82 NICK CARTER
"Yes, this is Djabi Import/Export. May I help you?"
"Yes, this is an old friend. I would like to speak to Abu, please."
"Neither Mr. Djabi nor his son is in the office at the present time. Would you care to leave a message?"
"Yes, would you tell Djabi senior that Carter is calling? I have a bit of an emergency and it is imperative that I see him this evening, as early as possible."
"Could I have your number, please? I will pass your message along."
Carter gave her the number. "And if he has any doubts, tell him 'the Kufra connection.'"
"I will tell him, sir."
Carter hung up and returned to his beer and kabob.
Abu Djabi had started out as a thief in Cairo God-only-knew how many years before. By the time the war ended and the British had departed, he had become the Prince of Thieves.
With his riches he had sent his two sons to school in England and France. By the time they returned, things had changed. Thievery and smuggling were not as lucrative. The younger Djabis took their father's vast wealth and parlayed it into an even bigger, legitimate fortune.
But the old man couldn't give up the habits of his past. Or his contacts.
When Carter had needed arms and men for a rescue caravan into Kufra, Libya, years before, Kjabi had supplied them . . . for a price, of course.
Ten minutes later the phone rang. The bartender started for it and Carter headed him off.
"Yes?"
"Is this Carter? . . . Nick Carter?"
The Killmaster recognized the voice. "It is Abu. Do
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you still have your mother buying and selling camels?’
‘Ah, sadly, she is now with Allah and I must be satisfied with a Mercedes. What brings you to Egypt? ’
‘A slight problem.’
‘Like Kufra?’
‘No, not like Kufra at all. Do you still have as many eyes and ears in Cairo and Alexandria as you did in the old days? ’
‘Probably more,’ the old man said and chuckled.
‘Our present economy makes thieves, and to join the brotherhood one must still consult me. Where are you?’
‘Najimbi.’
‘An hour from Alexandria.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember how to find me?’
‘I think so.’
‘I shall be waiting, old friend. Oh, you did bring money, of course? ’
‘Of course.’
‘No matter. Your credit is good. Shalom.’ He chuckled again. ‘We say that often now, since we have made our peace with the Jews.’
‘Shalom,’ Carter replied with a laugh. Djabi had traded with Israel all through both wars. He, of all Egyptians, wanted peace with the Israelis. He often told Carter that it was sheer stupidity to kill one’s neighbors when a profit could be made from keeping them alive.
Carter walked back to the bar, finished his drink, paid, and left.
Outside in the car he opened a street map of Alexandria, checked his route, and with a last glance in the mirror drove north into the gathering dusk.
Peter Donahue walked into the casino room of the
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Cecil Hotel, idly stacking and restacking the chips in his hands. But gambling was the last thing on his mind.
Oh, yes, he would gamble, and he would probably lose. But wins or losses didn’t interest him.
The woman did. He had thought of nothing but her for the last twenty hours, since they had shared a drink the night before.
He had started out seated across from her at a “21” table. When she had moved to one of the baccarat tables, Donahue had followed.
She had drawn him like a magnet. He had taken the chair next to hers and absently placed a bet. Against all odds, he had won.
Later, around one in the morning when the tables had started to thin out, he had asked her to share a nightcap with him.
Much to his amazement, she had said yes.
She was the most enchanting woman he had ever met. Even when she had mentioned that she was married, Donahue had not been put off.
“May I see you again? Tomorrow?”
“But of course, Peter,” she had replied before stepping into her car. ‘I will be at the same baccarat table.’
He wound his way slowly through the roulette and “21” tables toward the high rollers’ area where the four tables, for chemin de fer and baccarat, waited.
And then he saw her. If anything she was more mysterious, desirable, and beautiful than he remembered.
Peter Donahue had known many beautiful women, but this one’s allure was deeper than mere beauty. Every movement of her body was sensuous, each motion of her hands as she placed her chips called attention to her utter femininity.
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She seemed to sense his approach and smiled knowingly up at him, barely revealing bright, even teeth through her full, sensuous lips.
“Good evening, monsieur. I thought that you might have had a change of mind.”
“Never. May I?”
“Of course.”
She made a three-quarter turn toward him and Peter Donahue felt blood rush to his face.
She was draped in loose folds of golden metallic netting. The mesh was so delicate and intricate that the initial impression was of an absence rather than the presence of cloth. This glittering gossamer was abundantly arrayed in overlapping layers to form a voluminous, transparent nongarment.
“I hope, Peter,” she murmured, leaning toward him, “that you can change my luck. The table, thus far, has been very cold.”
“I’ll try,” Donahue replied, barely managing to keep the tremor from his voice. “I will sincerely try.”
“Good,” she said, returning her concentration to the table.
As she moved, the soft rectangles in the material became distorted and a chain of barbaric necklaces jangled enticingly in front of her full breasts.
Donahue could not be sure if he was occasionally glimpsing the pinkness of nipples or not. He had a feeling that he probably was, and blood surged into his temples and his groin.
“Ah!” she cried suddenly, rocking back in her chair and clapping her hands. “We both win!”
“I have changed your luck.”
“For the better!” she said. “Come, we double our bet this time.”
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“Whatever you wish,” he mumbled, and leaned
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“Whatever you wish,” he mumbled, and leaned closer to her. “Do you know, I never even asked your name last night.”
“No? Well, what is a name?” She shrugged. “My name is Rami.”
The Killmaster parked two blocks from his destination in the little village just on the fringe of Alexandria. He got out of the car, took his briefcase, and locked the doors, all without haste.
Somewhere, someone was watching his progress. It was best not to hurry or make any sudden moves.
He looked up and down the village street. The old whitewashed houses and their red roofs glinted in the stark moonlight. It had once been *the* street in the suburbs populated by colonial British.
There was not a soul in sight. Carter’s heels, as he made his way along the street, echoed in the lonely night.
At the corner he looked up, over a tall wrought-iron wall. He could see flickering light shining from two of the upstairs windows where the curtains had been drawn. All the rest of the building was in darkness, silent like the street around him.
Carter glanced through the fence at the grounds. The few trees left were gnarled and neglected. Their fruit was rotting. A sandstone lane led up to the house. It had long ago lost its fight with weeds. On both sides of the lane, palms, oleander, and hibiscus bushes grew in junglelike profusion. The trunks of the trees were choked with vines. The smell of night-blooming flowers hung heavy in the still air.
He walked toward the rear of the estate and found a rusty but well-locked gate. He was about to put his
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“Whatever you wish,” he mumbled, and leaned closer to her. “Do you know, I never even asked your name last night.”
“No? Well, what is a name?” She shrugged. “My name is Rami.”
The Killmaster parked two blocks from his destination in the little village just on the fringe of Alexandria. He got out of the car, took his briefcase, and locked the doors, all without haste.
Somewhere, someone was watching his progress. It was best not to hurry or make any sudden moves.
He looked up and down the village street. The old whitewashed houses and their red roofs glinted in the stark moonlight. It had once been *the* street in the suburbs populated by colonial British.
There was not a soul in sight. Carter’s heels, as he made his way along the street, echoed in the lonely night.
At the corner he looked up, over a tall wrought-iron wall. He could see flickering light shining from two of the upstairs windows where the curtains had been drawn. All the rest of the building was in darkness, silent like the street around him.
Carter glanced through the fence at the grounds. The few trees left were gnarled and neglected. Their fruit was rotting. A sandstone lane led up to the house. It had long ago lost its fight with weeds. On both sides of the lane, palms, oleander, and hibiscus bushes grew in junglelike profusion. The trunks of the trees were choked with vines. The smell of night-blooming flowers hung heavy in the still air.
He walked toward the rear of the estate and found a rusty but well-locked gate. He was about to put his
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finger to the buzzer, when they appeared like ghosts from the shadows.
There were three of them, two inside the gate, one outside, right at Carter’s elbow. All of them had sawed-off shotguns slung over their shoulders and pistols stuck in the front of their belts.
“Identify yourself, quickly,” one hissed.
‘Carter. I have an appointment to see Abu Djabi.’
Without a word, the one beside him lifted Carter’s arms and patted him down while the other two unlocked and opened the gate. He was relieved of the briefcase and led through a foul-smelling arbor. At the end of it, an open door materialized.
One of the men took his briefcase and motioned Carter to follow. He was led up a flight of stairs and down a landing.
‘In here!’
Carter entered a room where only the bedding had been changed since the house had been built in mid-Victorian days.
‘Ah, my friend, what I can see of you has not changed since last we met!’
Carter had to blink several times in the dim light before he saw the huge bulk of Abu Djabi near the bed. He was perched on a special chair, not unlike a throne, that had been specially constructed to handle his four-hundred-pound bulk.
Wriggling on the huge man’s lap was a curvaceous blonde not more than eighteen.
‘I see you still prefer everything but your women old and musty.’
Djabi roared with laughter and ended up coughing.
‘One does not change what one is accustomed to.’
‘And the security?’
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NICK CARTER
‘Also an old habit. I doubt if anyone still wants to
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**NICK CARTER**
“Also an old habit. I doubt if anyone still wants to kill me, but habits die hard. Sit, sit. A brandy?”
“Scotch.”
“Scotch it is.” He flapped his enormous jowls at the man with the shotgun. The briefcase was placed close to Djabi’s hand and the man headed to a small bar.
“I must say, Carter, your call came at an excellent time. I grow old and bored sitting here waiting to die. Talk to me!”
Carter hesitated, inclining his head toward the girl.
“The girl speaks nothing but German.” Djabi shrugged. ‘I import them for my rich friends in Cairo.’
“Nevertheless . . .”
“Very well.” Djabi affectionately patted the blonde bottom and shoved her away, murmuring to her in German. She rolled from his lap, threw a glare at Carter, and jiggled from the room.
Carter accepted the proffered scotch and watched the man who had brought it fade into the shadows.
“He, of course, will have to stay,” Djabi said flatly.
“You mean, Abu, that after all this time you still do not trust me!”
Another roaring laugh. “Of course not, old friend. But your tally of kills is every bit as impressive as mine. I did not survive these many years because I trusted the human species . . . friend or foe. Now, tell me what is on your mind. I am hungry for intrigue!”
As the fat man leaned forward intently, his jowls spread in a wide smile, an odd thought crossed Carter’s mind.
This was the best Sidney Greenstreet imitation he had ever seen.
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**NICK CARTER**
“Also an old habit. I doubt if anyone still wants to kill me, but habits die hard. Sit, sit. A brandy?”
EIGHT
Amin Koulami replaced the telephone, a satisfied grin on his face. He reached for his cigarettes but paused when the door opened behind him.
Selwa Rojan stepped into the room.
“It’s done,” she whispered. “All eight of the mines are attached.”
“Excellent. That was Bahrain. Everything arrived safely and awaits us there.”
“Amin . . .”
Her voice was husky and her eyes were cloudy. Koulami smiled. He knew this mood; he could read it in all his women.
“You please me greatly, Selwa,” he murmured.
She stood facing him and took off her blouse. As the garment fell free, she put her hands under her breasts and lifted them toward him.
“Yes, Selwa . . . go on!”
She unzipped her slacks and let them drop to the floor. Amin let his robe slip from his shoulders and he moved toward her.
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Selwa’s hot black eyes looked at him with peculiar intensity, as if making a judgment. Then suddenly she slid her arms around his neck. Her beautiful, almost hard face tilted to his as she urged her lips forward. She crushed them against his, at the same time forcing her full breasts into his chest. She kissed him wildly, defiantly. It was a long, sensuous kiss, meant to inflame. At last she pulled away from him.
With a growl, Amin threw her across the bed. She began to hum softly. With another growl he covered her body with his, his lips whispering against her flesh. At the same time, he felt a second pair of hands caress his back. He looked up.
“Rami.”
She stood above them both, the same dull glitter in her eyes that he had seen in Selwa’s.
“Donahue?”
“He is like a child, a little boy.” She smiled. “We have a rendezvous tomorrow evening.”
“He agreed to the place?”
“Yes. I told him we must avoid my husband.”
Amin laughed. “Join us, Rami. We will celebrate together, the three of us.”
Seconds later, Rami Sherif was also nude. And soon after that, all three of them were entwined together on the bed.
The old Egyptian was smart and wily. Age had diminished neither his cunning nor his ability to bargain. It took three hours for Carter to settle on a deal.
Djabi’s contacts were more numerous than any police or military force. The three hundred photos of Rami Sherif, and the like number of composite drawings of
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Amin Koulami made up from Carter's memory, would go out all over Egypt in a matter of hours.
The Killmaster hoped that one of them would be spotted before they could put their plan—whatever it was—into high gear.
Also, word would go out from the old house in the Alexandria suburbs, and Carter would have three hundred beggars and thieves at his command should he need them.
Carter shared a last glass with the fat old thief, turned down an offer to rest the night in Djabi's harem, and returned to his car.
In Alexandria, he stopped and made a second phone call. His contact was Harlan Effredge, MI6. The phone was answered on the first ring, and the Killmaster was given directions to the safe house they had rented as base headquarters for the operation.
A half hour later, Carter found it in the old section of wealthy residences near the beach. It was still owned by a wealthy British shipowner, and had been commandeered for the occasion by MI6.
Effredge himself met Carter at the door and took his bag. He was led down a halfway lit by wall sconces that appeared to have been only recently converted to electricity. The hallway wound its way through the house until, at last, they entered what once must have been the library.
A fire had been laid to ward off the chill desert night. Effredge set Carter's bag by the fireplace and, without asking, fixed both of them drinks.
“Cheers,” he said, handing over one of the glasses.
“Let's hope so,” Carter replied, downing a third of the drink in one swallow. “Where are we?”
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The MI6 man eased himself into one of the large overstuffed chairs by the fireplace and assembled his thoughts.
“The Egyptians will cooperate, but, needless to say, they’re not happy about it. They still don’t have a lot of trust in their bones toward us Brits.”
Carter nodded his understanding. That was the major reason he had sought help from the old master thief, Abu Djabi. “How many do we have?”
“You, me, and two more of my people . . . Livingstone and Hart-Davis. I believe you’ve worked with Hart-Davis before.”
“Yeah, about a year ago, in London. Good man.”
“The whole party is staying at a villa called The Winds on Maamura Beach. It’s owned by a high-flying banker named Fawzi Quadhima. He’s from Bahrain. His wife’s name is Meila. She’s Egyptian, and they are both extremely wealthy.”
“Are they on the premises?”
“No, but they are flying in day after tomorrow when the scientists finish their meeting. I guess the fun and their holiday starts then.”
“How many people are staying at the villa?” Carter asked.
“Let’s see . . . Five brought their wives. Brussman is a widower, but his daughter is with him, and his associate. The Egyptians have insisted that they handle security at the villa.”
“So you and your people are relegated to organize-and-watch?”
Effredge shrugged. “That’s about it. Fawzi Quadhima has his own bullyboys. I must say, they are good, but, as you know, so is Koulami.”
Carter refreshed his drink and returned to the wel-
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come warmth of the fireplace. “Have you spoken to Brussman?”
“Yes, told him the whole story.”
“And?”
“And he considers it a bloody pain in the ass. This is the first holiday he’s had in years and he plans to enjoy it.”
“He doesn’t want watchdogs.”
“That’s about it,” the MI6 man replied. “But he’s getting them whether he likes it or not every time he leaves the villa. We’ve also got a man with the daughter.”
“Eliza, isn’t it?”
“Right. She’s a little more cautious, more than willing to accept the extra protection.”
“Have you pitched her about me?”
“I did. She’s willing to meet you and discuss it. She just doesn’t know if her father will buy the instant American boyfriend bit.”
“But she’s willing to try it?”
Effredge nodded and checked his watch. “You’re to meet her at the Neferet, a supper club.”
“I know it,” Carter replied, and moved to the tall windows. He gazed out at the twinkling lights of Alexandria and frowned in concentration. “What time?”
“About an hour. She’s having dinner with the assistant, Donahue.”
“What about him?”
“We don’t have anybody on him, if that’s what you mean. He’s more a social secretary for Brussman than anything else, and not privy to any official secrets or the old man’s work.”
“How close are he and the daughter?”
“Not very. Donahue acts as her escort now and then.
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She and the old man are close to him, but Donahue is a bit of a playboy on his own time.”
“Just had a thought,” Carter said, moving back to the fireplace and standing over the other man.
“Yes?”
“What if it isn’t Brussman? What if it’s someone else?”
“We’ve thought of that. It’s not likely. Brussman has the expertise in several fields Koulami needs if he wants to build both a bomb and a reactor. The others don’t. Besides, Nick, covering Brussman and the daughter is one hell of a job. Putting a blanket over all of them would be damned close to impossible under these conditions.”
“Yeah,” Carter growled. “Why in hell did they have to hold their little soiree in the Middle East?”
“Quadhima is big on nuclear power for peace. He sponsored it.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better move if you’re going to meet the lady.”
Carter nodded and headed for the door. He was halfway down the hall when the phone in the room he had just left started ringing.
A sixth sense made him pause and wait. Two seconds later, Effredge stuck his head through the door.
“Nick, for you!”
If it wasn’t Washington, it could only be one person.
“Carter here.”
“A croupier at the Cecil Hotel casino thinks he may have spotted your woman this evening,” Abu Djabi replied.
“That’s fast work.”
Djabi wheezed out a laugh. “That’s why you came to me, my friend. His name is Hashan. His shift ends just before midnight. Where do you want to meet him?”
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Carter went over Alexandria in his mind. “The Mockdar.”
“Agreed.”
The phone went dead in Carter’s ear.
“Something?”
“Let’s hope so,” Carter replied, and headed for the door.
The Neferet was a quaint little place sitting on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. From the road it was almost hidden in a grove of trees.
Carter handed his keys to one of Ali Baba’s thieves and entered the bar. He spotted Jonathan Hart-Davis at the bar and slipped onto the stool beside him.
“Jon.”
“Nick. Welcome to the circus.”
“Effredge clued me in. Brussman and daughter don’t like company.”
Hart-Davis shrugged and sipped his drink. “The old man’s a pain. The daughter’s not so bad, but she does what he says.”
“Where is she?”
“In the dining room. You can’t miss her.”
“Peter Donahue with her?”
“No, he slipped away right after dinner. He’s probably at the Cecil, gambling.”
“I’ll take her for the rest of the night if you want a break.”
“Appreciated.”
Carter took his drink and ambled into the dining room. There were only three single women. One was a dowager, another a mousy schoolteacher type who looked as though she wished she had never left her classroom.
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Eliza Brussman was easy to spot.
Carter had somehow expected a long-legged blonde with flaring nostrils and haughty porcelain features and cold blue eyes.
She was quite the opposite, with chestnut brown hair worn short and warm hazel eyes. Her features weren't refined, but she had her own beautiful, very natural sort of charm, with a turned-up nose that was slightly broad in an almost completely round face.
Carter was nearly to the table when he sensed his presence and turned to face him.
“Eliza Brussman?”
“Yes?”
Her lips were full, sensuous, and she had a tiny cleft in her chin. Her eyes were large and expressive, possessing a sort of innocence that belied her earthy nature.
Her smile was genuine as she offered her hand. He took it, and was surprised at its firmness.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Carter. Do sit down.”
The Killmaster glanced around. The tables near them were filling up for the late show. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss this on the terrace.”
“Of course,” she said easily, and stood.
Her voice had a sexual huskiness to it that didn't fit the face or the wide smile. It did fit the rest of her.
She was tall, at least five-nine, and wore a moss green raw silk suit, the jacket thrust open by high breasts beneath a beige blouse.
“Are we surrounded by terrorists?” she asked, taking his arm and letting a glint of amusement flash into her eyes.
“We might be,” he replied without humor.
The terrace was empty. Carter stopped at the rail, set
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his drink down, and lit a cigarette. She shook her head when he offered her one.
“Quite a view,” she said.
The terrace seemed to hang on the edge of the cliff. There was a hundred-foot drop to the water below.
“Be a nice place to commit suicide.”
She looked at him sharply but saw only coldness in his eyes and a bland grin.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s what your father may be doing if he doesn’t cooperate with us.”
Her shoulders sagged and the amusement left her eyes. “I’ve tried to talk to him.”
“But he won’t listen?”
“No. Perhaps if you—”
“No, I would rather he didn’t know who I am.” He fished in his pocket and handed her a cable. “You received this earlier this evening. I arrive on the noon flight tomorrow. You met me in New York when you were there two months ago. We had a brief fling and you very much want to reignite the flame. That’s why you would like to invite me to stay at the villa.”
Only the corners of her mouth curled in a smile. “Do you think my father will buy this?”
“I think so. You’re thirty-two. You’ve been married and divorced twice. Since your last divorce two years ago, you have had several affairs, two of them quite torrid. I think he’ll accept it.”
Her face flushed. “My God, you’ve been spying on me!”
“Not really. Your life is a fairly open book and you haven’t exactly tried to hide anything.”
The smile broadened as she took in his tall, muscular frame and the scarred, darkly tanned features.
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“Father might accept you at that. I’m sure you would appeal to him more than the men I’ve picked thus far.” Suddenly her eyes narrowed and the smile dropped away. “Now, suppose you tell me everything. Effredge just said we were in danger of being kidnapped. He really wouldn’t say why.”
Carter hesitated, studying her. It was a professional appraisal, and he approved of what he saw. The suddenly tight clasp of her hands, the nervous look in her eyes, the firm set of her mouth. Sincerity.
“All right, perhaps you should know it all.” It took him nearly twenty minutes to bring her completely up to date. He left nothing out, including Allad Khopar’s assassination, the thefts of the nuclear materials, and the cold-blooded killing of the woman in Paris by Koulami to save himself.
By the time he had finished, Eliza’s face was white and Carter had little doubt that she would cooperate. “My God, why didn’t Effredge tell us this in the first place?” she gasped.
“He did tell your father. And he was told by your father not to alarm you.”
“I’ll do anything you ask.” “Good. At breakfast, notify everyone of my arrival. Do it rather breathlessly, as if you can’t wait.” He glanced at his watch. It was eleven-fifteen. “Right now I’m taking you home.”
“But it’s early . . . all right.”
The sudden meekness was no act. Carter was sure of it. Eliza Brussman was scared.
In the rented Cortina, he drove in silence for several minutes. When he was away from the city and on the coast road, he finally spoke.
“Why did your escort leave you alone tonight?”
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“Peter?”
“Yes.”
“The casino. He loves to gamble. And I think he’s met a woman.” Here she laughed, “He usually does, wherever he goes. Peter is a very sexual person.”
Anything between the two of you?”
None of your business.”
The hell it isn’t,” he snapped. “Everything is my business now.”
She pouted, but spoke at last. “Nothing. Peter has been with my father for years. We’re more like brother and sister. I care for him a great deal, as does my father, but that is as far as it goes. Besides, he’s not really my type.”
Carter chuckled. “What is your type?”
Her laugh in reply was low and throaty. “Maybe I’ll let you know before all this is over.”
Carter let her off at the gates of the villa, made sure she was safely inside, and headed back to Alexandria.
At five minutes before twelve he parked across from the Mockdar. Carter had been there before, several times. The first floor was a seedy club that closed every morning at dawn for an hour to be swept out. The three floors above it held an opulent brothel.
Besides catering to gentlemen who were looking for ladies of the evening, the club drew all the bartenders from the other clubs, croupiers and dealers from the casinos, and women who would rather free-lance than live in.
Midnight was the magic hour. The front bar was crowded, keeping three bartenders and twice as many scantily clad waitresses busy. Near the stairs leading to the upper floors, a stony-faced madam checked anyone coming through the door as a potential customer.
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She took one quick look at Carter and glanced away.
The Killmaster entered the rear room and squinted through the smoke until he could make out faces. He was pretty sure he spotted his man in the last booth near the wall.
Their eyes met as Carter approached. Thieves have a look the world over. Even in a tuxedo with a frilly shirt and perfectly manicured nails, this one had the look.
“Hashan?”
“Yes.”
“I am Carter. Abu tells me you have good eyes.”
“Sit.”
Carter slid into the booth and ordered local beer. They made small talk until it came and the waitress had retreated. Then the little Egyptian leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“The woman in the picture—I have seen her the last two nights at the casino.”
“The Cecil?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I, myself, took her reservation tonight for a chair at the baccarat table.”
“In what name?”
He fished a piece of paper from his pocket. “Monique Hoseini. The name checked against her passport.”
“What local address did she list on her casino entrance card?”
“The Sheraton,” Hashan replied. “I called to check. They have no one by that name registered. But that is not unusual. A married woman comes to the casino to gamble or meet men, she does not want her husband to
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know where she is. It happens often.
“Was this woman alone?”
“Yes, both last night and tonight. But she flirted with many men at the table.”
“Did anyone leave with her?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Carter thought for a moment. “Did she make a table reservation for tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
“You have done well, Hashan,” Carter replied, squeezing five hundred pounds into the man’s hand beneath the table.
Carter dropped another bill on the table to cover the drinks, and left.
Amin Koulami held the acrid smoke from the hashish pipe deep in his lungs until his head began to swim. Then he expelled it slowly while he ran his hands over the naked bodies at his side.
In no time the smoke took effect. He was about to awaken one of the women, when the telephone near his head buzzed.
“Yes?”
“It is Achmed.”
“Yes, my friend, what is it?”
“The woman’s bodyguard was changed tonight at the Neferet restaurant. I overheard a little of his talk at the bar. He is an American.”
“What? Are you sure?” Koulami exclaimed.
“Yes, Amin, I am sure of it.”
Koulami expelled air from his lungs to clear his head.
“I suppose it is natural that they would add an American to the team watching the scientists.”
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“I disagree, Amin. I think they suspect something. They are guarding only Brussman and his daughter, I’m sure of it.”
“Nonsense, my friend. How could they possibly know? No, this guard is a natural precaution with men of such vast knowledge in a foreign country.”
“I am not so sure. We followed—”
“Dammit, Achmed, what have I told you? Stay inconspicuous! The plan is foolproof—follow it!”
“Yes, Amin.”
“Good night, Achmed.”
Amin Koulami dropped the phone back to its cradle and took a long drag on his pipe. Then he turned on his side.
“Rami . . .” he rasped huskily.
The woman groaned and fluttered her eyes. “Yes?”
“Turn over on your stomach, little one.”
Achmed Boudia returned to the car where Ja’lil, his brother, awaited him.
“Well?!”
“He says do nothing,” Achmed grunted. “We are merely to observe.”
Ja’il shrugged and flipped his cigarette from the window. “He is the boss.”
“I know, but the presence of the American bothers me.”
“Perhaps he is an old friend.”
“I don’t think so. After he talked at the bar with the Englishman, he alone remained with the girl. And why are they watching only Brussman and his daughter? Why not the others and their wives?”
“Achmed, you are an old woman,” Ja’il sighed.
“Two more days and it will be done. Besides, Amin’s
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plan is so thorough that even if the British knew what we wanted, they would be confused.
“I’m not so sure . . . the American—”
“Achmed, please. Let us return to the hotel. We have put everyone else to bed, now let us go to bed ourselves.”
“Is the one in the tuxedo still in there?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“We’ll wait for him.”
Hashan, the little Cecil Hotel casino croupier, gave Carter a full twenty minutes before he left the Mockdar himself. Outside, he shunned a taxi and walked the few blocks to his apartment.
In the basement of his building was an all-night café that served hot lamb on skewers just off the fire and potent Egyptian wine. It was Hashan’s habit to stop in this place every evening after work. He would eat and drink until the wee hours. This served two purposes. He made contacts for his other vocation—that of thief—and he didn’t have to go home when his nagging wife was still awake.
He saw no reason to break his habit this night.
“Achmed, it has been two hours. He is in there for the night. Let us go . . .”
“No. I’m going in after him. Get ready to drive!”
“Brother, you are a fool. Amin will peel the skin from both our butts.”
“Not if I am right about the American. He met this one at the Mockdar for a reason. I want to know why.”
Achmed stepped from the car and walked across the street, closing his ears to his brother’s exhortations to come back.
---
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NICK CARTER
When Achmed entered the room he had to pause to let his eyes adjust. The air was heavy with smoke, and there was the sharp odor of hashish and incense.
He saw his quarry at a table at the very end of the bar with his back against the wall. Achmed edged along the bar and sat at the next table.
There were three men at the bar and about a half-dozen men at tables in the center of the room.
All talk stopped when Achmed entered. He saw instantly why. These were men of the night and this was the hole they crawled into. They were thieves, pickpockets, and probably murderers. Achmed had been in places just like this all over the world.
A monster with a shaved head and flowing black mustache and wiping his hands on a filthy apron leaned over the bar and stared into Achmed's face without speaking.
“'Neski,'” Achmed said. The glass of potent wine was poured and served. He drank it in one swallow, didn't grimace, and set the glass on the table for a refill. “'Tura gives a man a terrible thirst.'"
At the mention of the dreaded desert prison outside Cairo, the men returned to their drinks and conversation.
Achmed sipped his neski and glanced now and then at the man in the tuxedo near him. He had obviously been drinking heavily, and from the hooded eyes Achmed guessed he had also been smoking as much.
“'Tura?'” the man suddenly exclaimed, opening one eye.
"Yes," Achmed said, nodding.
"How long?"
"Two years . . . of hell."
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“Even Allah could not help one survive Tura. I was in there for three years.”
“Hell.”
“Yes, hell. I am Hashan.”
‘Murzuk,’ Achmed lied. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I would prefer a pipe.”
“Of course.”
The minutes dragged out until nearly an hour had passed. Achmed was an impatient man. Also, if he waited too much longer, the man called Hashan would pass out and it would take hours to revive him enough for interrogation.
Achmed decided to take a drastic measure.
‘Are you awake, my friend?’
“Of course,” Hashan slurred.
“Then you know that this is a large-caliber pistol in your belly. I want you to get up and walk just in front of me to the door. When we get there, you will turn and bid good night to your friends. Nod if you understand.”
Sweat had popped out in little bubbles all over Hashan’s face. He nodded, gasping for breath, and slid from the chair, “Why . . .”
“Just do as I tell you,” Achmed said, falling in behind him.
They were just passing the middle of the bar when Hashan whirled. He tried to drive his stiffened fingers into Achmed’s throat, but the blow was easily avoided.
The bartender glimpsed the gun and came over the bar in a lunge. Achmed brought the barrel of the big revolver in an arc, down across the man’s wrist. The bones exploded in popping sounds, and Achmed grabbed Hashan’s arms. He wrenched them up behind the little man’s back and shoved him toward the door.
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It took a few seconds before a look of realization and pain flashed across the bartender's face. Then he started screaming obscenities and, broken wrist and all, lunged over the bar at Achmed.
Achmed had almost wrestled Hashan to the door when the hairless giant caught up with them.
"You are not police! Where do you take my friend?"
Achmed said nothing. He buried his foot in the man's groin, dropping him instantly.
The other men in the bar had been watching in a state of frozen amazement. It all happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that not one of them moved until the bartender went down. As Achmed dashed into the street, forcefully guiding Hashan, they all ran for the door. But it was effectively blocked by the body of the moaning bartender attempting to rise.
Ja'il saw his brother and the man in the tuxedo. Instantly the car's engine roared to life and the big auto lurched ahead. Coming even with the dim lights from the interior, Ja'il threw open the passenger door so that Achmed didn't have to hesitate as he shoved the little croupier into the rear seat.
"Drive!" Achmed cried, slamming the door behind him.
Ja'il gunned the powerful automobile down the street and around the corner as the men poured from the bar. "What in God's name do you want?" Hashan cried.
"Answers to questions . . . lots of questions," Achmed hissed.
"Where to, brother?" Ja'il asked from the front seat.
"The desert. Drive far out into the desert," Achmed replied, and turned back to the man beneath him. "You met a man tonight . . . an American. I want his name.
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And I want to know of what you talked.
“Nothing, I know nothing!” Hashan replied, twisting his body, trying to heave Achmed’s enormous bulk from him.
“You are a thief, a petty thief, little man. Who was the American, and what did he want with you?”
“Nothing, I tell you—”
Hashan’s words were throttled in his throat and finally erupted in an agonized scream as Achmed’s powerful grip closed around his testicles.
“‘No! My God, no! No!’” The little man shrieked in pain, tears streaming at once from his popping eyes.
“Who was the man, the American!”
“I tell you—”
“Who!” Achmed hissed, leaning his face close to the other man’s and violently squeezing and twisting.
“Carter! The man’s name is Carter! He was sent to me by Abu Djabi.”
“Good,” Achmed replied, squeezing even harder. “Now you’ll tell me everything, won’t you, little man?”
“Yes, yes! Everything!”
NINE
Eliza Brussman welcomed Carter with open arms and parted lips as he stepped from the cab.
“Good,” he whispered, “very good.”
“I always thought I would make a great actress,” she replied, tickling his earlobe with the tip of her tongue.
“Come meet Daddy!”
Daddy turned out to be a little man with hawklike eyes behind thick glasses, rumpled clothes, and stooped shoulders.
In a brief verbal exchange he managed to let Carter know that he didn’t approve of him, didn’t much approve of *any* of Eliza’s friends—particularly male—and considered the American a party crasher.
When those feelings were firmly established, the old man wandered off without so much as a fare-thee-well.
“Well, what do you think?” Eliza said with a chuckle, turning to Carter.
“I think your father has a bad ulcer that gives him a perpetually rotten disposition.”
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“Chalk it up to genius.” She shrugged. “You have to get used to him.”
“I’d rather get used to you.”
Her laugh was high and clear, and it came as much from her eyes and face as it did from her throat. “We’ll work on that later. Now, come along and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the menagerie.”
The next hour was spent in small talk meeting the other scientists and their wives. Carter forgot the names and most of the faces immediately after moving on to the next couple. He was much more attuned to the Egyptian security people, Quadhima’s roving bodyguards, and the servants.
Eventually he was able to tug Eliza away from the others. “Were you able to discreetly ask around among the servants?”
She nodded. “Every one of them has been on the staff for years. No one has been hired in the last few weeks.”
“Damn, that takes care of that theory,” he grumbled. “What’s the agenda?”
“Another ‘think tank’ discussion this afternoon, dinner tonight. That’s about it for today.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Quadhima and his wife arrive in the morning. Around ten, my father and the others will meet with him to discuss their findings and recommendations for a Mideast nuclear peace foundation. The afternoon is free, and then a farewell dinner on the yacht.”
Carter mulled this over. “Is that it?”
Eliza shrugged and nodded. “Day after tomorrow, the holiday begins.”
“That’s the sightseeing trip to Cairo and down the Nile?”
110 NICK CARTER
“‘No.’
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Carter asked, little alarm bells going off in the back of his head.
“My father can’t resist mixing business with pleasure. He has accepted Quadhima’s offer to cruise through the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, and around the Gulf of Aden into the Persian Gulf.”
“To Bahrain?!”
She nodded. “‘They will inspect the site Quadhima has picked out for the foundation. That has been the plan all along.’”
“Your father wasn’t going to Cairo?”
“No, just Peter and I.”.
“I see.”
Carter excused himself and roamed the estate. He checked the perimeter of the grounds around the villa and the complex of buildings themselves.
Everything was secure. Nothing short of an armed raiding party could get to Josef Brussman here. And Carter was fairly sure that Koulami was not suicidal enough to try that.
He found the yacht equally secure, with armed guards on the decks at all times. Disgruntled, he drifted down to the main salon. It was all polished teak and mahogany, with gilt mirrors, sparkling chandeliers, and gleaming brass.
A full bar covered one entire bulkhead. He was about to fix himself a drink, when he sensed that he wasn’t alone.
“May I join you?”
He was tall and angular, with a well-toned body beneath casual clothes. His eyes were the blackest Carter had ever seen. As Carter stared into them, he felt he was looking right through the pupils into the man’s
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soul... and it wasn't there.
“I am Mohamed Najjar, head of the Egyptian security team.”
Carter shook his hand. “Nick Carter. I—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Carter, and I welcome you. But I must warn you that I and my men have the authority here.”
Carter shrugged. “Drink?”
“I don’t drink.”
“I do.” He poured a half tumbler of scotch and dropped a single cube into it. He saluted the other man and sipped. “I admire your security setup here. It’s good.”
“Thank you.”
“What happens when the party’s over? When they sail?”
“Then it is out of my hands. I would assure you that Quadhima’s people are excellent. Besides the three trained bodyguards, all five members of the Darvais Pride’s crew are adept at protecting their master’s life.”
“Then neither of us has anything to worry about, do we?” Carter said drily.
“Nothing.”
Carter disliked this man intensely, but he sensed his strength and his ability. So far he had seen nothing, not a single crack through which Koulami could slip.
Maybe the Iranian terrorist had bitten off more than he could chew. Kidnapping Brussman at the villa or in Alexandria was impossible. Hijacking a heavily armed yacht with trained antiterrorist agents on board would be equally impossible.
Maybe Koulami would pass and look for an easier target.
That would let Carter off the hook for the meantime.
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NICK CARTER
But it would still leave him with the problem of recovering the plutonium and nuclear fuel that had been stolen.
And without Brussman as bait to draw Koulami into the open, that would be a major undertaking.
Najjar was speaking again, ‘You must understand, Carter, that this situation is a matter of pride to my government. We must establish the fact that we can protect ourselves and any visitors against terrorists.’
‘Of course.’ Carter finished his drink and moved around from behind the bar. ‘A supposition.’
‘Yes?’
‘If Koulami does try it, and you get him, what then?’
‘He would be tried according to Islamic and Egyptian law.’
Carter nodded and smiled sardonically. ‘I thought so. Good day, Mohamed Najjar.’
The Killmaster stepped out onto the deck into the sun.
If, he thought, I get to Koulami first, he will be tried according to Carter’s law.
Eliza Brussman dressed carefully for dinner. She paid extra special attention to her hair and her makeup. She was going over her eyes for the fourth time, when it suddenly struck her how much this American, Carter, was affecting her.
They had spent almost the whole afternoon by the pool together. When he finally relaxed, she found him charming and witty.
There had been a trio playing by the pool for afternoon tea. Eliza had practically forced him to dance with her. Carefully, she had turned the conversation to Cairo.
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“My father will be well guarded on Quadhima’s yacht, won’t he?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“But I will need someone with me in Cairo.”
“I’ve thought of that. If they can’t get to your father, then it would figure you would be the next best target.”
“Then you’ll come to Cairo with Peter and myself?” Carter laughed. “I think you’re taking all this much too lightly.”
“Not at all. Quite the contrary. I’m taking it all very seriously.”
She smiled and allowed him to tug her body closer to his. The movement and his proximity affected her at once. There was a sauveness and a Continental polish about this big man, but Eliza sensed a raw power beneath his civilized exterior that sent an odd surge through her body.
He was handsome in a rough sort of way, with blunt, chiseled features and a lopsided grin. His hair was almost black with flecks of gray, and his dark eyes when they openly appraised her alternated between a soft warmth and a look of steel.
Such had always been the case with Eliza. She could tell, almost at first glance, if a man interested her or turned her off. There was a sensual, animal quality combined with a gentle warmth in Nick Carter that definitely attracted her.
She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Tonight she would find out just how much he attracted her.
A light tap on the door brought her mind back to the room.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Peter. Are you decent?”
“No, but come in anyway.”
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She wore only a loosely tied robe with nothing beneath it, but with Peter it made little difference.
“Make excuses for me tonight, will you, luv?”
“Peter . . .”
“Don’t worry. And don’t worry if you don’t see me in the morning.”
A frown creased Eliza’s brow. ‘Is she married?’
“Yes,” he laughed, “so we have to be very discreet.” Eliza shook her head. “One day you’ll be shot by a jealous husband.”
“Never. I am too careful, my sweet!” He pecked her on the cheek and was gone.
A half hour later one of the maids bustled in with a note.
It was from Carter.
“Make my excuses for missing dinner. Sorry, business. N.”
“Damn!” she hissed, thinking how boring the coming evening was going to be listening to one of her father’s colleagues, or worse, one of their wives.
Carter had taken a table in the shadows of the mezzanine floor. From there he could see all of the huge room below. Both baccarat tables were directly in his line of sight.
Outside, Harlan Effredge and Jon Hart-Davis were set in separate cars.
But the woman had not shown. Her reserved seat at the number two table had long ago been given up to a paunchy man who appeared too drunk to even ascertain if he were winning or losing.
Carter had been there for three hours. Nothing.
Now it was nearly midnight, and he was almost positive that she wouldn’t show.
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Carter had spoken to two of the other croupiers, inquiring about Hashan. He hadn’t yet shown up for work, but that wasn’t unusual. Hashan had other interests that he often took evenings off to pursue.
The Killmaster could guess what those “other interests” were. Some wealthy woman in one of the posh hotels would wake up in the morning without her jewelry.
“Would you care for another drink, sir?”
“No. The check, please.”
Carter paid it and made his way through the main room to the lobby. Effredge was lounging by the huge glass doors, smoking.
“Nada,” Carter said.
Nothing out here, either. Maybe your man was wrong.
Could be, but he didn’t show up tonight.
Effredge chuckled. “That’s not surprising, once you told me who it was.”
The MI6 man had been openly dubious when Carter had finally told him about bringing Abu Djabi into the game.
“We might as well knock it off for the night. I’ll see you in the morning at the villa. Between the two of us, maybe we can convince Quadhima to let you make the cruise to Bahrain.”
Effredge’s lips tightened. “If we can’t, I’ll just have to pull rank and escort Brussman back to England on the Queen’s command. That he can’t say no to.”
Carter wasn’t so sure of that. Josef Brussman definitely had a mind of his own.
The two men said their good-byes and Carter made his way through the parking lot to the rented Cortina.
• • •
116 NICK CARTER
Rami's chauffeur had picked Peter Donahue up in the Cecil Hotel's parking lot. He was whisked to a section of Alexandria he had never seen before. But he could have cared less.
He was ushered into an old colonial house from an enclosed courtyard, and she was waiting, standing near a candlelit table set for two.
“'What about your chauffeur?'”
“He is no problem. I, not my husband, pay his salary.”
“'Where are we?'”
‘’Does it matter?’” she said, leading him to the table.
“No, not at all,” he murmured huskily.
She had mesmerized him. The dinner was delicious, though he couldn't wait for it to be finished. Over brandy and strong Egyptian coffee, she made small talk.
Peter Donahue fidgeted.
“You are impatient, my love,” she teased, a slow smile curving her provocative lips.
“'Does it show so much?'” he asked, blushing.
“Yes. But, it is quite flattering. Come, follow me!”
She didn't have to ask twice. He eagerly followed her up a long, curving staircase, down a hall, and into a bedroom. Along the way, Peter Donahue hardly noticed the cobwebs clinging to the ceilings, the dust or the absence of pictures or tapestries on the wall or carpets on the floor.
All his thoughts were on the beguiling woman who led him like a spider into a web.
The bedroom was outrageously primed for his arrival. It was appropriately darkened, a low-banked fire in the fireplace, the only other light provided by strategically scattered candles in the gloom. The drapes were
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partially opened, and below them Alexandria twirled
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partially opened, and below them Alexandria twinkled and breathed.
More brandy was ready at the glass bar, and the cassette recorder, continually winding its way through a ninety-minute tape, droned out soft, romantic music.
An even more conducive invitation to erotic delights was the unique gown that Rami had chosen. It was a pale pink creation of some diaphanous fabric that covered her body from neck to toes. But it didn’t really cover at all, for standing against the light, her naked body was silhouetted perfectly through its loose, flowing folds. Taken head on, when the firelight flared more brightly, the nipples of her breasts were plainly visible through a barely existent bra.
A sash tied at the waist gave the gown a nipped-in trimness. With her hair pinned back, barefoot as she was, she seemed almost innocent and fragile.
“This is very dangerous, what we do,” she breathed.
“My husband is very rich and powerful.”
“Any danger is worth having you,” Donahue rasped, sweat soaking his clothing.
Undoing her gown, Rami wiggled her lush body until the garment lay in a heap at her feet like a pink cloud. She stepped out of it, then she took a deep breath and removed the pins from her hair. When it was loose, she shook her head so the thick curls cascaded sensually down around her shoulders and breasts.
She stood like that for a moment, letting his eyes drink in the perfection of her body. Then she breathed deeply, sending the globes of her breasts in twin bulges above the bra. The valley between them was warmly inviting to a kiss or a caress. The nipples had hardened and pushed against the bra’s delicate fabric.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” Peter hissed hotly.
118 NICK CARTER
The woman smiled and unhooked the bra and slid it slowly outward over her breasts. They seemed to swell and extend, following the lacy fabric as it came off, until they stood firm, without any sag at all, far in front of her body. Then she reached for her panties.
“Let me,” Donahue gasped, kneeling before her.
He was so enraptured as the panties rolled down over her thighs that he hardly felt the biting sting in his neck just behind his right ear.
As the cloud of darkness swam over him, he tried to rise. In so doing, he turned and saw the man in the doorway . . . a short, swarthy man with a pencil-thin moustache across his upper lip.
The husband, Donahue thought. Oh, my God, the husband!
And then he passed out.
“You really didn’t need to go that far, little one.”
Rami Sherif shrugged as she got back into her clothes.
“You said you wanted no marks on him. Besides, I enjoyed it.”
Amin Koulami sighed and smiled. “I know you did . . . you always do.”
“Carter?”
“He is being taken care of at this very moment.”
Twenty minutes later, Peter Donahue was in the rear of an ambulance heading south toward Cairo.
118 NICK CARTER
ГЛАВА ДЕСЯТАЯ 10
At that hour the coast road was nearly deserted. Carter drove fast, confident of the little car.
He was halfway to the villa before he spotted the headlights behind him coming up fast... too fast.
He cursed his wandering mind. There were too many thoughts that had crowded out caution.
After two nights at the casino, why would Rami Sherif not show up tonight?
Why hadn't Hashan not shown up for work?
Why hadn't Effredge and MI6 been told that, after leaving the villa, Brussman was cruising to Bahrain instead of going to Cairo?
But now there was no time to reason. A second pair of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. They passed the first car and came on strong. It was a big French Citroen. Out of the corner of his eye, Carter could spot just one occupant, the driver.
The Citroen was halfway around Carter's Cortina when the first car nudged his rear bumper. It was a pincer movement and they were pulling it off.
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The machine crowding his ass was an old Mercedes, probably built like a tank. There were two men in the front seat, and Carter could spot the barrel of a sub-machine gun in front of the passenger's face.
Another bounce from the one in the back and the Citroen started squeezing him. Their intent was obvious. At the right time the Citroen would do a brodie in front of him while the old Mercedes crimped him from behind. When that was accomplished, all three would make Swiss cheese out of him and the Cortina.
Ahead lay a two-mile stretch of narrow, twisting, downhill road. It was the most dangerous hunk of concrete between Alexandria and Maamura Beach.
Koulami's hot dogs, if that was who they were, had chosen well.
Metal screamed as the maneuvering began. Carter held his own through the first turn and accelerated into the next.
It was eerie, hearing the sound of so many tires squealing in the otherwise quiet night. Then all three of them were drifting into the final hairpin turn that led to the straight stretch down to the beach. It was 120 degrees to the right and sloped 35 degrees up the last hill.
Halfway into it, the sound of metal grinding against metal drowned out the squeal of tires.
If they are going to move, Carter thought, this is where they'll do it.
He was right.
As they thundered out of the last turn, the guy in the Citroen poured the coals to the big black machine. Carter shifted down for pickup, then back into fourth for speed. His foot felt as if it were caving in the floorboard, but it did little good. The Citroen was just too powerful.
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A hundred yards into the straight stretch, the driver of the Citroen slammed on his brakes and lurched into a sideways skid.
Behind Carter, the Mercedes was slowing, waiting for Carter’s move.
There were few agreeable options. He could slam into the side of the Citroen and probably put his own head through the Cortina’s windshield. He could veer to the right and take a bath in the ocean seventy or so feet below. Or he could go left, climb the embankment, and hope the little car didn’t roll on him.
One hell of a short choice.
Arms, feet, and head all worked at once.
He downshifted, braked, and cranked the wheel left. When he felt the Cortina’s nose go up he hit the gas again, full.
The little car climbed gallantly. But about halfway up the embankment the rear wheels lost traction. The car began to backslide. As it did, it turned sideways.
Carter felt the tilt, waited until the last minute, and then dived out the door.
The Cortina went over as Carter hit the ground and clawed for a handful among the desert scrub and rocks.
Below him, all three shooters were out of their cars and peppering the Cortina as it rolled.
The submachine gun was chattering from somewhere close behind the Mercedes. It was joined by the sharp crack of a rifle. The Citroen driver was leveling a magnum over the car’s roof, pouring slugs through the Cortina’s windshield where Carter should have been.
It was the Citroen man who first spotted Carter.
‘He’s out . . . there on the hill!’
The Killmaster had been trying to reach the top of the
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122 . . . NICK CARTER
embankment. Being spotted killed that. He dropped to his belly and filled both hands with Wilhelmina.
Two quick shots creased the Citroen's roof, but the shooter had already rolled away.
The submachine gun chattered, sending rock chips and dirt all over Carter's shoulders. He took two rolls to his right and got himself behind some low rocks. They weren't much, but, combined with the darkness, would give him breathing time.
Suddenly there was silence . . . or almost silence.
Far to his right he could hear the sliding, crunching sounds of someone going up the embankment. The second one from the Mercedes was trying to flank him.
Carter chanced a quick look. He could see movement to the rear of the Citroen. A quick shot stopped it, but instantly the machine gun started chattering again, the slugs coming all too close.
When the chatter gun fell quiet, Carter rolled to his back and listened. His straining ears could hear the movement directly above him on the brow of the embankment. He balanced the Luger on his knees and waited.
"Hafiz?!" came a voice from below.
"Yes, now!"
The man called Hafiz stood. He fired wildly at the rocks near Carter. For a brief second his body was outlined against the night sky.
In that time Carter pumped two slugs into his chest. There was a gargled scream and the body went sailing down the embankment.
It was the confusion the Killmaster needed.
Both shooters below started firing at the tumbling body. Carter rolled up to his knees and concentrated on
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the orange flame spurring from the end of the chatter gun.
He aimed above it slightly to the right, and squeezed off the rest of the clip.
The man spun like a top and fell facedown over the hood of the Mercedes.
Carter was on his feet instantly, running in a crouch along the embankment. As he moved he jacked a new clip into the Luger.
He had moved barely in time to avoid a stream of slugs that tore up the earth where he had been a few seconds earlier.
Carter ran hard for twenty yards and then dropped to the road. Silently, in a crouch, he came back until the Mercedes was between him and the last man.
“Stalemate, bastard!” Carter shouted.
The magnum barked, but the slug was several feet to his right, wild.
Carter crawled forward. The machine gun lay where it had fallen near the left front tire of the Mercedes. Still hidden behind the tire and fender, Carter inched his hand forward until his fingers closed over the barrel.
Gingerly but quietly, he pulled it to him.
Now, you bastard, Carter thought, I’ve got the firepower.
He crawled around the Mercedes and was coming up on the other side when suddenly the Citroën’s engine roared to life. The car backed around and the headlights came on, bathing Carter in their glare.
There was no hesitation. He sprayed the headlights and the radiator and then the windshield.
The man was out of the car in an instant and lurching up the embankment.
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Carter fired a burst just as he hit the top, and heard a howl of pain. The man was hit but kept on going.
Carter followed him, staying low. At the top he saw that his quarry had already tumbled down the other side. Now he was limping toward a stand of scrub trees, dragging his right leg.
Carter followed him, firing at the man's legs as he ran.
There was another scream of pain. The man stopped and whirled. A torrent of slugs erupted from the muzzle of his gun. But he was unable to sight, and the slugs went wild. The magnum clicked on empty as the man lost his footing and went down.
Carter approached him quickly but alertly. He had already experienced the suicidal style of Koulami's people. As long as this man was breathing, he was dangerous.
He was lying on his side with one hand slipped inside his jacket over his chest. A dark stain covered his wrist and the exposed area of his shirt. The magnum lay where it had fallen a few paces away.
The man's dark eyes looked steadily up as Carter drew near him.
"Where is Koulami?"
"'Fuck you.' It was only a whisper, and there was a faint smile on his lips through the blood.
"'You're dying, bleeding to death. You could be saved if I got you to a hospital.'"
Carter took another step and the man's hand whipped away from his chest. In it was a small automatic. He was aiming at Carter's gut and his finger was already squeezing the trigger when the Killmaster's foot swung forward and kicked the gun from his hand.
Carter squeezed off a burst.
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The machine gun spit fire and the body leaped convulsively as the slugs thudded into it.
Quickly the echo of the gunfire faded. Far in the distance, from the direction of Alexandria, Carter heard the steady droning throb of police sirens.
Quickly, he grabbed the man's ankles and dragged him back to the road. He gathered the artillery and arranged it around the three bodies.
The Citroen was spewing steam from its radiator, but it was still chugging. Carter's Cortina lay on its side. He backed the Citroen around until he could hook bumpers with the Cortina.
It took three tries, but finally, with an agonized shriek of metal, the little car was righted.
Carter made sure the Cortina was running before he jammed the accelerator on the Citroen and sent it over the cliff.
The sound of the big car crashing into the ocean had barely faded before Carter was in the Cortina speeding on toward the beach.
‘‘Let them figure that one out,’’ he chuckled.
In the center of Maamura village he took an inland road toward the drab suburbs and the desert. He had gone nearly a mile before he found what he wanted.
It was on a side road about a hundred yards off. He stopped at the gate and killed his lights.
Beyond the gate he could see the rusting hulks of at least a hundred cars. He had rented the Cortina for a week, with the proviso of a few more days. When the time came he would report it stolen.
In the meantime, no one would recognize it or spot it in the middle of all these wrecks.
The padlock on the gate took seconds. When the Cortina was buried in the center of the other wrecks, Carter
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**126 NICK CARTER**
threw the keys as far as he could. He relocked the gate and started jogging cross-country toward the center of the village.
Twenty minutes later he was rousing a cabdriver from his front seat snooze.
“I need to go up the coast to Fawzi Quadima’s villa, The Winds. Do you know it?”
“I know it,” the driver replied, narrowing one eye at Carter’s appearance.
“Had a bit of trouble in a bar, got stranded. You know how it is when you drink too much.”
The driver was skeptical, but a wad of money convinced him. A little more money reminded him that he had an uncle who owned a clothing store in the village. For the right price he was sure his uncle would open his shop, even though it was the middle of the night.
He was right.
Carter chose a dark pinstripe as close as he could find to his ruined suit, and a fresh shirt. The tie was usable, and a quick brush took care of the shoes.
An hour later, Carter stepped from the cab and pressed a few more pounds into the driver’s hand.
“I wouldn’t want to embarrass Mr. Quadima by having the villagers gossip about one of his guests being in a bar brawl . . .”
“Of course,” the cabbie said, counting the money with a broad grin. “My lips are sealed.”
“I figured they would be.”
Carter watched the cab until it was out of sight, and then walked the short distance to the gate. The security guard recognized him but still checked his identification.
Halfway up the graveled lane to the villa, Mohamed
**SLAUGHTER DAY 127**
SLAUGHTER DAY 127
Najjar stepped from the shadows of a tree.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Carter drawled.
“I catnap in the daytime. You had a good evening in Alexandria?”
“Eventful,” the Killmaster replied drily, lighting a cigarette.
Anything I should know about?
Carter shrugged. “Not that I can think of. The girls at the Mockdar are as ugly as ever, the drinks are more water than whiskey at the Aladdin, and I don’t know any more about Koulami than I did this morning.”
“I noticed you returned in a taxi.”
“I turned my car in. I didn’t think I’d be needing it anymore.”
At the door, Najjar passed him an envelope. “One of my men took this call for you about an hour ago. I think it is one of your British comrades.”
“Thanks.”
Carter moved through the house to the seclusion of Quadima’s library. Eliza had already told him that the library telephone was the only one in the house that wasn’t connected to extensions.
He built a scotch over scotch and dialed.
Effredge answered on the first ring. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I ran into a slight problem. You’ll probably read about it in the morning papers. What’s up?”
“Your man, Djabi. He’s left messages for you all evening. Wouldn’t talk to me. Wants you to call no matter what time it is.”
Will do. Anything else?
That’s it.
See you in the morning.
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Carter broke the connection and dialed Abu Djabi’s private number. A husky, irritated voice answered in Arabic.
“‘This is Carter. Abu called me.’
“One moment.”
It was only a few seconds until Carter heard the familiar wheeze. “‘You keep very late hours, my friend.’
“I think everybody in Egypt does. You called several times.”
“A friend in the police called me earlier this evening. He keeps me informed nightly on the happenings.”
“And?!”
“The croupier, Hashan, was found in the desert just after sundown. He had a large-caliber bullet in the back of his head.”
Carter gritted his teeth. “‘I fingered him when we met.’
“You can’t be sure of that, but it is possible.”
“Damn,” Carter rasped. “‘They must have followed me and the woman, and then tailed me to the Mock-dar.’”
Anything is possible. What is important now is that this Koulami knows you are alive and in Egypt. I would move carefully and in the shadows.”
“I will.”
“In the meantime, I have put more pressure on my people and upped your reward. I assume that is all right?!”
“Fine,” Carter replied. “‘Cost is no object.’
“I assumed so.”
“Did Hashan have a woman?”
“A wife, a shrew, no children. I will take care of her. Do not fret, my friend. Hashan knew the danger. He was a mercenary. When you stop and think about it, we
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are all mercenaries at heart. We love it or we wouldn't do it."
"I will check in with you tomorrow . . . often."
"Please do. Good night."
Carter grabbed a bottle from the bar and went up to his room. He was nearly stripped when the room-to-room light lit on his phone and buzzed.
"Yes?"
"It's me. I heard you sneak by my room."
"I didn't sneak. I slithered."
"You're a bastard. Dinner was deadly. I hope you had a lousy night."
Carter bit his lip to keep from barking at her. "I had a shitty night and it's almost dawn. I'll see you at breakfast."
"Leave your door unlocked."
"I've got a splitting headache." He hung up before Eliza could reply, and trailed clothes all the way to the bathroom.
He took a quick shower and turned off the lights. He started for the bed, and then remembered. "Well, what the hell," he said to himself, and crossed to the door.
He unlocked it, cursing her style but feeling a little tug in his groin at the same time.
He unwrapped the towel, tossed it over the back of a chair, and got into bed. Some moonlight seeped through the window. The shower had refreshed him. His body didn't feel so tired anymore. But he knew he needed a good night's sleep. He put a sheet over his body and then after a few minutes kicked it down to the foot of the bed with his heels. It was too hot for any kind of covering.
He was sweating. He closed his eyes and was ready to drop off, when the door opened. He kept his eyes
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closed. Maybe she would go away if she thought he was asleep.
He felt her body on the bed and then soft flesh was against him. A hand passed over his chest. He kept his breathing even. The hand made circles in the thick mat of hair covering his chest.
“'You're tense.'”
“And tired,” he replied.
“But not too tired?”
“Eliza . . .”
“Yes?”
The light, cloying quality in her voice grated across his mood, making it worse. “When are you going to realize that this isn’t a game served up for your amusement?”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” she replied. “I know these people are dangerous. And you’re dangerous. That’s what makes it exciting.”
He’d had it.
“'Eliza, three of Koulami’s people tried to kill me tonight.'"
Her hand stopped moving. “You're all right?”
“I'm fine, but they’re not.”
“What happened?” A touch, just a touch, of the fear he had heard when he had first told her about Koulami edged back into her voice.
“I killed them, Eliza. I shot them, one by one.”
Her body tensed against him, then drew away. After about five minutes of silence, she slid from the bed and left the room.
Carter turned on his side and went immediately to sleep, with Djabi’s words flowing like a slow stream through his mind:
“' . . . we love it or we wouldn’t do it.'”
ELEVEN
It was nine o’clock, and the final meeting was scheduled to start in an hour. Quadima himself, his wife, and the personal members of his entourage had arrived by helicopter a half hour before. Inside the villa, the scientific VIPs were finishing their morning meal.
Carter and Harlan Effredge sat at a secluded poolside patio table. Across the pool, the Killmaster saw Eliza Brussman order her third Bloody Mary from one of the passing servants.
They had run into each other twice that morning, and Eliza hadn’t spoken to him either time.
Carter reasoned that it was just as well. Now she knew what he was there to do, and she had living—or, in this case, dead—proof that both he and Koulami were for real.
The morning edition of the Alexandria paper had carried the story of the coast road massacre on page one. It was complete with pictures that left little to the imagination.
As yet, the local police had no line on who the victims
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007