48
NICK CARTER
"This way, please."
Carter followed him through the curtain and a larger
room that obviously served as a storage area.
Another
curtain led them into a tiny office.
"I can hear the bell easily from here, but there will be
few customers. You are prompt."
"We had good flight connections," Carter replied, tak-
ing a proffered chair and lighting a cigarette.
"I have fresh coffee brewing.
"Yes, I can smell it."
"Would you like coffee..
. or a drink?"
"Coffee, please."
"A moment."
Sabone wiped two tiny cups with a dust rag and poured
coffee that was more like molasses. When the amenities
were observed-as they always must be in any Arab
country, even if the business is clandestine-Sabone
spoke.
"Your man is preparing to come over tomorrow night
from Libya."
"Where?" Carter asked.
"Near Dehibat. It's about a hundred miles south of
here."
"In the desert?"
"Yes. The actual meeting will take place at an oasis
near Dehibat. There are three of them, all secluded. As
usual, El Adwan is very cautious. The actual hour of his
arrival, and which oasis, will be chosen at the last min-
ute."
"What do you suggest?" Carter asked, struggling with
the coffee and finally setting it aside.
"I have already arranged for your transportation, and
the contact in Dehibat is in place. He is a camel trader
T »
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named Bassam. You will meet him in the Café Sultan in
Dehibat tomorrow evening at the supper hour. By then
he will have the location."
"And my equipment?"
"NO. At noon tomorrow, a driver will pick you up at
your hotel. His name is Ami. He will also be your backup
in the kill."
"He is a good man?"
"Very, and can be trusted. He is the brother of my
wife. "
Caner leaned forward. stubbing out his cigarette. "Is
there any indication of who El Adwan is meeting?"
"None, but he has been recruiting in Libya, Malta,
and Port Said, Egypt, with the promise of great sums of
money. So we know some kind of special operation is
under way." Here, Sabone paused. "This woman, Ravelle
Dressler?"
"Yes."
"Will she hold up long enough to make the identifica-
Carter shrugged. "She has every reason to want him
dead. I think she will."
Sabone nodded and opened a drawer in the desk. From
it he took a 9mm Beretta and two extra, loaded clips.
He passed them across the desk with a smile.
"The bullets have been indented and dipped."
"Cyanide?"
"Of course. This should get you through the night,
until Ami picks you up tomorrow."
Caner got to his feet. "Is there any chance that El
Adwan has been warned?"
Sabone shrugged. "There is always the chance. For,
being such an elusive character, the man has antennae
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everywhere. Also, out of necessity, there are four others
besides myself who know you are in Tunisia. There is
always the chance."
Carter nodded and slipped the gun into his belt, the
extra clips into his jacket pocket. "Your IEOple have
taken the pictures of El Adwan and the decoys?"
"Hopefully, Bassam will have them when he meets
you."
"Hopefully," Carter said dryly, and left the shop.
He used the same roundabout route in his return t(Ythe
hotel. At the door of the room, he knocked and identified
himself before using his key.
Ravelle was on the bed. She had discarded her under-
wear and pulled on a light robe, but hadn't bothered to
belt it. Her hair was still wet from her bath. She was
also very drunk.
Carter said so.
"I know. Angry?"
"Not really," he replied, pulling her gently to her feet.
"But you could have waited for me."
"No way," she whispered. her lips and tongue doing
marvelous things to one of his ears. "I want you sober. "
She wound her arms around his neck and strained close
to him until her breasts surged against his chest. Without
releasing her, Carter shrugged out of his jacket and unbut-
toned his shirt. Then he pushed the robe off her shoulders.
"We should get some food into you."
"Later," she groaned.
He swung her off her feet and settleä her onto the bed.
Somehow he shed his clothes and eased his body along
the smooth length of hers.
From there on, he had a tiger by the tail.
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51
So close to the endless silence of the desert, even at
the hour of sunrise, there was the echo of camels' hooves
on a distant street coupled with the coughing of an au-
tomobile engine.
"Well?" she said.
Every few moments her face was dimly illuminated
on the pillow as Carter drew on his cigarette. The last
hours had been, to say the least, tumultuous. Ravelle had
been possessed of a passion that went beyond pleasure.
Now, exhausted, she lay very still, talking in a manner
that was quiet and yet almost compulsive.
"You're shocked?"
"No," Caner replied.
"Most men are, afterward. I am the sort they fight to
get, but revile in the morning."
Carter was silent.
"Most men think of their mothers or their sisters or their
wives, and hope none of them are secretly like me. It has
always been my opinion that the man is a big hypocrite in
these matters. Far more so than any woman."
"I'm different."
She sighed. "God knows you are."
He blew smoke toward the ceiling. Her hand came
along his body to his face. Very gently, her fingers
touched his nose, his lips, his brow—then his shoulder,
and down his arm to his hand.
She lifted the cigarette from his fingers, took a deep
drag, and crushed it out.
"Will I have to meet him face to face?"
"I hope not. There are three possible destinations. El
Adwan will come over along with three decoys. Sabone's
people are taking photographs on the other side. With
luck, you can make a positive ID from one of those."
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"When do we leave?"
"At noon," he said.
"Then we had better get some sleep."
She curled into his arm and put her head on his shoul-
der. In seconds she was sound asleep, breathing evenly.
Carter was glad she hadn't asked what they would have
to do if she couldn ' t make a positive ID from the pictures.









SIX
The Land-Rover had lost all its paint and seen many
miles, but it was sound. So was the quiet, robed driver
named Ami. He was prompt to the minute, and by one
o'clock they were in the desert.
In a small wadi, he stopped and directed Carter to
follow him around the vehicle. He opened a false rear
tank so the Killmaster could inspect the equipment.
Inside was a Mannlichter single-action CD-13 sniper
rifle. It was fitted with a Startron night scope and a resting
tripod.
If the Killmaster could get one clean kill shot in, there
would be no need to start a desert war.
If not, the other hardware was available: two Ingram
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M-l Is with lots of steel-jacketed .380s, and two belts of
grenandes.
"Good," Carter said, nodding.
Ami locked up the tank and they climbed back into
the Land-Rover. The Arab was definitely a man of very
few words.
"What was that all about?" Ravelle asked.
"You don't want to know."
They met and cut around two small caravans, and
reached the outskirts of Dehibat just before dusk. Ami
found a small wadi, and without asking for aid rigged a
tent camp. When he was finished he sidled over to Carter,
who was already building a fire.
"I be back, quick. Get horses."
Before he could move away, Ravelle stopped him in
clipped Arabic. "Why do we need horses?"
"Horses don't make the sound of an engine in the
desert night."
It could have been right out of Kipling, but it didn't
amuse Ravelle. She whirled on Carter. "What are the
horses for?"
He explained. "We have to get in quiet and out fast.
Hopefully, we'll be going over terrain that no vehicle
could follow."
"How many horses is he getting?"
Carter looked to Ami, who held up two fingers.
"No way!" she cried.
"You'll be safe here, and I'll leave the Beretta," he said.
"No fucking way!" she shrieked. "You tell him to get
three horses. I'm not staying out in this damn sand alone,
wondering what the hell is going on and if you're ever
coming back for me!"
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"Ravelle .
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She dropped into a lotus position in front of the tent
and crossed her arms defiantly under her breasts. If that
didn't say it all, the grinding of her teeth did.
"Three horses."
The Arab gave Carter a look that said It is a pity you
cannot control your woman and climbed into the Land-
Rover.
By the time he returned, Caner had a meal of beans,
mutton, and sugar cakes ready. Three saddled dapple
gray Arabians—two geldings and a mare—were on lead
ropes behind the Land-Rover.
"Three horses," Ami grunted as he crouched by the
fire and helped himself to the food.
"l can see that," Carter replied.
They ate in silence as the sun slipped down behind the
dunes. By the time they had finished and Carter had
changed into robes and a burnoose, it was pitch-dark.
"Café Sultan is the first alley to the right off the center
round."
"I'll find it," Carter said, carefully folding a sash over
the Beretta.
"You ride?"
"No. It's a mile. I'll walk." He moved to Ravelle. "Do
me a favor."
"What?"
"Behave yourself."
She glanced toward Ami. "Don't worry—he's not my
never mind."
"That's not what I . .
Lifting his robes, Carter side-walked up the wall of
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the wadi and headed toward the flickering lights of De-
hibat.
There was only one main street, so following it brought
Carter easily to the center of the village. It was near the
hour, so there were few people outside. The smell
of food—cooked and uncooked—was heavy in the air.
He spotted the alley and moved into it.
Twice he moved into a darkened doorway to let robed
men pass him. They had the smell of camels about them,
and their dark faces from life under the desert sun were
like apparitions from the Arabian Nights.
The Café Sultan was on another, smaller square, with
alleys leading into it. The café itself was a small place
with a hand-lettered sign in Arabic. It had a dirty plate
glass window where a torn velvet portiere hung on a
wooden rod.
Inside, the room was stifling. Acrid cigarette smoke
hung thick under the low ceiling. A few blank-faced men
in from the desert sat sipping mint tea and gnawing food.
There were only two men in Western clothes. One was
young. He sat by the window staring at nothing. With
only one quick sniff, Carter could smell the aura of hash-
iSh hovering about his head.
The Killmaster headed for the other. He sat in a rear
corner table. well chosen for its lack of light.
Carter paused by the table. The seated man idly held
his palm before his face, his elbow castelly on the scarred
wood. When the man nodded. Carter slid into a chair.
am Bassam." He dropped his hand to reveal a snap-
shot of Caner in the disguise. "An excellent likeness."
Carter smiled. "I'm giad it got to you in time."
"Our friends in Paris are very efficient." A waiter in
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57



57
a filthy apron lounged up to the table. "A mint tea for
my friend, and be quick," Bassam barked, and leaned
toward Caner. "Now to the beasts you desire."
The talk was of camels until the waiter returned with
the tea and left. When he was well out of earshot, Bas-
sam—a strong, solid man with deep brown eyes set in
thick features that matched his bulky frame—drew a slip
of pal'*r from his coat.
"I have drawn a map, crude, but it will do. The oases
are marked, as you can see, by numbers .
. one, two,
and three. This is far better than using names over the
radio."
"Radio?" Carter said.
Bassam nodded. "My dragoman is nearby now. He is
in touch until we find out what numbers on the backs of
these correspond to the numbers of the oases."
Again he dug in his pocket. He arranged four snapshots
in front of Carter. The Killmaster moved forward to the
edge of his chair, mesmerized by the pictures in front of
him.
The men were all bearded, and not too dissimilar. Two
of them could have been brothers. Overriding the sudden
tension that here, at last, was the target that had eluded
him for so long was the sudden fear that, because of the
similarity of the men, Ravelle Dressler wouldn't be able
to say for sure which was El Adwan.
Carter flipped the photos over. There were numbers
marked on the back, l, 2, 3, and 4.
S 'There are three oases," he said.
Bassam nodded. "There are only three headed out into
the desert. The fourth man left the others at the frontier.
We have someone following him, but at last report he
didn't appear to be heading anywhere in particular."
8
"It would help,"
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"It would help," Carter said, "if these snaps were
arger."
"l have thought of that," Bassam said, and slid a large
nvelope toward Carter. "There are blowups of the photos
in there."
A curtain parted to their right at the rear of the café,
and a short, bearded, shifty-eyed character moved toward
them.
"Achmed," Bassam said, "my dragoman."
The little man slid into the third chair and, at a nod
from Bassam, pushed a piece of paper toward Carter. On
it were numbers matching the men in the photos to the
oases: 1 to 3; 2 to l; 3 to 2.
Caner looked up with a frown. "What about number
There was sweat on the dragoman's dark face. His
eyes darted from Bassam to Carter and back to his em-
ployer again.
"What is it? Speak!" Bassam hissed.
"Bodar lost number four about two miles south of
here."
"Here?" Bassam said.
The dragoman nodded. "Bodar came to the hut to in-
form me—
Suddenly a look of mild surprise came over the drago-
man's face, and his words ceased. He reached back as
though to slap at a fly behind him, but his hand never
completed the gesture. He fell forward, his face making
a dull thud when it hit the table.
The curved hilt of a dagger protruded from between
his shoulder blades.
"The curtains!" Bassam hissed, propping the body back
up. "I'll take care of this. Go!"
a!! haw—ed in an



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all haw—zd in an gnUant.
59
Before t}" jo ttE café were fully aware of what
taken piu* Canm was up aM through taky red
('f Wyrway In of tte char Üe Arah hai
x.cup'.r:Jf Hc jn a narrow hallway
At tie far ewi, a white-rr*E.d figure was climbing
an arctBd wtrWsw. Tte K II Jrnaster spnmed Uren
hail. With of a rear rvA hxgjnmng jn tye
alé him.
could rrran cmly ore thing: tte man had
jnaily been rußJC.ed.
Ba»arn would have to handle 't his own way. Carter
f to get the Wtftfie could get to Abu El
wan, A second thought also crossed his rmnd; the man
ojrjg through tlr wtndow could be Ej Adwan lurnxlf.
he robed figure frorn Sight Fryond wm-
yw. Cartcr vaulted up onto the Wide ledge and leaped
rough, In the air, he gw•.ßd and fen much further than
had exrxzctcd into a walled courtyard-
Jfe stumbled for a monu:nt. caught his balance, and
* w the white robe vamshing through an orxn gateway.
Without thought. Carter tugged the Beretta from
cath hl's sag,h and gave chase.
On the opposite side of the gateway was a narrow alley
nnjng along the rear of a line of camel stalls. For a
oment Carter saw no one. Cautiously, he took a step
ard.
Suddenly a figure leacEd from the shadows to his right.
arter ducked to the side but was not fast enough. A
hopping blow to his right wrist sent the Beretta off into
darkness.
Carter struck blindly with his left. His fist crunched
to something soft, and he heard a sharp curc of pain.
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Instantly, the Killmaster swung to the right and dropped
into a crouch.
At the same time, the killer lurched back so the moon-
light fell across his face. The expression on the bearded
face was startled with fear and hatred as he swung.
His fist caught the Killmaster in the chest, and then,
before he could recoil, the other hand came down open.
Sharp fingernails slashed across his cheek. Carter felt
warm blood trickle down his chin.
Carter put the full weight of his body behind a killing
chop to the neck, which was deflected by a raised shoul-
der. Suddenly a knee drove up between Carter's legs.
He managed to deflect it on his thigh, but it sent him
sprawling to the ground. A boot blotted out the moon
and came driving down toward Carter's face.
He rolled and managed to grasp toe and ankle. At the
same time, Carter came up on one foot and a knee. As
the man went forward, the Killmaster brought the ankle
down across his knee.
The sound of the ankle cracking merged with the strang-
led shout of pain. The man kicked out with his other foot
and managed to free himself. He rolled over, up against
the stone wall, doubled back, and managed somehow to
struggle to his feet.
"Stop now or die!" Carter panted in garbled Arabic.
All he got in reply was a growl as the man pushed off
the wall toward him.
Carter met him in mid-stride, feinted to the right, and
then dropped back, Without missing a beat, he brought
his boot up, drop-kick fashion, dead center in the man's
gut. He went into the air and Carter caught him full on
with the ends of four fingers in the windpipe.
The killer hit the ground, tried to suck in one last gasp
of air, and gave it up.
DEATHSTRIKE
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61
Caner staggered into the shadow of the wall and leaned
against it until he could get his breath. Back in the area
of the café there were still voices shouting, but, surpris-
ingly. no one seemed to be coming his way.
From the pocket of his pants beneath the robe he dug
out a penlight. Falling to his knees beside the body, he
tore the four large glossy prints from the envelope.
The dragoman had said that it was number four who
had headed toward Dehibat, while the other three had
moved in the opposite direction.
He found the picture with the 4 in dark ink on the back
of it, and placed it beside the man's face.
No doubt.
Carter had found number four.
He took only enough time to cast the penlight around
until he found the Beretta, This done, he stashed every-
thing back under the robes and hurried down the alley.
It was a maze, but he could tell from the moon that he
was heading in the right direction: toward the open desert.
When he hit it, he made a large circle around the town,
keeping high dunes between himself and the flickering
lights.
Twenty minutes later he dropped into the wadi. The
camp had been all packed up. Amis one of the Ingrams
slung over his shoulder, was by the Land-Rover. Ravelle
came up out of the front seat as Carter approached.
"We hear shouting," Ami said, flicking the Ingram's
safety back on.
"Trouble," Carter replied, yanking open the passenger
side door, "but I don't think it will affect us."
"God, what happened to your face?" Ravelle cried.
"Would you believe a jealous husband?" he growled.
"I'll tell you later. Look at this and tell me, please, that
it is El Adwan."
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He put the photo of number four on her lap and steadied
the beam of the penlight. Ravelle took it from his hand
and carefully examined the forehead, the area around the
eyes, and the neck just below the left earlobe.
"No," she said at last, shaking her head.
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Shit."
"What is so important about this one?" she asked.
"Nothing. It would have just made tonight's job one
hell of a lot easier if this had been our man."
"Why?"
"Because I just killed him," Carter said, and spread
out the other three pictures.
Ravelle sat for several seconds staring at Carter, her
face a shade or two lighter than usual,
"Something wrong?" he said. "You look shocked. For
God's sake, Ravelle, you knew what we came here to
do. Get with it!"
She studied each photograph, one by one, and then
started over again. Ami stood stoically by, lovingly car-
ressing the barrel of the Ingram. Carter lit a cigarette and
paced. He was just about to give up, to concede that El
Adwan had disguised himself well enough to slip away
again, when Ravelle called to him.
"Nick .
He lurched to her side. "Yeah?"
"This one."
"Are you absolutely positive?"
She shivered but stuck out her chin. "Look, Nick, isn't
this what you brought me along for?"
Carter squeezed her arrn. "Sorry."
She held the picture up to the light. "See, here, on his
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63
neck? It's a little lump just under the skin. It's some kind
of a growth. You couldn't see it unless it was pointed
out to you."
Caner saw it. "Anything else?"
"Here on the left forehead. That little mark."
"A scar . . . tiny, but there," Carter said.
"And here, by his right eye. It's another scar. He said
he got it when he was a child."
Carter kissed her. "You're wonderful."
He flipped the picture over. There was a heavy black
3 on the back. He dug out the map and whirled on Ami.
"It's this one . . . he's headed there now!"
The tall Arab nodded and jabbed the map with a finger.
'We can drive to here. Ride the rest of the way."
"Let's go!" Caner barked, and crawled into the Land-
over.












SEVEN
Ami made contact with the Bedouin who had followed
number three—Abu El Adwan—soon after they had left
the Land-Rover on horseback. In three-minute intervals,
he led them in by voice.
Then, in the shadow of high dunes about a mile and
a half from the oasis, they spotted him. He somehow
blended with the sand, only the blue shine of his rifle
and the whiteness of some silver bracelets informing on
him.
Ami pressed forward and the two men quickly ex-
changed information. After a few minutes, he returned
to Carter and Ravelle
' had to follow at a grat distance to avoid detection. "
64
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"Not with a vehicle, I hope." Carter said.
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"Not with a vehicle, I hope." Carter said.
65
"No, by camel. The beast is there, about two hundred
yards in a wadi. He almost lost your man."
"How so?"
"Adwan joined a small caravan about six miles out."
Carter cursed under his breath. "How big?"
"Five camels and some goats, There are three men and
a woman."
"No children?" Carter asked.
"None," Ami replied, tapping the Ingram with his fin-
gers.
"It could be dumb luck on his part, or . . "
Ami nodded. "It could be an arranged rendezvous."
"What does that mean?" Ravelle asked, her eyes darting
between the two men.
"It means," Carter said, "that he's over there in the
middle of innocent people, or with a backup guard for
himself, or he has already met up with the people that
brought him here. Ami, are the others armed?"
"Yes, but only with rifles."
"That doesn't say much. Everyone in the desert carries
a rifle. What's the terrain like?"
"There are a series of high, rolling dunes to the south
of the oasis. Good cover."
Carter nodded. "All right. We'll circle around to the
uth to spot them. I take it that the Bedouin's contract
nds here?"
Ami nodded.
"Have him take our horses to where his camel is
ethered and wait for us there. Ravelle . . ."
"In fora penny, in for a pound," she said. "No reason
o sit on the sidelines now."
Minutes later. the Bedouin was leading the horses into
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NICK CARTER
the darkness and Ami was leading them, single file, in
a large circle around the oasis.
It seemed forever, but less than thirty minutes later
Ami stopped and pointed. "Up there, less than two
hundred yards."
Carter passed the heavy Ingram to Ravelle and removed
the sand cover from the sniper rifle. In seconds he had
locked on the Startron scope and slung the rifle.
"Wait here!"
They both nodded, and Carter started up the side of
the dune. With night. a chill had settled over the desert
and there was just enough wind to make an eerie, singing
sound.
Just short of the top, he dropped to his belly and wiggled
on his to the rise.
The oasis was small, a few thorn trees and four clumps
of desert palms. There was only one well, and evidently
a deep one, evidenced by the total lack of grass or any
other surface vegetation that would be spawned by water
near the surface.
A makeshift camp had been set up, but the absence of
two things bothered Carter. There was no sign of the
small, leather tents common to the area. That meant that
the group probably didn't plan on camping the entire
night. Also, the fire was small, far too small for cooking.
A small copper kettle was hung over the flame, and Carter
could smell the aroma of tea carried by the wind.
In the light from a sliver of moon, Carter counted, All
of them were dressed in dark gardbras, a heavy, djel-
labalike with large armholes and a wide girth that
could hide almost any kind of weapon.
Three figures crouched by the fire. A fourth busied
himself with the animals. Carter noted that girths had
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67
n loosened on the camels' bellies, but they had not
en unsaddled.
The fifth hunkered at the base of one of the palm
lumps, smoking. Now and then the glow of a cigarette
leamed through his cupped hands.
Cautiously. Caner eased the barrel of the Mannlichter
ver the ridge of sand and fitted his eye to the Startron.
acial features became clear as he moved the from
gure to figure.
One of the three figures at the fire was the woman.
e man smoking at the palms was Abu El Adwan.
Carter eased the arrns of the tripod forward and settled
e bases into the sand. He locked a cartridge in and
umbed the safety to "off." Slowly he turned the focus
ng until a dark spot was clear in the center of Adwan's
hest. A quick adjustment of the windage and elevation
rews, and he was set.
It took all of Carter's willpower not to take the man
ut then and there. But it would have been foolhardy and
knew it.
If the other four were El Adwan's backup—and now
was pretty obvious that they were—Carter would be a
•tting duck on the dune all by himself. This was espe-
ially true since the Mannlichter was only single-action.
e moment he fired, the other four would fan out and
ank him before he could get off another shot.
He needed Ami and the firepower of the two Ingrams
his own backup.
Reluctantly, he eased the stock of the rifle to the sand
d belly-crawled backward down the dune. Halfway,
lurched to his feet and jogged to the bottom.
In hushed tones he explained the situation.
Ami nodded his understanding and spoke with a new
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grimness in his voice. "The rendezvous was planned.
They are with him."
"I'm afraid so," Carter agreed, "and Tm not surprised.
He takes no chances with his own skin."
Hurriedly, Carter gave Ravelle a thirty-second lesson
on firing and reloading the Ingram.
"Ami will take my right flank there. and you'll take
my left, about seventy-five yards away. All you have to
do is spray the area around the campfire. With this thing,
you'll hit something. Just remember to keep the barrel
down or the gun is liable to dance around and catch Ami
or myself. Can you do it?"
She nodded a bit tentatively but gave Carter a little
more confidence with the reappearance of the defiant,
jutting jaw he now recognized so well.
"Good girl. All right, let's go . . . quietly."
But suddenly there was no such thing as quiet. A hum-
ming sound arrested their movement. It quickly became
a roar that filled the night. The three of them turned as one.
"There, to the south!" Ami hissed.
"Christ, a chopper!"
Even as Carter stared, the four-seater Bell, its whirling
rotors gleaming in the moonlight, rose above the dunes
and bore down on them. The machine loomed larger and
larger, and suddenly twin landing spots flicked on from
just above the sled.
Two hundred yards in front of them. the desert was
turned from night into day.
"Quick!" Carter barked. "Spread, fratten out, and cover
up completely!"
Ami and Ravelle lurched to the side as Carter dived
for the lowest part of the gulley between the two dunes.
All three of them went slithering under their robes like
insects under rocks:
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The Killmaster took quiet, even breaths. not moving
muscle as the sound of the chopper passed directly over
im. Ile took his cue from the dark, the light, and the
ark again, as well as the throbbing drone of the chopper's
ngine as it landed.
"Now he cried. bounding to his feet. "Up the dune!"
Caner was the first to the top. Quickly he surveyed
c scene, now completely illuminated by the splashing
ight from beneath the chopper.
The engine was on idle, the rotors turning lazily. The
ilot was still at the controls. A passenger—short, bald-
ng, in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase—had dropped
o the ground. Just as he did, he slipped in the sand and
ell to one knee, the light bathing his face and shoulders.
Carter heard a gasp from Ravelle and a few feet to his
eft, but he kept his eyes on the tableau.
The small man moved toward El Adwan, who stood
n the center of the other robed figures. There was little
oubt now as to who the woman and three other men of
he caravan actually were.
Each of them had produced Russian AK-47 rifles from
neath their desert robes.
Carter moved the Mannlichter around to focus on El
dwan. He adjusted the scope and squinted. Even though
he man was stationary, he was constantly shielded by
he restless guards.
The chopper's passenger reached him and they shook
ands. They exchanged a few words and nods.
Caner sweated and waited.
Then they moved fanher away from the chopper and
nto the darkness until there was just the two of them.
ut El Adwan walked on the far side, with the small,
aiding man between himself and Carter with the sniper
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The Killmaster readjusted the focus and range. It was
about two hundred and fifty yards, with very little wind.
An easy shot.
A sure kill shot.
If the two men would only change places.
The minutes dragged on. The pilot in the chopper
looked bored. Two of the guards dropped into a crouch
and lit cigarettes. Ihe woman wandered over to the chop-
and exchanged a few words with the pilot.
Carter sweated some more, the tension building to a
knot in his chest. With one finger he cleared the perspi-
ration from his forehead and quickly returned it to the
trigger. On either side of him he swore that he could hear
Ami and Ravelle breathing.
Suddenly the balding man dropped to one knee. He
set the briefcase on the ground and opened it. A tiny blub
came on. evidently powered by a battery within the case.
Furiously, Carter sighted in: focus right, elevation
right, windage set, range. .
But before he could fire. El Adwan also went down,
to his butt, so his entire body was once again obscured
by the other man.
Carter cursed under his breath and tried to focus on
the terrorist's bobbing head.
It was no good.
He chanced a quick glance at his watch, shielding the
luminous dial with his hand.
The helicopter had been on the ground for twenty min-
utes.
He swiveled his eyes to Ravelle. She was game, the
Ingram cradled in front of her, ready. She appeared calm.
To Carter's right, Ami aprmred to be dozing, but the
Killmaster could tell the truth of it when now and then
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71
he saw the muzzle swerve around to cover one of the
moving guards.
El Adwan was up, shoving a package into his clothing.
But so was the other man.
niey started moving back toward the chopper, the
terrorist still blocked by his companion.
Carter moved the muzzle of the rifle ahead of them.
He was guessing. At the chopper, they would shake hands
again. Then the balding man would climb in. For just
that second, when the man was getting seated, El Adwan
would be completely exposed.
For the last time, Carter adjusted the scope.
They reached the door. Just as Carter guessed, they
shook hands. A few more words were exchanged, and
the small man set his briefcase on the floorboards in front
of the seat. He grasped the hand pull, put his right foot
on the step, and pulled himself up.
Carter took a deep breath, eased it out, and fired.
"Damn!" Carter growled aloud.
The man's foot had slipped on the step, throwing him
backward. In that instant, El Adwan had stepped forward
to balance him.
It was just far enough.
The balding man had taken the heavy-caliber slug from
the Mannlichter, and the loud crack of the rifle had re-
sounded over the gentle idle of the chopper's engine.
They were all alerted and they swung immediately into
action.
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 Ingram in Ami's hand was bucking, firing at the
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running figure on his side. But missing.
There was silence from Carter's left. The woman was
frozen.
"Fire, Ravelle, dammit! Fire at anything!" Carter
shouted, jamming anothercartridge into the sniper rifle.
El Adwan had been galvanized into action himself,
but not defensive. As usual, his first thought was himself.
He had wrenched the dead man around in front of him.
Then, using the other man's body as a shield, he was
now crawling into the chopper. Carter could see him
barking orders at the pilot. and he knew exactly what
those orders were.
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 moving. 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.
The chopper was about twenty-five feet off the ground
and rolling its tail around. When the spiQ was completed,
the silhouette of the pilot was dead center in Carter's
sights.
He fired, and through the scope saw the pilot's head
explode, the remnants spraying the far side of the Plexi-
glås bubble.
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73
It was a perfect hit, but the Killmaster had other prob-
lems. The female guard, realizing that she was drawing
no fire, had made a right angle and charged up the dune.
Carter's shot drew her and she turned his way.
Suddenly she was charging over the rim, the bucking
AK-47 in her hand on full auto.
Carter managed to roll away from the first burst as he
struggled to get another cartridge into the Mannlichter.
Even as he jammed the bolt home, he knew he would
be too late. The woman had spotted him and read the
situation. She skidded to a halt and brought the muzzle
of the gun around in a slowly deliberate motion.
At the last second, just before she fired, her eyes went
wide and the rifle dropped from her hands. Carter heard
the chatter of Ravelle's Ingram just as the woman's body
lifted into the air and fell, lifeless, at his side.
He looked up. Ravelle knelt only two feet behind where
the woman had been, her face stark white, the Ingram
still shaking in her hands.
"I'm sorry," she gasped.
"Better late than never," Carter said, leaping toward
her.
He grabbed the Ingram and a magazine from the belt
around her chest. In one movement he had reloaded and
turned.
The chopper was still rising, slowly spinning in circles.
He raised the Ingram and fired.
Halfway through the clip, he saw the hatch open. A
body came through it and hurtled down to hit the sand.
In the same instant, the chopper righted. The nose bent,
the tail lifted, and it moved off.
Carter finished the magazine, but it was too late. In
seconds the machine was over a dune and lifting into the
night sky.
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"You son of a bitch!" Carter screamed, watching it
disappear.
El Adwan had kicked out the pilot's body and taken
the controls himself.
Carter had lost again.
But even in his anger, his instincts took over. As the
sound of the chopper faded, he realized that all around
him was deathly silence.
Mentally he made a body count: two dead in the sand
near where the chopper had been, and the woman's man-
gled corpse at his feet.
A long silence and then, "Down here," from the gulley
behind the far end of the dune.
Carter grabbed another clip from Ravelle and jacked
it in as he ran.
Ami stood, a bloody dagger in his hand, carefully
shredding the sleeve over his right arm. The top of the
sleeve was crimson.
At his feet was the fourth guard, his head nearly severed
from his body.
"You're hit," Carter said.
Ami nodded, making bandages from the ripped cloth.
The man shook his head.
"Let the woman give you a hand with the bandage.
I'll do the burying."
Still without a word, the big Arab moved off.
Carter found tools in the packs of thexcamels and went
to work. It took the better part of two hours to erase all
traces of the battle. During that time, the little man who
had been their spotter wandered in, leading the three
horses and his camel.
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When the burying was done, Caner went through the
packs and saddlebags of all the camels, and re-checked
the area.
Nothing.
El Adwan had once again gotten away clean.
They were just mounting for the ride back to the Land-
Rover, when Ravelle grasped Carter's arm.
"I did the best I could," she said, still looking a little
sick.
Carter squeezed her shoulder." You came through just
when you had to. That's more than enough. This isn't
exactly your line of work."
"There is one thing that may help
"What's that?"
'The bald man, the one who came in the helicopter?"
"Yes?" Carter said, his antennae coming out as he
remembered the gasp he had heard when the man with
the briefcase had dropped into the light. "What about
"I recognized him. It was Oliver Estes."












EIGHT
St. James Manor sat regally on two hundred acres of
lush Surrey conuyside south of London. Heavy-coated
sheep and fat cattle ranged on the deep green fields, and
the whole was surrounded by chest-high stone fences.
Nearer the manor proper, the fences were three feet
higher, with electrified wire and glass shards around the
top.
The house itself was a massive two-story Tudor in the
shape of an L. Heavy dark beams contrasted sharply with
the whitewashed walls, and the windows, set deeply,
were of heavy leaded glass.
From the road, a wide gravel cahiage lane wound
through manicured lawns and gardens with tall, graceful
trees, past a pond in which ducks and geese and swans
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swam freely during the summer months.
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77
Hannibal St. James sat behind his massive desk in his
massive swivel chair in his massive second-story office.
The great man was a vision in gray—dapper gray
tweeds, pearl-gray shirt, dark gray tie, pale gray eyes,
and silver-gray hair.
Only one thing marred the image of the world-shaking
tycoon in his own element: Hannibal St. James was sweat-
ing like the proverbial pig. Now and then, between large
sips of cognac from the snifter in his right hand, he would
mop the dew from his face with a monogrammed hand-
kerchief in his left.
St. James had a lot to sweat about. It had been thirty-six
hours since the meeting in the desert, and he had received
no word. Everything depended on that filthy Arab's
agreement to his end of the bargain. St. James had agreed
on the price: ten million .
five in front, five on com-
pletion.
Where was Oliver Estes?
Behind the wall to his right, the telex machines began
to clatter. The sound made St. James jump in his chair.
It had been a telex earlier that afternoon. using his
private code, that had stared his sweat glands going:
TONIGHT EIGHT P.M. SHARP YOUR TIME.
PRIVATE HOT LINE TO YOUR OFFICE
WILL CALL. BE THERE. ESTES.
St. James glanced at the diamond-encrusted watch on
his wrist: 7:55.
The telex didn't sound like Estes at all. Oliver would
never have the nerve to make such an imperative com-
and: Be there.
But perhaps Estes was up to his old tricks. Perhaps
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the man actually thought he had found a foolproof way
to betray St. Janws.
Impossible, he thought, gulping the last of the cognac.
I would make sure he died a horrible death if it was the
last thing I did!
He took a cigarette from an oblong crystal box on the
desk. He inserted it into an ivory holder and lit it with a
gold lighter. His movements were uncharacteristically
shaky and the smoke burned his lungs.
The door opened silently and closed the same way.
Horst Layman moved across the rck)m and eased his huge
bulk into a leather chair.
"Anything more on the wire?"
"Nothing," Layman grunted. The big man's eyes were
like a cat's: the concentrated pupils tiny, the irises large,
the gaze absolutely unfathomable.
The telephone buzzed and St. James forced himself to
wait several seconds before answering it.
"Hannibal St. James?"
"Yes. Who is this? How did you get my private telex
code and this number?"
"From Oliver Estes the voice said, "before he died."
"Estes is dead?"
"As dead as anyone can be after taking a high-powered
slug in his back."
"Damn .
The voice calmly gave St. James a complete rundown
on the happenings in the Tunisian desirt thirty-six hours
before.
"But in spite of the problems and your man's death,
Mr. St. James. J have decided to go ahead with the
contract. There will be, however, some new stipulations."
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St. James froze. "I have met every one of your de-
mands. It is not my fault that you have an American
agent on your back from your earlier affairs!"
"Mr. St. James, you know who and what I am."
"l do."
"And now I know who and what you are. Besides
buying my silence, what I am about to ask of you will
provide me with a much better atmosphere to carry out
your contract."
"I don't want myself, or anyone connected with me,
to be involved!"
"You will not be involved in the contract."
St. James's voice shook when he replied. "What the
hell do you call killing an American agent? If that is not
'involvement,' then I don't know what is! Besides, if the
man is as good as you say he is, how in God's name
could my people get close to him?"
"l have a plan all worked out. For the last two days I
have done nothing but gather information. I know that
the woman with Carter was Ravellc Dressler. Now, here
is what I want your people to do .
As Abu El Adwan spoke, Hannibal St. James removed
the cigarette from the ivory holder and tapped it out,
gently, in an alabaster ashtray. The disembodied voice
through the phone was like the voice of a ghost at a
seance. But he found himself listening raptly.
"It might work," St. James said when the voice ceased.
"Of course it will work. And it will also buy me the
needed time. I assume the Thor I is still on the timetable
given me by Mr. Estes?"
"It is. The ship sails the day after tomorrow from Japan
for the Middle East."
"Keep Caner off my back, Mr. St. James. Buy me the
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time, and your contract will be completed."
Hannibal St. James glanced up at Horst Layman's flat,
vacuous face, and nodded. "We will do it, exactly as
you say."
"Good. If Carter thinks I'm in London, he won't be
looking for me anywhere else. I'll make the phone call
to Ravelle Dressler the day after tomorrow at this same
hour. That should give your people enough time to pre-
pare."
The line went dead, and St. James sat back in his chair
with a sigh. He tapped the tips of his fingers together in
front of his face and stared at Horst Layman, who stared
back impassively.
When St. James spoke, it was in a quiet, almost dull
monotone. He went on for a full fifteen minutes, and
when he finished, Horst Layman only nodded.
He stood and lumbered toward the door. It would be
a very busy two days.
The huge man gave no thought to the victim. The name
Nick Carter meant nothing to him, no more than the fact
that the man was an American government agent.
Nick Carter was a man. He would die as all men die.
In an outdoor phone booth in Rome's Piazza del
Popolo, a tall, dark-skinned priest with a bald spot on
the back of his head hung up the phone. After looking
around, he moved out of the box and walked at a leisurely
pace down the street. He walked across the Ponte Mar-
gherita, and followed the Tiber around the Castel
Sant'Angelo. Several blocks farther on, he turned into
the Via della Conciliazione. Two blocks short of Saint
Peter's Square, he stopped at a newly renovated building.
A key opened the front door and he stepped into a
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81
marbled lobby. Shunning the elevator, he walked up four
flights and let himself into an apartment with a second
key.
The apartment was huge, expensive, and tasteful. The
living room was filled with ebony and copper bookcases
covering three entire walls. On the far wall, separating
the windows and the fireplace, were priceless copies of
two sixteenth-century Italian enamel portraits. The room
was dark, the windows heavily draped with deep blue
brocade.
Unbuttoning his dark suit jacket and sliding it from
his shoulders, he moved on into the bedroom. Like the
living room, it was exquisite, characterized by rich pat-
terns, colors, and textures. Natural wood boiserie with
Cordoba leather panels warmed the room and set off the
black marble mantel that dominated one entire wall.
The huge canopied bed where he discarded the rest of
the priest's garb was draped in royal blue velvet trimmed
with embroidery. A huge antique Chinese carpet in shades
of blue and rose covered most of the highly polished
parquet floor.
Abu El Adwan enjoyed luxury no matter what the cost.
From a mini-bar he poured himself a cognac and en-
tered the bathroom. After a long shower, he donned red
socks, tan slacks, low boots with Cuban heels, and a
bright knit shirt. From a drawer, he got a cheap camera
and a pair of lightly tinted glasses.
These would help him assume the guise of a tourist-
about-town later that evening.
A catch in one wall opened two panels. El Adwan
stepped back to make the evening's choice.
Long ago, he had spent time with a master wigmaker
and makeup specialist who had retired from the Kabuki
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theater, During that time, EI Adwan had studied well and
purchased even better.
Now before him on a huge wall board were over two
hundred wigs of every imaginable length, texture, and
color. There were also matching mustaches, beards,
sideburns, and even eyebrows and eyelashes.
He selected a sandy-brown wig with matching eye-
brows, sideburns, and a heavy mustache. When the facial
hair was meticulously applied with a spirit gum, he dis-
carded the black wig of the balding priest and donned
the new one.
Finished, he stared at himself in the mirror and smiled.
Nobody in the world could recognize him; he hardly
recognized himslef. And the spirit gum was made esl*-
cially for him from an old Greek formula. It adhered
directly to the pores in the skin. He could do anything
in the disguise—swim, shower, yank and pull—and noth-
ing would happen. When he was through with the dis-
guise, he had to use a special solvent to remove it.
A few final touches were needed. He used a stain to
slightly discolor his white teeth. Two thin rubber pads
between cheek and gum subtly altered the shape of his
face.
He slipped into a plaid sports jacket and adjusted the
collar of the shirt over the jacket. From a case containing
over forty pairs of tinted contact lenses, he chose a pair
that he laughingly called "Paul Newman" blue, and in-
serted them.
With a last look in the mirror, he draped the camera
around his neck and left the apartment.
The man with the strikingly blue eyes and the loud
clothes moved swiftly down the deserted hotel corridor.
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83
e odor of decay hung like a stagnant cloud near the
w ceiling of the narrow passageway. The only sound
aching his ears came from the creak of the slowly rotting
ards beneath his feet.
There were no windows in the hallway, and the single
ulb burning at the end of a frayed cord strained to push
very one of its fifteen watts through the thick atmos-
here. For all the light available, he could have been in
ome's catacombs instead of a run-down hotel on the
ppia Antica.
It was called II Grande Appia, but on the street it was
icknamed La Puttana—the Prostitute—because most of
s tenents were ladies of the street. It was a home for
rs, a last stop for society's rejects, a graveyard for
e living. The place was too dreary to stay in if one
idn't have to, which was why he had chosen it for the
eeting.
He slowed his pace as he neared the last room at the
nd of the hallway, but quickly jumped aside when a
ueaking rat darted from one hole in the woodwork to
other. He watched the rat pass, chuckled, and then
rned to the door.
It was marked MAINTENANCE—NO ADMITTANCE.
The door was unlocked. Beyond it was a steep set of
nlit stairs. In the glow of a cigarette lighter, he descended
d rapped on a second door at the bottom.
"Who wants to know?"
"Abu, my friend ... the wealthy tourist who has come
make you rich."
Bolts were pulled aside and the door opened a few
Ches. Behind it was a tall lanky figure in a shabby
NICK CARTER
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topcoat. His thick black hair was worn long and brushed
back from his forehead.
"Jesus Christ, how do r know it is you? I never see
you the same twice!"
Abu El Adwan smiled. The man who stood before him
was Jadak Salas, and he had worked closely with El
Adwan twice in the past. But, like everyone else, he had
no idea what Adwan really looked like.
Slowly, in almost a whisper, El Adwan recited the
names of the other ten men and two women in the base-
ment room behind Jadak.
"Mother of Christ, come in." He stepped into the room
and the door was closed and locked behind him. Jadak
turned to the hard-eyed, expectant faces. "Believe it or
not, this is Abu El Adwan."
One of the women, a young blonde with eyes like cold
steel, couldn't stifle a giggle.
"You, my dear Antonia Perini, should recognize my
voice, at least. How many nights did I whisper words of
love while I thrust between your thighs, two years ago
on Malta?"
"Sweet Jesus y" the blonde gasped and crossed herself.
The others laughed, and El Adwan made his way to
the front of the room. Even as he moved, the inner man
emerged through the disguise and the room fell silent.
"You have all agreed to the terms, so from this night
on you are in, and there is no getting out. Do I make
myself understood?"
A chorus of affirmative grunts.
"Each of you is a specialist at more than one thing.
All of your talents will be well used, I assure you."
"Who are we killing for this time?" asked a male voice
from the rear.
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85
El Adwan smiled. "As always, oppressed peoples
verywhere."
"Bullshit," said the second woman, a short, very vo-
ptuous brunette, and laughed harshly.
"What do we call ourselves?" asked another.
Another wide smile from El Adwan. "I'm sure that
tween us we can find an appropriate political name for
ur cause."
"Quiet," Jadak hissed. "I for one want to know the
The room became gravely silent and all eyes turned to
e front.
"The fourteen of us are going to hijack the largest ship
the world, the brand-new supertanker, Thor I."










NINE
Her eyes were a smoldering gray and deep-set, so that
they enhanced her cheekbones into a strong angle that
gave off an accurate impression of self-willed self-suffi-
ciency and self-reliance.
But at this moment Carolyn Reed felt far from self-re-
liant. She felt confused and scared.
It had been five days since she had taken the phone
call from Ishu Tanaki in the hotel room in Japan. She
had sat for hours, her bags packed, waiting for him, until
the room had closed in and she had to do something.
At four in the morning, she had taken a cab to his tiny,
transient apartment. The old mama-san had ranted, but
finally the woman had let Carolyn in. They had found
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he money and the note. but nothing elSk
87
Carolyn had returTEd to hotel and waited until
Xin. Still Tanakj hain't shown.
That was when she called Sir Charles Dunwcxxl,
'„uFnor jn London. Sir Charles was the heui of the
ery quiet arm of Lloyd's known as Insuree Investiga-
ons He had txen as troubled as she about Ishu Tanaki.
"Should I Inform the m)lice?"
"My dear Carolyn. what could you tell them?'
Carolyn had bndled. How like Sir Charles and his
amnable cautiousness. In her mind, Jshu had found
yrnethng big, and Just at the moment he had t*en ready
) pass It on to her and leave the Thor Proyect for the
ast urne, he had disappeared. As far as she was con-
rned , 't was no time for caution: it was time for action.
But Sir Charles Dunwood made the decisions.
suggest that you return to London at once, Carolyn.
think for the tirne being, a waiting game is preferable.
have a great many fnends in thc Home ()ffice. I suggest
e make some discreet inquiries in that area."
So Carolyn had returned. She had filed her report and
iterated Ishu Tanaki's last words over the phone.
So far, nothing had haprx'ned. But that afternoon Sir
harJes had dropßd by her office.
"l know this is highly irregular, my dear, but I wonder
J might drop by your flat this evening?'
"Of course, but—
"A pnvate discussjon."
"Of course."
V'Shall we say, ten?'
Carolyn shifted her eyes from the mirror to the clcxk
a nearby mantel.
Jt was one mmute before ten.
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Absently, she watched the second hand sweep around.
When it reached the top, a single chime announced the
hour. The sound had scarcely faded when the doorbell
buzzed.
How like Sir Charles, punctual to the second, she
thought as she walked to the door on long, supple legs.
"Sir Charles, good evening."
Sir Charles Dunwood bowed slightly and stepped into
the foyer. He was a mustached man in his late fifties,
with graying hair closely cropped, a military bearing,
and the stern face of command. He wore a tweed suit
with matching vest, a regimental tie perfectly knotted at
his throat, and gave the impression that he would much
rather be in uniform.
Dunwood had started his career in the Scots Guards,
and gravitated to the Home Office as liaison to M15 and
M16. Upon his early retirement, he had taken over the
investigative section of Lloyd's.
"Beastly weather," he said, handing Carolyn his hat,
raincoat, and umbrella.
"Yes, yes, it is. A drink?"
4'A gin, if you have it."
Of course I have it, Carolyn thought gratingly as she
walked to the sideboard. What civilized English household
could survive without gin?
She prepared the drinks and they sat. For a full five
minutes the conversation was inane, and Carolyn thought
she would scream.
At last Sir Charles leaned forward and got to the point.
"The Japanese authorities were informed of Tanaki's dis-
appearance through my friends in the Home Office, and,
in turn, a branch of M16."
"And .
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"Nothing. Jt is as if he had never existed. They have
uggested that he may have fled on his own. As you
ow, he was not happy in his role as a junior investigator
nder you."
Carolyn folded her hands in her lap with great control.
akinga deep breath, she lifted her head and looked Sir
harles in the eye. Something had blazed and hardened,
ike the effect of an intense fire.
"I cannot accept that, Sir Charles. I will not accept it.
shu and I worked out those differences between us, par-
icularly when we began getting results on the Thor inves-
igation."
"You've never actually stated a theory. Carolyn. What
do you think?"
She couldn't stop a shiver from running through her
y. To cover it, she grabbed the glasses and made
sh drinks. By the time she had seated herself again,
ontrol had returned.
"J think Ishu had obtained facts. I think he had un-
covered a plot to doom the Thor before she ever sailed.
nd if she did sail, I think there is a plot to sink her,"
Sir Charles sipped his drink and rubbed the loose skin
n his temple. "I assumed that was your conclusion. And
Tanaki?'
"l think . . . I think he was killed to stop him from
assing his findings along to me."
"My dear, what you're saying borders on the impossi-
le. If it is true, and it corresponds to your earlier reports,
uch a plan would have to originate at the very top . . .
rhaps with Hannibal St. James himself!"
Carolyn swallowed and straightened her shoulders.
'That's exactly what I think."
Suddenly Sir Charles smiled. "If it is any help; Carolyn,
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I am in total agreement with you."
She was instantly on her feet. "Then why—
"l addressed the board with both findings and theories
this afternoom"
"And . . .
"And they have decided that the findings are inconclu-
Sive and the theories implausible. We must remember
that St. James Lines have over ninety vessels insured
with us."
"So what? All ninety would be a drop in the bucket if
the Thor goes down and we pay the insured!"
"True."
"Then they are going to stand by—
"They, my dear, are. We are not."
Carolyn slumped heavily back into her chair. "But
what can we do?"
"Perhaps a great deal. This is Friday. I am meeting
two very powerful gentlemen at my club on Monday for
lunch. I think I have enough information to interest them
in our problem."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because they have already expressed undue interest
as of today in one of the chief architects of the Thor
Project, Oliver Estes."
"St. James's comptroller?"
' 'Yes," Sir Charles said. "The inquiries were subtle
but demanding. My guess is that the Thor Project has
come under suspicion by several people beyond our
sphere."
A new light came into Carolyn Reed's eyes. "Then you
think that by giving them all the information we've
found .
Again Sir Charles nodded, this time far more emphat-
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ically. "Her Majesty's Government has far more weight
with the International Maritime Commission than we do. "
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, the Thor has been insEEcted again,
and again cleared. She sails tomorrow morning."
"Oh, my God."
A few minutes later, Sir Charles excused himself and
left.
Carolyn Reed went to bed, but she didn't sleep. Each
time she closed her eyes she could see the enormous bow
of the Thor slipping beneath the water as millions of
barrels of oil from her ruptured tanks polluted the sea for
miles around.
Ravelle Dressler ran her fingertips over the pale blue
circles beneath her eyes and growled at the mirror as she
had practically every night since their retum.
She felt more like a prisoner now in the Mayfair flat
than she had before.
"We'll give you a guard or an escort whenever you
want to go out," Carter had said.
"No, I don't want a baby-sitter . . .
unless it's you."
"Ravelle, I'm still after him. I've still got to get him."
"Okay, all right. I 'II be fine."
But she wasn't fine. She was drinking too much. and
even though she knew she was safe, she found herself
jumping at every shadow and every sound. And sleep
was hard. When it did come, she relived the desert in a
nightmare, only to wake up in a cold sweat.
she should go to America . . . New York, or
even Montana. God knows the Arab bastard wouldn't
follow her there.
Or would he?
NICK CARTER
She kicked open the dressing room door. The room





92
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NICK CARTER
She kicked open the dressing room door. The room
was stacked with suitcases and garment bags bloated with
clothing. She had packed and repacked a dozen times,
and still couldn't bring herself to go.
Ravelle dug two aspirin tablets out of her medicine
chest and washed them down with gin. She stepped into
the chilling shower and, after emitting a slight scream,
began to bathe.
Three minutes was all she could take. When her body
was dry and powdered, she used the blow dryer on her
hair until she could no longer stand the noise. Then she
slipped into a robe and walked across the flat to the
kitchen.
"You've got to eat while you drink," she told herself,
and dropped two eggs into a pan before returning to the
living room and more gin.
The glass was half full when the telephone rang. Ab-
sently, she lifted it with her left hand.
Yes
"Ravelle, you are such a bitch .
"Oh, my God, you!" The bottle of gin fell, its contents
spreading a stain across the rug.
"Yes, me, Ravelle. I am in London and I'm going to
get you. I'm going to kill you, very, very slowly. It might
take me some time, but eventually I'll get to you, Ravelle.
Until then, wait .
wait and sweat."
The phone went dead and Ravelle stood for several
seconds, shaking, staring at the instrument in her hand.
Then she slammed it back onto its etadle and ran to
her purse. Frantically, she clawed at the contents until
she found the number Carter had given her.
"What we can ascertain about El Adwan—and about
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