it to us or that's all." I picked up Wilhelmina.
  
  He licked his lips. "What… what do you want?"
  
  "Two things. Shema Mendanike as the new P.M., and your plans to let the Soviet navy take over Lamana. Either you defect, and Washington will make the official announcement, or Madam Mendanike will have a new death to announce."
  
  "I… I need some time to think."
  
  "You have none." I stood up. "We go out that door together or I go alone."
  
  We went out together, just as the fan on the command chopper began to rotate.
  
  I rode with Paula. She was sedated and groggy but glad to see me. I sat holding her good hand beside the litter on which she had been bundled. "You know," she said, "a hundred years or so ago you said you'd come and sit on my patio and drink gin and tonic and tell me what this was all about. I guess we can't do that now."
  
  "Not here. Too noisy. But I know a place outside of Athens, in Voulagmini, full of roses beside the sea where the wine is dry and the telling is good."
  
  She sighed groggily, "Oh, that sounds nice. I'd like that." Then she giggled, "I wonder what Henry will think?"
  
  "We'll send him a card," I said. I was thinking that I'd send one to Hawk, too.
  
  
  
  
  
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