HUNTING THE BIRD OF PREY...
Two of the four guards dropped to one knee
and sprayed the ridge in Carter's direction with
their rifles. The other two, one of them the woman,
raced to the flanks, firing on the run.
The engine was roaring now and the rotors were
picking up speed.
Carter sighted in on the pilot's head. It was a
tough shot, almost impossible. The slugs from the
two kneeling guards were kicking up sand all
around Carter's head and the chopper was mov-
ing, lifting off the desert floor.
Wisely, the pilot was jiggling the machine from
side to side as he got lift. El Adwan had brought
his own rifle into play and was firing at the orange
spurts that Ami's Ingram made in the night.
Then Carter got some peace and quiet. Ami
had zeroed in on the two squatting guards. With
a fanning burst he had raked them, sending them
both flying backward to land, very dead, spread-
eagled in the sand.
It was the lull the Killmaster needed. He sighted
in...




ONE
The morning sky grew from black to gray over the
English countryside as the Pan Am 747 hummed toward
Heathrow Airport.
From a seat in the first-class section, a trim, rugged-
looking man, wearing a dour expression, a tan suede
jacket, and a three-day growth of beard, managed a smile
as the knockout stewardess approached checking each
passenger's seat belt.
When she reached him, she leaned over to whisper in
his ear. "I'm sorry you weren't able to get any sleep,
Mr. Carter."
The powerful broad shoulders shrugged in the expen-
sive jacket. "Comes with the territory, darlin'. What's
the little bastard doing now?"
2
NICK CARTER
The girl managed a weak smile and swallowed hard.
"He inst went to sleen.
Wouldn't vou know it"






2
NICK CARTER
The girl managed a weak smile and swallowed hard.
"He just went to sleep. Wouldn't you know it."
"Yeah, wouldn't you."
The little bastard referred to was a five-year-old in the
seat in front of Carter. He had started screaming the
moment the wheels had lifted off the runway at Kennedy,
and he hadn't stopped all the way across the Atlantic.
His total vocabulary consisted of two words—"I want"—
and when he didn't get, he screamed all the louder.
When the mother, a Fifth Avenue type wearing enough
ice to chill a year's martinis, wasn't coddling, she was
ignoring him.
Once, Carter leaned forward. "Madam, do you know
what the word discipline means?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Your child."
"I paid for this seat. I paid for my son's seat. I wish
you would mind your own business.
Carter wanted to say, Lady, do you know who I am?
My name is Nicholas Carter. I work for a man named
David Hawk, who runs a very quiet organization in
Washington, D.C. This organization specializes in termi-
nation... that means killing people. And I'm their top
gun. Right now, lady, I'm on my way to London to kill
a man. I've been looking for the son of a bitch for three
months all over the damn world. I just spent two weeks
chasing him all over South America, and when I found
him, he was the wrong guy. But this guy was just as bad
as the guy I was hunting, so I just went ahead and offed
him. And do you know what, lady? What I'd like to do
right now is off your kid. No, better yet, I'd like to off
you, just to keep in practice, so to speak.
. But he didn't.
T »
DEATHSTRIKE
Instead he'd said,
"I see," and sat back, sighing.
3




3
Instead he'd said,
"I see," and sat back, sighing.
When the flight attendant passed by again, he caught
her elbow. "Excuse me ..
"Yes, sir?"
"Could you be a true Samaritan and slip me about three
of those little plastic bundles of joy?"
"Chivas Regal?" she asked, grinning.
"Dandy."
She was back in thirty seconds and dropped the mini-
atures in his lap. "On the house."
"Your sainted mother is very proud of you," Carter
replied, popping one and slipping the other two into his
jacket pocket for the hard times ahead.
Under the harsh glare of the overhead reading light,
the hard lines of his face, the broad forehead, the straight
nose, and the strong, arrogant jawline seemed to relax
as he took a nip. Even the blackness in his dark eyes
mellowed a little.
He ran his hand through his unruly black hair and
sighed again.
Seven hours earlier he had gotten off a plane from
Buenos Aires, fuily intending to cab right to his
Georgetown digs, shower, and fall into bed for twenty-
four hours.
No such luck.
An auburn-haired beauty with body curves not yet in-
vented by geometry had met him at baggage claim. Her
name was Ginger Batemen, and she was David Hawk's
right hand. The moment he saw the bag in her hand he
knew he was in trouble.
"That's my spare bag," he groaned
"Oh, so correct, world traveler. I'm to take your other
one back to your apartment."
T »
"Why?"
"Tano ic
NICK CARTER




4
NICK CARTER
"Why?"
"Here is your shuttle ticket to Kennedy. It leaves in
fifteen minutes. Here is your Pan Am ticket. It leaves in
an hour and a half. You'll just make it."
"Make it to where."
"London."
"I don't want to go to London. I want to go to
Georgetown."
"You have to go to London," Batemen said patiently.
"They have a new line on him."
Carter lowered his voice. "Everybody in the world has
a fucking line on him. Do you know what I've just been
through?"
She nodded. "We got your taped report on the wire.
Have a nice trip."
"Wait a minute...'
"Yes?"
"Where do I go when I get there?"
"Someone is meeting you. Her name is Christine."
"Bully, very bully."
Carter finished the scotch as the plane touched down.
Just as it hit the gate, he was the first one up and forward.
Without being asked, the flight attendant passed him
a small wrapped package. In it were the tools of his trade;
a 9mm Luger complete with shoulder rig—a gun he affec-
tionately called Wilhelmina-and a six-inch, pencil-thin
stiletto in a chamois forearm sheath.
The skyway leaked. Through the cracks, he could see
gray and drizzle.
That's all right, he thought, fits my mood
He went through the VIP section of customs on his
credentials. He rarely traveled as Nick Carter, but he
enjoyed it when he did. It was faster.
DEATHSTRIKE





5
"Mr. Carter?"
She was pretty, blond, and even the little blue uniform
couldn't hide her figure. A French designer would have
had a nervous breakdown when he saw what curves could
do to a uniform.
"Christine?"
"Yes, sir."
She handed him an envelope. Carter ripped it open. It
was a note apologizing for the inconvenience and asking
him to please report before going to his hotel.
Carter looked up. "I don't have a hotel and I don't
know where to report."
It was obvious from her big-eyed look that he wasn't
showing enough team spirit.
"It's about an hour away, sir, in North Kensington."
"Grand. Do I grab a cab?"
"I have a car outside, sir. I'll drive you over."
She turned without another word and led the way out
of the terminal and across a puddled parking lot. The
uniform didn't hide a bit of the movement.
"How long has it been raining?"
"Five days now."
She was actually cheerful about it.
The car was a new Land-Rover. Carter threw his bags
in the back and climbed in the passenger side.
"Who do you work for?" he asked.
"MIS."
"What do you do?"
"Drive."
The engine roared to life and drive she did. By the
time they hit the gate of the parking lot, Carter was wildly
groping for the seat belt.
"Do you always drive like this?" he asked.
6





6
NICK CARTER
"Oh, yes."
"Is it an hour, your drive time, to North Kensington?"
"Yes."
"Tell you what. Let's make it an hour and twenty
minutes, okay?"
She slowed down. "Terribly sorry."
Carter unscrewed one of the little bottles.
"MI5 Main
is on King's Road. What's this place?"
"I don't know, sir. I say; what's that?"
"Breakfast," Carter growled
He finished the bottle and went to sleep. He was posi-
tive it was two seconds later when she shook him awake.
"We're here, sir. The tailor shop down the stoop."
"Jolly good." Carter rubbed his eyes and grabbed his
bag. "By the way..."
"Yes, sir?"
"What do you do after you drive?"
"I go home ... to my husband." She took off the
instant the door closed.
Carter headed across the street. The unrelenting rain
fell in sheets and ran like a river into the gutter. He went
down the stoop and through a door with ANDREW CUS-
TOM TAILORING on its frosted pane.
The bell brought a graying man, about fifty, in a sag-
ging suit that didn't advertise the quality of his work.
"Yes, sir, can I help you, sir?"
Carter held open his wallet, held it in front of the man's
face long enough, and said, "Christine sent me."
"Uh, yes, sir. If you'll just follow me."
The Killmaster did, through a workroom, a storage
room, and a locked door. Behind it was a dimly lit hall.
"Last door on your right, sir. They are expecting you."
"Thanks."
DEATHSTRIKE
7




7 (19 of 212)
一十 110%
DEATHSTRIKE
Carter hit the door and knocked. At the sound of a
cheery "Come in," he did
It was a small office but large enough to house a desk,
a round conference table, several easy chairs, a rolling
tea cart, and the cream of British intelligence.
Carter dropped his bag and met eyes. There was
Jonathan Hart-Davis, a major string puller from MI6,
Emie Nevers from the Home Office, Claude Dakin, Spec-
ial Branch, and, last but not least, Owen Hamilton, who
practically ran MIS
"Gentlemen," Carter said, "I think we have a quorum."
The laughter was general and friendly. Carter knew
them all and had worked with each of them at one time
or another. He shook hands all around and took an indi-
cated chair.
Someone shoved a cup of coffee in his hand, and
Commander Hamilton took the floor.
"Sorry you missed your man in South America, Carter.
We got a copy of your report from Washington last night."
Carter dropped his eyes and dumped the last bottle of
Chivas from the plane into the coffee.
"It was a plant or
pawn. I don't think Abu El Adwan has been in South
America for two, maybe three years. I think I was sucked
in because I was getting too close to him in Europe."
Commander Hamilton passed a match over his pipe
and sucked hard until it was going. "We're sure of it."
Carter's head jerked up and his eyes, less droopy now,
flashed alert, centering on Owen Hamilton. "How are
you sure of it?
The commander had been sitting. Now he stood, moved
to the wall, and pulled down a map of North Africa.
"There is an oasis, here in the Libyan desert, called
Fasba. El Adwan was spotted there two days ago by one
8



8
NICK CARTER
of Jonathan's MI6 people. He's in place for a meet.
Yesterday morning, your people, Nick, picked up a trans-
mission out of Tripoli, okaying a meeting in Tunisia
between someone in Tunisia and El Adwan in four days."
"With whom?" Carter asked, turning to the MI6 man,
Hart-Davis.
He got a shrug in return.
"Sorry, Nick, don't know
the answer to that one. It could be the Russians...
money, arms."
Carter sipped his coffee. "It's my understanding that
El Adwan was getting too radical even for the Russians."
"Ours as well," Hamilton said, nodding.
"But who
he's meeting is beside the point. The point is, if he's on
the ground, we figured you deserved the shot at him...
if you want it."
"You bet your ass I do."
And Carter meant it.
Abu El Adwan
was insane.
Besides
being a
psychopath, he loved the glory his terrorism engendered.
He loved to kill; one or a hundred, it didn't matter. But
even better, he loved the notoriety that killing gave him.
With Carter's words, the room fell silent. All eyes
were on him.
Even Owen Hamilton himself stood, puffing his pipe,
his eyes meeting Carter's.
"What is it?"
Jonathan Hart-Davis picked it up. "In the past year,
Nick, I've lost two good MI6 men going after this bloody
bastard. Not only that, two more of my men had a shot
at him and missed. The man moves around like a will-o'-
the-wisp and blends in like a chameleon. He never uses
the same group twice for his attacks, and even the ones
he uses don't know anything about him."
DEATHSTRIKE
9





9
"In short," Ernie Nevers from the Home Office said,
"there's not a bloody soul in the world who knows what
the bugger looks like ... except one."
Carter furrowed his brow, concentrated, and then re-
membered: "Ravelle Dressler."
"That's right," Nevers replied. "Do you remember the
story?"
"Some of it, not all."
What he did remember was a brilliant, two-man kill,
all executed within an hour of each other a year before
in London.
Zev Rosenbaum, a prominent London businessman and
a frequent fund raiser for Israeli and Zionist causes, owned
an apartment in the Mayfair section of London. Knowing
that he was a target, Rosenbaum had practically made
his apartment a fortress with elaborate security devices.
Ali Hassain was a Palestinian and a journalist. He was
considered a specialist on the Middle East. As a full-time
columnist for the London Times and a frequent guest on
the BBC, plus a regular weekly Wednesday-morning
radio program, his views were listened to. The odd thing
about Hassain was that he advocated a peaceful solution
to the Palestinian problem: he suggested recognizing
Israel. This made him a marked man.
Both men shared one major flaw: in their personal lives
they tended to be creatures of habit.
Rosenbaum arose each morning at 6:00. For fifteen
minutes he exercised, and then entered his bath at 6:15,
where he took his morning shower. His routine never
varied.
Every Wednesday morning of the year, Ali Hassain
left his apartment in Bayswater near Hyde Park at 6:40
to drive to the BBC for his radio show. A driver always
10





10
NICK CARTER
picked him up on Wednesday mornings in a car from the
BBC motor pool:
On the fateful morning, Zev Rosenbaum stepped into
his shower at 6:15, turned it on, and was electrocuted.
At 6:41, Ali Hassain stepped into the BBC car, and ten
pounds of plastique explosives disintegrated it, instantly
killing him and the driver.
At 7:00 sharp, the telephone rang in the flat of Ravelle
Dressler. Normally at that hour she would still be in bed,
sleeping soundly. She rarely awakened before noon. On
this particular morning, violent stomach cramps had
awakened her at 6:30. It was later learned that the fillet
of sole she had eaten the previous evening at Burdoines
restaurant was slightly contaminated.
The touch of food poisoning that had awakened her
and drawn her into the kitchen-three rooms from her
bedroom - in search of a remedy had saved her life.
At 7:00 her telephone rang. Normally, of course, she
would have answered it in her bedroom. She picked up
the extension in the kitchen.
"Yes?"
"Good morning, darling."
"Good morning, Rahib. Will you be back today?"
Rahib Salubar was the lady's current lover, and had
been for the last three months. The previous evening, he
had left the apartment on business, saying he would be
back in two or three days' time.
Ravelle Dressier never got an answer to her question.
The words had scarcely left her lips when a bomb
exploded in the base of the bedroom telephone, de-.
molishing the room and starting a fire.
One hour later, the newsroom of The Times received
a call. The voice on the phone claimed credit for the
deaths of Zev Rosenbaum and Ali Hassain, and identified
DEATHSTRIKE
11






11
himself as the voice of worldwide revolution, Abu El
Adwan.
It was many hours later that the link was established
El Adwan, posing as a Turkish businessman named Rahib
Salubar, had wormed his way into the confidence of
Ravelle Dressler. He moved into her Mayfair apartment
and became her lover. For three months he rarely went
out. When he did, it was to observe Ali Hassain.
The time he spent in her flat he used to break through
the rear of one of the woman's closets and literally build
himself a passageway between the walls to a similar closet
in the flat of Zev Rosenbaum.
On the Tuesday evening before the Wednesday of the
assassinations, he rigged the shower for Rosenbaum's
death. He then broke into the BBC garage and planted
the remote control bomb that would eventually destroy
Ali Hassain.
The bomb in Ravelle Dressler's telephone had been in-
stalled for days. It, too, was remote-controlled and voice-
activated.
The Dressler woman needed to be killed because of
her intimacy over such a long period of time. She could
identify him. And she was probably the only person in
the world who could.
Ernie Nevers was speaking again. "Of course, we im-
plicated Mrs. Dressler even though we knew she had
been duped. That has been hanging over her head all this
time, as well as the fear that El Adwan would return and
finish the job."
Carter stubbed out his cigarette and groaned. "What
you're saying is that you and Washington want no slipups
this time.
You want an eyeball identification of El
Adwan."
'That's right," Commander Hamilton replied. "We've
T »
12





12
NICK CARTER
contacted Mrs. Dressler, but we haven't given her all the
details."
"You mean you want me to do it?" Carter growled.
"Exactly," Hamilton replied. "And convince her that
it would be in her best interests to help us. You have a
date tonight, Nick. I do hope you have proper evening
wear with you. The woman only goes to the best of
places."











TWO
The long black limousine glided almost silently past
the main gate of the Mitsubishi shipbuilding plant in
Nagasaki. Beyond the gates, even at this late hour, work-
ers swarmed over the hulks of the biggest movable objects
ever built by man: supertankers.
Beyond the main gate, the car turned down a narrow
street and approached an alternate yard. It was completely
obscured by a twenty-foot-high chain link fence backed
by boards, with the boards in turn backed by canvas
tarpaulins so no inquisitive soul on the outside could
monitor the construction on the inside.
There was a single gate. Above it was a logo of the
world spouting oil derricks and crisscrossed with hun-
dreds of heavy black lines. Beneath the logo were the
13
14





14
NICK CARTER
words ST. JAMES LINES and THOR PROJECT. Directly
under this, in big letters, was CONSTRUCTION BY
NAKIMOTO LTD.
At the first sighting of the car, the two diminutive
Japanese guards swung the gate wide. Though they
couldn't see through the smoky gray windows, they stood
back and saluted as the limousine passed through. The.
gates closed the moment it had cleared.
Before the car lay two enormous pods. On the pods,
like two supine skyscrapers, were the hulls of two super-
tankers that dwarfed others being built not too far away
in the regular Mitsubishi plants. Those in the other yards
were mere 250,000-tonners, in one case a 500,000-ton-
ner.
The two ships under construction here on the St. James
Lines pods were one-million-tonners. Each of them, when
completed, would be a quarter of a mile long, a hundred
yards wide, and would draw more than 115 feet of water
when launched. They would be sixteen stories high at
the tip of their superstructure, and would cost one billion
dollars each at completion.
As the car rolled up a steep ramp and then up another,
the rear window rolled down silently and a face appeared.
The man was heavyset, with a finger of neatly trimmed
gray hair around an otherwise bald head. His gray suit
was of the finest quality without being ostentatious, and
he wore a subdued, blue-striped regimental tie.
The seamed face was immobile, but the blue eyes
flashed a diamondlike fire as he gazed down at the two
steel behemoths, Thor I and Thor II. One was practically
completed, the other only a shell.
The man was Hannibal St. James. He was seventy-four
years old and looked every day of it. He had started life
DEATHSTRIKE
15



15
as Theo Stenopoles, the son of a shipwright in his native
Greece. In 1940, he had fled the Nazi surge into his
native country, taking with him a goodly sum of American
money intended for the resistance movement. He had
made his way to neutral South America, where he invested
wisely and worked hard.
The war was profitable for young Theo. By the time
it ended, he was a comparatively rich man.
But not rich enough by far.
He returned to Greece, and in a short time became a
black-market kingpin. This proved even more lucrative,
and Stenopoles looked for safe investments that would
grow. He was a man who always had a vision of progress
and growth. He could see that, in time, the world's need
for oil would increase, as would the need to transport
that oil.
Through bribery, intimidation, and clever financial ma-
neuvering, Stenopoles cornered a large segment of the
oil export business from small Third World countries
before the rulers of those countries realized the worth of
their oil.
Thus Octagon Petroleum was born. Soon after, oil
brokerage houses all over the world emerged bearing the
Octagon logo. This was when Theo Stenopoles began
looking around for a fleet of ships to buy.
He didn't have to look far, nor did he have to buy.
Jeffrey St. James had spent his entire life building up
the St. James Lines. At the peak of his success, at age
fifty-six, Jeffrey St. James died. Childless, he left every-
thing to his wife, Clarissa.
Clarissa was a charming, not overly intelligent woman
who had brought nearly as much money to the marriage
as Jeffrey St. James would eventually make.
16



16
NICK CARTER
When Jeffrey died, Clarissa was becalmed in the sea
of life. She had lost the husband who had cared for her
and pampered her, and she was swiftly losing the beauty
that had once made up for her lack of brains.
Theo Stenopoles saved the day. He married the aging
Clarissa and took over her money and her name. He
added Hannibal to the St. James, and became a British
citizen.
For ten years, Hannibal was a faithful husband. This
was easy for him; sex sapped the energy he needed to
make money. Clarissa demanded nothing but clothes,
jewels, servants to pamper her, and advisors to manage
her money.
Hannibal St. James provided all of these in abundance,
with the stipulation that Clarissa leave him alone. This
she did right up until the night she died in a boating
accident off the south coast of France.
Clarissa's death was providential. It gave Hannibal
complete control and allowed him to tell her bankers,
advisors, and solicitors to go to hell. He expanded his
empire, investing in Japanese industry, gold, and Califor-
nia land. He also made heavy investments in the new
rage that was sweeping oil shipping: supertankers.
At the height of the world's oil shortage in the 1970s,
St. James had another vision. His supertankers were mak-
ing a fortune. Why not build two super-supertankers? He
would build two ships that would make the current
monsters seem like canoes by comparison.
He called it the Thor Project.
The international banking world considered the project
crazy and unworkable. They were convinced that if any.
thing went wrong, it could bankrupt both of St. James's
companies.
DEATHSTRIKE
17



17
Hannibal St. James had never been wrong in the past,
and he was convinced that he wasn't wrong now. With
Thor I and Thor II, he could so control pricing that he
could undercut other lines and scuttle them. Eventually
he could buy them up and control the movement of the
world's oil.
He told the bankers to go to hell, and underwrote the
entire project with his personal fortune.
However, for the first time in his life, Hannibal St.
James had made a mistake. The doomsayers had proved
correct. Because of falling inflation and the world oil
glut, petroleum prices took a nosedive. Suddenly there
was no need for supertankers, least of all supertankers
of the one-million-ton class.
St. James saw the handwriting on the wail. He stopped
work on Thor II, and shifted all the men and materials
of Nakimoto Ltd. to Thor I. Now it was imperative that
the huge ship have her maiden voyage as soon as possible.
If she didn't, Hannibal St. James might very well spend
his twilight years on the dole.
Sitting in the limousine now, staring down at the nearly
completed ship, St. James contemplated the enormity of
the plan he had put into motion nearly one year before.
Its end result would be one of the world's biggest disas-
ters.
But St. James could give a damn about the world. His
only interest was in saving his companies.
As Hannibal St. James contemplated the giant steel
hulk of his only folly, the man who sat beside him con-
templated St. James.
His name was Oliver Estes, a dapper, diminutive man of
sixty-four, with sharp features that were not softened by
his small goatee and mustache. His dark eyes, behind
18




18
NICK CARTER
gold-rimmed spectacles, had a way of focusing on an
object until his brain had assimilated every particle of
that object.
Oliver Estes was the chief comptroller of the huge
Octagon conglomerate, and in all things he mirrored his
employer's thinking.
In the whole world, only Estes knew where the bodies
were buried. But he would never tell. He couldn't. Even
if he was alive, he was one of the bodies. St.
James
owned him.
Years before, Estes had been a lowly accountant with
Octagon. But he was a brilliant one. He managed to
embezzle nearly five million dollars from the company
coffers. Only the old man himself had discovered the
loss. To Estes's surprise, instead of being fired and jailed,
St. James had elevated him to the second-most-exalted
position in the company.
In the years since, he had become the instrument by
which St. James destroyed anything-and anyone-in
his way. He had bribed heads of state, ruined the economy
of many a small nation, and ordered the assassination of
more men than he could remember.
And soon he would again play messenger, this time
for the most heinous act St. James had ever conceived
But, like his employer, Oliver Estes thought nothing of
it. In fact, a great deal of the plan was his own conception.
'Hannibal, they're coming.
St. James turned in the seat in time to see three men
emerge from the shadows and approach the car. The first
of the three was small, slightly stooped, and walked with
a slight limp. He was Akiri Nakimoto, head of Nakimoto
Ltd., one of the largest shipbuilding concerns in the
world. The two men trailing him were his sons.
DEATHSTRIKE
He opened the door and bowed slightly.
19





19
He opened the door and bowed slightly.
"Akiri-san," St. James said. "It is good of you to meet
me on such short notice."
"It is my honor."
"Please, get in... sit!"
The old Japanese took the jump seat across from St.
James, while Estes closed
and locked the door.
Nakimoto's two sons moved back, lit cigarettes, and eyed
the windows their eyes couldn't penetrate.
"Will you meet the deadline?" St. James asked, coming
immediately to the point, his tone brusque.
The old Japanese nodded. "Definitely. In fact we
should finish one, perhaps two days ahead of schedule."
"Excellent, excellent," St. James said, his skin stretch-
ing taut over his gaunt features in a non-smile. "And
your sons have followed my orders precisely?"
Nakimoto swallowed audibly and his narrow eyes
darted between the two men. He seemed to have trouble
formulating a reply. When at last he spoke, his usually
flawless English was tinged with an accent.
"Precisely, yes. Only a very few of our people, and
those we trust implicitly, have any knowledge of the final
materials."
"Then why," Estes asked, "are our contacts at Lloyd's
in London so positive that they have sent an investigator?"
Nakimoto began to sweat visibly. "If your insurer is
doing an investigation, I am sure it is only fragmentary,
from the outside. There are no English or Americans on
the work crew. Every person who has handled the con-
struction materials, or worked on the ship itself, is
Japanese."
"For God's sake, you old fool," St. James barked,
"don't you think Lloyd's is capable of hiring a Japanese
20





20
NICK CARTER
investigator to find out the quality of the Thor 1?'
"Yes, yes, I suppose-"
"Suppose nothing," Estes said, interrupting the other
man. "Lloyd's has somehow learned of the lower grade
of steel in the storage tanks. They have also learned that
the backup radar system has not been installed. I have
managed to placate them and cover up these shortages.
But they must receive no more inside information."
"Also," St. James said, chiming in,
"we received a
copy of the order invoice for a backup computer system.
We canceled it."
Nakimoto's eyes grew wide with shock and the hands
in his lap began to shake.
"But that is madness. Should
the primary system be disabled for any reason, there
would be no way to monitor shift and expansion in the
tanks without the backup system!"
St. James leaned forward and gently rested his hand
on the Japanese man's knee. "Akiri-san, your job is to
build the ship. My request is that you build it to my
specifications. You will do that, won't you?"
Again a long swallow, and then a nod. Nakimoto was
building a sailing disaster and he knew it. With inferior
materials and unskilled labor, he had cut over ninety
million dollars from the building costs.
He hated what he was doing, but he would do it. Like
Oliver Estes, Akiri Nakimoto was owned by Hannibal
St. James.
"And, Mr. Nakimoto," Estes said,
"the Thor I leaves
Japan in three weeks. I want no more information going
to London in that time. Go over your list of workmen
again."
"But what if I find a suspect?"
"My chauffeur's name is Horst Layman," St. James
DEATHSTRIKE
21



21
replied. "Mr. Estes and I are leaving tonight. Horst will
remain. Here is a number where he can be reached. When
you learn the identity of the informer, call him. He will
handle it."
Nakimoto pocketed the slip of paper and shuddered.
He bowed once more and left the car to walk on, supported
by his sons.
The door had barely closed behind him when the
limousine was in motion.
"What do you think he will do," Estes asked, "when
he learns what has happened?"
"Hopefully," St. James replied, 'he will kill himself.
After all, it is the Japanese way.
T »









THREE
It was the kind of situation Carter hated. Since her
affair with El Adwan, Ravelle Dressler had obviously
feared for her life every moment. If that were not bad
enough, the British authorities had held her complicity
with the terrorist as a sword over her head.
Asking her to cooperate was a form of double blackmail
that turned the Killmaster's stomach. But he knew it was
a necessary evil. The worst part of it was the fact that it
was Carter who had to do the convincing.
Good evening, Mrs. Dressler. My name is Carter. I
would like you to give up your creature comforts, strike
out into the desert, and put your ass on the line while I
waltz you up to a man who would desperately like to see
you dead!
22
DEATHSTRIKE
23




23
Simple.
The cab eased to a halt across from the building housing
Ravelle Dressler's flat. Carter paid the driver, and
checked his watch.
He was twenty minutes early.
Good, he thought, and spotted a pub a few doors down.
Gratification.
"Good evening, what'll it be?"
"Chivas. Better make that a double."
"Bad day, eh?"
"Worse night."
"Right."
The scotch helped. It burned all the way down and
mellowed as it settled.
Carter walked out of the pub and crossed the street.
Everything about the building was posh, including the
Italian marble foyer and the doorman in the middle of it..
"May I help you, sir?"
"Dressler."
"That will be Five-A, sir. Shall I ring you up?"
"No need. I'm expected."
"Right you are, sir. Lifts are there to your right."
There were only two apartments to a floor. Hers was
on the left. Carter knocked, and the door opened at once,
as if she had been standing behind it.
She probably was, Carter thought, forcing a smile.
"Good evening, Mrs. Dressler, I am-"
"The American, I know."
She didn't invite him in, but let her eyes examine his
face and then float down over his tuxedo-clad form.
Carter countered the examination with one of his own.
She was an older woman, naturally; voluptuous in a
strapless, garnet red lace-over-satin dress. An opera length
double strand of pearls accented the thrust of her breasts
24



24
NICK CARTER
and added to the effect of her height. She was nearly as
tall as Carter.
Her hair was glossy black, worn sleek and shining like
a mirror, drawn into an elaborate knot at the nape of her
neck. There were no bags under her eyes, and the brows
above them had been plucked to an elegant arch. She
had tiny lines from her patrician nose to her thin, artfully
painted lips.
Carter only glanced at the lines, but she caught him
at it. She lifted her hand, the wedding finger laden with
an enormous baroque pearl and diamond ring, and
touched one of the lines.
"I laugh too much," she said, her proper English only
slightly tainted with her native Turkish accent.
"That's good," Carter said. "There's not enough laugh-
ter in the world."
The words seemed to relax her. She smiled, and her
face glinted with the beauty that she once possessed,
before the years had crept over her, before she had the
eye-lift responsible for the smooth, tight look across the
upper part of her face.
Carter wondered why she hadn't gone the whole route
and had the laugh lines softened. Then he realized that
would have made it necessary for her to abandon the
sleek hairstyle to hide the scars.
"Shall we go?" he asked.
"Oh, sorry, I haven't asked you in. How stupid of me
... not very hospitable."
"That's probably because you're nervous."
"You're too polite, Mr....?"
"Carter. Nick Carter."
"Of course."
She caught up a short jacket of garnet velvet and a
DEATHSTRIKE
25




25
glittering evening bag. "I've made reservations at Col-
ombe. Do you know it?"
"I'm afraid not," Carter replied.
"It's new."
She spoke only once in the cab. "Why have they sent
you?"
"To identify someone."
"Rahib?"
"That's right. Except that his real name is Abu El
Adwan."
She shuddered, and then managed a smile and a sighing
quip. "Good old Ravelle, the terrorist's moll. What a
bloody fool I was."
The vast, newly decorated dining room was filled with
flowers and the whisper of music from a good dance
band. Most of the peach-covered tables were occupied.
Several couples were dancing. All sound was subdued,
blending into the music. Waiters moved about quickly,
unobtrusively.
The maître d' escorted them to their table. It stood out
from the wall, which was latticed and on which fresh
flowers had been placed thickly enough to cover it.
They certainly don't stop at expense, Carter thought,
knowing that, by morning, the fragile blossoms would
be dead. They would have to be replaced every afternoon,
not long before the diners began to arrive.
A steward came with the wine list. He presented it to
Carter, who looked across the table inquiringly.
"God, no." Ravelle smiled. "Scotch, a double."
"Make it two," Carter said.
The steward left so quickly that Carter was surprised
he was gone.
"No waste of time," he said, and grinned
"They are paid to be quick," she replied, her eyes
26




26
NICK CARTER
narrowing as they met Carter's. "You're different."
"Than who?"
"The others who have been browbeating me for the
past year, the ones who come around with their rude
questions and keep shoving photos under my nose."
"What kind of man was he?"
"Rahib? ... Or, as you call him, El Adwan? I'm sure
you've read my statement.
"But I'd like to hear it directly."
"He was charming, very handsome, and he had a beau-
tiful body. Also, he was quite a good lover. Are you a
good lover, Nick Carter?"
"I've had no complaints."
"Good," she said, smiling a real smile for a change.
They dawdled over dinner for an hour and then, be-
tween brandies, danced. She was a lithe, smooth dancer.
Her body didn't really move, it glided. Carter remem-
bered that she had been a professional dancer in Istanbul
when she met her husband.
He asked.
"It's not much of a story. My parents were financially
comfortable. I was well educated. They died in a plane
crash when I was eighteen. In two years, I managed to
go through every penny of my inheritance. I had no skills,
but I was fairly attractive and I had a quite striking body.
I could be a prostitute or a belly dancer. I chose the latter.
I danced for five years. Then, one night, I met Dressler.
He became infatuated and we married. We were married
for twenty years. There was a great deal of money. We
were society. We had many friends. Then it happened."
"What happened?" Carter asked, already knowing
"He fell in love. Sixty-one years old, and he fell in
love with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.
Eighteen years old... eighteen!"
DEATHSTRIKE
"Did she look like you when you were eighteen?"
27






27
"Did she look like you when you were eighteen?"
"The spitting image. But he was generous. He settled
a million pounds on me. He admitted I'd been a good
wife, but said that this great new 'love' rendered him
helpless."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead. He made some terrible investments and lost
every sou. He shot himself, and his great 'love' took to
the streets of Soho. Ironic, isn't it?"
"Very."
"Even more ironic is the fact that we had the same
money manager, a chap named Oliver Estes. Dressler
went broke on Oliver's advice, and I profited. It was at
one of Oliver's parties that I met Rahib... excuse me,
El Adwan." She shook her head. "I can't imagine him
having such a name. It seems so overly dramatic."
Carter instantly came alert. "That wasn't in your report
to the Home Office. In the report you said you met him
by chance in a nightclub."
Her face suddenly glowed pink. "Well, in polite society
you don't exactly meet a perfect stranger at a posh party,
know him for fifteen minutes, and be romping with him
in one of your host's upstairs bedrooms!"
"But you did?"
Her face gained a deeper flush. "Yes, frankly, I
couldn't resist. And then, about a month later, I met him
at a private gambling club. I hardly recognized him."
"Why?"
"At the party, he had a black beard and I could have
sworn his eyes were blue. At the club, he was clean-
shaven and his eyes were dark brown."
The man is a chameleon. He can change to blend into
any situation....
"This Estes chap . . . how well did he know El Adwan?"
28




28
NICK CARTER
"Hardly at all, I think," she said with a shrug.
"I had
the feeling that Rahib arrived with a little blond twit who
was a professional bed partner for visiting VIPs."
Carter made a mental note of this, and signaled, for the
check.
In the cab, he explained the situation. He was scarcely
halfway through when her complexion lightened several
degrees.
"Are you mad?" she cried. "If I got close enough to
identify him, I'd be putting my neck on the chopping
block!"
"Not really," Carter replied calmly. "You'll go into
Tunis on a forged passport. You'll be gowned and veiled
as a Moslem woman. You speak perfect Arabic, and I'll
be watching over you every second of the time."
Silence, a lot of it.
"I can't do it," she said at last. "I've lived in too much
fear of him for a year. I would break —I know I would."
"You would be safe. All I need is a positive identifica-
tion. Once you've done that, your part is over."
Suddenly she whirled in the seat. "What happens after
I identify him?"
Carter weighed her mood, the look in her dark eyes,
and the tenseness in her body.
He decided to go for broke.
"I'm going to kill him."
Her first words inside the apartment were, "T'll get
comfortable."
Carter knew it was only the prelude, but he didn't
mind. In the last three hours, Ravelle Dressler had grown
on him. He knew she was thinking, thinking hard, and
if his hanging around until ham-and-eggs time would
DEATHSTRIKE
help her come up with an answer, so be it.
29




29
help her come up with an answer, so be it.
He found snifters and a bottle of good cognac at the
bar. By the time he poured, she had returned and cuddled
up on one of the sofas.
"Cheers."
"Cheers," she replied, naked except for a midnight
blue lace peignoir. She sipped from the glass and lowered
it slowly from her lips. "I'll bet you're beautiful naked."
"Men aren't beautiful," Carter said, moving in beside
her.
"It depends on who is doing the looking."
She smiled at him, slowly, the laugh lines cutting deep,
and he smiled back. Somehow the glasses found the coffee
table without spilling. Her lips came up to meet his, and
they kissed with a fierceness that fueled the desire in both
their bodies.
His tongue circled and probed, riding along her teeth,
and then met her tongue. She moaned deep in her throat
and her body arched, telling him what he already knew.
"Put your arms up," he murmured
She did, and her breasts peaked up into two hard points
beneath the lacy gown. They rose and fell with her breath-
ing as he grasped the hem of the gown and inverted it.
Then he peeled it up, over her head until she was naked.
"You are beautiful," he said.
"You... you don't have to do this, you know."
'This is pleasure, not business," he whispered.
He slid both palms down around her neck, her collar-
bone, then outward to the top curves of her breasts. Her
lips quivered and her own hands went to work on his
clothing. He continued with his hands to the soft lower
swells of her breasts, carefully avoiding the nipples,
which stood out like twin jewels in identical mounts.
30





30
NICK CARTER
His mouth watered for them, but still he touched only
the tender skin surrounding them. Her breasts were heavy,
swollen with desire, and they filled his palms.
"Stand up," she ordered breathily.
He stood, and moved his hands around to her back as
she removed his clothes. When she finished, he turned
her back to his front and pulled her tautly against him.
"I can feel you," she gasped.
"How can you not?" he whispered, as his hands moved
into the hollow above her navel and his lips kissed her
naked shoulder.
"My nipples," she begged, "touch my nipples!"
He did, and the effect was electric. Suddenly they were
sinking as one to the floor, her distended nipples drilling
into his palms.
She lay back on the soft carpet, her hair spreading
outward like a dark halo. As Carter moved over her, she
reached up and caressed his face. He raised his head and
looked down at her. Her eyes slowly opened and closed,
telling him of her need. His eyes darted back and forth
over her voluptuous form, and his body trembled with
excitement.
Suddenly she pulled herself up toward him, her lips
hungrily covering his with a warm, damp pressure. Carter
could feel the tip of her tongue flicking back and forth.
He opened his mouth wide and slid his lips over hers,
stiffening his tongue and pushing it inside. Her tongue
curled around his as one of his hands moved between
her thighs, his fingers working in the moistness they
found there.
"Oh, God, hurry ... now!" she gasped. "I'm ready
for you!"
Carter bent over her and trailed his lips down her silky
skin from her throat to one of her breasts. The tip of his
DEATHSTRIKE
31





31
tongue flicked across the bud of her nipple, and a soft
cry came from her lips. He let the nipple slide into his
mouth and gently sucked on it.
Her breath hissed out through her teeth as his lips and
tongue slowly moved down her stomach until his chin
brushed her inner thighs. He lifted his head, letting his
moist breath caress the lower part of her stomach. He
put his hands on her thighs and held her fast as he stimu-
lated her with hard, quick touches of his tongue.
"Please, please!" she pleaded, arching her lower body
toward him and flinging her head from side to side.
Carter moved up over her. Her face was flushed and
drawn with passion. Her lips were pulled back from her
teeth. They were moist and crimson, and her eyes flashed
with anticipation.
Her hand moved downward, found him, and guided
him inside her. He pulled her hard against him until the
breath was forced from her lungs in a scream of fulfill-
ment.
A wave of sensation roared through his body as they
were joined. She wiggled her hips as she arched her back
to take him, deeper and deeper.
Carter gripped her waist and rocked his hips, slowly
floating on a blissful cloud of sensual enjoyment as he
felt her warmth engulf him.
"Good," she whispered, matching him movement for
movement, "so good."
They moved together, increasing the pace of their
lovemaking until it became the fury of climax.
Slowly he slid to her side. "You're a wildcat," he said
huskily.
"And you're an animal," she purred. "I wouldn't miss
it."
"What?"
32®




32*
NICK CARTER
"North Africa," she replied. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow night." Her lips kissed their way down
over his chest and stomach until they found him. "If I'm
alive."











FOUR
His name was Ishu Tanaki. He had been trained in
England and the United States as a maritime engineer
specializing in seagoing salvage. He was fluent in
Japanese, English, and Mandarin Chinese. For the past
five years he had worked for Lloyd's as an investigator.
In that time, he had saved them millions in fraudulent
claims in salvage. Now he was on to something that
would make all his earlier jobs insignificant by compari-
son.
The previous afternoon, the International Maritime
Commission representatives had gone over the Thor I
with a fine-tooth comb. They had barely left the ship,
pronouncing her seaworthy and meeting all standards,
33
34





34
NICK CARTER
when an elite crew of dismantlers had come aboard.
Secretly, beyond the eyes of the workmen putting the
finishing touches on the huge tanker, this crew had dis-
mantled the backup radar system, the communication
system, and the ever-so-important emergency backup sys-
tem that controlled the flow and seepage in the gigantic
tanks that would soon hold several hundred thousand
barrels of crude oil.
Tanaki, as a stress expert, had the run of the ship. His
job was to make sure that the huge plates of steel that
made up the undersea hull of the tanker and the plates
of the tanks inside the hull would give and take with the
pounding of the sea.
Tanaki had seen and photographed the dismantling of
the ship's backup navigation and safety systems. When
that information was passed along to his co-worker from
Lloyd's, Carolyn Reed, then relayed to London, a full-
scale surprise investigation could be ordered and the sail-
ing date of the Thor I scuttled.
Tanaki was a thorough man. He wanted one more nail
in the coffin of St. James Lines and Nakimoto Ltd. For
the past week he had spent his lunch hour deep in the
bowels of the Thor I with a portable spectomagraph, an
instrument that tested the grade, durability, strength, and
thickness of steel. In that time, he had worked from the
bow amidships and from the stern amidships, on the outer
and inner hull. Now, on this last day before handing over
his figures to Carolyn Reed to run through her magic
computer, he was testing the tanks themselves.
Like a shadow he moved through the deepest compart-
ments of the ship, the huge boiler and engine rooms
housing the giant dynoturbines, among the forty-foot-high
banks and generators and turbo-alternators, inside the
DEATHSTRIKE
35




35
air-conditioning and ventilating plants— all the vital or-
gans that made the Thor I a self-contained city at sea.
By the time he was ready to return to the regular job
that had brought him aboard the Thor I, he had more
than enough data to give to Carolyn Reed. And even
without the hundreds of calibrations and equations her
computer would make, Ishu Tanaki knew that the Thor
I at sea would be a floating time bomb.
In a small hotel just across from the huge Hamacho
shopping arcade, Horst Layman waited and drank. He
would have liked to take a little time out and gone down
to the port, to one of the hostess bars, to find a woman.
But he had no idea when the call would come. Hannibal
St. James's orders had been to sit and wait. So Horst
Layman sat and waited. He always followed Mr. St.
James's orders to the letter, no matter what they were.
Like Oliver Estes and so many others, Horst Layman
was owned, body and soul, by Hannibal St. James.
He was a grotesquely large man, with blunt features,
blue eyes that seemed opaque, and brush-cut gray hair.
He seemed to have no neck, so his massive head sat
directly on his equally gargantuan shoulders.
Layman had once been a bouncer in a Berlin nightclub,
with ambitions of becoming the heavyweight boxing
champion of the world. Two things thwarted his ambi-
tions. One was the fact that his speed never matched his
massive strength. The other was his propensity for drink
and what it caused him to do ... kill people, usually
women, most often prostitutes.
For years, his habit went undetected. When he was
finally caught, it was not by the police but by Hannibal
St. James. Rather than turn him over to the authorities,
36





36
NICK CARTER
St. James hired him. It was the perfect solution for Horst
Layman. He could go on with his odd life, as long as a
certain percentage of the people he terminated were the
enemies of Hannibal St. James.
The bottle came to his lips and the last of its contents
disappeared, a portion of the liquid dribbling over his
chin. It was the second bottle he had consumed in as
many hours, and he seemed surprised that it was gone.
In disgust, he threw it aside and reached for the tele-
phone to order another. Just as the beefy fingers curled
around the instrument, it rang.
"Yes?"
"Mister Layman?"
"Yes." He recognized the tenor voice and accented
English of one of Akiri Nakimoto's two sons.
"His name is Ishu Tanaki. He is on the second shift,
working tonight. His shift ends at midnight. He has a
small flat at Eight Shimbasi, in the Okon section. He
drives a late-model Toyota, green, license 484-10-991.
Do you need to know anything else?"
"No. You are sure he is the man?"
"Yes. A check of his locker and an eyewitness to some
of his lunchtime activities have confirmed."
"Good."
Horst Layman hung up the phone and lumbered from
the room. His movements were steady and his eyes were
bright and clear. There was not the slightest indication
that he had just consumed two fifths of scotch whiskey.
Ishu Tanaki threw the last of his clothing into a soft-
sided flight bag and surveyed the room for anything he
might have missed. Only his notebook remained. He
slipped that into his coat pocket and moved across the
room to the phone.
DEATHSTRIKE
37




37
He had tried Carolyn Reed's hotel four times in the
half hour since he had left the shipyards, and there had
been no answer. This, the fifth time, produced results.
The calm, cool voice with the very British accent picked
up on the first ring.
"It's me. I've been trying to reach you."
"A conference call with London. I had to take it in the
lobby exchange. It seems they are very nervous about
our last two reports."
Tanaki chuckled. "They should be. They will be even
more nervous after tonight. I'm packing it in. I've got it
all."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. Either St. James is planning to never launch
the Thor, or he's going to scuttle her. I've got positive
specs. I'll see you within the hour."
"T'll be packed."
Tanaki hung up and grabbed his bag. He opened the
door, took one step into the hall, and was suddenly flying
through the air. He hit the far wall, hard, and slipped to
the floor, little rockets exploding behind his eyes. When
he could focus again, he saw an enormous man close the
door and move toward him.
The nearer the man got, the larger he got. Tanaki
closed his eyes, strained them, and opened them again
in hopes that the mountain of flesh in a dark suit would
disappear.
It didn't.
One hand gathered the front of Tanaki's sweater and
he was yanked into the air. The powerful fingers of
another hand wrapped around his throat.
If Tanaki hadn't gotten the message before, he got it
now. The enormous blob with the big head meant to kill
him.
38





38
NICK CARTER
The little Japanese lashed out with both feet, burying
his toes in the other man's gut. There was a grunt and a
wide-eyed stare of surprise from the giant, but nothing
more. Tanaki followed the kick with a blast from both
palms to the man's ears.
This produced results, a growl of pain and a back-
handed blow across the mouth that sent Tanaki back
across the room. He lifted himself on one elbow, spitting
teeth and snarling.
"Come," the giant said, placidly motioning with a huge
hand
Aside from everything else he'd mastered, Ishu Tanaki
was also an expert in martial arts. He came in low, did
a flip onto his hands, and aimed a vicious, bone-shattering
kick at the other man's jaw.
Only the jaw wasn't there. Nothing was there except
air.
Again Tanaki was airborne. But this time he was ar-
rested in mid-flight when the giant grasped his wrists.
At the same time, both arms were wrenched up to his
shoulder blades. There was a twin cracking sound, and
the Japanese knew that both his arms had been broken.
He started to scream, when a hand slapped the sound
back down his throat. Then he was up against the wall,
blood streaming from his broken nose. Through the misty
tears of pain in his eyes, he could see the other man's
leering face, his thick lips spread wide over yellowish
teeth in an evil grin of sheer delight.
Not only does he plan to kill me,
Tanaki thought, but
he plans on getting a great deal of enjoyment out of the
act.
The little Japanese knew then that he had nothing to
lose. He reared forward, colliding his forehead with the
DEATHSTRIKE
39



39
man's nose. He continued the motion until he could sink
his teeth into the side of the giant's throat.
It was futile. The man had no neck, and what Tanaki
could reach was pure gristle that not even the strength
of his jaws could penetrate.
The hands came up. They curled around Tanaki's
throat. Now there was no emotion in the wide, flat face;
even the grin was gone.
'Why?" Tanaki managed to gurgle.
It was the last word he spoke.
When the body stopped dancing, Horst Layman drop-
ped it to the floor. He removed his coat and pulled on a
pair of surgical gloves.
Then he went through every item in Tanaki's pockets,
wallet, briefcase, and flight bag. All the reports, notes,
and personal items, he placed in the briefcase.
His car was parked in a narrow alley behind the apart-
ment house. When the bags were in the rear, Layman
returned for the body. When it was safely in the trunk,
he returned to the tiny apartment and made a last check.
Tanaki himself had left a note for the old mama-san
who handled the apartments. Layman couldn't read
Japanese, but the yen —and the way it and the note were
placed on the dresser so they wouldn't be missed-told
the story.
Ishu Tanaki had been forced to leave before his time
was due. The money and the note explained it all.
Carefully, the big man locked the apartment, slid the
key under the thin mat over the tatami floor covering,
and returned to his car.
He drove north around Peace Park, and then past the
railroad station toward the huge new industrial city outside
the old town. When he was in the center of a hundred
40






40
NICK CARTER
belching smokestacks, he turned down a narrow, almost
pitch-dark street, and passed through a large gate. Nor-
mally, these gates would be closed and locked. Tonight
they were open. At a loading dock, he stopped.
There was a sign in both Japanese and English high
above the dock, embedded in the brick wall of the build-
ing. It said MISHI STEEL WORKS-A DIVISION OF
NAKIMOTO LTD.
A half hour later, Ishu Tanaki and his personal belong-
ings had become one with the black smoke blasting from
the chimneys above the huge Mishi smelters.
Horst Layman drove north, toward Tokyo, with the
Japanese man's briefcase on the seat beside him.










FIVE
They caught the evening flight from London to Paris.
Then it was an AXE safe house, where Carter underwent
i skin-darkening process, a change in hairstyle, and the
ddition of a heavy dark mustache.
No makeup was needed for Ravelle Dressler. Only a
light change in hairstyle and the wardrobe of a devout
Moslem woman transformed her into a traditional Arab
vife.
They emerged as Monsieur and Madame Kalimendar
f Paris, he a professor of African civilizations at the
¡orbonne, she his dutiful wife complete in robes and veil.
At eight the next morning, they were on a plane to
Come for a connection to Tunis. Flying time from Rome
41
42




42
NICK CARTER
to Carthage was one hour. They landed at three, and had
only a one-hour wait for the connection commuter flight
to Medenine.
The plane was an ancient two-prop job left over from
another time, and the pilot looked like a teen-ager.
But it flew, and an hour later they were heading it over
the Gulf of Gabes and banking south for the approach to
the desert town of Medenine.
Ravelle's hand gripped Carter's like a vise when the
wheels came down.
"It's only the landing gear.
"Iknow," she replied. "That wasn't what scared me."
"What then?"
"That."
Carter leaned across her and glanced out the window.
For as far as the eye could see there was heat haze and,
beneath that, nothing but Sahara sand.
He understood. Somewhere out in that vast nowhere,
in two days' time, they would be trying to find the man
who would dearly love to see both of them dead.
"Watch your veil," he murmured. "Here we go."
They had the brief impression of mountainlike sand
dunes rushing toward them, quickly replaced by the white
and tan of buildings.
Then they were down, the undercarriage nuzzling the
runway, a couple of camels to their right pausing to look
with boredom. at the noisy bird invading their tranquility
Very slowly, the plane rolled to a halt in front of a
haphazard collection of sheds.
"What the hell is this?" Ravelle asked.
"The airport," Carter whispered in reply.
"Oh, my God."
"And don't look so surprised. We're old North African
hands, remember?"
T »
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He took her case and followed her down the gangway.
Outside, the heat hit viciously, blurring the outlines of
the nearby buildings. Over the concrete shack that seemed
to be the control tower, a windsock bellied with wind
one instant and went limp the next, only to belly suddenly
in the opposite direction.
Carter could now understand the swing-and-sway land-
ing.
Tunisia's small-country status between two larger,
politically dissimilar countries-Libya and Algeria-
made its government a little spiny about travelers away
from the regular tourist coastal areas. The city of
Medenine was a good example. Three army officers
awaited them in tiny booths with turnstiles marked Cus-
toms.
As they filed in, Carter gave Ravelle her case and
slipped into the line in front of her. If they asked tricky
questions, he wanted her to get the clues to answers from
him.
The shoit line moved slowly between railings. This
was due to the fact that all three officers were working
one booth. They wore old-fashioned tunics, buttoned up
to the throat. Two of them, older and squat, looked as
if they were masquerading as officials. The third was
younger, fresh-faced, and all business when he took the
two passports.
"Monsieur Kalimendar . .
how long will you be
staying in Tunisia?" His French was fluent and precise.
"Two, perhaps three weeks," Carter replied.
"And the purpose of your visit?"
"I will be doing some research for a book on Sahara
oases and their peoples."
"You were born in Paris ...'
"That is correct."
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NICK CARTER
His intense eyes swiveled to Ravelle. "But your wife
was born in Fez, Morocco," he said in staccato Arabic.
"I have been a naturalized French citizen for ten years,"
she replied, also in perfect Arabic with only a slight
variation in accents.
Back to Carter. "And where will you be staying, mon-
sieur?"
"The Hotel Africa... for the time being."
He handed the passports back with the suggestion of
a smile. "Enjoy your stay in my country."
"Thank you."
They both made their way to the baggage claim.
"His eyes made my skin crawl," Ravelle whispered.
"All customs people have eyes like that," Carter said,
and grabbed their bags from the few that were left. The
luggage had already been checked by customs in Tunis.
Outside, there were three cabs. Carter held back until
the first in line was taken by another couple. They dived
into the second, a four-door Fiat that had probably been
ancient the day it was born. The desert did that to both
people and machines.
"Hotel Africa."
The driver nodded, grunted, and they fled in a cloud
of black smoke.
Carter sat back in the seat, glad of the air that seemed
cooler as it rushed through the cab's open windows.
Medenine had once been a tiny oasis with a few mud
huts and few people. Now it was considered a city, with
fifteen thousand souls and a lot of mud huts. But it did
have a souk and a mosque. The Hotel Africa was near
the entrance to the souk or old city and marketplace. That
was why Carter had chosen it. That, and the fact that it
advertised modern, Western-style rooms with security
locks on all doors.
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A modern deadbolt lock on a door might not stop Abu
El Adwan, but it might deter him or slow him up for a
while.
The hotel was the tallest structure around, five stories.
t was painted white and looked cool. A porter carried
n their bags. The concierge had dark skin, no smile, and
an assessor's eye. He acknowledged the reservation,
ourth-floor corner with a private bath.
Carter registered while the passport numbers were en-
ered in the police book, and paid the first night in cash.
"And how long will you be staying, monsieur?"
"A week, perhaps two."
The concierge snapped his fingers and gave the key to
a baggage man. "Four-oh-six," he barked, and the little
man, bags in hand, hit the stairs. There was a reason for
this; no more than two people could fit into the ancient
caged elevator.
Carter tipped the baggage man and locked the door
ehind him.
It was a big room with a balcony. A connecting door
was locked and bolted on their side.
Ravelle's first move was to shed the heavy robes and
veil. Her next was to dig a bottle of scotch from her bag
and fix two drinks. She served him one, looking very
provocative in only a bra and pair of brief panties.
Carter had to smile. "You lack proper Moslem mod-
esty."
"It's a myth that those bloody robes are cool. Cheers."
"Cheers."
They drank, and Carter noticed that the smile faded
vhen the glass came away from her lips. In the light
rom the open doors to the balcony, the fine lines around
er eyes were more pronounced. There was a look of
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NICK CARTER
resignation in her face. The gaiety of the past two days
was gone.
"What now?" she asked.
"I make contact. A merchant in the souk named Harik
Sabone is on our side."
She moved to him, her eyebrows at an even greater
angle than usual. "You're leaving me alone?"
"Have to. It will only be for an hour, two at the most.
You'll be safe. Just lock and bolt the door behind me,
and let no one in no matter who they say they are."
"If anyone so much as touches that door, I'll pee my
pants.»
Carter laughed and brushed her lips with his. "Take a
long, cool bath. I'll be back before you know it."
"You couldn't leave me a gun or something, could
you?"
"You'd probably shoot yourself. And besides, I don't
have one."
Her knuckles went white on the glass. "You don't have
a gun?"
"Shh, not so loud. It would have been too risky with
customs. That's another reason I have to see Sabone."
He noticed, as he left, that she was refilling her glass
with scotch, to the top.
He waited until he heard both locks click in place, and
then took the elevator to the lobby. The concierge scarcely
looked up from his newspaper, and the porter dozed as
Carter passed him and walked into the harsh glare of the
late-afternoon sun.
The entrance to the souk was two blocks to his left.
He turned right and lit a cigarette as he meandered through
the newer part of the town. When he was sure that he
wasn't being followed, he worked his way back and en-
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47
tered the almost dim, narrow walkways of the old mar-
ketplace.
Once inside the souk, he walked briskly. He only had
general directions, but the area wasn't large enough not
to cover in a short time. It took only ten minutes to find
the shop. The windows were cluttered with carpets, old
swords and daggers, brass cookware, and assorted desert
brick-a-brac. In arabic and French, the sign read HARIK
SABONE, ANTIQUES.
Carter entered a small café across the street and ordered
coffee. For another ten minutes he sipped the thick liquid
and watched the shop. No customers entered or left, and
twice he saw vague movement through the windows.
Satisfied, he paid and moved across the street. After
letting his eye catch something in the window, he entered
to the tinkling of a small bell above the door.
A tall, fat man in a shabby, three-piece suit sidled
through a pair of frayed curtains. He was smiling, but
the smile just hung there, as if the man forgot what it
was for. His bald head was damp with perspiration, the
flesh-rimmed eyes were lusterless, and the corpulent
cheeks sagged like the breasts of an overused whore.
"Good afternoon. May I help you?" the man asked in
guttural Arabic.
"My French is better than my Arabic," Carter replied.
"Then may I help you in French?"
"You are Monsieur Harik Sabone?"
"I am."
"My name is Kalimendar. I understand you have a fine
collection of sixteenth-century Berber hand weapons."
The man's face could be extravagantly mobile. As it
was, only an eyebrow was raised and the saggy cheeks
jiggled only a second.
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